Love on the Rocks—Oh! What a surprise! Chapter 5
Parkville Jr. High was a long distance from our house on Cliffwood Road. I had to get up and walk down the road to catch a bus. The ride on “the bus” was not a cool thing. The kids were loud and always pushing me out of their way. Thank goodness that Shellers and Jazmin had gone to a different school ‘cause I would have been beaten up the first time I put my hand on my hip and said, “Scuse me.” ...Continue

Love on the Rocks--Oh, What a Surprise!
Now as I tell my life story, I am reminded of my first title—“Miss White Trash”. Let me explain. The entire time I was growing up, my mom, Betty Lee, and I went grocery shopping at A&P on Kenwood Avenue. A family of six was fed on $100 a week—really. My allowance for cooking and cleaning and doing dishes seven days a week was a weekly National Enquirer. Well, honey, I thought I was queen of the castle with my Enquirer. Little did I know what a queen I was! ...Continue

Love on the Rocks—Oh, What a Surprise! Chapter 2
Well, kindergarten was not what I thought it was going to be. Monday through Friday, I was up at 6:30 a.m. and got dressed and combed my hair. I had the worst “white boy” straight hair in all of Baltimore. After breakfast at home (which is a chapter in itself) with my mom yelling, “Time to get up you little bastards,” with a cig hanging from her mouth and an over-hard egg hanging from the spatula, Jimmy and I would walk down the power lines to school. A bus came at the corner of Cliffwood Road and Kenwood Avenue, but we walked down the power lines and beat the bus. ...Continue

Love on the Rocks—Oh, What a Surprise!
As I sit here thinking about writing my life story, I can only ask, “What am I thinking? Who the hell would live through all this shit?” Well, I did and I am still kicking. ...Continue

Love on the Rocks: Oh What Surprise!
Oh, the way things that things have changed. Oh, oh, but the way some things are still the same damn way. But, anyway, the 70s…. First and second grade do not have any memories. The third grade at Elmwood was the beginning of my “troubled youth” or “running my big mouth.” Mrs. Smyths, or as I frequently called her, Mrs. Shitts, with her “excuse me,” and her hand on her hip. Well, all I can say is, “Thank you to the Shiits or the Smyths.” I used that line one thousand times over the next 20 years. “Excuse me!” ...Continue