I woke up this morning asking myself what it was that I needed. I continued to lay down scrolling through my phone when it hit me that I needed to go to Target. I love Target. You have no idea. Then the laundry list of things that I needed read off in my head, then just like that it hit me.
Before I ventured out into the world, I took to the treadmill like a fatty doing my daily workout, even though I've only been back at it for two days. I hit the shower, did my hair and make-up, ate, watched TV for an hour and headed straight for the gas station because my '
lazy girl' habit rose from the dead and made me a procrastinator again. The gas light indicator was showing on the dashboard of my car. I've never drove it past that point literally until last night. I was about three miles from my tiny little desert town when the light came on. I got nervous and started thinking crazy thoughts of being stranded on the side of the desert road. The gas light indicator showed that I only had 20 miles until empty, then 19 miles, then 18 miles until the bars made to read as numbers now read as three single digital bars flashing on and off, on and off, on and off. "Doesn't that defeat the purpose of having an indicator if the dash shows a blank?!" I yelled at the car. A few seconds later I parked in the driveway of my house and swiftly turned my car off from fear of my precious car shutting off on me. So, today in a panic when I turned the ignition, I seen that I had 18 miles until empty before the little bars came back to bitch slap me. The drive to the gas station was a long one despite it only being a mile up the street. The drive felt like ages with being sandwiched between distance, slow drivers, and those stupid traffic lights intended for safety. But, whatever. I made it. Safely.
Twenty miles later I made it to Chandler, Arizona and strolled my newly worked out body into Target Greatland. I grabbed a shopping cart and made a b-line to Stationary. I'm not a girly girl. I can be a nerd at times. Just the sight of being around notebooks and pens make me wet. And then I seen it staring back at me. It was tall, black, and cost a whopping $19.99. It only took me four years to get to this point, but I finally made the
idea of buying a paper shredder a reality. I examined all the potential shredders until I made my final decision on some Followers brand I didn't recognize. An hour fifteen minutes and $72.99 later, I made it back to my car with my paper shedder and bags in hand.
I was itching to go home. I really was. But Barnes & Noble kept calling out to me. I was half way down the street heading back to the Loop 202 freeway when I made a U-Turn back into the mall area. "It'll be quick. All I want is a Daily Word Calender." I told myself. Little did I know nearly an hour and a half later I walked out with a $54.28 purchase. Credit cards are evil. That's my input. But I did get some goodies. I was strolling down the aisles trying to find the African American fiction section. I noticed that they didn't have one anymore but I continued to stroll the aisles anyway. The first novel I came across had something to do with a gold digging hootchie from California. I passed that book up because I felt uncomfortable with the content. Then I came across a second novel just a few steps to the left.
Midnight: A Gangsta Love Story caught my eyes with the illustration of a fine ass teenage boy with a hoodie gracing the cover. I didn't pick it up because I didn't feel gripped by the title. Adjacent to that novel was
The Coldest Winter Ever by the same author, Sister Souljah. I've never heard of this novelist. Nor was I interested in her but I couldn't stop the impulse of my left hand gripping the novel off the shelf.
"
I never liked Sister Souljah, straight up. She the type of female I'd like to cut with my razor. Before I get heated talking about her, let me make it clear who I am and where I stand. Don't go jumping to any conclusions either. All of y'all are too quick to jump to her defense without knowing what somebody up close and personal thinks. When it comes right down to it, those are the people that really count, the people that was there, who seen it all. Hell, you can't smell nobody's breath through a camera. You almost can't see their pimples. So you know that shit on TV ain't real. Don't run ahead of me. Let me take my time to tell my story."
I read the first paragraph not expecting to be reeled in and continued to read Chapter 1 for the next ten minutes. I didn't make it to Chapter 2 because I had put the novel down by then. I walked away. Not 20 seconds later I walked back to examine the book. I walked away again, quickly turning back around to pick up my copy. The writer in my suddenly felt complete. I went on my venture to find that Daily Word Calender I went into the store for only to end up in the African American section. My eyes instantly focused on
Hair Story: Untangling The Roots of Black Hair in America. Believe it or not, I've been searching for this book for twelve years. The fall of 1999 somewhere in Detroit, Michigan, I was sitting at the beauty salon waiting on my stylist to finish up on the appointment she had before me. On the coffee table setting next to the magazines was this book. I picked it up and started reading clear to the middle of Chapter 2 until it was my turn to get my hair did. I told myself not to forget the name of the book, but as fate would have it, I did and the search started. Here it is 2011 in Arizona and I'm finally reunited with my book I've been searching high and low for. Right as I was walking through the checkout I came across this table that was clustered with little boxes. I took a closer look and realized that I was looking at tiny daily calenders. After examining a few boxes I came across what I was looking for:
365 New Words a Year. I had finally found what I was looking for. Sadly, I can't use it until January 1, 2012. What the hell!
Grand Total: $127.97 plus a $4.64 slice of Red Velvet Cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory from the Starbucks inside the bookstore brought my day trip for a paper shredder, hand soap, air freshener, and a Daily Word Calender up to $132.61 with all the other crap I brought. Not including the $50 I purchased for gasoline. None of the time I spent and the money I wasted took me off my focus. I had my new toy and four years of shredding to get through.
Note: Trista Russell has been my favorite novelist since I came across her in 2006. Weird enough, I didn't read the book I purchased until two years later in 2008. After reading through
Chocolate Covered Forbidden Fruit I raced to all the Barnes and Nobles in the town to purchase her other novels,
Fly on the Wall,
Going Broke and
Dead Broke (sequel to Going Broke). I've been on Trista's jock ever since. I brought her last book
Bedroom Bully in 2010. I've been waiting for that sequel. I'm still waiting. I haven't found another novelist to compare to her, so I never bothered looking. Russell inspired me to write. I always had this gift in me. I just chose to pin it up because I seen my writing abilities as a curse. Why? I don't know. That topic is all different story I'll probably tell one day. Now since discovering Sister Souljah, a whole new world has been opened up for me because all my writing has been influenced by Russell.
Hold on. Rewind. Start over. Press Play. This blog post was supposed to be about my paper shredder. I love my paper shredder. I shredded through some years and relived them as I as shredding them. It freaks me out because I spent a few hours shredding but what I got rid of is peanuts compared to the piles and piles of papers I need to rid myself of. I remember the days of shredding by hand. The world is no longer a safe place for that. Damn you stupid people and your stealing of others identities!
Oops! I didn't mean for this post to be so long. Hee hee :)
