Female Etiquette

Let me highlight ANOTHER facet of how women are so different from men.

I hear horror stories from guys ABOUT guys in the bathrooms at the office. The non-washing of hands, the phone conversations while on the toilet and so on. I listen with a combination of shock and awe: shock only because, well, us ladies, we do things a bit differently.

Of course, the number one concern is the no-flush. A woman goes in, does her thing and apparently gets so involved in putting her clothes back on that she forgets to flush the toilet OR doesn't allow the check-back look because she's so involved in her Blackberry. Of course, that situation was alleviated with self-flushing toilets, thank the gods.

Now, taking a trip to the ladies room, I was self-involved in Twittering about some nonsense and checking my email for some items. In sitting there, another lady walked in and slipped into the stall next to me. The only reason why she knew I was in there was because she tried the handle and found it locked. Great. Now that I've been discovered, the timer starts to when I need to evacuate before she thinks that I'm doing something... fiendish.  But, this time, to prove a quick theory, I stayed around to see what would happen.

I noticed that she didn't perform her duties immediately. She sat patiently and waited for the bathroom to clear before she could move forward. Two other ladies came in, jostling my stall handle, then hers and landing finally in the handicap stall at the end. She came in and noisily did what she had to do-- what sounded like adjusting the straps on a papertowel dress with one arm tied behind her back, while hopping on one leg and mouthing the words of the star spangled banner. While performing her one-man-band show, another lady came in and fell right into the first stall. She quickly, and quietly performed her master duties, washed her hands and left.

My legs began to go numb as I wanted to spice things up a bit-- as The Last Staller emerged from her lair and The First Staller had just left, I opened and closed my stall door to see if The Second Staller was going to hear and make her move. I quietly put down my cell phone and waited. Just a few seconds after The Last Staller leaves, there was finally movement in the next stall. Two minutes later she was done, washed and left.

So, therefore I concluded, that women do not like to perform in any sort of public, seen or unseen. Men, on the other hand, are not ashamed of their performances. Even to the point of having reviews and writeups of the episodes experienced where so many co-workers meet.

True Resolution Ministries

My husband and his business partner are opening a transitional home for homeless men in recovery called "True Resolution Ministries".

This organization exists to assist homeless men recovering from substance abuse issues in learning the skills that they will need to have a full life. The owners of this facility are educated/trained in the areas of addiction counseling, anger management, and life skill coaching.

If you would like to help this organization in this endeavor by donating any furniture or other household items that you have been wanting to get rid of, we'd be happy to pick up any donations you have. Please contact me if you would like to donate.

Items needed:

• Sofa and chairs
• Kitchen table and chairs
• Beds
• Mattresses
• Pots and pans
• Utensils
• Glasses
• Toiletries and miscellaneous household items

Your generosity is most appreciated by True Resolution Ministries AND the men they serve.

Rhonda Martin
404-841-1892

The Voices Sing

I had the opportunity, moreso, privilege to experience the choral stylings of the William Baker Festival Singers last night. The concert was held at Peachtree Christian Church-- a building that has seen so much history, so many families and friends come and go throughout its numerous years of standing there. You can feel the heaviness in the air of all the laughter, tears and hugs that were once exchanged within its walls.

Getting off of the elevator, there was a straight-shot view between myself and the woman taking the tickets. Behind her the choir was getting ready to go on stage. There was a faint cloud of titters and laughter, pats on the back and hand motions while they went over lyrics at the last minute. My eyes shifted to the choir and then fell back on her, and I had to remember to smile as I approached. I can feel the ache in my shoulders from the day's stresses tense up and relax a little bit as I silently agreed to leave work, at work.

Taking my ticket with a smile and a thank you, she pointed me in the direction of the back of the sanctuary. "Don't want you to have to step over any of the choir members to find a seat," she mused. I obliged with a smile and an assured "Oh! Thank you!" and rounded the corner to the side cooridor.

As I turned the corner from the corridor to the main hall in the back of the sanctuary, my steps were padded by the deep, velvety carpet that softened the area. Though it seemed to add a sense of commandment to the space, my eye was immediately drawn upward to the paintings of past leaders of this said church. Old, dead white guys adorned in robes and holding a bible in a half smile. I hesitated for a moment to walk over and look at the dates of their sovereignty in this church, only to be interrupted by an alter boy in a black suit and no smile to hand me a program. I flash him an oh-you-caught-me-off-guard smile and he turned and opened the door for me.

The inside of the sanctuary is what I had imagined, and more. A cool breeze glided past me as my eyes shifted upward to the massively tall ceilings, adorned with paintings and beautifully carved wood trimmings. There was a deep-red runner that lead from the door straight to the pulpit where the choir stood. I walked one, two, three, rows from the back and sat down, not realizing how old the pew must have been: as I sat down it made an uncomfortable creaking noise that resonated throughout the room. I had decided, then, that whatever position I settled in, that would have to be it for the next hour. No exceptions.

Stained glass surrounded the sanctuary: a different set of stories for each facade the space offered. The evening light coolly illuminated each feature, allowing the rich colors and textures of each piece of broken and mended glass to glow. It was hard to focus on the choir at first, especially with the largest piece directly above them: a comforting picture of Jesus Christ calling forth His lost and showing them pathway to irreplaceable love.

The conductor approached his stand immediately after I sat down and began to give his introductions of the group that stood in formulaic unison behind him. He spoke with a very easy, consistent tone while surprisingly keeping his hands very still. After the introduction he turned to the choir with a boldness and confidence I haven't seen in a while-- and with one raise and fall of his hand, they began to sing.

As the tenors started singing the first verse of the song my eyes immediately slid closed. The unison of their voices was as warm as a genuine embrace on a cold day. As they effortlessly chanted, my heart slowed to the rhythm of the song. I was surprised at the power that these voices had over my body: the security and safeness that I felt by just listening to them sing the beginnings of this German Requiem.

The sopranos and altos blended in with the tenors like cream and sugar into a rich cup of coffee and I enjoyed drinking in every last sip. They sang from the texts of William Shakespeare, renditions of Bach and Mozart and intricately written pieces from the British and German cultures. The female soloists offered an enthralling and piercing sense of settlement and peace with their voices, causing me to sit up just to see who (and how) such a person could sound so effortlessly angelic.

The ensemble rounded out their concert by singing folklore songs from the times of slavery-- clearly enjoying every crescendo and sharp each song mandated. I unconsciously nodded my head and tapped my foot as the choir did, but was just thrilled that I could actually recognize the words.

At the end of the concert, the conductor turned and bowed joyfully to the audience, quite assuredly smiling inside. He had done it again and there was a group of people that could completely agree and appreciate him for it. I stood and clapped, allowing myself a few seconds to give my offering of hand praise to the group. After a short while, I grabbed my things and tip-toed out the back before the room had completely settled after the final applause. As I emerged from the church, I took a deep, alighting breath to realize that this was truly, indeed, a very wonderful, wonderful experience.

In It For a Day

Odd (and predictable) as it sounds, I was actually smitten for a day. Complete head-over-heels, deep-sighing, pillow-hugging smitten for about a day. What a long day that was.

I can't definitively say that it was love. I can't. I won't. Because I've only been in "it" once, and that took almost a year of campaigning on his part to persuade me that the nagging, aching feeling that I was so desperately trying to drown with studying and exercise was actually love in the flesh.

So, in seeing how I had something very similar to that nagging feeling, I present my blog.

He walked in the house and I was shocked at how my insides responded to him. It was sort of this leaping/gasping/flounderin

g type deal that I was NOT accustomed to. My friends egged me on face to face and from afar, dubbing him "my boo," which over time settled my spirit more into liking him. It was a constant battle of checking and re-checking to assure fresh breath, good eye contact and no sweaty palms the entire day. I have to say that by the end of the day, I was EXHAUSTED.

I saw him again the following day, though back and forth about what I was going to wear when I saw him, I opted out for casual and did what I felt was comfortable. The complete misery that was rushing through my body when I talked to him, when I wasn't talking to him, when I was avoiding eye contact and smiling nervously at him, was unavoidable torture. I didn't eat the entire time he was there and when he finally left I was so worked up that I could still barely choke down my own dinner that I had (so lovingly) prepared. Somewhere between closing the door behind him and breathing a sigh of relief, I turn around to see my friends eyeballing me and almost tossing my carcass out into the night for me to go and chase after him and give him what they dub as "the boob hug." Apparently what I gather, through explicit illustrations, its when a girl firmly presses her boobs against a guy's chest, to remind (and assure) him that she does indeed, without a doubt, own breasts. Let him take it from there.

Exhausting.

All the while, a wild ride for many, I need a day off to recuperate and replenish my way of thinking. "Love" can wait. I think I'll stick with the cool, refreshing breeze of the single life a while longer.

This Little Towne Named St. Louis

Not to think I'm bohemian by any means, I bid thee a new perspective on my home towne.

Born, bred and hailing from St. Louis, MO, you don't realize how you lived until you leave the life you once, well, lived. Here's my story.

Flying in from Atlanta one late afternoon, I breeze off the plane. I slide my D&G shades up from over my deprived eyes and gaze around the gate's waiting area. The dimly lit arena of awating people gazed at or around me, wondering when it would be time to board the plane. I stride past them, up the ramp, down the ramp, around the corner and to the baggage claim. I slip my shades back on and plug in the left headphone from my iPod into my ear. Trying to look as physically unavailable as possible, I shot short glances around me, not turning my head at all but shifting my eyes left to right. I caught confused gazes of people around me, mostly wearing grey, bright orange or some sort of Disney cartoon character adorned on their shirts. I look down at my attire, wearing a crisp button-down blouse with pearl earrings, fitted jeans and stiletto boots. Somehow I felt a bit out of place.

Fast forward to the next morning. I had to awaken early before my junket to Chicago to go to the DMV to get my new tags for my (still) Missouri license plates. I walk in to the place where I've been so many times before-- where my friends co-oped during high school, where I got my permit papers; how about where I picked up my first set of personalized plates and even where I submitted the paperwork to get my car registered in the first place. I walk in and take a number from the little red dispenser that always looks like its sticking its tounge out at you. Moderately crowded, I walk over to the far side of the space and find a seat next to an old man. I look down at the chairs first to make sure I didn't get anything on my soft white-linen capris, or anything to wrinkle my crisp button down shirt. I glance over my shoulder and catch people staring at me-- and again feeling awkward, I slink down a little in my chair and await until my number is called.

Looking around the DMV brought back and showed me so many things that I had forgotten. The little things like a person's name carved out of a block of wood, clearly laqured and on display for all to see. How about the faded poster of some movie that came out ten years ago, and never have I seen so many different forms of an eagle in all my life. The section of the wall dedicated to the offspring of the employees, the offspring of the offspring of the employees, sisters, cousins, neighbors: all with cute little callouts and cheesy grins of proud mamas and sleeping paw-paws in the lazyboy. The section where awards given out by the local high schools for a collaboration on a Co-Op program mandated in 1998 and before, the angel figurines, the orange carpet, the imitation wood paneling, the dingy white paint and every employee with a horizontal stripped t-shirt, denimn Lee Jeans shorts and a pair of off-white Reeboks to set the mood.This, right here ladies and gentlemen, used to be MY world. The khaki pants, the K-Swiss tennis shoes, no makeup, no heels, no problem. I'm from St. Louis. This is what we look like. What we wear. What we represent. Isn't it? Right?

In all my times in being back in this city, never have I EVER felt so out of place. So now the question is, what do I now call "Home"?

How I learned to make soup.

I remember as a little girl: short, stocky and chunky as I was, the numerous times I tried (and failed) to make a good bowl of soup. I wasn't aware what the word "condensed" meant-- I would dump the can into a bowl, a solid and gelatinous mess of goo and microwave the living daylights out of it until it was some form of a hot mass of edibleness. Thinking that was the way to partake of "condensed" soup, I went on, time and time again preparing my soup the same way.

One evening, I was sitting in the family room with my mother watching television. She mentions the philosophy of making some tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner. Excited, and thinking I knew what the heck I was doing, I jump up and "make" some tomato soup. Can. Bowl. Dump. Microwave. Done. Lumpy and hard to cruise through, I present to my mom my accomplishment. She puts her hands on her hips, shakes her head and says "If you would have just waited..."

She takes a small saucepan out of the cabinet, opens a can of soup and puts it into the pot. Turning on the stove and adjusting it to medium, she takes the milk from the refrigerator and pours a little into the pot. A pinch of pepper and a pinch of something else and mixes it together. I sat and watched as she carefully took out two slices of bread, buttered both sides and put them under the broiler, carefully watching and waiting for them to brown. She took her two slices of cheese, placed them on the bread, toasted a little more and then took it out of the oven. Her soup made faint bubbling noises as her cheese hissed and crackled on the hot buttery bread. She stirred her soup a bit more, and put her hand on her hip as she looked over at me and smirked. I sat there, elbows on the table, looking at her in sheer disappointment that I didn't wait for her in the first place. I looked down at the solid goo that was my soup and the mass of burnt bread and room-temperature cheese that was supposed to be my sandwich. I heard the click of the stove as she turned it off. She got a big bowl from the top shelf and ladled her soup into the bowl. She manufactured the rest of her grilled cheese sandwich, cut it in half and placed it on a folded paper towel. As she made her way back to the living room, she paused as she was about to walk past me, looked into my bowl, and poured some of her warm, smooth, creamy soup over my solid goo. She smiled at me and hummed a little diddy on her way back to the big cozy chair in front of the TV.

I looked down into my bowl and compared mental notes. My soup, dark, clumpy and needs to be spread with a knife, started to absorb the smooth, consistent soup she cared to make. I picked up my spoon and scooped just enough of her soup to taste. It was hot, but so much more palatable-- she was right. If only I had waited.

From then on, I know that making soup takes a little more time and energy than most people are willing to make. Just because its in a can for our convenience, doesn't mean that the right preparation won't take precious time.

See, sometimes we are at times of our lives where we are in a hurry to get to the end result. We see what we want, we take short cuts and take-- and more often than not we do get what we're aiming for, but it won't nearly be as awesome as it would be if we just took our cotton-pickin' time.

Ladies and gentlemen-- God has a big plan for us. That's no secret. If you find yourself getting rather impatient and contrite with Him because what you desire hasn't manifested yet, please, don't try to do it your own way. I can guarantee you, you can still get what you want. But it will be a solid, gooey mess compared to what He really wants to prepare for you.

If I Knew Then...

With more than a quarter of my life under my belt, I’d like to think that I am not just older, but wiser as well. See, deep down, I feel as though we are always craving for new relationships. New friends, a new boo, an undiscovered dentist, whatever. It keeps us on our toes, it makes us dress a little better and care more about the potential of what tomorrow will bring.

However. What if we had the opportunity to know what was going to happen in a relationship before it even happened? Would you walk up to your future ex-boyfriend and go, "Hi. My name is blah blah blah, and I’m going to be your ex one day. We’re going to get along just fine in the beginning, of course, and as time goes on, I’ll get tired of you. I’ll begin to question your motives and accuse you of cheating on me-- you’ll be frustrated at me for going through your things when you’re not looking. We’ll have a rocky, horrible breakup that will last for months, and all the while have soul-shaking, amazing sex in between. You down?"

Would we avoid certain people, knowing what kind of heartache they would bring to our lives? Dodge persons of the same sex who have the potential to be really good friends, but in the end leave us feeling alone, wasted and spent?

Now, before you all stampede the stage with your "Heck no I wouldn’t do it!!" or "I’d kill him before he even met me!!", think about this. What would you learn if you didn’t? Would you, could you, appreciate yourself a little more if you didn’t meet that person? Would you, could you, still be able to take away a life experience that will help you in the future? Things that you learn from? Would you want to take away the ability to nod your head in agreement with someone who is going through the same thing, and tell your story to help them through?

So, the next time you let someone in your life go, just remember that you always had the chance in the beginning to never start the relationship in the first place. But would you be as awesome as you are now if you didn’t take the chance?