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Words to uplift the soul.
 Growing up, I used to hear old people say, Honey, if it ain’t one thing, it’s another. Heck, I can deal with one thing or another; it is the 10 or more things that all seemingly happen at the same time that I have problems with. For instance, I used to be a firm believer in the saying “age is nothing but a number.” That worked until the day I noticed a gray hair in the middle of my right eyebrow which had not been there the day before. Convincing myself that it was a cat hair—as both my fluffy gray and white cat and little orange tabby loved sleeping with my husband and me—I tried to pull the gray hair out. Immediately, it sprung back; it was not a cat hair. Grabbing a pair of tweezers, I yanked out the offending hair, only to notice there was also a gray one in the other eyebrow and another under my chin. Using industrial-strength tweezers, I yanked out the chin hair. Imagine my surprise that a few weeks later, I noticed that it had returned. This time had it not only returned but with an entourage. All had now taken residence beneath my chin. Problems—they do multiply. Take several summers ago. Instead of spending our vacation money on some exotic location like Aruba or Cancun, like my husband and I normally do, we decided to have the gutters replaced on our house. Full disclosure: I had discovered a long time ago that any honey-dos that you leave when you go on vacation, still remain upon your return—go figure! All things considered, I should not have been surprised when the gutter job foreman knocked on the door to get his money, he mentioned that we might also want to consider having our roof replaced. Apparently, while fixing the gutters, he had noticed some soft spots on the roof in several places. Soft spots were places where squirrels, the weather, etc., had caused the wood under the shingles to rot. Foreman Rudy, who seemed much too nice to be the bearer of such continuously bad news, added that I might already have water damage in the attic. Oh, Joy! In my mind’s eye, I saw my husband and me during the next torrential rainstorm, scurrying around catching leaks in every vessel we owned, as you see in the movies. So what’s a person to do except maybe cry, then pay for the new gutters? Then purchase a new roof and pray that nothing else turns gray, needs repairing or replacing anytime soon. If It Isn’t One Thing, It’s often 10 or Sometimes 12.  Excerpt from Random Notes by Author Carol Gee
Military Veteran|Columnist|Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers.
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6/4/2020 0 Comments Satin Sheets  Once upon a time, only royalty could afford the sensual elegance of silk and satin sheets. So me being a princess, at least in my own mind, I longed for some. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself reclining in a glamour shot pose on red or black satin sheets. In this picture, I would be wearing a beautiful peignoir like those women on Dynasty and Melrose Place. Lying next to me would be my spouse, gazing lovingly into my eyes, just before we got buck wild. In my fantasy, there would be no potato chip or cracker crumbs from eating snacks in bed, or cat hair, like in real life. This fantasy came true when my husband and I returned to the states after having spent three years in Okinawa with the Air Force. We had accepted an invitation to spend a few days with friends in San Francisco, before heading to our new duty station. Like most, our hosts gave up their bedroom where the lady made up the bed with a brand new set of red satin sheets straight out the package. How had she known about my fantasy? Giddy with anticipation, I jumped into the shower with my thoughts on what was ahead. I imagined the dazzling colors of love with someone I adored. Later, we would hold each other close, bathed in the afterglow of lovemaking so good, that afterward, the neighbors on both sides of the condo had to have a cigarette. Alas, this is where fantasy and reality collided, BIG time. It started with his pillow sliding to the floor with a skidding sound; my pillow followed next. You've heard of Kung Fu fighting? This was more like Kung Fu lovemaking. First, the sheets felt like ice against my naked flesh. OUCH! POW! There went my elbow to the ribs when I tried to hug him! Alas, my sensual kiss missed his mouth altogether and we ended rubbing noses. Now I have heard that this is the way that Eskimos do it, but hey, to each his own. This, however, was not part of my fantasy. During one point in our love dance, I busted a move that my spouse must have thought was sexy. I watched the hazel in his eyes change like it does those times. In truth, I was trying for a position that I hoped would keep me from flying across the bed. I don't care what others think, falling out the bed on my head, is not considered foreplay, at least not for me. But to each its own. Then, my leg cramped up from trying to find a comfortable position, and it took a minute to rub the cramp out. Needless to say, neither of us got any sleep that night. Or anything else. The result was, we both woke up looking like something a few of our kitties dragged in over the years. Through the years, I’ve discovered that each stage of life brings with it its own set of expectations. The texture of love is certainly no exception. In the beginning, it was satiny smooth, full and rich like the deepest chocolate. Other times, love is as rough and rocky as the tide. Although it has been many years, I can still recall those ‘tear the roof off’ moments of our youth. And, from time to time we revisit them. If for nothing else, to prove to ourselves that we can after four and a half decades of marriage. For so many, after years together, the best kind of intimacy is soft and tender. The kind one gets from someone familiar and dear. Much like cotton or flannel, it's comfortable, natural...durable. So, as we indulge ourselves with fantasies, quite like mine about satin sheets, too often we are reminded that everything that looks good, isn’t. When it’s all said and done, I take comfort in the knowledge that I am okay being cotton percale, or even flannel, in a satin sheet world.  Excerpt from Random Notes by Author Carol Gee Military Veteran|Columnist|Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers.   I typically wear tops and blouses with sleeves to my elbows or longer that cover my arm flab. However, one day, I decided to risk exposing my arm flab for looking cute. The morning started fine. Every time I glanced at myself wearing my cute top, I felt good. You know the old saying, “If you think you look good, you often feel good.” All this changed around two o’clock that afternoon when the temperature in my office dropped drastically (I later learned the AC malfunctioned), and I still had three hours to go before getting off of work. I was freezing. Even my goosebumps had goosebumps. Knowing that I could not make it three more hours sitting in front of my computer with my arms folded for warmth, I frantically looked around for something—anything—to put on. Spotting a decorative cloth wall hanging I had made to decorate my office space, I snatched it off the wall and flung it around my shoulders. Similar to those sporting the names or initials of colleges, the wall hanging was roughly about 36 inches long and 12 inches across. The pointed end sported a tassel the same color as the rest of the material. Unfortunately, my wall hanging only covered one shoulder and only a part of the other arm. Thus, I had to hold it in place with one hand to keep it around me. This resulted in a hunting and pecking motion of the keyboard with my right hand. This went on for maybe an hour or so when, suddenly, I looked up to see one of the technicians from our IT department standing at my desk with a puzzled look on her face. I figured my weird typing must have made her think I had a computer problem. (Call me paranoid, but I have always believed that companies could watch what workers did with company computers). “I like your shawl,” my co-worker said, pointing to my banner/shawl. I burst out laughing, which must have really made her think that I was crazy as well as could not type. Incidentally, the mauve and wine colors of the banner complimented the hot pink blouse that I had on, so I could see how she thought it was part of my outfit. I explained what it was and why I was wearing a wall hanging. As much as I have always hated to admit it, mother was right! Necessity is often the mother of invention. Author Carol Gee Military Veteran|Columnist|Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers.  1/17/2020 0 Comments That Dreaded Gingham Skirt  I can admit it now. Growing up, I was not a fashionista. My goal, according to my parent, was to go to school and learn, not worry about looking cute. Based on that premise, all clothing purchased was not to look cute but to last for as long as possible. This included my school shoes. For me, it was those dreaded black and white Oxfords or, as I called them, the shoes that never died, and you could not kill them. Believe me, I tried: primarily by daily scraping my feet along the sidewalk on the way to school and back. Other attempts to destroy them soon followed. They also required nightly care. Every night I was required to polish them, paying special attention not get black polish on the white part. To complete this picture, the shoes that never died were worn with knee socks of various colors to match my outfit du jour. Growing up, Home Economics was a required course. Having always been creative, I loved it. The first year we studied cooking. Naturally, I enjoyed that because we got to eat whatever we made—cookies, cupcakes and such. Year Two, we learned simple sewing techniques, starting with making an apron. Back in the day, women wore aprons over their clothes to protect them from getting dirty. They typically had more than one so they always had a clean one when cooking. Our next project was learning to make a skirt—a gingham skirt to be exact. For those unfamiliar with gingham, it is a fabric comprised of small squares. My skirt was purple, which is still a favorite color of mine. The skirt we made had an elastic waist and was trimmed with Rickrack at the hem. What’s Rickrack, you are probably asking? Rickrack is a flat, narrow braid, woven in a zigzag form, used as trimming for clothing or curtains. The braid is made of cotton or polyester fabric and typically stitched to the edges of items. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. As you recall from earlier essays, my mother didn’t believe in wasting anything. Nor was she concerned with how crazy I looked in the eyes of my peers. So I should have anticipated what came next.  Picture it: there I was wearing my purple gingham skirt complete with a Rickrack hem with a white blouse. (Don’t forget to add a pair of white knee socks.) Then add my black and white Oxfords. Finally, throw in two long braids hanging down my back…in the eighth grade! Mother often said that my getting good grades throughout my school years was because I was not distracted by worrying about what to wear every day like so many of my classmates. Yeah, that was probably why.  Author Carol Gee
Retired military Air Force Veteran Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers. 10/22/2019 0 Comments If You Can’t Say Anything Nice… We’ve all heard that old children’s rhyme, sticks and stones can break your bones, but words can never hurt you. Well, that old saying is a lie. Words have the power to hurt, even to the point of lacerating a person’s soul. Bullying is not a new concept and has been going on for as long as there have been children and bullies. Like so many children, I was bullied for my hair, my clothes and even for liking and doing well in school. Also, like so many, I had to find ways to survive. My mother’s advice to “ignore the bullies”, “to not be so sensitive” and “to toughen up” didn’t help. However, talking and using big words did keep me out of fights. I was also known to make up words and throw them into conversations. For instance, if a mean girl stepped into my face, without flinching I replied that “hypodermically speaking you really need to step off!” To which she would shake her head and mutter, “hypo-what?” Thinking I was crazy, she stepped off, thank God! I realized I was onto something. The next time another mean girl said something to me I replied, “Well, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious to you” (from Mary Poppins), then flounced away, inwardly patting myself on the back for escaping yet another fight. You would have thought the mean girls would have taken the hint and left me alone, especially when the voices in my head started up. You know, “Shut up! No, you shut up!” But no, yet another got into my face. Before she even got started I went, “Yabba dada do” (from The Flintstones cartoon), much to her bewilderment. She too quickly flounced away, but not before looking back at me as if I were crazy. On another occasion, I jumped up and clicked my heels together like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. In hindsight, wearing a pair of ruby red slippers instead of my black and white oxfords would have really been cool. I was on a roll, once yelling, “Moo Goo Gai Pan”, which is an Asian dish, not a phrase. “Moo Gai! Moo Gai!” I yelled, adding arm flaps for more emphasis. In shock, the mean girl momentarily stopped in her tracks, before taking off running, albeit trying to do so in a cool way, never once looking back. My crazy responses worked until entering high school when a whole new kind of Hell began. But, by that time, I ignored it as there were more important things to worry about like how I was going to get money to go to college. Did the hateful power of words stop once I reached adulthood? One would think so but no. Sadly, the mean girls had grown into catty women and the backhanded compliments ran rampant. Alas, it has happened to all of us from time to time. There we are, minding our business when someone compliments us in a way that stings. You have probably heard this: “You have such a pretty face; you would really be pretty if you lost some weight.” Or how about this? “You would really be cute if you did something different with your hair.” Better yet: “You would look so much prettier if you wore makeup, swapped your glasses for contacts, painted your toenails red, white and blue and … (you fill in the blanks). Even an innocent comment from a younger person, “I want to be just like you when I get your age”, can sting. Even though adults are supposed to know better, many of us have made statements without realizing how it might be received:
Whether folks realize it or intend to, their words frequently hurt our feelings. Today’s social media is ripe with folks who think nothing of bullying others or shaming them at every turn. The nastier their comments are, the more it gives license for others to join in. Hiding behind their little hashtags and supposed anonymity emboldens this type of bullying. Not allowing others’ words to affect me hasn’t always been easy. Truthfully, there have been a lot of tears and, admittedly, a whole lot of Scotch but I have succeeded. Consequently, having been on the receiving end of these hurtful comments, I watch how I speak to others. You know the old adage: “If you can’t say anything nice. . .”  Author Carol Gee Retired military Air Force Veteran Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers.  P.S: Recently, I was honored to be interviewed for the book, Dos And Don’ts For Bully-proofing Your Child. The author, Markus Horner, who was bullied due to suffering from numerous disabilities, from childhood even into his adult years. Dos And Don’ts For Bully-proofing Your Child shares poignant personal anecdotes as well as statistics on the subject. I invite all those who have children, teachers and others responsible for children, to read it.  When it came to clothes for my sister and I, mother had one piece of advice: “Always make sure you are wearing clean underwear, in the event you are ever in an accident.” Our being fashionistas, not so much. When items were on sale, it was a bonus. So, the day we went ‘back to school’ shopping and she spotted a pair of sandals on sale, she was pumped! White, they had faux stones of every color on the in-step strap as well as the strap circling the ankle. “Oh child, aren’t these pretty?” Mother asked my sister, picking them up. “Oh look, they have them in your size.” She said, much to my sister’s horror. At nine, my sister already wore a size 9 shoe. Mother, being old-fashioned, insisted we wore socks with sandals to school and church. In my mind’s eye, I could just see her wearing those sandals with her various colored knee socks, and being taunted by her school mates. I couldn’t hold in my laughter if my life depended on it. My sister, probably also imagining it, started to cry which earned us both a scolding. She was scolded for having a tantrum since embarrassing our mother was a no-no. I was scolded because we weren’t supposed to make fun of each other. As tears rolled down my eyes from laughter, my sister cried even harder. Frustrated, mother turned to her saying, “If you don’t like them, you don’t get any new shoes this year. You’ll just have to wear last year’s school shoes.” With that, the three of us exited the store. While not rich by any means, we always had three sets of clothing. There were those we wore to school, those we played in and our church clothes, which the ‘old’ folks used to call ‘good clothes’. ‘Church’ clothes to my religiously pious parent, meant wearing hats. So every Easter, my sister and I each got a new hat. These were little, white straw affairs with a piece of elastic worn under the chin to keep them on. We wore them all spring and summer. On one Easter, funds must have been tighter than usual. When a co-worker gave my mother a bag of clothes that her children had either outgrown or ‘flat-out refused’ to wear, she graciously accepted. The miscellaneous items included two hats‒a dingy, off-white color one and one with a net-like fabric my mother called a veil, hung over the front. (A tell-tell sign that it was designed for a grown woman, not a child.) Since I was the oldest at age 12, mother felt I should wear the one with the veil. “Oh child, don’t you look nice?” She asked, admiring my hat. Truth was, I felt like crying like my sister did that time in the store. “Lord, didn’t mom want me to have any friends?” I lamented to myself.  Off to Sunday school and church I went, wearing said hat with veil over two long, thick braids and what my mother described as a “Chinese’ bang. Did I mention I also wore eyeglasses, cats’ eyeglasses, and that the veil was draped over? I kept pushing the veil off my glasses so I could see. Admittedly, there wasn’t a lot of teasing from the other kids. After all, we were in church. Sunday school and church finally ended. As my sister and I waited outside while mother shook hands with the Pastor and other church members, something horrible happened! Suddenly, a strong gust of wind came up, blowing my hat-complete-with-veil, right off of my head. In the confusion that followed, it came to rest in a huge puddle, where I accidentally stumped on it, twice! “Oh, your poor hat is ruined!” Mother wailed. “Explain to me how this happened.” I did as asked, wisely leaving out that I believed it was a miracle. Alas, I survived many bullying episodes about my clothes, my shoes and my hair. (It’s a wonder that I’m not in therapy to this day.) Still, you know what they say: That which does not kill you makes you stronger…(if you survive). -Author Carol Gee, Retired Military Air Force Veteran Author|Columnist and Motivational Speaker  For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers.
4/13/2019 0 Comments ‘Grown Folks’ Business Growing up, every time my sister and I were around where adults were talking and we questioned something that we heard, my mother would tell us that it was grown folks’ business and sent us to our room or outside to play. Was it any wonder that I didn’t know nada or zip about sex, PMS or what happened when women went through ‘the change’ until I left home for military service? To this day, I still blame this banishment on my sister. Much sneakier than she was, I kept as quiet as the proverbial mouse when adults were talking in order to better hear them. Like me, my sister was a big talker and could not resist adding her two cents to the conversation. One time, as I sat quietly playing hairdresser with my dolls—who were nearly bald after all of my hair styling and cutting—my sister blew our cover. I don’t recall what the adults were discussing at the time, but I do remember that during a lull in the conversation, my sister loudly announced to our guests that our mother could take her teeth out and put them back in. At seven, she was unduly impressed by mother’s dental bridgework and felt it needed to be shared with others. (After that, mother always checked to see where we were when her friends visited.) Seriously, everything I ever learned came from eavesdropping on grown folks’ business. Like the time I learned that one of our neighbors had a common-law husband. I didn't know what a common-law husband was, except it was said in such a hushed manner that, I figured it was something worth remembering. I also learned that ‘Sister’ Jones from our church was going through ‘The change’. And that her poor husband was catching pure HELL. First, Sister Jones was well over six feet tall, while her husband was around 5’6 or shorter, so she really towered over him in her high heels (and apparently in their marriage). Still, every time Sister Jones came to the beauty shop, I watched her closely so as to not miss seeing her “change”. I remember hoping that she would change into a puppy so that I could play with it. After all, in my childlike mind, what was the benefit of changing if you couldn’t change into something good? Likewise, I pondered whether the “roots” that Sister Jones supposedly worked, had somehow brought on the change? Of course, I didn't know what roots were either. Were the feelings that she was supposedly experiencing, according to the other women, the result of these so-called roots? Because I had overheard one of the ladies at the shop say that it made people do strange things. Caused a man or woman to fall head over heels in love with people who apparently had serious issues. Right then and there, I decided to stay far, far away from roots. Other subjects like ‘how to keep your man at home’, even without the use of roots, were secretly gleaned for future knowledge. The women also spoke about the other realities of life: things that resonated with them. And, above all else, the keys to survival.  Author Carol Gee
Retired military Air Force Veteran Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers. 2/10/2019 0 Comments The Way Men and Women Communicate  I'm a talker. Wouldn’t you know that I would marry a man who wasn’t? As you might imagine, having a conversation in my house is quite challenging. This is definitely true when my hubby is deep into his television programs. For some reason, questions like, Do you love me? Come to mind while he is watching one football team trample another. I’m sure it is purely coincidental that Do you think I’m pretty? Comes up as tennis great Serena Williams does her thing in those bright, little short shorts on the tennis court. Honestly, I am a confident, black woman who admires Serena for crushing it while doing what she loves. Oh, but my personal favorite is What would you do if I died? (I’m sure he probably prays for my demise right then and there, so he can enjoy the rest of the game.)  In truth, the communication process between men and women is often like tiptoeing through a minefield: even simple words take on significant meanings. Take the word fine: even the slowest man on earth should have learned not to use it to answer that trick question, How do I look? Thanks a lot: don’t be fooled; this is not an expression of gratitude. What it really means is thanks for nothing! This is frequently followed by the loud sigh. If you hear that sigh, watch out for the double whammy effect. While an actual word isn't uttered, the message sent is certainly loud and clear. I remember doing this as a child, right after my mother had scolded me for something. She looked me dead in the eye and asked, Do you have something you want to say?  Fortunately, unlike like me, my husband knows to never ask these questions. Case in point, a while back he mentioned that a couple we knew were splitting up. Surprised, as I had always thought they were truly happy, I asked, "What happened?" “I don’t know,” he answered. “Well, what did he say?” I asked. “He just said they were separating,” he replied. “How did this conversation come about?” I asked. “He just mentioned it in passing,” he said. “Besides, I didn’t want to get up all in his business,” he says, now getting irritated. “So, you have literally told me nothing,” I say. Frustrated, I had to get on the phone and call our friend to see what was really going on. As if I don’t have enough to do, I said to myself. (Full disclosure: I didn’t want to get all up into their business either, but this was a couple we knew and liked. I sincerely felt that we needed to see if we could help them in some way.)  Still, as husbands go—and despite his being a prince of the one or two-word responses--mine is pretty special. After all, it’s who he is and nothing will ever change that. In fact, every now and again, he will string several words together and utter something truly profound and sweet. Well, me being who I am and true to myself, I ask: Does this dress make my butt look big? -Author Carol Gee Retired military Air Force Veteran Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers.   My mother tried to kill me! Not once or twice, but many, many, times throughout my childhood. |
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Noticing this, my colleague remarked, “You should leave your plate on the table, as the store probably wants to use it to cover the snacks back up.” Apparently, my so-called plate was actually one of the food container lids! Pouring my snacks into my hand, I hurried off toward the deli counter.
There was the day I wore a blouse that I thought looked really cute on me. “I like your blouse”, a co-worker remarked. With a smile on my face and starting to say thanks, she continued: “I have one that is similar only mine buttons in the back”. Hater!
It appeared that I was wearing mine backwards: okay, so that explained the darts for my breasts that, at the time, caressed my shoulder blades. That also explained the way it draped in the front, which I actually kind of liked.
Hater that she was, she probably thought she was doing me a favor by letting me know that I was wearing my garment backward! Feeling silly now that she had called attention to it, for spite, I started to leave it the way it was but decided to reverse it. Reversing it, I proudly walked away. I still looked cute, so there!
-Author Carol Gee
Retired military (AF) veteran, Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker
For these and other great stories, purchase your copy of Random Notes, at Amazon.com and major online book retailers.
There was the day I wore a blouse that I thought looked really cute on me. “I like your blouse”, a co-worker remarked. With a smile on my face and starting to say thanks, she continued: “I have one that is similar only mine buttons in the back”. Hater!
It appeared that I was wearing mine backwards: okay, so that explained the darts for my breasts that, at the time, caressed my shoulder blades. That also explained the way it draped in the front, which I actually kind of liked.
Hater that she was, she probably thought she was doing me a favor by letting me know that I was wearing my garment backward! Feeling silly now that she had called attention to it, for spite, I started to leave it the way it was but decided to reverse it. Reversing it, I proudly walked away. I still looked cute, so there!
-Author Carol Gee
Retired military (AF) veteran, Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker
For these and other great stories, purchase your copy of Random Notes, at Amazon.com and major online book retailers.
(Excerpt from the book, Random Notes)
The mother-daughter bond—that secret society connected by the blood and the pain of labor (nearly three weeks of labor, if you listened to my mother) —does not come with a secret handshake, but often a test of wills. This happens more often than not, as I learned when a friend invited me to lunch.
Unbeknownst to me, it was the anniversary of her mother’s passing. In a quiet voice, my friend told me that, when she was little, she sometimes felt like her mother hated her. After saying this, she looked me in the face, attempting to gauge my reaction. What she couldn’t have known was she had put into words and feelings, what I hadn’t shared with anyone else.
“I could never do anything right in my mother’s eyes”, my friend whispered. “Her way was the only way to do something. Her way was always better, quicker, etc. Her constant criticism paralyzed me so much that I became even clumsier around her.”
Boy, could I relate to that, for no matter how others praise you, no opinion matters or makes you more vulnerable than that of your mother’s. How I longed to tell my friend how her feelings mirrored mine. Yet, I didn’t dare interrupt because I knew how difficult it had been for her to share things that I suspected she had never told another living soul. This was her story to share and, for whatever reason, she chose me to share it with.
Yes, I could have told her that I too had searched for approval in everything I did, every decision I made, yet rarely was it forthcoming. When I did, it came with some kind of barb: “You did OK, but next time…”
Few of us had mothers like Carol Brady from the Brady Bunch or Claire Huxtable on the Cosby Show. The kind of mothers you could share things with and they understood. For example, one time out of my father’s earshot, I tried to ask her about the hair that had suddenly sprung up under my arms and down there. Frankly, I was concerned that other places might spring hair too—like on the bottom of my feet, or under my chin, which actually happened years later.
Her telling me not to worry about what was going on down there in a voice that halted any further conversation really hurt, to the point that I never discussed my changing body or my feelings about anything with her ever again.
Perhaps battling fatigue and wrestling with demons of her own, she failed to realize how fragile a child’s feelings were or how fleeting youth was. Once, I braved punishment for “talking back” when I voiced a question that had haunted me most of my young life: Why was she always so mean? Why couldn’t she be more like my friend Eileen’s mother?
“The world is not always going to be kind to you, so you had better get used to it now”, she often said. Then she added: “If you don’t like it here, feel free to go live at Eileen’s house.”
Her telling me not to worry about what was going on down there in a voice that halted any further conversation really hurt, to the point that I never discussed my changing body or my feelings about anything with her ever again.
Perhaps battling fatigue and wrestling with demons of her own, she failed to realize how fragile a child’s feelings were or how fleeting youth was. Once, I braved punishment for “talking back” when I voiced a question that had haunted me most of my young life: Why was she always so mean? Why couldn’t she be more like my friend Eileen’s mother?
“The world is not always going to be kind to you, so you had better get used to it now”, she often said. Then she added: “If you don’t like it here, feel free to go live at Eileen’s house.”
There were also a few good memories. In my mind’s eye, I can still see her in the kitchen, with an apron tied around her waist, as she peeled an entire apple in one long dangling peel for an apple cobbler for dinner. (Now that’s food good for the body as well as for the soul.)
No, my mother was not perfect-no mothers are (something I finally discovered). As I ruminate over our relationship, I have to believe she did the best she could, with the skill sets she had at the time.
Today my friend is a loving wife and a nurturing mother of two. Some years later, I shared my own story with her. We both smiled, happy for the loving, nurturing women we had become despite our upbringing/childhoods.
Still, sometimes when it’s quiet, I imagine that I hear her whisper in death the words, for some reason, she could not utter in life. “You have turned into an amazing woman, my child; I knew someday you would.” Standing next to her, I hear my friend’s mother echo the same to her own daughter.
No, my mother was not perfect-no mothers are (something I finally discovered). As I ruminate over our relationship, I have to believe she did the best she could, with the skill sets she had at the time.
Today my friend is a loving wife and a nurturing mother of two. Some years later, I shared my own story with her. We both smiled, happy for the loving, nurturing women we had become despite our upbringing/childhoods.
Still, sometimes when it’s quiet, I imagine that I hear her whisper in death the words, for some reason, she could not utter in life. “You have turned into an amazing woman, my child; I knew someday you would.” Standing next to her, I hear my friend’s mother echo the same to her own daughter.
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Once upon a time, two young military airmen stood in front of the altar at their base’s tiny chapel. Looking into each other’s eyes, they promised to ‘have and to hold from that day forward. To take each other for better or worse, in sickness and in health.’ That couple was my husband and I. And this happened over 45 years ago today.
Standing there, my heart nearly bursting with joy, my mind conjured up the fairy tales I adored as a little girl. You know, those that began with “Once upon a time” and ended with “and they lived happily ever after”? Although they were as far from my life as a little, inner-city girl with brown skin and braids could be, I adored them. Now I was about to embark upon my very own.
We had been married about three months when it hit me that there were tons of things that I would learn about my new husband. The first came about when he came to me saying, “I have something I need to tell you.” Hesitating, he blurted out, “I’m addicted — to pound cake.” Of all the addictions I had ever heard of − sex, alcohol, ‘crack’− this was a first. It seemed his mother had been touted “Queen of Pound Cake” so, as his wife, this designation seemingly now fell on me.
Standing there, my heart nearly bursting with joy, my mind conjured up the fairy tales I adored as a little girl. You know, those that began with “Once upon a time” and ended with “and they lived happily ever after”? Although they were as far from my life as a little, inner-city girl with brown skin and braids could be, I adored them. Now I was about to embark upon my very own.
We had been married about three months when it hit me that there were tons of things that I would learn about my new husband. The first came about when he came to me saying, “I have something I need to tell you.” Hesitating, he blurted out, “I’m addicted — to pound cake.” Of all the addictions I had ever heard of − sex, alcohol, ‘crack’− this was a first. It seemed his mother had been touted “Queen of Pound Cake” so, as his wife, this designation seemingly now fell on me.
So I decided to make him one. How hard could it be? I thought to myself. Silly me! First, there were like a gazillion recipes for pound cake. As an airman, trained to shot an M-16 (rifle) if need be, I refused to be outdone by pastry.
Not after cakes one through five turned out to be flops. Not when a cake that looked great in the oven, deflated much like a balloon when removed. Not even when said cake, flung out near the trash in disgust, became a bed for the neighbor’s cat. I refused to give up until I mastered the perfect pound cake.
Little by little, my fairy tale started to lose its luster. For instance, I’m a hopeless romantic. My new husband? Not so much! While my idea of newlywed romantic gestures leaned toward perfume, lingerie or chocolates, his leaned toward —kitchen appliances.
Our first Christmas together, he gave me a four-slice toaster that was professionally wrapped and topped off by a huge red bow. On Valentines, he gave me a blender. Although it was the top of the line at that time, it was still a blender. I suspect he thought he was making things easier for me. (How could that be so wrong?)
Not after cakes one through five turned out to be flops. Not when a cake that looked great in the oven, deflated much like a balloon when removed. Not even when said cake, flung out near the trash in disgust, became a bed for the neighbor’s cat. I refused to give up until I mastered the perfect pound cake.
Little by little, my fairy tale started to lose its luster. For instance, I’m a hopeless romantic. My new husband? Not so much! While my idea of newlywed romantic gestures leaned toward perfume, lingerie or chocolates, his leaned toward —kitchen appliances.
Our first Christmas together, he gave me a four-slice toaster that was professionally wrapped and topped off by a huge red bow. On Valentines, he gave me a blender. Although it was the top of the line at that time, it was still a blender. I suspect he thought he was making things easier for me. (How could that be so wrong?)
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Over the years, our marriage would consist of other defining moments. The next occurred around year 13, when unresolved issues forced a marital ‘time out’. While in flux, our relationship had always been love thus, two years later, we reunited.
The third occurred when my husband suffered his first heart attack. The past 28 of our 45 years together, I have been an interpreter of every illness, recounting them in minute detail, to everyone who needed to know about them.
Still, whenever my mind touches on that place inside me where fear constantly lives, I realize that I wouldn’t be the wife, the partner or even the person that I am today, without these seasons in our lives. Today, our love and relationship is stronger than ever. Perhaps, unlike how I imagined it, every once and a while a real life fairy tale comes along.
The third occurred when my husband suffered his first heart attack. The past 28 of our 45 years together, I have been an interpreter of every illness, recounting them in minute detail, to everyone who needed to know about them.
Still, whenever my mind touches on that place inside me where fear constantly lives, I realize that I wouldn’t be the wife, the partner or even the person that I am today, without these seasons in our lives. Today, our love and relationship is stronger than ever. Perhaps, unlike how I imagined it, every once and a while a real life fairy tale comes along.
-Author Carol Gee
Retired military (AF) veteran, Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker
Retired military (AF) veteran, Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker
I have a confession. I was born without the faux (false) gene! In laymen’s terms: I don’t do well with ‘stuff’ that I wasn't born with.
This discovery was made when an Air Force dorm mate suggested that my eyes would look nice if I wore false eyelashes. Having a set handy (seriously?), she demonstrated how to apply them.
Following her lead, I combed them out. Then, after applying a thin line of glue to the outer edge, I pressed them onto my eyelids. After letting them set for a few minutes, I used an eyeliner pencil to line over them. Supposedly this was to make them look more natural. A coat of mascara and . . . voila!
You’re envisioning how good I looked, huh? Wrong! As it turned out, I was allergic to that brand of mascara, which caused my eyes to water. For about five minutes, I couldn’t see anything. Telling me that my eyes looked good, my roommate suggested that I wear my lashes to a party that night. (Why was I even still listening to her? Wasn’t she the same chick that just caused the floodgates of heaven to open and flow from my eyes?)
At the party, the late singer James Brown encouraged partiers to Get On The Good Foot and Make it Funky. I was doing both with gusto when the unthinkable happened: one of my false eyelashes came off and landed on my lower lid. As James Brown screamed on his song, I also screamed, thinking a spider had landed on my eyelid. Oh God, Oh God, Help!
Leaving my cute partner on the dance floor—sorry Charlie, Dayquan or whomever—I ran to the restroom. Once, there, I removed the offending lash—where it remained stuck on my bottom lid—plus the one remaining and threw them both in the toilet, flushing twice!
This discovery was made when an Air Force dorm mate suggested that my eyes would look nice if I wore false eyelashes. Having a set handy (seriously?), she demonstrated how to apply them.
Following her lead, I combed them out. Then, after applying a thin line of glue to the outer edge, I pressed them onto my eyelids. After letting them set for a few minutes, I used an eyeliner pencil to line over them. Supposedly this was to make them look more natural. A coat of mascara and . . . voila!
You’re envisioning how good I looked, huh? Wrong! As it turned out, I was allergic to that brand of mascara, which caused my eyes to water. For about five minutes, I couldn’t see anything. Telling me that my eyes looked good, my roommate suggested that I wear my lashes to a party that night. (Why was I even still listening to her? Wasn’t she the same chick that just caused the floodgates of heaven to open and flow from my eyes?)
At the party, the late singer James Brown encouraged partiers to Get On The Good Foot and Make it Funky. I was doing both with gusto when the unthinkable happened: one of my false eyelashes came off and landed on my lower lid. As James Brown screamed on his song, I also screamed, thinking a spider had landed on my eyelid. Oh God, Oh God, Help!
Leaving my cute partner on the dance floor—sorry Charlie, Dayquan or whomever—I ran to the restroom. Once, there, I removed the offending lash—where it remained stuck on my bottom lid—plus the one remaining and threw them both in the toilet, flushing twice!
Oh, but my faux drama doesn’t end there! Wigs? They make my head sweat. False fingernails? Alas, those didn’t go well either. I remember when one came off and landed in my dinner date’s lap. Seemingly unfazed, he picked it up and handed it back to me and continued eating. Can you believe that I never heard from him again?
Acrylic nails looked great. However, once removed, my own nails were so soft that even water made them hurt.
So, I should have seen the danger when, after having a pedicure, I decided that a toe ring would look cute on one of my toes. Purchasing a two-piece set from the Dollar Store, I put one on the second toe of my right foot. It immediately sprung off.
Trying again, the same thing happened! Only this time, one of my kitties chased it—the one that weighed 18 pounds—and promptly sat on it. Score! Apparently the first toe ring was too wide for my toe. The second one in the set fit perfectly.
Well, false eyelashes are back in style. Don’t worry, I learned my lesson the first time around. Better late than never, right?
Acrylic nails looked great. However, once removed, my own nails were so soft that even water made them hurt.
So, I should have seen the danger when, after having a pedicure, I decided that a toe ring would look cute on one of my toes. Purchasing a two-piece set from the Dollar Store, I put one on the second toe of my right foot. It immediately sprung off.
Trying again, the same thing happened! Only this time, one of my kitties chased it—the one that weighed 18 pounds—and promptly sat on it. Score! Apparently the first toe ring was too wide for my toe. The second one in the set fit perfectly.
Well, false eyelashes are back in style. Don’t worry, I learned my lesson the first time around. Better late than never, right?
(Excerpt from Random Notes, available on Amazon & most online retailers where books are sold.)
As a child, I read everything from mysteries to the Bible. From biblical characters like Daniel, who bravely survived the lion’s den, I learned that you can survive by using your wits. When it came to David and Goliath, I heard somewhere that, after that incident, there was a ban on slingshots in the land. Seriously?
Initially, I read enticed by the great stories and hours of escapism they provided as I turned each page. Then I began to read and even analyze them. Much like the Little Red Hen, I discovered something. (No, not that constantly looking up to see if the sky is falling can cause whiplash or land you face first in dog-do; I meant that other lesson.) “If you want something done right, you usually have to do it yourself.” Ask any woman with a husband or children.
From Romeo and Juliet, I learned that a serious Love Jones can be the death of you. (However, keep that on the down-low, okay?) From Chicken Little, also sometimes known as Henny Penny, I learned that on life’s journey we frequently meet a lot of strange folks along the way. Hopefully, none with such names as Cocky Lockey or Turkey Lurkey but, hey, I’m not one to judge.
"Homer's Odyssey” was a story about a man’s wanderlust, a wife’s longing for a spouse, a son and a father. It was also my first-ever introduction to the absent-father syndrome.
In college, Socrates, Plato and Nietzsche were absorbed into my pores like steam. Some months later, Jung (a famous psychologist) helped me to rediscover my inner-child. To tell the truth, until then, I didn't even realize that she was missing.
Today, I read books for entertainment rather than enlightenment. Alas, while I've finally got my mind together, the rest of me is going to pot. For starters, there is that one chin hair that persists on growing back even after continued yanking with industrial-strength tweezers. Only now has it started playing hard ball: as early as last week, I noticed that it was back and had returned with an entourage.
Meanwhile, further down, my knees are in competition to see which one can make the most noise when I bend over. In case you are wondering, it’s the right one.
However, I’ve sworn not to let these things bother me. You see:
I am grounded.
I’m centered.
Finally!
-Author Carol Gee
Retired military (AF) veteran, Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker
As a child, I read everything from mysteries to the Bible. From biblical characters like Daniel, who bravely survived the lion’s den, I learned that you can survive by using your wits. When it came to David and Goliath, I heard somewhere that, after that incident, there was a ban on slingshots in the land. Seriously?
Initially, I read enticed by the great stories and hours of escapism they provided as I turned each page. Then I began to read and even analyze them. Much like the Little Red Hen, I discovered something. (No, not that constantly looking up to see if the sky is falling can cause whiplash or land you face first in dog-do; I meant that other lesson.) “If you want something done right, you usually have to do it yourself.” Ask any woman with a husband or children.
From Romeo and Juliet, I learned that a serious Love Jones can be the death of you. (However, keep that on the down-low, okay?) From Chicken Little, also sometimes known as Henny Penny, I learned that on life’s journey we frequently meet a lot of strange folks along the way. Hopefully, none with such names as Cocky Lockey or Turkey Lurkey but, hey, I’m not one to judge.
"Homer's Odyssey” was a story about a man’s wanderlust, a wife’s longing for a spouse, a son and a father. It was also my first-ever introduction to the absent-father syndrome.
In college, Socrates, Plato and Nietzsche were absorbed into my pores like steam. Some months later, Jung (a famous psychologist) helped me to rediscover my inner-child. To tell the truth, until then, I didn't even realize that she was missing.
Today, I read books for entertainment rather than enlightenment. Alas, while I've finally got my mind together, the rest of me is going to pot. For starters, there is that one chin hair that persists on growing back even after continued yanking with industrial-strength tweezers. Only now has it started playing hard ball: as early as last week, I noticed that it was back and had returned with an entourage.
Meanwhile, further down, my knees are in competition to see which one can make the most noise when I bend over. In case you are wondering, it’s the right one.
However, I’ve sworn not to let these things bother me. You see:
I am grounded.
I’m centered.
Finally!
-Author Carol Gee
Retired military (AF) veteran, Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker
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You see them everywhere: men and women jauntily wearing scarves around their necks, even in the summer when it’s hot as heck outside! Don’t get me wrong, I love scarves, which is why I was really hurt to discover that they didn’t love me back.
Imagine my surprise the first time one actually tried to kill me. It was when my scarf got tangled up in my seat belt while exiting my car. Luckily, I got it untangled before any real damage was done.
I blame my near death experiences on the fashion experts who tried their best to make us believe that scarves were our friends. You’ve seen the teasers: 100 unique ways to turn your scarf into a fabulous fashion accessory! They never warn you that you are taking your life into your own hands by wearing one! And, no matter how hard I try, my scarves never look on me the way they look on others.
Desperate, I bought a book for help. The instructions were confusing from the start. You know: bring the left end over the right end, and finish by tucking it counter-clockwise—say what? Thinking I had somehow misinterpreted the instructions, I reread them. Again, the instructions went awry. The end result? A scarf that looked like it was tied by someone high on Crack.
Placing a pretty pin on it, and with my head held high, I went merrily on my way. The trouble was, with my head held high, I almost fell before catching myself.
Each episode starts out with the best of intentions. So the day that one looked passably like one pictured in the scarf book, I was stoked. That’s when it happened. The scarf I was wearing that day got caught in my desk drawer. The next thing I knew, my neck was caught in a vise. My eyes started watering, causing my mascara to run. The final insult—one of my false eyelashes came off!
So what’s a diva to do when her scarf tries to kill her? First, she throws out the scarf book. Then, she simply loops it over once. It may not be pretty or even interesting, but it still gets the job done.
More than surviving a murderous accessory, my scarf dilemmas validate that anything can be beautiful, when worn with confidence.
Imagine my surprise the first time one actually tried to kill me. It was when my scarf got tangled up in my seat belt while exiting my car. Luckily, I got it untangled before any real damage was done.
I blame my near death experiences on the fashion experts who tried their best to make us believe that scarves were our friends. You’ve seen the teasers: 100 unique ways to turn your scarf into a fabulous fashion accessory! They never warn you that you are taking your life into your own hands by wearing one! And, no matter how hard I try, my scarves never look on me the way they look on others.
Desperate, I bought a book for help. The instructions were confusing from the start. You know: bring the left end over the right end, and finish by tucking it counter-clockwise—say what? Thinking I had somehow misinterpreted the instructions, I reread them. Again, the instructions went awry. The end result? A scarf that looked like it was tied by someone high on Crack.
Placing a pretty pin on it, and with my head held high, I went merrily on my way. The trouble was, with my head held high, I almost fell before catching myself.
Each episode starts out with the best of intentions. So the day that one looked passably like one pictured in the scarf book, I was stoked. That’s when it happened. The scarf I was wearing that day got caught in my desk drawer. The next thing I knew, my neck was caught in a vise. My eyes started watering, causing my mascara to run. The final insult—one of my false eyelashes came off!
So what’s a diva to do when her scarf tries to kill her? First, she throws out the scarf book. Then, she simply loops it over once. It may not be pretty or even interesting, but it still gets the job done.
More than surviving a murderous accessory, my scarf dilemmas validate that anything can be beautiful, when worn with confidence.
7/20/2017 0 Comments
Everybody Has a Story
I am an adoring wife, a loving sister, aunt, cousin, friend, mentor, book author and business owner. These are the things most people know about. I am also a diabetic and a stroke survivor. All are part and parcel of what makes me—well—me.
When people learn that I served in the Air Force, they say, I don’t look like a soldier (airman). “You look too soft, too feminine looking.” I have always taken that to mean that I didn’t fit their idea of what a female serviceman looked like. You know, the ‘hard looking I can shoot a gnat at fifty paces” kind of woman. (Actually I earned a military marksmanship ribbon).
My love of perfume and all things girlie aside, I am pretty tough. Indeed, life has demanded that I be. After all, few people have the fortitude to spend six weeks on their hands and knees cleaning grout from bathroom tiles—with a tooth brush. (Military Basic Training). Or once eaten Octopus Tempura in Okinawa, Japan (octopus dipped in a breaded coating and fried), and lived to tell about it. (I was told by one of my troops that it was some kind of fish).
Seriously, once I was able to banish the image of those bumpy tentacles from my mind, and discretely spit it out, he was lucky I didn’t make him drop down and give me 50 push-ups, then and there. Consequently, the military guided my life’s trajectory, affording me an education, opportunities to travel, and to learn about other people and cultures.
Likewise, few know that growing up, I dreamed of writing the great American novel. I began with writing little short stories to entertain my younger sister. Poems followed. Two, “Ode To That Lying Scum” and “Swinging From Chandeliers, Do You Suppose The Warranty Covers That” came about after dates with first “Mr. Wrong” and then “Mr. Crazy” who really was crazy if he thought I was doing that on the first date. Besides, I didn’t, and still don’t care for heights.
Finally, came my debut book The Venus Chronicles, followed by a robust freelance writing career. Four books later, and by retaining faith in my dreams, I’ve finally done it. Become a writer! To paraphrase a quote from the 1948, police drama The Naked City. “There are eight million stories in the naked city. This is mine.”
When people learn that I served in the Air Force, they say, I don’t look like a soldier (airman). “You look too soft, too feminine looking.” I have always taken that to mean that I didn’t fit their idea of what a female serviceman looked like. You know, the ‘hard looking I can shoot a gnat at fifty paces” kind of woman. (Actually I earned a military marksmanship ribbon).
My love of perfume and all things girlie aside, I am pretty tough. Indeed, life has demanded that I be. After all, few people have the fortitude to spend six weeks on their hands and knees cleaning grout from bathroom tiles—with a tooth brush. (Military Basic Training). Or once eaten Octopus Tempura in Okinawa, Japan (octopus dipped in a breaded coating and fried), and lived to tell about it. (I was told by one of my troops that it was some kind of fish).
Seriously, once I was able to banish the image of those bumpy tentacles from my mind, and discretely spit it out, he was lucky I didn’t make him drop down and give me 50 push-ups, then and there. Consequently, the military guided my life’s trajectory, affording me an education, opportunities to travel, and to learn about other people and cultures.
Likewise, few know that growing up, I dreamed of writing the great American novel. I began with writing little short stories to entertain my younger sister. Poems followed. Two, “Ode To That Lying Scum” and “Swinging From Chandeliers, Do You Suppose The Warranty Covers That” came about after dates with first “Mr. Wrong” and then “Mr. Crazy” who really was crazy if he thought I was doing that on the first date. Besides, I didn’t, and still don’t care for heights.
Finally, came my debut book The Venus Chronicles, followed by a robust freelance writing career. Four books later, and by retaining faith in my dreams, I’ve finally done it. Become a writer! To paraphrase a quote from the 1948, police drama The Naked City. “There are eight million stories in the naked city. This is mine.”
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