In December 2010 when the Mega Millions jackpot reached $237 million, I posted on Facebook my plans for such a windfall.

I’ll board my private jet to South Africa and spend New Year’s in a Stellenbosch chalet, then head to Japan for sushi. Then it’s off to Tuscany for pasta. After a spa vacation in the south of France, I’ll return to the States, where my personal driver Reeves and lover Maxwell will escort me to the homes of the people who have ticked me off, so I can tell them to kiss…my…

And I meant it.

Today, the jackpot is a whopping $640 million. Yo, it’s SIX HUNDRED AND FORTY MILLION DOLLARS!!!

When the pot increased from the already jaw-dropping $500 million it was just a couple days ago, I came up with a new plan: Buy a Stellenbosch chalet, buy a swank condo in a Tokyo high-rise, buy a rustic Tuscan home, hell buy the south of France. It’s SIX HUNDRED AND FORTY MILLION DOLLARS!!! And way more people have pissed me off since then, so I’ll need Maxwell, Eric Benet, Kem, and Gary Dourdan to escort me around.

Then the little angel in the white gown and halo appeared on my left shoulder and argued with the dude with a pitchfork and horns on the right one.

“Now, Tiff,” he said. “You know that’s a lot of money. No need for you to be completely selfish and keep it all to yourself. There’s a lot of need in the world. Remember, you were taught to loving and giving.”

Okay, okay, okay… New plan again. When I win the $640 million tonight, here’s what I’ll spend it on:

1. Schools. Bump the federal government. Congress will never get its act together. I’ll start in the South – where I live, where my ancestors grew up and taught, and where the need is greatest – and tear down those dilapidated structures called “schools,” and I’ll begin building places where children can actually learn. Places filled with computers and up-to-date books and cafeterias that serve healthy foods. I’ll supplement them with neighborhood playgrounds. Hopscotch. Hula Hoops. Jump ropes. Yes, I’m bringing childhood back. Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Arkansas, and South Carolina, I’m coming your way first. Right after a swing through my native Ohio.

Read more …

I wear many hats in my real life. Free-spirited creative writer. Conformist corporate employee. Mentor to youth. Pain in the butt to adults. I’m equal parts left-brain/right-brain, so I spend as much time discussing books and politics as I do problem-solving and number crunching. Believe me when I tell you that I experience myriad kinds of crazy – from agitating to nutty to absurd – on a daily basis. My own mental ambidextrousness notwithstanding.

First there’s the “I’ve-had-all-I-can-take-and-I’m-about-to-go-upside-someone’s-head” agitation. We’ve all suffered from it, and we’ve all caused it. You know I’m speaking truth. Fortunately, this type of crazy is temporary. There are treatments and exercises.

Then there’s the “Really?-You-can’t-be-serious-with-this-ish” nuttiness. Now, this form of crazy isn’t as fleeting as the aforementioned diagnosis. It’s like the cold vs. the flu: Both make you sick, one just takes more time and effort to overcome.

Finally, there’s the “You-know-what?-You’re-just-unbalanced” absurdity. Any attempt to deal with this form of crazy is futile. Just smile, nod your head, say “Okay,” and keep it moving. Run, actually.

Here’s the deal. Crazy is often allowed to walk around unsupervised. And in supervisory positions. There is no escape. There is no hiding place. There is no way around it.

Read more …

Years ago, I was dating this guy who I was absolutely crazy about. He was funny, and kind, and, oh, so handsome. We were doing great until one night we went there… to that incredibly foolish place couples go to when they decide to ask stupid questions, like: “What is the most romantic thing you’ve ever done for someone else?”

Why, Lord?

Before you read any further, please remember that I was much younger then. I’m older and wiser now, and I know to just lie. (*kidding*) But Younger Tiff actually parted her lips and told the story of how I had once sent Valentine’s Day candy and balloons to a guy who I had a secret crush on. (Incidentally, Older Tiff knows better than to do this again, too.) I thought telling the story made me seem bold and confident. Ha! Dude was ticked. Poked his lips out and everything.

“Sooooo…” he said, and I knew I had said the wrong thing, “why haven’t you done something like that for me?”

Uh, oh.

Read more …

Workplace stories are great.

My friends – teachers, lawyers, doctors, movie producers, and Realtors – tell stories worthy of primetime sitcom skits. I wanted to share them here, but they won’t let me. Not all of them anyway. Something about client privileges, and good taste, and copyrights, and privacy, and stuff.

However, they gave me some good material, and my efforts to create a Top 10 list from it will not be thwarted.

In the stranger-than-fiction files, I once worked at a place that, in an effort to “improve communication,” forced all employees to move to new workspaces. It took weeks, but in the end we all packed our books and computers and personal effects and landed at new desks – exactly one cubicle to the left. No exaggeration, I sat in between the same two people; we had just rotated one seat counter-clockwise. We communicated more, though. Mainly to sarcastically laugh at how ridiculous and disruptive the whole thing was.

My friend’s former boss encouraged her to skip jury duty so she wouldn’t miss any time at work. Nothing says leadership like rewarding your employees for shirking their civic duty and committing a crime in the process.

Read more …

That’s me at the Cape of Good Hope during a previous reboot…

In about a week I’m going to leave for a month-long vacation. It’s more than a vacation, actually. I’m calling it “Tiff’s 2012 Reboot.” Believe me, I need it. I’ve been cranky, apathetic, and unfocused. I’m all jacked up. I haven’t been exercising, my diet sucks, and I’m becoming a bit antisocial. Not a good look. Literally or figuratively.

I don’t like feeling this way at all. Fortunately, none of my friends have abandoned me, and none of my coworkers have reported me to HR, so if I keep my mouth shut and attempt a smile every now and then, I may get through the next week and onto the plane without incident.

A few things led up to this necessary reboot. Mainly, I don’t feel challenged. I can get through the bulk of my day without thinking much at all. So I don’t. They say use it or lose it. I’m losing it.

Also, I’m a creative type. I need stimulation. I need freedom, and I need room to grow. I get what I’ve dubbed “mental claustrophobia” real quick. You think folks go bananas when they get stuck in an elevator? Ha! Imagine having zillions of ideas cramped in your head with no time or no outlet to express them. It’s suffocating.

Read more …

I’m the square peg in my sisterhood circles. I’m always the one in the slacks and long-sleeved shirt while they rock the sexy sundresses. I’m Calvin Klein and Banana Republic; they’re Gucci and Dolce & Gabbana.

I’m Nick at Nite; they’re in the know, clued in to the hottest clubs and restaurants and celebrity news that I could care less about.

I have no problem swinging through the mall in my Nikes and yoga pants. They. Would. Just. Die.

But when we get around the dinner table, a little wine flowing and dessert on the way, we do what all girlfriends do. We dish on the men in our lives: Those who have come, those who have gone, and those who won’t go away.

In recent outings I’ve noticed another difference between my life and theirs. I seem to be the only one who doesn’t dislike any of my former boyfriends. I don’t cringe when mine call or text; I don’t block them on social networks; I don’t hide when I see them across the street.

The fact that there have been breakups doesn’t necessarily mean someone did something wrong. It just means we weren’t right for each other, and we recognized that, spoke about it maturely, and made the decision to separate.

That doesn’t mean mistakes weren’t made. It doesn’t mean feelings never got hurt. It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t go back and change some things if I could. (If you ever see me getting a little choked up listening to Lauryn Hill’s “Ex-Factor” or Brian McKnight’s “Anytime,” just give me a minute. I’ll be all right.) I have regrets, but they don’t include the overall relationships.

Note that I said “relationships.” Not, “I’m-getting-to-know-you dating.” Not, “We’ve been hanging out as friends and I kind of dig you.” And please don’t make me go over the difference between being in a relationship and having relations. We’re all grown here. You know.

So before I get into the reasons why I don’t dislike any of my former beaus, let’s define “relationship.” If you can put a checkmark in three or more of the boxes below AND YOU DON’T DO THOSE THINGS WITH EVERYONE YOU MEET, you can call it a relationship:

• You’ve prepared their breakfast, lunch, and dinner on separate days
• You’ve watched them sleep
• You bought feminine products (men)
• You smiled and nodded instead of cussing when his mother said you can’t cook (women)
• You met their parents and spent time with them on a holiday
• You let them have the last potato chip, slice of cake, or parking spot
• You sent a love letter that you wrote, not typed
• You sincerely apologized and hoped it worked
• You let them answer your phone
• You spent days and/or a tank of gas looking for the perfect birthday gift

Now I know nothing on this Top 10 list is foolproof. Some people just lie, connive, or flip out, and you can’t do anything about it but end the relationship and wait for the bitterness to subside. But I’ve been fortunate – with the exception of some teenage and college-era foolishness – and here’s how I’ve managed to date people who I don’t dislike after the breakup:

Read more …

Happy New Year! I hope everyone is as optimistic and excited for 2012 as I am.

From what I see on Twitter and Facebook this morning, it looks like you revelers had a pretty good time with your Champagne, and your parties, and your spiffy new clothes. I see you in those sexy poses, sitting at the bar, getting it in on the dance floor. Holla!

I had a pretty good evening myself. I’m not admitting to anything, but let’s just say I might – might – have enjoyed a sip or two of the bubbly stuff, as well. Might even have busted a move of my own. Holla!

I’m glad we all had a fun, safe evening, but we’re all grown here. Let’s just say this and get it out of the way: Some of us (you know who you are…) are getting a little too old for some of the antics we’re bragging about this morning. And we know good and well that as soon as we finish our black-eyed peas and collard greens, we’re immediately going back to bed to sleep it off.

Now, that’s not to say that we’ve done anything wrong. It was New Year’s Eve… A party after all… Sometimes, so much fun is being had that we don’t realize until the next morning that maybe… perhaps… probably… we can’t celebrate the way we used to ten years ago.

But, boy, do we realize it the next morning.

Now, I’m not saying I’ve experienced any of the scenarios mentioned below. This Top 10 list comes from extensive research and numerous interviews. I’m just sharing what I’ve learned. (*wink*) Just so you know, you are too old to do whatever you did last night if:

1. You woke up this morning with something aching and you’re not sure why. You know what I’m talking about. Random joints pop when you move. Your knee feels swollen. Your lower back is sore. Your neck has a crick in it. No, you did not “sleep wrong.” Your days of “pick it up, pick it up, pick it up” without ice packs or two Aleve are over. Done.

2. You checked your phone and found texts, tweets, status updates, or photos you don’t remember, or you got a “So-and-So confirmed you as a friend…” notification, and you don’t recall sending the request. You’re a) too old to drink that much and b) old enough to know better.

3. You woke up with Yuck Mouth because of dehydration, and once you managed to get out of bed, you couldn’t function until you shot a bottle of water or Gatorade. Try drinking more fluids before you go out next time. You might need to carb up, too.

4. Some random song like “Tell Me Something Good” by Rufus and Chaka or “Dial My Heart” by the Boyz is stuck in your head and you’re struggling to remember why. Once this starts happening, begin a daily Gingko biloba regimen.

5. You took a beat to remember how you got home or what day it is, then breathed a sigh of relief once you realized you didn’t have to be anywhere and could sleep until noon. Then you sleep until 2 p.m.

6. Assuming you woke up at your house (*ahem*), you found yourself sleeping on the couch, on the floor, in the bathtub, or somewhere other than in your bed. (This, of course, could also lead to the ailments in No. 1.)

7. The sounds of birds chirping, the thermostat kicking on, and a vibrating cell phone are amplified 1000 times, but you’re too exhausted to get up and do anything about it.

8. The first words out of your mouth are: “I’m never doing that again…”

9. You’re in the bathroom making promises to God, like, “If you get me through this, I’ll never do it again.”

10. You say to yourself, “Next year, I’m just gonna go to church…” And you mean it.

I’m not the world’s most organized person. Not by a long shot. But when it comes to Christmas shopping, Tiff don’t play. I was done before Thanksgiving.

I’ve been chillin’ for the past couple weeks, sipping lavender tea and cracking up at my friends’ frustrated texts and tweets about being stuck in traffic, rude salespeople, and the shortage of LeapFrog accessories. NaNaNaNa Naa Naaaa!!! My nephew’s Scout and Baby Einstein piano have long been shipped to Ohio, wrapped and ready for baby boy to crack open on Christmas morning.

This Top 10 list is for those of you holiday revelers who wait until the last minute. I know many of you are busy, so I’m going to keep this short (unlike the lines you’re waiting in) and sweet (unlike the disposition of those other last-minute shoppers battling you for a parking spot.)

So, with very little preamble, I want you to know that you are wrong if you purchase, wrap, and distribute any of the gifts below:

1. Anything you bought at Walgreen’s, 7-Eleven, or a gas station. Note: Jean Nate’ and Charly body splashes are not sexy. Also, those $9.99 or 3 for $25 T-shirts may have hysterically appropriate phrases like “I shook my family tree and a bunch of nuts fell out,” but they aren’t really a good deal. They’ll likely start to unravel after the first wash.  

2. Anything with your company logo on it. The receiver is kinda gonna know you wrapped up your office freebie. Regifting AND cheap? Not a good look.

Read more …

Growing up, Thanksgiving was one of those holidays we always spent with family. Everyone. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, second-cousins, play-cousins, church folk, good friends. It was hours of food, football, and foolishness.

I went to college in Virginia and for four years didn’t spend Turkey Day in my native Ohio. I rarely get to the Buckeye State as an adult, either. But I’m fortunate. Along the way I’ve picked up friends who are like family, and every year someone takes Tiff in as a play cousin and makes sure I get my fill of turkey, ham, macaroni and cheese, and collard greens. On a few occasions I’ve even prepared the meal myself and invited friends to dine in my home.

I laugh a lot thinking of Thanksgiving Days past — Dry turkeys. Kiddie tables. Fights over the remote control – and I’ve come to a conclusion: Family holidays no matter the family are as nutty as pecan pies. But like pecan pies, we find ourselves sitting with them every November, knowing they’re going to be just as nutty as last year but looking forward to them nonetheless.

As my holiday gift to you, I’m sharing a few things I’ve learned about Thanksgiving and the craziness that is a family holiday meal.

So, in no particular order, here are ten Thanksgiving Day scenarios you may encounter and how to handle and/or avoid them:

1. This first one I can’t stress enough. Do not – I repeat, do NOT! – attempt a new recipe on Thanksgiving. I don’t care how tasty Mark Bittman says his raw buttered squash with cranberries is, or how simple Rachel Ray’s brown rice with hazelnuts seems, or how many times Emeril BAM’ed! while preparing his roasted pear salad with endive and pomegranates. No, no, and no. Give those dishes a whirl on your own time during the new year. Then, if you’re feeling brave enough next November, try it on Big Mama ‘nem.

Read more …

Last night I attended Jill Scott’s Block Party and had the most fun I’ve had this year. Not only did I enjoy the musical lineup — which included Mint Condition, Anthony Hamilton, DJ Jazzy Jeff, Doug E. Fresh, and Jill – I couldn’t have been more pleased with the crowd.

There were couples dancing, girlfriends sharing wine and enjoying each others’ company, men acknowledging women respectfully. There was laughing, joking, singing along with the artists, old-school dance-offs… And I can’t tell you how many times folks (myself included) pumped fists in the air and screamed: “That’s my JAM!” From where I sat, it was an amazing display of fun-loving people out having a great time

For the past couple years people have promoted concerts and parties, particularly those attended mainly by African-Americans thirty- and forty-somethings, as “grown and sexy.” Honestly, I cringe every time I hear “grown and sexy” and stay far, far away from events described as “grown and sexy” because instead of conjuring images of well-dressed professionals having a good time, I get flashbacks of white leisure suits, horrible pickup lines, a tad too much body art, and the occasional scent of an uncontrolled substance. I fear men, though perhaps well intentioned, who are either too young to wear that Granddaddy-smelling cologne or too old to “holler” at me. And I’m annoyed by women who walk around describing how classy and sophisticated they are (because we wouldn’t know otherwise) or who push past others so they can order their white zinfandel or amaretto sours.

I was trying to come up with a “grown and sexy”-ish phrase to describe last night’s crowd and how we can all behave to make sure more events end that way as opposed to what we see in the YouTube videos passed around on Facebook. You know the ones.  But I couldn’t come up with anything. So instead, here’s a list, in no particular order, of how to know whether you’re really grown and/or sexy:

#1: You use the name on your birth certificate or something close to it when you introduce yourself. Not, “Hi, I’m David. But you can call me Hotness,” or “My name is Michelle, but everyone calls me Bright Eyes.”

Read more …