in-ten-tio-nal

done on purpose; deliberate

"intentional wrongdoing and harm"

Have you ever said or were on receiving end of, "I didn't intend for that to happen?" Think about it for a moment. If that small phrase has never been a part of your vocabulary, count it a blessing. I guess its not drastic if you've said it after you burned eggs, or shrunk an article of clothing by mistake. We never intend for anything bad to happen; especially if its the misfortune of an act that directly affects me, you, or I. 

Intentional intentions are usually directed towards someone you subconsciously want to hurt, but didn't intend to. Hurtful words that have been rehearsed and repeated silently over and over, meticulously waiting for the right moment to intentionally shatter someone to the core.

Do we ever intend to assassinate a relationship? To the inner depths of its being? Yes.We.Do. We want it to be over. We want it to be done. Finished. Poof be gone. Still, the thought that settles in our mind after the decapitating blow is blasted, the thought that rises up and down like a see saw; knowing it will crash to the ground and cause pain to the person on the receiving end is, we didn't intend for that to happen.

I didn't intend to tell you I love you. I should have been more intentional and focused on the truth. Giving someone a false sense of belonging is an illustration of a malfunctioning character trait. A flaw. An intentional motive that results in you always being the benefactor is one of those, "I didn't mean for that to happen," scenarios. At least one of us is happy, right? And when it comes right down to it being happy is what really matters. It doesn't matter if that happiness if for self preservation within a relationship, right? Gotta take care of yourself first before you can take care of anyone or anything else. You have to intentionally intend to take care of yourself.

The domino effect is a prime example of intentional intentions. Hours or even days are spent constructing a design that takes a few minutes to fall. Think of the joy that's felt as we meticulously watch the design fall, piece by piece, continuing on until all the soldiers are at parade rest.

"It just happened," equals intentional intentions. "I don't know why I did that," equals intentional intentions. Making a choice equals intentional intentions. Big sin, little sin, everywhere a sin sin, equals intentional intentions. The flesh is weak equals intentional intentions. Is there a cure? Possibly, but most times we don't want it until the target is hit. 

It's easy to say think before you speak or put a plan in to motion. For myself I do, and still  orchestrate intentionally. A favorite line, excuse or half hearted apology is, "God is not through with me yet." Maybe so, but if you don't want it done to you, don't do it to anyone else. Will that stop us from hurting someone that we didn't mean to hurt? I can't answer that, I'm just writing out loud. It's something to think about, though. Intentional intentions...oooooooooooooweeeeeee...

I love you.

Does Not Apply

We attach and detach ourselves to life situations based on how we feel about them. Joyous occasions that we didn't physically participate in become a part of our narrative solely because the recipient of our fabricated tales become happy as we talk about it. We pick and choose which parts of our actuality to share, limiting the words that shame us and suppressing feelings that burn our insides like heated acid poured slowly on an open wound. Our friends and acquaintances view our life like an Oscar winning movie they wish they had the honor to star in. Lie. Deceit. Hmmmmm, harsh words indeed, but not necessarily needed to describe the art you choose to imitate your life. I chose art that I halfway interpreted. Many times I shorted myself and illustrated it one fourth of the way. It would seem if I was honest with myself that feeling of acid wouldn't have burned so long nor flared up intermittently. 

I never thought of myself as a victim of domestic violence. That's something that happened to other women. They got beat up. They got jumped on. They got cussed out, slapped and belittled. They were made to feel 100% less than the women they are. You're the pretty adjective woman that he fell in love with until that gorilla beast fist connects with your face. Then you become the adverb. Pretty ugly. Pretty dumb. Pretty insignificant.

Domestic violence didn't happen to me because it didn't happen on the regular. I got my first black eye when I was 21 and my second one when I was 48. Reading it sounds like I received medals. No need for flair or the description regarding the particulars, however one of my opponents did say, 

"The reason why you got punched in the face is because..." 

Negro, what? And that's negro with a short I, two G's and a short A. I will say that writing it and thinking about it doesn't hurt anymore. What happened during the years in between is not something I'll go into detail about, yet I remember the irregular, regular occurrences.

Recently I had a conversation with someone that opened my mind to my does not apply mentality. It wasn't that domestic violence did not apply; it's the hurt, shame, sick in your pit, shock and embarrassment that comes with it. How do you recover from that?  One negro, and that's negro with an I, two G's and an A, hit me in my face while we were at work and then walked off. My coworker walked up and asked me did he hit me. I said no, smiled and proceeded to work as if nothing happened. Sick in my pit and holding tears of shame. Telling yourself your truth enables you to not allow anyone else to assist you with their lie. You're still here and you're beautiful.

My realization has been a long time coming. Each relationship would be different. Better. Make it last forever. Girl...well, I'm divorced, single, and I'm still here. 

As you take self inventory check what does not apply in your life. Is it there or not there because you made the decision, or is it due to someone else's inadequacies? A black eye, a busted lip, and mental gymnastics that are not sport regulated do not define you. Forgive yourself. Forgive the who, what, where, when and how. Live my friend...live.

The picture I chose to accompany this post was taken by my mother when I was 18. We were in my brother's room waiting for my friends to come get me to go to the Monte Carlo club in Niagara Falls. My father kept this picture in a frame on the coffee table that was in front of the couch he sat on nightly. He looked at it EVERYDAY and said how pretty is babygirl is. This was before I allowed so many does not apply foolishness to suffocate me while still breathing. The girl in the picture is here and moving forward. The smile on my 18 year old face is now in the pit of my 57 year old body. Does Not Apply...oooooooooooooweeeee...Ain't God GOOD?

I luv you.

Shift

 

Shift

First, I was fired. Two weeks later, I was hired. The job didn't pan out due to a laspe of insurance in 2002, which I had no knowledge of until 2005, that was on my driving record. I would have to operate a company car in their lot on occasion, and my NYS driving skills couldn't overcome a three year old piece of paper that was shuffled in a mix-up. Of course I ALWAYS rebound and one week after that, I was hired again. I began the job and low and behold, two days later, another employer thought I was the stuff top rate employees are made of and hired me again! So tomorrow morning I shall report for duty with a great attitude in hopes of prosperity and as of late, the very evasive paycheck.

This last month has been a collage of mood changing experiences for me. I feel like I have been driving with a broken brake fluid line and my clutch is corroded. I was forced to shift to keep up and surpass a set speed limit. Some days I drove into barriers. The dents sent me into deep thought and revelations but I gassed up and kept on rolling.

I've been on so many shifts this last month. The first shift was the 8am to 8am haul. I stayed home on those days. Contemplating exactly what I was supposed to do with the confusion filled speed bumps that popped up just when the road seemed paved slapped me into a dazed stupor. 8-4, 4-12, 12-8...you better shift if you want to stay afloat.

A median of a normal steady stream of air is what I desire. I desperately want to go each day without holding my breath, sitting and staring at the telephone, or checking my lottery tickets over and over, knowing the numbers don't add up to the jackpot. My eyes have never lost sight of my writing or releasing my first novel. I never understand when someone said they could taste success. Having to shift to stay afloat slammed the taste of success into my soul. I can smell it, feel it, and even have my clothing chosen for my first television debut.

This shift in my life was unexpected. The fact that I didn't total out or file a claim is excellent. I still have the unsettled jitters of being 'at will', which I plan to dispose of in my future. But in the meantime, I'll handle this shift will the exquisite style that I am accustomed to producing.

Is Your Change Adding Up?

 It’s been said that time heals all wounds. I don't think it’s the time alone that heals, but the changes and motion, whether forward or back, that's the medicine. For me it's been forward motion that has my life on the plus side.

The last two years I've struggled with my emotions regarding the death of my father. Hard, evil, angry, miserable - if it equals the word ugly I've felt it. It’s not a good thing, but we all go through it. Death kills us emotionally and then brings us back to Life. Some people live their life to die. Plan for retirement - don't live for it. Plan to live to a fruitful old age - don't hope to live until you're old.

A few weeks after my father died I had a dream about rats and some other stuff that made no sense. My dreams about him always contained a memory of him, but he was never in the dream. Last night I had a dream and he was there. I was in a kitchen and was serving lemon cookies to two of the kids that starred in the Everybody Hates Chris Show. I think the cookies were lemon because two days earlier I bought an Entenmann's Lemon Crunch Cake. Weird. It was the girl, Tanya and the boy, Drew. We were talking about school and teenage stuff. My father was standing by the side of the table and took a few cookies off the plates and ate them. He was smiling and laughing, but I couldn't hear his voice and he never said anything.

When I woke up I remembered the dream and that he was there! My father was in my dream! He was happy and healthy. He had on his glasses and looked just like my daddy. I thought of the times when I was a teenager and would bake cookies. He would come pick a few off the plate and keep walking into the living room to watch TV. I had a hard time remembering good things until lately.

There has been so much forward motion in my life since 2008. Positive motion. I'm still working on financial stability, but my change is adding up. When you step out on faith you step into you. I miss my daddy. I may have pennies in my change purse, but those pennies are adding up to my IT.

Think about who you are, what you want and what you do. Think about the changes you’ve made or are willing to make to get it. A small change is the catapult for greatness. My dream made me realize that I’m getting there. I’m hurt that my father isn’t here, but I’m living. I’m changing and becoming a better person. At the end of each day I don’t feel that my change drawer is short. I can turn in and know that I’ve done good…I’ve done real good. Do your life math; Is Your Change Adding Up?

Uh…does this dream mean that I need to play a number?

My Name is Me

A question that is sometimes asked is what’s in a name? The majority of us were given our names by our parents, a beloved family member or a close family friend. Some took time and researched the meaning of the name. Some created a name by carefully selecting letters from grandparent’s names, favorite aunt’s names, pleasant childhood memories and various cities and States.

“Hey, Hennessy. How’s your day going?”

Then there are names that are produced magically from the activity they were created in. Alizé (mixed with Hennessy will get you a middle name of Smoothvea) Carseata (meaning your existence began in a car seat) Untreenetta (your mother and father were outside under a tree).

There is pride in a name. Names are our foundation and represent a connection to our tribe. There is a sense of accomplishment when asked, “Who are your people?” We rattle off first names, last names, nicknames, names of people who used to go with so and so, and had a baby with the tall man with a limp, and then married Bub who works at the tire factory on Temple Avenue. When you finally stop running your mouth and catch your breath, you feel certified combined with a feeling of satisfaction.

We say it’s not what they call us, but what we answer too. True, yet there is validation in a name. Sometimes we put so much focus and emphasis on our name that we lose direction with our personal identity. Names connect us, so to keep the connection strong, we put in overtime making sure everyone knows the meaning behind it. Somewhere between punching the overtime clock and living, we eliminate the activity of being you. Me.

Ask a child what their mother and father’s name is and they may answer mommy and daddy. We have aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and coworkers. Many of us use the titles – names, freely. Even with those titles, you need to remain Me.

Life is a beautiful thing. Wonderful and exciting. Exhilarating when you surround yourself with love. Peace. It’s easy to forget Me as you travel your journey. We join in holy matrimony, take on our new last name and become one within that name. As you’re moving forward as one, small parts of Me might fall off or dig a hole six feet deep inside you without you even noticing. In your quiet time, ask yourself how many times you’ve done things to appease someone else. How many times have you placed your wants and even needs, to the side thinking you will do it later to enjoy your new name? Whether it be friend, confidant or mate, take pride in your name as well as take pride in Me. Nurture and water Me. Introduce and show Me to whomever you meet.

We were created to give Him glory. Me is a part of His glory. As you move through this life and encounter new experiences and people, say your name boldly. Be grateful you have history that you are proud of. Whenever you’re asked speak your name and tell your story, and remember to include Me.

Working Depression, Please Fire Me

My daddy died today. Well, actually he died June 4th, 2008, but each day is the same for me. Now I lay me down to sleep doesn’t work. When I close my eyes I see my daddy lying in his coffin. I know he is not going to get up, so the vision never changes. My mornings are identical; I wake up tired and want to stay in the bed until. If I didn’t have to “live” I wouldn’t. Routine – open my eyes and listen to my mind complain, get Dasia ready, take her to school, and go to work and “function.” Thank God for Dasia. Monday through Friday I remain under my sheets until I’m late enough for work - not enough for my boss to complain, but enough for me to fuss as to why I continue to fall into the late schedule. People lose their jobs everyday, but my working depression won’t fire me.

I’ll settle for a layoff if it’s long term and the position won’t call me back. I can’t shake this. One minute anger is my best friend, the next hate, and I try to reason with it all. Tolerating things that I paid no attention to previously burns holes into my soul. My mouth, oh, the words that can come from my mouth. My dreams tremble me. One night I had one about a basement full of rats. The setting was on a street that my family resided on when I was a child, but in a neighbor’s apartment. The rats crawled into the cement wall, the wall closed and all their tales fell off. The next one I can remember contained dogs, spit, singing and skin. Working depression, please fire me.

I don’t write anymore. I figured getting this out might help. Lying on a couch talking about my feelings would be a waste of time and money. I’d make myself late or not show up. The someone that I need to talk to is dead. The woman that raised my father said it would get better; she died less a month after my daddy did. What am I looking forward to?

Patience is invisible in my world, although I’m not as mean as I was a few months ago. That’s my opinion. I still like to blast certain people who say dumb things with no meaning. You can’t have an opinion about someone else’s opinion, but I don’t care. I’m talking shut them down and get out my face blast. Rude for Miss WandaLuv, but effective.

See, I had this multimillion-dollar empire planned for my family. The dream that my daddy chased all his life ran to me. Miss Luv’s Books was formed, NYC was the place where my astronomical comedy career would blossom - my father would lavish in it. He pushed me, he told me that I was still young and it took work. My daddy told me to keep at it. “Babygirl people work their whole lives to make it; you got plenty of time.” I wish I had enough time for him.

My prior life of hustling for it is somewhere. I don’t make any effort to develop the uniqueness that is I. In all honesty – I’m all fucked up. Just tired, angry and aggravated. Am I going to commit suicide? Hell naw, fool! My daddy would kill me! This is my attempt at getting back to the swing of things. Misery could care less about who it chooses for company.

On March 2nd I’ll be forty-three. Before June 4th I loved my birthday. I’d buy myself a present, go out or celebrate with friends. When I turned thirty I threw my own birthday party. What a vain heffa I was. This year I will think about how my daddy felt the day that I was born. He had something that was for him and still is his. I’ll get it together one day.

When will these weird dreams stop? Why do I wake up tired when I don’t dream? Why do I keep seeing him lying in that coffin? By the way, he was laid out in a gold-ish tan colored suit that matched the coffin. He was always a suit wearing well-dressed man. My father’s love of clothes, his laugh that I can still hear, and his voice. These are some of the things that I never want to forget. Do you forget?

I want to sell books and perform on stage. Book clubs need me to make their meetings exciting. Comedy shows need a little luv. My Blog Talk Radio Show – Wanda’s Way - was HOT. Wait for Love: A Black Girl’s Story, LuvMe, the book and the fragrance, and A Sheltered Life need me to make it. I need a stimulus plan custom designed for me.

How do you live with depression? It’s easy. Take a shower, go to work, go back home, take a shit, and go to bed. Plenty of us do it everyday. Many of us have been doing it for years. When distress happens in your life most of us call our mother. My mother doesn’t care to talk about my daddy. They were divorced after twenty-seven years of marriage. They both remarried, but she still brings up things that happened in 1970. The husband-wife relationship is totally different than the father-daughter one. The first person I called when I found about my daddy was her. She told me to be strong. She didn’t realize that she was talking to a baby and babies aren’t supposed to be strong. I don’t give a damn about her past and I guess she doesn’t care about my present. All fucked up.

A good job is challenging to find and to quit a job is idiotic, but one day I have to resign from this one. No unemployment for quitters, which would mean no Cheetos for Dasia…back to my first request. Working Depression, Please Fire Me.

I love you, Daddy