Archive of ‘Rap’ category

Ain’t Nuthin But a C Thang.….….……

Along with preg­nan­cy comes sev­er­al fab­u­lous side effects; includ­ing, but not lim­it­ed to, vom­it­ing, pim­ples, swelling, heart­burn, crav­ings, sud­den urges to emp­ty your blad­der and sleep­less­ness. This last one has to be one of my favorites. When I was preg­nant with Knox, I would lay awake for hours day­dream­ing about the won­der­ful life that I would have as a moth­er of three and how my per­fect lit­tle chil­dren would be super stars aca­d­e­m­i­cal­ly and ath­let­i­cal­ly, that lat­ter is hop­ing that there has been a genet­ic muta­tion some­where along the lines because they aren’t get­ting that one from me. Yeah, well, that is what a nor­mal per­son thinks about. I, on the oth­er hand, con­cen­trat­ed most­ly on my irra­tional fears and keep­ing my chil­dren safe from the Litar­i­ans of the world.

You see, as a young girl grow­ing up on the mean, tree-lined streets of St. Louis Hills, I was exposed to, well, noth­ing. Not a damn thing…ever.…And I liked it that way. That was until Nan­cy Rea­gan start­ing dar­ing kids to stay off drugs and the nuns in the office decid­ed to scare the $h!+ out of every child at St. Gabriel the Archangel. I can still remem­ber the pur­ple dit­to that I brought home from school. I couldn’t read it, but I knew that it was bad and that I was like­ly going to end up dead because of it.

My mom explained that there had been a very bad man spot­ted in the neigh­bor­hood in a white van with no win­dows, per­fect for nab­bing, giv­ing out lick­able tat­toos laced with LSD to chil­dren. *Editor’s note, this may be the com­bi­na­tion of sev­er­al dit­tos, regard­ing sep­a­rate instances, but this is how my mem­o­ry sealed it, so press on. And right then and there, I knew, that I was soon to be abduct­ed, drugged and left to a life on the streets. There was noth­ing that I could do to pro­tect myself, so I might as well get use to it.

As a child con­stant­ly being com­pared to Punky Brew­ster, I was also always con­cerned that my moth­er was going to ditch my broth­ers and I in a park­ing lot some­day. Let’s think about that one for a sec­ond, shall we? In the 1980s, prime time tele­vi­sion taught us that if your mom left you, you could sim­ply climb into an old man’s apart­ment, with your dog no less, and life will be just fine. As long as anoth­er young girl and her old-as-hell grand­moth­er are across the hall to help out. Sounds per­fect­ly safe and log­i­cal, plus you get an awe­some loft bed.….perfect.…I could cer­tain­ly fend for myself if I could just find Hen­ry Warn­i­mont.…..

So smart, yet so very, very stu­pid

As I grew old­er, I real­ized that my moth­er wasn’t real­ly going to ditch us, even though she did leave peo­ple behind here and there. Well, just Jim­my on a vaca­tion and sleep­ing in a hot car in the Schnuck’s park­ing lot one lit­tle time. I felt a bit safer in my skin. That was until day­time talk shows got a hold of me. I learned quite a bit about the aver­age teen from my good friends Sal­ly Jesse, Phil, Jer­ry and Jen­ny. I tuned in as much as I could and learned that, “just say no” was noth­ing com­pared to the thug life. I would sit in hor­ror lis­ten­ing to tales of young girls being ripped from their hap­py, inno­cent lives and thrust into a cul­ture obsessed with race, sex and drugs. What was a high school girl to do.….Wait, WTF did you just say? High school?

East Side, West Side, Irish Mob? 

Yeah, I was pret­ty much on the fast track to loserville at 14 because I sin­cere­ly believed that I was going to HAVE to be in a gang. I was so naive and f%^)@ng stu­pid, that I was cer­tain that not only was I to be recruit­ed, from St. Joseph’s Acad­e­my, but that I would have to par­tic­i­pate in an ini­ti­a­tion. That is where I real­ly start­ed to get scared. I was pret­ty sure that I was not going to be able to beat some­one up with a bat, or put cig­a­rettes out on their face, and I prob­a­bly couldn’t tat­too any­one, but if I had to, I guess that I would. I wor­ried about where they would find me and what I would do when I was approached. In the ear­ly 1990s, we all wore ban­danas. I made con­scious efforts not to tie a red one around my head because I didn’t want to show affin­i­ty to a blood if the crips were around.…..

I was fear­ful of strangers, par­tic­u­lar­ly females because I knew they want­ed me. I was extreme­ly cau­tious of the girls in over-sized hood­ies and scrunch socks with the crunchy ramen noodle perms, huge bangs and the top por­tion of their pony tails pulled back so tight­ly that their eyes began to squint. Those were the ones that Sal­ly Jesse made me fear the most. They lived the seem­ing­ly-inno­cent lives and then, Bam!, they were sud­den­ly pass­ing around the chron­ic and shoplift­ing for a liv­ing. I would walk to Tar­get near Hamp­ton Vil­lage, cer­tain that any per­son stand­ing at the bus stop would quick­ly break from the BiS­tate line, throw a bag over my head and my ini­ti­a­tion would begin.

All too soon, I would be liv­ing in a crap­py apart­ment cov­ered in news­pa­pers with a dirty microwave oven and a Cole­man cool­er to chill my cans of Colt 45. I would change my name to Dim­ples Dark Eyez and hang out at the Bus Stop just look­ing for fresh meat. Young wom­en would fear my tear drop tat­toos and gold-capped teeth, but be equal­ly in awe of my fin­ger­nails stud­ded with dia­monds and as long as eagle talons. This was my des­tiny and I had accept­ed it and per­haps start­ed to look for­ward to it. At least with a gang, there was job secu­ri­ty and a fam­i­ly, some­thing that I was miss­ing in my real life!?!?!? Hmm.….….

From the cradle to the grave.…thug till I die.….

As an adult, who some­how escaped the thug life, I still find myself com­pelled to watch Lock­up and won­der what could have been had things gone the wrong way on Hamp­ton. For years, I won­dered if any of my broth­ers had felt the same way, or if my moth­er feared me get­ting involved with a bad crowd. So, one night at Sun­day din­ner, I asked.

Were any of you ever afraid of being able to par­tic­i­pate in a gang ini­ti­a­tion when we were kids?”

The blank stares were alarm­ing. Oh my God, had one of them actu­al­ly been approached? Did some­body get knifed and I wasn’t told? Who from the parish was part of the under­ground cul­ture? WTF was going on?
Then the laugh­ter start­ed. No not just laugh­ter, hys­te­ria. Sort of like a pack of hye­ni­as on methanphet­a­mi­nes.

You can’t fight.”
“You have zero street cred.”
“What do you know about being a gansta?”

And then Big D chimed in.….

Colleen! What the hell are you talk­ing about? That is the dumb­est thing that I have ever heard you say. For God’s sake! What gang would want any­thing to do with you? Now do the dish­es.”

Yep…that’s me..well, as a white wom­an, and make that about $6, on a good day.…..

 

This is f*&@#%! Awesome.……

It is bed­time at the Thomas house. After read­ing a sto­ry, say­ing prayers and every oth­er sweet Nor­man Rock­well pho­to detail, the boys are slum­ber­ing sound­ly ted­dy bear in the crook of their arm and dream­ing about wak­ing up tomor­row to a fresh stack of pancakes.I don’t know this group of Thomases, but being that the name is quite com­mon, I am sure it is hap­pen­ing some­where.

The peo­ple under the stairs have noth­ing on this guy.

We read sto­ries and say prayers here too, but it isn’t all rain­bows and flow­ers. Actu­al­ly, it is none of those things because I have a house full of boys, so think more lizards and trucks, but it isn’t that either. The rou­tine here is cer­tain­ly con­sis­tent, but it always ends with at least one per­son being threat­ened, some­one scream­ing and Scott and I play­ing rock, paper, scis­sors to deter­mine who has to go up and wipe snot off of the weeper’s face. Some­times, they even attempt to escape their hor­ri­ble liv­ing con­di­tions, but sad­ly, they can’t quite make it out.

I have been fight­ing a cold for a few days that has degen­er­at­ed into a sweet case of laryn­gi­tis. My voice is not com­plete­ly gone, much to my husband’s cha­grin, but has tak­en on a more raspy, high-pitched tone, think Kath­leen Turn­er with a side of Cyn­di Lau­per. Although I don’t real­ly feel like talk­ing, my boys don’t give one $h!+ about that and expect me to con­tin­ue on with my dai­ly respon­si­bil­i­ties, on top of work­ing a full-time job, that include, but are not lim­it­ed to, answer­ing 16,000 ques­tions, mak­ing meals, answer­ing a few more ques­tions, doing laun­dry, telling sto­ries and, of course, singing lul­la­bies. I think it is sweet that my boys still let me sing to them while I rub their backs and I cher­ish every sec­ond because I know some­day soon they will only want me to speak to them if it is to tell them how much mon­ey I will be hand­ing over. Since Hand­some #1 was an itty bit­ty baby, I have sung the same songs to him using his name sweet­ly, I then changed the tunes to have Hand­some #2’s name includ­ed, and they are on their third incar­na­tion with Hand­some #3.

Tonight, as 7:30 approached, it was time to get the boys mov­ing. They swift­ly used the bath­room, put on their jam­mies and got into their bunk beds with very lit­tle dif­fi­cul­ty. This is when I should have become sus­pi­cious. After we sang our evening prayer, the Casey Kasem request and ded­i­ca­tion lines opened.

Hand­some #1: Mom­ma, will you sing me a song?
Me: Hon­ey, my voice is real­ly gone. How about tomor­row?
Hand­some #1: Mom­ma! You promised a song.

I nev­er made any promise, but I knew that the tears were com­ing, so I might as well com­ply.

Me: Mom­my loves her Finnegan. Oh she won­ders what she did with­out him.
Hand­some #1: Stop! That is not what we want.
Hand­some #2: No, we want $20 in my pock­et.
Hand­some #1: Yep. That’s the one. Go!

Seri­ous­ly?!?!?! They want me to get my Mack­el­more on? The sim­plest of phras­es com­ing from my mouth sound like the sac­ri­ficing of a small ani­mal and they want an upbeat rap?  Under nor­mal cir­cum­stances, it is a rea­son­able request. I have mad skills at the mic, but I didn’t have time for a cup of tea with lemon to coat my throat or even a Luden’s and they want rap?

Me: Guys, come on. Let’s sing our prayers again and go to sleep.
Hand­some #2: WE WANT $20 IN MY POCKET!

His eyes were red and I swear I saw lit­tle fangs start­ing to grow. I was look­ing at a minia­ture Teen Wolf and thought for sure the next request would be for a keg of beer.

Would you mess with that?

Me: OK.….I’m gonna pop some tags
Hand­some #1: You for­got the bada bada part
Me: Bada, bada, bada
I’m gonna pop some tags Only got twen­ty dol­lars in my pock­et
I, I, I’m hunt­ing
Look­ing for a come up
This is awe­some

Hand­some #1: Um, that’s not right. It’s being awe­some.…..
Hand­some #2: No! It’s ing awe­some.
Me: Guys, it’s just awe­some.
Hand­some #1: Nope it is being awe­some.
Hand­some #2: Hand­some #1!!!! It is not! It is ing awe­some. You mean head.
Hand­some #1: Hand­some #2 called me a mean head, so I am going to punch him.
Me: No body is punch­ing any­one. (First punch is thrown, fol­lowed by a sharp kick to the kid­ney)
Hand­some #1: Bren­nan kicked me!
Me: You punched him, what do you expect? I have had enough. It is time for bed.
Hand­some #1: Nooooo! You aren’t fin­ished.
Hand­some #2: Mom­ma. You haven’t done my favorite part yet about the moc­casins.
Me: Oh, my God! Lay down and be qui­et. I will fin­ish it, but so help me God if any­one touch­es any­one we will nev­er lis­ten to this song again. Do you under­stand me?

Walk in the club like what up? I got a big sock
Nah, I’m just pumped up, bought some stuff from the thrift shop
Ice on the fringe is so dang frosty
Peo­ple like dang, that’s a cold ash don­key
Hand­some #1: Mom­ma it’s cold ash hon­key
Me: No, it’s don­key.
Hand­some #1: Def­i­nite­ly, defin­te­ly hon­key. What is a hon­key?
Hand­some #2: Hand­some #1. It is a cold ash.
Me: OK. It is time to go to sleep.
Hand­some #2: Oh yeah?!?! You are a cold hon­key.
Me: It is time for bed.….good night.….I love you.….
When I am alone in my mini­van enjoy­ing my day, there is noth­ing I love more than a filthy rap track load­ed with f bombs, dot­ted with sex­ism and lay­ered with gang vio­lence. But, when I am say­ing good­night to my inno­cent tod­dlers, I have to bring things down to a G rat­ing. It ruins the integri­ty of the tunes, and frankly, I would much rather keep rap­ping 8 mile style, but if they repeat­ed the lyrics in the mid­dle of music class, Sr. Mary Catholic Teacher would like­ly send home a note, so instead, I cen­sor.
Right before tonight’s bed­time adven­ture, I decid­ed that I had bet­ter run to Walgreen’s to the Health­care Clin­ic to see what is going on with my voice. I left with a diag­no­sis of a virus and no pre­scrip­tion, but was told to drink plen­ty of flu­ids, includ­ing tea. I decid­ed to head over to Tar­get for a few things, but fig­ured I had bet­ter let Scott know. Instead of tex­ting and dri­ving, I thought I would use Siri to help.