My Life As A Brain Dead Vegetable

Before I get started, I have to ask- who decided to call people who reside in a completely comatose state a “vegetable” in the first place? I mean, haven’t we been taught since we were little kids that eating your vegetables was supposed to improve the health and performance of our brains?

Does it sound like I’m making light of victims of tragic accidents or trauma who suffer from being completely comatose? Of course not. If you are thinking this, you should probably stop reading now, because I plan to use this terminology a few more times to make my point.

Now, what is my point? If you have ever read my dusty blog, you will know that I actually never know my point until I get to the end of the post.

This October, I will be 27 years old. I can’t help thinking lately that I’m missing something. You know how scientists (which ones, I don’t know) say that humans only use 10 percent of our brains? Lately I’ve been feeling like all this time I’ve been operating on a solid 7 percent, and the other 3 percent is alluding me.

I can’t explain exactly why I feel this way. My relationship with God is growing, I have a great family, decent paying job, a nice apartment, a degree, a heap of debt, a new-ish car, a ridiculous size 10-11 high heel collection, a ton of unruly hair, and an almost completely drama-free life. What more could a girl want?

Okay wait, wait, don’t even start. I can see the eye rolls and the knowing looks. “All she needs is a good man in her life.” 

Can we just not? Can we assume for the sake of this post that I am perfectly content/relieved to be single, and perfectly not content with the state of my Tiarra? Yeah? Thanks.

Okay so back to my brain. I don’t know if I’m in a rut or what. Maybe I need a life coach. Or a makeover. I bought a couple of redlipsticks a week ago and I love them, but can’t seem to manage applying them without looking like a clown.

Perhaps a personal trainer will help me kick my butt into gear and clear the cobwebs from my brain. You know, get those endorphins flowing? Although, I have to admit washing a hot Krispy Kreme down with some hot chocolate with extra marshmallows has nearly the same effect on my endorphins...just saying.

 My doctor did mention I’ve picked up some pounds. I thought it was just break-up weight from my recent break up…almost 12 months ago. Yikes. (Sn. Remind me to never date a personal trainer again. It’s just too much pressure, especially if he has egotistical douche-bag tendencies.)

I know! I could go back to school and get my Masters. It’s not like I’m using my Bachelor’s Degree these days anyway. Now that I mention it, it’s not like I’m done paying for my Bachelor’s either.

Darn you FAFSA!

It’s like, I had my whole life planned out, all these goals and things I wanted to accomplish before I turned 25. And because of the amazing God I serve, the list is pretty much complete!

So the question is…now what?

The Perfect Girl: A Note on My Personal Awesomeness

Until recently, I was convinced that there was no way I could ever teach teenage girls. Little bitty kiddies? Fine. Teenage boys? Sure. But something about the cattiness of teenage girls never ceased to irk me, and I resolved within myself to avoid spending lots of time with them unless I was authorized to punch them in the chest.

You think I’m playing?

Anyway, a somewhat recent experience seemed to confirm a suspicion that has been growing in me for almost a year now.

I believe I have discovered the secret to why so many women have such a hard time getting along with each other!

*Drum roll please*

We don’t know how to disarm each other.

Act Like a Lady, Think- and then Act Like a Lady Some More

I’ll be straight with you- me and Steve Harvey aren’t friends. I didn’t buy his book, I didn’t check it out at the library, and I haven’t even bummed it off of my friends.

“But Tiarra, how can you say you don’t like the book if you didn’t even read it?”

I didn’t say that.

I said Steve Harvey and me aren’t friends, and that I didn’t read his book. That doesn’t equate to me not liking the book, or thinking he doesn’t make some good points in it. I wouldn’t know.

I didn’t read it.

Anyway, I have something to say about the title of his book.

Don't Fall in Love With Preachers or Musicians Unless...

...you're his second love. After God that is. One of the difficult things about falling in love with preachers and musicians is the fact that it is easy to find yourself competing with music and ministry for his time and attention. The long nights away from home are hard enough, but if his love for God is not first in his life, I can almost guarantee you that your place in his life will be #3, not #2.

Getting the Kinks Out

Have I ever told you how much I HATE washing my hair? It's an hour long process if I take the shortcut, forty minutes if I'm rushing. If I want to do it right? We're talking about two or three hours- and that's if I'm not even planning to style it.

You see, the most time consuming part of the process is detangling. Honey, it's no joke. 

I know at the end of it all I'll be able to run my fingers through my 'fro, and my curls will be clean and shiny and bouncy, but the process isn't simple and pretty. 

Which brings me to this here blog o' mine. 

I took a 2-year hiatus for several reasons:

1. I needed to finish school (I'll come back to that later)
2. I was working at a job that didn't allow much time for sitting down at a computer. 
3. Alot of the motivation I had at the start of this blog shifted to other areas of my life.  

Well, I'm back in D.C. at a job that allows me to sit at a desk, and a niggling sensation has been at the back of my brain for a while. I find myself thinking about things during my commute, and a blog titles often pop into my head. Or lately I will hear a really awesome message at church and think, "Ooh, I could definitely blog about that." The last straw was a friend of mine who finally called me out on Facebook the other day. And I have decided to go for it again.

So...I'll need your patience and prayers, dear readers (if there are any of you still out there).

I'm going to have to work the kinks out of my writing muscles. I'll have to call on some old friends, some old emotions, to get my juices flowing. Some of the first few blog attempts might sound a little too transparent. They may not flow. They may be too short, or too long.

I'm not promising much of anything right now. But if you and I are patient, we can work those kinks out. And who knows? Perhaps we'll all get something good out of it.

All my best,

♥Tiarra♥

The Woodwork

In the highest and lowest moments of our life, there is a group that hovers and descends that I like to call the Woodwork. You know them? They like to make appearances at weddings and funerals in particular, I've noticed.


Some people refer to them as haters, and spend lots of time giving them shoutouts on Facebook and Twitter, thanking them and blowing them kisses. Some people threaten them, call them out by name, and cuss them and their mama from here to Sunday. They vow vengeance on their Woodwork/haters, even though I remember a little verse in the Bible that leaves revenge in the hands of our Father. Today I was thinking about something, and God showed me something special about the Woodwork.

Have you ever thought about how people come to be a part of your Woodwork?

Woodwork people are part of your past, usually. They are people who you were once close to, people who once played a consistent, significant role in your life. And due to the circumstances of life and the fragility of human nature, the bond was broken, you went your separate ways. And they became a part of your Woodwork.

You don't talk, but somehow they always know what's going on with you. It's irritating! But it is a reality for almost everyone.

Like or not, you need your Woodwork. They keep you humble, and they never let you forget where you came from.

Be kind to your Woodwork folks. They forever float on the outskirts of our lives, never able to be fully in your life or out of it. They only come out when they think it is safe to be in your world again. And you will never know how they may suffer.

You never know, one day God may work them out of the wood.

Foot Fetish

It was early September, and still warm enough to wear sandals. I was strolling through the suburban general store, also known as Wal-Mart, looking for shampoo or something.

When he showed up.

He didn't just walk up to me, he did one of those stalker moves. He slowly peeked his head around the corner to the aisle where I was, and started cheesing really hard.

I tried to pretend I didn't see him, but that didn't last long. I glanced at him and looked back at the bottle of Suave I was holding. He must have taken that for a green light, because suddenly the rest of his body appeared in the aisle to join his head.

HIM: "Uh, hi."

ME: "Hi." I began scrutinizing the ingredients of the bottle. Water, Aloe extract, stearamidopropyl PG-dimonium chloride phosphate...what the devil do they put in this stuff??

I chanced a quick look up to see if old boy had gotten the hint.

He hadn't. 

I noticed though, that he wasn't staring into my eyes and trying to look seductive or irresistable.

Nope...he was actually staring at my feet.

HIM: "My name is Ty." 

ME: "Hi, Ty." Sodium lauryl sulfate, methylisothiazolinone...

HIM: "I just couldn't help coming over here, because you're pretty."

ME: "Oh, thank you."

HIM: "I also see you just got your feet done. Looks nice, REAL nice."

Hold up.

Uh.........did he just lick his lips when he said that??

I'll spare you the rest of the conversation, but I promise you old boy spent the rest of that little chat talking to my FEET. He told them about his budding military career, and how he was looking to settle down in the area and could he hit me up?

Sorry Ty... my feet are spoken for.

For real though. Can somebody explain to me what was up with that?

 

♥Tiarra♥