Tag Archives: Slice of Life Writing Challenge

Ummm Why?

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The more I think I cannot be caught off guard by the “ummm why?” of those people with whom I share the office floor, the more those people – and note I did not say co-workers or colleagues, but those people – are determined to prove that I in fact can be caught off guard.

Exhibit A: I walk down the hall at work and encounter this: someone left their dishes in the water fountain.

Okay, “dishes” is bit of a misnomer. It’s not as if there is a stack of plates with remnants of mom’s spaghetti. [Dammit – and here comes Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” to rattle in my head for the next hour.]

I’ll even give credence to the fact that despite the literal dishwashing implement in the dirty mug in preparation for cleansing, clearly the incredibly rude person who did this was only storing the items there momentarily-likely while the used the nearby loos- before they could be taken to the sinks in the pantries. Regardless, that was just wrong.

Yes, there are water coolers -with better tasting, colder, better filtered water- located elsewhere on the floor that most people use. Those water coolers are located in the pantries that bookend the floor. As my floor hosts about 400 seats, 80-90% of which are occupied on any given weekday; the coolers are literally a full street block apart from one end of the floor to the other. This classic water fountain is centrally located on the floor. Regardless, that it is used much less often, it remains a working fountain, I have seen people use the fountain as intended – to drink from.

I can only imagine the utter repulsion of the poor souls who wanted a quick sip at the moment without going to polar ends of the floor to do so and encountered that nonsense. I know I shuddered at the thought.

So typical me, printed a sign and taped it above water fountain: This is not a dish rack. It is a working water fountain. Just because YOU don’t drink from here does not mean others do not.

The fact that I saw the dishes, got annoyed, created and printed the sign and the items were still there when I returned to the fountain to post said sign proved its need for it (in my humble opinion – and some of you know how humble my opinions are). Sign printed and posted I forget about it.

When I left for the day I pass the fountain and note the dishes are gone, but the sign remained. Only now in tiny print in a corner was scrawled Oops Sorry. This morning the sign was gone.

I have no idea if the offender knows I posted the sign. Unless I see the person with the mug I will have no idea of the offender’s ID.

I do have an idea that at least that person will not be so presumptuous about turning fountains into personal dishracks.

Day 4 of 31 – Come see how the rest of us are slicing it up this Friday!

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

A Job and A Title

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One morning I was given a job. It came with a title.

I knew it was going to be a demanding one. I had read and been told so much about how to do the job. Watched others. None of it prepared me for it. Because in spite of all the advice, I learned the job on the fly. There were far too many days when I had no idea what I was doing, even less of what I was going to do next.

Not going to lie, there were days where I know I messed up royally. And while even now, after holding this position for decades, I still sometimes question my abilities for this job. I do the job anyway. Most days I think to myself, I’ve done my best, I continue to do my best and it’s not a bad job at all.

One morning I was given a job. It came with a title.

And unlike marriage, it’s a job and a role that not even death can part.

The job: parent. The title: Mother.

Over recent years I am, or have been, the emotional parent of sorts to several, not even close to being called children, a few of whom who refer to me in matriarchal terms.

I am the biological mother of two.

But only one can be my first.

One morning I was given a job. It came with a title.

No, that’s not accurate. I wasn’t given a job and a title.

One morning, a bundle was placed in my arms, and I was honored with the job and title for the very first time.

Sometimes I swear that morning was just yesterday, a week ago at the most.

Happy 40th Birthday, my first sun.

Day 3 of 31 – Come see how the rest of us are slicing it up today!

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

Dynasty Circa NYC Mode

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The subway, again being the subway this morning, I was put off my train. At least this time I was at a good transfer point where I easily had choices and was able to move without my St. Jude of the MTA beacon turning on.

The previous train had the heat turned up to lava, so by the time I transferred to another line my coat was wide open. Though the clothing rules have been more or less relaxed to business casual at work, I own suits, look damn good in them, and choose to wear them. Thus I was in full Raivenne in the City stride as I sauntered into a surprisingly only semi crowded car, which is eons better than a semi-empty train car, that was empty for all the bad reasons a subway car during NYC rush hour can be.

As I start to scan for where I want to sit, I hear a very bad Humphrey Bogart impression from a very familiar voice.

“Oh hell! Of all the subways in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine!”

I encounter a colleague who now works in a different location. Though we have kept touch via phone and email, we have not seen each other in person in nearly two years (stupid Covid!). We have always had a wonderful joke-flirt-tationship, so for him to pick right up and greet me as such is a delightful surprise to say the least.

“Oh that line is only worthy if you’ve got gin to serve up in this joint.” I grin as as I see him and approach in full Domonique Devereaux mode. [Kudos to all of you who do not have to look that up.] “Dashing as always, darling. So, tell me – do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you have gin to serve up in this joint, of course. Do keep up, Blake.*”

“It’s not even 7am!” he exclaims.

“Unfortunately, true in this time zone at the moment, but…” the adage of it’s 5’oclock somewhere so clear in the silent ellipsis there was no need for the words to be spoken.

“Oh God!” he laughs.

“Yes?” I smile benignly to my devotee. “How may I help you?”

“I completely forgot how modest you are not. You don’t think much of yourself do you?” he laughs, well used to my antics.

“Darling please! Most women know those days when everything is working for her – hair- war paint – clothes – all on point. Even the most homely and humble feeling of women will honestly acknowledge to herself now and again that she may be “pleasing to the eye” on a given day. I have a full length mirror at home; I know what I am working with. And let’s face it, I’m as humble and homely as I am skinny and white**. Now where’s my London Dry?”

Please note this exchange is happening on a NYC subway to the amusement of all within earshot.

Idle curiosity made me look it up and at the time of this writing it is coincidently after 5pm in Casablanca, Morocco. Alas, I am not on holiday and do need to prep for yet another meeting that should be an email – thus my thirst for gin remains unquench – for the moment.

Here’s looking at you in spirit Bogey and Ingrid.

Time in Casablanca, Morocco 5:09:32pm, Wednesday, March 2, 2022

*Blake is not his real name. Since my mind was in full Domonique Devereaux of “Dynasty” mode as I teased with him it felt apropos to use here.

**For those of you readers who don’t know me (and why the hell don’t you! Read my About Raivenne page dammit!), I am big bodacious beautiful black woman.

Come see how the rest of us are slicing it up today!

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

We Don’t Talk About The Name In The Meme

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It’s funny how a simple thing as a nomenclature can take a life of its own, then subsequently affect so many others with the same name.

In 1997 American singer Erykah Badu bade the soon-to-be ex-lover protagonist of her classic song to call his friend for assistance in moving his belonging out of their shared domicile. Or in simple words “I think you’d better call Tyrone (call him), And tell him come on help you get your shit…”

“Tyrone” was a major hit for Ms. Badu. Unfortunately, it was also a major pain for every male named Tyrone, where those not paying attention to the lyrics mistook “Tyrone” for the lover getting the boot.

For many the word chad is a nonsense word worthy of Lewis Carroll. However, many others know Chad is also a proper name. There are a few known well known Chads out there now – Chad Kroeger of the band Nickelback, Chad Lowe – brother of fellow actor Rob Lowe, NFL’s Chad Pennington of the NY Jets, and seriously giving away my vintage here, actor Chad Everett from the 70’s TV show Medical Center.

However, in the 2000 U.S. presidential election between George W. Bush and Al Gore, the fate of the presidency hinged on tiny slivers of paper called “chads” as in “hanging chads”, “butterfly chads” and even “pregnant chads”. These chads became the source of much controversy in the state of Florida and across the nation in 2000 — which eventually swung the presidential election to George W. Bush despite the popular vote going to Al Gore. They became the most famous, well infamous, of all Chads to the chagrin of all others.

Tyrone and Chad specifically come to mind because anyone named Tyrone or Chad had to suffer the slings and arrows of jokes from late night talk hosts and regular folks for a very long time afterward until the ever-fickle public found new fodder to set flame. And this happened in a world before “memes’ were truly a thing. While “hanging chads” has fallen out of use except as a mark of U.S. electoral history, Tyrone has managed to (ma)linger on to become if not memes, at least gifs that can me used when someone needs to “call him.”  

A video of a little boy, clearly copying the mannerisms of his father, became viral when telling his mother to “Listen Linda..” while trying to get out of the trouble he was in.  “Listen Linda” became the bane of every woman named Linda. But not just them, any form of Linda in the name was fair game: Malinda, Belinda, Calinda etc. They all caught a piece of the nonsense.

And can you imagine how every Charlie Brown felt when that classic by The Coasters song came out?

Some name memes like Chad and Linda understandably die out when the oft repeated “joke” stops being funny and becomes passé. Sometimes, other names resurrect. “Bye Felica” made infamous from the 1995 Ice Cube movie Friday had a short resurgence in use with the 25th Anniversary of its release in 2020. It has since died down again but let’s see what happens in a few years at its 30th Anniversary.

Then there are the Karen and Becky and Shaniqua type names each with their own mostly negative archetypes that at best amuse and at worst annoy those that bear the names.  And yes, I do note the lack of equivalent male names here that have not taken a toehold in the way the female names have. An angry white man is an angry white man, but an angry white woman is a “Karen.”

I feel for the innocents who share/bear names with memes. I know a Chad, a Karen, a Linda and a Felicia in real life. I now try to avoid the use of the names in conversation that is not about the actual person out of respect, because I completely get how this Twitter user must feel:   

And all of the above just to say, last night I finally watched the Disney movie Encanto that reminds everyone “We don’t talk about Bruno. No. No. No.”

Now I understand all the annoying TikToks, Facebook posts et al, that have emerged in recent weeks and thus, a new name gets to added to the meme list.

I feel for to all you Brunos out there who will, like Tyrone, hear your name (badly) sung for the future.

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Slice of Life – Tuesday Writing Challenge – Two Writing Teachers

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I’m Baaaaack!

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Yesterday was my first official day back in the office. I am one of the first people on the floor and it was lovely to see one of the other early birds whom I have not laid eyes on in over a year. After the pre-requisite elbow touching in place of a hug, the first few minutes are spent catching up. It was a routine repeated as others came in. I spent the day in a bubble of working, reconnecting and organizing as we also make ready for a floor wide restructuring.

Some of it was very familiar: Coming in early, jumping into work, plugging up to my music to focus, not taking a proper break for a few hours; rolling my eyes at the one colleague who insists on wearing ill-fitting shoes that squish and clomp noisily as they pass my desk, staying late to work with a client having an issue, even the extra-long commute home was an annoying comfort of the familiar.

Still, for all its familiarity something about yesterday that felt off and I could not identify it until today.

Yesterday… 🎵 Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so fa… 🎵  

Huh? Oh, wait sorry, sorry… brain wandered off for a musical moment, I’m back.

Yesterday, because I was distracted by several things, I had not taken my mid-morning coffee run.

Today I remembered. So off went I to my home away from home, away from home.

While the trip itself was done by almost by rote, it was once I was back at my desk and sipped that did it.

My Starbucks special order, the one thing I cannot get in my neighborhood, was in my grubby little talons once more.

There was a new staff from when I was there last; no familiar faces at all. I handed my phone to the barista and watched her face as she glanced from the phone to the register to place the order and then gave me a silent but definitive are you fucking serious(?) look as she handed the phone back. I especially enjoyed the look of resigned yet annoyed belief when I informed her of the irony that it was a former Starbucks barista who worked at that location, which gave me the recipe.

Starbucks cup
Yes, I erased my insane recipe from the image.
It’s MY recipe! 😝

I have a Keurig with Starbucks k-pods at home, and I love it, but it’s still not quite the same thing because I have that ridiculous order. Yes, my favorite order is one of those orders. When I cannot mobile order, I amuse myself by watching every new barista I hand my phone read the order and then tries, but inevitably fails, to not make a face as they re-read it a couple of times before they make it.

Whether it’s the fancier machines or their precise measurements for the base, it’s just something that I cannot duplicate in my kitchen.

As that first sip slid past my palette and settled oh so warmly in my tummy, I felt it. It’s a small thing, but a needed one.

Ah yessssssssssss! I was back…

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Slice of Life – Tuesday Writing Challenge – Two Writing Teachers

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Wasted Time?

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“Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.”

Though often (mis)attibuted to John Lennon, the earliest certain source of the popular quote was by Marthe Troly-Curtin in her novel “Phrynette Married” (1912).

I used this exact opening a couple of weeks ago when I attempted to have a day vegetating. Today I use it response to a complaint.

“God! Every time I call! Why are always writing a story, or working out a poem, or you’re painting something. Pick something, ONE thing and be good, really good, perfect at it. Maybe you could make money off it and stop wasting your time.”

My pithy response: “I write and I paint because I like it and because I have no space for carpentry workshop and a kiln.”

Oh, there was so much to unpack with that loaded statement and her not understanding why I was offended by it.

What is with limiting a person to one form of expression? The whole pick one thing and be good/perfect at it nonsense, is in a word nonsense. Dion Sanders and Bo Jackson excelled in both baseball and football in their heydays. Venus and Serena Williams are both phenomenal tennis players and wonderful clothing designers. Several of Hollywood and UK actors also excel in other creative outlets. It’s Art. You know that thing like beauty is in the eye of? So who determines what’s good or God help us perfect creatively anyway? Who determines its clock value? Is the pursuit of a second passion for pleasure only limited to those those who can afford it? If it’s not making money, it is waste of time?

As I understand it Art students study other art to learn what’s good. Though they both use pointillism, no one is going to confuse a Seurat with a Lichtenstein, but they’re both good. Rembrandt, Warhol, Monet, Max, Michelangelo, Haring, Picasso, Van Gogh, Pollock, are all amazing artists, not one looks like the other and none of them did what they did to be “good.” The artists painted what they wanted, the way they wanted – period. That others cottoned on and made some of them renowned during their lifetimes was a lucky bonus. Some of the names mentioned were not famous, until after their deaths. It likely wasn’t perfect, to some of them. It may not have even been “good” to them, but you know what it was? Good enough to make them happy or they tried again until they were. They did it for they were inspired, because it pleased them. I am 10,000 percent sure someone had said to each them at some point “stop wasting time.”

Why must damn near everything in life sans breathing, and bathroom functions, can only be considered worthy of one’s time if it can also potentially line one’s wallet? Stop that nonsense! Elizabeth Barret Browning, Alex Haley, e.e. cummings, Arthur Conan Doyle, Langston Hughes, James Baldwin, Nikki Giovanni, Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, Octavia Butler, Stephen King, Diana Gabaldon, Andrew Wilmot, Amanda Gorman: none of them wrote their very first stories and poems, because they were out to make money, they wrote because they had stories to tell. It just so turned out that eventually others liked the stories as well. The rest is the luck, ill or otherwise, of the draw. But we know their names in the first place solely because they had a story they needed to tell. The story got told. It was not a waste of time.

We blog, and some of have regular followers, but the mass majority of us are not, nor have any intent to be “influencers.” Still, we blog because we have stories to tell, in words or in art or both.

I create because it pleases ME. The moment it becomes something I have to do to make money, it becomes a job. And knowing me – it will no longer be something I enjoy. I create the ways I do because I want to. I’m not trying to be good, I am having fun. That others enjoy it is wonderful, but is never the impetus for me to type out pixels or pick up my pencil or brush. It is always time well spent, even if I hate the result. On the outside I am an adult exuberantly expressing my creativity through mixed media. On the inside I’m a four-year-old happily making a mess scribbling and finger painting. Ask any preschooler…

…That is never a waste of time.

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Slice of Life – Tuesday Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

This Time Together…

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I spent most of this day wondering how I would close this month out. March has, as it does each year, dragged and flew. At the beginning of the month I knew I would make it to the end. Granted, I also knew there would be some very late night close encounters, which there were. And 2021 will forever hold the asterisk for when I published yet fell asleep before I could post as hubris, but I did it.

Most of all WE made it!

Whether you made all the way through all the slices, or missed a slice or two, or more, as always…

🎵 I’m so glad we had this time together… 🎶

* tugs on ear * [Some of you will get this]

We have survived an entire year of Life in the Times of Covid! It has not been an easy year for any of us. But with the vaccinations happening slowly but surely we can finally see the better days coming ahead. I imagine next year’s challenges will be sprinkled with the things we get to do again compared to now and it will be great.

Being that today is Tuesday, it seems fitting as we know return to our usual Tuesday slices.

It’s Day 31 of the 2021 Slice of Life Writing Challenge. And then there were none.

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A Quiet Morning

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I wake up to a nice quiet morning. Well “quiet” is relative given I live in New York City and it’s a weekday morning, but you know what I mean. I say quiet because in the past couple of years there are three multi-unit dwellings are in some process of construction within a block’s radius of my building. A three blocks away, people have begun to move into a new building that must house at least 50 apartments units. Another mixed-use construct rises across the street from it promising even more housing units, plus ground floor commercial space from the size of it.

Because Covid delayed much of for months, once they were allowed back it was with a vengeance. The usual 7am – 3pm became 5pm and later depending on where they are in the process. While clearly loud it was never so egregious to disturb any of the virtual training classes I hold remotely as I work from home. Suffice it to say, these days, any morning I wake up and am not immediately inundated with a wall of construction sound that has but become a form of white noise to my day is noteworthy.

So I enjoyed this moment of Zen. I rose, showered, dressed, made a light breakfast and sat at my desk prepared to work. Still quiet. Excellent. At 9:30am I begin my usual what I call “pre-boarding check” before each session to ensure I have everything I need at the ready. My screens display the correct information. I do not have spinach in my teeth etc.

9:45am I open the virtual training session in case there are early birds and sure enough at 9:50 someone logs in. I chat with the student as others sign in and at 10:00am on the dot all are ready to begin and…

CRASH! – BANG! – RATTLE!
THUD! – RUMBLE!

“What? On? Mother? Earth‽ Was‽ THAT‽ ‽ “

[Oh, my natural tendency to cuss like Martin Freeman (it’s safe for work I promise), becomes amazingly rated G when the audio is on for training. My students, all adults, don’t necessarily have that restriction and give a Samuel L. Jackson character a run for the F-bombs that I hear dropped in reaction.]

Oh, did I forget to mention the public school right behind my building? The public school that is closed as its denizens learn remotely? The closed public school which is surrounded by scaffolding and netting? The closed public school which is surrounded by scaffolding and netting that now is in the first stages of refacing its brick façade? The LOUD first stage where they break off chunks of bricks and dump it down a plastic and metal chained chute to land in a huge commercial dumpster oh so conveniently located right outside my [please stand by while I insert Martin Freeman’s imagined, albeit still impressive, string of foul verbiage here] window? Yeah, apparently that is going to be a thing in my life for a while; at least while they work on this side of the building. Grrr!

It could be just my over-active imagination, but I do declare all of the constructions workers had a pow-wow this morning when it was quiet. It must have ended just before 10am because every room in my flat has construction noise seeping or thundering in from outside.

The quiet morning is done.

And then was one.

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Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

There’s One In There After All

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Just because I’m presumin’
That I could be kind of human
If I only had a heart
— Jack Haley [The Tinman] / “Wizard of Oz”

I so often joke about the black hole, empty echo of space, where my pulmonary organ should be. Today I proved the utter fallacy that jest. At least the physical manifestation of said organ, though the emotional/psychological variant thereof may still be in question.

I chose today to finally get around to filing my taxes. I have never filed taxes this late before, even when I owed the IRS. No idea why I chose this year to be so lackadaisical with it, but C’est la vie. I mentally chastised myself for it and got down to business. I file online and it took the little over an hour the it usually takes to get it done. All was fine until I needed to verify myself by providing the document numbers on my state ID or license. I have a lot of things memorized – that is not one of them. So off I go to my bedroom to retrieve my purse and wallet.

Bedroom? Check. Purse? Check. Wallet? Wallet? Bueller? [insert Ben Stein followed by tumbleweed and crickets here.]

Oh! DUH! I didn’t use my purse yesterday. I must have…

…dropped it on the console when I came in? Nā.

…forgot it in my jacket pocket when I hung it up? Nee.

…placed it on the dining table? Nein.

…left it on the bed before it was made and it’s under the cover? Non.

…put it inside the drawer when I took off my jewelry? Nyet.

[That’s a negative in Bengali, Dutch, German, French and Russian for those who weren’t curious.]

Let’s just say I cycled between languages, rooms and locations in said rooms. I bought the wallet in a bright color so that, though small, it stood out among things and be easy to see. So why couldn’t I see it? I even checked the refrigerator, okay? Each negative added to the increased panic. Was I wrong, did I lose it while I was out and it’s all GONE? I was daunted by all the things I’d have to replace in my wallet: credit cards, ID cards, insurance cards, etc. All while being simultaneously glad that while I have most memorized; I also have photo copies of everything, including contact info, so I could begin that arduous process.

Forty-five minutes, and do not ask about the state of my bedroom, later. I plopped down in the club chair in my living room, head lowered in hands, another maybe fifteen minutes from tears of frustration when I spy a splotch of bright colored leather wedged between the side of the sofa and the broken paper shredder waiting to be picked up for refuse. That was when I remembered I had laid my jacket there before I hung it up, not knowing my wallet had fallen out and slipped down but did not make it to the floor I had checked.

The resulting emotional WHEW! was when I noted the palpations that began to ease. I hadn’t noticed as my heartbeat ratcheted up in my increasing panic, but I sure felt the release valve engaged. And me, being me, only had one thing to say for myself as I finished my taxes and put the rooms Hurricane Raivenne ransacked to rights:

I’ll be damned – there’s one in there after all!

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Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

Wasted?

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“Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.”

Though often (mis)attibuted to John Lennon, the earliest certain source of the popular quote was by Marthe Troly-Curtin in her novel “Phrynette Married” (1912). <– And that right there folks is the most productive thing I’ve done today other than this slice.

Yesterday and today were NOT wasted days. Yesterday was so busy that I was out my door at 7:40am and was not done for the night until after 11:30pm. Saying I was exHUASTed didn’t cut it. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I was determined to get my slice in even if was only a couple of lines. At 11:58pm I published my slice and immediately jumped to the Two Writing Teachers site. With bleary eyes barely able to stay open typed my blurb, pasted the link in comment box and pressed Post. I start to mentally congratulate myself for just getting it done just in the nick of time when an error message popped up informing me I cannot post. What? I immediately look at the time; it was 12:17am. WHAT‽‽‽ Somewhere between 11:58pm and midnight my barely able to keep open eyes had shut on me that fast. When they opened I pressed Post unaware that any time had passed until that error message informed me otherwise. I had never seen that before. To be fair I had never been that close to the wire before. It doesn’t count to only get it done on my side, the slice has be checked in at TWT. I missed the post. All I could do was take the very disappointing L for the day, tuck my tailfeathers and take my over tired butt to bed.

And today, because I clearly am a glutton for punishment, I hit the ground running again this morning. That was a mistake and by the time I dragged myself in my body let me know it. Swollen ankles, sore muscles, aching joints. I haven’t done that much movement since before Covid. My body is not used to it back-to-back. All I could do was grab my Tylenol like a junkie needing a fix and crash. I tried to at least stay up long enough to season meat to marinate overnight for me to cook tomorrow. I had to stop, rest for a moment then go back and finish it. I could not even sit in my ergonomic chair at my computer, my body protested. It wanted to lay down. It was either on my sofa or my bed but I had to lay down and do nothing but heal.

So I did nothing but barely remember to slice. So here I am cutting it close yet again.

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Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers