I will probably not be posting for the next couple of days. Mainly because I am trying to "unplug" during the weekends. That means that I try not to surf the web, do any online shopping, check/respond to email, or post on this blog. Notice I said "try". I haven't gotten it 100% down pat, but I'm working on it. This is a new thing that I will implement in '08 and thought it'd be good to get into the habit as soon as possible so it won't be so hard to do during that first weekend in January. The one thing I can't manage to stop doing is... text messaging. As hard as I try, I have got to send at least 5 per day!
Also, could you please remember to comment? I don't know you're reading unless you comment. Hmmm... maybe y'all like it better that way, but I like knowing that I have an actual audience! I know people are reading because I'm getting emails and IMs about my posts, but... still no comments! LOL! I won't pressure ya, but if you are inclined to do so, I would love to hear your perspective on my random-ass two cents. Anyway, enjoy... and I'll be back to post come first of the year! See ya in '08!!
Early one Monday morning, I got a call from my male BFF recounting the adventures he had the night before (it was a holiday). He had gone out to a DC Sunday night spot called Lima. As he described his antics, he spoke with more and more intensity until suddenly, he cut himself off and said “Oh, and can I tell you that chicks were looking like straight streetwalkers last night. I mean, they could’ve walked a few more blocks down 14th Street and given the professionals a run for their money. It was ridiculous.” I laughed, but thought about the significance of that statement. First of all, my male BFF (he knows who he is – and most of you do, too), well… let’s just say he likes women. A lot. And women like him even more. Most of those women probably thought that they looked “classy, not trashy” to quote the go-go song by the same name and were out to snag a dude like him. But even though their intent was to look “nice”, they were perceived as looking “nasty”. I asked male BFF what the women had been wearing and he said “short tight skirts with their breasts all out”.
Now, admittedly, I have worn clothes that flaunt my assets… what woman hasn’t? But I would like to think that when I have done it (at least it recent years), my outfits have been… let’s call it “tastefully provocative”. I mean, I don’t think I could’ve successfully solicited clientele on 14th Street based on what I was wearing.
But, my friend’s comments reminded me of a statement that someone had made many years ago. My brother’s female BFF used to work at Love - DC’s Friday night hotspot (for black folks). (I won’t give her name or her title because some of y’all probably know her.) But one day she told me that “after 10pm, the clientele at Love has less clothes, less class”. At the time, I had chuckled at her wittiness. But now, that I reflect on it, her comment wasn’t just clever, but insightful.
On the same night that my friend observed the prostitutes-in-training at Lima, my bestie and I went to an 18+ party also in DC. In my defense, a friend (who is my age) was promoting the party and requested my attendance in support of his opening night. I am always one to support, so I dragged Best Girlfriend along and partied with the college kids for the first time since… well… I was in college. But, as soon as I arrived, I became painfully aware of the age gap between me, my bestie and… everyone else. I thought I’d be dressed appropriately in a lacy, spaghetti strapped top and a pair of tight(er) jeans.
Y’all, compared to some of the outfits that these young girls were wearing, I might as well have been wearing a burka. I kid you not, these chicks were laid out in bra tops and pum-pum shorts. With stilettos.
Classy…
Why? Why do females feel that, in an effort to garner attention, they must dress like hoochies? I, too, have felt like, ‘well, if I am not wearing a top that shows a little cleavage, I can forget about meeting anyone tonight’. That’s a sad sentiment, but let’s be honest, what man is gonna pay attention to little old me in my shirt and jeans when he’s got an eyeful of chicks that are damn there showing areolas, nipples and butt cheeks? Even I have to admit that’s much better scenery. (no homo)
After I reflected on the atmosphere in that 18+ party later that night, I attributed the skankdom to the age group of the attendees, thinking ‘Well, maybe because these girls are in their late teens, they don’t really know any better’. But, then, I had that early morning conversation with my friend that indicated that this sort of behavior doesn’t get any better with age. How depressing.
“After 10pm, less clothes, less class.”
Funny, but then again… not so much. Let’s get it together, ladies…
Friday, December 28, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
The Husband of My Dreams is... KANYE??
I had the strangest dream last night. Dreams are the weirdest things sometimes. This dream was totally unrelated to anything I had been thinking about before bedtime. But, my father always says that strange dreams can be triggered by eating too much sugar before bed. With this being the holiday season and all, I have to admit that I was guilty of a sugar-binge before I passed out in my bed around 11pm. I had eaten a rather large chocolate chip-pecan cookie AND had indulged in a few handfuls of Harry and David’s delicious Moose Munch confection, an early Christmas gift from my mother.
At any rate, I remember this dream vividly. Lots of times, I have crazy dreams and I wake up with no recollection of them other than knowing that the dream made absolutely no sense. My dreams tend to haunt me during daylight hours as the feelings that I exhibited in the dream stay with me and I have a hard time shaking them. I have also had a few precognitive (def: knowledge of a future event or situation, esp. through extrasensory means. Source: dictionary.com) dreams. When I was a kid, my grandmother used to call me Samantha, after the main character in “Bewitched” because she said that I had ESP. I used to know things and people before I was really supposed to know them. I don’t have full use of that skill anymore. I guess when you’re a kid and your mind is more pure, it is more perceptive to those kinds of things.
Anyway, last night: I dreamed that I was in my grandparents’ old house – the one they lived in before my grandpa died – or at least some place that looked very much like it. I was in what looked like their basement and I was getting ready to go out somewhere. I was alone. All of a sudden, I need to go to the bathroom, so I walk to the bathroom door and knock. Inside is a kind-of-pretty girl dressed in a beautiful wedding dress. I tell her she looks pretty and she thanks me. I close the door again. Next thing you know, we have been transported to a huge event space and there are a bunch of people sitting around at tables. I get the feeling that I am at a wedding reception, but I am not sure. I am actually standing on a stage in front of all these people next to a woman dressed to the nines. She is holding a microphone. Next to me is the girl I saw in the bathroom and she is fidgeting nervously. The woman on the mic says, “Ok, ladies and gentlemen, we are here to see who is going to marry Kanye West. May the best woman win!” The crowd bursts into applause and people are sitting on the edge of their seats. The woman walks over to me and the other girl and stands between us, putting her arms around us both. And she says “Watch that door right over there. If your friends and family come out dressed as the wedding party, then you have won Kanye’s heart.” (I know this is crazy, just bare with me!)
I anxiously watch the door and realize that, obviously, I have entered myself in some sort of contest to marry Kanye and I am a finalist.
Slowly, the door opens and out come my three best friends, wearing yellow bridesmaid dresses and my nieces wearing little yellow flower girl dresses. Standing behind them is my father dressed in a tux and he is cheering. I fall to my knees and start screaming and crying hysterically and the crowd is on their feet clapping and jumping up and down. I cannot describe the sheer relief, excitement, and satisfaction that I am feeling. I am going to marry Kanye!! The other girl is standing next to me sobbing. The woman with the microphone is rubbing the girl’s back and gently leads her away.
“Go get dressed!” my father shouts, while patting me on my back. I go back into the room that looks like my grandparents’ basement again and change into the dress that the other girl had been wearing when the dream began. Again, I am alone.
I walk back out into the event space and now everyone is wearing regular clothing. Kanye is there and he comes over and takes my hand. It is clear that we are in love. He squeezes my hand and we walk to the front of the room and there is something setup there that looks like the Jeopardy game board, television screens and all.
The same woman who had been onstage with me before says, “If the two of you can tell me when you fell in love, you will win a prize. Pick from the options on the board.”
The options are things like “In Church” and “On a picnic in the park”. I ask him if he remembers. He says he doesn’t. I say I don’t remember either. Even in the dream, I think it is weird that I cannot remember when I fell in love with my “husband”. That is very unlike me.
The woman says, “Awww! They don’t remember! You lose.” And then I woke up.
Now, I have no idea what this means. My mother says that maybe I feel sorry for Kanye given his recent tragedy. I say that maybe I’ve been watching too much reality TV for my own good. The strangest thing about this all is that, while I admire Kanye’s sense of style and am strangely attracted to his confidence/arrogance, he has never been on my… “To Do” list, if you get my drift. I have just never had a thing for him. But, last night, he was my husband. And it felt great. I woke up this morning at the crack of dawn feeling euphoric, but I know it’s just the lingering feelings of the dream that are sticking with me.
I know. Weird…
I am not at all suggesting that this dream is precognitive in any way. But, I had not been thinking of Kanye AT ALL before this dream. So, that’s why it’s so alarming. Of all celebrities, why did Kanye have to be the one I was marrying? Why couldn’t it be Blair Underwood or… Idris Elba, or even… Diddy? But, Kanye?? Makes no sense whatsoever.
Anyway, peace and blessings to Kanye this holiday season – the “husband of my dreams”. Literally!
Merry Christmas, everyone!
At any rate, I remember this dream vividly. Lots of times, I have crazy dreams and I wake up with no recollection of them other than knowing that the dream made absolutely no sense. My dreams tend to haunt me during daylight hours as the feelings that I exhibited in the dream stay with me and I have a hard time shaking them. I have also had a few precognitive (def: knowledge of a future event or situation, esp. through extrasensory means. Source: dictionary.com) dreams. When I was a kid, my grandmother used to call me Samantha, after the main character in “Bewitched” because she said that I had ESP. I used to know things and people before I was really supposed to know them. I don’t have full use of that skill anymore. I guess when you’re a kid and your mind is more pure, it is more perceptive to those kinds of things.
Anyway, last night: I dreamed that I was in my grandparents’ old house – the one they lived in before my grandpa died – or at least some place that looked very much like it. I was in what looked like their basement and I was getting ready to go out somewhere. I was alone. All of a sudden, I need to go to the bathroom, so I walk to the bathroom door and knock. Inside is a kind-of-pretty girl dressed in a beautiful wedding dress. I tell her she looks pretty and she thanks me. I close the door again. Next thing you know, we have been transported to a huge event space and there are a bunch of people sitting around at tables. I get the feeling that I am at a wedding reception, but I am not sure. I am actually standing on a stage in front of all these people next to a woman dressed to the nines. She is holding a microphone. Next to me is the girl I saw in the bathroom and she is fidgeting nervously. The woman on the mic says, “Ok, ladies and gentlemen, we are here to see who is going to marry Kanye West. May the best woman win!” The crowd bursts into applause and people are sitting on the edge of their seats. The woman walks over to me and the other girl and stands between us, putting her arms around us both. And she says “Watch that door right over there. If your friends and family come out dressed as the wedding party, then you have won Kanye’s heart.” (I know this is crazy, just bare with me!)
I anxiously watch the door and realize that, obviously, I have entered myself in some sort of contest to marry Kanye and I am a finalist.
Slowly, the door opens and out come my three best friends, wearing yellow bridesmaid dresses and my nieces wearing little yellow flower girl dresses. Standing behind them is my father dressed in a tux and he is cheering. I fall to my knees and start screaming and crying hysterically and the crowd is on their feet clapping and jumping up and down. I cannot describe the sheer relief, excitement, and satisfaction that I am feeling. I am going to marry Kanye!! The other girl is standing next to me sobbing. The woman with the microphone is rubbing the girl’s back and gently leads her away.
“Go get dressed!” my father shouts, while patting me on my back. I go back into the room that looks like my grandparents’ basement again and change into the dress that the other girl had been wearing when the dream began. Again, I am alone.
I walk back out into the event space and now everyone is wearing regular clothing. Kanye is there and he comes over and takes my hand. It is clear that we are in love. He squeezes my hand and we walk to the front of the room and there is something setup there that looks like the Jeopardy game board, television screens and all.
The same woman who had been onstage with me before says, “If the two of you can tell me when you fell in love, you will win a prize. Pick from the options on the board.”
The options are things like “In Church” and “On a picnic in the park”. I ask him if he remembers. He says he doesn’t. I say I don’t remember either. Even in the dream, I think it is weird that I cannot remember when I fell in love with my “husband”. That is very unlike me.
The woman says, “Awww! They don’t remember! You lose.” And then I woke up.
Now, I have no idea what this means. My mother says that maybe I feel sorry for Kanye given his recent tragedy. I say that maybe I’ve been watching too much reality TV for my own good. The strangest thing about this all is that, while I admire Kanye’s sense of style and am strangely attracted to his confidence/arrogance, he has never been on my… “To Do” list, if you get my drift. I have just never had a thing for him. But, last night, he was my husband. And it felt great. I woke up this morning at the crack of dawn feeling euphoric, but I know it’s just the lingering feelings of the dream that are sticking with me.
I know. Weird…
I am not at all suggesting that this dream is precognitive in any way. But, I had not been thinking of Kanye AT ALL before this dream. So, that’s why it’s so alarming. Of all celebrities, why did Kanye have to be the one I was marrying? Why couldn’t it be Blair Underwood or… Idris Elba, or even… Diddy? But, Kanye?? Makes no sense whatsoever.
Anyway, peace and blessings to Kanye this holiday season – the “husband of my dreams”. Literally!
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Saturday, December 22, 2007
When Crazy Makes an Appearance/Valentine's Day Tragedy
Most of you who know me know that earlier this year (2007), I extracted myself from a very unhealthy romantic relationship. It took a lot for me to get out of it, but by January, I had gotten rid of all 212 lbs of his dead weight and was prepared to move on with my life. The first week in January, I made the conscious decision to mentally and physically (see my blog on the Master Cleanser) purge the toxins that had plagued me for so long. And, by February I was feeling great! Things were looking up for me.
You see, in August of 2005, I met a guy that I thought was “the One”. This was not unusual. So far in my dating life, I had thought I found ‘the One” two times prior to meeting this particular dude. We fell for each other fast and furiously and were dating exclusively within three weeks of knowing one another. My friends didn’t like him, my parents HATED him, but I was totally, madly, outrageously in love. By November 2005, we were living together and I was happier than I had ever been. But that happiness was short-lived.
Turns out that he wasn’t Prince Charming at all, in fact, he was more like Prince Crazy-as-Hell! He would do mean things just for the heck of it. Like once, we bought a fish for a pet. It wasn’t anything special, just a $3.00 fish we picked up on a shopping excursion to the outlets in Leesburg, VA. The fish was red and we were in love, so we decided to call him Valentine.
One day, The Ex got mad at me about something minor (at this point, getting upset over petty things was pretty much a daily occurrence) and when I came home from work, Valentine wasn’t in his tank. This didn’t really surprise me because I just assumed that The Ex had cleaned the tank and put Valentine in the small container that we used when his tank was being washed. I went to the bathroom and saw that the container was on the counter. It was empty. My heart sank.
I walked into the bedroom where The Ex was watching television to inquire about Valentine’s whereabouts.
“Where’s Valentine?” I asked The Ex.
“You made me mad, so I flushed him down the toilet,” he responded coolly, never taking his eyes off the television.
The f*ck are you talking about, I thought. Out loud I said, “You did what?”
“I flushed him down the toilet. I killed him,” he said, again not looking at me.
Wow. This fool is really crazy, I thought. I vaguely recalled my parents saying that killing animals was a symptom of a sociopath. I wondered silently whether a fish counted as an animal for the purposes of diagnosing The Ex.
I walked into the living room and plopped down on the couch. What are my options here, I am thinking. Is there some place I can report this behavior? I could call PETA, but I doubt that they’d be up-in-arms over a measly fish. Thing was, I didn’t even really like the fish, but I was freaked out by The Ex's behavior.
Just then, The Ex walked into the living room and said “So, are you going to apologize?” Today, as I am writing this, I can’t even remember what I had done to upset him in the first place, but I am certain that – whatever it was – it was petty and definitely not worthy of a fish "murder".
I was kind of dazed. But, because this was the first true sign that dude was far from stable, I decided to just go ahead and concede.
“Sure, yeah. I apologize. But why did you have to kill the fish? You’re f*cking crazy,” I said.
He smiled, picked up the empty fish tank and walked into the bathroom. I didn’t move. From my place on the couch, I heard cabinets opening and closing, water running, and eventually I heard him walking back into the living room. I looked up and was shocked.
Valentine was swimming happily in his tank, safe and sound.
This fish was alive.
“Valentine, you’re alive!” I yelled. I jumped up and grabbed the tank out of The Ex’s hands.
“Why would you tell me that you had killed the fish and you really didn’t?” I asked incredulously.
“Because I wanted you to know that I was really mad.”
“You could’ve just said that you were really mad! You didn’t have to make up something like that. That’s absolutely ridiculous. You’re crazy.”
“I didn’t actually kill the fish,” he said, laughing, walking back into the bedroom to finish watching television.
“I don’t know what’s more disturbing, you actually killing the fish or you hiding him and pretending you did,” I said to nobody in particular.
I am in deep doo-doo. I am living with a psycho. Maybe...
Strike one! Two more and this dude is O-U-T.
You see, in August of 2005, I met a guy that I thought was “the One”. This was not unusual. So far in my dating life, I had thought I found ‘the One” two times prior to meeting this particular dude. We fell for each other fast and furiously and were dating exclusively within three weeks of knowing one another. My friends didn’t like him, my parents HATED him, but I was totally, madly, outrageously in love. By November 2005, we were living together and I was happier than I had ever been. But that happiness was short-lived.
Turns out that he wasn’t Prince Charming at all, in fact, he was more like Prince Crazy-as-Hell! He would do mean things just for the heck of it. Like once, we bought a fish for a pet. It wasn’t anything special, just a $3.00 fish we picked up on a shopping excursion to the outlets in Leesburg, VA. The fish was red and we were in love, so we decided to call him Valentine.
One day, The Ex got mad at me about something minor (at this point, getting upset over petty things was pretty much a daily occurrence) and when I came home from work, Valentine wasn’t in his tank. This didn’t really surprise me because I just assumed that The Ex had cleaned the tank and put Valentine in the small container that we used when his tank was being washed. I went to the bathroom and saw that the container was on the counter. It was empty. My heart sank.
I walked into the bedroom where The Ex was watching television to inquire about Valentine’s whereabouts.
“Where’s Valentine?” I asked The Ex.
“You made me mad, so I flushed him down the toilet,” he responded coolly, never taking his eyes off the television.
The f*ck are you talking about, I thought. Out loud I said, “You did what?”
“I flushed him down the toilet. I killed him,” he said, again not looking at me.
Wow. This fool is really crazy, I thought. I vaguely recalled my parents saying that killing animals was a symptom of a sociopath. I wondered silently whether a fish counted as an animal for the purposes of diagnosing The Ex.
I walked into the living room and plopped down on the couch. What are my options here, I am thinking. Is there some place I can report this behavior? I could call PETA, but I doubt that they’d be up-in-arms over a measly fish. Thing was, I didn’t even really like the fish, but I was freaked out by The Ex's behavior.
Just then, The Ex walked into the living room and said “So, are you going to apologize?” Today, as I am writing this, I can’t even remember what I had done to upset him in the first place, but I am certain that – whatever it was – it was petty and definitely not worthy of a fish "murder".
I was kind of dazed. But, because this was the first true sign that dude was far from stable, I decided to just go ahead and concede.
“Sure, yeah. I apologize. But why did you have to kill the fish? You’re f*cking crazy,” I said.
He smiled, picked up the empty fish tank and walked into the bathroom. I didn’t move. From my place on the couch, I heard cabinets opening and closing, water running, and eventually I heard him walking back into the living room. I looked up and was shocked.
Valentine was swimming happily in his tank, safe and sound.
This fish was alive.
“Valentine, you’re alive!” I yelled. I jumped up and grabbed the tank out of The Ex’s hands.
“Why would you tell me that you had killed the fish and you really didn’t?” I asked incredulously.
“Because I wanted you to know that I was really mad.”
“You could’ve just said that you were really mad! You didn’t have to make up something like that. That’s absolutely ridiculous. You’re crazy.”
“I didn’t actually kill the fish,” he said, laughing, walking back into the bedroom to finish watching television.
“I don’t know what’s more disturbing, you actually killing the fish or you hiding him and pretending you did,” I said to nobody in particular.
I am in deep doo-doo. I am living with a psycho. Maybe...
Strike one! Two more and this dude is O-U-T.
Friday, December 21, 2007
The Master Cleanser/Getting Rid of Dead Weight
January 8, 2007 - Monday
The Master Cleanser
I have not eaten solid food in 7 days.
On January 1st, I decided that I wanted to make my body as healthy as possible. After all, you only get one body in this life, and your body is what you make it. I couldn't accept the fact that this is as good as it gets.
So, inspired by my girl SeeLaH on The Cru, I decided to try out the Master Cleanser (MC).
For those of you who don't know about the MC, here's a little breakdown of how it goes:
You spend 10 – 40 days subsisting off of nothing but a lemonade substance. The "lemonade" is made of organic lemon (or lime) juice, filtered water, organic maple syrup and organic cayenne pepper.
Now, the MC is not just for weight loss (although, that is a truly wonderful side effect). It's more about detoxifying your body. So, along with the lemonade, you must also drink a… ahem… laxative tea… and take a sea salt water flush each morning. This process cleans out your intestines and cleanses your liver – an organ that does a WHOLE LOT for your body.
I've been on the MC for seven days now, and I've lost nearly 10 lbs. But, I also feel more energized, my skin has cleared up, my hair is getting thicker (!), my clothes are falling off of me, my mood has improved… I can't stop bragging about the benefits.
And, best of all… I am not hungry. AT ALL.
If you had asked me six months ago whether I thought I would be successful at something like the MC, I would've told you… hell to da naw!! I honestly couldn't fathom ONE day with no solid food. I have reflected on it and I honestly can't remember going a day without food – not even when I was sick. Never. But seven days without food? Six months ago, I would've told you that a person who went seven days without eating food would have to be put on life support. I just couldn't understand the concept.
But, it can be done. And, if I can do it, ANYBODY can do it. I absolutely LOVE food. You could just look at me and tell that I didn't miss any meals, if you know what I'm saying… But, while on the MC, I have been around tons of people eating really good shit and I've been able to sit through the meal with my little glass of lemonade and be ok. Really be ok… even I am floored by this.
One of the many New Year's Day promises that I made to myself was to keep surprising myself by what I am able to accomplish in '07. Eight days into the New Year and I've started already. I have already exceeded my own expectations. Damn, I can't believe it.
Seven days down, three to go…
The Master Cleanser
I have not eaten solid food in 7 days.
On January 1st, I decided that I wanted to make my body as healthy as possible. After all, you only get one body in this life, and your body is what you make it. I couldn't accept the fact that this is as good as it gets.
So, inspired by my girl SeeLaH on The Cru, I decided to try out the Master Cleanser (MC).
For those of you who don't know about the MC, here's a little breakdown of how it goes:
You spend 10 – 40 days subsisting off of nothing but a lemonade substance. The "lemonade" is made of organic lemon (or lime) juice, filtered water, organic maple syrup and organic cayenne pepper.
Now, the MC is not just for weight loss (although, that is a truly wonderful side effect). It's more about detoxifying your body. So, along with the lemonade, you must also drink a… ahem… laxative tea… and take a sea salt water flush each morning. This process cleans out your intestines and cleanses your liver – an organ that does a WHOLE LOT for your body.
I've been on the MC for seven days now, and I've lost nearly 10 lbs. But, I also feel more energized, my skin has cleared up, my hair is getting thicker (!), my clothes are falling off of me, my mood has improved… I can't stop bragging about the benefits.
And, best of all… I am not hungry. AT ALL.
If you had asked me six months ago whether I thought I would be successful at something like the MC, I would've told you… hell to da naw!! I honestly couldn't fathom ONE day with no solid food. I have reflected on it and I honestly can't remember going a day without food – not even when I was sick. Never. But seven days without food? Six months ago, I would've told you that a person who went seven days without eating food would have to be put on life support. I just couldn't understand the concept.
But, it can be done. And, if I can do it, ANYBODY can do it. I absolutely LOVE food. You could just look at me and tell that I didn't miss any meals, if you know what I'm saying… But, while on the MC, I have been around tons of people eating really good shit and I've been able to sit through the meal with my little glass of lemonade and be ok. Really be ok… even I am floored by this.
One of the many New Year's Day promises that I made to myself was to keep surprising myself by what I am able to accomplish in '07. Eight days into the New Year and I've started already. I have already exceeded my own expectations. Damn, I can't believe it.
Seven days down, three to go…
WTF?
This is a throw-back joint from July '07. I wrote it, but never posted it and found it this morning when I was cleaning out my inbox. Just some "random thoughts" about some stuff that's not even really news anymore. But, anyhoo, enjoy...
For the last few weeks, I’ve been attempting to make a career change, packing my things to move to a new space, and fighting off both a sinus infection and a stomach virus. Despite all the things going on in my life, I’ve had a million and one thoughts about a million and one things running through my head. I really have been meaning to sit down and put all these thoughts on paper, but I just haven’t had the time. But, tonight, after I just packed another slew of boxes, I decided that it was high time for me to purge my mind and write a blog (or two). I have no clue if you people even read these things, but then, I’ve had things that I’ve written in my blogs thrown up in my face during face-to-face convos. So, I guess someone is reading. Anyway, here goes nothing…
As I instant message my friends on a daily basis, I recognize that there are three little letters that I overuse in online conversations. No, believe it or not, it’s not L-O-L. Instead, the three letters that I cannot stop typing are W-T-F. As in, “what the f-ck?!”. The thing I love about WTF is that it can be a statement like: What, the f-ck. Or, it can be a question like: …what the f-ck?! The reasoning behind the frequent use of these letters is that I genuinely find a lot of things puzzling. When I was in middle school, Arsenio Hall started using the phrase, “things that make you go hmmm…” and when I encounter one of those “hmmm” inducing people/places/things, it makes me wonder “WTF”? BTW (another overused phrase), WTF ever happened to Arsenio anyway? Haven’t seen/heard from him in YEARS!
At any rate, I was thinking that I might start a little mini-series of blogs that would focus on things that make me go WTF. Who knows if I’ll actually follow-through with this. (I have also recently noticed that I am very bad about follow-through. VERY bad.) Anyway, I’ll start with a few short WTFs.
1. WTF is up with your girl Britney Spears? I know, I know. Britney has been a little… off… for a few years now. But, recently, the chick has been completely gone. I mean, she decided, on a whim, to shave her head. And I was fine with that. I could almost respect that decision to one day be like “f-ck it! I’m tired of this shit” and cut it all off. For whatever reason. Bad hair day? Simple solution. Cut the shit off! And, the girl was going through some thangs – to say the least – when she did the big chop. So, even though I recognized that she clearly wasn’t using her best judgment at the time, I could rock with her decision a little bit. But, then, her crazy ass started coming out in wigs. All the time. Like, really y’all, ALL the time. And I was like, WTF is up with doing something drastic like that and then covering it up and proving to us that what you did was not out of empowerment, but confusion? Clearly, she’s ashamed of her decision. And, it hasn’t gotten any better with time. The big chop was months ago and she is STILL rocking wigs. And cheap ones at that! You mean to tell me with all her money she couldn’t go and find one of those lacefronts all the celebs wear? If she had trouble locating one, she could’ve contacted Beyonce or Tyra since it is obvious that neither of them know how to leave the house without one. So, I am still saying WTF about Britney after all this time. She truly confounds me.
2. WTF is up with Michael Vick and this dog-fighting business? For kicks, you like to watch living beings maul the shit out of each other? You can’t be serious. Again, like Britney, take a look at all the money that Michael Vick has… it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of hundreds of millions of dollars… and this is what he does to get his rocks off? Pathetic. Honestly, I never really had much respect for the man, but after this, the little that I had is totally out the window. He’s a hot ghetto mess for real. BET should dedicate a whole episode of that show to this man and his antics.
3. WTF is the purpose of Late Night Shots? For those of you who don’t know about it, it’s like a MySpace for rich white people. No, I’m serious. Like, don’t logon to the site if you plan on referring to your new deck shoes as “loafers”. Apparently, that’s a serious faux pas. If you don’t own a pair of deck shoes, you are not even invited to visit Late Night Shots. The site goes something like: instead of the “friends” any normal person would have on MySpace or Facebook, members of Late Night Shots have “drinking buddies” that you hope will accept you so that you’re not seen as some social leper. The site is a great place to discuss whether you should wear pearls to a polo match or who hooked up at the latest Thursday night party at Town Hall in Georgetown. (If you’ve never heard of Town Hall, then boy this site is REALLY not for you!) It’s pretty lame IMO (“in my opinion” – for those of you who aren’t familiar with internet lingo). I don’t have all the info on this site, but I’m sure that after I do gain more insight about its members and purpose, I will have many more WTF questions.
4. Harry Potter. WTF. I mean, really. WTF? My 50+ year old aunt (by marriage – lemme make that PERFECTLY clear) told me this weekend that when the newest Harry Potter movie opened, she was in line for the movie dressed in a black cape and a witch hat and people were asking to take pictures with her for memories. WTF. Gimme a effin break. You are 50+ and dressing like a witch to go see a movie? Get a life! My coworker bought the newest book on Saturday (I guess) and had finished it by this morning. She came to work talking about the fact that she and her entire family, including her grandfather who is 80+ went to a Midnight Madness party (or something like that) to celebrate the release of the book. Again, get a life. I can think of a few more… interesting… mature… SANE… things to do at midnight on a Friday night other than waiting in line to buy a book about a boy wizard. Now, I’m sure that many of you will disagree with my assessment of the Harry Potter books. The first thing that people want to ask me when I let them know that I am soooo not into the phenomenon is “Have you even read a book?” or “Have you ever seen one of the movies?” Well, guess what all you Harry Potter FREAKS out there – Yes, I have! I read the first two books and have seen quite a few of the movies. The books, I’ve read of my own volition (I decided there was no need to venture further after book two). The movies I’ve watched because my nieces are into the franchise and have forced me to watch the movies with them. While I’ll say that the special effects are great in the movies, I will also say that I find something fundamentally wrong with glorifying witchcraft and ghosts and goblins and all that nonsense. Despite the so-called “positive themes” of friendship and bravery and the like, it is still told from the point of view of someone who is a wizard. And there is a such thing as “dark magic” in these books/movies, which is – on some level – Satanic… believe what you will. Maybe people will think I’m uptight when I say that I just don’t get the hype and don’t get why certain people would think it ok to romanticize something so morbid. Now, I’m a bookworm, no doubt. And I respect anything that leads people to literature. It fits into my philosophy of if more people read books regularly, the world would be a better place. BUT, it’s still a bunch of BS. The books aren’t THAT great. And the fact that so many people are hooked on them and on the movies leads me to believe that maybe magic is real after all and J.K. Rowling put a spell on all you Harry Potter-heads to make you buy into this craziness. I guess it goes back to the old adage: to each his own. It’s obviously not a series for me, but if you like it then I love it (for YOU).
For the last few weeks, I’ve been attempting to make a career change, packing my things to move to a new space, and fighting off both a sinus infection and a stomach virus. Despite all the things going on in my life, I’ve had a million and one thoughts about a million and one things running through my head. I really have been meaning to sit down and put all these thoughts on paper, but I just haven’t had the time. But, tonight, after I just packed another slew of boxes, I decided that it was high time for me to purge my mind and write a blog (or two). I have no clue if you people even read these things, but then, I’ve had things that I’ve written in my blogs thrown up in my face during face-to-face convos. So, I guess someone is reading. Anyway, here goes nothing…
As I instant message my friends on a daily basis, I recognize that there are three little letters that I overuse in online conversations. No, believe it or not, it’s not L-O-L. Instead, the three letters that I cannot stop typing are W-T-F. As in, “what the f-ck?!”. The thing I love about WTF is that it can be a statement like: What, the f-ck. Or, it can be a question like: …what the f-ck?! The reasoning behind the frequent use of these letters is that I genuinely find a lot of things puzzling. When I was in middle school, Arsenio Hall started using the phrase, “things that make you go hmmm…” and when I encounter one of those “hmmm” inducing people/places/things, it makes me wonder “WTF”? BTW (another overused phrase), WTF ever happened to Arsenio anyway? Haven’t seen/heard from him in YEARS!
At any rate, I was thinking that I might start a little mini-series of blogs that would focus on things that make me go WTF. Who knows if I’ll actually follow-through with this. (I have also recently noticed that I am very bad about follow-through. VERY bad.) Anyway, I’ll start with a few short WTFs.
1. WTF is up with your girl Britney Spears? I know, I know. Britney has been a little… off… for a few years now. But, recently, the chick has been completely gone. I mean, she decided, on a whim, to shave her head. And I was fine with that. I could almost respect that decision to one day be like “f-ck it! I’m tired of this shit” and cut it all off. For whatever reason. Bad hair day? Simple solution. Cut the shit off! And, the girl was going through some thangs – to say the least – when she did the big chop. So, even though I recognized that she clearly wasn’t using her best judgment at the time, I could rock with her decision a little bit. But, then, her crazy ass started coming out in wigs. All the time. Like, really y’all, ALL the time. And I was like, WTF is up with doing something drastic like that and then covering it up and proving to us that what you did was not out of empowerment, but confusion? Clearly, she’s ashamed of her decision. And, it hasn’t gotten any better with time. The big chop was months ago and she is STILL rocking wigs. And cheap ones at that! You mean to tell me with all her money she couldn’t go and find one of those lacefronts all the celebs wear? If she had trouble locating one, she could’ve contacted Beyonce or Tyra since it is obvious that neither of them know how to leave the house without one. So, I am still saying WTF about Britney after all this time. She truly confounds me.
2. WTF is up with Michael Vick and this dog-fighting business? For kicks, you like to watch living beings maul the shit out of each other? You can’t be serious. Again, like Britney, take a look at all the money that Michael Vick has… it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of hundreds of millions of dollars… and this is what he does to get his rocks off? Pathetic. Honestly, I never really had much respect for the man, but after this, the little that I had is totally out the window. He’s a hot ghetto mess for real. BET should dedicate a whole episode of that show to this man and his antics.
3. WTF is the purpose of Late Night Shots? For those of you who don’t know about it, it’s like a MySpace for rich white people. No, I’m serious. Like, don’t logon to the site if you plan on referring to your new deck shoes as “loafers”. Apparently, that’s a serious faux pas. If you don’t own a pair of deck shoes, you are not even invited to visit Late Night Shots. The site goes something like: instead of the “friends” any normal person would have on MySpace or Facebook, members of Late Night Shots have “drinking buddies” that you hope will accept you so that you’re not seen as some social leper. The site is a great place to discuss whether you should wear pearls to a polo match or who hooked up at the latest Thursday night party at Town Hall in Georgetown. (If you’ve never heard of Town Hall, then boy this site is REALLY not for you!) It’s pretty lame IMO (“in my opinion” – for those of you who aren’t familiar with internet lingo). I don’t have all the info on this site, but I’m sure that after I do gain more insight about its members and purpose, I will have many more WTF questions.
4. Harry Potter. WTF. I mean, really. WTF? My 50+ year old aunt (by marriage – lemme make that PERFECTLY clear) told me this weekend that when the newest Harry Potter movie opened, she was in line for the movie dressed in a black cape and a witch hat and people were asking to take pictures with her for memories. WTF. Gimme a effin break. You are 50+ and dressing like a witch to go see a movie? Get a life! My coworker bought the newest book on Saturday (I guess) and had finished it by this morning. She came to work talking about the fact that she and her entire family, including her grandfather who is 80+ went to a Midnight Madness party (or something like that) to celebrate the release of the book. Again, get a life. I can think of a few more… interesting… mature… SANE… things to do at midnight on a Friday night other than waiting in line to buy a book about a boy wizard. Now, I’m sure that many of you will disagree with my assessment of the Harry Potter books. The first thing that people want to ask me when I let them know that I am soooo not into the phenomenon is “Have you even read a book?” or “Have you ever seen one of the movies?” Well, guess what all you Harry Potter FREAKS out there – Yes, I have! I read the first two books and have seen quite a few of the movies. The books, I’ve read of my own volition (I decided there was no need to venture further after book two). The movies I’ve watched because my nieces are into the franchise and have forced me to watch the movies with them. While I’ll say that the special effects are great in the movies, I will also say that I find something fundamentally wrong with glorifying witchcraft and ghosts and goblins and all that nonsense. Despite the so-called “positive themes” of friendship and bravery and the like, it is still told from the point of view of someone who is a wizard. And there is a such thing as “dark magic” in these books/movies, which is – on some level – Satanic… believe what you will. Maybe people will think I’m uptight when I say that I just don’t get the hype and don’t get why certain people would think it ok to romanticize something so morbid. Now, I’m a bookworm, no doubt. And I respect anything that leads people to literature. It fits into my philosophy of if more people read books regularly, the world would be a better place. BUT, it’s still a bunch of BS. The books aren’t THAT great. And the fact that so many people are hooked on them and on the movies leads me to believe that maybe magic is real after all and J.K. Rowling put a spell on all you Harry Potter-heads to make you buy into this craziness. I guess it goes back to the old adage: to each his own. It’s obviously not a series for me, but if you like it then I love it (for YOU).
Thursday, December 20, 2007
All I Want for Christmas...
Every year my mother asks me what I want for Christmas. Yes, she and my dad still buy me gifts, wrap them, and place them under the tree. Every year, without fail for 28 years, I can expect that if nobody else bothers to purchase anything for me, my parents will come through. Normally, when my mom requests a list for me, I have the hardest time coming up with things. I am capable of providing myself with everything that I need and most times, I can cover what I want, too! But, this year, there were a couple things on my list that I knew I couldn't cover and I am hopeful that either Santa or his little helpers (a.k.a. Mom and Dad) will put at least one of these things under the tree.
This cute little Juicy Couture coat will keep me warm and have me looking hot during the winter. Plus, it's conservative enough that I could wear it to work or on a night out on the town.
An iPod Nano (now with video capabilities)is next on my list. I truly hope that this finds it's way under the tree... hint hint!!
These Ugg classic short boots are my all-time fave. I already have them in Sand and Chocolate and now I just need Chestnut to complete my collection. I love wearing them with no socks and putting my feet right into the luxurious furriness. Ah...
Gucci Bamboo Horsebit Sunglasses. These things are haute! Loving them. This is a true splurge item since it makes no sense for SUNGLASSES to cost almost $400. Call me frugal...
My two favorite designers these days would have to be Marc Jacobs and Michael Kors. I am absolutely in love with these Marc Jacobs patent leather watches and would really appreciate one in every color!
I had to edit this post to add:
I friggin LOVE this dress. It is so me!! Turtlenecks are my fave, I'm very intro dresses this year, and apparently, I'm digging charcoal gray this season! It's on sale, too, at www.nordstrom.com. And, best of all, it comes in petite, so it flatters shorties like me!!
Mom, I hope you are reading this!!!
This cute little Juicy Couture coat will keep me warm and have me looking hot during the winter. Plus, it's conservative enough that I could wear it to work or on a night out on the town.
An iPod Nano (now with video capabilities)is next on my list. I truly hope that this finds it's way under the tree... hint hint!!
These Ugg classic short boots are my all-time fave. I already have them in Sand and Chocolate and now I just need Chestnut to complete my collection. I love wearing them with no socks and putting my feet right into the luxurious furriness. Ah...
Gucci Bamboo Horsebit Sunglasses. These things are haute! Loving them. This is a true splurge item since it makes no sense for SUNGLASSES to cost almost $400. Call me frugal...
My two favorite designers these days would have to be Marc Jacobs and Michael Kors. I am absolutely in love with these Marc Jacobs patent leather watches and would really appreciate one in every color!
I had to edit this post to add:
I friggin LOVE this dress. It is so me!! Turtlenecks are my fave, I'm very intro dresses this year, and apparently, I'm digging charcoal gray this season! It's on sale, too, at www.nordstrom.com. And, best of all, it comes in petite, so it flatters shorties like me!!
Mom, I hope you are reading this!!!
"The Boys Are Back in Town" = Robert
This post is the first in a brief series called “The Boys Are Back in Town” [TBABIT]. I have been thinking of writing this series for a while, but it wasn’t yet complete. I was waiting for one more person to pop up and, it took a while, but he finally did.
TBABIT is a series that focuses on each of my long-term boyfriends. They are all exes now, but at one time they were a super-significant part of my life. I was just saying to my male BFF that, not to toot my own horn, but every single dude who I’ve dated long-term has f*cked up in some way, which lead to our breakup. And every single one of them – except my high school/early college ex – had come back to me suggesting that he never should’ve let me get away.
But then, yesterday, the final chicken came home to roost and my story was complete. So, again, I don’t want to toot my own horn, but: toot toot, beep beep. What goes around comes around, peoples. Remember that.
#1 – Robert
Robert and I met during my junior year of high school and his senior. I went to his prom with him, he accompanied me to mine the next year. We went on dates. Real dates where he would scoop me in his little white sports car, greet my parents, and pay with his own well-earned money. We had a good relationship. We spent holidays together, mostly with my family (which was a plus). He humored my idiosyncracies, encouraged me, and we trusted each other unconditionally.
We dated through my last two years of high school. When I got to college, we both lived in the same dorm, him on the eighth floor and me on the sixth. He had already been there for a year and I was just beginning. We spent a lot of time together. This was the first time in our relationship that we weren’t under the watchful eyes of our parents and we took full advantage – at first.
In the middle of my first semester of college, Robert decided to get a job. He would go to school and then go to work for three to four hours in the evening. But, it got to the point where he would expect me to be home when he got home from work, and he also expected that I would go to the dining hall and get him dinner so that it would be waiting for him when he got home.
To me, this felt too much like marriage. You go out and work and I am supposed to be sitting, waiting at home with dinner on the table? That will not work for me. And, I was only 19.
There had been a few days that Robert had come home and I wasn’t waiting for him and there was no dinner to be found. He was getting irritated, but I was too busy with my new college friends to notice. One night, I had been out with a few other girls from the sixth floor. When we returned home, there was a big “1” scrawled across the dry-erase board on my dorm room door in red marker. My roommate asked if I knew who had written the number.
I told her I didn’t have a clue.
A few days later, I had gone out to study at the library with one of my classmates and when we got back, there was a big “2” scrawled in red marker across the board on the door. Ok, this was a pattern. I erased the board and headed upstairs to see what was going on with Robert.
“How was your day,” I said, plopping down on his small twin bed. “Hey Kyle,” I said to his roommate, a tall, gangly white guy with a buzzcut who was sitting on the bed across from me. He waved at me and put his headphones on and went back to reading a magazine.
I leaned over to kiss Rob, but he turned his face so that I got a mouthful of cheek.
“Damn, no kiss for me,” I said, laughing.
“You weren’t there again,” he said with a straight face.
“What?” I said.
“You weren’t there again,” he repeated.
“Um… ok.”
“That was the second time.”
Ahhh… it was all starting to make sense now. “Have you been the one writing on my door?” I asked.
“Yup,” he said without hesitation. “That was your second strike. Three strikes and you are out,” he said seriously.
I began laughing uncontrollably. So loud, in fact, that Kyle heard me despite the music blasting in his headphones and looked up from his magazine.
“Negro, you cannot be serious,” I said, sobering up. “Don’t threaten me.”
“I’m not threatening you. I am just letting you know how I feel,” he said.
I stood, looked at him for a moment, and then went back to the sixth floor.
It was pretty much downhill from there.
The girls I was hanging with were boy crazy. They weren’t hos or anything, they just had info on every guy on campus. Plus, I was meeting a new guy every day in some class or at some on-campus event. As I began to assess the situation, I realized that Robert and I had a great high school relationship, but once I was exposed to the different types of guys that were accessible, I was losing interest in him – quickly.
In particular, I had a friend, Kenny from Boston. He and I were tight. We rolled together everywhere. And, though we never crossed the line from friendship to benefits, he opened my eyes to the possibility of a guy who was smart, cool, cute and fun to be around. Robert was a big deal at St. John’s College High School, but once I was exposed to the other guys on campus, I felt like he was small potatoes. And Robert was treating me more like a wife than a girlfriend and I felt as though I was being taken advantage of at the tender age of 19. My reasoning is all effed up, I know that now. But what can I say? I was young, dumb, and hella immature.
Robert and I were approaching our 3-year anniversary and things were very rocky by this point. By the time the actual date rolled around, we still hadn’t decided on any plans. I went looking for him around dinner time, because it was unusual for us not to go out on a dinner date for our anniversary. I found him in the fitness center playing basketball. He acknowledged me… sorta. And I left and went back to the dorm.
Later that night, he came into my room and sat down in the chair.
“It’s our anniversary,” I say.
“I know,” he says.
“You smell,” I say. “Why didn’t you take a shower before you came down here?”
“You never used to think I smelled bad before.”
“Well, things have changed. I don’t think I like you anymore.”
“I don’t like you anymore either,” he blurted.
“Wanna break up?”
“Uh huh,” he said.
“Cool.”
He got up, walked out, and we didn’t speak again until six months later. Our 3-year relationship was over - just like that. Miraculously, I never even saw him on campus. Funny enough, this was the easiest, least painful, most sane breakup I have ever had.
After our six month hiatus, we weren’t immediately friends. But, we were always civil to each other. Eventually, our contact become less and less frequent until, finally, there was no contact at all. Not even a birthday call or a Christmas text. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
Up until yesterday, I hadn’t heard form him in three years.
Yesterday, my mom calls me at work and said: “You’ll never guess who called us [she and my dad]!”
“Who?”
“Guess,” she says, excitedly.
“Mom. I am at work. I don’t want to guess. Who?”
“Robert!”
“What?!” I nearly drop the phone.
“Yeah, he said that he looked us up on the internet, got our phone number from our website and wants me to pass his number along to you. Now, please call him, because I don’t want him to think that I didn’t give you the message,” said my mother being her ever-so-polite self.
“Ok, will do.”
I stared at the information that my mother had relayed to me, but hesitated to dial the number. What could he possibly want?
When we finally spoke, it was a 2-hour conversation. During the course of our talk, he told me that he never cheated on me (not even once), he told me that the highlight of his dating life was our relationship, he said that I was the only woman he ever completely trusted and hat he knew for a fact that I had never cheated on him either. And, then, he said it. Robert admitted that he had fucked up and wondered aloud where we would be had we stayed together. I didn’t even entertain that last part.
“Your problem was that you had changed,” Robert explained.
“Your problem was that you hadn’t,” I said.
And that was that.
Yet another case of the chickens coming home to roost.
The satisfaction wasn’t as sweet with Robert because our breakup wasn’t bitter, but with him uttering these words, the circle is complete.
“The Boys Are Back in Town” Part II = Jeremy, coming soon. (That one is an interesting story…)
TBABIT is a series that focuses on each of my long-term boyfriends. They are all exes now, but at one time they were a super-significant part of my life. I was just saying to my male BFF that, not to toot my own horn, but every single dude who I’ve dated long-term has f*cked up in some way, which lead to our breakup. And every single one of them – except my high school/early college ex – had come back to me suggesting that he never should’ve let me get away.
But then, yesterday, the final chicken came home to roost and my story was complete. So, again, I don’t want to toot my own horn, but: toot toot, beep beep. What goes around comes around, peoples. Remember that.
#1 – Robert
Robert and I met during my junior year of high school and his senior. I went to his prom with him, he accompanied me to mine the next year. We went on dates. Real dates where he would scoop me in his little white sports car, greet my parents, and pay with his own well-earned money. We had a good relationship. We spent holidays together, mostly with my family (which was a plus). He humored my idiosyncracies, encouraged me, and we trusted each other unconditionally.
We dated through my last two years of high school. When I got to college, we both lived in the same dorm, him on the eighth floor and me on the sixth. He had already been there for a year and I was just beginning. We spent a lot of time together. This was the first time in our relationship that we weren’t under the watchful eyes of our parents and we took full advantage – at first.
In the middle of my first semester of college, Robert decided to get a job. He would go to school and then go to work for three to four hours in the evening. But, it got to the point where he would expect me to be home when he got home from work, and he also expected that I would go to the dining hall and get him dinner so that it would be waiting for him when he got home.
To me, this felt too much like marriage. You go out and work and I am supposed to be sitting, waiting at home with dinner on the table? That will not work for me. And, I was only 19.
There had been a few days that Robert had come home and I wasn’t waiting for him and there was no dinner to be found. He was getting irritated, but I was too busy with my new college friends to notice. One night, I had been out with a few other girls from the sixth floor. When we returned home, there was a big “1” scrawled across the dry-erase board on my dorm room door in red marker. My roommate asked if I knew who had written the number.
I told her I didn’t have a clue.
A few days later, I had gone out to study at the library with one of my classmates and when we got back, there was a big “2” scrawled in red marker across the board on the door. Ok, this was a pattern. I erased the board and headed upstairs to see what was going on with Robert.
“How was your day,” I said, plopping down on his small twin bed. “Hey Kyle,” I said to his roommate, a tall, gangly white guy with a buzzcut who was sitting on the bed across from me. He waved at me and put his headphones on and went back to reading a magazine.
I leaned over to kiss Rob, but he turned his face so that I got a mouthful of cheek.
“Damn, no kiss for me,” I said, laughing.
“You weren’t there again,” he said with a straight face.
“What?” I said.
“You weren’t there again,” he repeated.
“Um… ok.”
“That was the second time.”
Ahhh… it was all starting to make sense now. “Have you been the one writing on my door?” I asked.
“Yup,” he said without hesitation. “That was your second strike. Three strikes and you are out,” he said seriously.
I began laughing uncontrollably. So loud, in fact, that Kyle heard me despite the music blasting in his headphones and looked up from his magazine.
“Negro, you cannot be serious,” I said, sobering up. “Don’t threaten me.”
“I’m not threatening you. I am just letting you know how I feel,” he said.
I stood, looked at him for a moment, and then went back to the sixth floor.
It was pretty much downhill from there.
The girls I was hanging with were boy crazy. They weren’t hos or anything, they just had info on every guy on campus. Plus, I was meeting a new guy every day in some class or at some on-campus event. As I began to assess the situation, I realized that Robert and I had a great high school relationship, but once I was exposed to the different types of guys that were accessible, I was losing interest in him – quickly.
In particular, I had a friend, Kenny from Boston. He and I were tight. We rolled together everywhere. And, though we never crossed the line from friendship to benefits, he opened my eyes to the possibility of a guy who was smart, cool, cute and fun to be around. Robert was a big deal at St. John’s College High School, but once I was exposed to the other guys on campus, I felt like he was small potatoes. And Robert was treating me more like a wife than a girlfriend and I felt as though I was being taken advantage of at the tender age of 19. My reasoning is all effed up, I know that now. But what can I say? I was young, dumb, and hella immature.
Robert and I were approaching our 3-year anniversary and things were very rocky by this point. By the time the actual date rolled around, we still hadn’t decided on any plans. I went looking for him around dinner time, because it was unusual for us not to go out on a dinner date for our anniversary. I found him in the fitness center playing basketball. He acknowledged me… sorta. And I left and went back to the dorm.
Later that night, he came into my room and sat down in the chair.
“It’s our anniversary,” I say.
“I know,” he says.
“You smell,” I say. “Why didn’t you take a shower before you came down here?”
“You never used to think I smelled bad before.”
“Well, things have changed. I don’t think I like you anymore.”
“I don’t like you anymore either,” he blurted.
“Wanna break up?”
“Uh huh,” he said.
“Cool.”
He got up, walked out, and we didn’t speak again until six months later. Our 3-year relationship was over - just like that. Miraculously, I never even saw him on campus. Funny enough, this was the easiest, least painful, most sane breakup I have ever had.
After our six month hiatus, we weren’t immediately friends. But, we were always civil to each other. Eventually, our contact become less and less frequent until, finally, there was no contact at all. Not even a birthday call or a Christmas text. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
Up until yesterday, I hadn’t heard form him in three years.
Yesterday, my mom calls me at work and said: “You’ll never guess who called us [she and my dad]!”
“Who?”
“Guess,” she says, excitedly.
“Mom. I am at work. I don’t want to guess. Who?”
“Robert!”
“What?!” I nearly drop the phone.
“Yeah, he said that he looked us up on the internet, got our phone number from our website and wants me to pass his number along to you. Now, please call him, because I don’t want him to think that I didn’t give you the message,” said my mother being her ever-so-polite self.
“Ok, will do.”
I stared at the information that my mother had relayed to me, but hesitated to dial the number. What could he possibly want?
When we finally spoke, it was a 2-hour conversation. During the course of our talk, he told me that he never cheated on me (not even once), he told me that the highlight of his dating life was our relationship, he said that I was the only woman he ever completely trusted and hat he knew for a fact that I had never cheated on him either. And, then, he said it. Robert admitted that he had fucked up and wondered aloud where we would be had we stayed together. I didn’t even entertain that last part.
“Your problem was that you had changed,” Robert explained.
“Your problem was that you hadn’t,” I said.
And that was that.
Yet another case of the chickens coming home to roost.
The satisfaction wasn’t as sweet with Robert because our breakup wasn’t bitter, but with him uttering these words, the circle is complete.
“The Boys Are Back in Town” Part II = Jeremy, coming soon. (That one is an interesting story…)
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Ascot - Part Deux
So, Ascot is coming to my town, huh? This could get interesting, I think. He would be here in two and a half weeks. The sexual chemistry was palpable. But, I couldn’t possibly sleep with him on his first visit down here, could I? I mean…
No, of course I couldn’t!
I write back immediately, thanking him for his response and telling him that I’d love to meet up with him while he’s here. We go back and forth like that for a few days, telling each other about how much we enjoyed the other’s company and what we were hoping would happen when we finally saw each other again.
A few days before he was to arrive, my boss told me I was being sent to New York overnight to work an event we were producing. JACKPOT! I wouldn’t have to wait long at all to see Ascot. Though our primary mode of communication had been email for the weeks that we had known each other, we had also spoken a few times by telephone. He’d talk incessantly about some Wall Street bullshit and I’d encourage him just to listen to that accent that reminded me of sand, seashells, and sunshine. I couldn’t wait to see him in person! In the brief time we had been chatting, our chain of emails became a full-time job. I was wondering how he was able to get any work done while also keeping up with our correspondence. Apparently, Wall Street wasn’t as busy as I thought it was.
I decided not to tell Ascot I was coming to the city. It would be a great idea to just surprise him when I got there!
After I arrived in the city and checked into my hotel, I called Ascot at his desk to let him know I was in town.
“I’m in New York! We have an event tonight at BB King’s and you are welcome to come hang out. It should be pretty good.”
Silence.
“Hello?” I said.
“Er, how long will you be here?” he said.
“Leaving tomorrow.”
“I see,” he says. “I have time to grab a sandwich in about an hour.” It was 2pm.
Huh? I come all the way to NY and he only has time to “grab a sandwich”? I definitely didn’t think he’d be bouncing off the walls with excitement at the news of my arrival in the city, but I certainly didn’t think that he would sound like he was doing me a favor by squeezing in a damn sandwich. Well, I don’t have to be at the venue until 6:30pm, so I could conceivably get a quick lunch with him.
My hotel is at W. 55th and Broadway. He is on Wall Street. At this point in my life, I know little to nothing about the New York City Subway system, but I figure I can find my way. I walk to the nearest train station and ask the man in the booth how to get to Wall Street. He gives me what I think are decent directions. It takes me forever to get down there, but when I finally emerge from underground, I am thinking: Wow! So this is Wall Street. Although it was late afternoon, there were people moving about all around me dressed in power suits and chatting away on cell phones. My eyes scan each building and I am in awe as I pass the Stock Exchange, Deutsche Bank, and Merrill Lynch. When I finally arrive at Ascot’s mammoth building, I call him and tell him I am outside.
He exits the building and I am stunned as I think, he looks better than I remember. He is wearing a black pinstripe, 3-piece suit, with a white shirt and a purple tie. A little flashy for a finance guy, I think. But, then again, this is the same dude that was wearing an ascot when I met him. In 2003. But I digress. He spots me and a wide grin spreads across his handsome face. We walk towards each other and he leans down and gives me a hug. He smells amazing.
“You smell amazing,” he says to me, as though reading my thoughts.
“I was just about to tell you the same thing!” I laugh.
“There is a deli around the corner that serves great corned beef sandwiches,” he says.
Um… deli? Like, was this mofo really serious about “grabbing a sandwich”?
I mask my disappointment and simply say, “Great!”
We walk toward the deli and there is an easy silence between us. There is no real rush to say anything. Our arms are swinging next to each other in rhythm. His swings forward, mine swings back, his swings forward, mine swings back. On one of my forward swings, he grabs my hand and starts holding it just as we turn the corner. I feel beautiful and romantic, this is New York and I am on Wall Street, holding the hand of an investment banker on the way to grab a late lunch. Could this get any better?
We get to the deli, he asks what I want. I tell him. He orders while I find our seats. We sit by the window and watch the late afternoon foot traffic on the street outside. We eat our sandwiches and talk about everything. Our knees touch and our eyes are flirting. Every now and again there is a break in the conversation and we smile at each other shyly.
Finally he says, “Sorry about the modest lunch. You kind of sprang your visit on me and I didn’t have time to plan anything. Plus, I have been so swamped at the office, I barely had time to grab lunch today, so. It is what it is.”
Did this negro really just say ‘It is what it is’? This is too funny.
“It’s cool,” I say. “I wanted to surprise you, so really it’s my fault.”
He doesn’t say anything. Ha! I guess the reason I am eating corned beef right now is because it really is my fault. So much for being spontaneous.
“So, are you going to be able to make it to the performance tonight?” I say as I chomp on my dill pickle.
“Oh,” he starts, wiping his mouth, “I don’t think so. I am just swamped with work right now. I’ll be working late.”
I pick apart my sandwich. Remove the top slice of bread.
“No problem. I just thought you might enjoy it. Wanna have dinner later?” I ask.
“Um… I don’t think I can make that tonight.”
“I am leaving tomorrow. So… if you can’t do something later tonight then I don’t think we’ll be able to see each other again before I leave.”
“Uh… yeah. I’m sorry about that.”
He’s ‘sorry about that’? What does that mean?
“Sweetie,” he says. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and pushes back from the table before continuing. “There is something that I have to tell you.”
He begins to tell me about his ‘friend’ Ana. They had met a few months before through a mutual friend when he and the friend had visited Argentina. She is visiting the States and has been staying with him for the last four weeks. The two of them are supposed to be having dinner with friends tonight to mark her departure in two days.
“So, she was here when I met you,” I say.
“Yes, she decided to go out with our mutual friend, rather than attend Belle’s party.”
“I see,” I say. All of a sudden, I can’t swallow my pickle. There is a lump in my throat and the food wouldn’t go down.
“We are just friends, though,” he says.
“Have you slept with her since she’s been here?” I ask.
He looks down at his hands in his lap. No words come out of his mouth, but his silence says it all.
“Ok,” I say, balling up my trash and standing up. “Thanks for lunch. I am going to get back to Midtown so I can get ready for my event tonight.” I spin on the heel of my brand new black boots and am on my way out of the door.
“Wait,” he says, grabbing my arm to stop me. “I never meant to hurt you. She really is just a friend and will be going back to Argentina in a few days. This all happened before I met you. If I had met you first, it would be you back at my house, not her.”
I looked at him and felt like laughing because his words were so unconvincing. But, I wanted to believe him. So, my heart softened a little bit – and I did (believe him).
He walked me outside, where it had begun to rain.
I raised my umbrella and began to walk away. He grabbed my arm again and pulled me into his chest. He smelled so good. My head started to spin. He pushed me away from him slightly and looked down at me, and I knew what would happen. He was going to kiss me.
Our lips touched, softly at first. And then, he began to kiss me with more passion. And, you know what? The earth actually moved. (Well, not exactly. A train was passing beneath us and I could feel the vibration under my feet.)
When we finally broke apart, he said, “I hope I can still see you when I come to town to visit my father.”
Still lightheaded from the kiss, I say, “Of course. I am looking forward to it.”
He hails me a cab and slips $40 in my hand. “For the fare,” he says. “See you in DC.”
“Yes, see you in DC,” I say dreamily.
He leans into the car and kisses me on the forehead.
Ascot’s spell did not break for 20 minutes. I was sitting in traffic and the Sikh driver asked me to repeat our destination. It was then, and only then, that I got pissed. Not so much that dude had another woman staying with him in his home when he met me, not so much because he carried on by email and phone with me as though he were in love and unattached, not so much because he told me he was banging her, but because he lied to me about it.
A sinking feeling hit my stomach. And, all of a sudden reality set in. He is a liar, I am thinking.
Just then, New York didn’t seem so romantic, Wall Street had lost his charm and I belched because the corned beef had given me heart burn. So much for getting my groove back. I am done with this city and I am done with this man, I resolved.
But that wasn’t the last time I would hear from Ascot...
No, of course I couldn’t!
I write back immediately, thanking him for his response and telling him that I’d love to meet up with him while he’s here. We go back and forth like that for a few days, telling each other about how much we enjoyed the other’s company and what we were hoping would happen when we finally saw each other again.
A few days before he was to arrive, my boss told me I was being sent to New York overnight to work an event we were producing. JACKPOT! I wouldn’t have to wait long at all to see Ascot. Though our primary mode of communication had been email for the weeks that we had known each other, we had also spoken a few times by telephone. He’d talk incessantly about some Wall Street bullshit and I’d encourage him just to listen to that accent that reminded me of sand, seashells, and sunshine. I couldn’t wait to see him in person! In the brief time we had been chatting, our chain of emails became a full-time job. I was wondering how he was able to get any work done while also keeping up with our correspondence. Apparently, Wall Street wasn’t as busy as I thought it was.
I decided not to tell Ascot I was coming to the city. It would be a great idea to just surprise him when I got there!
After I arrived in the city and checked into my hotel, I called Ascot at his desk to let him know I was in town.
“I’m in New York! We have an event tonight at BB King’s and you are welcome to come hang out. It should be pretty good.”
Silence.
“Hello?” I said.
“Er, how long will you be here?” he said.
“Leaving tomorrow.”
“I see,” he says. “I have time to grab a sandwich in about an hour.” It was 2pm.
Huh? I come all the way to NY and he only has time to “grab a sandwich”? I definitely didn’t think he’d be bouncing off the walls with excitement at the news of my arrival in the city, but I certainly didn’t think that he would sound like he was doing me a favor by squeezing in a damn sandwich. Well, I don’t have to be at the venue until 6:30pm, so I could conceivably get a quick lunch with him.
My hotel is at W. 55th and Broadway. He is on Wall Street. At this point in my life, I know little to nothing about the New York City Subway system, but I figure I can find my way. I walk to the nearest train station and ask the man in the booth how to get to Wall Street. He gives me what I think are decent directions. It takes me forever to get down there, but when I finally emerge from underground, I am thinking: Wow! So this is Wall Street. Although it was late afternoon, there were people moving about all around me dressed in power suits and chatting away on cell phones. My eyes scan each building and I am in awe as I pass the Stock Exchange, Deutsche Bank, and Merrill Lynch. When I finally arrive at Ascot’s mammoth building, I call him and tell him I am outside.
He exits the building and I am stunned as I think, he looks better than I remember. He is wearing a black pinstripe, 3-piece suit, with a white shirt and a purple tie. A little flashy for a finance guy, I think. But, then again, this is the same dude that was wearing an ascot when I met him. In 2003. But I digress. He spots me and a wide grin spreads across his handsome face. We walk towards each other and he leans down and gives me a hug. He smells amazing.
“You smell amazing,” he says to me, as though reading my thoughts.
“I was just about to tell you the same thing!” I laugh.
“There is a deli around the corner that serves great corned beef sandwiches,” he says.
Um… deli? Like, was this mofo really serious about “grabbing a sandwich”?
I mask my disappointment and simply say, “Great!”
We walk toward the deli and there is an easy silence between us. There is no real rush to say anything. Our arms are swinging next to each other in rhythm. His swings forward, mine swings back, his swings forward, mine swings back. On one of my forward swings, he grabs my hand and starts holding it just as we turn the corner. I feel beautiful and romantic, this is New York and I am on Wall Street, holding the hand of an investment banker on the way to grab a late lunch. Could this get any better?
We get to the deli, he asks what I want. I tell him. He orders while I find our seats. We sit by the window and watch the late afternoon foot traffic on the street outside. We eat our sandwiches and talk about everything. Our knees touch and our eyes are flirting. Every now and again there is a break in the conversation and we smile at each other shyly.
Finally he says, “Sorry about the modest lunch. You kind of sprang your visit on me and I didn’t have time to plan anything. Plus, I have been so swamped at the office, I barely had time to grab lunch today, so. It is what it is.”
Did this negro really just say ‘It is what it is’? This is too funny.
“It’s cool,” I say. “I wanted to surprise you, so really it’s my fault.”
He doesn’t say anything. Ha! I guess the reason I am eating corned beef right now is because it really is my fault. So much for being spontaneous.
“So, are you going to be able to make it to the performance tonight?” I say as I chomp on my dill pickle.
“Oh,” he starts, wiping his mouth, “I don’t think so. I am just swamped with work right now. I’ll be working late.”
I pick apart my sandwich. Remove the top slice of bread.
“No problem. I just thought you might enjoy it. Wanna have dinner later?” I ask.
“Um… I don’t think I can make that tonight.”
“I am leaving tomorrow. So… if you can’t do something later tonight then I don’t think we’ll be able to see each other again before I leave.”
“Uh… yeah. I’m sorry about that.”
He’s ‘sorry about that’? What does that mean?
“Sweetie,” he says. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and pushes back from the table before continuing. “There is something that I have to tell you.”
He begins to tell me about his ‘friend’ Ana. They had met a few months before through a mutual friend when he and the friend had visited Argentina. She is visiting the States and has been staying with him for the last four weeks. The two of them are supposed to be having dinner with friends tonight to mark her departure in two days.
“So, she was here when I met you,” I say.
“Yes, she decided to go out with our mutual friend, rather than attend Belle’s party.”
“I see,” I say. All of a sudden, I can’t swallow my pickle. There is a lump in my throat and the food wouldn’t go down.
“We are just friends, though,” he says.
“Have you slept with her since she’s been here?” I ask.
He looks down at his hands in his lap. No words come out of his mouth, but his silence says it all.
“Ok,” I say, balling up my trash and standing up. “Thanks for lunch. I am going to get back to Midtown so I can get ready for my event tonight.” I spin on the heel of my brand new black boots and am on my way out of the door.
“Wait,” he says, grabbing my arm to stop me. “I never meant to hurt you. She really is just a friend and will be going back to Argentina in a few days. This all happened before I met you. If I had met you first, it would be you back at my house, not her.”
I looked at him and felt like laughing because his words were so unconvincing. But, I wanted to believe him. So, my heart softened a little bit – and I did (believe him).
He walked me outside, where it had begun to rain.
I raised my umbrella and began to walk away. He grabbed my arm again and pulled me into his chest. He smelled so good. My head started to spin. He pushed me away from him slightly and looked down at me, and I knew what would happen. He was going to kiss me.
Our lips touched, softly at first. And then, he began to kiss me with more passion. And, you know what? The earth actually moved. (Well, not exactly. A train was passing beneath us and I could feel the vibration under my feet.)
When we finally broke apart, he said, “I hope I can still see you when I come to town to visit my father.”
Still lightheaded from the kiss, I say, “Of course. I am looking forward to it.”
He hails me a cab and slips $40 in my hand. “For the fare,” he says. “See you in DC.”
“Yes, see you in DC,” I say dreamily.
He leans into the car and kisses me on the forehead.
Ascot’s spell did not break for 20 minutes. I was sitting in traffic and the Sikh driver asked me to repeat our destination. It was then, and only then, that I got pissed. Not so much that dude had another woman staying with him in his home when he met me, not so much because he carried on by email and phone with me as though he were in love and unattached, not so much because he told me he was banging her, but because he lied to me about it.
A sinking feeling hit my stomach. And, all of a sudden reality set in. He is a liar, I am thinking.
Just then, New York didn’t seem so romantic, Wall Street had lost his charm and I belched because the corned beef had given me heart burn. So much for getting my groove back. I am done with this city and I am done with this man, I resolved.
But that wasn’t the last time I would hear from Ascot...
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Celeb Sighting #1: MA$E
In 1997, a number of significant things happened to me. In June of that year, I graduated from high school. And, in August, I started my first semester at the University of Maryland, College Park. Also that year, my mother’s father – my beloved Grandfather – was diagnosed with cancer. It was a shock, but we were dealing with it. Grandpa was the oldest boy in a family of 14 children. So, when the word came down that he was sick, all his siblings decided to travel to DC and celebrate Thanksgiving with my family. That was the last year my Grandpa was strong enough to put his special touch on our 20 lb turkey, but nobody else felt much like preparing anything for our big dinner. So, the responsibility fell to me at 18 years old and to my 16 year old cousin. We made everything else, including desserts – food enough to feed 30 people. By the time I helped to clean up the kitchen and chitty-chatted with my family members, my cousins and I decided to take a ride around DC to relax.
That night, Usher was having a party at Republic Gardens, but my younger cousin wouldn’t be able to get into the party since she was under 18. So, instead, we decided to cruise around in my car for a few hours. After we had driven all the way downtown and made it back to the DC/Silver Spring border, we decided that we were hungry. Everything was closed. It was Thanksgiving afterall. But, one place was still open – the Tastee Diner, a rinky-dink greasy spoon establishment with hot coffee and hot food. (“Hot” doesn’t necessarily equal “good”!) We called my BFF who lived a few blocks away from the diner and asked if she wanted to come out. She took a pass since she was feeling slugging from the tryptophan (sp).
We pulled into the diner and ordered our food. I don’t remember what I ordered, but I remember what happened next like it was yesterday. The day after Thanksgiving, my younger cousin, BFF and I were planning to attend the Puff Daddy concert. Now, Biggie had died earlier that year and it was sort of a big deal to see Puffy at this point. (Those of you who are aware of my Diddy obsession are giggling just a little right about now.) Plus, I had recently fallen in love with Diddy’s protégé, Ma$e, a slow-talking rapper from Harlem – as if you didn’t already know that! My crush on Ma$e was public knowledge on Maryland’s campus. In fact, a male friend of mine had copped a life-sized poster of Ma$e from a record store that was closing nearby and it was hanging on the wall in my dorm room.
Anyway, my cousins and I were discussing the concert that was to happen the next day and as we were discussing, a dude with dreads walked in and sat at the counter. With his back facing us, I was able to see that the black leather jacket he was wearing had “Bad Boy Entertainment” stitched in white. My cousin snickered. “How pressed,” she said.
“I know! What a bama!” I giggled. “You would have to be really pressed to walk around in a jacket like that unless you worked for them or something.”
Just then, the door to the diner opens again and a bald-headed chubby dude with slanted eyes walks in and sits at the counter next to the guy in the Bad Boy jacket. My cousin looked up from her plate and says, “I know that guy. He’s from this group called The Lox.” (This was Jadakiss, in case you didn’t guess that by now.)
“Oh, I guess that guy does work for Bad Boy, then.” Hmmmm…
We go back to eating, but never in all my years would I have been prepared for what happened next. My back was facing the door, so I wasn’t able to see who was walking in until they came around to the other side of my table. My younger cousin was facing the door. She picked up the bottle of ketchup and started pouring some on her onion rings. All of a sudden, her mouth dropped and, from behind me, I hear someone say in a slow drawl, “Why are you putting so much ketchup on your onion rings?” My cousin squealed.
I look back and it’s… MA$E. Yes, that’s right. M-A-dollar sign-E was standing right next to our table. All at once I feel the need to sneeze, cough, burp, hiccup… the first sob hit me and it was more like a shudder, and then…. Tears?! OMG! I am SUCH a bama. I finally got a chance to meet Ma$e, the man who’s picture I awakened to each morning. Who’s crooked grin encouraged me as I made my way out of my dorm room onto class. And, there was that grin – in the flesh – and what do I do? I cry. I could not get control of myself. I was a mess. He walked to the booth behind ours and sat down. I hurried to the bathroom and cried a little more, washed my face, dried it and then gave myself a pep talk before heading back out to the dining area.
When I got back to the table, he was standing by my cousins and chatting them up, like he had known them for years.
“You ok?” he asked me.
I stare stupidly, but cannot find my voice! Tears welled up again, but I fought them off. You are such a loser, I am thinking to myself. I had met a few celebs before and had never been starstruck. But this time, I just couldn’t help myself. I had dreamed of this man. Oh the things I promised myself I would do if I ran into this man in person and all I could manage were a few strangled sobs?
My cousins asked him for an autograph and I just stared, my food sitting forgotten on my plate due to a sudden loss of appetite. Finally, I was able to speak.
“Can I get one, too?” I say softly.
“She speaks!” he laughs. That grin. I feel dizzy. He grabs my napkin and asks me my name. I tell him and he writes “MA$E Loves [Lovely Brown Girl]”. I swoon. He orders pancakes. Their driver comes in and they begin to argue. He says “Ok, if you don’t do it, I’ll just call Puff and you’ll be fired. No question.” The driver storms out. I am thinking, Wow. He can call Puffy RIGHT NOW if he wants to. I am so impressed.
Ma$e gets his pancakes and starts chowing down. By this time, other members of his entourage have joined him, including (apparently) a few backup dancers… or jumpoffs… or, jumpoffs that serve as backup dancers. Whatever. One of them looks at Ma$e eating and says, “You sure are eating those pancakes sloppy” and he says “That’s not the only thing I eat sloppy.” And he winks. I feel sick.
He continues to chat with my cousins (since I have become mute) and the other people in the diner. Countless swear words pepper his speech, which also included numerous sexual innuendos. His security guard (married) also tried to get my cousin to come back to their hotel room (she was 16, remember? And she had told him that. Repeatedly. He was undeterred.)
By the end of the encounter, my infatuation with Ma$e had seriously diminished. He wasn’t nearly as charming or witty as I thought he’d be. He was, however, much cuter in person.
At any rate, I attended the concert that next day and thoroughly enjoyed myself. The person who stood out to me that night was Puff, not Ma$e. And a new celebrity crush was born. BFF was so upset she chose to stay home that night. Spotting Ma$e in Downtown Silver Spring in 1997 was kind of a big deal... But, I assured her she didn't miss much. Anyway, when I returned to school after my Thanksgiving break was over, I was over Ma$e.
But the poster stayed on the wall. As immature, obnoxious, and unimpressive as he was, that lopsided grin was still worth the wall space…
That night, Usher was having a party at Republic Gardens, but my younger cousin wouldn’t be able to get into the party since she was under 18. So, instead, we decided to cruise around in my car for a few hours. After we had driven all the way downtown and made it back to the DC/Silver Spring border, we decided that we were hungry. Everything was closed. It was Thanksgiving afterall. But, one place was still open – the Tastee Diner, a rinky-dink greasy spoon establishment with hot coffee and hot food. (“Hot” doesn’t necessarily equal “good”!) We called my BFF who lived a few blocks away from the diner and asked if she wanted to come out. She took a pass since she was feeling slugging from the tryptophan (sp).
We pulled into the diner and ordered our food. I don’t remember what I ordered, but I remember what happened next like it was yesterday. The day after Thanksgiving, my younger cousin, BFF and I were planning to attend the Puff Daddy concert. Now, Biggie had died earlier that year and it was sort of a big deal to see Puffy at this point. (Those of you who are aware of my Diddy obsession are giggling just a little right about now.) Plus, I had recently fallen in love with Diddy’s protégé, Ma$e, a slow-talking rapper from Harlem – as if you didn’t already know that! My crush on Ma$e was public knowledge on Maryland’s campus. In fact, a male friend of mine had copped a life-sized poster of Ma$e from a record store that was closing nearby and it was hanging on the wall in my dorm room.
Anyway, my cousins and I were discussing the concert that was to happen the next day and as we were discussing, a dude with dreads walked in and sat at the counter. With his back facing us, I was able to see that the black leather jacket he was wearing had “Bad Boy Entertainment” stitched in white. My cousin snickered. “How pressed,” she said.
“I know! What a bama!” I giggled. “You would have to be really pressed to walk around in a jacket like that unless you worked for them or something.”
Just then, the door to the diner opens again and a bald-headed chubby dude with slanted eyes walks in and sits at the counter next to the guy in the Bad Boy jacket. My cousin looked up from her plate and says, “I know that guy. He’s from this group called The Lox.” (This was Jadakiss, in case you didn’t guess that by now.)
“Oh, I guess that guy does work for Bad Boy, then.” Hmmmm…
We go back to eating, but never in all my years would I have been prepared for what happened next. My back was facing the door, so I wasn’t able to see who was walking in until they came around to the other side of my table. My younger cousin was facing the door. She picked up the bottle of ketchup and started pouring some on her onion rings. All of a sudden, her mouth dropped and, from behind me, I hear someone say in a slow drawl, “Why are you putting so much ketchup on your onion rings?” My cousin squealed.
I look back and it’s… MA$E. Yes, that’s right. M-A-dollar sign-E was standing right next to our table. All at once I feel the need to sneeze, cough, burp, hiccup… the first sob hit me and it was more like a shudder, and then…. Tears?! OMG! I am SUCH a bama. I finally got a chance to meet Ma$e, the man who’s picture I awakened to each morning. Who’s crooked grin encouraged me as I made my way out of my dorm room onto class. And, there was that grin – in the flesh – and what do I do? I cry. I could not get control of myself. I was a mess. He walked to the booth behind ours and sat down. I hurried to the bathroom and cried a little more, washed my face, dried it and then gave myself a pep talk before heading back out to the dining area.
When I got back to the table, he was standing by my cousins and chatting them up, like he had known them for years.
“You ok?” he asked me.
I stare stupidly, but cannot find my voice! Tears welled up again, but I fought them off. You are such a loser, I am thinking to myself. I had met a few celebs before and had never been starstruck. But this time, I just couldn’t help myself. I had dreamed of this man. Oh the things I promised myself I would do if I ran into this man in person and all I could manage were a few strangled sobs?
My cousins asked him for an autograph and I just stared, my food sitting forgotten on my plate due to a sudden loss of appetite. Finally, I was able to speak.
“Can I get one, too?” I say softly.
“She speaks!” he laughs. That grin. I feel dizzy. He grabs my napkin and asks me my name. I tell him and he writes “MA$E Loves [Lovely Brown Girl]”. I swoon. He orders pancakes. Their driver comes in and they begin to argue. He says “Ok, if you don’t do it, I’ll just call Puff and you’ll be fired. No question.” The driver storms out. I am thinking, Wow. He can call Puffy RIGHT NOW if he wants to. I am so impressed.
Ma$e gets his pancakes and starts chowing down. By this time, other members of his entourage have joined him, including (apparently) a few backup dancers… or jumpoffs… or, jumpoffs that serve as backup dancers. Whatever. One of them looks at Ma$e eating and says, “You sure are eating those pancakes sloppy” and he says “That’s not the only thing I eat sloppy.” And he winks. I feel sick.
He continues to chat with my cousins (since I have become mute) and the other people in the diner. Countless swear words pepper his speech, which also included numerous sexual innuendos. His security guard (married) also tried to get my cousin to come back to their hotel room (she was 16, remember? And she had told him that. Repeatedly. He was undeterred.)
By the end of the encounter, my infatuation with Ma$e had seriously diminished. He wasn’t nearly as charming or witty as I thought he’d be. He was, however, much cuter in person.
At any rate, I attended the concert that next day and thoroughly enjoyed myself. The person who stood out to me that night was Puff, not Ma$e. And a new celebrity crush was born. BFF was so upset she chose to stay home that night. Spotting Ma$e in Downtown Silver Spring in 1997 was kind of a big deal... But, I assured her she didn't miss much. Anyway, when I returned to school after my Thanksgiving break was over, I was over Ma$e.
But the poster stayed on the wall. As immature, obnoxious, and unimpressive as he was, that lopsided grin was still worth the wall space…
Hi, My Name Is "Stella"...
Some of the best things that have ever happened to me have occurred in the greatest city on earth: New York! Pre-September 11th NYC could not be beat! It was the bomb!! After the terrorist attacks, for a little while it felt as though someone had sucked the life out of the city, but once the initial guilt wore off, people went back to partying – thank God!
In late 2003, I accompanied my cousin on a trip to NY to visit the Fashion Institute of Technology. My two best friends from high school, Jenna and Karina both were living in the city. After my cousin and I finished at the formal open house in the fashion district, we went to visit Karina at her apartment in Midtown. Karina said that her friend Belle had invited her to a house party in Queens later that night.
“You trying to roll to the party,” she asked as I suffocated from claustrophobia in her miniscule apartment.
I looked at my cousin, who just shrugged her shoulders. “Sure, we’re down,” I said while walking to the window to get a breath of fresh air.
My cousin and I went back to our hotel in Brooklyn where we changed and headed out for a night on the town. We cabbed it back to Midtown, met up with Jenna in Karina’s lobby and waited for Karina to come down. We caught the train to Queens, got off on a platform in a very residential area and walked the three blocks to Belle’s apartment. She, her twin sister Ariel, and another girl shared a three-bedroom apartment in Astoria.
A motley crew stood outside on the lawn.
“This is an apartment?” I asked Karina. From the outside it looked like a regular two-story brick house.
A guy wearing an ascot and a Kangol opened the front door for us and told us to walk up the long staircase to get to the party.
The door to the apartment was ajar and Belle greeted us in the dimly-lit foyer. She was a plump, pleasant light-skinned chick with a short haircut.
“Welcome to our humble abode. What are y’all drinking? We’ve got tequila and lemonade and vodka and punch,” she yelled over the thumping base of the music.
Ever the designated driver, I respond, “I’ll just have a coke.” My girls looked at each other and burst out laughing. My cousin shouted, “You don’t have to drive anywhere girl! This is NYC, we took the train!”
Good point! I went to the kitchen and filled a large, red, plastic cup (you know the ones) with the vodka and punch mixture. I followed Belle and my girls into the living room where the music was blasting. Dude with the ascot comes sailing through the apartment, stopping to get love from each girl and give dap to each dude. I noticed him, watched him move effortlessly through the mixed crowd. He was very, very dark-skinned and he had the most beautiful smile and the straightest pearly-whites that gleamed against his jet black skin. He was wearing a tan Kangol (more Sam Jackson than LL Cool J), a white shirt, brown jacket and peach ascot with jeans and pointed-toe shoes. He sure doesn’t dress like the guys back home, I am thinking. I am not yet sure whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.
Eventually, he comes over to speak to me and my girls.
He asks where I’m from. I tell him. Turns out that his parents are divorced and his dad lives in my town. I notice the lilt in his voice and ask where he’s from.
“Jamaica,” he says.
Oh shit! I am about to get my groove back like Stella.
He asks me to dance and we salsa around Belle’s living room floor. We laugh, he asks if I’m thirsty and brings me more vodka and punch. I am starting to feel myself. This is not good. You see, I have this problem with control. I don’t like to feel as though I am losing it. And the second I start to feel it slipping away, I snap back to attention. I put the drink down and step into another room to get some air. He follows and we continue chatting. He is smart. He is funny. He is fiiiine!
Turns out that in another life he used to be a model, a pro soccer player and a club promoter in Manhattan and now he is working on Wall Street at a huge investment bank. Is this guy for real? Eventually, he leaves me and I miss him as soon as he walks away. I find my girls and we hang out for a while. I don’t see Ascot anywhere. My girls have made a decision that we are leaving, without consulting me. I cannot leave without Ascot’s number. I start making excuses not to leave. I will go to the bathroom. I wait in line and there are four people ahead of me waiting to use the toilet. Good thing I don’t really have to go myself. When I finally get inside, I look at myself in the mirror, splash my face with water, and reapply my lip gloss. Then, I flush the toilet and head back outside. Next, I make a really big deal about finding my coat. Karina says, “Hey, you can stop stalling. I can always ask Belle for dude’s number.” I stop cold. Why didn’t I think of that? Ok, I am ready to leave.
We are outside and there is Ascot chatting up another girl. I am floored when he walks away, leaving her looking pretty stupid and lonely, and says “I wanted to give you my card. Feel free to call me anytime.”
Whoo-hoo! I have his number in my hot little hands and tuck the card deep into my handbag.
A few days later, I am sitting at my desk at work and pull out the card. I run my fingers over the raised letters and think that I probably shouldn’t call Ascot at work since he is probably busy doing very important Wall Street work. So, I email him instead, telling him that it was nice to meet him and that his personality and style were very refreshing and that I hope to see him again soon. I take a deep breath and swallow hard, proofreading my words. I change a few sentences, read it again, and slowly, I click “send”. Oh shit! I did it! I have never been this forward before in my life. I immediately want to take it back. What if he didn’t feel the same way? What if he doesn’t even remember me? What if I have made a fool of myself? Oh well, I can’t get it back. It is now floating it’s way through cyberspace and into his inbox. I get up and walk around the office to take my mind off of what I have just done. What do I expect anyway? He’s a friggin investment banker, former model, former professional athlete. What would HE want with lil ol me? And, he lives in NYC, the greatest city on Earth. I’m sure he’s not interested in some out-of-town lovin.
Within 5 minutes, I am back at my desk and he has replied. OMG! I am afraid to open it.
A great big grin spreads across my face as soon as I read the first line. He also found me refreshing, thinks my spirit is effervescent, and… what’s this? He’s visiting his dad down here in a few weeks and wants to see me.
I cannot contain my excitement. The Brown Girl really will get her groove back, afterall!
To be continued…
In late 2003, I accompanied my cousin on a trip to NY to visit the Fashion Institute of Technology. My two best friends from high school, Jenna and Karina both were living in the city. After my cousin and I finished at the formal open house in the fashion district, we went to visit Karina at her apartment in Midtown. Karina said that her friend Belle had invited her to a house party in Queens later that night.
“You trying to roll to the party,” she asked as I suffocated from claustrophobia in her miniscule apartment.
I looked at my cousin, who just shrugged her shoulders. “Sure, we’re down,” I said while walking to the window to get a breath of fresh air.
My cousin and I went back to our hotel in Brooklyn where we changed and headed out for a night on the town. We cabbed it back to Midtown, met up with Jenna in Karina’s lobby and waited for Karina to come down. We caught the train to Queens, got off on a platform in a very residential area and walked the three blocks to Belle’s apartment. She, her twin sister Ariel, and another girl shared a three-bedroom apartment in Astoria.
A motley crew stood outside on the lawn.
“This is an apartment?” I asked Karina. From the outside it looked like a regular two-story brick house.
A guy wearing an ascot and a Kangol opened the front door for us and told us to walk up the long staircase to get to the party.
The door to the apartment was ajar and Belle greeted us in the dimly-lit foyer. She was a plump, pleasant light-skinned chick with a short haircut.
“Welcome to our humble abode. What are y’all drinking? We’ve got tequila and lemonade and vodka and punch,” she yelled over the thumping base of the music.
Ever the designated driver, I respond, “I’ll just have a coke.” My girls looked at each other and burst out laughing. My cousin shouted, “You don’t have to drive anywhere girl! This is NYC, we took the train!”
Good point! I went to the kitchen and filled a large, red, plastic cup (you know the ones) with the vodka and punch mixture. I followed Belle and my girls into the living room where the music was blasting. Dude with the ascot comes sailing through the apartment, stopping to get love from each girl and give dap to each dude. I noticed him, watched him move effortlessly through the mixed crowd. He was very, very dark-skinned and he had the most beautiful smile and the straightest pearly-whites that gleamed against his jet black skin. He was wearing a tan Kangol (more Sam Jackson than LL Cool J), a white shirt, brown jacket and peach ascot with jeans and pointed-toe shoes. He sure doesn’t dress like the guys back home, I am thinking. I am not yet sure whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.
Eventually, he comes over to speak to me and my girls.
He asks where I’m from. I tell him. Turns out that his parents are divorced and his dad lives in my town. I notice the lilt in his voice and ask where he’s from.
“Jamaica,” he says.
Oh shit! I am about to get my groove back like Stella.
He asks me to dance and we salsa around Belle’s living room floor. We laugh, he asks if I’m thirsty and brings me more vodka and punch. I am starting to feel myself. This is not good. You see, I have this problem with control. I don’t like to feel as though I am losing it. And the second I start to feel it slipping away, I snap back to attention. I put the drink down and step into another room to get some air. He follows and we continue chatting. He is smart. He is funny. He is fiiiine!
Turns out that in another life he used to be a model, a pro soccer player and a club promoter in Manhattan and now he is working on Wall Street at a huge investment bank. Is this guy for real? Eventually, he leaves me and I miss him as soon as he walks away. I find my girls and we hang out for a while. I don’t see Ascot anywhere. My girls have made a decision that we are leaving, without consulting me. I cannot leave without Ascot’s number. I start making excuses not to leave. I will go to the bathroom. I wait in line and there are four people ahead of me waiting to use the toilet. Good thing I don’t really have to go myself. When I finally get inside, I look at myself in the mirror, splash my face with water, and reapply my lip gloss. Then, I flush the toilet and head back outside. Next, I make a really big deal about finding my coat. Karina says, “Hey, you can stop stalling. I can always ask Belle for dude’s number.” I stop cold. Why didn’t I think of that? Ok, I am ready to leave.
We are outside and there is Ascot chatting up another girl. I am floored when he walks away, leaving her looking pretty stupid and lonely, and says “I wanted to give you my card. Feel free to call me anytime.”
Whoo-hoo! I have his number in my hot little hands and tuck the card deep into my handbag.
A few days later, I am sitting at my desk at work and pull out the card. I run my fingers over the raised letters and think that I probably shouldn’t call Ascot at work since he is probably busy doing very important Wall Street work. So, I email him instead, telling him that it was nice to meet him and that his personality and style were very refreshing and that I hope to see him again soon. I take a deep breath and swallow hard, proofreading my words. I change a few sentences, read it again, and slowly, I click “send”. Oh shit! I did it! I have never been this forward before in my life. I immediately want to take it back. What if he didn’t feel the same way? What if he doesn’t even remember me? What if I have made a fool of myself? Oh well, I can’t get it back. It is now floating it’s way through cyberspace and into his inbox. I get up and walk around the office to take my mind off of what I have just done. What do I expect anyway? He’s a friggin investment banker, former model, former professional athlete. What would HE want with lil ol me? And, he lives in NYC, the greatest city on Earth. I’m sure he’s not interested in some out-of-town lovin.
Within 5 minutes, I am back at my desk and he has replied. OMG! I am afraid to open it.
A great big grin spreads across my face as soon as I read the first line. He also found me refreshing, thinks my spirit is effervescent, and… what’s this? He’s visiting his dad down here in a few weeks and wants to see me.
I cannot contain my excitement. The Brown Girl really will get her groove back, afterall!
To be continued…
Monday, December 10, 2007
Catching Up...
Ok, clearly I have a problem with consistency. I had meant to be consistent with this blog. I really did. But, life got in the way, I suppose and I just couldn't manage to keep up. The strange thing is, not much has changed since my last post in 2005. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. But, I'm pretty happy with the way that things have turned out.
Don't think that I've just been sitting idly by since my last post. I have actually been blogging away on my MySpace page (http://blog.myspace.com/lovelybrowngirl) about various issues. Just to keep you from having to take the extra step of logging in to MySpace to check my latest blog posts, I'll go ahead and repost them here for your reading pleasure. (A few of the most popular are posted below.)
If anyone is reading, please, please comment! I would love to hear your thoughts on what I have to say. I am making a promise to blog more regularly in 2008, but I'm going to start as early as today. I figure, I say some pretty funny things from time to time... God know's I THINK some pretty funny thoughts from time to time. I might as well put fingers to keys and share these words with the world.
I'll try to keep it interesting and will never use real names or identifying characteristics to protect the "innocent", but all you not-so-innocent mofos... get ready to be exposed!
(I'm kidding!)
Don't think that I've just been sitting idly by since my last post. I have actually been blogging away on my MySpace page (http://blog.myspace.com/lovelybrowngirl) about various issues. Just to keep you from having to take the extra step of logging in to MySpace to check my latest blog posts, I'll go ahead and repost them here for your reading pleasure. (A few of the most popular are posted below.)
If anyone is reading, please, please comment! I would love to hear your thoughts on what I have to say. I am making a promise to blog more regularly in 2008, but I'm going to start as early as today. I figure, I say some pretty funny things from time to time... God know's I THINK some pretty funny thoughts from time to time. I might as well put fingers to keys and share these words with the world.
I'll try to keep it interesting and will never use real names or identifying characteristics to protect the "innocent", but all you not-so-innocent mofos... get ready to be exposed!
(I'm kidding!)
FLY beats PRETTY any day of the week. Or does it?
Originally Posted: October 10, 2007 - Wednesday
Cute, sexy, fly, pretty… how would you like to be defined? It seems that all four of these words are complimentary and most women would be proud to be defined as one or the other or – ideally – a combination of them all. But some women are downright tired of being called one or the other. Speaking from personal experience, I always get the "You're so cute!" And, behind my feigned flattered smile, I am thinking "If one more fucking person calls me cute, I will SCREAM." I move through life wishing to be called something other than "cute", a word that, to me, evokes images of stuffed animals, pink frou-frou ribbons and lace and the plain-Jane "girl next door". I ache to be seen as "sexy" or "pretty"… even "fly". Just call me something other than "cute."
Ugh.
But, there are just some titles that people can't overcome. I suspect that I will always be classified as cute. I don't have the overpowering confidence to pull off "fly", don't have the classic beauty that defines "pretty" and look too much like an adolescent to be called "sexy". So, "cute" it is. I'd rather be cute than nothing at all, I suppose…
Anyway, to all my lady friends, how about you? Would you rather be classified as cute, sexy, fly, or beautiful? Looking for a way to distinguish one word from another? Well, I'll give you some examples:
Cute – Ashanti/Rihanna/Reese Witherspoon
Sexy – Beyonce/Angelina Jolie
Fly – Kelis/Gwen Stefani/Victoria Beckham
Pretty – Halle Berry/Penelope Cruz
Now, Ashanti, Rihanna and Reese are all good company in the cute category, I must admit. But once, JUST ONCE, I wish I could join the sisterhood of sexy. Bey and Angie are DAMN good company!! I mean, even I am dumbfounded by the way they present themselves (no homo).
I have had the opportunity to discuss this issue many times with friends and it seems as though everyone wants to be called something they are not. Take, for instance, my homegirl from college – a statuesque, "brickhouse" of a woman that some would find attractive, but most found her undeniably sexy. And, as a result, men took her "sexy" appearance to mean that she was only good for… duh, having sex! Me, on the other hand, well, I had to convince the guys I dated that I really do like having sex. They'd try to hold my hand and kiss my cheek and I'm thinking: "Ok, really. What exactly is the problem? You, me, twin bed, no roommate. Let's do this!" They'd say "Are you sure?", and I would say, "Dude, I'm not 12 and I'm not afraid of being intimate with a man!" Once they got over the initial hesitancy of "taking advantage" of me = the "girl next door" a.k.a. "you remind me of my friend's little sister", things were all good. But, while I'm convincing men that I'm not a prude, my sexy homegirl is trying to convince dudes that she is not a nymphomaniac. It's amazing how quick people are to judge a book by its cover!
But, as usual, I digress…
Sexy homegirl once said, "For once, I wish a guy would look at me and think 'cute' and not 'sexy'. Maybe then someone would take me seriously." I shot her the dirtiest look and told her "Be glad you're sexy. Cute is for the muthaphucking birds!" What can I say ladies and gents, the grass is always greener, yadda, yadda, yadda.
Another time I had this conversation (there have been many instances where this issue has come up, but I'll stick with two prime examples) was with a group of very opinionated folks over a picture of Kelis and Beyonce at some black and white party that Nas hosted in New York City. Kelis was in the foreground of the picture, chatting it up with some inconsequential person while Beyonce sneered at her in the background. Someone made a comment that Beyonce must have been upset that Kelis was stealing her shine in all her platinum blonde, red-lipped glory. Then, that brought up the debate of whether Kelis's flyness (equivalent to a man's "swagger") was preferable to Beyonce's classic prettiness. It was decided that we would have to agree to disagree on the subject because those that were on the side that Kelis's flyness was the lick were adamant that Beyonce's pretty didn't measure up. And vice versa for the Beyonce fans who couldn't believe that someone would rather be called "fly" than "pretty". But, as one friend said, "Fly beats pretty any day of the week." I (sorta) agree…
So, what does this all mean? Well… NOTHING, as a matter of fact. I discovered that this debate was hopeless when I showed my above-listed examples of "cute", "sexy", "fly" and "pretty" to a (heterosexual – if that matters) male friend. He took one look at the list and was like "She's 'cute'?! Wait, wait. She's 'sexy'?" and doubled over with laughter. I didn't find his reaction amusing, so I asked another male friend (homosexual, but fine as hell [LOL] – if that matters) what he thought of the list. He, too, found my examples to be way off-base.
As a result of these reactions, I have come to the conclusion that whether one is defined as "cute", "sexy", "fly" or "pretty", will depend on who's looking at you. In other words, the old adage rings true "Beauty [cute/sexy/fly/pretty] is in the eye of the beholder". So, I guess that means that although I have only been called "cute" to my face, maybe someone somewhere who I have encountered at some point on my life has thought that maybe I was "sexy", "fly" or "pretty", too.
Ha! Cut me some slack. A girl can dream…
Cute, sexy, fly, pretty… how would you like to be defined? It seems that all four of these words are complimentary and most women would be proud to be defined as one or the other or – ideally – a combination of them all. But some women are downright tired of being called one or the other. Speaking from personal experience, I always get the "You're so cute!" And, behind my feigned flattered smile, I am thinking "If one more fucking person calls me cute, I will SCREAM." I move through life wishing to be called something other than "cute", a word that, to me, evokes images of stuffed animals, pink frou-frou ribbons and lace and the plain-Jane "girl next door". I ache to be seen as "sexy" or "pretty"… even "fly". Just call me something other than "cute."
Ugh.
But, there are just some titles that people can't overcome. I suspect that I will always be classified as cute. I don't have the overpowering confidence to pull off "fly", don't have the classic beauty that defines "pretty" and look too much like an adolescent to be called "sexy". So, "cute" it is. I'd rather be cute than nothing at all, I suppose…
Anyway, to all my lady friends, how about you? Would you rather be classified as cute, sexy, fly, or beautiful? Looking for a way to distinguish one word from another? Well, I'll give you some examples:
Cute – Ashanti/Rihanna/Reese Witherspoon
Sexy – Beyonce/Angelina Jolie
Fly – Kelis/Gwen Stefani/Victoria Beckham
Pretty – Halle Berry/Penelope Cruz
Now, Ashanti, Rihanna and Reese are all good company in the cute category, I must admit. But once, JUST ONCE, I wish I could join the sisterhood of sexy. Bey and Angie are DAMN good company!! I mean, even I am dumbfounded by the way they present themselves (no homo).
I have had the opportunity to discuss this issue many times with friends and it seems as though everyone wants to be called something they are not. Take, for instance, my homegirl from college – a statuesque, "brickhouse" of a woman that some would find attractive, but most found her undeniably sexy. And, as a result, men took her "sexy" appearance to mean that she was only good for… duh, having sex! Me, on the other hand, well, I had to convince the guys I dated that I really do like having sex. They'd try to hold my hand and kiss my cheek and I'm thinking: "Ok, really. What exactly is the problem? You, me, twin bed, no roommate. Let's do this!" They'd say "Are you sure?", and I would say, "Dude, I'm not 12 and I'm not afraid of being intimate with a man!" Once they got over the initial hesitancy of "taking advantage" of me = the "girl next door" a.k.a. "you remind me of my friend's little sister", things were all good. But, while I'm convincing men that I'm not a prude, my sexy homegirl is trying to convince dudes that she is not a nymphomaniac. It's amazing how quick people are to judge a book by its cover!
But, as usual, I digress…
Sexy homegirl once said, "For once, I wish a guy would look at me and think 'cute' and not 'sexy'. Maybe then someone would take me seriously." I shot her the dirtiest look and told her "Be glad you're sexy. Cute is for the muthaphucking birds!" What can I say ladies and gents, the grass is always greener, yadda, yadda, yadda.
Another time I had this conversation (there have been many instances where this issue has come up, but I'll stick with two prime examples) was with a group of very opinionated folks over a picture of Kelis and Beyonce at some black and white party that Nas hosted in New York City. Kelis was in the foreground of the picture, chatting it up with some inconsequential person while Beyonce sneered at her in the background. Someone made a comment that Beyonce must have been upset that Kelis was stealing her shine in all her platinum blonde, red-lipped glory. Then, that brought up the debate of whether Kelis's flyness (equivalent to a man's "swagger") was preferable to Beyonce's classic prettiness. It was decided that we would have to agree to disagree on the subject because those that were on the side that Kelis's flyness was the lick were adamant that Beyonce's pretty didn't measure up. And vice versa for the Beyonce fans who couldn't believe that someone would rather be called "fly" than "pretty". But, as one friend said, "Fly beats pretty any day of the week." I (sorta) agree…
So, what does this all mean? Well… NOTHING, as a matter of fact. I discovered that this debate was hopeless when I showed my above-listed examples of "cute", "sexy", "fly" and "pretty" to a (heterosexual – if that matters) male friend. He took one look at the list and was like "She's 'cute'?! Wait, wait. She's 'sexy'?" and doubled over with laughter. I didn't find his reaction amusing, so I asked another male friend (homosexual, but fine as hell [LOL] – if that matters) what he thought of the list. He, too, found my examples to be way off-base.
As a result of these reactions, I have come to the conclusion that whether one is defined as "cute", "sexy", "fly" or "pretty", will depend on who's looking at you. In other words, the old adage rings true "Beauty [cute/sexy/fly/pretty] is in the eye of the beholder". So, I guess that means that although I have only been called "cute" to my face, maybe someone somewhere who I have encountered at some point on my life has thought that maybe I was "sexy", "fly" or "pretty", too.
Ha! Cut me some slack. A girl can dream…
Stream of Consciousness: Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop
Originally Posted: August 14, 2007 - Tuesday
I don't recognize these feelings
Don't really recognize myself
Been too long since I've felt this way -
unconditional joy born from another person's touch
I am smiling on the inside
Beaming really
I don't remember this
It's new
Cause I hear His voice and I can't stop the grin from growing
I see Him smile and it feels like home
Time spent together flies
Time spent apart stands still. Truth.
Excitement & reluctance, fear & exhilaration
All at the same time
Confusion about what comes next
I ask myself if He feels it, too
This time, I have met my match
Precious moments
Truly significant other
And even though it feels like heaven
I can't enjoy it
Because the sum of my experiences
Has me waiting
For the other shoe
To DROP.
I don't recognize these feelings
Don't really recognize myself
Been too long since I've felt this way -
unconditional joy born from another person's touch
I am smiling on the inside
Beaming really
I don't remember this
It's new
Cause I hear His voice and I can't stop the grin from growing
I see Him smile and it feels like home
Time spent together flies
Time spent apart stands still. Truth.
Excitement & reluctance, fear & exhilaration
All at the same time
Confusion about what comes next
I ask myself if He feels it, too
This time, I have met my match
Precious moments
Truly significant other
And even though it feels like heaven
I can't enjoy it
Because the sum of my experiences
Has me waiting
For the other shoe
To DROP.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Overanalyzed!
Originally posted: June 1, 2007 - Friday
It's hard being the youngest child of two therapists. While I am proud of the professional strides that my parents have made, Lord only knows that their wealth of knowledge about the human psyche is both a blessing and a curse.
Take for instance a simple conversation I had with my mother just a few days ago:
Me: Mommy (yes, I still call my mom "Mommy" – especially when I want something), I don't have any money.
Mommy: Of course you have money. You just got a nice check from that project you finished a few weeks ago.
Me: Yes, mommy. You told me to put that money away for a rainy day, don't you remember that?
Mommy: Yes, I remember that. So, if you have money in your savings account, then you have money. So, don't say you don't.
Me: Mom, can I just complain sometimes? I mean, damn! (I didn't really say "damn", but I sure as hell was thinking it!)
Mommy: Well, it really benefits your mental health if you would just say, 'I have money, but I am not going to touch it because going shopping is not really the reason why I have set it aside.' You really should try to practice positive self-talk for the sake of your psychological well-being.
Me: **Rolling eyes violently** Alright, Mom, you're right. I have money.
Mom: Now, don't you feel better?
Me: Whatever. I'll talk to you later. Goodbye. **click**
Sometimes, I really would like to have a normal conversation with my parents that didn't involve every statement I utter being picked apart by overly analytical mental health providers. But, such is my life. And, truthfully, I should be used to it by now. This has been going on for nearly 28 years.
Another (somewhat) funny story. Picture me at 2 years old. I was a damn cute kid, but that's a different story… lol. I had a Fred Flintstone bottle that I loved to death! Get this – it was actually shaped like Fred Flintstone (Fred was wearing his leopard print muumuu or whatever he was dressed in) except Fred had a nipple attached to the top of his dome. Yeah, pretty funny now that I think about it.
Anyway, the story goes that one day my dad got tired of me carrying Fred around. He calls me into his office – yes, an actual office in our home. (Seriously, this is so my father – who the HELL "takes a meeting" with a 2 year old??) Daddy got down on my level and told me that the only people he knew who carried bottles were babies. And he asked me whether I was a "baby" or a "big girl". Now, if 27 year old me was having this convo with my pops, I would have known to play it safe and answer "I am a baby" and kept it right on moving with Fred in my right hand, But this was 2 year old me. Little me who wanted to be a "big girl" more than anything. And, of course, my father, trained in myriad counseling theories and techniques, knew that he could harp on this to get me to do what he wanted me to do.
So, when 2 year old me answers, "I'm a big girl", he grabs his wastebasket and says (so it is reported to me), "Well, a big girl would throw that bottle right into this wastebasket and never ask for it again." And, (so it is said) I looked from nipple-headed Fred to the wastebasket and back to nipple-headed Fred, took one last nip of apple juice and tossed his ass in the wastebasket. And, guess what? Because I was a big girl, I never asked for the bottle again.
Now that I reflect on this story, I find it amusing for at least three reasons:
My father had an actual "meeting" with a 2 year old in his office. (Loco. Totally loco.)
My father used basic reverse psychology principles to manipulate me into doing what HE thought was right (apparently, my mother wasn't all that concerned about me wielding a bottle at 2. This was all about my dad's hangup.)… and this is something he STILL does TO THIS DAY. Booo!
I had mad willpower at 2! Where's that willpower now when I absolutely HAVE to order dessert after every meal in a restaurant?!
At any rate, the sum of my experiences with Mommy and Daddy have made me who I am today. Which isn't really that bad of a person. So, I suppose – when I really think about it, having two shrinks as parents really is more of a blessing than it is a curse.
Until, once again, I'll make a comment in jest and they overanalyze the hell out of it, pushing me one step closer to joining some of their clients in the looney-bin.
It's hard being the youngest child of two therapists. While I am proud of the professional strides that my parents have made, Lord only knows that their wealth of knowledge about the human psyche is both a blessing and a curse.
Take for instance a simple conversation I had with my mother just a few days ago:
Me: Mommy (yes, I still call my mom "Mommy" – especially when I want something), I don't have any money.
Mommy: Of course you have money. You just got a nice check from that project you finished a few weeks ago.
Me: Yes, mommy. You told me to put that money away for a rainy day, don't you remember that?
Mommy: Yes, I remember that. So, if you have money in your savings account, then you have money. So, don't say you don't.
Me: Mom, can I just complain sometimes? I mean, damn! (I didn't really say "damn", but I sure as hell was thinking it!)
Mommy: Well, it really benefits your mental health if you would just say, 'I have money, but I am not going to touch it because going shopping is not really the reason why I have set it aside.' You really should try to practice positive self-talk for the sake of your psychological well-being.
Me: **Rolling eyes violently** Alright, Mom, you're right. I have money.
Mom: Now, don't you feel better?
Me: Whatever. I'll talk to you later. Goodbye. **click**
Sometimes, I really would like to have a normal conversation with my parents that didn't involve every statement I utter being picked apart by overly analytical mental health providers. But, such is my life. And, truthfully, I should be used to it by now. This has been going on for nearly 28 years.
Another (somewhat) funny story. Picture me at 2 years old. I was a damn cute kid, but that's a different story… lol. I had a Fred Flintstone bottle that I loved to death! Get this – it was actually shaped like Fred Flintstone (Fred was wearing his leopard print muumuu or whatever he was dressed in) except Fred had a nipple attached to the top of his dome. Yeah, pretty funny now that I think about it.
Anyway, the story goes that one day my dad got tired of me carrying Fred around. He calls me into his office – yes, an actual office in our home. (Seriously, this is so my father – who the HELL "takes a meeting" with a 2 year old??) Daddy got down on my level and told me that the only people he knew who carried bottles were babies. And he asked me whether I was a "baby" or a "big girl". Now, if 27 year old me was having this convo with my pops, I would have known to play it safe and answer "I am a baby" and kept it right on moving with Fred in my right hand, But this was 2 year old me. Little me who wanted to be a "big girl" more than anything. And, of course, my father, trained in myriad counseling theories and techniques, knew that he could harp on this to get me to do what he wanted me to do.
So, when 2 year old me answers, "I'm a big girl", he grabs his wastebasket and says (so it is reported to me), "Well, a big girl would throw that bottle right into this wastebasket and never ask for it again." And, (so it is said) I looked from nipple-headed Fred to the wastebasket and back to nipple-headed Fred, took one last nip of apple juice and tossed his ass in the wastebasket. And, guess what? Because I was a big girl, I never asked for the bottle again.
Now that I reflect on this story, I find it amusing for at least three reasons:
My father had an actual "meeting" with a 2 year old in his office. (Loco. Totally loco.)
My father used basic reverse psychology principles to manipulate me into doing what HE thought was right (apparently, my mother wasn't all that concerned about me wielding a bottle at 2. This was all about my dad's hangup.)… and this is something he STILL does TO THIS DAY. Booo!
I had mad willpower at 2! Where's that willpower now when I absolutely HAVE to order dessert after every meal in a restaurant?!
At any rate, the sum of my experiences with Mommy and Daddy have made me who I am today. Which isn't really that bad of a person. So, I suppose – when I really think about it, having two shrinks as parents really is more of a blessing than it is a curse.
Until, once again, I'll make a comment in jest and they overanalyze the hell out of it, pushing me one step closer to joining some of their clients in the looney-bin.
A New Year, A New Me...
Originally posted: January 8, 2007 - Monday
I will absolutely admit that this blog had a totally different beginning seven days ago. I wrote it on New Year's Day 2007.
It took me a week to post it.
Mainly because I felt that I had poured too much of my heart, my fears, my soul into it. And I'm not ready to share all that with y'all yet. I'm a work in progress. I'll get there one day…
This is the first year that I've felt different at the stroke of midnight on December 31st. I decided to bring in the New Year "right" this year. I was at the altar in church when the clock struck 12. And, then I went to a party...
Hey, old habits die hard.
But, when I got home that night, I sat and thought about all of the stuff that I had been through in '06.
Rewind to last NYE: on December 31st 2005, I couldn't have been happier to see '05 in my rearview mirror. A lot of things went down in '05 that made me a better person, but there was a lot of hurt in '05 as well. With that said, though I wanted to escape the nonsense of '05, I just wasn't excited about the dawn of '06 because I couldn't see past the pain of the previous year.
This NYE was different.
I looked forward to '07 with an intense hope that I've never felt before... People who know me… scratch that... people who are acquainted with me (cause those who know me know the real deal) would describe me as a confident and outgoing person. But what they don't know is that I have NEVER been comfortable in my own skin. (I guess they know now... ) It's an ugly truth that I had to come to grips with over the course of this past year. (And, trust me, it is hard for me to admit this. Cause, although I am uncomfortable with myself and awkward at times, my pride defines me. I rarely admit to weakness.)
But, the other truth that became apparent in '06 is that I like myself. I just give too much credence to whether OTHER PEOPLE like me. Sad... but true. So, I have promised myself that 2007 will be a year where I will care less what other people think of me. And the thought of throwing caution to the wind and just being me... being ME... is so liberating.
So, that's my goal for the new year. I will be me. Without hesitation. I will DO me. Without procrastination. And, if people don't like me, so be it. I'll live. Cause I like me.
At any rate… I just want to take this time to thank all those people in my life who accept me for me 100%.
Special shouts to:
Lex – We've been girls forever! And, I just want to thank you for always being there and always supporting me in all that I do. Thanks for listening to me, thanks for caring about me, thanks for rooting for me and celebrating with me. You're the best. Stay up, mama!
Carlita – I am so glad that we reconnected. You're an awesome, amazing, kick-ass friend. I am so glad that you allowed me to share your special day with you. You deserve all the happiness in the world and I am so awestruck at the love that you and Jason have for one another. I hope to be able to find that same love one day… Love ya!
Kera – We just became friends this year, but I'm glad to have you around to talk to. You're the bomb, girl! (Yeah, I had to take it back for ya!) Thank for being a good friend… on such short notice.
Chrissy – MySpace can be the devil, no doubt about that. But, I am so thankful that it brought us back together. You're absolutely the sweetest person alive. I look forward to making more memories in '07.
My Cru Fam – I spend more time with you guys than I do with most other people. LOL! Thanks for keeping me informed, keeping me entertained and keeping me inspired. You guys are the best…
Happy new year!!
Edit to add: These people are still remarkably relevant in my life. Nothing has changed about that. But there are a slew of other people that I need to add to the list who have become influential and important just within 2007. I can't wait to write this year's version of this post.
Hit & Run
Originally posted: December 12, 2006 - Tuesday
Friday night, I was riding through
Just then, two men walk behind my car and in front of the X5. The traffic gives way just a little bit and the man in the X5 takes off. Before I saw what happened, I already knew that one of the men would be hit. And, I was right.
The front of the X5 hit the man in the black hat square in his middle. And the X5 kept going for a few feet before the pedestrian fell off the hood and into the oncoming traffic. At this point, all hell breaks loose in my car. My girlfriends are screaming. I am screaming. Pedestrians on the street are stopping and staring. The man who has been hit, gets up slowly, calmly, and walks to the driver's side of the X5. His friend follows closely behind. I start to drive away because I have no idea what is about to pop off, but I know that I don't want to be in the vicinity when it happens. One of my friends in the car, who had recently lost a friend to a road rage incident, urged me to get moving. So I hightailed it out of there. I am still watching things unfold (out of my side view mirrors). I see that, before the men reach the driver, the light changes and the X5 speeds past my car, through the circle and down
Now, I'm a lawyer, so it's in my nature to gather evidence. Before the X5 got through the next traffic light, I committed the license plate number to memory. The passengers in my car sat in silence, letting things sink in. I felt bad. Like someone should do something. I was five seconds away from turning the car around and going back to see if the injured pedestrian needed help. But, then I thought, there are people whose job description speaks to exactly this kind of incident. I told my friend in the front passenger seat to call the police. She dialed 911. She did not put the phone on speaker, but I could hear the dispatcher loud and clear. "911 emergency… HELLO?!?" The woman was speaking very loudly and addressed my friend with a very nasty attitude. Soon, the woman's voice lost its volume and my friend began to report what we had seen. I could only hear one side of the conversation at this point, but it went something like this:
Friend: I'd like to report a hit and run accident.
Me: (whispering) A pedestrian was struck on
Friend: (repeating) A pedestrian was struck on
**pause**
Friend: No, I didn't hit anyone. I witnessed someone else hit a pedestrian on
**pause**
Friend: It happened about ten minutes ago
Me: Five minutes ago
Friend: (repeating) Five minutes ago
**pause**
Friend: No, the man got up and walked away. I mean, I think he was ok, but the car just hit him and sped off
**pause**
Friend: Well, the reason I am calling is because we have the license plate number of the car that hit the pedestrian
**LONG pause**
Friend: Well, what if the pedestrian calls to report the accident?
**pause**
Friend: Ok, thank you. Good night.
My friend never gave the dispatcher the information. I ask her what happened. She says that the dispatcher said that nobody else had reported the accident and that she had "no place to store the license plate information". So, she didn't even want to hear it. WTF?! A man… an innocent pedestrian… was hit by an SUV and knocked into traffic. I have the information that can help you find out the identity of the driver of that SUV and you don't want to take the information… because you have NO PLACE TO STORE IT?? If the pedestrian does decide to ever report this incident to the police, he won't have all the information necessary to locate the driver. I'm quite sure he didn't have the time to jot down the make, model and license plate number of the car that mowed him down.
We sat, for the second time in complete and total silence. We were dumfounded that a 911 dispatcher, a person who is supposed to assist police in making sure that justice is being served, would not want information that could possibly help police locate a very reckless driver. Not only was the woman incompetent and uncompassionate, she was ghetto… and rude!
So, there you have it. The best (White House Christmas tree, margaritas at Lauriol) and the worst (incompetent 911 dispatchers, reckless drivers, impossible traffic) of the Nation's Capital.
BTW, we kept the license plate information just in case. Not sure what we'll do with it.
Just had to share…
Almost happy ending...
Originally posted: October 11, 2006 - Wednesday
Not calling any names, but a friend of mine called me and told me a story that sounds awfully familiar. I've heard the same set of facts, repeatedly, from a number of female friends and associates.
The story goes something like this: Girl meets boy. The attraction is undeniable. Sparks fly. Boy and Girl go on a date. By all accounts, they have an amazing time. They laugh, they flirt, they end the night on a high note. Boy says he will call. And, at first he does. He calls, and calls and calls. Then, he stops. It always starts out with Boy saying/text messaging/emailing something vague like, "I'll call you when I get home." Two days pass. No call. Apparently, Boy still hasn't made it home.. or else he would've called, right? Wrong. Girl begins to do ridiculous things (not directed at anyone specifically - we've ALL done it) like call the Transit Authority to make sure that the trains have been running for the last two days. Maybe the train he took is stuck in a tunnel and he has been unable to get reception. Girl, please! The next call is to the hospital. He must be in ICU. Gimme a break! Final call is placed to the police station. It's possible that he could've been in a car accident. Or possibly, he has been jailed for lewd behavior or public drunkenness. You wish it were that simple! No such luck, honey. Boy is probably sitting at home as happy as an alcoholic in an open bar. With someone else. Or with nobody else. But, certainly NOT with Girl. And, this makes Girl very sad.
Ok, let's analyze this situation. 9 of ten times, if Boy is interested in Girl, he will call when he wants to talk to her. Unless he is too busy to call. And then, he will call when he is not busy anymore. There are exceptions. He may have been hurt. He may be incarcerated. He may have lost his cell phone and, thus, lost your number. But, again, 9 of ten times, that is not the case. If he likes you, he WILL call. If he wants to. If he hasn't called, he doesn't want to. I know... it sounds so simple. But, for some reason, women just can't get this picture. If a guy is interested, he will do things to let you know that he is interested. He may start off as being interested and, thus, do things to let you know that he is. When he stops doing those things, he is no longer interested. 1+2=3.
We have ALL been Girl at one point in our lives. And, every man that we know has been Boy. Truth is, (and I am NOT a guy.. I was just raised like one) a man wants to be able to exit a relationship while making as few waves as possible. He doesn't want to ruffle any feathers. And wants to avoid a confrontation where he has to explain the reasons why he doesn't like you anymore. Women want closure, plain and simple. And, men will do anything and everything to keep a woman from getting it.
In these situations, I say let him go. Delete his number from your cell phone address book. Throw his emails into the "Deleted" folder. And with that, delete him from your mind. Women tend to mourn the idea of what could have been. But, what could have been never was... and how could you be sad about something that you never had in the first place? As I recently told one Girl, "Boy disappointed you because you had EXPECTATIONS for him and he did not meet those expectations. This means that he is NOT what you EXPECTED. This also means that he is not the one for you." It's a hard pill for a Girl to swallow. After all, Girl is beautiful, smart, sexy, sophisticated, witty and elegant and well-traveled. How could Boy not want her? Well, this Boy did not want her. BUT SOME OTHER BOY DOES. Guaranteed! And, instead of Girl wasting her time trying to find out why bad Boy doesn't want her, she should spend her time bettering herself so that she can be the best Girl she can be until a good Boy comes along later.
The next time one of my Girls calls me/emails/text messages me to say that Boy is up to no good, I will tell her to remember that Boys will be Boys. And she should K.I.M until the next Boy comes along.
Get a LIFE!!!
Originally posted: March 28, 2006 - Tuesday
This weekend, while flipping through the channels, I heard a character on some random show say something very profound. She said "A woman can spend her whole life waiting for a man." I missed the next five minutes of the show just reflecting on that statement. And, I realized that it is sooooo true! From the time we are very small, women are told through fairy tales and songs and even games, that one day a man will come along to save them from themselves and/or to "complete" their lives. And, we women buy into this falsehood hook, line and sinker. Think back to the stories of your youth. Cinderella, one of the most popular fairy tales, involves a young, beautiful, helpless woman living a pretty messed up life. Things don't get better for her until her "Prince Charming" comes along. Sleeping Beauty tells little girls that one can be rescued from a coma by some random Prince. Snow White well, that's a whole other story. She needed EIGHT men to survive (Seven dwarfs and a Prince) 
As a result, women wait around for their whole lives - many believing that some day a man will come along and rescue them. But, I'm hoping that more and more women are recognizing that they no longer need to be rescued. In fact, they NEVER needed to be rescued in the first place. I hope that they are realizing that fairy tales are a bunch of bullshit. Sometimes we need to be reminded that these stories are not real life. And, we need not put our lives on hold in anticipation of some man coming along to complete us. Reflecting on the statement of that character on said show, I'm realizing that what she meant was that some women WASTE their lives waiting for a man. And, that's just sad.
So, here's the challenge. Women of today: Live your lives with reckless abandon! Don't have a coronary at the thought that your Prince Charming might never arrive. Instead, recognize that you might have to "settle" for being HAPPILY SINGLE (which could turn out to be a lot more fun than UNHAPPILY ATTACHED) and move on with your lives. Be a complete person NOW! Don't wait for a man to "complete" you, because if you think it takes the affection of another person to make you complete, then you're pretty pathetic anyway. Get busy. Go see movies, plays and concerts; go get a luxurious mani and pedi; have brunch with your girlfriends; walk your dog; babysit for your nieces and nephews; read a book; write a book; mix up a pitcher of martinis and guzzle the entire thing before you make it to the couch; catch a Lakers game AT the
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)