Aliya S. King

My nephew Jordan is a senior in college. He’s been staying with us for the whole summer while taking classes and working on campus.  I love having him around. He mows the lawn, helps out with TG and Tog and keeps me company on the days I work from home.

Two nights ago, I’m sitting on the couch. Jordan and his girlfriend are sitting across from me. We’re all half-watching a repeat of the show Wife Swap.

I wonder aloud: What kind of wife would the producers swap with me?

Jordan’s girlfriend piped up immediately:

“A wife who does a lot of housekeeping!”

Um. Okay.

My nephew Jordan adds helpfully:

“Yeah, a wife who cleans up and cooks. And one who doesn’t talk back to her husband and isn’t really bossy.”

What the?

So obviously, this is what Jordan has taken away from his summer with me.

I’m bossy. I don’t cook. I don’t clean.

Translation: I suck as a wife and a mother.

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October, 2007. Offices of GIANT magazine. I’m sitting across from editor-in-chief Smokey D. Fontaine. We’re going over stories I’ll be covering in the upcoming year. .

“Do you think you could find Malcolm X’s grandson?” he asked. “That would make an interesting story.”

I shrugged.

“I can find anybody. You know that. But should we find him?”

Smokey rubbed his hands together and his face lit up.

“Of course we should! This young man is a part of history. Malcolm X never had sons of his own. So this young man is the male heir. And then he was found responsible in the death of Betty Shabazz, his own grandmother, Malcolm’s widow. That story would be crazy!”

Before we continue, let me tell you a little bit about Smokey.
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Now I was fully dressed...including my coat. and boots. That's gotta count for at least two pounds. Right?

TG had a swim meet yesterday. On the way out, I stopped and jumped on a scale near the exit doors.

A brief breakdown on me and scales: I don’t own one. And I don’t believe in them. If I go to the doctor, I’ll jump on and see what it says. If I’m at my mom’s house and I wash my hands, I’ll get on the scale in her bathroom and check.

My weight doesn’t fluctuate too wildly. And I’m not a slave to the number. I pay closer attention to how my clothes fit. When the jeans get a bit tight or hard to button, I know it’s time to tighten things up.

So. I get on the scale yesterday. And I am very unhappy with the number staring back at me.

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Is it wrong that I rooted for Mike Tomlin because he’s Black?

Here’s the thing: I know nothing about football. Less than nothing. Considering I was a cheerleader for three years, this is a bit pathetic. All I know is that a “first and ten” is good, a touchdown is six points, (possibly seven?) and sometimes all the guys will huddle around the ball and watch it wobble for some reason. (What is that about?!)

I don’t have a favorite football team. I guess if I had to root for a team, I would go with the home team. But what is the home team for New Jersey? We don’t have a football team. Right? The Giants are a New York team. But they play in Jersey? I truly don’t know.

For the Superbowl, it’s no fun to watch if you’re not going to root for somebody. I was already leaning towards the Steerlers ’cause they’re on the east coast. And because Arizona is McCain country.

Then, in the days leading up to the game, I caught a few pre-game interviews with Mike Tomlin, the head coach of the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Within thirty seconds, I was sold. The Steelers had to win. Tomlin is young, cute, intelligent, well-spoken and…he’s got that other thing going on. That thing I fully support. You know what I’m talking about…

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I don’t plan to double up my categories. I came clean with a Guilty Admission just last night. And I had a different post planned for today. But alas, I’m so guilt ridden, I must confess and move on with my life.

I’m a thief. There, I said it.

For the past month, I’ve been stealing internet access at my new office.

I’m generally an honest person. Really, I am. Aside from a brief career as a shoplifter in my bad-ass teenage years, I generally toe the line. I don’t even indulge in minor thievery.

Except for one incident in first grade, I’ve never been one to steal office supplies. (Unless they were Uniball pens. Or reporter’s notebooks with the white cover. Or that creamy brown scratch paper you used to get for math to work out your problems… Or the black and white composition books…)

Okay, so I’ve always helped myself to office supplies.

But usually, I’m an honest woman.

So why do I feel like it’s not really stealing when it’s the Internets? (more…)