A brief convo with the Mayor

Speaking of Ms. Sykes, the now mayor of Pink Hill, something kinda of interesting happened yesterday as me and my slave labor help (Nonie's kids plus Sarah, who barely lifted a finger except to "push buttons" on my phone)were cleaning out the spare room closet which had been decorated by the said slave labor over two months prior. By decoration I mean, draggging out every single article of clothing draped lifeless over a piece of metal, and throwing it on the floor of said closet.
Yes, I was, oh how do you describe it, DISGUSTED to see the mess at the time, but over the following weeks it evolved into anger, then worry (when I would have time to clean it out), and then finally to stress (the process leading up to cleaning it out).
Cleaning in the Fairley household goes through stages. Usually, just like in AA, it starts with denial, which I believe is really the #0. Because, and I say this not from personal experience, I'm still in denial that I'm an alcoholic, but from having many friends and one family member in particular complete the steps, or at best attempt to complete the steps, because, I think I remember #1 being admitting you have a problem, which abrogates denial.
I was diciphering through the sea of demise, known as the "big clump".It disguised my new Martha Stewart carpet in the closet with the double doors that normally would be a collection plate for odds and ends that never really had a home in my house, that probably should have never seen their way inside the front poker green metal framed door.
Sitting criss cross applesauce, which I'm imagining is the new PC way to say "Indian style", I would grab and think, probably for much too long, considering the ultra-poor state of living that some Americans face these days, there should be no debate.
Everything should have gone straight to the give-away pile. But for some greedy reason, I just couldn't justify giving away the beautiful hand-smocked outfits Sarah wore as a baby, those outfits that Paul, her lousy father, hated, but I adored. I was thinking to myself, with money symbols reverbing from my eyeballs, "who would appreciate this outfit as much as I did?"
Thinking back, what a rediculous question. Am I the only one in the world who likes a green and red plaid smocked outfit? I'll have to work on giving my possessions away. After all, they mean nothing, they don't do anything for you, nor give back, and they certainly can't whisper sweet things in your ear when you are feeling down, and then maybe nibble on your ear lobe with a soft pair of lips with a faint smell of clean clothes ligngering on your button up blue shirt, because all men wear blue shirts in the office for some reason.
It's like when you are born with a penis, big or small, and you can tell whether they will have a big one as an adult, or silently feel sorry for the poor little fella, the doctor holds you under a hypnotic light int he hospital, in a hidden room that you can only get to from pushing a book in the wall sideways, and ingrates into your little baby brain that it is only appropriate to wear blue shirts in the office. Once a month it is ok to wear a lavender shirt, even pink maybe, but rarely yellow and never RED. Black is a color that men in uptight offices don't wear for some reason. I guess women wear enough black to make up for all the men in the world who don't.
If you are a smart man, you will realize that women in the office, don't give two shits about what you are wearing. They just care about what THEY are wearing, and any other cute chick in the office that might be vying for your attention.
All this talk about clothing brings me back to sitting in the closet, but not before I tell you this.
After the conversation I had with a friend tonight at church, I felt like a stingy, greedy bitch. She was telling me of a neighborhood in Charlotte, consisting mostly of Thai immigrants where mothers and children have no shoes to wear. I felt immediately convicted.
I was sitting here yesterday deciding which clothes were too nice to give away, and which I would try to sell. Who was worthy and who was not?
I'm disgusted at myself, at what I've become. That is not me.
That neighborhood that she was talking about was in fact a neighborhood that I had been in not too long ago. In fact, I took a wrong turn and drove right through there. Right in the heart of Little China neighborhood off Central Avenue it stands. I told Angie, I'd just go drop them off (referring to the clothes I had just spent hours laboring over and dividing just the day previous), and she said it's not safe.
I was a little shocked by that statement. Since when did poor automatically equal danger? Only in America. Only from an outsider looking in. Although my friend happens to also be Thai, I doubt she knew what she was talking about, having grown up in America herself, from what I can tell by her obvious lack of Thai accent, obesity, and coupon clipping club, which she leads with humor. She is quite funny. I admire her for that.
As we sat there, me, Grace, Reece, and Sarah, them with their hogging of my internet connected phone, a plethera of games to choose from and argue later about, and me in keep vs give mode, they accidentally called Ms. Sykes.
My high tech gadget-like phone, I say that because I am not a techie, nor an appreciator of all things techie, has a function that when you press a key and say who you are calling it will automatically find the person whom you are calling, and if there is a duplicate, like in a many cases, when you have over 350 contacts in your phone like I do, it asks you to choose from several, and then it will dial.
Sarah was saying, "call Carole," and over and over again, because although she speaks very clear for a 4 year old, she doesn't pronounce Carole with a hard L, like most. The other names that popped up- I haven't a clue, but in this particular instance she pulled up the correct name. There popped up Carole Sykes, not her Momo, Carole, as she is lovingly referred to by the fam.
As Sarah is having this very non-descript conversation with "Carole," I noticed that something wasn't right. I grabbed the phone, as most mothers who let their children play with their phones have to do quite often, and low and behold, guess who it was. Bingo.
It was the new mayor, just carrying on a conversation with Sarah about God knows what. It was as if they were long time pals, just like me and Colette's friend had talked.
I congratulated her for winning mayor, which I bet wasn't THAT hard to do, considering the town is about as big as your local Super Target. Regardless, it was notable, and I am happy for her. We talked abotu 5-10 minutes, and she asked me if I ever made contact, to which I told her no. I also told her the name, but she didn't recognize it. She promised me she wouldn't tell anyone. I don't know if I believe her or not. You can never trust a politician.
In all actuality, I was glad she misdialed her. It was kind of a reminder that I need to get that letter in the mail. I'm assuming that the aunt has seen my picture by now. Anyone who Facebooks at all, at least checks in once a month. I think it's been over a month. Has it? I'm not sure. Who's counting?
I think people are starting to get bored with me talking about it. My inaction is leading to boredom and you know what happens when you get bored? You do stupid things....like say things like, "Do I look familiar to you?" to a complete stranger/aunt who may take one look at that picture, and like the friend of Colette's who gave her name and secret away on the phone to the search angel, Debi, her jaw might drop and say, "Oh My God, it's like looking in a mirror".
I don't think I ever actually shared with you how I found out Colette is my birthmom. The actual story is very interesting. I can't tell though, because the woman made me promise not to tell. It was divine intervention I believe now. Which makes me think Colette might really need me right now. Maybe I need her? I don't know. I can't share it yet. I made a promise, and like the men who march on Washington once a year, I will keep my promise.