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RENEE

 

            “What the hell do you mean you can't find your birth certificate?”

            “I thought it was in my desk drawer, but when I looked a few minutes ago, it wasn't there.”

            I took a deep breath, drawing on the lessons bestowed upon me.  Patience is a virtue is right up there with do onto others as you want done onto you. Shit, I’ve been flunking both for years.

“Why did you wait until it’s time to leave to look for your birth certificate?” 

“I thought I had it,” Nadine mumbled.

            See, this is a prime example as to why I have very few female friends, because they are either catty or doing some stupid mess, like losing a damn birth certificate.

           I told my sister Lisa this wasn’t going to work, but she refused to hear me.  So listen to what I am about to tell you. Four women can’t spend a week in Jamaica together.

            Nadine, who I’m on the phone with now, is a notorious procrastinator.  I've been telling her big titty behind for almost three months that she needed a birth certificate.  I even went as far as to instruct her to put the darn thing in her suitcase so she wouldn’t forget it.  Now she wants to call me just as we’re getting ready to roll down to St. Louis to say she can’t find the damn thing.

           “Renee, what am I going to do?” I heard her say.

            “I don't know what you're going to do ’cause I told yo ass!”  What she needed was a miracle and my name sho’ in the hell wasn’t Helen Keller.

Glancing over at the digital clock on my nightstand, I noticed it was already after five and rolled my eyes.  “If you had taken the time to look for it an hour ago you could’ve ran downtown to Vital Statistics and picked up another copy.”

           “What time they close?”

            “They closed five minutes ago!  See, that's why I don't fool with you.”  Breathing heavily into the receiver, I tried counting to five but that shit wasn’t working. I had problems of my own.  My ex-husband was supposed to have picked up his kids at one o’clock.  As usual he was late. 

You know what?  I ain’t got time for this shit. 

“My advice to you is to keep looking and call me back.”  Without bothering to say goodbye, I punched end on the cordless phone then tossed it onto my bed.  I wasn't even about to worry about her right now. 

Beside, Nadine ain’t even my friend.  She’s my sister Lisa’s home girl. 

It doesn’t matter that Nadine and I used to blow spit bubbles together or the fact that her funky feet used to be in my face when she slept at the bottom of my bed. So what if I used to fart and pin her ass to the mattress so she had no choice but to smell it.  None of that shit counts. She’s still Lisa’s friend, not mine.  I just hang with Nadine from time to time ’cause she doesn’t have too many friends. After my sister moved to Texas her ass was acting all lonely and shit, so I felt sorry for her.  But regardless of how you want to look at it, Nadine ain’t my friend.  She’s Lisa’s home girl.

With her dilemma still fresh on the brain, I reached under my bed, pulled out my suitcase and decided that after all that ranting and raving I better make sure my passport hadn't expired. I believe it’s good for ten years.  My second husband was in the Army, and we lived overseas, but that's another story.

I found it between my vibrator and a box of magnum size condoms (hey a sistah’s gotta be prepared) and just as I thought, my passport was still good for another two years.  I tossed it into my purse and reached for my deodorant on the dresser.

           Hearing footsteps coming down the hall, I looked up to find my thirteen-year-old daughter Tamara, entering my room, followed by our Schnauzer, Nikki. 

“Mom, you need some help?” she asked me as she took a seat on my bed. 

           I shook my head.  “No, Princess.  Are you all packed?”

           “Yes, Mom.”

            “You got your toothbrush?”              

            “Yes, Mom.”

           “Plenty of clean underwear?”

            “Mom,” she groaned, “you already asked me that this morning!”

            “And I’m going to keep on asking, smart ass,” I retorted.  Who the hell does she think she’s talking to?  I don’t know what’s wrong with kids today.  If I had spoken to my mother that way she would’ve knocked my ass clear into next week. 

           Nikki jumped on top of my open suitcase.  Spoiled ass dog.  “Get down, Nikki,” I ordered.  Luckily she obeyed and jumped down, taking a seat near my daughter's feet, otherwise I would’ve thrown my shoe at her.  Don't get me wrong.  I love my dog.  We all do.  She’s been in our family for almost nine years, and I consider her part of the family.  Nevertheless, her ass is spoiled.  Have you ever heard of a dog that sleeps in the bed under the covers with her head on a pillow?  Rotten. 

            I looked over in time to see Tamara reach into my suitcase and pull out a size ten bikini I found on clearance at Wal-Mart.

She turned up her nose.  “Mom, I hope you ain't wearing this.”

           “Shoot!  I don’t know why not?”

            “’Cause, your stomach is too big.” 

“Whatever,” I mumbled as I snatched it from her hand.  I don't care how big my stomach is, not this week anyway. 

All four of us agreed that whatever happens in Jamaica, stays in Jamaica.  So if I want to wear a bikini and show my childbearing stretch marks then that’s my damn business.  I will never see any of those people again.  Besides, my stomach ain't that bad.  I'm the stomach crunch queen.  I just have a little pooch, nothing more…well, maybe a little more, but not that much. Nevertheless, after two kids, I still look good.  Smooth caramel skin, hazel eyes, small firm breasts (my shit don't sag), big legs, and a phat ass, ssshittt, you better ask somebody.

            I put the bikini back in my suitcase and took a quick inventory of its contents.  I had a swimsuit for all five days with flip-flops and butt wraps to match.  There were also sundresses, tops and shorts.  Yes, you better believe this sistah was prepared. “Princess, can you go get my blue jean shorts out the dryer?”

            “Aw’ight.”" She slid off the bed.  "Come on, Nikki."  On command, her dog rose and happily followed her down the hall.

           Before she got too far, I called after her.  “Before you do that, go call your dad.”  The sorry bastard.  

I'm sorry. I’m probably coming off as a bitch and I apologize.  I just have a lot on my mind these days.  A great deal of stress. When I get back from Jamaica, I have to make what I consider one of the biggest decisions of my life.  I have been putting it off for months and time has finally run out.

            By the time I inventoried my suitcase, my phone rang.  I looked down at my caller ID and saw it was my girl Kayla Sparks.

           “Whassup,” I greeted.

            She smacked her lips as she spoke. “Gurl, Nadine says she can't find her birth certificate.”

            “I know, she already called and told me.”

            “What’s she going to do?”

           “I don't know what she’s gonna to do.  I've been telling her the same damn thing for weeks and it went in one ear and out the other.”

            “She’s ridiculous.”

           I clicked my tongue.  “Tell me something I don't already know.”

           Obviously there wasn’t shit else she could tell me that I didn’t already know because she changed the subject. 

“I’ve already dropped Kenya and Asia off at my mom’s.  My bags are packed and I'm ready to go.”

           “So am I.  That is as soon as Mario’s sorry ass gets here.”

           “How much spending money you taking?” Kayla asked.

            “Not much. My car insurance was due.  I got enough to cover my half of the room and buy everyone a gift.”

           Kayla paused a second too long.  “I thought you were paying for our rooms with your credit card?” she finally said.

           “Excuse me?  I reserved our rooms on my credit card.  You need to pay for your half of the room when you get there.”  My statement was followed by another long pause.  Uh-oh, not another one.  I lowered onto the bed.  “You do have money for your room, right?”

            “No-o-o.  I thought you were paying for them and we were paying you back later.”

            “Y'all are fucked up! I'm not First National Bank.  I specifically said I would hold the rooms on my card.  I never said shit about paying for them.”

            “You’re silly.”  Kayla had the nerve to sound appalled.

           “No, y'all bitches are crazy,” I spat.  My other line beeped.  “Hold on.”