The Stir By CafeMom: Blogger Janelle Harris

Cancer Patient Proposes to Girlfriend After Getting Cutting-Edge Treatment That Could Save His Life

Sat, 25 May 2013 12:21:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

If you can muddle through the infinite amount of silly, nonsensical, and downright vicious gah-bage that lives online, you can also find amazing examples of love if you want to. Like the kind of love that makes you appreciate love, even if they’re not in love yourself. This is one of those stories.

25-year-old Dale Monteith suffers from chronic myeloid leukemia, an aggressive cancer that attacks the blood. He went undiagnosed for five years and by the time he finally started getting treatment, the cancer had morphed into a force stronger than every attempt at medication, radiation, even five chemotherapies.

Through all of the trial-and-errors and disappointments, his girlfriend, Jewell, was there to support him.

In January, Dale entered a study for a new drug called Ponatinib that finally, finally managed to knock his cancer into remission. (Hooray!!!) That’s the first act of their magnificent story. The second act plays out in a heartwarming video that, despite much effort and many exhaustive sighs, I can't get to post.

The day he was scheduled to get a bone marrow transplant—what he now refers to as his “new birthday”—was the day he started his life over again. And he did it by proposing to Jewell in front of the nurses and doctors who had been caring for him, even chipped in financially to help him pop the really big question to his woman and mother to their newborn son. On bended knee, he thanked her for “always having his back” and asked her to be his wife.

It’s easy to forget how powerful and effortless love really is. We spend so much time picking apart the complexities of relationships and analyzing the chaos that disproportionately engulfs our romantic dealings that the simplicity in the act of loving gets overshadowed.

But there it is, demonstrated between two young people in a life-or-death circumstance, wholly committed, unwavering and unbreakable. It’s an inspiration.

And even though I don’t know them from an anonymous twosome at the grocery store, I’m rooting for his health, their love, and the future they’re planning together. They did the “for worse” part before they even said their vows. Here’s looking forward to the “for better.”

Who reminds you what real love looks like?

Groom Who Hires Prostitute on His Honeymoon Probably Isn't Husband Material After All

Fri, 24 May 2013 10:19:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

A really good honeymoon should include a few essentials: a nice getaway spot where the newlyweds can enjoy each other, an air of romance and excitement, and an almost ridiculous amount of sleep and sex.

Should, for reasons that can only be dreamed up on a couple-by-couple basis, either the bride or groom have a brush with the law during the course of their post-nuptial canoodling, it should be for something that makes for funny, shareable stories like public drunkenness or random flashes of public nudity.

It should not be because the new hubs has been nabbed by police for soliciting a hooker right after his wedding night.

Yet that very thing happened when authorities arrested 21-year-old Mohammed Ahmed, a Chicago-area man stumbled up by a prostitution sting when he allegedly solicited a cop posing as a lady of the night—while he was on his honeymoon in Orlando with his brand new, unsuspecting missus. What a way to find out your man is a cheat. And not only a cheat, but a cheating john.

I can’t think of a better reason for the bride—who has to be blushing for a whole other reason at this point—to slide on over to the nearest legal representative faster than she can say “annulment.” Bless her heart.

It always baffles me when someone dishonors their vows right after they get married. Clearly they were cheaters before and, for whatever reason, they either believed that walking down a flower-lined aisle would instantaneously settle them down or they got convinced as much by some well-intentioned family member. Old impulses get temporarily tucked away perhaps, but they don’t die on their own and it doesn’t take long for that old bed-hopping spirit to flare back up.

So my question is: why even bother getting married in the first place? ‘Specially—es-pesh-lee—if you’re little bitty baby 21 years old with a penchant for hooking up with prostitutes online. Seems to me an individual like that should stay a bachelor(ette) a long, long time. Like, always.

Everything ain’t for everybody, and that includes marriage. You have to know yourself and your lane. And if you feel like maybe you might be unable to resist the silent call of infidelity, no amount of coaxing and convincing is going to be able to make it right. Case in point.

How far into a new marriage should you go before you listen to that little voice that says you made a mistake?

While Boy Scouts Decide the Future of Gay Members, Parents Have a Decision to Make Too

Thu, 16 May 2013 17:51:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

Next week, the Boy Scouts will hold their National Annual Meeting which, like most events of its kind, is an opportunity to put pressing issues on the table for discussion. And when they do, they’ll make a decision that weighs the future of the organization against the regulations of its past: whether or not to lift an existing ban on gay members.

Boy Scouts is one in a thinning crowd of holdouts still practicing this brand of exclusionism. At least on paper, other entities have stepped up to support—or, at the bare minimum, tolerate—the LGBT community. If the Scouts’ powers that be move to accept gay boys, it probably will be less because of some great sweep of sensitivity and more due to public pressure and bias-shaming (because we don’t already have enough terms that have “shaming” tacked onto the end).

Parents are still divided almost evenly on the issue (48 percent still support the ban). But I can’t help but wonder: would it make a difference if all moms and dads stood in solidarity with the ostracized families and refused to allow their children to participate in any activity that purposely excludes other kids based on something as intrinsic and natural as their sexuality?

Would it be a teachable moment on acceptance or would it be an unnecessary sacrifice for the straight kids? And more importantly, would it speed the decision along?

It’s not like trying out for the team and cutting cut. It’s an exercise in purposeful exclusion based on who these folks are as people, part of what makes them them.

Even if the Boy Scouts allow everyone from all backgrounds, orientations, races, preferences and communities to know the joy of scouting, there’s still a standing discrimination against adults. That sends a mixed message to the kids—straight and gay—about perpetuating pre-judgments and bowing to manufactured social fears. So to that ban-lifting thing, it kind of needs to be all-in in order to really be effective.

We’ll wait and see what happens. And in the meantime, send spirit fingers and positive vibes and prayers (yes, some of us still do that) that we can take a step, albeit an overdue, tentative one, into treating all kids and all adults the same. Here’s to hoping.

Would you pull your kid from an activity or organization if its leaders weren’t practicing equality?

Image via stevendepolo/Flickr

Boston Bomber’s Confession Letter Contains Infuriatingly Cruel Comment About His Victims

Thu, 16 May 2013 10:34:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

One month after bombs shattered the euphoria at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, investigators say suspect Dzhokhar Tsarnaev wrote a note on the wall of the boat he was hiding in before he surrendered to police on April 19.

Scrawled in pen, his message—and the makeshift dry board he scribbled it on—were riddled with bullet holes. He himself was bleeding from gunshot wounds he sustained during an earlier shootout between police and his older brother, Tamerlan, the accused co-conspirator in the attacks that senselessly killed three and injured 264.

Even down to what could’ve very well been his last moments, Tsarnaev was passionate in his zealotry and dedicated to his cause. And he fired off a whole mini-manifesto about it.

He claimed responsibility for the attacks but justified his action as retribution for what the U.S. did to Muslims in Afghanistan and Iraq. “When you attack one Muslim, you attack all Muslims,” he wrote.

He also called the Boston victims “collateral damage,” like Muslims are in U.S. wars.

And even though, as the only living member of the hell-raising duo, he’ll be shouldering prosecution for the bombings by himself, Tsarnaev added that he considers his brother a martyr in paradise. For that reason, he doesn’t mourn him. In fact, he expects to join him there when he makes that transition from the land of the living to the afterlife.

I wouldn’t be so sure about that. The Quran is spilling over with verses about peace and love and respect and fairness. It’s unclear what version this dude and others like him have been reading, but even the deepest resentment against a system that has admittedly inflicted untold amounts of pain and despair on other innocent people doesn’t justify murderous revenge.

Because Tsarnaev penned his confession before he was read his Miranda rights, there may be a struggle to have this note and other self-incriminating statements he made directly to police admitted into the case. That remains to be seen. It’s clear that he and his brother had a tour of chaos and destruction on tap after they ravaged the Boston Marathon. Authorities found evidence that they were planning to wreck similar carnage in Times Square.

Between the note and their presumed blueprint for evil, we do know they had no mercy and no regrets.

Do you think he’s telling the whole story or were others involved who have yet to be pinpointed?

Image via marc falardeau/Flickr

10 Reasons I Couldn't Be the 'Older Woman'

Thu, 09 May 2013 08:59:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

It’s been a while since I shared a misadventure of a single sister in the city but this latest one is a winner.

Last month, I went to a birthday celebration in Philly for my not-even-a-year-younger-than-me sister, another product of the infamous babymaker who is my father. Her friends and some of her other siblings crammed into the space she reserved at a Moroccan restaurant and I—all late and wrong since I cut my hair and can’t get the ish to look decent enough for public viewing—sat uncharacteristically quiet in my seat. Even chatterboxes like yours truly get introverted sometimes. Then again, the hair keeps me a little more sedated as of late.

Out on the street, one of her other guests approached me to introduce himself. It seemed perfectly innocent, since he mentioned something about applying for a job in D.C., and since I live in D.C., I just figured homeboy was networking.

He was cute and had a little weight on him, which is exactly the kind of guys I like, but I could’ve sworn he’d also said something in the party about just graduating from college. So naturally, I was paying him zero mind.

Turns out dude was interested. Interested and 24, and I have a birthday coming up in two weeks that will make me darn near 10 years older than that young man. The whole age-ain’t-nothing-but-a-number thing just doesn’t sit well with me, particularly—especially—when the number in question equals a whole decade. He probably never even heard of Fraggle Rock, for goodness sake.

This isn’t my first time being approached by a youngin. It’s happening more frequently, as a matter of fact, and the guys in question are getting lower and lower into their 20s. I could fluff my hair (I could, but I won’t) and take it as a compliment, but I wonder I’ve unknowingly crossed over into full-on cradle robber status. Was I eating a really good taco when it happened? How could I not notice?

There are several reasons why I can’t see a big ol’ gaping age difference working out favorably.

1. I couldn’t get guys to act right when I was 20-something, so what in the hell are my chances now?

2. On that note, I can’t get guys my own age to act right, so what are the chances of being at peace with a wily 25-year-old?

3. Our frame of reference is totally different. Songs I partied to in college, he remembers fondly from, like, fifth grade. That makes me feel like I missed being a pervert by thismuch.

4. Uhhh, and then he’s only 10 years or so older than my kid. That’s weird, too.

5. I can’t help but feel old hanging with someone still accomplishing those early-life milestones. First real job, first apartment. I can’t cheer him on without feeling like his mama. I don’t have a son, so I don’t want to feel like a grown man’s mama.

6. Basically, he’s not established.

7. Also, I’m not the boy toy type.

8 Also, it would be a second journey through the perils of that decade and once was pretty much enough.

9. That gap means I’m that much further along in the aging process. My nip-and-tuck budget is nonexistent and unless I take up a Kickstarter campaign towards my Lifestyle Lift, I can’t imagine that the older woman look is always going to be appealing.

10. He’ll always be 10 years younger. That might eventually start to piss me off.

He’s persistent, I’ll give him that much. But all signs are pointing to never. Go ‘head, tell me I’m being superficial and limited, and that as long as he’s mature, it doesn’t really matter. I’m listening. In the meantime, do spirit fingers to send some youthful, fun-loving, yet age-appropriate men my way.

How young is too young?

Image via PhotoAtelier/Flickr

5 Ways the Cicadas Are Going to Make Me a Bad Parent

Tue, 07 May 2013 13:59:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

They’re coming. Every other day, it seems, there’s a news box on Google about the impending descent of the II Brood of cicadas, those huge bugs with the bulging red eyes that emerge every 13 or 17 years, depending on where you live, to mate like maniacs, replenish their high-pitch shrieking population, and wreak all kinds of terror on humankind. Specifically me.

No, it hasn’t been 17 years yet since we endured their horrifyingly disgusting presence. When we survived the last go-round in 2004, no one was splitting hairs about the possibility of different iterations of those big ol’ nasty things. But we probably should have, because that was Brood X, not expected to intrude again until 2021.

Meanwhile, Brood II has been percolating underfoot and once the ground warms to a consistent 64 degrees, they’ll creep up and out and all over the place, and rob entomophobiacs of 3-4 weeks of their summer.

Scientists project they’ll outnumber humans 600-to-1. Six-hundred to one. Six-zero-zero to one. And there could be as many as a trillion of them blanketing the Mid-Atlantic in shovel-able proportions. Raid can’t do a hot damn thing to save us.

Naturally, because a mere walk to the car is rife with trepidation, I’ve done some initial research to prepare to live the life of a hermit for the next month or so. (PeaPod, you’re about to score yourself a new customer!) As such, Girl Child has been fairly warned that the first half of her summer is probably going to suck, not only because the cicadas will be cramping her style, but because her main source of money and transportation—which is me, her mama—will refuse to go out for the usual accoutrements of warm weather fun:

1. No trips to Rita’s. If I’m planning to get my groceries delivered, there’s no way I’m setting foot outside for frozen custard delights. No ma’am.

2. No rides to school. The one year she putzed around with her math grade and landed herself in summer school is the same year the satan spawn of the insect world scheduled their comeback. That’s an added consequence. Nothing I can do for her either way. (Insert my hefty shoulder shrug.)

3. No amusement parks. Puh-lease. Who wants to be speeding down a roller coaster hill only to have a cicada splat on their face at 20 mph? Better yet, who wants to pay darn near $60 to get into a park and be pelted by near-blind bugs the size of baby carrots?

4. No barbecues. Unless I can wheel a grill inside and light the charcoal without setting the whole building on fire—which feels like a definite no—she’ll have to settle for Foreman burgers instead of cookout food for a while.

5. And lastly, no sleepovers. If you initiate a girls’ night in, it’s only right you be the one to shuttle a carload of invited guests from their home to your home and back again the next day. That means unnecessary trips into the wilderness and that, for now, is too much for my wilting soul to handle.

I can’t say I’m scared of too much—I’ve dodged bullets in the streets, killed mutant roaches in the city, and one or two black snakes in the country where my grandparents live—but cicadas? I am terr-o-fied. I won’t hesitate to mow over a toddler taking wobbly steps or an elderly war vet in a wheelchair to get inside to safety. I’m sorry in advance.

Are you cowering because of or celebrating the return of the cicadas?

Image via borazivkovic/Flickr

Boston Marathon Memorabilia Hits Ebay Because There Are Always Opportunistic Jerks

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 21:28:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

In the same amount of time it takes normal folks to fully process the breadth of a tragedy, you can rest assured that the ne'er–do–wells of the world are already devising a way to make money off of it. Usually it’s some kind of capitalistic outsider. But people have stepped up to generate a little money off the back of the Boston Marathon bombings, and they were actual participants.

At least seven are selling their 2013 Boston Marathon medals on EBay, drawing the ire of critics who accuse them of trying to cash in on the horrific events. One seller peddles his memento like this: "2013 Official Boston Marathon Finishers Medal given only to qualified runners who finished before the bombing took place." Classy.

Most of the others aren’t much better. It’s one thing to hock your medal and offer up the money to charity to say, help with the medical expenses of those injured or assist the families of others who were so senselessly—and fatally—victimized. But cash rules, even in the aftermath of nefarious mass attacks that unfolded just days ago. Time’s a-wastin’ while the hurt’s still fresh.

Of the others listed on EBay, only three sellers mention anything about donating the proceeds of their medal hustling to any of the charities set up to support those affected by the bombings. One says he will donate all the proceeds, the others say they will donate half of the proceeds. And the remaining four don’t create any confusion by even hinting at any kind of philanthropy.

Said sales have also infuriated the medals’ manufacturer, who has been making them for the Boston Marathon for more than 30 years. “Now that we’re seeing some of the medals being sold on EBay, it’s kind of disgusting, in my eyes. You go out and run a marathon and that’s a personal goal in your life, to run a marathon. That’s something that you achieve personally. Why would you want to go out and buy a medal? Just to remember the tragedy?"

Agreed. There are plenty of us who can barely fast-walk around a city block without wanting to call it quits, much less finish up a marathon and earn ourselves a shiny, pretty medal. Most of the people who do are too proud of their accomplishment to even consider selling it. So this just goes to show that, well, I’m not sure what it shows. But it’s not a flattering side of humanity.

Oh, incidentally, the highest bid so far is $500.

Would you sell your medal—or any kind of valuable—following a big news story if you thought you could make a few bucks off of it?

Image via soniasu_/Flickr

LL Cool J and Bradley Paisley’s ‘Accidental Racist’ Duet Is a Bunch of Hooey

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 13:01:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

Some things, though great individually, make for terrible combinations. Clam chowder topped with crumbled Famous Amos cookies, for example, or a sequined bustier paired with corduroy slacks. In that same vein, the coupling of Brad Paisley, a country singer, and LL Cool J, a rapper, was fraught with inevitable awkwardness from the giddy-up. But the fruit of their partnership, a song called “Accidental Racist,” is purposely disastrous. No accidents about it.

Everyone is talking about it and both artists declare they have zippo regrets about doing the little ditty. I’m trying to imagine how this debacle of a musical collaboration came about. I guess on the short list of who’s who in “safe” hip-hop, LL Cool J’s number came up and the nuevo “Ebony and Ivory” duet was born. In trying to pitty pat the state of longstanding racial tension in America, they actually work to make a mockery of it.

But LL Cool J should know better. It’s quite apparent he doesn’t, but he should.

I haven’t liked an LL Cool J song since the first Bush administration, so it’s not really a blow to my fan-dom that he should sell himself—and his people—out in such a meltdown. Actually, he’s been working his way up to this kind of full-on tomfoolery for quite some time now. Few can make the transition to crossover celebrity without losing their street cred and he had sold himself out, bit by bit, in a steady stream of bad career decisions.

Disappointment number one is that he compromised his own legacy by doing them. The man who claims to be the greatest of all time—the self-professed G.O.A.T—would’ve walked away from this. This man in his stead says things like this in songs: “Dear Mr. White Man, I wish you understood what the world is really like when you’re livin’ in the hood.”

Pause. Dear Mr. LL, if you’re going to speak on behalf of the whole lot of the black community, can you not portray us in just one vein? Not all of us live in the ‘hood. Do you live in the ‘hood? Or is the ‘hood just everywhere we are? And if you’re going to work out these complexities in the public view, for the love of sweet baby Moses, can you not kick off the conversation with “Dear Mr. White Man?”

But the most disheartening line in this disastrous little ditty: “If you don’t judge my gold chains… I’ll forget the iron chains.” Just poof. That easy. The entire history of us boiled down to slavery and hip-hop. If you don’t have something intelligence and valuable to contribute to a subject as sensitive and longstanding as race, then pass on the offer. Hand it off to a Common or a Talib or even maybe a Kendrick. I suspect LL knew he was going to be out of his lane but, in the interest of “shaking it up” and putting himself in tizzy of headlines, he didn’t. And in not doing so, he did a disservice to the conversation and made himself sound like a whole doofus in the process.

There’s a difference between understanding race and understanding racism. If Brad wants to really understand what it’s like to be on the other side of the experience, he needs to bypass his buddy LL and get the insights of folks with a higher respect for their art, their body of work, and their overall blackness.

Do you think “Accidental Racist” was a step in the right direction or a stumble three paces backward?

Image via Lunchbox LP/Flickr

Man Falsely Accused of Rape Gets Dream Chance at NFL Contract

Thu, 04 Apr 2013 11:33:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

What a difference a year makes. In 2012, Brian Banks was fighting for his freedom. In 2013, he’s getting a second shot at his dream of playing in the NFL. It’s the ultimate Cinderfella story, and football fan or not, you can’t help but be happy for the guy.

When he was 16, he was a junior in high school with a verbal deal to play for Southern Cal, his college plans all but solidified, when one of his classmates claimed that he raped her. That sent him to prison for five years. Five long, unjustifiable years. Because Banks was innocent.

His accuser recanted her claim and offered to help Banks clear his name. In May 2012, his conviction was overturned by a California court and his record was cleared. Justice righted that tremendous wrong, and that would’ve been reason enough to celebrate. (More on that levying-life-changing-false-accusations nonsense later.)

Yesterday Banks, now 27, signed with the Atlanta Falcons, living out a dream he’d let go a long time ago as part of his way to survive that ordeal. "In order for me to exit prison with a sane mind and be able to just function as a person I had to let go of certain dreams and goals I once held in life, football being one of them," he said. "I can't believe this is happening. It's surreal."

The 6-foot-2, 250-pound inspiration will get an opportunity to win a spot on the team as inside linebacker. The Falcons are the first NFL team to sign him, but he’s worked out with a few other teams, among them the Seahawks and the Chargers. He wasn’t handed this chance to be on the team—he worked hard for it. He’ll start offseason workouts with the team on April 22.

"It's almost impossible to explain, the feeling of not having freedom, to be stripped away of your freedom, of your dignity, the respect you once had," he said. "To lose it all and watch the world pass you by as you sit inside a prison cell, knowing you shouldn't be there, knowing you're there because of another person's lies, to lose it all and then get it all back, it's a very humbling, spiritual feeling that you just don't want to take anything for granted.”

So I now have a new favorite player to root for and cheer on, however his season turns out. But this is also a super unfortunate example of how women who blow the whistle on fake rape not only make it that much more difficult to get attention and resources directed to real cases, but rob innocent men of their rights, too. That he can be this gracious about it is impressive. All I can say is… ugh.

Does a heartwarming personal story make you more likely to cheer for a team or a player?

Image via Georgia National Guard/Flickr

Rapper Rick Ross's Date Rape Lyric Was a Huge Career Mistake

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 20:17:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

Protests flare up, snatch all the headlines for a few days, then silently fall away to make room for the next big explosion of controversy, even if it’s just to talk about a too-tight Kardashian skirt on a slow news day. The dust-up over Rick Ross’ date rape lyric has had a longer shelf life than most, however.

Rightfully so. Dig this nonsense: "Put molly all in her champagne/she ain't even know it/I took her home and I enjoyed that/she ain't even know it," he rhymed on a track called “U.O.E.N.O.”

It’s not even his song and it wouldn’t have gotten a quarter of this much attention if that line hadn’t caused such outrage. It’s nonetheless at the center of a protest organized by women’s rights org UltraViolet, who’ll will gather in front of Reebok’s flagship store in NYC to demand the company sever its endorsement deal with Ross and give his inappropriate-lyric-rappin’ tail the boot.

A petition that’s been circulating for nearly a week has garnered more than 71,700 signatures, and they’ll brandish it tomorrow to keep the fury burning. Team UltraViolent intends to drive home the point that just because Ross doesn’t specifically say the word “rape” in the song—an excuse both he and Reebok have leaned on in response to the kerfuffle—the implication is just as damaging as if he did. Especially using a drug in the process.

Ross insists he didn’t mean it that way, that he has respect for women, that the lyric has been misinterpreted and blah blah blah blah. The response is pathetically flimsy. In saying what he didn’t mean, he has yet to explain what he did intend to say. He hasn’t taken responsibility, and I'm tired of people calling themselves artists, then acting so hands-off once they release their stuff out into the general public. Man up and don't try to smooth talk your way out of it by basically saying nothing.

My question is: if you’ve fashioned a reputation as a ladies’ man, aren’t you insulting your own self by suggesting you’ve reduced your seduction techniques to drugging women and having your way with them while they’re unconscious?

Even though Ross has solidified his lyrical dumb-assness, reaction to it has been promising. Other rappers and men in general have injected their own disgust over Ross’ date rape innuendo. A Michigan radio station, 103.7 the Beat/WUVS-LP, pulled all Rick Ross songs from its rotation because of the song. So at least women aren’t one squeaky wheel making noise all by ourselves, as so often is the case.

Should we even bother expecting celebrities to own up to their content?

Image via thecomeupshow/Flickr

Prison Inmates With Guns, Beer and Drugs Caught on Tape in Shocking Video

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 14:41:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

There are certain behaviors that land folks in jail. Most of us assume that those end once a crime-committing individual is behind bars, but a recently released video of shenanigans in a New Orleans parish prison has proven most of us-es wrong.

The footage shows inmates doing drugs, gambling, drinking beer, and brandishing guns. An armed inmate inside the prison. With a gun. Now that’s a variation on your typical incarceration storyline. Although it’s not clear when this debauchery was caught on camera, it is a neon-flashing testament to the immediate need for prison reform, not just lip service about it.

If you don’t like your hardcore criminals with access to firearms, needles, and alcohol, you’re going to be pretty unnerved by this. This is the raw, uncut version. Be forewarned:

See this video on The Stir by CafeMom.

Some of that there is enough to make me want to take punishment back to stoning and the pillory.

Sure, there’s a drug culture and a crooked corrections officer here and there to make a few bucks off of supplying inmates with dope and other underworld necessities. But if this is happening in prisons—and there’s no way that this is just happening in New Orleans—what’s the point of even locking wrong-doers up? If they can freely engage in the same behavior they would if they were out on the street, it’s pretty counterproductive. And a waste of taxpayer money, I might add.

What's keeping them from blowing away a few CO's and breaking out of the pen? Your guess is as good as mine. But it’s unsettling, as is the human rights violations against inmates just trying to serve their time and get out without being raped, malnourished, or beaten to a bloody pulp by an unruly few.

The prison in question closed last year. But does that make you feel better about what’s going on in other correctional facilities in the country? Not so much.

Do you think a return to creative, albeit slightly archaic, punishment is more effective than long-term incarceration?

Image via Tim Pearce, Los Gatos/Flickr

I Finally Stopped Text-Stalking My Ex

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 15:12:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

It’s been two weeks. Two long, psycho behavior-less weeks since I last texted my ex. Hooray for small victories and for easing up off of crazy.

It was sparked, exactly two weeks and one day ago, by a revelation. I’d been sitting on my sofa, cellphone in hand, about to fire one off to him for the 1,000th or 100,000th time (only Verizon knows the exact figure) and randomly express my undying love in what probably would’ve been the text message equivalent of a Keith Sweat song. I am impulsive, and paired with unlimited texting and rambling thoughts, I am downright dangerous sometimes.

It’s a steep, slick slope into pathetic, and I was about to aim right at it and launch. I didn’t know what I was going to say exactly, but whatever it was was going to put me under love’s stiletto boot heel. For the 1,000th or 100,000th time.

Divine intervention tiptoes in at the most fateful moments, thank God, and I paused because words surprisingly failed me, which, for a writer and self-aware motormouth, is a miracle in and of itself. Drawing that blank is how I ended up on the balcony and when I slid the glass door open to walk back inside, I had a new perspective. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” rational Janelle said to emotional Janelle, “to get these messages instead of being the one to send them?”

When you find yourself always playing the part of event planner and never, ever the invited guest, when you’re the one initiating conversations that wouldn’t have been had if you weren’t the one who started them, you’re in a relationship with yourself. The other person is just there for decoration.

I’d have a mouthful of advice for one of my girlfriends if she was habitually on the heels of a dude who treated her like an option, not a necessity. But damn all that. Love had punked that better judgment into a cowering corner somewhere.

Sometimes women, in our eternal optimism and see-the-best-in-people-ness, give 150 percent all into relationships that aren’t worth the time or the energy we invest simply because we can envision how things could be if this would be like this and that would be like that. We gotta learn the hard way that you can’t make something be what it was never capable of.

It’s not easy to publicly admit, especially as a super girl-power flexing womanist, even one who shares all kinds of personal business, that you’ve been strung out on a dude who’s ever-so-nonchalant about you. I suspect I’m not the first and, unless Apple finally markets the technology to walk up and zap a guy into acting right and falling in line, I probably won’t be the last. (But seriously ... that invention? Now, please. I’ll even front some of the funding.)

But I felt compelled to share on behalf of girls with big hearts and bad experiences. So this is my official manifesto to myself to let it go. If I put it out there, I have to stick to it.

Back away from the texts, Janelle. And stay far, far away.

When do you know you’re out of control with post-breakup contact with your ex?

Image via Vox Efx/Flickr

Creepy Guys Are Invading My Facebook Page and I Know What They Want

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 10:31:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

My neighbor upstairs, the one who just moved in, is having raucous sex. I know because it woke me up out of a pretty restful sleep in the wee hours of the morning. Try as I might to will myself to hurry up and drift back off to blissful, coital-less unconsciousness, I listened to her man friend do his best to drill her down through the bed, past the floor, and into my apartment.

So I figured I had two options: keep hoping what I was hearing was their last spurt of voracious humping or get on up, catch an episode of The Golden Girls, and write a blog post. Clearly, I chose the latter.

Anyway, all of this banging and clanging reminded me of a public service announcement I’ve been meaning to make, and it’s about the misuse of the Facebook inbox. It’s a handy way to communicate with groups, send inside jokes to friends, and circulate 1,005 unsolicited party and event invitations that I’ll never consider attending.

It’s not designed to be a creepy meat market for seedy guys.

Has it ever happened to you? Post a picture or update a status and then, out of the wild blue yonder, that little flag symbol goes from white to red, indicating that some nut wants to make a comment that, for whatever reason, wasn’t for the eyes of the viewing public? No? Just me? Oh. OK then.

Forget that. I know it’s not. Some of my friends have made the same observation, and more than a few of them have also had guys in committed relationships—some of them married—duck under the cover of privacy to spark a conversation.

If a sentence starts with, “Guess who inboxed me?” we’re already rolling our eyes because we know how the rest of the story plays out. Either he’s married and sneaking over for some off-the-grid flirting or he’s single and trying to do his dirt one-on-one so as not to hock off the other chicks he’s propositioned and hit paydirt with.

Last week, it was a high school boyfriend who was fighting with his current girlfriend. So I guess, by default, he thought he’d rebuild his man ego with a little inbox flirtation with his ex from way back when. I didn’t bite. And I didn’t take kindly to someone’s attempt to make me his bottom chick. This week, who knows what Facebook inbox follies await. A friend’s older brother? A used-to-be, forgotten neighbor? It’s only Thursday.

Have you ever--or would you ever--get a date on Facebook?

Image via MoneyBlogNewz/Flickr

Not Every Black Teenage Boy Who Flips Off a Camera Is a Murderer

Tue, 26 Mar 2013 18:39:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

Sometimes people talk just because they have mouths and tongues and vocal chords. I’m convinced that George Zimmerman’s brother is one of them. And when folks like him have time to marinate in their own muddled thoughts and open a Twitter account, we all become privy to their clumsy attempts at reason. Hence Robert Zimmerman, Jr.’s effort to compare De’Marquis Elkins, who is accused of killing a 13-month-old baby in Georgia, to Trayvon Martin, who went to buy some Skittles and an iced tea before he was murdered.

Using photos of each teen brandishing their middle fingers and captioning the collage with “A picture speaks a thousand words,” Zimmerman seems to be trying to make a point. It’s not until he gets into his Twitter tirade that he reveals what it really is, though:

"Lib media shld ask if what these2 black teens did 2 a woman&baby is the reason ppl think blacks mightB risky"

So there we have it: one person accused of being dangerous defines the perception of an entire race of people -- the Obamas, Oprah, Bob Marley, me, Famous Amos -- the whole lot of us. We’re all perceived as potential threats because of what this one kid may or may not have done. That’s pretty reckless reasoning considering most white folks (even white Latinos) wouldn’t want to be measured on the Ted Kaczynski Scale of Socially Unacceptable Behavior.

Lumping these two kids, whose basic commonalities are that they’re black teenage boys with middle fingers, together into one generalization of thugishness says a lot for how Zimmerman not only sees young black men, but it’s representative of how a lot of people who consider themselves good, thoughtful, and humane see them, too. It was neon-bright obvious the last time I wrote about Trayvon in comments that justified the murder of a then-17-year-old. And on a site that speaks directly to mothers, that’s even sadder.

No 17-year-old kid deserves that, especially considering most of us go through a phase that reeks of teenage funkiness and self-righteous rebellion. Middle fingers doesn’t make someone a thug. And it certainly doesn’t make them a rightful candidate for murder.

If all it takes to be a thug is to be black, male, and not camera-shy about flipping the bird, three quarters of the dudes I went to college with, the bulk of my cousins, my Uncle Earl in that one picture with the big afro, most of the guys in this neighborhood, and just about every rapper everywhere would be locked up. I’m sure the Zimmerman boys think they should be.

So do plenty of other people, even in the confines of their secret, unspoken thoughts, even as they perceive the term “racist” to be another person’s problem and never, ever even entertain the possibility that it might be their own. Awesomely thoughtful writer Ta-Nehisi Coates recently penned a beautiful piece for The New York Times about that very thing.

Otherwise, racial profiling would be nonexistent and black boys throwing up their middle fingers would be nothing more than a tacky expression of immaturity and not a symbol of something far more sinister.

Is it impossible to be completely unbiased about other races?

Image via Hello Turkey Toe/Flickr

I Was Stood Up on a Date and It Hurt More Than I Can Admit

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 18:38:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

I guess the title kind of gives away the story. But let me paint the picture.

I got stood up for a date a few weeks ago. Actually, I got canceled on at the last minute which, in the book of Janelle, is the same thing as being stood up. This in spite of an evening revolving around tickets to the Wizards vs. the Bulls which, so far as I thought, a guy wouldn’t bail on. He might find a way to weasel out of a post-game dinner or sexless hang-out time, but seems like the ball action would’ve kept him reeled in until at least the second half. Unless it was a blowout.

But he proved me wrong and now I know, so I won’t be walking around thinking I’m all better-than-being-stood-up-for-professional-sporting-events and whatnot.

Hello rejection, old friend. We meet again. I like what you’ve done with your hair.

The night wasn’t a total loss. Far from it, in fact. My best friend—my eternal date—showed up in his stead and we had ourselves a good ol’ time. Sure, I plucked and waxed and shaved and fluffed and stuffed and polished in preparation and went out into the wintry cold when I could’ve been home with my Hello Kitty comforter watching a Law & Order marathon (because isn’t there allllways a Law & Marathon on?)

But it was disappointingly not the positive experience and open-hearted welcome I needed in order to walk confidently back into the world of unattached singledom. Especially since I’m still nursing hurt feelings from the breakup heard around the world. Or, at least, the stretch of 95 that used to connect where the ex lives in Delaware and I live in D.C., and now separates us.

That, in case you’re keeping a tally, is two kicks to the curb in the matter of a few months. That’s two more than a fragile gal like me is equipped to handle right now.

At some point, I imagine I’ll sweep my little bits of pride into a pile and reconstruct another attempt to walk boldly back into the dating world. But I’m not ready. There, I admitted it. To myself and to y’all. I’m not ready, to put myself out there to be not good enough to go to a basketball game with or face the potential of another ridiculous mishap. And I’m not going to time myself either.

If the best way to get over one dude is to get hooked up with another one, that dude will be Elliott Stabler. He’s one of the good ones.

Following a gut-wrenching breakup, how long should you wait before you start dating again?

Image via pumpkincat210/Flickr

There Are Some Lyrics a Kid Should Just Never, Ever Sing

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 14:32:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

I’m getting ready to show my age here, but when I was a kid (the key phrase that indicates someone is indeed about to launch into a story that will show their age), I used to rap the molasses outta the lyrics to “Push It.” I loved Salt-n-Pepa anyway, down to my ripped jeans and my replica of their asymmetrical haircuts. I don’t know about them, but mine took a regrettable and absurd amount of time to grow out.

So that combo, the fan-dom and the haircut, made me the fourth member of the group in my mind whenever that song came on. Perhaps Salt-Pepa-n-Curry? Or was I more of a Paprika? Either way, I obliviously ooh-baby-baby-edsong and emphatically ahhh-pushed-it in front of my mama whenever it came on. She never said a word to encourage or put me on ice either way.

Mind you, I wasn’t allowed to say “fart,” “boobs,” or “shut up” (substituted by “break wind,” “breasts,” and the much less saucy “be quiet”) but she let me say “Ah, push it, push it real good” and turned a blind eye to me heaving my yet-undeveloped hips out to dry hump the air. I mean, by Nicki Minaj standards, that’s a freakin’ nursery rhyme. But still.

More from The Stir: Laughing at Your Cursing Kid Doesn't Make You a Bad Mom

Fast forward to the present-time, when I have my own daughter and this generation of sexually charged songs is much less subtle and bypass suggestion for in-your-face boldness. As a music lover, you might just want to sing along and do a little sashay to the beat. But as a mother, you have to be all responsible and stuff, and that means not letting your babies belt out smutty lyrics.

When I heard Girl Child singing along to “S&M,” I could’ve cut a hole in the floor, burrowed into the ground, and swallowed a wad of hell. I don’t do much forbidding in the arts department, but I blacklisted that sucker. Same with Britney Spears’ “If You Seek Amy” (sound it out with me…eff-yoo-see-kay-me…yeah, that’s right). Yamma.

But the ultimate, also another Rihanna ditty, was “Rude Boy,” because you just haven’t keeled over and died inside until you’ve heard the lilting soprano of your otherwise innocent 10-year-old singing a very not-so-innocent, “Come here, rude boy, boy/can you get it up? Come here rude boy, boy/is you big enough?”

It’s still enough to make me cringe. Shudder.

Are there any songs you just absolutely forbid your kids to listen to?

Image via davitydave/Flickr

Teen Killed by Neighbor When He Sneaked Into the Wrong House After Partying

Tue, 19 Mar 2013 19:34:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

He was being a normal teenager. Sneaking out of the house, disobeying his parents, dabbling in rebellion. Caleb Gordley wanted to go to a party last Saturday, but his plans got snuffed out when his mom and dad grounded him for not cleaning his room.

But, in authentic teenage hardheadedness, he went anyway. There, the 16-year-old started drinking—to the point of being drunk—and when his friends dropped him off after their night of festivities, he stumbled to a window to sneak back up to his bedroom.

Except his friends dropped him off at the wrong house, and he was too wasted to notice, particularly since this home, like many in housing communities that have popped up around the country, looked almost exactly like the one he lived in two doors down.

He triggered the alarm and the homeowner, Donald West Wilder II, came out to investigate. He didn’t know Caleb, and he fatally shot him on the staircase that the boy mistakenly believed was leading up to his room.

Speculation is running rampant about what really happened in those wee hours of the morning, around 2 a.m., when no one else was awake and a man was startled out of his sleep by a teenager staggering around in the lower level of his home.

Was the kid really so much of a threat that the only option was to shoot him? Could there have been another way to respond to the situation, especially considering the shooter had been a volunteer firefighter for 20 years and had ostensibly been trained to deal with threatening, even dangerous situations?

Then again, the anxiety of fear and the element of surprise can rattle even the most level-headed emergency responder when the drama is unfolding in their own home.

Caleb’s parents, who are ever so gracious, have publicly acknowledged that the shooting was a terrible accident and have forgiven Wilder for killing their son. They’re grieving the senseless loss of Caleb’s life, but I can’t begin to imagine the guilt that their neighbor must be feeling. It’s a loss for everyone and for at least three people, life will never be exactly like it was before last Saturday night.

My heart goes out, but I hope this is all there is to the story.

Do you think gun laws should protect Wilder from prosecution?

Erase Your Hated Ex From Memory With This Mom's Genius Trick (PHOTOS)

Fri, 15 Mar 2013 10:01:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

Some folks ruin pictures. Not because they’re not photogenic, but because you hate them. Especially the ones who take your relationship south and drag you through an emotional cesspool of bitterness and despair. Yeah, them.

OK, not every breakup is that dramatic. Sometimes the dude just dangles on your last nerve and you know, without a slivery shadow of a doubt, that you can’t bear to be with him anymore. But you’ve taken some really, really good shots together—you looking skinny in your string bikini in Acapulco, you looking adorable outside the Rita’s Water Ice in the Village, you radiant in your PJs on Christmas morning three years ago—and it seems such a shame to crop them into individual shots because sometimes people you actually like are also in them, too.

So what’s a girl to do? Reddit user and graphic designer CreativeLady has a solution. Earlier this week, she posted a finished project produced at the request of a client who wanted to erase any trace of her son's ex-wife from a family photo. (Ouch.)

One of the people in the picture had unfortunately passed away, and rather than destroying it because of the unbearable sight of the dreaded ex, she enlisted the help of CreativeLady’s creative genius, who used Photoshop to do this:

Pret-ty impressive! It was a reverse Where’s Waldo? challenge, but I see what she did. To make it look more authentic, she added in some crossed arms and gave the lady up front a beer to hold instead of the ex-daughter-in-law's arm.

Too bad Photoshop is expensive as hell, huh? There would never be a reason to rip a snapshot into bits or turn a person’s face into a sinister-looking pirate caricature ever again. But then, there’s a little bit of fun in that, too. Tee-hee.

What do you do with mementos of your ex after the breakup?

Image via erix!/Flickr

Adele Will Sing at Your Wedding…If Her Fee Doesn’t Kill You First

Fri, 15 Mar 2013 08:03:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

Can you imagine anything making your special day any more idyllic than marrying the man of your dreams and having Adele belt out a love song in honor of you two’s new life together as you stroll down the aisle? That’s almost like the hand of God reaching down and chucking you right under the chin.

It’s all a fantasy, though. You know why? It’s not because Adele is Grammy darling and an international chart-topping pop music superstar. I’m sure she’d just as soon come serenade you two in front of your parents, in-laws, and crazy Uncle Frank. So that’s not it. It’s that her fee might kinda blow your wedding budget.

South African fruit juice tycoon Vivian Imerman asked her to sing at the nuptials for his daughter, Megan, and Adele was happy to do so at the standard rate of $3.73 million for a 25-minute set. That breaks down to $149,430 a minute.

I imagine after he picked his mandible up off the floor, he decided to find himself a nice house band instead.

Imerman himself is worth about $597 million, so he’s no stranger to big money and rolling deep in the dough (I know, I know, but it just felt clever at this time of the morning). He has a penchant for British soul-singing divas—he’s rumored to have paid Amy Winehouse thousands of dollars to perform at his oldest daughter’s wedding three years ago. I guess he reasoned that he didn’t become an absurdly rich guy by shelling out six figures per minute to the help, so Adele is out and the search continues.

(SB: Man oh man, I miss Amy Winehouse. Back to Black is still in heavy rotation in my collection.)

Earlier this month, Jennifer Aniston reportedly asked Adele to sing at her upcoming wedding, too. Seems our dear girl is in high demand on the glitzy wedding circuit, which is interesting since I can’t recall anything but her extensive repertoire of breakup songs off the top of my head. I can, however, think of a dozen out-of-work R&B artists who would tear the house down for a couple hundred bucks. I will require a finder’s fee, however. It’s only fair.

Barring a $149,430-a-minute fee, which entertainer would you want to sing at your wedding?

Image via CHRISTOPHER MACSURAK/Flickr

Mom Who Got Drunk on Margaritas With Her Teen Daughter Had the Right Idea at the Wrong Time

Tue, 12 Mar 2013 17:59:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

It’s perfectly normal to slip a kid a little nip of champagne at a family wedding or let them have a swig of cocktail at a New Year’s Eve party. (Right? I mean, I don’t drink—never even had a sip, except for an accidental taste of my cousin’s haphazardly placed beer-in-a-plastic-cup—but it seems pretty harmless, if only to satisfy their curiosity.)

That’s debatable, I’m sure, but I’m absolutely positive what’s not normal is Joann Goulet LePage, 51, slipping her 14-year-old daughter so many margaritas at a family restaurant that the child needed hospitalization. Diners at neighboring tables noticed that she was drunk, some even suspecting she was tipsy when she and her mama got to the restaurant.

Mom of the Month is grooming herself a real party girl there.

The restaurant manager—his name is, oh so extra special befittingly, Margarito Rodriguez—served three of the drinks to LePage during the course of the mother-daughter meal. Unbeknownst to him, at least initially, she was sliding them across the table to her teenager. He picked up on what she was doing and told them they had to leave but discovered that Girl Child was too drunk and stumblebum to be safe.

After a brief stay in the hospital, she’s now in her father’s custody.

There is a great amount of controversy surrounding how much experimental freedom parents should facilitate within their homes. Moms and dads have gone down for giving kids carte blanche to drink, and do drugs, and bump and grind, and otherwise take debauchery on a test drive. Their thinking is, “if kids are going to do it anyway, they might as well do it where they’re safe.”

I get the thought process, but I’m not so sure I agree with making it all so accessible. Where does it stop? If you allow your son and his friends to drink kegs of beer in your living room, do you then say it’s OK for him to bring home a prostitute and step up his sex game? If you allow your daughter to smoke weed in the living room, should you be outraged if she graduates to popping molly in her bedroom? What makes one illegal activity and social taboo justifiable enough to do at home and not another?

LePage, who’s been charged with risk of injury to a minor, admitted to giving up the slosh, but according to her daughter, that’s not unusual. The teenager told police that her mama often gives her alcohol with meals. Oh yes, all you cynical moms reading this blog post. There’s that. Cheers.

Is it better to allow your kid to experiment under your watch or let them do it the good ol’ fashioned way: behind your back?

Mom Arrested for Trying to Sell Her Kids on Facebook and Wait Until You Hear Her Plans for the Money

Tue, 12 Mar 2013 13:54:00 EDT

Post by Janelle Harris

We’ve heard plenty about the booty calls and vow-damning affairs, and read details on the sordid murder-for-hire plots that unfold on social media. But of all the wretched misuses of it, this one has got to be a frontrunner. A 22-year-old Oklahoma mom has been arrested for allegedly contacting a woman in Arkansas and trying to sell her two children to her on Facebook. Geez.

Misty Van Horn, who has a 2-year-old and a 10-month-old, reportedly set the going price for the toddler at $1,000 or both of them for $4,000. (I guess infants are pulling more in the Facebook baby black market.) That’s bad enough. But she’s accused of soliciting the illegal sale of her two children to raise the money to bail her boyfriend out of jail. That’s even worse.

Boyfriend. Babies. Boyfriend. Babies. That priority face-off is typically a no-brainer for most moms. Thankfully, the woman who claims she was propositioned informed the state’s Department of Human Services, who then contacted police. Otherwise, heaven only knows where those poor kids could’ve ended up. A woman desperate enough to try to hock her kids on Facebook is probably not splitting hairs about the quality of the customer.

More from The Stir: Ungrateful Kids Sue Mom for 'Bad Childhood'

In the ironies of ironies, Van Horn was locked up on $40,000 bond. Guess no one she knows was willing to put their babies up to get her out.

There have been a gajillion studies and critiques done about how social media affects our relationships. But, just in general, it also makes it easier for folks who are already having bad thoughts to actually act them out. The news is proof positive these days, no?

Have you had a bad experience that made you pull off of social media?

Why Men Marry Some Women and Not Others: The 'Reasons' Will Shock You

Wed, 06 Mar 2013 21:13:00 EST

Post by Janelle Harris

I’m gonna share this with y’all because it’s just too rich to not tell someone. I am chatting, right now as I type, with a dude who claims to be interested in dating me, another Facebook friend who is enamored by my apparent ability to be charming in the few lines of a status update. Real life, eh. But social media, I’m slaying ‘em. Anyway, he just told me that among the other qualities I appear to possess, I’m pretty, but not too pretty, and that’s one of the things he likes about me.

Join me in a long, blank stare, won’t you?

It’s not that I think I’m gorg. Far from it. But is that the kind of thing you say to a woman when you’re trying to win her over? Can’t fault the man for keeping it really real, I guess.

That leads me to the original intent of this post, which is not to divulge secrets about socially clumsy come-on lines. I stumbled across an email a friend sent like three years ago, six pages of findings from 2,000 interviews and research that were part of a book outline by author John T. Molloy. The title of the book itself was inflammatory: Why Men Marry Some Women and Not Others.

In true Janelle fashion, I’d printed out the email with the intent to read it later. But it’s funny that it should reemerge now, considering Molloy says, statistically, women who are a) over 35 and b) overweight are much less likely to get married.

(Looks at my birth certificate. Looks at the bulge hanging over the waistband of my Hello Kitty pajamas. If both of those are true, seems like my chances are pretty slim. I, on the other hand, am not. I mean, I’ve got a few years until I’m 35 but it doesn’t look like I’m riding on the fast track to romance. That and I love starches far too much to ever be considered thin.)

There are other guidelines Molloy says women should take into consideration in order to get hitched.

1. Insist on it.
2. If you find yourself in a dead-end relationship, move on.
3. Love yourself first.
4. Commit yourself to the idea of getting married.
5. Keep in shape, watch your weight, and take care of your appearance.
6. Time is running out—use time wisely in your search for the marrying man.

I guess for us gals approaching and beyond that 35-year mark, #6 should be boldfaced, highlighted, and set apart in strobe lights.

There’s more age-based pandemonium. Molloy also attests out that a man is less likely to marry after the age of 37-38, even less so after he turns 43. Another time-crunch kicker: most men propose after 18 months, he says. If at the end of 22 months, he hasn’t coughed up a ring, chances start to dwindle, and they plummet after 3.5 years. Beyond 7, you might as well pack up those white-gown-wearing dreams and move on.

Then there’s this: If a woman is convinced that marriage is essential to her happiness, she is more likely to marry. Oh. And yet I’ve heard so many stories about a gal—living her life, not hating her singleness—just stumbling across The One. If you’re convinced that marriage is essential to your happiness and then you never wind up getting married, does that mean you’re destined to be incomplete? Or sad? Or sad and incomplete? Awww.

Basically, these “reasons” why some men marry some women boil down to a thin, young woman finding a dude who’s at a point in his life where he’s ready to settle down. And really, did anyone really need a book to tell them that? A show of hands, please.

I’ve already bemoaned the overwhelming number of folks, particularly guys, positioning themselves as relationship experts just so they can make a killing off of telling women what’s wrong with us and what we need to do better in order to get married. The book was published back in 2004—well before this influx of know-it-alls started capitalizing. I’m just way late reading my notes. But really, is any of that information news to you?

What makes someone marriage material in your book?

Image via Maggiejumps/Flickr

Mom Offers $500 If You’ll Please, Please Give Her Daughter a Job

Wed, 06 Mar 2013 18:27:00 EST

Post by Janelle Harris

The economy is doing better? Oh. OK then. That’s news to some of us whose positions have recently been katana chopped (including this gal right here. You can’t see me, but I’m pointing to myself). But the headliner in the cast of seemingly normal but evidently freakishly unemployable people is 36-year-old Lisa Smith, who has been out of work since last summer. But not for much longer. Not if her mama, Linda, has her way.

So committed is she to getting her daughter a j-o-b that the elder Ms. Smith has issued an irresistible offer to all of you power networkers out there: take her daughter's resume and get $500 in cold cash if she gets hired. Or maybe a check or PayPal transfer. Anyway, you gotta love an incentive.

That’s not all. Mommy Dearest has also stood with a sign on a busy intersection in her California neighborhood and passed out Lisa’s resume. She took 80 with her and only 11 were taken, but she’s not the least bit deterred. She’s confident that all of this inventive marketing and advertising will put her daughter’s skill set in the hands of some benevolent human resource decision-maker out there.

Most recently, Lisa was caretaker to her mother, who suffered a brain injury after being hit by a drunk driver in 1996. She’s been a doting daughter up until last year, when her mom was finally able to care for herself and live on her own. Which explains why Linda is trying to help her girl child step back into the land of the gainfully employed. Kind of like an uber thoughtful version of tit-for-tat.

The warm, fuzzy results: it’s working. Well, sort of. Lisa has a job interview on Friday (cross your fingers, you guys! And squeeze your eyes real tight for hope). And even if that doesn’t work out, people have been contacting her by email and Facebook to ask for her resume and find out what they can do to help.

Of course, this effort isn’t without its critics, but I think it’s a kindhearted gesture. If you’ve ever found yourself in an employment dry spell—the kind that whittles your self-confidence down to the nubs because you’ve hit “send” on an unacknowledged resume/cover letter combo one too many times—you know that an effort like this can be appreciated. So good luck to America’s Most Well-Intentioned Mom and her daughter. Oh, and the person who scores the $500 for helping them get her a gig.

Do you think Lisa’s mother is helping her daughter or coddling her?

Image via sushi♥ina/Flickr

Shocking 10-Year-Old Rapper Shows Why Boys Need to Be Protected (PHOTO)

Wed, 27 Feb 2013 21:42:00 EST

Post by Janelle Harris

There’s no valid reason why a 10-year-old boy should have his hands, or any other part of his tiny little person, on the rear end of a grown woman. There’s no valid reason why a grown woman should allow a 10-year-old boy to inappropriately put his hands on her rear end. And yet we’ve seen the debauchery play out just like that, in the YouTube videos and online infamy of Lil’ Poopy, an unfortunately named prepubescent rapper who is grabbing cheeks and bringing the ruckus, one booty smack at a time.

Dethroning other pocket-sized offenders like Lil’ Wayne and Luda for the title of hip-hop’s smallest misogynist was easy. Silencing the backlash against his dad, Luis Rivera, might be a little harder. The Brockton, Mass. police have (rightfully) filed a complaint, inciting the state’s Department of Children and Families to investigate Poopy’s father for possible abuse or neglect. First thing defenders say—after slapping him high-five for palming the rump of gals ostensibly old enough to be his babysitter, if not his mama—is that no one involved in this hotmessness has violated any laws. In fact, it’s within his little 10-year-old First Amendment rights to be able to artistically express himself.

Mmm. That may be true. But anyone worth their moral salt knows that sometimes what’s legal permissible and what’s ethically upright doesn’t always jibe. And they ain’t jibing in this case.

Let’s pretend that this was a little girl aspiring to be a rapper, outfitted in all of the stereotypical accoutrements of rapper-dom, including an entourage of groupies. (I could launch into a whole other rant just about the chicks lending themselves to these videos and being willing participants in this filth.) If a grown man were to thrust his johnson anywhere near her, even rub up against her suggestively we, as a community, would pounce. We would verbally pulverize the videographer, call for the blood of the director, set the homegrown studio on fire, boycott the label and call her parents everything but children of God. We would rally for the protection of her innocence and virtue.

But this is a boy, and boys are encouraged to start knocking chicks off as soon as they can learn what to do with an erection. It may not be verbalized outright, but the atta boy spirit that undergirds their sexual activity, no matter how early, makes it par for the male libido course. It’s just part of a guy being a guy.

Grabbing a handful of tush is a demonstration of male bravado. But in Lil’ Poopy’s case, it marks a double standard in the hypersexualization of boys, that folks are willing to grab torches and pitchforks when it comes to the violation of young women but consider that same behavior a rite of passage when it comes to young men. Sexual exploitation is sexual exploitation is sexual exploitation. His videos have since been stripped from YouTube, but I suspect dad is too busy making money off of him to really be daunted by the controversy. Their little program of crazy will continue.

God willing, Lil’ Poopy will mature into a teenager and an adult, and these things that he has learned as a child will be exercised in grown manly fashion against someone’s daughter. And the objectification he mastered so early—that was never cute in the first place—will be even less cute when he’s passed the advanced course in perversion. I mean, when you’ve been smacking up, flipping and rubbing down grown lady booty since elementary school, it’s pretty safe to assume he’ll be well beyond his years in sexual maturity. We’ll blame him for being a pig and devaluing women and call him out for being an assortment of wrongs. But we’ll have to remember how he was unprotected as a little boy and where he got his first misguided lessons.

Do you think we value boys' innocence as much as we do girls'?

Image via

Trayvon Martin Died One Year Ago Today and Nothing Has Changed

Tue, 26 Feb 2013 19:15:00 EST

Post by Janelle Harris

This is the moment. Trayvon Martin died at almost this exact moment one year ago. Candlelight vigils are being held in his honor in Florida and New York City, social media has once again been leveraged to memorialize the tragedy, news outlets have marked the anniversary appropriately with reflective coverage and thoughtful commentary, but nothing will compensate for the final breath that 17-year-old child took on this day.

Trayvon didn't make his mark on black history like he could have. He’s not the only young, unarmed African-American boy to be murdered without just cause or provocation and, unfortunately—but very realistically—he won’t be the last. But his is the story that brings the issue to the fore. His death has been the catalyst for the conversation about race that we’ve been avoiding as a country.

Why have so many black children died because of gun violence? And why has it been so tedious, so hard, so laborious to get the powers that be to care?

Travyon has not been, nor should he be, a martyr for anybody’s cause. His life is more meaningful than that. He, like Emmett Till, was a regular child living a regular life that was snuffed out because racism seethed unchecked and the availability of a weapon allowed it to become murder. Emmett was killed because of mob mentality. So was Trayvon. Because even though George Zimmerman physically acted alone, years of racist, discriminatory group think informed his decision to zero in on a black boy in a hoodie with a pack of Skittles and an iced tea and see him as a threat. A target. An enemy.

That makes Zimmerman the martyr for centuries for unresolved racial tension.

There’s a chance he will never be brought to justice. Let’s just be honest. Media coverage of the case has waned over the last 365 days, trickling to news that has to be sought out in Google searches when it was once a top-of-the-hour headline readily dispensed to the public. But when you do find out what’s going on, you learn that Zimmerman's attorney will brandish the Stand Your Ground law at an April 29 hearing, which may grant his client immunity and allow him to shirk a criminal trial altogether. That’s saddening. But it’s happened so many times before.

It’s one thing for black folks to be outraged. We live the realities of racism, even on the subtlest, most deeply ingrained levels. But I commend the white people who understand and acknowledge the power of their privilege—which basically cushions them from any race-related unpleasantries and gives them a ready-made advantage—but still stand in solidarity to demand real conversation about race. To demand justice for Trayvon and all of the other unnamed victims like him.

I wish more people would just acknowledge cultural terrorism and wonder what they can do to help fix it instead of acting like we’re being ridiculously oversensitive or, just as bad, that we should “get over it.”

Trayvon’s death will be in vain, conviction or not, if we don't have an honest conversation about how boys who look like him are already marked for failure just because of their race and how the chips are stacked against them. It's not a pity party or a sob story. It's something that can be changed. It might be uncomfortable. But even more uncomfortable is having to observe the anniversaries of slain black children with no end to the violence in sight.

Why are Americans still so uncomfortable with open, honest conversations about race?

Image via amberjamiewordpress/Flickr