Alretha Thomas's Blog, page 2

A.K.A. Tony Soprano

When the clock struck five today, I logged off of my computer with a Kool-Aid smile on my face. It was time to close shop and I was thrilled. I love my job, but I equally enjoy spending time at home with my hubby. I bid my coworkers good night while I made my way to the lobby all perky and upbeat. When I turned to say goodnight to the receptionist, I noticed the face of a familiar actor plastered on the wide screen TV that hangs on the lobby wall. It was James Gandolfini. I wondered for a moment what he had done to make the news. My gaze shifted to the caption—James Gandolfini, dead at 51. A wave of sadness washed over me, and I was no longer a happy nine-to-fiver/writer on her way home. I became a dismayed fan and my mood quickly shifted from bubbly to blue. “Wow! Tony Soprano died of a heart attack,” I blurted out to anyone who was within earshot. A couple of assistants, also on their way home, expressed their shock and sadness while we rode the elevator down to the parking garage.

Nearing my car, I continued to try to wrap my head around the news that Tony had died. I know his real name is James, but I can’t shake Tony. That’s how I was introduced to this brilliant Emmy-winning actor who to me was an enigma wrapped in a mystery. I remember when “The Sopranos” was all the rage and every morning the office would be abuzz about the latest episode. At the time, I didn’t have cable or any of the movie channels, so I was clueless. At one point, I thought “The Sopranos” was about a group of singers like “Glee.” And if you’re a Sopranos fan, you know I was way, way, way, off. The closest reference to singing on the show was Sing Sing, the maximum security prison in New York.

One day my curiosity got the best of me and I rented the first few episodes. I went in not expecting much. Usually where there’s hype, there’s disappointment. The first time James appeared on screen, he got my attention. His screen presence was palpable. Granted, he wasn’t Matthew McConaughey or Denzel Washington, but there was something arresting about him. Perhaps it was his piercing glare or his boyish smile. I can’t really put my finger on what it was; I just knew I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. It soon became apparent that James was the nucleus of the show and that there couldn’t be a “Sopranos” without him. I went on to rent every episode and I loved them all. To date, I have to say “The Sopranos” is one of the best produced, directed, and acted dramas in the history of television. Every episode ended with my jaw on the floor. It was riveting television.

After watching the final episode where Tony and the family gather in a local restaurant, it occurred to me that it was a no-brainer why the show had been so successful and like many fans, I longed for the feature film. However, that never happened. And now James/Tony is gone, but definitely not forgotten!

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.

Disappearing Dad

What do Father Knows Best, The Brady Bunch, The Waltons, and The Cosby Show have in common, besides being some of the most beloved television shows in America? You guessed it—great dads—the kind of dads a fatherless girl like me longed to have. As I’m sure you know this Sunday is Father’s Day. It’s a day of celebration for many and for others it’s a day that conjures up bittersweet memories, feelings of loss, and abandonment.

There’s never been a Father’s Day that I haven’t wondered about my biological father. Why did he leave me? Where has he been all these years? Did he ever try to find me? Is he still alive? While growing up at one point I thought my stepfather was my bio-dad. When I found out he wasn’t, I was ecstatic, because he was a far cry from my favorite television dads. My mother told me my father’s name was Aaron Cooper and she said that I was just like him. Unfortunately, she told me ‘I was just like him’ when I did something to get on her nerves. I remember wanting to ask her more questions about my father, but I was afraid. Back in the day, children were to be seen and not heard. Now I wish I would have given her the third degree. “How did you meet him?” “Did you love him?” “Did he love me?” “Why did he leave?” My mother died when I was fourteen and I never built up the nerves or had the opportunity to drill her. Maybe deep down I didn’t want to know. Maybe I was afraid of the truth. She did tell me he has people in Pasadena and I did see pictures of him.

He was short and good-looking. I remember a black and white photo of him standing at a chalk board teaching. He was a Black Muslim and taught in the mosque. There was another snapshot of me as a toddler in the bath tub with him. His hair was slicked back and so was mine. We looked like twins. When I think about that photo of me in the tub with my father, I get a good feeling inside. He had to have loved me to take a bath with me or is that just wishful thinking? My oldest sister said he was crazy about me. Well, if he was so ‘crazy about me’ why did he let his little girl slip away?

Once I became an adult, my fascination with my father began to wane. I did contact a private investigator many years ago to see if I could locate him, but I never followed through. Yes, it was difficult growing up without my bio-dad and not having the unconditional love of a father did impact me in negative ways. Like a lot of women who grow up without a father, I looked for love in all the wrong places and I had negative self-worth. Thank goodness for God, healing, my grandfather, and other male role models in my life.

I’m not sure what I would do if I ever meant my father. He would have to be in his seventies. A lot of years have passed and he’s probably no longer living. By the way, I forgave my father many years ago for disappearing. And as an adult, I know relationships are tricky and life gets in the way. If my father is alive or dead, I hope he has or had a good life. I know in my heart of hearts, he’s thought about be over the years. Like every writer, I have a fertile imagination. With that said, here’s a conversation I oftentimes imagine my father having with someone who asks him if he has any children.

“I have a daughter somewhere in California. I haven’t seen her since she was a baby. I remember putting her in the tub with me. We both wore our hair slicked back. We look like twins. I miss her. You know her mother and I broke up and she just got away from me. One of these days I’m gonna find my baby girl. I pray she’s okay. I love her, I really do. I should have never left. So many years have passed and I feel so guilty. I wish I would have done better in life. I feel ashamed for her to see me like this, broke down, penniless. But that’s no excuse. A girl needs her father and a father needs his girl. One of these days…for real…one of these days…”

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.

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

Two Thumbs Way, Way, Up For Roger Ebert

I remember the first time I came across the show “At the Movies.” Bored, I was channel surfing, hoping to find something entertaining to watch. It was the early 80’s and there weren’t a thousand stations to choose from. The show featured two guys sitting in an empty theater discussing the latest film releases. The sight of them made me chuckle for a moment, because in a strange way, they reminded me of Laurel and Hardy. Gene Siskel, Roger’s co-host, was thin like Laurel, and Roger was round like Hardy. But unlike the comedic duo, what they did on a weekly basis was no laughing matter. It was serious business and for me and countless others, they quickly became the go-to gurus when you wanted a critic’s opinion about a movie.

It didn’t take long for me to start tuning in on a regular basis, and I found myself agreeing with Roger more than I did with Gene. Perhaps it was Roger’s cool-looking specs that gave him an edge. He just seemed wise and his analysis of what worked and what didn’t work in a movie was always spot-on. The way he would look up at the screen with his chin jutted forward and his hands clasped on his lap drew me in. I even liked the sound of his voice and how it would rise just a tad bite when he and Gene disagreed on a film.

Who was this avuncular, teddy bear man I had become so fund of? I did a little research and was surprised to learn he was only 5’ 8”. Sitting in that theater chair, speaking with such authority, he seemed bigger than life. He was an only child. I could imagine Gene probably became the brother he never had. The chemistry between the two was palpable. He was a writer and to date has written 15 books. He’s been a member of the Chicago Journalism Hall of Fame since 1997. In 1993, along with Gene, he was voted Hollywood Radio and Television Society's Co-Man of the Year. He’s seen approximately 10,000 films in his lifetime.

Roger’s accomplishments, the majority of which are not listed above, are numerous and speak to his brilliance and talent. But out of all the wonderful things he managed to do while here with us, I’m most impressed with the way he handled his bout with cancer. He was dignity and honor personified. In spite of his illness, he continued to write tirelessly and review films. It makes me wonder if under the same circumstances, I would continue to do what I love—write. Two thumbs way, way, up for Roger for being such a great role model. His friend Gene passed in 1999. With my fertile imagination, I can see the two of them in Heaven with a new show called Roger and Gene’s ReVIEWS From Above. Rest in peace, Roger!

On the Fast Track

For the past twelve years, I’ve commuted from Covina to Century City and back. When I add it all up, I’ve driven 218,880 miles and have sat in traffic for 420 days—that’s more than a year. I’m LMBO right now. It’s amazing to me that I’ve covered that much ground and that I’ve sat in traffic for over a year! By the way, I’m on my third car. The first two were used and my latest is new. It’s the first new car I’ve ever owned in my life, and now that I’ve gotten a taste of what it feels like to drive new, I’ll never go back to a hooptie.

Back to the numbers! At 218,880 miles, I could have driven around the world 8 times, gone to Lagos, Nigeria and back 14 times, and traveled from Los Angeles to New York and back 39 times. Did you know that there are approximately 218,000 miles of railroad track in the U.S? Yep, your girl has been on the road. I know crazy, huh. Look, I was just like you. Never in my wildest nightmares did I think I could drive that far to and from work. When I’d hear about it taking someone two and three hours to get home, I’d shake my head and think to myself that they were crazy. But when my husband and I decided to buy a house we wanted to get some bang for our buck and at the time, houses near my place of employment or even within twenty miles, were too expensive. And if they were affordable, they were the size of a doll house. By the way, this was before the subprime lending debacle.

It hasn’t been easy and it’s taken a toll. On some rainy days it’s taken me up to three hours to get home. How did I do it? I listened to a lot of talk radio, played a lot of CDs, and talked to a lot of folk on the phone, especially my oldest sister. I have to give her props, because she has gotten me through my commute during times when I just wanted to park my car on the ten freeway, jump on the hood, and holler, “I can’t take it anymore!” Well, I’m here to tell you that God does answer prayer.

About a month ago I started noticing signs regarding the Metro Express Lanes. At first I thought it was just a modification of the carpool lane, but it’s much more than that. The fast track allows solo drivers to get into these two new fast lanes on the ten freeway. I remember the week it opened up seeing drivers doing 100 miles an hour on the ten, while I was stuck in traffic going negative 10 miles an hour with countless other burned out drivers. I’d look over at the fast lane and it would be empty for miles and every now and then there would be a flash. What the! So I did some research and joined the FastTrack Program and it’s costing me less than $60 dollars a month and has taken about 40 minutes off of my commute! It’s a miracle.

I really have a feeling that God is preparing me for the next great transition in my life. It’s like when a story is about to come to an end, everything becomes easier and comes together. The story of my life as a commuter is about to come to an end and soon the only trip I’ll have to make will be the one from my bedroom to my home office, and instead of sitting in traffic, I’ll be sitting at the computer writing my next novel!

Alice in Wanderland

I met Alice twenty-seven years ago, and like the Alice in the 1865 novel, “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” she was beautiful inside and out, with blonde hair, crystal blue eyes, and a spirit that lit up a room. Over the years, Alice and her husband Mike have been my biggest fans—attending my numerous plays when I was pursuing acting and more recently, when I was producing and directing. When I discovered my purpose and passion—novel writing, they cheered me on and have never doubted once that I’d be successful.

When I met my husband, I couldn’t wait to introduce him to Alice and Mike. I’ll never forget the look on Alice’s face when my husband walked into their house. She held her head back and peered up at his six-foot, three-inch frame and he looked down at her barely four-feet, eleven-inch frame and they both curled over in riotous laughter. “My you’re tall!” Alice who never failed to speak her mind, proclaimed. I couldn’t help but think that Alice had drank the same potion Alice in Wonderland drank that made her small and that my husband had eaten the cake that had made her tall.
From that moment on, my husband grew to love Alice and Mike as much as I did and sometimes I felt, even more. If too much time passed, he would ask “Have you called Alice and Mike recently?” I would scrunch my face and murmur, “No.” Then I’d grab the phone and call them. As soon as he would hear my voice, Mike would ask, “Alrita, is that you?” I didn’t mind him mispronouncing my name. There’s something endearing about it. Then he would yell out to Alice, “It’s Alrita.”

Alice and Mike became our favorite couple friends and we admired how much they loved each other. So when I called them last month, I was saddened to learn that Mike had to have Alice put in a home. Alice has Alzheimer’s and Mike is no longer able to give her the support she needs. He said it all started with her mind wandering aimlessly. He said she began to forget things and even who he was at times. I could hear him choking up while he talked about how difficult it was to put her in the home.

Yesterday, I visited Alice and as soon as she laid eyes on me, she lit up with her trademark smile, and her blues eyes, now a little cloudy, still had a familiar spark. She smothered me in kisses and held my hand. She looked well. I took in the house where she lived and the other residents. I got a good vibe and thanked God that Mike had found a nice second home for her. We talked and she appeared to be confused about things, and I wasn’t sure if she knew my name, but I got a sense that deep within the parts of her mind that were still lucid, she knew it was “Alrita”—the woman she had known for almost three decades, the woman whose dream it is to become a published author.

While Alice squeezed my hand, we exchanged knowing looks and told each other how much we loved each other. Life’s amazing and the only sure thing is change. Here was the vibrant woman I had met twenty-seven years ago, in a different place and space with a different mind, but with the same love that has held our friendship intact over the years. I guess it all makes sense. My husband’s nickname for me is “Rabbit.” There I, the Rabbit sat, next to Alice, praying that she doesn’t fall down any holes and that she holds onto what little memory she has left and the love she and Mike have shared for more than fifty years.

From the Manuscript's Mouth

I can barely breathe with all these guys and gals sitting on top of me. Together they must weigh a ton. I heard two women the other day chatting over Lattes, and if my memory serves me well, the one at the top’s almost five hundred pages long. Shoot, that’s almost a ream. The taller of the two women said it was really too long and that she’d only agreed to read it because someone called Senior Editor asked her to. She’s gonna be a senior by the time she gets through readin’ that tome. I’d wish she’d go ahead and pull him, because I don’t think I’m going to survive the night.

Well at least I’m not in that pile by the window. It’s gotta be ten feet tall and rumor has it, that bunch’s called the slush pile. From what I gather, they crashed the joint. Nobody invited them and from the looks of things, nobody wants them either. Poor things. Lucky me, I’m in what’s called the agented pile. We’re the elite. We were requested. Yep! The people at this here publishing house got wind of our greatness via a one page letter that’s called a query and asked us to be sent right over. We didn’t come in this form. Originally we were sent via email and then a bunch of interns printed us out. I’m about 300 pages. The gal directly on top of me feels like she’s weighs about 280 pages. Hmm, I’m not used to being on the bottom, if you get my drift. If truth be told, I’m just glad to be here. It’s been a long journey. I started out as a wee thought and then that mushroomed into a chapter, and then more chapters, and finally a first draft, and then after months and months of blood sweat and ink, I became a polished manuscript.

Over there against the wall in that glass case are books. That’s my dream—to have a cover and a spine—to be a genuine book. Unfortunately, there’s no guarantee that’s gonna happen. I have to get past the woman who sits in this office. She’s called an Acquisitions Editor. Not only does she have to finally read me, but once she does, she has to fall madly in love with me. That’s a lot of pressure on a guy. And even if she does, she may second guess herself and ask someone else to check out my wares and they may not think I’m as captivating. If I do make it through round two, than I hear there’s a bunch of other folk that have to put their two cents in. Sales and marketing and a scary group called THE BOARD. It’s like death row, man. I’ve heard some horror stories about that bunch. Talk about leading a guy on.

There was this one fella everyone was talking about. His name was ringing through the hallowed halls of this joint. “Potential Bestseller!” Yeah, that’s what they were calling him. I’ll never forget the big smile plastered on the acquisition editor’s face when she came to work on that Monday. I knew she was sprung. I saw her put “Potential Bestseller” in her duffel bag along with three other guys on the previous Friday night. Oh she got whipped that weekend. She was on the phone Monday morning bragging about this dude. Said he made her cry and everything. When you can make them shed tears, you definitely have skills.

Anyway, she got all the way to THE BOARD and those blowhards kicked them both to the publishing curb. Ouch! According to the sales department the numbers weren’t adding up. Last I heard, “Potential Best Seller,” aka “Pretty Boy Floyd,” fell into a depression, got on the sauce, and ended up in a twelve-step program. Now clean and sober, he’s makin’ a killin’ as an Ebook on the Internet. Go figure.

Ssshh! Here she comes. I better be quiet. Boy, she looks mighty spiffy today. I sit here quietly well she flops down in her leather chair and peers at her Smartphone. It rings. She answers it. “Talk to me!” Boy she’s sexy. “Yeah, I got it. It’s right here on my desk..I’m taking it home tonight…Hold on a minute.” Wow, some lucky devil from the agented pile is finally gonna get read. She rifles through the stack and I stifle a giggle when she touches me. “There you are. What are you doing hiding under there?” Oh my goodness, I’m the lucky devil! She gets back on her phone and says, “I got it. It’s done…I believe you. Let me read it for myself. Every book you send over is a bestseller, Hal.” Hmm, bestseller…Wow, look at me!