There’s nothing to fear but … my affirmations

I was named after legendary poet Maya Angelou, so it’s about time I start inspiring and enlightening people with affirmations, cerebral sentiments and other thought-provoking thingies. I’m thinking about starting a Twitter page called “Hazey Perceptions” (get it, Hayes … Hazey?) and will aim to give Rev Run a run for his money. So without further ado, here’s just a sample of my Hazey Perceptions:

Don’t be afraid to dream. Don’t be afraid to hope. Don’t be afraid to — hey, who put this dead puppy here?

Love can light up the darkest heart in the darkest hour, but only if that hour coincides with Happy Hour and Love says “Next round’s on me.”

Show me a person who pickets outside an abortion clinic, and I’ll show you a person whose mom should’ve visited an abortion clinic.

Estrogen is insanity’s genesis.

Joy is a glimpse of Heaven, so enjoy whatever glimpses you get, because you’re not going there.

A kiss is an elixir for hate. And if that doesn’t work, just stab the bastard.

Constipation is God’s way of saying “Yeah, you really shouldn’t have eaten that.”

There is nothing worse than succumbing to your fears … while sitting in a pool of someone else’s urine. Nothing.

Fight your anxiety, find your happiness and finish what you start. And let me know when Rev Run steals this.

Loneliness is masturbation’s wing man.

Marriage is masturbation’s other wing man.

Listen to your tears; for they are wise. But stop crying like a bitch, OK?

Death is life’s greatest muse, but the “Purple Rain” soundtrack is a close second.

You can’t change the past, but I can, because I own a time machine.

If 99 people tell you that you’re special and one person tells you that you’re worthless, then shame on you if you don’t listen to your mother.

Texting while driving is irresponsible and unforgivable, except when I’m doing it.

Some people are born evil, and by “some people,” I mean the entire human race.

Optimism is driving on MLK Blvd. without a gun.

Denial is a world without affirmative action.

If perfectionism is unhealthy, then my father must be the healthiest person in the world.

Racism prevented blacks from inventing beer pong

For years, I’ve heard about the infamous game of beer pong, but this past weekend was my first time witnessing it first-hand. It’s definitely a fun game to watch, and I admire those who are proficient at it, but here’s why I will never play beer pong: Drinking games created by white dudes scare the crap out of me.

Have you ever hung out with white dudes? They like to take things to the extreme. They skydive and bungee jump, and do that Iditarod thingy. And have you seen the X-Games? Holy bleep.

So in keeping with their extreme behavior, white dudes like to drink. A LOT. And when they get bored boozing the old-fashioned way, they discover new drink combinations and methods of drinking to spice things up. It’s remarkable.

I’m certain that if I ever tried to drink like my white male counterparts, I would end up a) dead from alcohol poisoning b) kidnapped and sold like that chick from “Taken” or c) mentally retarded (well, more mentally retarded).

I know my limits. I just can’t do it.

And what motivates white guys to be so extreme anyway? Well, here’s my theory.

I think white guys feel guilty that they don’t have to put up with the racist bullcrap that minorities do. So to atone for this, they create stressful situations for themselves. And, really, what’s more stressful than falling out of an airplane without a damn parachute?

And they’re able to think of such creative things because when your mind isn’t distracted by thoughts like “Why is that cop following me?” or “Why is that store clerk following me?” or “Why is that watermelon truck following me?” then your mind is free to think of really creative things. Like drinking beer, using a tube connected to a funnel.

So to white men everywhere, I salute you and your extreme hobbies. And I look forward to watching another round of beer pong. From a safe distance.

Tired of dating? Try my M365X program

A lot of people claim to be dating experts. Not me. In fact, I’ve come to the realization that I’m the total opposite of a dating expert: I’m a dating repellent.

You’ve heard of that P90X program, right? Well, let me introduce you to the M365X program: “M” stands for Maiya and “365″ stands for the number of days each year you must devote to my regimen to achieve maximum results.

Like P90X, my program requires dedication, daily work and life-altering changes. Don’t get it twisted: Getting 0% of the attractive male population to ignore you isn’t easy. But, as I’ve learned first-hand, it can be done.

So, if you’re sick of dating and tired of getting phone numbers and compliments from guys, I’ll share with you my surefire plan for staying single. And when I say single, I mean Ted-Kaczynski-isolated-with-no-hopes-of-ever-dating single. I’m hard-core in all aspects of life — even loneliness. So without further ado, here are the mandates of the M365X program:

1. Have an awful work schedule

Avoiding prime opportunities to meet new people is essential to M365X. You’ll never find “the one” — or anyone for that matter — if you’re unable to frequent social settings like bars, clubs, etc. So, if possible, you should work nights and weekends. I do — Wednesday-Sunday, 5 p.m. to 12:30 a.m. — and it’s worked wonders. And if you’re in a relationship but trying to end it, nothing strains love more than working odd days/hours. Give it a try.

2. Go out in public looking as plain as possible

In theory, true beauty shines through. But in reality, Plain Jane gets jobbed. Guys say they like women who “look natural” and “aren’t high-maintenance,” but that’s bull. They want chicks like Paula Patton’s character from “Just Wright.” And hell, even Queen Latifah’s down-to-earth character in that movie still wore makeup and jewelry. Moral of the story: If you want guys to avoid you like the plague, then don’t wear makeup, jewelry and body-flattering clothes. I have extensive know-how in homeliness, because I’m a reformed tomboy who used to think that my decent looks and nice personality would be enough to get attention. Silly me.

3. Hang out with cuter, younger women

If you’re in your 30s, hanging out with attractive 20-somethings is a great way to get ignored by men. Men will gravitate toward the younger, pretty girls and shun us “old-timers” like lepers. I discovered this one night while socializing with two pretty young chicks. Both of them got tons of attention from guys. Me? I danced with a chain-smoking African who claimed he was 37 but looked at least 40.

4. Refuse to stop pining for the dude who doesn’t want you

There’s no better way to avoid dating than to fixate on someone whom you can’t have. You waste countless hours analyzing why you weren’t special enough to win his heart, and before you know it, prime dating opportunities have passed you by. Also, thinking that the guy is really attractive helps a lot, because then all other guys pale in comparison to him. It’s a great strategy and guarantees you’ll never date.

5. Live with your parent and own two cats

There’s nothing sexier than a 32-year-old with two cats who lives with her mom. Oh wait, yes there is. In fact, there’s nothing that ISN’T sexier than a 32-year-old with two cats who lives with her mom. So, if you want to kill any man’s desire for you, tell him about your black domestic shorthairs (haha that sounds perverted, doesn’t it?) and how you live in your childhood bedroom. Instant aphrodisiac.

6. Have really low self-esteem

Men are surprisingly perceptive — I say “surprisingly” because anytime they show aptitude in anything not involving sports, cars, guns or beer, I’m surprised. But yes, they can spot an insecure woman with relative ease, and it turns them off like Lorena Bobbitt holding a knife. So if you’re like me — and still carrying around daddy issues and memories of unmerciful teasing in middle school — you will never attract anyone. (Tip: If you have self-esteem, but want to damage it, then get cancer. You get tons of ego-deflating side effects, including body-image issues, and you’ll feel like you’re damaged goods. It’s great.)

Tribute to Shannon: Maiya’s creative writing (part I)

From January to April, I took a creative writing class at a local community college. I hadn’t been a student since 2000 and hadn’t written anything remotely creative in years. But much to my surprise, I got an A. And my professor is a really talented poet who doesn’t give out b.s. grades, so I’m proud of my A. Anyway, I thought I’d share a few of the things I wrote during the semester.

This first one is something I wrote during the playwriting segment of our class. Basically the assignment was to speak to someone who’s unable to speak back and tell him everything you always wanted to say. I chose the husband of Shannon Watson, who died of breast cancer on April 16, when she was just 29 years old. I met her at Gilda’s Club Metro Detroit, and I’ll be forever grateful that I did. She wrote an inspirational blog. Anyway, here’s what I wrote:

Shannon

Maiya Hayes, a 32-year-old woman, sits in a chair in her living room. Seated in front of her is Kevin Watson, a recent widower.

MAIYA. (Looking down at the floor, dejected.) I’m not sure why Shannon died. Wait, let me rephrase that. I know why she died. I guess what I’m trying to say is I don’t understand why she died so young.

(Shaking her head in disbelief.) Twenty-nine. Only assholes should die at 29. Child-molesters. Nun-stabbers. My father. Very few people know this, but I’m genetically half-black and half-asshole. My dear-old dad loves alcohol and telling lies more than he loves me. And my father is 60. All that alcohol, cocaine, marijuana, God knows what else, but that bastard’s never had anything worse than a cold. Yet Shannon got breast cancer and died. That’s not fair.

(Making eye contact with Kevin.) I can’t imagine what you’re feeling, and I can’t do anything to lessen your grief. As you said in your eulogy, you’ve lost your best friend, your soul mate. But I just wanted to let you know that her death affected me, too.

(Looking down. Eyes starting to tear up.) I’ve cried a lot since she died. While driving. While trying to fall asleep.  I cry because the world is less beautiful without her. (Beat.) Your wife was amazing. I only socialized with her a few times, but I could tell she was awesome. She was funny and positive and caring. She was beautiful, inside and out. I never once saw her get sad or angry. She was so strong.

(Deep sigh. Wiping away tears.) Ever since last week, I’ve been wondering why I’m alive and she’s dead. I’m 32. I’ve already had three more years on earth than she did. I’m not married. My family is small. I only have 188 Facebook friends. I don’t foresee myself contributing much to the world. But Shannon — she accomplished so much in such a short time. I can only imagine what other amazing things she would’ve done if she had lived longer.

(Looking Kevin straight in the eyes again.) I feel like I owe you an apology for living. That sounds crazy, right? But it’s how I’ve been feeling. Shannon and I both got breast cancer. So I should’ve died, not her. (Beat.) If I manage to avoid a recurrence and live a long life, it won’t be because I was stronger than Shannon or more worthy of longevity. It will just be shear luck.

(Holding her head in her hands.) Call it Survivor’s Guilt or whatever, but this whole situation just sucks to me. So to make it right, or at least try to, I’m going to honor Shannon’s life. I plan to spend the rest of my days on earth doing all kinds of anxiety-inducing, atypical-of-Maiya things. Because Shannon was brave, so I should be, too.

(A faint smile.) I know that she loved to snowboard. So guess what? I’m going to learn how to snowboard. I’ll probably suck at it, but I’m going to try it anyway. I also know that Shannon tried to make a list every day of five things she was grateful for. So I’m going to try doing that, too.

(Beat.) I hope that Shannon’s spirit is watching over you. Selfishly, I hope she visits me once in awhile, too, during times when I’m feeling fearful about what’s to come. But mostly I hope that wherever she is, she’s happy and free from pain. I hope I get to see her again someday, so that I can give her a big hug and thank her for being such a wonderful role model. Thank you for loving her. Thank you for listening to me.

Dr. Dre & ‘ThunderCats’: Thanks for devastating me

I didn’t know 30-year-olds got breast cancer — until I was diagnosed with it in 2008. But that wasn’t the first time I’ve been shocked. Here are other startling revelations I’ve discovered over the years. Hopefully you already know all these things, so they won’t devastate you, too.

1. Dr. Dre doesn’t write his own lyrics

“The Watcher” is one of my favorite songs on “Chronic 2001.” The first time I heard it, I thought: “Wow, Dr. Dre is a clever rapper.” So imagine my surprise when a friend told me that Eminem wrote the lyrics to that song and several other songs on the album. (And apparently Jay-Z wrote lyrics for that album, too.) At first I was like “No way!” But then I looked at the liner notes, and sure enough, Marshall Mathers’ name was everywhere. (And to be fair, Dre’s real name was listed on “The Watcher,” too, but come on, he probably wrote like two lines.) So now I just stick to thinking that Dre makes great beats.

2. “ThunderCats” sucked

“ThunderCats” was one of my favorite cartoons when I was a little girl. So as a freshman in college, I was overjoyed when I found out Cartoon Network was going to start airing “ThunderCats” reruns. The night it debuted on CN, my friends and I gathered around the TV all excited and happy. But about 10 minutes into the first episode, we all were stunned. Why? Because we realized that our childhood treasure was absolute garbage. I lost so much respect for 7-year-old Maiya. What was she thinking, liking a show that crappy? Maybe all that glue she ate caused brain damage.

3. Finding the good clothes at T.J. Maxx is hard

Most of the clothes I wore when I was younger were from T.J. Maxx and Marshalls. My mom is an amazing shopper, and she always managed to find great-looking clothes from designers like Ralph Lauren in those stores. So, naturally when I grew up and started buying my own clothes, I tried to do what she did. Epic fail. My first time in T.J. Maxx as an adult, I got so overwhelmed. Imagine the clearance-sale racks at Macy’s — that’s what every clothing rack looked like at T.J. Maxx. It took me forever to sift through all the clothes to find ones I liked. And now I avoid shopping there, because I just don’t have the patience to do it.

4. Janet’s “Rhythm Nation” hair was fake

“Rhythm Nation” is one of my all-time favorite albums, and it made me become a huge Janet fan. I loved her dance moves. I loved her songs. And I LOVED, LOVED LOVED her hair. So I was very disappointed when I discovered her hair was just a really, really awesome-looking weave. I had hoped I could have hair like hers someday, so my dream was crushed. Because even back then, I knew there was no way in hell I would ever be able to afford a high-end weave.

5. I weigh more than Floyd Mayweather and Shane Mosley

The weigh-in for the recent Mayweather-Mosley fight just happened to be on our big-screen TV at work. And I just happened to look up at the screen when both fighters’ weights were revealed. Much to my dismay, I weighed more than both of them. Mayweather is 5-foot-8 and weighs 146 pounds. Shane Mosley is 5-foot-9 and weighs 147 pounds. I am 5-foot-8 and weigh… none of your damn business. But let’s just say that if I weighed 146 or 147 pounds, I would be dancing a damn jig right now.

6. Big Macs are small

Big Mac, my ass. It should be called "Small Mac."

I ate Big Macs a few times when I was younger. But then I stopped eating McD’s completely because I fell in love with Burger King as a teenager (and I’m monogamous when it comes to fast-food burgers). So I probably went at least 10 years without eating a Big Mac. And when I did eat one, as an adult, I was disappointed by its size. I’m always still hungry after eating one, and that pisses me off considering it has 540 calories and 45 grams of fat.

Cancer, schmancer: Three celebs I can’t stand

As I said in an earlier entry, cancer survivors are often unjustly put on a pedestal. Yes, our will to live is impressive. Yes, we are awesome for enduring things like mastectomies, chemo and radiation. Yes, we are superior human beings.

But none of those things gives us permission to get away with shadiness. In other words, un-cancered folks, if we act like douches, please don’t hesitate to call us out on our douche-baggery.

Don’t let your guilt or admiration blind you to our faults, because we will exploit your unconditional love like strippers exploit lonely men. To show you what I mean, here are a few people impacted by cancer who are worthy of criticism and disdain.

1. Lance Armstrong

I have a tremendous respect for his LiveStrong organization, and there’s no denying that he’s a resilient man. And he was pretty funny as the ESPYs host several years ago. But I think he’s a cheater. Long before I got cancer, I thought Lance used performance-enhancing drugs to win all those Tours de France. My opinion stands. In fact here’s my really, really jaded theory: I think he got testicular cancer partially because he was taking all those drugs. And he broke Sheryl Crow’s heart, so that also put him on my sh*t list.

2. Ann Coulter

I really don't like this woman.

No, she’s not sick (sorry if I got your hopes up), but she lost her mom to cancer last year. I’m sure Ann’s mom was a nice lady with a good heart, you know, like how the Thorns were really nice people, too. But they still ended up raising the son of Satan.

I’m sure Ann misses her mom and it breaks my heart to see anyone grieve for a deceased loved one. But let’s not kid ourselves: Ann Coulter is a bitch who a) believes hateful, racist things or b) says hateful, racist things to get attention and make money. Either way, she’s a bitch.

3. Rudy Giuliani

His story is pretty simple. Man gets prostate cancer. Man gets mistress. Man successfully fights prostate cancer. Man successfully dumps wife for mistress. Man avoids major political fallout because he plays the 9/11 card better than I play the cancer card.

But that’s not why he’s worthy of scorn.

No, he didn’t earn that distinction until he spoke at the 2008 Republican National Convention. He demeaned Obama’s work experience, saying sarcastically: “He worked as a community organizer. (Pause) What?!” And then he followed that remark with a condescending laugh. (The 6:08 mark in the video below.) What a douche.

Why women can’t love sports as much as men

Anyone who knows me, knows I love sports. I have dedicated nearly half my life to sports journalism, and I spend at least 37.5 hours each week reading about sports.

But I’m convinced that no matter how much any woman loves sports, we are incapable of adoring athletics as much as men do. Why? Well, here are some reasons:

1. Selective memory

When it comes to the question: “What is valuable information to remember?” men’s and women’s brains have vastly different opinions. Women remember things like anniversaries, what to pick up at the grocery store and Alanis Morrissette lyrics. Men remember things like how many points Jordan scored in his final NBA game, what teams played in Super Bowl XX, and Jeter’s batting average in 2001.

2. Obsession preferences

Only an athlete as cute as Grady Sizemore could make a woman obsess over sports.

Women only fixate on two things: their looks and their love interests. Often times, those obsessions go hand in hand (i.e., we use our looks to lure our love interests). Men, meanwhile, also have two things they obsess over: video games and sports. They can spend an entire day focusing on either of those things, only taking breaks for food and trips to the bathroom. The only time women will fixate on sports with the same intensity as a man is when their love interest plays sports. In such rare cases as those, you’ll hear a woman say random facts about her sporty soulmate like: “Did you know Grady Sizemore was drafted by the Expos in 2000?”

3. Sports’ rules are silly

In typical male fashion, the creators of sports took simple games and used random numbers to complicate them. Nowhere is this more prevalent than the sport of tennis. In tennis, you don’t call zero “zero”; you call it “love,” (WTF?). And from there, the scoring goes 15, 30, 40, game (double WTF?). No woman has time to figure out that illogical crap; we’re too busy trying to figure out our illogical emotions.

4. Lack of testosterone

Testosterone is responsible for countless wars, arm-wrestling contests and brilliant ideas like “Hey, let’s jump off the roof and see what happens.” It fuels men’s competitive drive and makes them get angry over really, really stupid stuff. Even on her worst PMS day, a highly competitive woman couldn’t match a man’s competitive intensity or the rage he feels when his favorite team loses. What a pity. If only women had more testosterone, then we, too, would lose our ability to keep things in perspective. Sigh.