John Edwards Did Not Think Buckhead Famous was Special!

Okay, mama is pissed. After seeing and hearing about John Edwards…not the politician…the psychic medium… for the last several years, I decided to go see him. For the last month or so I have seen him everywhere, on every channel, like he was willing me to come see him. I watched him connect Kim Kardashian with her deceased father on her reality show. I even saw him sway Mr. Big Texan himself, Dr. Phil, on his talk show. I decided to look him up, and low and behold, he was coming to Atlanta. I started thinking that maybe all of my television coincidences had been a…sign? Like most of you, I have lost loved ones. Many of us feel and think that they are still around us. Some people say their loved ones visit them in their dreams, while others swear by a smell or a flickering light.

Over the years, I have seen a few psychics. There has never been a rhyme or reason as to when, or why, I chose to visit them. It could have been on a whim, or just for sport. To me, psychics are like a girl’s gay best confidant, everyone should have one.

This is the short version of my day with John, and you unlike me, get to keep your 150.00 dollars.

Let me start by saying I do think John has talent. I think he does hear things and may know things from beyond this life. In my opinion, he is in a league of his own. He is not reading people’s palms or predicting if your boyfriend will come back; he can speak with those who have already passed over. I wanted to invite my cray, cray friend with me. She totally believes in psychics and is game for just about anything. Years ago after a horrible break up she called a psychic in San Francisco every day for an entire month. Sister believed her too. She even bought healing rocks and put them around her bath each night. When she couldn’t go, I called my other friend, who like me, had lost her father. She bought a ticket and we made plans to go to lunch and see John. At the last-minute she had to cancel, so my back-up was my mother. My mom is a wise ass, but an entertaining one.

My mom and I pull into the venue an hour early hoping to get front row seats. We take the elevator down to the hotel meeting rooms. There is a line wrapping around the ballroom already. My mom sits her happy ass down on the chair to “rest” while I am left to stand in a long line with a bunch of believers. As we all stand patiently in line, there is a John Edwards staffer pushing a pamphlet called “the five”. From what she is yelling overhead, it seems “the five”, is an elite club you can join for a mere five bucks a day, or month, I can’t remember. If you are lucky enough to get in the club, you can win a personal reading from John in the near future and also meet him after the show. Otherwise, you are placed on an email list where you are privy to his written thoughts and upcoming events. I pass.

When I get to the front of the line, I am greeted and ushered to my seat amongst the 700 other people scurrying in to find their seats. As my Mom and I are walking in she smirks, “I see getting here early helped!” My mom is along for the ride, but she has not yet been convinced that he actually speaks to the dead.

“Come on sister. We can take those seats in the middle aisle row.” I point out. I hustle over to my seat. My mother takes her time and talks to any and every person she sees. Think Paula Dean at a picnic. She is now sitting down and talking to her new neighbor about her necklace and how my mom thinks she could make one. I am focused. It is now 3pm. John will be starting at 4. The room is a chatter with every walk of life discussing what is about to happen. It is about 80 percent women and the rest are husbands both gay and straight. There are first timers like us, parents who have lost children, and children who have lost parents. The believers and “the fives” who already know what to expect. John is running a little late, but at around 4:15, he suddenly appears on stage. The room goes absolutely quiet as if the Dali Lama has just appeared. He opens with who he is and how his gift works. He says he cannot help who comes through, and that unfortunately, not everyone will get a reading. The disclaimer does not apply to me, I will get a reading! After a long overview he begins by asking who wants to ask him a question. Hands shoot up across the room. I don’t raise mine. I am waiting to be chosen. John picks people at random. Microphones are given to those chosen and they are told to remain standing. A frail middle-aged woman is chosen to go first. “My son was killed 2 weeks ago. Does he have anything to say to me?” All heads turn to listen. There are audible gasps, and for a moment, I feel like I am in a support group where all is forgiven and out in the open. John is wonderful with her. Although her son does not come through he talks to her at length about loss. The question and answer segment seems to drag on from there. People are asking mundane questions peppered with specific questions about their loved ones. By 5pm someone has finally come through from the other side. He is a son and brother of two women whom are now standing. They nod as John speaks. Tears are flowing. They seem to be in tandem with what he is saying. Yes, he died suddenly. Yes, he was on the shorter side. Then, John asks if the deceased was missing a finger. My mom leans over to me and whispers. “Did he just ask if her son was missing a digit?” The daughter speaks up. “No. He had all of his fingers.” The reading starts to stall. John keeps asking about the finger. He says the missing digit has significance and probes them to think. Finally the daughter at a loss (no pun intended) speaks. “Um, the other day I was at Chick-fil-a and noticed the cashier was missing a finger.” She says it almost as a question. John smiles. “I am the same way. I notice things and seem to fixate on differences in people as well. Don’t be embarrassed. The fact that you noticed the missing finger is just your brothers way of saying he saw it too.” I look over at my mom who wants to giggle. Is this guy for real? Over the next hour he seems to connect with three other families. He tells one lady that her mother wants to ask her about being a nudist. She smiles and says she understands. In between readings John likes to reminisce about his own losses. He likes talking about himself. We have that in common. I am growing more and more impatient. The clock says that it is ten minutes til 6. Pamphlet girl tells John he has one last chance for questions. My hand goes up fast this time. I feel like the little boy in the Christmas Story wanting his essay to get chosen. Pick me. Pick me. I am thinking. I re-adjust and am now sitting on my knees in hopes of my head being over the crowd. Maybe he just hasn’t seen me, I think. He can’t connect if he can’t see me, damn it. My mom is egging me on. “Get your hand up further, honey.” He picks one last person, and it is not me. I slump down in my chair exhausted. My mom winks at me. I am pissed. John is telling everyone to rub their hands together to make energy. He wants everyone to know that we were all guided here by our loved ones. He tells us that they are among us, and not to lose hope, and some other shit. I leave how I came, with no answers.

A few days later, I am in the line at Chick-fil-a to try their new tortilla soup that all of the Buckhead Betty’s have been raving about. They are out of the soup. I start to laugh as the cashier takes my order. Perhaps, I am the cray, cray one. My dad is with me everyday. I don’t need John Edwards to throw me a bone, what I need is my 150.00 back and some tortilla soup!

My Babies Mama is Not Tonya!

I had to take a business trip the other day to the west coast. As every mother knows, a trip of any sort can be seen in two ways, a vacation or a guilt trip! On the one hand, a trip can be a mini vacation from your motherly responsibilities. You get to vacate your child’s life and actually have…gasp…your own life. On my mini vacation the television can be all mine again sans the Mickey Mouse clubhouse. I can indulge in all of the reality tv I want without crying in the background. I can watch the Real Housewives without the pause of my DVR to wipe snot. I can even drink without the concerns of a fat head the next day knowing that I will not be awoken by my child at the crack of dawn. Basically, for a few glorious days, I can go back to being my old self-absorbed self without a care in the world. Okay, maybe my fantasies sound lack luster to you, but these days some sleep and a good reality show beat the Cayman Islands in a pinch. After all, what do I have to worry about? My husband is stuck with all of the responsibility every night and my nanny will hold down the fort each day.
The downside to my trip is the mommy guilt. I actually have to leave my child. Will she be okay without me? Yes. Will she forget me? No. You ask yourself crazy questions and allow your mind to wander to the absolute worst places. How about if my child got hurt? What would happen if there was an accident? It would take me 5 hours on a plane to get to her for God’s sake! I take my overactive imagination and get a hold of myself. I kiss my
family goodbye. I am off to work and bring home the bacon.

Once I am on the plane and reading Taylor Armstrong’s new book, I start to relax. I am now in my work world. My other world where I am
not a mother, I am a damn good sales woman who is about to close a deal with total finesse and acute persecution. I will wine and dine my
clients and enjoy my job and my short stent at independence while on another coast. I can be a mother in a few days when I get home I tell myself. Time flies.

Two days later I am flying back east. I do not check a bag. I carry on. I want to get home as fast as I can to see my baby before she goes to bed. Finally, I am at my front door and inside my house. There she is. My beautiful baby girl. Has she really grown an entire foot? Her face looks like she has matured. Is that mascara she is wearing? “Hey baby!” I shriek. My daughter looks over at me, she stops playing and smiles. I run up to her and pull her up into my arms. “I love you.” I sing to her. She allows me to love on her but within seconds she wants to get down and play….with Tonya! For the record, I love, love Tonya our gracious nanny. She is a dream come true. She is not only funny and caring. She is kind beyond words; She loves my daughter. We all love her. I am quietly counting my blessings until I hear my baby say, “Tona!” What??? Did she just say her name?
Sure she has said Da Da. Don’t all babies say Da Da first? I mean it is easy to say. Mommy is hard. Tonya should be inconceivable at this age. I fake a smile and tell her what a big girl she is. I die inside. Okay, I am being dramatic, but I do want to die. She is supposed to say Mommy first or at least it should be the next name after damn Da Da. I did carry her and give her life. After Tonya has said her goodbyes, and I insist on putting my baby to bed, we are a lying on the bed facing one another. I am saying Ma Ma over and over again as my baby sucks her two fingers and stares longingly into my eyes. I just know at any second she will say the words I am dying to hear. Minutes go by. “Ma Ma” I continue. Nothing, I just hear the slurping sound from her fingers in her mouth. Then, right as I am about to give up, she pops her fingers out. She blows a loud raspberry (like a fart with your mouth) in my face. She starts to giggle. I start to giggle. “Da Da!” she coos. At that moment everything is right in my world. My baby has my personality and her Daddy’s manners. Maybe just maybe, I can do both.

Buckhead Famous…Sara Blakely!

Ladies of Atlanta let us all stand and give Sara Blakely a huge hand for making it to the Billionariess club! What an inspiration. Sara came up with the idea of Spanx out of need for a panty hose, yes I said panty hose, with out panty lines! She was 27 years old and took just 5k of her own money and started her empire. Another 3k later and sister was trademarked. In her words, she had no background in business nor did she know how to run one. She sold fax machines for crying out loud. Her logo, which she designed, was done from a friend’s computer. She had barely gotten into Neiman’s when Oprah came calling. Twelve years later , I would say she has made it! What can you accomplish in the next 12 years? We are a city of amazingly talented women. If you have an idea, go for it, you just might end up on the cover of Forbes one day. Lord knows I am trying!!!

ibtimes.com

Face Google…A social media exchange!

This is a real conversation I had with my mom yesterday. She has an ongoing social media challenge.

Phone rings.

Me: Hello
Mom: I’m going to put Jean on the phone. We are trying to start up my face google.
Me: Face google?
Mom: Yes(annoyed). My face google to get my email thing so I can read your new Block.
Jean: Hey honey. Okay, we are on my computer. What do we do.
Me: (laughing) Is the computer on?
Jean: Yes, it is on.
Mom: (grabbing the phone) Okay smart ass, we know to turn the computer on. “Jean turn the computer on.”
Me: My bad. Type in Buckheadfamous.com
Mom: Why would she type that in to get my mail?
Me: I thought you said you wanted to read my blog? A blog is different from email.
Mom: Huh?
Me: Put Jean back on the phone
Jean: I’m on google
Me: Type in Buckheadfamous.com
Mom: Okay, I think we found it. It is coming up. Let me get some
Splendor(Splenda) and make my coffee. Then, I will read your new block and call you back.

Big Boy

So I knew I was marrying a big boy when I said I do. It was obvious he was BIGGER than most men. I also knew that he ate a lot and often. However, I am not sure I ever really looked past his big hands, long enough to actually watch him eat. I have to admit, I get a lot of traction out of my man being large. The whole, “look how big his feet are” comments from my friends can be a fun game. And watching those same friends as they check him out and gaze longingly at his crotch, wondering if all of him is just as large, never gets old to me either. The things that turn you on in the beginning can make you stare in bewilderment not long after the nuptials have been said. Tonight, I just watched as my big boy jumped up off the sofa, but took his phone with him to keep up with the scores, skid into the kitchen in search of yet another snack. He poured a gallon of milk into a mammoth bowl adding whatever cereal was in my pretty glass canister. It could have been dog food. Believe me, he would not know the difference. Leaving spilled milk behind,he ran back to his second favorite spot on the sofa in front of ESPN. The sunken spot on the sofa where he can hang over his trough and sprawl out his grand daddy long legs and graze in peace. As he slurped and shoveled in my Special K with fruit and yogurt, I sat back in amazement. I guess the wedge in his arse isn’t bothering him after all.