The Perfect Note Strikes Just the Right Tune

I had the opportunity to visit a new spot in my area, Hoover, Alabama’s Perfect Note, a quaint spot for live music and delish dinner and brunch. Only opened since April 2016, in the old Piccadilly restaurant space off of Highway 31 past the Galleria Shopping Mall, The Perfect Note is just what the city needs to combine the best of both worlds, music and food, and is surely on its way to being an amazing fixture in our community.

What drew me in was an invitation to hear a live tribute to His Purple Majesty Prince Rogers Nelson (RIP) from Alabama-born musician Norris Jones while also enjoying FOOD. What made me return the very next day for brunch with some women from my family was the fun time I had the night before and, well, FOOD. Let me pause on the food talk for a bit and just say that Norris Jones was NOTHING short of ah-mazing!!!! He took us to church, to Paisley Park, to Donnie Hathaway-world, to Earth, Wind and Fire-place, to Jeffrey Osborne-town, Luther-land and some other funky place called Chicken which made me holler! He and his accompanying band of young brothers and his vocal partner in crooning Connie Jackson are a well-kept secret, but hopefully not for too long. They were a TREAT!

Between the two days I was able to order or sample traditional regional favorites like Southern Style Crab Cakes and Fried Green Tomatoes which were DELISH and fried to perfection! Entrees like Chicken and Waffles with candied pecans and the most mouth-watering strawberry molasses were a hit. I could have used more seasoning on the fried chicken, but that might be my Lawry’s-spoiled palate speaking. We had Fried French Toast with molasses, Steak and Eggs, hashbrown potatoes, Croque Madame with a gruyere, ricotta, marscapone mixture which wows in the best possible way. Of course, the beverage partakers partook in elixirs including a signature Purple Rain during the night dedicated to Prince (RIP again) and Mimosa’s for brunch which were marked by multiple raised hands in the air and swinging hips and the audible sounds of, “oooooohhhhh” and “mmmhhhhmmmm”.

With one full month under their belts, the most genuiand plans for tweaking, continued improvement and eventual expansion I can’t wait to see how this happening hot spot continues to tickle taste buds and listening ears at the same time.

Perfect Note is offering the best in live music and food Wednesday through Sunday and located at:

1845 Montgomery Hwy S, Ste 201
Hoover, AL 35244

Reach them at:

Phone: 205-986-7280








Don’t Dare Speak for Me

I’m still thinking about Prince and watching Purple Rain (again) so I’m feeling a certain way. With that said, let me say this.
I’m nowhere in the realm of “known-ness” as Prince, but decades and decades and decades from now when I go home to see sweet Jesus please know that there are people in my life who are assigned by me to speak for me. The approximate five or six of them are aware that they can speak on my behalf and about my bees-wax because they will be the ones who truly, truly know it as having been proven staples on this journey of this crazy thing called “my” life. They have permission and my request to please attach their names to the statements they make so that it’s official. That means if you hear ANYTHING about me, my life, my death (decades and decades and decades from now) or anything in between and a specific name is not attached it is NOT to automatically be believed.  Got it? Good.
As a former real journalist, who just paid off her 25-years-old student loans in early 2016, I’m so concerned about the impact of these “sources close to the star”, “unnamed source”, and “industry insider” salacious speculations which come out when someone of influence (or not) passes or has a major life challenge. People have feelings, people! I often wonder how the ones writing speculated or fabricated facts would feel if the same were said or done about or in regard to those they know and love.
People deserve to live in peace. They certainly deserve to die the same way regardless of who they are. Hopefully we’re all trying to do our best to make it out of here to the other side (Heaven, if you didn’t know). None of us need any added critics en route or unwarranted commentary upon arrival.
prince a.jpg

Thank You, Prince


Since hearing of his death I’ve been thinking I should say something about Prince. After all, honor must be given to the man who’s song Adore was the backdrop to my first “slow dance” with about ten feet between my “date” and me at my Club G.I.O.R.G.I.O. Cotillion way back in 1987. Tribute must be paid to the man who’s music hummed me to sleep through breakups, encouraged me along through makeups, was my first pick when in charge of the music at my Birmingham, AL movie theater job and at times felt way too grown and sexy to be entering my ears yet found a place in my mind like few beats and lyrics did. Mad props must be offered to one of the few artists I truly, truly, truly attribute to providing the soundtrack to my life, right up to his latest hit, which I adored. Purple and paisley pun intended.

Prince and Me

There are so many songs, so many memories attached to the songs, so many emotions attached to the memories attached to the songs and so many reasons why I simply don’t have much to say. I’ve scrolled social media, mulled over memes, conversed on the phone, sat in front of the TV for HOURS watching music videos while working and tried to wrap my head around why this is 2nd most difficult celebrity loss for me next to Whitney Houston. I can’t wrap my head around it. I’m not sure it I want to.


Borrowing wisdom from my baby sister, I will say this. I’m organizing my list of “Must Sees”. There are people who shared their gifts and shaped my world that I want to see and NEED to see, if nothing more than to remind them that their music and their lives STILL MATTER to so many. Be it God’s will, I will, before another artist I owe a hearty, hair-sweating, hand-waving “thank you” to joins that Heavenly choir in the sky.




The Beautiful Joys of a Sweet Sunday


I type this brief blog post with the backdrop of trickling rain dancing outside my window. It’s a cloudy, chilly Sunday in the south (Alabama, that is), with naked trees and hues of brown, orange, and grey painting the landscape of the land.

Today I debated going to church. I’m so glad the wise one in me won. My church, Church of the Highlands celebrated its 14th Anniversary. It was an amazing, amazing, one hour and 15 minute investment into my life. The music moved me, the message corrected and directed me, the ending with people choosing to give their lives to Christ through on-the-spot baptism encouraged me.

Coming out of that awesome worship experience, I began to get frustrated, really frustrated. Many don’t know, but my house has been on the market for five years following my divorce in 2010. (Gasp, I know!) Having to rearrange my life for the last five years, at the drop of a dime for dozens and dozens and dozens of strangers to enter my home, and deal with the unspoken of hassle this lingering part of the divorce continues to cause me has definitely developed my patience. I received calls yesterday that two (more) prospective buyers wanted to view my home in the middle of the day, which meant I would have to find somewhere to go to accommodate them. That’s also a sign of hope, which meant I had to learn to get over my frustrated feelings.


Now, I just mentioned that it’s cloudy, chilly and rainy here in my part of Alabama, and after an early morning church service I would like to do nothing more than go home and hop in the bed for a few uninterrupted hours. Not only could I not do that because of the home viewers, I couldn’t immediately find somewhere to go. So I went to Sonic’s and devoured the most fresh, delicious French toast sticks and sausage I’d had all month, with syrup streaming down my steering wheel. (BTW…Today is the first day of the month. Ha! Ha!) Then I headed home for a “teaser” knowing that I would only be able to enjoy my time there for one hour and 30 minutes before the first round of house hunters trekked in. Much to my surprise my one of my favorite, badly acted, beautifully intentioned, cult-classic movies, B.A.P.S. was on, and guess how much viewing time was left. Let’s just say there was enough time for me to catch up at my favorite part, write this post, light my Coconut Milk and Mango candle, tidy up my house again and get under the inviting covers for a hot minute with the rain whispering to me before having to head to my next destination for the day.


The fact that the Lord would allow me a bit of extra special peace and tranquility on a day that could have remained frustrating is a blessing to me and not taken lightly. Sure, it’s raining. Sure I couldn’t readily find somewhere to go. Sure I had to reroute my plans and use gas I had not planned on exhausting. Sure I didn’t have as much time at home as I would have preferred. Sure B.A.P.S. is definitely not Halli Berry’s or Martin Landau’s finest, award-winning film, but I’ll take the beautiful joys of this sweet Sunday ANYDAY compared to the sourpuss alterative.


PS…Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as B.A.P.S. went off, Purple Rain, another poorly acted, but undeniable classic, all-time FAVORITES came on. Yes, indeed. I’d say today is sweet. And it’ll be even sweeter when I head to my next stop, throw on my sweats and plop down in front of the big screen. Singing…Purple Rain, Purple Rain…



Who Gon’ Check Me, Boo?


Yeah, yeah, yeah…I hear you already. I bet you’re thinking, “has she lost her mind?” I know you’re wondering what kind of post is called “Who Gon’ Check Me, Boo?” Well, this one is, but likely it’s not for reasons you might have thought.

The infamous phrase coined by then famous Real Housewives of Atlanta star Sheree Whitfield was spoken during a heated shouting match years ago about something simple that I can’t clearly recall. But in this day and age where people take the liberty to throw their two cents and a side of shade (that’s another word for hate in a more youthful vernacular) in about any, and everything in other people’s lives I propose the we ask ourselves the question, “Who Gon’ Check Me, Boo?”

Don’t fret with trying to come up with an answer. I already have one. We need to CHECK ourselves. From the television media, to magazines, to insta-journalists (those that aren’t still paying student loans or have a degree like others and I to accurately report without bias or opinion), to social media and the likes there is a rapid onslaught of plain ol’ meanness. Some people hate people for not lining up with their personal beliefs, and they have no problem angrily saying it and showing it. Some people label people as “people who hate people” for not agreeing with their personal lifestyle, and they have no problem furiously saying it and showing it. Some people slander people like they’re clocking in earning a living putting people down. While others take delight in the downfall of those who are down like someone else’s down equals their come up. It’s a mess. A mess, I tell ya! The thing about hate is that it never helps anyone. The hater (and I mean the true definition of hater, someone, according to Merriam-Webster with: intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, or sense of injury) may advance, but only for so long, and the in-between and aftermath of what transpires in the lives of those there to witness what happens leave far-reaching effects I’m afraid the world isn’t equipped to handle. Enough already! Or in the (remixed) words of Prince Rogers Nelson, “shut, already, darn!

young prince

So I ask you to join me in asking us again, “Who gone check me, boo?” And in the words of Ice Cube (Westsiiiiiiiiiiide), Das EFX or whoever said it first, “You better check yo’ self before you wreck yo’ self.” And in the words of Rodney King (RIP), “Can we, can we all get along? Can we, can we get along?” Peace.