#metoo and You

In recent breaking news of yesterday, Harvey Weinstein was found guilty of rape. As yesterday was a tribute to B. Smith with a small mention of Katherine Johnson, who I will circle back to in a later post, I didn't want to mix the news stories. For those of you who still don't know, he was found guilty. We are now only awaiting his sentencing. It's no secret that with the downfall of Bill Cosby in 2018, it made every male predator vulnerable. If they can take down "America's Dad," who is safe? Months later, we would find out the answer is NO ONE as people started reinvestigating R. Kelly and Harvey Weinstein. As a result, both men are in prison. To his (dis)credit, Weinstein is using Cosby's defense of being a vulnerable old man by using a walker as assistive technology, even though he is 67 and had previously not had any publicly documented health issues. However, considering that he was admitted to the hospital with chest pains after his verdict, things may not always be as they seem.

Unfortunately, predators have been out there, and the shocking truth is that more women have been assaulted than most care to admit. Additionally unfortunate is that for so long, assault has been so normalized that women used to be afraid to admit it for several reasons: retraumatization, victim-blaming, or the fear of not being believed.

In today's climate, while it is easier to tell the story, it would be better to avoid having the story in the first place. It is important that women endeavor to keep themselves safe.

All that being said, this blog started off as dating advice but turned into safety after I realized there is just so much to do before you even get to the date. It is at this point the I will drop my general disclaimer: This is just a collection of my thoughts and opinions. You can take any or all of them with a grain of salt. Also, the safety aspect can be applied to all people, even though some of the products I show are in alternate colors.

1. You must first and foremost be aware of your surroundings regardless of whether you are in a familiar space or not. Are you alone? In a crowd? Take an assessment of what is around you. To the extent you can, stay with a crowd or set of people. If alone, make sure you are truly alone and not being followed. Keep your cell phone out, not to talk on (which can lead to distraction) but in case you need to dial.
2. Weaponize yourself. Sure, you can invest in some safety tools, such as old fashioned pepper spray like this cute little bottle or a small taser, like this one that looks like a flashlight. Notice that protection doesn't have to look big and bulky, but can fit in with your fashion sense. There are even small discreet blades that are designed to be concealed or to look like a regular key. But even if you don't have any of these, your regular keys can be used as a weapon by placing them between your fingers.
3. When at restaurants, bars, or parties, accept only pre-packaged drinks from a bottle or a certified bartender (or server) hand to hand. At a house party, if you don't see the drink being made or poured, don't grab a cup or accept one.

There are many more practical ways to keep yourself safe when out, but starting with these three can't steer you wrong. Even when you meet someone worthy of your time, it's still good to stay safe.

The Joys of Aging: Celebrating the Life of B. Smith

This weekend, the world lost another soul, that of the multi-talented B. Smith to the disease of Alzheimer's. First off, let me say that I never knew her. It wasn't until I made it to this area that I had any inkling of who she was.

For those of you unfamiliar with her, she was most recently in the news February of last year because her husband caused quite a stir of controversy when it was uncovered that he had a live-in girlfriend who also served as a caretaker. That the last years of this extraordinary woman's life became reduced to a disease that in many ways swallowed her whole is a sad testament to Alzheimer's devastating and long-lasting effects. There is no crueler way to die than to not be able to remember your life.

I first came across B. Smith as a young transplant back into the nation's capital. One of my favorite hangout spots when I was a young college student used to be Union Station. I would venture with or meet friends there via the Metro. The fascination with Union Station is that it was an all-in-one hub in the center of the city, rife with historic promise in and of itself. In the early 90s, it had a movie theater in addition to dozens of shops and eateries. As a young woman, going down there infused me with a sense of independence since I could get there all on my own via public transportation (a reason I still love Pentagon City as well). I confess that it's still fun to venture down there and reminisce, and it's also where I catch the Amtrak whenever I go out of town via train.

B. Smith's was one of the prominent restaurants there, visible from the entrance with an open air atmosphere in the middle of the lobby. I always made a silent promise to myself to one day dine there, but alas, I never availed myself of that opportunity. As I said, I had no idea who she was, but somehow I managed to glean that the restaurant was Black-owned and even at the end of the 20th century, this was a big deal, because to me, B. Smith invented the concept of upscale soul food. I would later find out that she did so much more and in many ways, paved the way and became a blueprint for Oprah Winfrey's success.

NPR wrote up a fantastic tribute to her, but to summarize some important timeline facts:

• She was born Barbara, but shortened the name to B. after becoming a successful model right out of high school.
• After modeling, she turned into a restaurateur, opening locations in Manhattan, Long Island, and DC.
• She created an empire that bestselling cookbooks, a talk show, a lifestyle magazine, plus her own line of housewares, bed linens, and At Home with B. Smith furniture line.

Mistakenly, she was referred to as the black Martha Stewart, which of course diminished her talent. If anything, she and Martha should have been comparative contemporaries of one another.

Sadly, B. Smith's world started to crumble in 2013 as she started to forget things, most shockingly in the middle of a television appearance. The official diagnosis would soon follow with a public announcement. Yet, Smith and her husband made the most of the hand they were dealt with the publication of their book Before I Forget. Then she quietly faded out of the limelight--again until last year when the controversy surfaced.

I hold no judgment against her husband for his life choice, and I ask that others reserve theirs as well. It is difficult being a caregiver under normal circumstances. The last years of my parents' lives were filled with me running back and forth to either a nursing home or traversing 2 1/2 hours away, with the last months filled with visits to doctor's offices and government agencies to provide security for them in their golden years. I can only imagine the suffering Smith's husband endured as day to day, he looked at someone he loved, who in the end, didn't recognize him. Last year, he went on ">The View to defend himself against all the backlash he was receiving.

When I was a child, I knew a woman with Alzheimer's. She was a distant relative and for two summers, my mother and I went to her and her husband's home on Benning Road and spent a good part of the summer. The last summer was the strangest as from day to day, the lady of the house would be in and out of memory lapses. On the days where she was out memory lapses, she would be either a young girl who would plait her hair into three braids, or a young woman who didn't understand why she was married to an old man.

And I imagine it was just as tragic for the husband as he could only observe this deterioration and understand that the love of his life viewed him as a stranger. In the recesses of my mind, I can faintly remember 10-year-old me hearing him plead with her, calling out "Ora" on more than one occasion. Besides the obvious stripping of memory, the disease seems to come in at a crawl and then sweep through rapidly. But it takes with it the very essence of the person it inhabits.

B. Smith's legacy is two-fold: first of all, it is a challenge to live as she did in her prime and examine as many ventures as we want. Secondly, it is to live a life with relatively few regrets. One of my largest was that I never dined at her restaurant because I always gave myself the excuse of next time. We never know when that next time will be, so it is important to snatch opportunities when they are presented, even if there are no guarantees of success. Some of my most unexpected rewards came when I just leaped without the extreme expectation.

Farewell B. Smith. Yours is a legacy that we won't forget, even though you were forced to.

On another separate note, I have just learned of the death of Katherine Johnson, mathematician to NASA, whose story was uncovered by the book and subsequent movie Hidden Figures. She was 101.

The Joys of Aging, Part I

This time of year is generally spent in reflection, and I will get to that this year, even though I neglected it last year. But for today’s subject, I thought I would tackle the inevitable: getting older. This blog will be part of a seres of themes on it, and today’s topic is eyesight.

There’s an old adage about aging that says that the eyes are the first things to go.

I have finally accepted the fact that I have old eyes. You have no idea how painful it is to fully acknowledge that realization. First of all, I am myopic, which means I can not clearly see objects in a distance. That distance does not exceed the length of my arm.

I have known I needed eyeglasses since the 5th grade, and wore them steadily after 12th grade (hence the reason I have had a premature permanent frown line between my brows). Not being able to see distances is a way of life: I don’t feel comfortable getting out of bed without an extra set of eyes. Most nights, I just go straight to sleep in them.

So to now have to admit that I have the additional problem of not seeing text close up is a double strike. I haven’t gotten to the point of actually needing reading glasses yet, but I can no longer read in my trusty eyeglasses. Most of the time, they end up perched on my forehead (which often smudges them with oil) or under my chin when I’m deep into a read. But when it’s a quick read, I actually peak over the top of my glasses in much the way I used to watch my Aunt Resa do. I remember that I would laugh, wondering why she did that. Now I know Aunty, now I know.

Before this segues into a tribute to all the lessons learned from Aunty, which could be a separate post altogether, let’s stay on the topic of the eyes. The official scientific explanation for old eyes is that when people age, their eyes lose their elasticity. The official name for this condition is presbyopia, and believe it or not, this term literally means “aging eye,” so I’m not that far off when I say old eyes.

Sadly, what this means is that at some point I will have to get readers—-worse yet, the dreaded bifocals. I often half jokingly quip that I am only one step way from getting a seeing eye dog. Personally, I think it’s unfair that I won’t be able to see up close or far away without corrective actions. I might as well invest in those fancy beaded chains.

Product links: TOODOO 2 Pieces Shell Glass Beaded Eyeglass Straps Sunglasses Holder with 4 Pieces Silicone Loop (Color Set 1)

Kellog's Is Evil

So I bought some of those mini-boxes of cereal from Sam's so that A could have them in the morning. After all this time, you'd think Kellogg's would figure out that Frosted Mini Wheats are the worst addition to this package. In fact, Frosted Mini Wheats--any Mini Wheats for that matter--are the worst invention ever.

Let's just be clear: Mini Wheats are essentially Triscuits without the salt. I actually like Triscuits, especially now that they come in interesting flavors such as ranch. But back to the cerealized version.

For those unfamiliar, Mini Wheats favor little pillows in shape, and they are made of some mesh of wheat fiber. Imagine if you will some very thin dried twigs and you have pretty much nailed the consistency. The same texture applies to mouth feel when they are dry. But the problem is that they are meant to be consumed wet with milk. This is a critical design flaw because once milk touches these little pillows, they almost INSTANTLY get soggy, which is the worst mouth feel of all. And don't get me wrong--I am usually the person who prefers soggy cereal. I will pour milk over almost any cereal and let it sit, just so that it can get soggy. I especially like Frosted Flakes and Pebbles cereal soggy. But with Mini Wheats it is a different story. I am forced to quickly consume the cereal as the sogginess is unbearable, akin to oatmeal (which I have a love-hate relationship with; see my past post on it). And because of this texture, I am forced to keep just to the original serving size of those mini boxes (which is a half-cup serving) when I would normally gobble up the equivalent of a whole big cereal bowl full (which realistically is almost three cups).

But I guess placing them in those mixed variety packs is part of their evil plan to rid their shelves of Mini Wheats. Because really, who in their right mind actually buys this cereal on purpose? I'm pretty sure that grocery stores must have some Mini Wheat buy back problem, or that they just sit on the shelf collecting dust. I will have to investigate the cereal aisle to see if there are more than two boxes placed in the front as a screen, with Apple Jacks or some other fun popular cereal as the other boxes.

An Unexpected Introduction to the New Year

Disclaimer: I include this disclaimer strictly for my male readers. If you are squeamish of lady parts and that time of the month, then you should avoid/skip this entry. However, if you are mature enough, or just inherently curious about your mate, mother, sister, cousin, friend, or even coworker who may be experiencing this distress, then by all means forge on.

2nd Disclaimer: The language will not be extremely delicate.

3rd Disclaimer: I asked for this.

In previous blogs, I have been lamenting the endless cycle that is the menstrual cycle. I asked for menopause because after giving birth to my son, my cycle changed from a simple 5-day curse with 1 heavier day to a full 7 days with TWO heavy days—days so heavy I had to start converting to the ultra thick purple pads with wings—the ones that cover front the front to the back.

So for the past five years at least, I have been asking for menopause to come and to come swiftly. At first, the symptoms of perimenopause came slowly: one year in January, I started getttin acid reflux, and symptoms were so severe that I had to change my eating habits drastically. Although I rarely ate fried foods, I almost completely stopped that and highly acidic foods. In addition, I stopped eating after 6pm, unless it was light fruit or vegetables.

The acid reflux led to throwing up, and this reflux and throw up cycle always coincided with the pre-menstrual cycle. Once my period left, so did the nausea.

Now if you’ve read any of my previous blogs on this topic, this is merely review of TMI.

Then came the night sweats. I have never been one to experience being overheated. My coworkers will tell you that I spend most of my day huddled with my hearted and a sweater. But lately, my body chemistry has changed, especially at night. I may start off going to bed wrapped up, but within an hour, I ended up stripping down because I am drenched in sweat! I guess the best way to label them is to call them hot flashes, but it’s more accurate to say hot drowning. I would often wake in the middle of the night and the sheets would be so wet that you would have sworn that I’d hopped in the bed immediately after a hard workout. I mean Pilates mixed with kickboxing mixed with hot yoga kind of workout. Or that I’d taken sheets out of the washer and not bothered to dry them. THAT level of sweat.

So here it is 2019, and I find myself in full blown out menopause. The strange thing about ending your cycle is that before it goes away, you are forced to endure every bit of your womb being dried out piece by piece, every miserable step of the way. On the 27th of December, my cycle reappeared slightly later than expected. It was supposed to swoop in and ruin something during the holiday, but presumably, it would have appeared around the middle of the month, or by Christmas. Yet I rang in the new year on. Sadly, it is still with me—10 FREAKING DAYS LATER! And it is showing no sign of relenting.

Welcome to Menopause.