I Ain't Said Nothin' But A Word...

I hate being sick. And whatever this bug is knocked me down and has been kicking me on the ground ever since. Whatever it is has swept through the schools and businesses here. My son had it first. I caught it from him and we passed it on to the hubby for good measure. Heaven forbid one of us be spared the misery. Otherwise, all is well on this end. I could complain, but why bother. It doesn't do a soul any good. The weather has finally turned and I am happy, happy, happy! I love summer. I love everything about it. Most especially the heat. Give me hot any day of the year and I'm one happy, happy camper. And, I'm in love. Just giddy, gushing, can't get enough, in love. It's got me so wide open that I can't stand my own damn self I've been so bubbly. It's been so good it has me doing things I know I've got no business doing but love will do that to you. Turn you stupid when you least expect that it will. I would tell you who and/or what I'm in love

Dear Debby, I have the responsibility of caring for my elderly father. He suffers from lung cancer, congestive heart failure and poor circulation because of diabetes. His prognosis is not good and recently I had to arrange for hospice. My problem is my brother and sister. Both are giving me grief that I am trying to rush daddy to his grave. Neither has stepped up to help me but they both question every decision I have had to make. Currently, daddy is kept medicated to keep him comfortable. My sister has called everyone in the family to tell them I am keeping him drugged to destroy the last few months he may have. I'm emotionally exhausted and tired of fighting with my family. I love my father and I don't know what to do. Can you give me some words of wisdom or help? First, my hats off to your for stepping up to the plate as you have. I know from personal experience that caring for an elderly family member with no support takes a lot out of you so I applaud all your efforts. You

I have the flu and I feel like crap. So Dear Debby will return next week in its usual time and place.

There are things my mama didn’t tell me growing up and I’m fairly certain your mamas didn’t tell you either, ‘cause none of these things have ever come up on the Girlfriends, honey, hush yo’ mouth! Network . Imagine my surprise to learn that we might experience thinning and loss of our pubic hair. Certainly not the topic of discussion at any dinner table I’ve been at, but you would think someone could have prepared a girl for the morning after her milestone birthday when she wakes up looking like her vajayjay done been waxed and peeled, and it wasn’t. We had the sex talk. Mama said don’t do it. I did it anyway. She prepared me for my first period, proclaiming it my admission into womanhood. More like my admission into hell but hey, at least she told me. When I was pregnant she had all kinds of expert advice to offer but of course she conveniently forgot to mention the constipation, hemorrhoids, and other assorted ills that would attack my body. And let’s not even mention what happens

I’m in this weird place right now. I’ve spent the day consumed by first kisses. Remember them? That first moment of connection that leaves you with that giddy high in the pit of your stomach. Those moments just before when you’re worried about your breath and your teeth and if your nose will go where it’s supposed to go. That moment after when you’ve replayed every second of it frame by frame, over and over again in your mind. When you’re enchanted by the sheer beauty of it or grossly disappointed by the excess slobber and bruising your mouth may have just taken. I’ve had some great first kisses and some really bad first kisses. I remember a high school honey who had the mouth of a God. Kissing him was like flying on something so good you knew it had to be illegal. He actually wrote me a note in math class the day after our first kiss to ask where I’d learned to kiss so well. Unfortunately the math teacher intercepted the passing of that note, read it to the class, and our moment of sh

I did not like the first book that I wrote. In fact, I disliked it so much that my affection for it bordered on that thin line between love and hate. And I should clarify that I had liked my original manuscript, but the edited, published version of the book took the story in a direction that I hadn’t been prepared to go. Sure, it was a story about love, but it wasn’t a love story. Deleting eighty pages and manipulating select text made it a love story and Deborah the Romance Author was born. Interestingly enough, diehard romance fans hated it. It didn’t fit the mold of a romance book and I had to learn how to give them what they were looking for. I’m feeling much the same way about a book I just finished and it hasn’t hit that editing, publishing stage yet. I’m fairly confident that there will be few changes when it does because it fits the pattern of romance that is expected of romance authors with just a hint of my true flavor to identify it as one of mine. And therein lies my frust

Dear Debby, I really like your blog. I have a quick question since you write a lot about relationships and romance. What does love feel like? I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. Thanks. First, thank you. I appreciate the support. Now, I don’t know that I can tell you what love feels like, but I can certainly tell you what it shouldn’t feel like. Love should not hurt. And I don’t care what anyone else says, there should be no pain associated with love. I personally think to believe otherwise is a load of crap. Love should make you giddy with joy. It should make you feel that anything is possible. When you know true love you want to be more than you have ever imagined yourself being. You work to be a better person overall. Love should make you feel valued. It should never leave you questioning your choices or feeling that you are less than the extraordinary creature that you are. Love should be about everything that is right and good. When you find that special person, you’ll know it’s

Thought I would share the beginnings of a new story with you. I've been told by the powers that be that this beginning is not strong enough. I'd like to know what you think. He called my mother a whore, appearing to spit the venomous word past his thin lips as easily as Reverend blew the gospel every Sunday morning. My mother’s heart had grown cold, the stare she gave him even colder, and it was at that very moment, that my understanding of adults, of women, and all their issues, spun into an embodiment of chaos. I stood there in the hallway, the chill of the moment pervading the air, and though the temperature outside was well over eighty degrees, there in that foyer, I stood frigid, my limbs frozen in place from the cold. My body shivered as I felt the look my mother passed over his face, meeting his eyes with her own intense gaze. Her response was reserved, the comments directed at his manhood, piercing his ego like the sharp blade of a machete. Then, just as quickly as the

I’m pissed. I am so pissed that I’m spitting pure venom at anyone and everyone who is getting in my way today. At the core of my anger are men who should know better and a little girl who should have better. A friend of mine was in conversation with an acquaintance of his. The two men were sharing family exploits as I entered the room, sitting down at a table to join them. The acquaintance shared that he was having a personal problem with his eight-year old granddaughter. The child is caught between warring parents, a messy divorce gone completely awry. Mommy and Daddy share custody of her, shuttling her back and forth two and three times a week. Every other weekend she lives with her father, his brother, three adult male cousins, and an elderly grandmother. The other half of her life is spent with her mother and her maternal grandparents in their family home. The acquaintance told us of an experience where the granddaughter wanted to cuddle in his lap. Cuddling was just fine until the

Dear Debby got tangled up with a love story and the question posed had me pondering a response. It was a question that required me to consider my own personal values. And I have to admit that it touched a sensitive nerve. Wesley and Denise have worked together for many years now. The duo became fast friends realizing quite quickly that they had much in common and shared many of the same goals. Neither ever imagined that they would share anything but friendship but as time has passed, both have discovered growing emotions that neither was prepared for. And because Denise is married both have been conscientious about not overstepping the boundaries that exist between them. It is not in her nature to be unfaithful to her husband, nor is it his to covet another man’s wife. Out of respect for each other and their respective families, neither has ever fully vocalized how they feel or what they may want to share with the other. But both have imagined what it could be like if they were able t

I’m just getting back from a weekend hiatus. My baby boy turned eighteen this Saturday and I’m still trying to get over the trauma. The husband and I took the boy and his two best friends to South Carolina for the weekend. They partied at the beach and I threw my son one heck of a Mardi Gras-style birthday celebration complete with fireworks, a band, and a large crowd of revelers. I have been throwing the kid a themed birthday party every year since the day he was born. At one point they’d be come so outrageous that folks were actually calling to try and finagle an invite for their kids. Folks we didn’t know. By far, the Dinosaur Safari was probably my absolute favorite and we’ve done everything from pirates to cowboys to spacemen. We did a Dinosaur Safari for birthday number seven. There was a guest list of some thirty-two children, a costumed dinosaur character, and dinosaur egg goodie bags that involved two months of balloon blowing and paper mache. The invitation was a four-page ne