The Negress. The 10: Work

May 16, 2014

Hi, it’s the Negress again. This week’s decagon of delight is related to various workplaces she has known. She suspects all of her readers have experienced one or more these at some form of employment.

1. Motivational meetings. There is a direct correlation between the number of motivational meetings  and the Suckitude Quotient of the job. The SQ is an overlooked metric whose time has come.

2. Co-workers who do not seem to possess indoor voices. The Negress now knows everything about your urinary tract infection, the evil bastards at the charity who keep stealing the knitting needles you bring in, and your husband’s crappy website. Please. Shut. Up.

3. Co-workers who have noisy health issues. You cannot have had a cold for seven months. The Negress has been counting. She doesn’t have much of a choice.

4. While The Negress does not expect to hang out with co-workers who are half her age, she wonders if they missed the day in school where private social plans are just that. See Item 2 since overhearing is impossible to avoid.

5. How do some people become bosses? The Negress has looked on LinkedIn lately and seen some improbable names with fancy titles attached. She takes comfort in the fact that raises probably did not come with those titles.

6. You are not indispensable. The Negress has had at least two conversations with people who bemoan not being able to take all four or five weeks of their vacation. Guess what? If you drop dead tomorrow, the folks at your workplace will step over your rapidly cooling corpse and get those deliverables out with no excuses and very little whining. Also, no one on their deathbed ever said they wished they had worked more. Well, maybe Freddy Mercury (Queen and Adam Lambert? We are to be joking, yes?)

7. If there’s a communal kitchen or break room in your office, don’t assume someone else is going to clean it. At one of the Negress’ workplaces, the microwave had unidentifiable encrustations that dated to the Pleistocene era. Someone broke down and cleaned it. Hint: It was not a guy.

8. Pizza makes the office happy (Make sure there are vegetarian options,  especially on Fridays during Lent.) So do Girl Scout cookies unless you are relentless in your sales pitch to co-workers. Other sweets (well, maybe not king cake) are also usually welcome especially if butter-creme frosting is part of the picture.

This is a symptom of a lousy workplace. Don't let it happen to you

This is a symptom of a lousy workplace. Don’t let it happen to you

9. Any office party that is deemed to be a potluck is not an office party. It’s a food break resulting from unpaid overtime. And don’t tell the Negress she would be cooking anyway. Not for 100 or so people she wouldn’t. She once worked somewhere where the Christmas party was potluck, and you had to bring your offering in two dishes for dayside and nightside. Bastards.

10. Worst office and food story ever: An allegedly reputable daily newspaper issued food coupons for all staffers working Election Night. The coupons were to keep those greedy staffers from coming into work and scarfing up free food on their night off. Yes, you read that correctly.

Any suggestions for topics for the 10? The Negress has lived a rich and full life so she can probably come up with something.


Notes of a Chronic Negress: the journey continues

May 14, 2014

The Negress hates to make some of her writing sound like a bad movie, but she did promise her 12 or so readers (spread the word people) that she would share some vaguely memoir-ish (memnoir-ish, perhaps?)  writing every now and then. So here’s the latest installment. A little long and kind of gross. So consider yourself warned.


The Negress doesn’t know much about Paterson, NJ. It’s not like she’s Junot Diaz or something. She only knows that she comes here when she is really sick. The first time was in 1998. The Crohn’s was new, and she had just jetted back from her first game show tournament (there will be more, much to her ongoing surprise). She ended up in St. Joseph’s Medical Center with an abscess filled with salmonella on her thyroid. Thanks to prednisone, she was also wildly diabetic. Ketoaciditic diabetic. Cool Rockin’ Doc, her gastroenterologist, enlisted the first new members of Team Negress – the infectious-disease guy and the ear, nose, and throat guy. She worked for a newspaper that wants to milk her game-show tournament appearance. Her ego was in better shape than her body (always the case), so she wrote the story of her semifinal flameout in her hospital bed (She had a room to herself thanks to the salmonella).


So then there was insulin and needles and 19 pills in the morning, and this episode became lore and a published medical paper (The Negress was a 38 year old African-American woman in the paper; she really wanted to be Patient Z) since stuff like that only happens to people who are HIV positive. She balanced work and surgeries pretty well for about six years – a knee replacement, carpal tunnel surgery, rectal pruning etc. but it all fell apart one day when she was at The Alternate Orthopedist. He was not to be confused with the Wizard of Cleveland, who eventually upgraded both knees to titanium (kind of like a credit card, but with added mayhem at airports). The Wizard looked like an accountant around tax time except for the white coat and sneakers. The Alternate Orthopedist inherited her wrists and hands. He was caramel-colored, looked like a two-guard and his mocha wife used to work for the Wizard. Her hip had hurt for a month and she thought it was a bone thing; not a Crohn’s thing. Shet left work early, telling her most recent supervisor that she was likely going to end up in the hospital. “How do you know?” he said. She resisted the temptation to mutter, “The same way I know you’re an idiot.”


She called Cool Rockin’ Doc and explained the story of this particular pain. He sent her to Paterson to be admitted express through the ER. He wrote orders while the Negress drove there from Bayonne. About nine hours or so after arriving, she got a bed. In the ensuing days, the Negress was diagnosed with an intestinal abscess. She got a drain attached to her belly that is called a grenade because of its size and shape. The Negress emptied pink fluid out of it at various intervals during the day. She also had a PIC line installed since her veins, which roll and float, shut down in hospitals. Attached to said PIC line is a backpack filled with a bag of milky nutrition. She got this stuff along with insulin and a bunch of other shit she had to inject into the bag shipped to the house. The Negress was at home on disability and fell into the ritual of Stabbing the Bag and watching a lot of “Law and Order” reruns. This would be temporary, Cool Rockin’ Doc assured her. He and Infectious Disease Guy had a plan. The Negress, while waiting on the plan, looked around the house and wished she was well enough to get rid of some the crap she had accumulated.


Do not try any of these at home.

Do not try any of these at home.

Could the need to de-clutter be related to the fact that the Negress has begun to believe she will die sooner than later? Possibly. It could also be related to paying monthly storage fees on stuff her sister cannot use in mental-health transitional housing (Not harshing on Sis since the Negress will find that her mental health will take a more overwrought turn somewhat later). Ringing in her head as she chilled insulin, reset the timer for the Nutrition in a Bag are her mother’s words, “I don’t want y’all coming in this house after I’m dead and saying, ‘Why in the hell did she save this crap?’” Cool Rockin’ Doc let it slip sometime after the thyroid abscess that the Negress could have died then. She thought she might die now; therefore a plan was needed for the vinyl, CDs, and books. The Negress felt like a bit of a sociopath during this period; going through the motions of human interaction that people expect from sick people.


She kept with the venal nutrition for a while. Then, Team Negress decided it was time to cut out the abscess and connect the colon. Ear, nose, and throat guy exited and Colorectal Surgeon Guy entered. On the day of the surgery, we also added General Surgeon Guy and his wife, Anesthesiologist Babe. The Negress told them before going under she hoped they didn’t have a fight last night.


Might the Negress mention that the surgical area at St. Joseph’s could have been on TV for all of its colorful residents and folks just back from Iraq? Now this could easily have been a family except for the part where you spent the day cutting people open and such. These people laughed a lot and welcomed people in like we shall be old friends once all the cutting is done. This didn’t happen, but The Negress didn’t mind since by the time she was out of their hands, she was so doped up she wasn’t sure she was there or not.


She returned to Seton 5, where she had spent several post-op stays. This group was more like a dysfunctional family, including the pair of trailer-trash patients who were in a car wreck but were pissed that the nurse won’t let them go outside to smoke. The woman, who looked like she should have been named Crystal as in meth, whined equally about smoke denial and how she missed her “babies.” The Negress found out later the “babies” are in their teens. She wondered how exactly you could smoke in a neck brace with one arm a wad of bloody bandages.


The Negress can’t get up, but she can throw up. This was really no fun when she wasn’t eating solid food. She slept the way you sleep in hospitals, an hour here and there highlighted by blood-sugar readings and blood draws. The Negress woke up at one point to find a little old man at the end of her bed telling her he didn’t feel so well and could she call his daughter. She steered him out of the room for a bit. Back he came, repeating his request and grabbing her foot to stress the urgency of the matter. Turned out he was 96, was in a car accident and his 75-year old daughter was coming for him. The Negress squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blot out this vision of her likely future. Except she has no kids.


She went home with staples in her belly, and some sort of tension-loaded spring rubber coils attached to some of the staples. The incision didn’t hurt that much, but every time she moved and one of those rubber things was disturbed, she tried not to scream. She had a high threshold of pain. Proof of this was the time after a wisdom-tooth extraction that she walked around with a dry socket for a couple of days. She took some extra acetaminophen, but only went by the dentist’s office because she was on her way to South by Southwest and wanted to make sure she could drink. He gave The Negress the eye-popping cartoon face, scolded her for not coming in sooner and packed said socket with soothing antibiotic-laced gauze. She said, “People told me sometimes wisdom teeth hurt. I didn’t think it was that bad.” The Negress did not tell him about eating tortellini less than hour after the teeth were removed.


So, the rubber things hurt. The Negress waited about 10 days or so and drove to Colorectal Surgery Guy’s office to get the staples and springs removed. It was noted that there was some fluid coming out of the incision, but the Negress was assured this thing might drain a bit. She stocked up on gauze and tried to flirt with normalcy. She recalled going back to work, still leaking. She saw Cool Rockin’ Doc who thought the leaking was not normal. So he sent her down the street for a CT scan with contrast. The PIC line was gone so finding veins was somewhat tortuous. There was a bald guy with full tattoo sleeves who could hit her veins every time. She laid in the tube and waited. They injected contrast into the leakage. That felt weird. She hung on, awaiting another visit with Infectious Disease Man. It turned out the corrective surgery had abscessed again and the fluid was from a fistula that had popped up out of nowhere. She danced with antibiotics, but nothing doing. She had to be disconnected.

So back to the OR and Seton 5. In order to make sure everything is clean, the Negress got an ostomy. A rosy pucker of her intestine was now protruding through her belly. She placed a wafer on top of it with adhesive, and then attached a bag. You can figure out what went in the bag. The Negress traveled with bags and wafers once she got out of the hospital. She went back to work equipped with her own poo pouch. Work was just that, but she passed the time between stories imagining the list of people she would throw the bag at if she had the chance.


She resumed socializing and it went well for the most part. One night, the Negress went to a revival of an Alan Ayckbourn play, which was wan and not very funny. She ate richly before the show, forgetting her capacity limitations. She started to leak at show’s end. The bag blew off the wafer. She couldn’t aim it at the stage (it would have been apt criticism), but she snagged it and raced to the loo. After much fiddling and wafer failing, she emerged from the loo slightly shitty and disheveled. Her friend took it in stride. She went home.


At one point, the Negress ended up with acid burns on her skin due to series of miscommunications about the size and type of wafers that were needed. She had a home-care aide who looked at her reddened flesh around the stoma and clucked. She was from Eastern Europe so she didn’t flip out, but she did sternly remind the Negress that this stuff is inside your body for a reason. I healed slowly and got more adept at poo management, which was not something I envisioned on a resume. “Photoshop, Flash, Microsoft Office, InDesign, poo management.”


Not a good fit for the organization.


She hung out with the ostomy for about six months. Team Negress decided that, after some antibiotics and dietary modifications, she was clean enough for them to try this again. Back to St. Joseph’s, the OR and Seton 5. She can’t remember where in the cycle the Astros got broomed in the World Series (by her now-beloved White Sox). She watched some of it on the tiny rental TV, but it didn’t exactly dovetail with getting better. The Devils were doing well, so she cleaved to them and hoped she might get to some games before the playoffs.


The Negress didn’t have a lot of visitors, which was fine. However, a couple of her roommates viewed visiting hours as a contest for how many friends and relatives they could cram into the room at a time. She recalled 12 being the record. That family included one very sharp-looking lesbian military vet who boasted, “Once the girls have had me, they never go back.” The hospital actually did a sweep at the end of visiting hours to make sure these people went home. She thought some of them even liked the food.


The belly incision was pretty weary by the time the Negress finally went home. The ostomy was closed so that added another scar to the tableau. I recuperated with “Law and Order”(doesn’t everyone?) and “West Wing” reruns. As she got closer to returning to work, she realized she kind of liked being home with bills paid and not much on the agenda. Little did she know how soon that’s going to come again.


Also, because we simply cannot learn much from some things we do, she tried the sports thing again. She worked on the copy desk 5 to 1 with Wednesday and Thursday off. It was a fail on a lot of levels. She does become a better editor, but she found out once again she’s not exactly a full-immersion sports fan. She did get out after a couple of years, but all of the aforementioned health mayhem came right after working the night shift. She suspected there was a correlation.

Around the end of 2008, these people offered her money to go away and the Negress took it.


The Negress realizes now that all of the elements for the current events had been in place the entire time she was in the business. However, the dips and dives were, at least, unnoticed and, at best, rewarded (write a concert review in 20 minutes against deadline? Clean up a story by a venerated writer who can’t remember how to spell Joe Louis’ name? All night long ‘til the break of dawn).


The ongoing brain betrayal, which has now been tamed by anti-seizure medication followed by anti-depressants, has the Negress kind of on guard. Will the monster wake up at some point and the whirlwind start again? Why does she feel that tossing the meds might be an excellent idea? (note to the Negress: That would be worse than that trip to Tucson where her plane ticket got stolen by an ex-friend’s coked-up acquaintances.) Could the road being a semi-colon have prepared the Negress for this latest twist? Hell fucking no. She feels like a series of chemical titrations and kind of misses that old hypomanic magic. That is, until she goes through “sent items” and looks back on what she left on various social media sites. There will be no more nodding off behind the wheel while trying to get to Andersonville from Evanston and somehow ending up on Cicero and not knowing how that happened (for the record, she no longer owns a car and there was a successful titration that will prevent that from occurring again). Enough with the intermission. She’s ready for Act III.


In which the Negress debuts The 10. This week: Transit

May 9, 2014

The Negress is happy to report that a few coins have made their way into the bucket that sits in front of her computer. She’s grateful, and luckily, the need is not as dire as it once was since she has found a place at a local Cube Farm. But she remains the observer she was when doing that and writing about it was her primary source of income. So, every Friday, she’s hoping to offer 10 observations grouped by category (where they occurred; subject matter etc.). Most of these impending observations do not rate a post on their own, but they can amount to something if — hate this word — aggregated. So, once a week, the Negress will curate a bespoke artisanal view of life. $20 pickles not included.

So, ten things related to transit:

1. A pandemic of nose picking. Not just a quick snatch of something dangling; full-fledged excavations that might have been aided by a tiny backhoe.

2. Yes, that woman was clipping her boyfriend’s toenails on the bus.

3. Overheard cell phone conversation:”I ain’t going with no bisexual woman. They got diseases.”

4. Why do the friends of people about to puke on the train plead with them to get off the train about 5 seconds too late? “Cameron, you need to get of the train now!” *sound of splashing and people moving dutifully to the next car*

5. First time on the PATH train in New Jersey, a knife fight broke out, also resulting in people moving dutifully to the next car.

6. Ventra kind of sucks.

7. A nonscientific observation: Some transit riders will stand rather than sit next to someone of a different race when there are empty seats. The Negress’ father told her once that, even at church conferences, he could always find a seat because there was usually one empty seat on each side of any black person in the auditorium.

8. Most bus drivers are really nice, even when some sketchy guy exits the bus through the rear door and screams, “Puta!” (Google it; the Negress can’t do all the heavy lifting) at the top of his lungs.

9. Recently, the Blue Line made a well-publicized attempt to take passengers directly to the gates at O’Hare. That functionality has been removed until further notice.

10. Do not ever take the Clark Street bus if you are trying to make any sort of appointment.

Addendum: With Mother’s Day bearing down on us like an 18-wheeler on a gravel slow-down ramp (oh, like you don’t know what those are), those of us who are living with dead parents may be extra cranky. However, stay strong. Father’s Day is a month away and you have the Negress’ permission to stay cranky the whole time. You can shout to the sky anything you wanto say to your parents whether you believe in an afterlife. Trust the Negress: it feels good.


In which the Negress pens an open letter to Marty Brodeur

May 7, 2014

While the Negress is delighting in the performance of her favorite Western Conference team, the Chicago Blackhawks, she must every so often turn her lonely eyes to the remains of the New Jersey Devils, her beloved Eastern Conference team. The nights she spent at The Hangar (aka Continental Airlines Arena, now named after shirts with alligators on them) and the Rock (aka the Prudential Center) were some of the best of her life. (Aside: the Prudential buildings in Chicago and Newark are nearly identical. Perhaps they ordered in bulk?)

Anyway, the Negress has to do something she had wanted to avoid for as long as she could. Martin Brodeur, the Devils’ goalie through three Stanley Cup wins and many a dazzling regular-season victory was bid a fitting goodbye at the end of the last Devils’ home game. He’s hoping to start somewhere (the Devils have no need of him in that role thanks to Cory Schneider, who suffered behind Roberto Luongo way too long) and plans to test the free agent market. So the Negress has to do this. Better her than Sean Avery:

Marty, you won't be smiling like this if you keep it up.

Marty, you won’t be smiling like this if you keep it up.

Dear Marty,

Hope this finds you well. The Negress got to see quite a few great  goalies in her youth — Tony Esposito, Glenn Hall, Gerry Cheevers (have his book), Ken Dryden (that book too) and Eddie Giacomin. You may be as good, if not better, than all of them. There’s a trapezoid behind the net because of you. You’ve gotten assists on goals, which happens about every time Rush Limbaugh displays common sense. You even scored three goals; one in the playoffs.

She’s seen you do the hockey equivalent of redirecting lightning. You did splits and got to pucks few goalies would even dream of stopping. When the Devils moved from The Hangar to The Rock, word has it you shot the puck off the boards all around the rink to see how the caroms would play if you had to play them. You played smart and looked good doing it.

Now, however, you seem to have added whining to your repertoire. When the Devils played the Rangers (who suck by the way. Every Devils fan has to say that the Rangers suck if they come up in any context; consider the requirement fulfilled) in the Stadium Classic, you got light up and complained about the ice. Henrik Lundqvist, playing against you, didn’t seem to mind it at all. The Rangers (Did we mention that they suck? Wouldn’t want to forget.) won that game and there were times when the Negress cringed. She knew the old Marty would have fished pucks out of thin air that were unseen by the naked eye. Her heart was breaking. It continued to break when things moved indoors.

So, don’t make it worse. Retire as a Devil. Then go home  and wait for your son, Anthony, to move up through the Devils organization. You might even be a good fit for the NHL Network (your old backup, Kevin Weekes, is killing  it there).

Marty, please go while we feel like we will miss you. The Negress knows it’s a  tough decision, but she knows you’ll do the right thing.


Notes of a Chronic Negress: Spring Training

February 28, 2014

By the way, much of this is based on truth.

“I love you.”

Oh shit. If the Negress hadn’t been perched on those stairs with that guy right in front of me,  she could have gotten away clean.  The railing had her pinned on one side; the wall on the other. As it stood, she was going to have to respond to this tequila-fueled declaration. The truth was not an option. She can’t say to someone who is furry drunk that she only slept with them because she was out of batteries for the vibrator. Or that, every once in a while, she needed to feel someone else’s skin to remind you that you’re alive. He was still there, nut brown and swaying, hair sweaty with some other bad trouble who made him think a trip to the clinic might be in order.  She doesn’t know the other one,  but she worked at Centerfolds. This guy wasn’t the brightest in the world — read Dean Koontz, had van seats as permanent furniture — but who was she to talk since the Negress woke up bare-assed on a waterbed in his house on Mother’s  Day? The mother of his kid came by to drop off Junior and, at first opportunity, the Negress bailed.

The Negress’ wasn’t always like this or else there would be not story to tell. You wouldn’t always find her perched on the stairs of this bar listening to some coke fiend talk about interstate trucking. She does come here a lot, but she’s run out of reasons why. It was good trouble once, a place where a girl could go when she needed to be kissed but didn’t want to make breakfast for some jerk. Lately everyone was getting married, going to rehab or smoking so much dope that the mere thought of sex makes them tired and cranky. Why did marijuana have to make a comeback right at the time when sleazing around has been deemed fatal? What happened to the seller’s market she was used to?

Crueler friends might say 30 pounds happened, but her arms don’t keep moving when the Negress stops. Also, this baggy grunge rap fashion thing was a godsend to us women of substance. Real women eat and that’s all there is to it.

Which may also explain why she gave that restaurant  goof so much of her valuable time. In case you’re wondering, this isn’t the guy the Negress was looking at when this story started, although this joint played a  role in her running into him repeatedly. The Negress was bored, he kissed well and knew a thing or two about what she considered the finest of dining. When he came over, she would end up with rug burns and odd marks on the couch. His good trouble turned to bad when the Negress found out about the woman with the gun and the toddlers. And half the teachers at this one elementary school. And five other women she knew, one of whom confided that she was relieved when her clinic run turned out to be just a non-specific infection.

At this point, high mileage was not a good thing even though it did seem to improve technique. The Negress usually put latex where it belonged, but not always. You gave blood and lost some sleep watching the mail for a week or two.

 Oh yeah. Back to the guy in front of her. He was still swaying there, expecting The Negress to say something like, “Honey, I love you so much I’d go your bail before I’d pay my rent” or some other declaration that indicated permanent brain damage on her part. She thought she’d gotten away clean. We kissed one night after the Mother’s Day thing, but it felt like a Pekingese was trying to pick her nose. The Negress had seen him up here a couple of times since then, but he had been cool. No excessive mooning, no pining. He hung with this coke dealer who was a a total bore. The Negress finally shut him up with a reasonably coherent discussion of the economics of the baseball strike. One of the bartenders bought her a drinkfor her  trouble, saying that was the longest ol ‘Dillweed had gone without speaking. The Negress considered it a public service.

All right. The Negress has hatched an escape strategy. “Uh, Dick, can we talk about this some other time?”

“No,” he bleated. Dammit.

“Well, will you excuse me for sec? I’ll be right back.”

Thank God there was a side door out of there. She was down the steps and in her truck in no time. He wasn’t there the next time she came back so the Negress hoped he got the message.

Although it may be hard to believe from what the Negress is telling you here,  she can do celibacy with panache. She’s talking years, kids. Some 21-year old goober tried to pick her up with that tired old line about how she needed to relax. The Negress replied that she wasn’t going to end a two-year string of doing without for him. He looked ashen. “How could you go two years without having sex?”

“It’s easy. You get up one morning, brush your teeth, get dressed, do your hair,  go to work, go out clubbing, come home and what do you know? You didn’t have sex. A day becomes a week, weeks months, you get the picture.”

He asked her to leave his apartment  (The Negress was stuck there after some ill-advised drinking).  She thinks he thought it was some elaborate con. Sometimes the truth does work very well.

One of these days the Negress will find a man (or woman, but we’re getting to that) who will last from spring training to the World Series. She’s not lonely exactly, but sometimes an arm around you at night would be great. Or a phone call when Frank Thomas jacked one past the Russian space station (she’s waiting on this feeling from Adam Dunn). Or someone who would get the picture when you said something about sticking around for winter ball and hockey season. She was tired of explaining her jokes to people who were supposed to care about her (her tribe is out there and she will find it later).

Or maybe she’ll just settle for a good kisser who didn’t piss on her bedroom floor during an alcoholic blackout. That was bad trouble. She kissed so much during that day and a half, the Negress felt like the lower half of her face was smeared and runny. If  she could have attached those lips to someone who knew where the bathroom was, half the battle would have been won. He knew baseball but often forgot which league the Astros are in. He lost his scholarship on that basis alone (though, now that might not be a deal breaker. The pissing, yes.).

The problem is there’s a fine line between good and bad trouble. If you hang with someone and it gets too boring, it may be good for you. But it won’t make you drive across town with a raincoat thrown over your nightgown because your phone rang at 2 a.m. with a highly improper (not to mention potentially painful) suggestion. Good trouble can talk you into it because of some deep mystical connection or just plain madness. Bad trouble makes you get a restraining order and change your number.

Most people the Negress  talks to think the distinction is a massive rationalization. “You shouldn’t try to justify this trashing around you by palming it off on something nearly mystical in its incoherence,” said one 12-step veteran pal of mine. The Negress drank another bourbon and told her to shut up.

The Negress has had jobs and everything (though lately not so much), but that’s of minimal consequence. The hours were flexible enough back in the day that arriving in the office at noon wearing sunglasses made little difference in my performance reviews. Most of the Negress’  co-workers at the time had settled for something calm. She sometimes got the sense they viewed her as a mascot of some kind;  still weird enough to drive a pickup trick and not have day-care problems. Their lives make the Negress cringe so back to the bars she went.

Frankly, the baseball strike nearly made the Negress into a nun. She had found most of her trouble by arguing about ball in a variety of joints. The restaurant guy was a Tigers fan. Mr. I Love You went to the Dome with the coke dealer, but had a hard time following the game. He thought it was too slow and there was nothing to watch, which almost matched her assessment of him for a long-term contract.

One night, another friend told the Negress her standards were too high. She had brought the restaurant guy into the picture, and had sampled Mr. I Love You back before she fell hard for a good friend of hers. The Negress was at the point in the bourbon here belligerent muttering was about the best she could do. The Negress couldn’t explain the good trouble-bad trouble distinction because all distinctions were pretty blurry. So was the road driving home(please note, this is stupid and don’t do it).

That was during a brief period where everyone the Negress knew was giving her advice even though she hadn’t asked for any. Did she look that troubled? At one point, the Negress decided it was a weird mix of envy and concern and just decided to smile a lot and forget every word.

Anyway, the Negress had to hit the road. Minor-league ball was calling. There was a prospect in Tucson that might have made it to the majors if he kept his sense of humor and continued to remember my phone number. Like most minor leaguers, he wasn’t a prospect.


In which the Negress makes another excuse for her absence

February 25, 2014

The Negress realizes she has been remiss in her promise to post more frequently. Given the recent weather and Buffalo-like snowfall, she could always offer the excuse that her brain and fingers were frostbitten past the point of no return.

However, that’s not it. She’s been high on stress lately. She’s trying to get the rent paid (an uphill battle given the lowliness of her position at the Cube Farm). Therefore, she has not been thinking too much about the important things that are going on, whatever they may be. She kind of knows that Ukraine is on fire. She kind of knows that the Olympics hockey didn’t go the way she thought it would.

In the meantime, she’s hoping to get back to weekly flashback postings. She’s hoping at some point to publish a book where they appear in some kind of order. For now, you can read them here. If you like what you see, you can drop a coin in the virtual cup she’s set up. Thanks again for your patience.

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Notes of a Chronic Negress: The Early Years

December 31, 2013

If you want to know where you’re going, you need to know where you’ve been. So every week at this time, the Negress is going to share a bit of her past with you. She has mentioned on occasion her love of baseball, but the biggest shift in her consciousness was caused by hockey. Here’s how it happened (present tense since adolescence is still very much with her).

I volunteer for the black and white set upstairs. Since it’s a Sunday, the family has split like an amoeba to their separate pursuits. My sister starts the foundation of the  air castle of her future funk. Mom and Dad watch the NBA Game of the Week. I can live with the NBA, but I am not in the mood for my parents. It happens.

In the days of three networks, gerbil races and Captain Tugboat, Sunday is a harsh TV day. I want something faster than basketball; something almost as fast as I think. I fiddle with the antenna and click the dial. Suddenly it’s on me. There are skaters, hair flying. Goalies fling themselves at the little black thing, looking electric and spastic but lovely. The reassuring voice of Dan Kelly breathlessly chases the action.

The rules fall into place. Any pass across two lines in illegal (This is well before the red line at center ice becomes decorative). Any scrum that ties up the puck for more than five seconds results in a whistle. There’s a box where you go if you’re deemed bad. This is school, but with more speed and faster retaliation (I haven’t made the last day of class in years, thus ducking every bully who believed in delayed gratification). I am hopelessly enthralled. This is the game for me. This is hockey.

A lot of the Boston Bruins are very cute. I like Derek Sanderson, who is chippy and has a mustache. I don’t really notice the lack of variety of skin colors. This is a foreign legion, but I am willing to sign on.

I draw pictures of my favorites on my notebooks. I hurl myself around a sixth-grade classroom playing all five of my favorite players, who live together and get into trouble (No girls. Ick.) I am a fool among my classmates more than usual, but I don’t care. They are often wrong – about Vietnam, me and the order of the universe. I have hockey now and I really don’t care what anyone else thinks.


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