The Problem with Being Fake

So by now I've figured out conflict is unavoidable in life. I think people desperately try to avoid it at all cost. Like I rode the train to work the other day without anyone pointing out I had something on my face. Earlier, I tried being glamorous. Put on false eyelashes but glue got in my eyes making them burn and turn red. When done, one lash pointed north east, the other south west - thumb and forefinger were stuck together. I pried my fingers apart, and flung the lashes across the room in frustration. I looked hideous. A weed smoking monster. Not my idea of beauty. Sorry.


On the train, people looked curious, then frightened before turning away. At work, the bathroom mirror revealed the culprit - a stowaway. One eyelash clung to my glasses, on top of my frames. An ugly black caterpillar refusing to be discarded. 

I looked deranged, as if I had head punted off, half of Bert's unibrow during a fight on Sesame Street. So everyone noticed. All I wanted was glamour. I shook my head. How many times did I delicately pick flint off a stranger's collar? Or discreetly offer a tissue? And even breath mints? But I ride the subway from one borough to the next and no one even points at unruly fur lining my glasses. There is a moral here. Don't be afraid of conflict when it means doing the right thing. If you see people with fake lashes stuck to odd places on their body, help them. Because Jesus would've done it cause God likes that. He loves people even when they are having a bad morning. You could say something like, "Excuse me, did you know there is hair sticking on your blank?" Replace blank with whatever body part sneaky falsies may latch onto. If the person yells at you and charges, then... run!

To Pay or Not to Pay

Robert Frost says working faithfully eight hours a day may get you to be boss and then you'll work twelve hours a day. But he doesn't mention work place drama. Like, you people need to play nice, and not steal each other's chairs. Last month on the job, I took a break and my chair vanished. Then I noticed it under someone's behind and screamed, "she done stole my chair!" But no one did anything. So I considered pulling it out from under her. I could see her hitting the floor hard. Piles of papers flying everywhere.



Yanking my chair out would have lead to the inevitable chase out the building and around Bryant Park. There I would have gone Ninja stealth on her - standing very still like my guinea pig so she can't see me. Having your chair pulled out from under you is like having a rug pulled from under your feet. That trauma causes a kind of PSTD where you refuse to sit in a chair for days until somebody has to say its ok.


Joyce Meyer says, we can be good at focusing on life's "big" decisions only to be defeated by the small ones. A small bad decision is like a midget that comes from behind and kicks you in the neck. You fall flat on your face and then nobody believes you when you say a midget did it. So regarding my chair, I decided to pray. Prayer changes things. Unforgiveness burns trees and causes indigestion. So I asked God for patience and let her keep it. A manager who heard my talk on stolen chairs - wheeled in a boss' chair - his gift to me. I learned it's the little choices we make that count. Make enough bad choices and an army of midgets will carry you to monkey hell where you will spend eternity getting choked and dropped kicked. And then imagine a world overrun by people paying forward all of our bad choices. Not good. Here's more: http://www.christianpost.com/news/the-lords-great-gift-the-power-to-choose-116440/

David and Goliath

Tossed bunny slippers across the room in a heap
Early morning, sweaty toes, 70 degree heat makes my feet itch
Tired of greeting cows, saying How now, black and white cow?
They stare mindlessly, Ignoring me
Grass prickles the soles of my feet
White blinding light - Memories


And that's all the poetry I can write. A local kid ran past me along the opposite side of the fence that day and threw something at my head. I don't get this Dominican habit. Wth gives? I heard a loud crack, a white flash and got a throbbing pain. Realized he hit me with a rock. Jumping the fence, I chased the little mother down a dirt road. Screaming, he ran hard. I gasped for breath. Had to stop. I'm out of shape. Promised God I wouldn't curse. I'm trying hard to curb my tongue. My temper, that's another story.


Fond memories of DR. God made them that way. Rock slingers. Back in NYC, out of work, I'm a wimp. Fat rock slinging, DR business is a quick road to jail hell because I will kill somebody if they slam me with another rock. My friend's friend went to the Capital for Christmas. New Years Eve, 2014. Jumped in a cab with family at the Malecon. A boulder smashed their windshield. Almost killed the driver. Talk about terrorism. A second missile cracked the passenger side, splitting the teens head, her niece. Emergency room floor straddled with burn, gun shot victims. A man with an eye gouged warned, leave this place! She ran to the airport. Security dressed like Ninja Turtles wrestled her into a waiting room to calm her screams. Staring at them, she screamed louder.


I ask God to help me stop planning revenge on that kid. I want to go back to DR, dressed like a ninja with nunchucks and valiantly fight his stone weaponry. But not to the death because I want to help save the world and tell people about Jesus. Also I'm scared of dying. Jesus' trip here was like mine to DR. Rough ride. Nah. It was way, way worse. One day they're fanning him with palm leaves, and the next they're cracking his back open. He didn't dream of fighting back or chasing them down dirt roads. That's why Jesus is my hero.