The Uppity Negro does not do Holiday Inns

Don’t be upset by the title. I’m not. It was an affectionate nickname by a hispanic friend. Don’t worry, I called him a Border Hopper. Just jokes. One thing that happens in the military is when you really get close with your unit, you can be un-PC all day long and have fun. Of course, at all times you have to be careful that no one in that group is not easily offended.

So, if you’re still reading this you are asking “Why the heck was DT5 called an Uppity Negro?”

Well, I’m a bit of a bourgeois. I didn’t start out that way, but as I’ve gotten older and have more money in my pocket I’ve learned to buy things for quality and comfort rather than always trying to save a buck. Now that doesn’t mean I’m a name brand heffa. Nope, because some brand names things aren’t worth it. Shoes I buy for comfort, not because it’s got a red sole, or had some famous designer’s signature somewhere on it. Hey, I’ve got big super flat hobbit feet. There is no reason to jack them up more with uncomfortable shoes. My son’s clothes are all name brand because he’s a boy, and boys tear up clothes too easily to try to buy knock-offs. Dr. Jays and Macy’s online are my favorite stores for my t-shirts and jeans kid (no jeggins for him, because that is WRONG).

Anyway, I’ve been on spring break at the capital with the Monster Teen. And if you’ve ever been to DC, you know that place is high-priced. But there is one thing I cannot do: stay at any place that has “Inn” or “Motel” in its name. It may have to deal with my dad putting us in many comfort/quality/days inns as a kid when we traveled. It may also have to do with my first paid job, as a housekeeper at Holiday Inn. Oh god what a horror story!

Think 17, still in High School with a newborn little monster. You live close to the beach, so you apply at the “luxury” Holiday Inn on the beach. You realize after the first weekend of work that “cleaning” is relative. There are hardly ever any cleaning supplies, and you’re told to use windex to make things at least look as if they are clean. You’re told you are wasting time and resources if you decide to change the sheets on bed whether they “look” clean or not. And not to mention, you’re laughed at if you decide to use gloves to clean. Even in rooms with empty used condoms laid out across the floor and bed. And high paid strippers that leave double ended dildos on the bed, but expect you to clean their room. Oh HECK no.

Anyway, call me bourgeois, call me uppity, I’m all about comfort and feeling like maybe not a million bucks, but at least couple thousand. So I’ll stay in a Marriot suite, and you can enjoy your roaches and suspect sheets.


Taking Classes With the Ignorant Masses

Soooo, this week I was not in my wonderful classroom teaching new troops about how awesome their new job is, and praying that they pass. At the same time, I don’t have to deal with a whole bunch (really only a few) of cry babies that act as if they need a pacifier and back rub. Phew. This week I was in one of those fun military classes that after you finish, you can add it to your evaluation to say: Hey, I’m awesome, I can do THIS. Look I have a certificate! *waves paper around like crazy*

Anyway, this class is what I affectionately call Pee Test Class.

It’s really called something else, but it’s a week of learning about pee. How to handle pee, how to test pee for drugs, how to observe pee leaving the body, in case someone’s trying to fake you out and using purchased pee. How to package and take pee to the lab, etc. Fun times right? Riiiiiiiiiight.

Or it would be an interesting class (possibly) if it wasn’t for 2 things: the instructors and the students. See, where I teach, we have to go through an actual instructor training process. We learn skills to test, and then we are certified. Our certification is daggone serious, to the point that you can’t even be in a classroom alone until you pass. It’s serious to the point that its worth college credits, and we get reevaluated all the time, to make sure we aren’t slipping. This main instructor of Pee Testing? Not so much.

I’m not OCD, or else my house would be a lot more organized, but I do love structure. I believe in scheduling things out a certain way, I believe in having step by step instructions for any job that I need to accomplish. And there’s nothing that puts my imaginary tail in knots than a disorganized teacher that I have to listen to and take notes from to pass a class. This dude… ARGH! The first day of Pee Degree was this:

Pee Teacher: all right make sure know what this is (on the powerpoint slide) and take notes.

Students begin to copy –

Pee Teacher: *clicks forward within 5 seconds*

Me: *Throws my pencil down and holds on to table so that I don’t jump out and punch him in the throat.*

Who does that?! Pee Teacher not only gives no time for anyone to actually take notes. On top of that, he skips back and forward through the Powerpoint saying “oh, someone else will teach you about this, so I’m not going to say anything… Oh, except this.” And then again, before you are able to make any kind of note, he’s jumped onto another slide and another subject. And I wasn’t the only one severely pissed off.

And then the next day, instead of coming to class prepared, he tries to show us a program that he THOUGHT he had just downloaded. Instead, it still needed to install and also he couldn’t remember his password. Ugh.

Me being who I am, having to try to learn from someone who is jacked up makes me want to throw a hissy fit. Instead I’m just writing down notes for the end of class critique.

On top of having to try to squeeze knowledge from a coconut, we’ve got a couple of weakest links. These are admin types; the ones that didn’t score too high on the ASVAB, treat Ebonics as their native language, and think they know everything since they can type fast and stop your leave/vacation form. I can talk about these people because I was one for a couple of years until I realized “hey, I scored awesomely on the ASVAB, why am I doing this job?” Seriously, there’s 3 jobs in the military that don’t take much in the brain bucket: Infantry, Administration, and Supply. *Note: I’m not knocking everyone that does this job. I’ve met some awesome people in these fields, but honestly, they are the exception, not the standard.*

These guys/gals in this class are the loudest attention seeking heffas that I’ve seen in a while. I want to take my note taking pen and stab my eyeballs out. I want to poor acid in my ears so I don’t have to hear how they butcher the English language, not because they have a second language, but because they’re proud of talking like the brown colored crayon people who seem to ALWAYS get interviewed on the news. I even walked past and heard a chick say in all seriousness “Ain’t nobody got time for dat!” Heaven and the angels help me before something breaks in my head!


I would like to add that the last day was very interesting… not because of the students or instructors. We went to a rehab clinic to talk to veterans in the program. It was moving enough that a non-crier like me was getting slightly moist eyes.  One man had come from Vietnam with over 10 bullet holes to a country that looked down on the war, and him. He’s battled since then a cocaine addiction. It’s such a different thing to listen to someone tell their story than to just read and take notes on how to handle someone who may be using drugs. I still believe that a drug addict makes the first choice to use, and they are at fault for that. At the same time, I can’t help but pity those that have no one to turn to, or feel that they don’t. And I don’t know what I would have done coming back from my two deployments and having friends, family, and my whole country turned against me, after they sent me over there to do a job. So I’ll stop judging those that hit bottom, because God knows my life hasn’t been perfect, and I’ve hit bottom in other ways in the past.

With all the issues of this week, I am glad for the training, and hope that I can help save a person or two.

When Doors, Walls, and Coffee Tables Attack – Part 1

I have a gold medal in Accident Proneness. Seriously, in my life, I have managed to find increasing interesting ways to either hurt myself or just embarrass myself. It’s to the point that people who walk along with me to try keep obstacles out-of-the-way.

I’ve had stitches because of a glass door. Yes. Let’s go back about 3 years… *flashback music begins*

It was night overseas in an Asian country, but not too dark outside. Monster Teen (patent pending) was outside playing in the military housing we lived in. We were supposed to go out to dinner and a movie with my friend who we will call Sailor moon, but MT was late. Completely frustrated I took the elevator from the 8th floor and rushed to the front doors of the apartment building. Now note: the apartment building has 2 sets of glass double doors. A lot of times people leave these open. The only piece of the doors that aren’t glass are the handles, but those are pretty hard to see. Especially when you are speed walking to the doors with only your irritation with your son on your mind.

I swore the doors were open.

They weren’t.

Bam! I hit the door at full speed and immediately felt dripping when my hand flew up to my face. Blood, blood, lots of blood. The boxing match with the door was a complete KO. I left a face print on the door.

A frackin… face print.

I checked my teeth with my bloody tongue to make sure they were all there, and got back on the elevator dripping blood. I get upstairs and lift my lip a bit to see the it looks like I violently assaulted my upper lip with my teeth. And just so you know, I already have big lips. I’m talking Jolie lips, naturally plump. But I could already see it start to swell. By now MT is home while I’m putting ice on my assaulted lips. Of course I blame him. I mean it’s not my fault I behave like a cat and tried to phase through a solid object.

Sailor Moon calls and says she’s outside so we walk to meet her for Korean BBQ. For those that have never tried Korean BBQ, shame on you. It is a lifetime of spicy happiness in your mouth. Key word: spicy. So we eat as I hold the travel pack of ice on my lip when I’m not stuffing it full of rice, meat, kimchi, and beer. After get pretty full I feel something extra weird going on with my mouth.I tongue the inside of my upper lip and it feels… spongy.

Me: “Sailor Moon, is this the inside of my lip hanging out?”

Sailor Moon: “Oh God! Yes… It is. I think you may need to go to the Emergency Room. You want me to take you?”

Me: “Ugh! Well, I guess so before all my lip leaks out.”

2 stitches. 2 stitches and me having to tell my story to basically the whole ER because they were sure I had a domestic fight. And then just laughing at me when Sailor Moon corroborated my story that I ran into a glass door. And on top of 2 stitches, suspected abuse, and laughter from the ER, I end up having to wear a max over my face for about a week because I look like something on a Syfy channel commercial. Elephant Man’s Baby Sister. My lip by now is big enough to cut off air to my right nostril.

My supervisor grants me a week off the next day if I’ll show him my face without my SARS mask (that’s what I call them, but I’m sure you know what I mean. The medical masks that cover your nose and mouth). His reaction is first like shock, but then he laughs uproariously and gives me a week off.

What I learned from the whole experience? That doors are sentient. They along with birds, midgets, and clowns are plotting to take over the world. And because I, Dimensionthe5th, will one day complete my ninja robot monkey army, they must take me out.

I vow not to let them complete their heinous plot.

Sometimes Thoughts of Suicide Are For Entertainment Purposes Only

*Before I begin… thanks to all who read my last post… I didn’t write it so anyone would think ill or good of me… It’s just an extremely important part of my life I thought I would share, just in case anyone had a similar situation. It’s all about trying to help others right?

On to the crazy…

I know you’re looking at this title saying “WTF DT5, have you finally lost your teacups for good?” No… No… I’m still my optimum level of crazy. With a dash of sugar.

But I wonder if anyone else out there has the twisted way of thinking that I have. See, I’m one of those people who when I think of something really fracked up, I worry if there’s a mind reader around. You know? Like randomly there’s some old dude explaining stuff to a group, and your mind seems to have taken some LSD without your knowledge because:

Suddenly you are imagining this old wrinkled sack of flesh having smexy times.

Ugh. I wish my brain could vomit and leak out my ears. And I hope there wasn’t a Professor Xavier type mutant anywhere near to read all of that.

So, that’s just a small taste of the randomness of my brain. There’s so many weird compartments in here that even I’ve forgotten it. Seriously, my brain and its folds are like an Old Crazy Hoarder Cat Lady’s attic. Full of old dusty weird things…and is that hairball in the corner moving?! O_o

I’ve been in equal parts playing that I’m crazy and then really being off my rocker, that its hard to tell which is which. I’m functioning crazy. I’ve never been committed although one supervisor of mine tried to push for it. I’ve been on many medications, but feel I function better when I’m just high on life. So no need to try to find me, I’m long since past the days where I would be a danger to myself. I just like to joke about 😉

Back to weird thoughts… The truth is, I’ve only thought of actually killing myself twice while I went through two separate bouts of severe depression. Once was as a teen, the other as a young 20 something. While a teen, I didn’t even plan it out really. Just located things I could mix together that would hopefully put me out of my misery. As an adult I actually thought up 2 possible ways that would hopefully not hurt that much, and not take that long. But I never went through with it (obviously, or maybe not). And then I never thought of it again… in the same way.

So, although I didn’t have suicidal thoughts any longer since I’m in optimal functioning crazy mode, I began to have What If/ Choose your own gruesome adventures. But I really didn’t think of it as too weird. Until I opened my mouth around others and realized that it was kind of creepy to them.

For instance, do not energetically say that you heard drowning is the most relaxing way to go, and if you had a choice that’s what you would do, drink and swallow a couple of pills and then swim out into the ocean. People will look at you funny. Or if you talk about every time you’re driving in the mountains, you have this image in your head of hitting the rails and going over car and all down the cliff.

Those kind of conversations seem to only be allowed during deployments. Now, if you’re down in the sand box getting hit with mortar rounds everyday, you can joke about the port-a-potties that have been hit a couple of times, and get promises from your friends that if die on the toilet, they’d at least pull your pants up before anyone else sees what’s left of you. Or that if you get hit by anything, hopefully all you’ll lose is a baby toe… Because, come on, the baby toe isn’t all that important right?

Morbid humor only works with certain people I’ve learned. The anonymous dudes and dudettes of the internet, and about 75 percent of the military. But there’s a time and place and a such thing as going to far. I like not being locked up and going for mental health when I want to, and not on someone else’s orders. To do that, I just have to keep from opening my mouth about random crazy thoughts that may get me locked up. I guess I can still discuss what I’d do during a zombie apocalypse right?


The Girl Grows and Asks Questions; The Child I Gave Away

The Monster Teen was born when I myself was nothing more than a teenager. I was a geek screwed up in the head, learning to be tough (and ghetto) to act out against the horrible separation/divorce that my parents dragged me into the middle of. I’ve touched on my parent’s separation a lot, I know, but only because so much of that helped shape me to who I am today. Let’s move on.

I never wanted kids. When I was a child, I never played house where I was the housewife. When people tried to get me to play that role, I’d argue or asked to be the husband or child. When playing alone, I was always someone with an awesome career. Maybe a teacher, and actress, a spoken word performer. Whatever it was, there were no children involved. I think in the back of my mind I always believed that when a woman had a child, her life ended.

But I did get pregnant with the Monster Teen. My father, who pretty much had chosen career and friends over his family had long since moved a couple of states away. When he found out, he called me to say that I was a whore, a slut, who might as well have 4 more kids and get on welfare, because I was NEVER going to make anything out of myself.

Luckily for Baby Monster Teen and I, even though I am pro-choice, I couldn’t let the growing creature I carried be killed. To me, it wasn’t fair to snuff out his life just because I didn’t protect myself from pregnancy. So I let the baby monster be born. And he changed my life for the better. I know that I would’ve grown to be a much more selfish and self involved person if I hadn’t had him to raise. But then, fast forward 4 years, and I found myself again at another crossroads.

While young/dumb/in deep depression and on my first tour in the military overseas, I made the same mistake again. Unprotected smexy times, because I forgot to refill my birth control. I swear I knew the moment it was done that I was pregnant again. And sure enough I was right.

I ranted and railed at myself. I prayed to God to change things, to let it be all in my head, to erase what was growing inside of me. I just could NOT do this again. There was not enough love in me to love another child. I knew instinctively that this was a girl child, and all I could think was that my personality was not caring enough to take care of such a soft sensitive creature (no matter that I was girl too). I saw my dreams crashing down. To be bogged down with the care of not just one child, but TWO. That through my faults I was becoming exactly what my father suggested! A whore no better than those aunts and cousins that sat with their legs open, asking for a handout.

I couldn’t do it, but again, I couldn’t destroy the life. And that is where my best friend came in.

We’ll call her Florida for these purposes. I’d met Florida only about a week after arriving to my base overseas. She was around the same age as me, new to the military, and geeky in her own way. Although we were of a similar age, her maturity level was higher than mine at the time (see last time’s post about trying to fit in) and she kind of took me in like a little sister. Coming from being the oldest and having a lot of responsibility in my immediate family, this was a breath of fresh air. Especially as I was going through a deep bout of depression with missing my son, missing home, and then, becoming pregnant again.

I went to her, in a borderline hysterical state of what to do about this pregnancy. And she had an answer that even today shocks me with the blessing it was for all those involved. You see, even though both Florida and I were baby 20 somethings, she wanted children. She was the exact opposite of me. She was proud to play the mamma when playing house. She wanted to have a career yes, but even that was to teach to young children. She wanted children right away, and the more the merrier. Her parents had her very late in life, so she wanted to have grandchildren before they passed away. But she wasn’t married. And she didn’t want to just get pregnant by a random person. And here I come with an answer to HER dilemma.

So that day, I sat there telling her my problem. That the dude had gone crazy, trying to force me to have an abortion.

“I can’t get an abortion, but I don’t, I can’t raise another child!”

She came to a decision.

“Let me adopt the baby.”

I laughed at her that day, shocked out of my depression. I was like yeah right, She could raise the baby, and since we were best friends I would get to know the child, and be in her life even though I couldn’t raise her myself.

“Exactly,” said Florida. She was serious. And I felt my heart lurch with so many emotions. Somehow, this blessing fell upon me and the Girl not yet born. We planned it out, right then and there, though I still didn’t really believe. We were leaving for our next assignments in a few months, and I would continue the pregnancy. When I got close, I would take leave and come to her base, so that she would see her child being born. She would raise her with the knowledge that I was her birth mother, that she had an older brother, that she was blessed with double the family of a normal child. That I would be her Godmother. We talked of how, if one day she wanted to come to me and stay with me, we would allow it to happen. That we would be open and honest with her and each other. A great plan that we both agreed on and thought was best.

Everyone else though, were against it.

I didn’t tell my mother I was pregnant until I was about 7 months pregnant, and already stationed back stateside in the Midwest  Even when I had first come back to the states I hid it, spending time with my son and family without letting them know the secret plan. When I told her, lord, she was so angry. She begged me to keep the child, to let her stay with her grandmother until I was ready to raise her myself. Hadn’t she taken my son while I was in my first enlistment, going through basic training, school and then overseas for a year?!

She didn’t understand. I saw my gut instinct future. That I did not have the same connection as I did with little MT. That if I kept her, there would be that underlying resentment of being saddled with a child I didn’t want. Why do that to a child when there was someone ready and willing to love her with all of their being as a mother should?

We argued right through the Girl’s birth and a year or so afterward. Before she was born, she’d told others in the family about my decision, and all of them had harsh judgment for me. My aunt and uncle on one side of the family who were childless, why didn’t I think of them? My Aunt on the other side of my family, who’d been trying for a child, why didn’t I think of her? My evil cousin and her mother spread rumors that Florida had brainwashed me and was my lover, that had to be why I was giving away my child. My command at my new unit tried to force me to keep the baby, saying that they would allow me to take my son back early, before I re-enlisted. I could move out of the barracks if I said I planned to keep the child.

And it wasn’t just on my side. Florida had friends and family members saying that I was going to change my mind, or take the girl away once they’d had a couple of years together. That I had to want something else out of the deal.

But the day came to give birth. And Florida was right there, the first to hold her newborn. I signed the papers for adoption right then and there. And even when my mother called a couple of hours later saying that she would NEVER let me have my son back until I took back custody of the Girl, well even that conversation (that made me have a screaming incoherent anxiety attack) did not change my mind or heart on the choice (My mother apologized for her outrageous threats after I threatened for her to NEVER meet her other grandchild, and my mother and I repaired our relationship over the next couple of years). There was no guilt. No feeling in my heart that I had done wrong. I loved the girl unconditionally, but she was not my child. That mother/daughter connection forged itself between Florida and the Girl as soon as they touched.

And so years past. The Girl gets older. And at 10 she starts to asks questions. She is trying to find her place in the world. Is her family her family? Is her mother her mother? Do the boys Florida had later on after she married count on the same level as brothers like my son? I knew the day would come, but I thought I had more years. She asks about her biological sperm donor. I tell her his name and wait for more. Is she going to ask why she’s never met him? Do I tell her I cut off all contact when he threatened my life, demanding that I have an abortion or give him the child? That he got drunk and appeared in my room somehow while I was sleeping, threatening me until I had some male friends threaten HIS life? Do I tell her it came down to letting him believe that the Girl might not be his, letting him believe what he’d already accused me of, sleeping around on him while we were dating, just to keep him from stalking and harassing me?

One day I will have to tell this to the gentle soul that looks like the spitting image of me. She may grow to hate me for the things I did, the decisions I made. She looks up to me now as like a cool aunt kind of person, a person she wants to emulate. And it hurts my now older and humbler heart. Even after the years have passed I still believe I did the right thing. I gave her what I could. And hopefully, as she grows, and ask more questions, and understands, and gains deeper knowledge on life, love and the universe… Maybe then, she’ll still look at my heart and soul, and understand.

Son of Donkey! Why I Stopped Cursing Years Ago

So I have a few words/sayings that I say instead of cursing. My favorites are: son of a donkey, daggone, frack, frack a doodle, shittake mushroom, be-witch, heffa, and fudge bucket in hot sauce. The only times for over almost 10 years that I actually cursed is in extreme anger, and smexy time. The funny thing is, some actually look down on me for NOT cursing. So let lead you around the long version of why I USED to swear like a Sailor, and then quit.

Once upon a time the was a little black geek girl who attended many mostly peach crayon heavy schools in the suburbs. Her ghetto extended family constantly talked about she “talked white”, like it was such a horrible thing to be educated. The little BGG didn’t really care as long as she didn’t bullied too much at school (which didn’t happen too often as other kids learned soon enough that little BGG was crazy from the day she was born, and would always be a geek that fought back). But as she grew older and those dastardly hormones kicked in, well, she wanted to fit in. Especially as the life she knew began to fall apart as her parents separated. So… She turned to those that used to make fun of her, and tried to be like them.

Hi, my name is dimensionthe5th, and long ago I was a poser.

Before splitting up my parents raised me in a pretty middle class home. My mother was soft-spoken, polite, submissive and naïve. She didn’t drink, and didn’t curse. My father was a true soldier-turned-coastie that couldn’t have a clean mouth even with a soap wash. He was the Man of the House, and everything and everyone followed his rules. The women of the house dressed the way he felt right, even to hair styles. I was raised to be an independent woman, as long as I stayed within the rules of what He considered proper.

Anyway, my parents splitting up, depression, hormones, and starting high school at an age slightly younger than average (nerd power!) made me begin to act out in the ways that went against my parents way of raising me. That meant that at 13, I started stealing my dad’s cigarettes that he left everywhere. And started smoking weed and drinking whenever I visited the bad bunch of cousins. I also began changing my mode of dress, from quirky girly (since my mom is a borderline little person I could fit her clothes by 11 and liked wearing her older pieces), and started cursing and speaking like my family members. That meant a lot of slang and cursing. And my lovely hobby of reading like a speed demon, I put it away.

I sucked at the beginning of the ghetto fabulous transformation. My cursing was off and school friends and the bad-influence-cousins made fun. But I watched, and learned, so I could fit in. Even after my son was born, I kept up with the “hood” attitude, although many could easily see right through it. Even after joining the military I wore doo-rags over my hair, baggy jeans, and always had a black n mild in hand. I drank loads of beer that first year to get used to the taste. And every sentence either had a curse word or the word “n*gga”.

The funny thing is… I never felt comfortable cursing, no many how many years I did it before I stopped. The same goes with the whole hood tough chick style. I grew up loving dresses and reading the dictionary for fun. To limit myself to a stereotype that I was not born to, well, I said before that it should always be about being true to yourself.

After evil ex boyfriends and mental health appointments, by my mid twenties I started to come back to myself. That I don’t need to dress in “Lady Thug” or “Hoochie Iz Us” brand clothing to fit in. That I could be myself and still scare the baby Jesus out of the young enlisted troops without ever uttering a curse word. That I should be proud of the way I talk, because at least I sound intelligent, and as an adult, its looked at as a good thing unlike the stupid childhood/teen years.

So when someone asks me why I do not curse, I say nicely as possible that I’d rather sound intelligent than like a common hood rat.

Also, it’s just more all around fun to make up your own curses 😉