Alretha Thomas's Blog - Posts Tagged "married-in-the-nick-of-nine"
MAN HANDS
It was while watching an episode of “Seinfeld” that I first heard the phrase, “man hands.” The episode, like all Seinfeld episodes, was hilarious. Jerry was dating a woman who had massive hands, and the oversized hands really stood out, because everything else about the woman was attractive and in proportion. I remember looking down at my hands while watching the show and it dawned on me that I could have played the part.
Yes, I have “man hands.” They’re large, rough, and claw-like. Go to the Contact page of my new author website, www.Alrethathomas.com, and take a gander at my hand grasping my laptop. I told you! LOL. I’ve always had large hands. In the fifth grade my classmates and I were introduced to the violin, and the man who was making the presentation gave our hands the once over to determine what size violin would be the right fit. He took one look at my large mitts and exclaimed, “You’ll need an adult size!” His devastating words slapped the smile right off of my face. I glanced around at the other students with tear-filled eyes, wondering if they had heard him and what they thought. I wanted to slip into the crack on the floor. That incident reminds me how important it is to be careful about what we say to children who are impressionable and most times insecure.
Another incident that comes to mind was many years later. I was in my twenties and hanging out at a local nightclub. I thought I had it going on that night. My weave was laid, and I was wearing a cute two piece Capri set with my midriff exposed. As I walked past this group of people, a jerk in the bunch screamed, “Ugh, she has man hands. Look at her hands!” My flat stomach sank as his mordant words reverberated on my eardrums. No he didn’t just put my hands on blast! The others snickered, and I slinked back to my seat at the bar, humiliated and full of questions about my deformed hands.
My sister told me that my stepfather used to beat on my hands, and I also recall a window at our house falling onto my hands. So it’s no wonder they’re tore up from the floor up. The right hand is worse than the left, and at one time in my life, I would keep it hidden. That was a long time ago, and since then I have done a lot of emotional healing and growing . Today, I’m happy to announce that I’m proud of my “man hands.” It’s the manly fingers on these man hands of mine that are typing this blog. I used these big hands to write “Married in the Nick of Nine,” the first standalone book in the Cass and Nick series, and the sequel, “Baby in the Window,” and the third and fourth novels, “One Harte, Two Loves,” and “Renee’s Return,” respectively.
Today I know that I’m blessed to have hands period! Not just hands, but feet, legs, and all of my limbs, no matter what shape they’re in. I cringe when I think about the people who lost their limbs in that horrific Boston bomb attack. God help us all.
Today I don’t think about my “man hands,” I think about lending a hand, giving someone a hand clap, experiencing something first-hand, knowing something like the back of my hand, and being in God’s Good Hands
Yes, I have “man hands.” They’re large, rough, and claw-like. Go to the Contact page of my new author website, www.Alrethathomas.com, and take a gander at my hand grasping my laptop. I told you! LOL. I’ve always had large hands. In the fifth grade my classmates and I were introduced to the violin, and the man who was making the presentation gave our hands the once over to determine what size violin would be the right fit. He took one look at my large mitts and exclaimed, “You’ll need an adult size!” His devastating words slapped the smile right off of my face. I glanced around at the other students with tear-filled eyes, wondering if they had heard him and what they thought. I wanted to slip into the crack on the floor. That incident reminds me how important it is to be careful about what we say to children who are impressionable and most times insecure.
Another incident that comes to mind was many years later. I was in my twenties and hanging out at a local nightclub. I thought I had it going on that night. My weave was laid, and I was wearing a cute two piece Capri set with my midriff exposed. As I walked past this group of people, a jerk in the bunch screamed, “Ugh, she has man hands. Look at her hands!” My flat stomach sank as his mordant words reverberated on my eardrums. No he didn’t just put my hands on blast! The others snickered, and I slinked back to my seat at the bar, humiliated and full of questions about my deformed hands.
My sister told me that my stepfather used to beat on my hands, and I also recall a window at our house falling onto my hands. So it’s no wonder they’re tore up from the floor up. The right hand is worse than the left, and at one time in my life, I would keep it hidden. That was a long time ago, and since then I have done a lot of emotional healing and growing . Today, I’m happy to announce that I’m proud of my “man hands.” It’s the manly fingers on these man hands of mine that are typing this blog. I used these big hands to write “Married in the Nick of Nine,” the first standalone book in the Cass and Nick series, and the sequel, “Baby in the Window,” and the third and fourth novels, “One Harte, Two Loves,” and “Renee’s Return,” respectively.
Today I know that I’m blessed to have hands period! Not just hands, but feet, legs, and all of my limbs, no matter what shape they’re in. I cringe when I think about the people who lost their limbs in that horrific Boston bomb attack. God help us all.
Today I don’t think about my “man hands,” I think about lending a hand, giving someone a hand clap, experiencing something first-hand, knowing something like the back of my hand, and being in God’s Good Hands
Man Bites Dog
While studying journalism at USC, I learned that every world event or happening isn’t news. My professor at the time taught my fellow Trojans and me that the media will usually only pounce on the unusual—the event that doesn’t happen every day. It’s not out of the ordinary for the postman to be bitten by the neighborhood dog, but I’ve never heard of the postman biting the neighborhood dog. And if that ever did happen, trust me; it would be front page news. This aphorism came to mind when I learned that there was another shooting rampage, and this time in my backyard.
Last Friday, in Santa Monica, California, just a few miles from my day job, a lone gunman killed five people and himself. I discovered this story while surfing the internet. The first thing I did was shake my head in disgust and say to myself, Wow, another one, and more lives lost. What is going on? What I didn’t do was turn to my coworker and say, “Girl, there was another shooting!” Nor did I say anything to the receptionist when I made my way to the office break room, in spite of the story beaming back at me from the large flat screen television on the wall in our lobby. Yes, it was horrific and gut-wrenching, but somehow, it just didn’t move me enough to want to talk about it. I waited for my eyes to sting and tear up. I wanted to get a sinking feeling in my gut. I longed to be filled with rage. But I felt nothing, and that scared me.
Have I become inured to the violence in our society? Has every story about multiple people being gunned down become as common place as the neighborhood dog taking a bite out of the mail carrier? Why couldn’t I feel pain at the thought of five people being savagely murdered? Perhaps could it be because just six months ago a crazed gunman mercilessly mowed down twenty children like pins in a bowling alley. Maybe I’m all cried out. Maybe after shedding a cascade of tears for the innocent children in Sandy Hook, I have no more. Could it be because I spent every ounce of fury in me when I heard about the movie goers in Colorado being gunned down last July? Just the thought of them kicked back in their seats while they gulped down soda and ate buttery popcorn—momentarily oblivious to the monster that stood before them—intent on taking their lives with impunity— made me want to go ballistic. Or maybe the gut wrenching angst and sorrow I felt for the marathon runners who lost their lives and limbs has me all tapped out of emotion.
One gory story after another. So many that they have meshed into a woeful web of horror, leaving me numb and cold, wondering what’s next and who’s next? Could it be me, you, the family next door? Only God knows. I just pray that it stops and that we all find the courage to do something about it. Now what that something is, that’s a personal choice. Debates about gun control and what to do about the mentally unstable, rage in Washington and at our dinner tables. Coming up with a solution is not easy, but we have to at least try before stoicism sets in for good and we unwittingly give madmen carte blanche to maim, murder, and massacre, at will.
Last Friday, in Santa Monica, California, just a few miles from my day job, a lone gunman killed five people and himself. I discovered this story while surfing the internet. The first thing I did was shake my head in disgust and say to myself, Wow, another one, and more lives lost. What is going on? What I didn’t do was turn to my coworker and say, “Girl, there was another shooting!” Nor did I say anything to the receptionist when I made my way to the office break room, in spite of the story beaming back at me from the large flat screen television on the wall in our lobby. Yes, it was horrific and gut-wrenching, but somehow, it just didn’t move me enough to want to talk about it. I waited for my eyes to sting and tear up. I wanted to get a sinking feeling in my gut. I longed to be filled with rage. But I felt nothing, and that scared me.
Have I become inured to the violence in our society? Has every story about multiple people being gunned down become as common place as the neighborhood dog taking a bite out of the mail carrier? Why couldn’t I feel pain at the thought of five people being savagely murdered? Perhaps could it be because just six months ago a crazed gunman mercilessly mowed down twenty children like pins in a bowling alley. Maybe I’m all cried out. Maybe after shedding a cascade of tears for the innocent children in Sandy Hook, I have no more. Could it be because I spent every ounce of fury in me when I heard about the movie goers in Colorado being gunned down last July? Just the thought of them kicked back in their seats while they gulped down soda and ate buttery popcorn—momentarily oblivious to the monster that stood before them—intent on taking their lives with impunity— made me want to go ballistic. Or maybe the gut wrenching angst and sorrow I felt for the marathon runners who lost their lives and limbs has me all tapped out of emotion.
One gory story after another. So many that they have meshed into a woeful web of horror, leaving me numb and cold, wondering what’s next and who’s next? Could it be me, you, the family next door? Only God knows. I just pray that it stops and that we all find the courage to do something about it. Now what that something is, that’s a personal choice. Debates about gun control and what to do about the mentally unstable, rage in Washington and at our dinner tables. Coming up with a solution is not easy, but we have to at least try before stoicism sets in for good and we unwittingly give madmen carte blanche to maim, murder, and massacre, at will.
It's a Great Day to be Grateful
“Maybe you’re just like my mother. She’s never satisfied.” If you know anything about Prince, you’ll recognize the aforementioned line from his song “When Doves Cry.” A conversation with a co-worker this morning made me think about this lyric. Prince has a point. Like the mother in “When Doves Cry,” oftentimes we’re never satisfied. I took a moment today to assess my gratitude level. Do I have more ‘tude than gratitude? Do I whine, complain, and roll my eyes at the least of inconveniences? If I get honest with myself, on a gratitude scale of one to ten, I’m probably a five. That number surprised me, because I actually thought I was a very grateful person. But when I reflected on my overall attitude, I’m really just a five and that’s unacceptable.
God has truly blessed me and that’s no cliché. It’s real. Twenty years ago, I was living in a one room dive, driving a hooptie, and working for minimum wage. I spent most of my days thinking about myself and what I was gonna wear to the club and who was gonna buy me a drink. I was disconnected from God and my true self. It took me hitting bottom to get a clue and to get my life together. Since that time, my former self and life seems like a dream—no, actually more like a nightmare. God has since blessed me with a wonderful husband, a beautiful home, a reliable car, a good job, and good friends and family. More importantly, I am spiritually connected and now know the importance of being there for others. I have to remind myself from time-to-time, how far I’ve come. If it doesn’t get any better than this, I should have no complaints.
I want my gratitude level to soar to the point that I don’t sweat the small stuff. I don’t want to huff and puff when I get caught by the traffic light. Instead, I want to smile at the thought of having a car. No eye rolling, when I drop my cell phone. Only big smiles for being able to afford one. Cease with the head shaking at the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Only gladitude (new word…okay it was until I just looked it up on the Internet. Wow, there ain’t nothin’ new under the sun...I mean great minds think alike.) for having a job to go to. No more complaining about having to clean the house, wash clothes, and buy groceries, but cheers for having a home, clothes and food. No more yelping when paying bills. Only thanks for having the money to pay them. No more crying about low book sales. Praises to the Most High for giving me the ability to write and follow my passion. I’m sure you get my point.
Yes, I want to increase my gladitude level! I know it’s easier said than done, but in the words of Nike—Just do it! Alretha.
God has truly blessed me and that’s no cliché. It’s real. Twenty years ago, I was living in a one room dive, driving a hooptie, and working for minimum wage. I spent most of my days thinking about myself and what I was gonna wear to the club and who was gonna buy me a drink. I was disconnected from God and my true self. It took me hitting bottom to get a clue and to get my life together. Since that time, my former self and life seems like a dream—no, actually more like a nightmare. God has since blessed me with a wonderful husband, a beautiful home, a reliable car, a good job, and good friends and family. More importantly, I am spiritually connected and now know the importance of being there for others. I have to remind myself from time-to-time, how far I’ve come. If it doesn’t get any better than this, I should have no complaints.
I want my gratitude level to soar to the point that I don’t sweat the small stuff. I don’t want to huff and puff when I get caught by the traffic light. Instead, I want to smile at the thought of having a car. No eye rolling, when I drop my cell phone. Only big smiles for being able to afford one. Cease with the head shaking at the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Only gladitude (new word…okay it was until I just looked it up on the Internet. Wow, there ain’t nothin’ new under the sun...I mean great minds think alike.) for having a job to go to. No more complaining about having to clean the house, wash clothes, and buy groceries, but cheers for having a home, clothes and food. No more yelping when paying bills. Only thanks for having the money to pay them. No more crying about low book sales. Praises to the Most High for giving me the ability to write and follow my passion. I’m sure you get my point.
Yes, I want to increase my gladitude level! I know it’s easier said than done, but in the words of Nike—Just do it! Alretha.
A WORD About PassWORDS
Is it just me, or have we become a password-driven society? I have more passwords than I can remember and all the identity theft experts caution against writing them down. I’m like the woman in the shoe who had so many kids she didn’t know what to do. I have so many passwords I don’t know what to do. I need a password to access a plethora of financial, literary, and social media websites. To manage, I’ve tried to use only a few different passwords for my various accounts, but even then I forget them. This leads to a nerve-racking guessing game that ends with me being locked out. I invariably sit at the computer gaping at the screen, feeling like a dunce. It’s the same feeling you get when you inadvertently close the door while going to retrieve the mail, not realizing that it’s locked, or when you’re in a hurry and you lock your keys in the car. It’s that feeling of being on the outside and wanting in, but dreading the changes you’re going to have to go through to be readmitted into the club. And that leads to major frustration, especially when I’m trying to pay a bill online.
I can’t even get the security questions right and oftentimes, I don’t recognize them. 1) What was your favorite flavor of Now and Later Candy when you were in middle school? Are you serious? That couldn’t possibly be my security question. I can’t answer that now, later, or ever. 2) What was the name of the jerk in high school that promised to take you to the prom but stood you up and took the girl voted most popular instead? You got to be kidding. 3) What’s the name of your favorite author and the name of their latest novel? Okay that’s a no-brainer—Alretha Thomas and “Married in the Nick of Nine.” I know…shameless plug. But really, there has to be a solution for all these passwords. It wouldn’t be as frustrating if passwords could belong to us in perpetuity, but they expire and every few months you have to create a new one.
Password creation is no joke. It takes finesse. Like a lot of people, I’ve been guilty of ignoring the rules. You know those insidious instructions: Use at least one upper case letter. Use no more than three lower case letters. Include a punctuation mark, but no commas allowed. Your password should be at least eight characters, but not ten, and so on. On one occasion, I spent thirty minutes—I kid you not—trying to come up with an acceptable password. It was for the Library of Congress Copyright Page. Before it was all said, and done, I thought it was going to take an Act of Congress for me to get registered.
Okay, I’ll calm down. If being pissed at passwords is my biggest problem at the moment, I’m a blessed woman. I’ll close by saying: Peter Piper picked a peck of prickled passwords; A peck of pickled passwords Peter Piper picked; If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled passwords, where’s the peck of pickled passwords Peter Piper picked? Probably Expired.
I can’t even get the security questions right and oftentimes, I don’t recognize them. 1) What was your favorite flavor of Now and Later Candy when you were in middle school? Are you serious? That couldn’t possibly be my security question. I can’t answer that now, later, or ever. 2) What was the name of the jerk in high school that promised to take you to the prom but stood you up and took the girl voted most popular instead? You got to be kidding. 3) What’s the name of your favorite author and the name of their latest novel? Okay that’s a no-brainer—Alretha Thomas and “Married in the Nick of Nine.” I know…shameless plug. But really, there has to be a solution for all these passwords. It wouldn’t be as frustrating if passwords could belong to us in perpetuity, but they expire and every few months you have to create a new one.
Password creation is no joke. It takes finesse. Like a lot of people, I’ve been guilty of ignoring the rules. You know those insidious instructions: Use at least one upper case letter. Use no more than three lower case letters. Include a punctuation mark, but no commas allowed. Your password should be at least eight characters, but not ten, and so on. On one occasion, I spent thirty minutes—I kid you not—trying to come up with an acceptable password. It was for the Library of Congress Copyright Page. Before it was all said, and done, I thought it was going to take an Act of Congress for me to get registered.
Okay, I’ll calm down. If being pissed at passwords is my biggest problem at the moment, I’m a blessed woman. I’ll close by saying: Peter Piper picked a peck of prickled passwords; A peck of pickled passwords Peter Piper picked; If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled passwords, where’s the peck of pickled passwords Peter Piper picked? Probably Expired.
The Crying Doves Syndrome
What’s the Crying Doves Syndrome? Remember Prince’s mega hit song, “When Doves Cry?” It’s the lead single on his Purple Rain album. Music aficionados are probably rolling their eyes and shaking their heads right now, saying, “Who doesn’t know the song.” Well, let me not digress. The one line in that song that jumped out at me the first time I heard the joint was, “Maybe you’re just like my mother, she’s never satisfied.” Why that line? Because unfortunately it resonated with me. I hate to admit it, but lately I’ve come to realize that there may be a thin line between a person who’s driven and a person who’s never satisfied.
When is enough enough? In our society there seems to be this unrelenting push to obtain more, more, and more. When does one finally say I have it all? I can rest. Even God rested after seven days. And He created the world. Talk about branding. Do you really need a dozen pairs of red bottom shoes? Is there really that much difference between the new iPhone you hanker for and the iPhone you currently have? How wide does your television screen really need to be and do you actually need highER definition? Have you not had enough hit records? How many more billions can you make? Why can’t you be satisfied with a hundred million Twitter followers? Is not one television network enough? Do you really have room on that shelf for ten more Grammys, Oscars, or Tony Awards? What is it about human nature that makes us strive? Why can’t we just BE? After all, we are human BEings.
In 2008 I self-published my first novel, Daughter Denied. I erupted into rapturous applause when it made its way to Amazon. Then a few days later, my excitement dissipated while I anxiously awaited my first sale. Then review. And before long I felt compelled to write another book—Dancing Her Dreams Away. Again, I was elated when it debuted. Excited after the first sale and triumphant upon receiving my first five-star review. Not so thrilled when I received my first negative review and that review and similar assessments, motivated me to write another BETTER book. While I’m flopping down this rabbit trail, I’m still longing to be a published author, and I’m fantasizing about getting a huge book deal.
Then in 2012 I finally landed an agent and in 2013 that agent managed to get me a multibook deal for my four-book Cass and Nick series! Wow, I made it. Finally. I should be happy. I should be SATISFIED! Well, the first book, Married in the Nick of Nine debuted on Amazon on June 30th and is doing better than any other book I’ve had on the market. It’s presently #17 on the list of 100 hot new releases in African-American Women’s Fiction and #38 on the list of 100 top African-American Women’s Fiction books. I just received word regarding the release of the remaining books in the series: The Baby in the Window, October 2014, One Harte, Two Loves, January 2015, and Renee’s Return, April 2015. This is amazing news. I’m SATISFIED right? Well, I should be, but, but, I want Married in the Nick of Nine to be #1 in all categories. I want it to be optioned for a movie deal. I want, I want, I want. Enough already! I need, I need, I need to be GRATEFUL, not just SATISFIED.
Yes, I had to check myself before I wrecked myself. Over the past fifteen years on my literary journey, with God’s help, I have accomplished a great deal! I’ve made a commitment to stop and smell my progress. I’ve made a commitment to appreciate where I am today and what I have today. Tomorrow will take care of itself. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to grow, to achieve more, but we have to keep balance, keep it in perspective.
When is enough enough? In our society there seems to be this unrelenting push to obtain more, more, and more. When does one finally say I have it all? I can rest. Even God rested after seven days. And He created the world. Talk about branding. Do you really need a dozen pairs of red bottom shoes? Is there really that much difference between the new iPhone you hanker for and the iPhone you currently have? How wide does your television screen really need to be and do you actually need highER definition? Have you not had enough hit records? How many more billions can you make? Why can’t you be satisfied with a hundred million Twitter followers? Is not one television network enough? Do you really have room on that shelf for ten more Grammys, Oscars, or Tony Awards? What is it about human nature that makes us strive? Why can’t we just BE? After all, we are human BEings.
In 2008 I self-published my first novel, Daughter Denied. I erupted into rapturous applause when it made its way to Amazon. Then a few days later, my excitement dissipated while I anxiously awaited my first sale. Then review. And before long I felt compelled to write another book—Dancing Her Dreams Away. Again, I was elated when it debuted. Excited after the first sale and triumphant upon receiving my first five-star review. Not so thrilled when I received my first negative review and that review and similar assessments, motivated me to write another BETTER book. While I’m flopping down this rabbit trail, I’m still longing to be a published author, and I’m fantasizing about getting a huge book deal.
Then in 2012 I finally landed an agent and in 2013 that agent managed to get me a multibook deal for my four-book Cass and Nick series! Wow, I made it. Finally. I should be happy. I should be SATISFIED! Well, the first book, Married in the Nick of Nine debuted on Amazon on June 30th and is doing better than any other book I’ve had on the market. It’s presently #17 on the list of 100 hot new releases in African-American Women’s Fiction and #38 on the list of 100 top African-American Women’s Fiction books. I just received word regarding the release of the remaining books in the series: The Baby in the Window, October 2014, One Harte, Two Loves, January 2015, and Renee’s Return, April 2015. This is amazing news. I’m SATISFIED right? Well, I should be, but, but, I want Married in the Nick of Nine to be #1 in all categories. I want it to be optioned for a movie deal. I want, I want, I want. Enough already! I need, I need, I need to be GRATEFUL, not just SATISFIED.
Yes, I had to check myself before I wrecked myself. Over the past fifteen years on my literary journey, with God’s help, I have accomplished a great deal! I’ve made a commitment to stop and smell my progress. I’ve made a commitment to appreciate where I am today and what I have today. Tomorrow will take care of itself. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to grow, to achieve more, but we have to keep balance, keep it in perspective.
