Raising an African American Son in an All American Society

Last summer my spindly six year old convinced me to let him sign up for tackle football. I dutifully collected his vital statistics(birth certificate, social security card and shot records), took him to the doctor for a complete athletes physical and reported to the recreation center along with hordes of other parents, to watch our first graders be weighed and fitted for the upcoming season. I recall feeling apprehensive as I watched what was obviously a hyped up ex-football star, pile hip, knee and shoulder pads, along with various other protective pieces totaling more than my son's original fifty seven pounds, on his body before shoving a hard plastic helmet down over his ears in one awfully painful-looking motion. I started to suggest my son needed a bigger size so his ears wouldn't get squished, but after catching a glance of the pride shining in my husband's eyes, I decided to stay put and keep quiet.

A week later I gave myself a mental kick in the rear for not voicing my initial reservations as I watched my son suit up for his first real practice. Twenty two six and seven year olds hesitantly ran onto the intimidating field while parents were threatened not to venture inside the white boundary lines, under any circumstance. I watched as my son attempted to imitate the assistant coach during drills and laps before the boys were divided in two and told to prepare for a hitting drill. Long story short, neither I nor my son was prepared for what would happen next. What looked like a ten year old on an indulgent diet of beans, steroids and cornbread charged at my baby's chest full speed, knocking the wind from his lungs and his feet from under his body. I felt my husband's eyes on me as I fought back the urge to run onto the field and check on Mom's baby. The seconds were equivalent to hours as I stood on tip toes willing him to get up. My husband and I breathed a collective sigh of relief as our son slowly ambled to his feet and awkwardly stood. A hulk of an assistant coach shoved him towards the back of the line and he moved along, but I could detect from the stiffness in his walk, he was more than shaken up. I grabbed my husband's arm and demanded he go see if my baby was ok. Realizing it was either him or me my husband grudgingly gave in and called my son over to the fence. I was told to stay out of it as my husband met my son at the edge of the field. My mother trained eyes zoned in on their body language as my husband bent down so he could talk to him eye to eye. In what seemed like slow motion, a build up of spit, tears and the loudest wail I'd heard since he was a toddler came hurdling from my son's helmet just as my husband pulled out his mouthpiece. My heart strings tugged as I watched my husband grab my son by the arm and yank him off the field all the while ignoring the disapproving glances of the other football dads behind the fence. Obviously crying after being hit by a kid twice your size is unheard of in the PeeWee leagues. After a stern talking to from Dad, shoulders stiff and fists balled at his sides our little one bravely trudged back onto the field,.

I knew after that first practice my husband was not in tune with our sonÂ’s safety. Looking for an empathetic ear, I brought up my concerns while talking with my mentor at work the next day. I have to say that as a general practice I donÂ’t talk to people about problems with my children unless they have been where I am now and seem to have done the best job they were capable of. My mentor was and is one such person. A middle aged Jewish woman with incredible perception, a dry wit and an uncanny ability to cut straight through BS, this woman is one of the most personable people I've met professionally or otherwise. The wife of a rabbi and Director for a social non-profit, she has raised two of the most together; young adults I've encountered. Her college age son is currently attending, and excelling I might add, at a top Ivy League school, in which tuition was more than my annual salary. Her seventeen year old daughter was a wonderful mix of a 4 point plus GPA and social aptitude that eludes most teens and adults, for that matter. Considering her track record, I felt perfectly at ease, asking her advice about my unease concerning my son's football career. I recounted my son's humiliating exit from the tackle line and my husband's reaction. She listened attentively before making a face at me and shuddering, Football is so barbaric. She shook her head at my description of the football fathers behavior and promptly encouraged me to end my son's pursuit of all things gridiron and instead recommended capitalizing on his love of chess and some other intellectual activity.

Later as I was mulling over our conversation and pitting it against my husband's input of I'm not raising a quitter. I began thinking about the differences in my son's journey to adulthood and her son's. In my opinion, there was some relevance in my husband's insistence that our son not quit something he started, and more importantly not let others see his weakness. As a young black boy growing up in the south he is sure to have a much different path to manhood than a privileged Jewish boy raised on the much greener side of the tracks. Growing up with the ability to assimilate and even be embraced into wealthy white America is an undeniable coup, even if my mentor's son chooses not to take America up on its offer. I wondered if her son would need the same skill set as my little boy. I found myself hoping my husband's insistence in our son having the ability to stand tall even after being hit by another boy would mentally prepare him for standing his ground after he'd been belittled by someone of another race. Not only did my husband want this for our son, but I too want to raise a strong black man able to, as the older folks would say, take a lickin' and keep on tickin'.

I realized that my mentor’s advice, although sound for her son did not necessarily translate to my situation. The sad truth is my son will one day have to deal with at least one police officer possibly more, harassing him for nothing more than the color of his skin. It’s in that instance that I hope my son remembers his father’s words “Don’t ever let a man see your weakness. Hold your head high.” Although my son is only seven years old, and racial tolerance is slowly improving, I know that one day he will be discriminated against at school, on the job or in a social environment simply because he is a black man. “Know who you are,” will hopefully be so engrained in my son’s psyche that he won’t give the ignorance aimed at him a second thought.

I’ve learned from watching my husband, who was raised by two extremely conscientious parents in a middle class environment, and was privy to an excellent education, that the road of any and every black man in America is a very different one than his white counterpart. His road is undeniably rockier and lonelier while filled with unfair obstructions one must be mentally prepared for in order to ward of the bitterness and anger that plagues so many of our young black men today. And while I agree with my mentor that the strategist skills used in chess will help my son’s ability to think, I must agree with my husband that our little brown-skinned boy needs to be tougher than the next guy physically and mentally in addition to being intelligent if he is to be successful.

After my football is equivalent to life epiphany, my defensive end decided he preferred basketball, soccer and yes chess club to football. After the emotional roller coaster I’d experienced as a first-time football mom, I admittedly was a bit disappointed. I’d watched over a three month period as my husband grilled our son on lessons in football that were directly applicable to his life. I know my son got the “I am not raising a quitter” speech every game day and practices were filled with “Man up!” and, “Practice makes perfect.” “You have to be that much better than your opponent.”

Those lectures were monotonous for my son I’m sure, but I realized none to late that my husband was using football as an analogy for dealing with the pitfalls of life especially those of a black man in America. Perhaps by the time my son’s wife is watching him interact on the field with my grandson, it won’t be such a necessity for him to have the same tough exterior. Perhaps America will be a more tolerant society by that time. In any case, I won’t be disappointed if my son decides after a year off the field, to strap on those protective pads again and get back in the game.

My candles

The flame of my soul flickers mournfully;
blue...then yellow... then vanishes
before slowing... coming alive again;
but only because
a portion of me wonders if perhaps, my flame
as frail as it is,
Contributes to the warmth that keeps your beautiful torches burning;
And so if there is any chance that my failures and disappointments would
Keep your feet from landing on this sorrow-filled path,
I won’t hesitate to stay....
And if there is but a slight possibility that
My abandoned dream deferred...lies glowing within your spirit,
Or that the whisper of my presence,
may contribute to the fullness of your success...
then I have
fulfilled my purpose
And my soul will continue to
flicker blue...then yellow... then not at all
before returning again to sustain you.

to Chanelle Edryce & Stone Erickson
Mommy loves you both

Infomercial

Hello all,

I had another social article to post this week but I thought I would lay off the heavy stuff this go round. I want to hip all my curvy ladies to a brand of jeans that actually is made for us. I promise if you get a pair of these jeans you will never buy another pair of the "other" designer jeans, made for the "other" body type.:)

I think jeans are the article of clothing that initially made me start to dislike my body type which I have termed, "lil voluptuous". In my humble opinion, I was born with the wrong attributes coupled with the wrong height in my opinion. There are all types of clothes for voluptuous women. You know the voluptuous women I'm talking about are medium to tall women with a frame that allows for flowing curves and long legs. Then there are clothes for the itty bitty women, who have no curves but because they are so tiny they automatically get thrown into the cute category. Five feet two inches doesn't allow for a whole lot of curves, or rather it shouldn't....but that's what I am. T.I. says he's 5'9 with the heart of a 6'4 n*gga, well I am 5'2 with the curves of a 5'9 woman....not a good look. The perfect size ten is certainly not so perfect on a 5'3 frame and I won't even think about the times when my ten is a little too comfy with its older sibling size twelve. So I struggled early on learning how to dress my "lil voluptuous"size ten sometimes twelve frame. For years I stuffed my thick thighs and calves into knee boots only to be disappointed when I ended up looking like a leg amputee. I bought dresses with dramatic slits only to find out I looked like I was playing in my mother's clothes. (Yes my mother is not only beautiful but she happened to be 5'6, which in my eyes is a perfect height for a woman) But eventually I learned that shorter dresses elongated my legs, and there are certain knee boots I can wear with longer skirts that elongate my entire "lil voluptuous" body.

So I'll get back to the miracle jeans. I'm sure most of you can recount numerous experiences picking up a pair of jeans in the store in your size and then getting in the dressing room to find out that your body and the size you know you wear are no longer working together. It took me so long to find the type of clothes that were complimentary to my frame that I refuse to walk out of a store with another pair of jeans gaping at my waist, squeezing my thighs and flattening my behind...and I'm not even going to get into the low-rise craze...that produced jeans that only rose half-mast on a sistah's ample moon. It got to the point that I abhorred the whole jean experience and just quit buying them....But being the fashionista that I am I continued having daydreams about finding a pair that celebrated my lil' voluptuous frame perfectly and rocking them with a pair of funky stilletos. So for those of us working with a little extra junk in our trunks, or a pair of muscular thighs that just doesn't see eye to eye with the thin-legged jeans hanging in Macy's I encourage you to visit www.pzijeans.com. I'd come across a pair of the jeans a while back but couldn't find the contact information on the company. I recently found the website and went to it and was in heaven. Not only do the models actually look like me and you and you and you, but they are beautiful physically and tastefully dressed. PZI jeans has done a wonderful job of creating an image of a sophisticated and sexy curvaceous sistah and I applaud them for not taking the simple and more provocative way out and depicting curvy women as simply sex objects.

It's not often that I will get behind a product like this, but I appreciated their portrayal of beautiful African American women even more than I appreciated the fact that the crotches on their jeans don't hang down to my mid-thigh area (what's up with that anyway? Are their women walking around with long crotches?). The jeans are truly made for those of us with coca-cola bottle figures, no matter how much or how little coca-cola is in the bottle, if you know what I mean.

Okay ladies, check them out and let me know what you think. If you can't leave feedback on my blog, you can always e-mail me at clrdbtfly@yahoo.com. I would love to hear your own fashion comments and do's and don'ts.
Until next time
Smooches,
Christal

Color Struck

When I was three, my Aunt Mary told me I had a pretty color. She said I was the color of a brand new copper penny. My face stretched wide into a full grin as I experienced a sense of pride at the fact someone noticed I was positively unique as opposed to unexplainably different than the rest of my family.

My mother was perfection in my eyes. A beautiful coveted vanilla skin color, wide set dark eyes, complete with beautiful wavy tresses that hung past her waist. I would somberly compare myself to her, deciding that I was a duller, browner, shorter-haired version of imperfection. My father and beloved younger brother were the color of freshly churned butter. My yellows swirled with sienna then settled to produce a warm caramel. During the summer months my arms and legs would bake red at noonday, then as the sun began its lazy farewell, they would cool into a ruddy cinnamon. I was painfully aware of the differences between my skin tones and my family's almost immediately. My mother recalls me asking her where she got the white baby when my brother first came home from the hospital. I had hoped the baby would look a little more like its brown-skinned big sister. A silent child, I would often observe others observing us, mentally struggling to place me in the familial picture.

For the majority of my primary years, I was the only black child in class, at most one of two. This meant I felt out of place both at home and school, all because of the color of my skin. The very skin that years ago my then-deceased Aunt Mary told me was pretty.

After entering junior high school, I quickly learned of the unspoken color rating system within the small black community of Tulsa, OK. On this scale I ranked a non-impressive five as I wasn't fair enough to be grouped with the elitist light-skinned, nor was I distinctly dark enough to be thrown in with the darker-skinned blacks. At home however my numbers lowered drastically after being contrasted against my family.

With adolescence came a strong awareness and attraction to the opposite sex. Still a reserved child I studied the boys in my class. They were constantly in search of girls who would develop into examples of the women they saw in music videos and fashion magazines. I couldn't count on my hands and feet combined the number of times I was asked if I had a friend that was "light-skinned with good hair." When I hesitantly mentioned this to a friend, she laughed at me, claiming it was all in my head. Christal, I think this is all in your head. Things have changed now days. Guys like all color girls. Black people have moved on. She regurgitated a speech she'd been given by her creole parents. Silently I resented her ambivalence. Her skin was the color of fresh honey and she had never experienced intra-racial discrimination unless it was from one of my envious cocoa sistahs deciding she thought she was better than others because of her elite skin tone.

One of my darker-skinned friends would complain to me about being the darkest female in our class. She would roll her eyes to bemoan the constant comments of "She's cute to be so dark-skinned." Familiar words from a far more familiar sentiment we'd heard spoken in hushed whispers, and delivered in apologetic glances from older women with pursed lips and sympathetic eyes. "Stay away from dark colors," women in her family would advise wisely for fear she would celebrate her dark skin with bright yellows, red or pinks. "You don't want to marry a dark skinned man; your poor children wouldn't stand a chance." These comments were more offensive, more hurtful, but were offered with the same empathy and heartfelt concern as the others. I tried to console my chocolate colored friend but was hardly a comfort as I too was dealing with the same perils of intra-racial prejudice. Dutiful daughter that she was she was careful to follow the rules. Practicing discipline and turning away when spotting a stylish sweater in a forbidden fuschia, or a sunny yellow no matter how stylish or beautiful. We were both told our hair was our best asset and could possibly balance out the fact that our skin tones were less than desirable. We both spent what little allowances we could get, getting our naturally thick kinky hair pressed and curled, ensuring we put our best feature forward to thwart attention from our African American essence.

In the inner sanctum of my room, my ideological fantasies ruled with glossy magazine photos of Lena Horne, blue, gray or hazel-eyed Vanessa Williams, Pam Grier, Lisa Bonet, Pebbles and Jane Kennedy staring down from my bedroom walls at me while defining my boundaries of African American beauty. I faithfully watched Video Soul studying the beautiful Sherri Carter, while Sherri look-alikes were drooled after by my teen-age crushes, New Edition, Ready for the World and Big Daddy Kane. Later, contemporaries including the most beautifullest black woman in the world, never mind the fact that she is half white, Halle Berry, Jada Pinkett, Aaliyah and now this larger than life pecan colored beauty Beyonce'Knowles worked to re-enforce what their predecessors had managed to convince me during my formative years long ago.

Dark-skinned sistahs everywhere beamed with pride when during the 1980's Naomi Campbell was crowned one of the prestigious Supermodels and became the African American answer to Cindy Crawford, Elle McPherson and Nikki Taylor and Christy Turlington. Our triumph was short-lived as the supermodel reign was eclipsed by Kate Moss and that waif era, and, well African Americans just didn't have an answer for that drugged out anorexic look no matter how hard we tried. So we returned to the pages of Essence, Jet and Ebony magazine trying to gauge how the average working sistah measured up and compared with the imposed definition of beauty for African Americans. All the while, black entertainment television was busy working with creative video directors and entertainment artists preparing to unleash a whole new crop of cookie cutter beauties sought after by the young African American male. Not only were these new beauties contenders for the infamous brown paper bag test, but if they weren't blessed with "good" hair, they sported silky Asian and Caucasian extensions further blurring the lines between African American and exotic.

My self-esteem along with that of about half of my friends took an unimagineable nosedive as we struggled, then became familiar with the labels placed on us by whites and members of our race, all dependent on something as small and yet as magnified as skin color. Without genes of choice, it seemed we were cast in the part of wallflower in the unavoidable adolescent stage play entitled, "teen love".

After school in the safety of home, I would lock myself in the bathroom and stare at my features, trying to imagine what they would look like if set against a brighter backdrop. I had proof my eyes would be much more attractive, as they were exact replicas of my mothers'. My pouty lips and rounded nose, I wasn't so sure of, but certainly they would appear less offensive in a lighter shade.

It wasn't until age sixteen that I began to realize the potential of my ever-developing body and appreciate the color of my skin. Raised by a mother who placed self-preservation next to godliness, I took painstaking measures to treat my skin as often as I could. I pampered it after baths with rich lotions and cocoa butter and methodically administered facials and body scrubs on week-ends. After performing this passed down ritual for months, I began to inspect my skin up close in the bathroom mirror. I actually began to fancy the consistency of my skin tone. I would spread thick cocoa butter over my legs and watch as I massaged the cream entirely into the skin atop my arms, legs, thighs, stomach and breasts. After I scrubbed and applied lotion my skin would glow a rich honey, luminous with a hint of yellows and reds veiled under a consistent brown.

I began noticing how my rich skin tone was a complimentary backdrop for just about any color. It inevitably brightened a sunny yellow, defined the crispness of a starch white blouse, deepens the blush of plum and sets off a rich noire. As a young woman I took pride in the fact that diamonds, rubies and emeralds all came to life against the creaminess of my sienna hands, wrists and neck. It was then I began to cherish my unique skin tone. Uniqueness became my focus as I realized that all the skin tones of which I'd previously envied were in fact unique in their own right. Jane Kennedy's caf‚ au lait was not an exact replica of Vanessa Williams' almond beauty. If their individuality was beautiful why couldn't my fellow brown skin sistahs be just as beautiful? Why not the beauty of Lela Rochon, Beverly Johnson and Janet Jackson? They were all beautiful brown skinned women with palates close to that of my own but they were all different. Beautifully, uniquely, individually different.

Slowly I began falling in love with all my features noting that they too; from my almond shaped eyes, full shapely lips to my dark brown hair were complimented by the color of my skin tone. I eventually became as confident to assume that my voluptuous curves appeared much more appealing in their caramel coating, very different than they would have been if I'd been able to pass that paper bag test.

Now as a woman of thirty years, my once flawless caramel body has been marked with the birth of two babies, evidence of a particularly bad bout with chicken pox and several bumps and bruises all leftovers in a body with many more years to be lived in. My once girlish frame has taken on a few more pounds here and there. It is no longer the cute little package I waited until I was almost in college to fall in love with. Still I find myself smiling when I recall the beginning of coming into my own, and remember the phrases I created praising the brown skin I struggled to become comfortable living in.

While observing my almond-skinned daughter watching her reflection in the mirror, I can't help but hope she learns to cherish her unique self much sooner than her mother. I make sure to spend time in our private conversations showing her the beauty of her golden skin and reddish brown hair. She smiles when I show her how her skin is beautiful and although it doesn't look like mine, it looks much like that of her maternal grandmother. I hope that she can see the beauty in her butterscotch colored dimples and pale pink lips that appear to me just as beautiful as a brand new shiny copper penny.

Black American Princesses and the eternal quest for Happily Ever After

When my daughter was a toddler I would take her to the Disney store and watch in amusement as she ooohed and aahhhed over the many Disney princess models on display. Out of Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Belle from Beauty and the Beast, and Arielle from The Little Mermaid, I think Arielle was her favorite. Elegant ball gowns, perfectly coiffed hair-do's, glass slippers, porcelain skin and a perfectly irresistible ruby pout seemed to be common threads weaving all the stories into one big societal fable. These fables did more than just entertain little girls and their families; they cleverly relayed a step-by-step instruction guide to becoming a modern day princess.

Step one, there must be some woe-begone foundation from which drama can bloom. Step two said young lady must be society's example of beautiful; which exclusively included: large eyes, long lashes, an oval shaped face with high cheekbones, cascading blonde, red or brunette(in that order) locks, a pert button nose and small pointed chin. Third, said young lady must act coy and demure for an unspecified length of time before falling madly in love with a pre-designated Prince Charming.


Switch to 2004 and I am sitting in front of my television watching a program on one of the music video channels after banishing my young princess in training from the room. A member of hip hop royalty and his royal court were perusing a group of beauties wishing to be chosen as spokesmodel for a new clothing line. Hundreds of butterscotch, caramel and chocolate colored beauties lined up around the block in each of three major cities, all vying for the opportunity to be crowned temporary Princess for a modern day Prince Charming. In this modern day urban kingdom, porcelain skin was notably thrown out, as were the button nose, small chin and any young lady even acting remotely demure or coy was banished by security. The ancient fairytale physical characteristics were replaced by a shapely derriere and full breasts, while a ladylike presence was traded for a brazen willingness to parade half-naked in front of a panel of mostly male judges, shaking and gyrating the precious curves on display. Instead of forcing an ill-shaped foot into a dainty slipper, the young ladies turned their backsides to the panel and prayed that their derriere was a perfect fit to fill out a tight pair of blue jeans or hip-hugging pair of sweat pants.

"We don't like good girls," one of the judges laughingly told a group of hopeful young ladies. Scoffing at the very idea, the young girls began to dance provocatively while quoting unapologetically anti-feminist rap lyrics. I shook my head in amazement. What happened to the ideological young Princess' pursuit of happily ever after? Or was what I was witnessing Happily ever after for Black American Princesses in the year 2004?

Most conscientious black parents are aware of the music videos and constant messages overtly attacking our daughters. My position has been to protect my daughter from these images in efforts to halt any pre-disposition she may have of one day sidling up to a male celebrity clad in a thong bikini in a music video. It occurred to me that of all the girls choosing to participate in such activities; surely some of them come from conscientious black families as well. I am not so narrow-minded and presumptuous to think that I am the only mother who dreams of raising a strong, independent yet loving black woman with self-respect and dignity. A daughter who would turn on her heel at the first instruction to "Turn around and let us see what you're working with."

Besides the possibility of responsible parents, these girls’ roots stem back to proud communities and churches allover America. It is not likely that not a single one of the young ladies, "shakin' what their mama gave them" had the benefit of a spiritual background, loving mentor, and a counselor or family member that had more substantial hopes for the young lady in question. So I asked myself, how did we come to this? Has this become our modern day Black American Princess; a young lady who has the physical characteristics that are sure to get the brotha's droolin'? Is the contemporary urban answer to Prince Charming, the thug baller that the young beauties are vying for. Has 'happily ever after' been replaced by the length of a rap song or a few minutes of being appreciated for physical attributes alone.

The parallels between the Disney stories and the video showdown of the "Bootylicious" babe figure, is of course the admiration of men. Be it Prince Charming, or the rapper with the most bling bling, society's testament to the beauty of a young lady is the ability to capture attention of the opposite sex.
At the core of our stories, new and old we are teaching young girls that their self-worth and value, the very thing that determines if they are special, is the ability to capture the affection of a much sought after Prince. In this case Disney is just as guilty as the rap music videos that depict hordes of scantily clad, albeit beautiful young women draped across the chest of these modern day Prince Charming's. Does being a princess always go hand in hand with having a Prince?
Haven't we as women in the twenty first century progressed enough to know that having the admiration of a man is not a reliable gauge as to how beautiful, intelligent or valuable we are? Although I consider myself a progressive modern day woman, I must admit I get mushy at the sight of a new bride having her veil lifted by an eagerly awaiting groom. I also have been known to enjoy a good, "girl meets guy movie", but I am old enough to separate the ideological truth from social fable. I worry that many of our young women are not. I propose to the young women of today in search of eternal happiness, success and their own Prince Charming, to define their own characteristics of a Princess and strive to become the embodiment of those dreams and aspirations. Life must consist of more than the fleeting admiration of a man, and Happily Ever after must begin with respect, acceptance and finally pride in oneself.

31st Birthday

My 31st birthday was October 3, 2005. It's been about two weeks since that fateful day. Family and friends know that birthdays have been hard for me especially as of late. Last year was the big one. The one I'd been dreading for five years. The big 3-oh no!

I was the quintessential drama queen preparing for that day. Crying and obsessing over everything in my life that wasn't the way I would've scripted it if I had the option. I ended up spending the day with a co-worker at Usher's sold-out Confessions concert at the Phillips arena. I know many of you are wondering why the Usher concert right? Well I am a libra by nature and I am always seeking balance and looking for reasoning in the things that happen to me. To make a long story short, which is something I usually am not able to do, I ended up working in entertainment PR after relocating to Atlanta, GA...so the Usher concert kind of went along with my new career. So after buying an outfit, and noticing the size I normally purchased was no longer the size that would fit...I ended up sitting in a prime location watching our new age Michael Jackson pop-lock and dance allover a stage complete with fantabulous pyrotechnics and scantily clad perfectly shaped girls. The concert presented me with an epiphany because I looked around and saw all the many folks there much older than myself singing along, chanting "Yeah!" and having a great time....suddenly it occured to me that just because I was 30 my life was not going to suddenly stop and as my wise beyond her years nine year old told me later that night, "Mom you're only as old as you feel."

So that was last year. After that birthday I went on thriving in my new career, finally doing what I really love to do. I started my own t-shirt line (Caramelized) which is a passion I've had for quite some time. And I finished editing my novel which will finally, finally, finally hit stores January 2006. But in the midst of all that good, my husband lost his job and inevitably the company I worked for did some downsizing and I ended up having to go my own way. So here I am right before 31 without a job, and in a horrible financial situation due to my husband losing his very steady and secure job.

I was depressed the entire month of September, feeling guilty for following my dreams of being a publicist instead of taking a more responsible job. Feeling guilty for spending money on starting my t-shirt business which I was unable to get off the ground due to funds and feeling like I'd wasted more time than I had a right too on things that ended up being bad ideas.

I started my own company Enchanted PR, which is so much a part of me, I feel like I've always done this and I began working on the marketing for my book, but still it paled in comparison to the goals I set for myself at this age.

Unlike last year I haven't found the epiphany for this birthday or this place I'm in at the time. I know in January actually seeing my book in print will be a dream come true, but I have yet to discover the intellectual gem that will make all this make sense.

So this is my first post and I've introduced you to the turmoil in my life. Next time I'll have to show you the other side.

Smooches,
Christal