what a girl wants

First up, can I get a handclap of praise for the fact that I actually posted twice in one day?! That’s more than I’ve done in most months. How awesome is that?! I’m going to try not to be lazy and claim these as my two posts for this week. Hopefully, I’ll come up with something good for you by Friday at least. *fingers crossed*

I had no clue when I started writing this post that it would turn into a profession of affection for my dad. But as difficult and frustrating as he can be, I do love the man! So I guess it’s only natural that my love for him would shine through in this post. He’s great and has a lot of wonderful qualities... and, after doing this list, I realize now that his good qualities far outweigh his “bad” ones. Huh. Go figure.

A few weeks back, a friend and I were chatting about our fathers. Our mothers and how much we love them are a daily discussion, but every once in awhile, one of us will bring up our fathers. Well, this time the conversation was more interesting because we were talking about how our relationships with our fathers are the foundation for all other relationships we develop with men in our lifetimes. I was talking about my own dad and made a comment about how there are things about my dad that I love and will seek in a mate and things about him that I find incredibly annoying and will likely end up being deal-breakers for me in my romantic relationships.

My friend, always thoughtful, decided to write a blog post about what she wants in a man and how those wants relate to her father's personality/character, and she recommended that all her readers do the same.

This will be hard, but... Here goes!

Spiritually Grounded: I know that some men cringe when they see God-fearing at the top of a woman’s “list”. They are afraid that the woman might beat them over the head with a Bible and – God forbid – be a prude in the bed. I get those concerns. I really do. But lemme just say that I think a man that has a genuine and legitimate relationship with a higher power is incredibly sexy! The fact that a man can admit that there’s something out there greater than himself, to me, is such a manly and mature thing. My father has always had a relationship with God. My father’s oldest brother always marvels at the fact that my father, as a teenager/young adult, would get on his knees to say his prayers every night and every morning even if he was dead-tired and, in some case, drunk. And there’s something to be said for the fact that every night before my parents go to sleep, they get on their knees to pray. Even though my father has had both of his hips replaced, he still kneels and shows reverence to God. I love that about him. When he doesn’t know the way out of a particularly sticky situation, he prays his way through it. When he needs answers, he consults the Word, and asks other men and women of faith for their advice. And when he’s being insufferable (more about that in a later post), he gets himself in check by reminding himself of the spirit behind WWJD (what would Jesus do?). I can remember being afraid to sleep in the bed at night and my father getting his big Catholic Bible with the renaissance art illustrations, and reading me verses to help strengthen my faith. I appreciated that even then, and I know that in his heart he is a good man guided by principles and a finely-tuned moral compass. I’m looking for that same passionate faith in my partner. It doesn’t have to be MY God that a man chooses to acknowledge (although that would get him brownie points), but a belief in a benevolent and superior spiritual being is certainly a requirement of mine.

Loyal: My mom once told me that despite the fact that she and my dad have had their ups and downs in their relationship that’s spanned more than three decades, the one thing she has NEVER had to worry about was infidelity. My father is a loyal man. He never once spent a night away from us without our knowing where he was and what he was doing. He didn’t keep secrets. He didn’t maintain inappropriate friendships/relationships with other women. He just might be the last faithful man walking this planet. I have been betrayed by so many men in my lifetime and I just don’t want to feel that ever again. I can deal with any other challenge, but don’t dog me out behind my back. I hope that really, if my future mate can’t live up to anything else on my list, my father’s unwavering LOYALTY will be the one thing he chooses to emulate.

Intelligence: My dad has to be THE most intelligent person I've ever encountered. And I'm not biased. Ask anyone who knows him - he's damn there a genius. And he, of course, knows it. Which can be annoying. But he instilled in me a love for intelligent people. As a result, I'm allergic to dumb people. They make my skin crawl. Education is important (I'll touch on that later), but innate intelligence – even in the absence of formal education – earns a place at the top of my list when it comes to my ideal man.

Educated: Now, look. Before anyone jumps down my throat about this, please recognize that for most people in this country – except in the case of athletes, models, rappers, and actors (see Puffy/P. Diddy/Diddy Dirty Money for reference) – being educated is the key to success. It just is what it is. And in my house, education was a priority right up there with godliness and cleanliness. And, no wonder. My father was the youngest of 10 kids. My grandfather died when my dad was 4 and he probably had little to no schooling in his lifetime. My grandmother, a domestic worker, didn't make it past 6th grade. Out of his 9 brothers and sisters, my dad was the only one to make it to college. But not only did he make it there, he made it there on a full scholarship (obvi my grandma couldn't afford college tuition off her $32/week salary!), worked the ENTIRE time, pledged a fraternity (which was nothing but distractions and shenanigans even back in the olden days when he was pledging!), got a master's degree, and then copped a Ph.D. And he did all that before he was 28 years old. So, when dudes come to me talking all that riff raff about how school is “not for me", and/or, start making excuses about how they didn't have the "opportunity" to go to college, I look at them like they're buggin. I'm not buying it. If my black "underprivileged" dad could do it during Jim Crow, then you can do it now. No ifs ands or buts about it.

Disciplined: I am not a disciplined person. It’s something that I’ve been working hard at my whole life and I haven’t managed to master it, but to my father, it comes naturally. My father was a drinker, smoker, and heavy eater. He found out he had diabetes when I was in high school and decided he didn’t want to have to be on meds, so he went into healthy-eating mode, got his diabetes under control, and was able to cut his medication almost completely. Both of his hips were replaced and he even surprised his doctors by how quickly he was able to heal, but the doctors recommended that he do certain exercises daily, and he did them DAILY… without fail. He became anemic and needed to up his iron intake. Someone suggested that he eat plantains to increase his iron naturally, he ate plantains every single day until his doctor told him his iron was at an acceptable level. He flosses his teeth EVERY SINGLE NIGHT before bed, and he kneels to pray in the morning and the evening every day without fail. That, folks, is called discipline. And it’s something that – once you’ve perfected it – permeates every aspect of your life. It’s why you don’t take sick days, why you pay your bills on time, why you’re able to afford that thing you’ve been wanting (because you consistently put away money for a rainy day and are determined not to touch it until it’s time), it’s why you’re faithful to your spouse, and why you’re successful in your career. That discipline is something I need my man to have. I won’t say that your partner should “complete” you (because you should already be complete when you come to your partner), but your partner should complement you. Where you are lacking, s/he should have abundance. Discipline is one thing I don’t have enough of and I hope that my partner will have enough to spare.

He's Gotta LOVE the HUSTLE: So, yeah, my dad was a professor for 30 years and that paid the majority of our bills. But my dad was fundamentally opposed to being late with bills, being cold during the winter, and being hot in the summer. There were also a few things that we just HAD to have as a family – a nice house in a safe neighborhood, decent cars in our garage, good schools, and vacations. But all these needs required one thing - MONEY. So you know what? My dad did what he had to do to make sure we could afford those things. That meant that he ALWAYS had more than one job. And he found JOY in going to work and providing for his family. He would NEVER dream of sitting at home and forcing my mom into being the breadwinner. And even if my mom insisted that he stay home while she worked, he would refuse. In his mind, that’s just not what a MAN would do. A MAN provides for his family. Plus, my dad just liked being busy. From the time I was a kid, he did a variety of things to bring in extra income. In addition to being a professor, he got published in newsletters, magazines, and newspapers; he opened a therapy practice with my mom; he owned a contracting/handyman service… and, yes, my dad with his Ph.D. and tenured professorship was tearing down drywall, and on his hands and knees fixing plumbing in other people’s homes just to make sure that he would never have to hear his kids say “I need…”. We had all of what we needed and most of what we wanted ‘cause my dad loved the hustle. It would be great if I could know that my man cringed at hearing me say “I need…”. If I could be certain that he would hold us down if need be, that he would find a way to make a dollar out of the proverbial 15 cents. Is that too much to ask?

Heart of a "Thug": Alright, now I KNOW that somebody is going to have to say something about this. But as much as I looooove a polished and professional man, he needs to know about “the streets”. Plus, I’m going to need him to NEVER be shook by another man. My dad is not tall… he’s actually only about 5’8” or 5’9”, but I never noticed that he was of average height because he never – and I mean NEVER – cowered in the face of another man. He's aggressive, no-nonsense, and fiercely protective, and to this day he can walk into any situation and demand respect... if not for his intelligence or business savvy, then for his ability to relate to people on all levels, from the dope slingers to the dignitaries. I always felt safe and protected when I was with my father and knew that he had my back in any and every situation and if I went to him with any issues, those issues would be handled. If I was afraid of anything he would always say "I won't let anything happen to you"... and I believed him, because I knew it was true. Today, my pops is the Chairman of the Deacon Board at my church, and that means he’s second in command, only behind the Pastor. He’s definitely a holy and dignified man, but to put it plainly, there was a time when my dad was a bit of a roughneck. As my maternal grandmother once said “Your daddy and Jesus weren’t always friends.” Bwahaha! But what she meant is that my dad, at one point, was not a man to be played with. He wore suits and cleaned up nicely, but in the streets, he was quick to let you know who’s boss. I’m not gonna go into detail because those of you who know my father don’t need to know the nitty-gritty, but just know that in his heart, my educated, God-fearing daddy is a thug... and I need a little bit of that from my future man. ‘Nuff said.

Pretty Boy Swag: Sorry for invoking this term, but just go on and blame Soljah Boy Tell ‘Em for this requirement. If you look at my dad now in all his gray haired glory, you might never know that my daddy was fly in his day, but he takes great pride in his hygiene and appearance. I remember at a band concert of mine in elementary school, my parents arrived a little late, and when they walked in, my daddy was wearing a white button-down shirt, navy blazer with gold buttons, a pocket square, slacks, and hard-bottom shoes. Now, mind you, he was a professor and called himself dressing for the classroom. And NOW I think that outfit was on point! But, back then, I wondered why he wasn’t rocking the golf shirt and rumpled khaki pant look all the other suburban dads were wearing. Today, I want a man that knows how to put two pieces of clothing together, a man that is neat and clean, a man that stands out from the crowd. All my exes have had their own unique personal style… good or bad (you be the judge), they owned it and I liked it. Personal style is important, but low on the list because it’s not a deal-breaker and, let’s face it, it can be developed over time.

Strong Features: This might sound crazy, but I love a prominent nose, strong facial structure, broad shoulders, thick eyebrows and eyelashes, full lips, etc. And, yes, my daddy (and my brother) has all that, too. Skin color, hair type, height (to an extent), etc., are a non-issue, but give me some thick eyebrows and a pair of full lips and I’m good!

This took a lot longer than expected, so I’m forced to pull a to-be-continued on you. I’ve told you all the qualities my dad has that I want in a man, and next up, I’ll share the things about my dad that NO man better come with a.k.a. DEALBREAKERS.

Words of Advice for Daddy's Little Girl

So, I’ve recently discovered that my “Mystery Man” (remember him?) reads my blog. I don’t know how long he’s been reading or how much he’s read, but I know he’s reading. I don’t think it’ll change the way that I write, but it might. I can’t lie. For some reason, I care too much about what he thinks of me. And he always seems to be “discovering” things about me from what I write. We communicate a lot through writing (which could be our first mis-communication issue!), and he is always catching me with my damn foot in my mouth. And the worst taste in the world is that of your own foot! I want to stop inserting my foot in my mouth. Honestly, I do. I believe in the power of words, yet, for some reason, I am consistently careless with them. I'm gonna try to get better, though, I really am. I think part of the issue is that I've got to learn to think things out BEFORE I speak. Novel idea, huh? I've done this more than a few times recently – was careless with words. I fly off at the mouth (or at the keyboard) and then have to backtrack, explain, and apologize. Boooo! Hopefully, I won't have to do that anymore...

Anyway, I had a conversation with a male friend about relationships recently, and I was explaining to him that I keep falling for guys that aren't necessarily as into me as I am into them. I don't know how/why it keeps happening, but it does! (Sadly, this thing with "Mystery Man" is no exception!) And, this guy says to me "Didn't your daddy school you about the game?"

Well, yes. Yes, he did. My father taught me many things about dating and relationships... admittedly, some of it went in one ear and out the other, but I retained a lot of it. Actually, I think that the lessons that I learned from my father (and my grandfather, and my brother, and my cousins) actually saved me from a lot of potential heartbreak that I instead avoided as a result of heeding their advice. They put the lessons out there and I learned them... most of the time - because they'd shared their knowledge with me - I didn't have to learn the hard way! But, some of the hurt was unavoidable. Women have feelings... we meet great guys (or at least guys we THINK are great at the time) and we get caught up. That's life.

I'll never forget when I got dumped for the first time by my middle school boyfriend, Chase. Valentina delivered the news and I was devastated. I cried for days... maybe even a week (I was 13, hormonal, and had just had my heart broken for the first time... gimme a break!). My dad listened to me sob about how hurt I was, and he awkwardly hugged me and rubbed my back, and told me that "this isn't the end of the world", and that I was "the prize and it's his loss". Then, he told me that all boys wanted to do was get into my pants anyway and they'd say anything to get access to my goods. I was 13 and afraid of anything below the belt, so I didn't necessarily believe him. But when I got to be about 14.5 years old and started getting a little more bold with mine, I had a crush on this dude who tried telling me all sorts of false information in an effort to be my "first". And, every time my heart would flutter at the bullshit he was feeding me, I'd hear my dad's voice telling me that this dude was full of shit and I should proceed with caution. Needless to say, I held out for several more years and that conniving boy in particular never got close to my goodies. Thanks, Dad!

Anyway, after reflecting on my father's efforts to protect me from heartbreak got me to thinking... there are rules to this here game called love, right? So, if my guy friends were given a chance to formulate a list of lessons they'd like to teach their daughters, what would that list include? I posed the question to some guy friends and they came up with the lists below.* Do you agree with anything here? Disagree with anything? Wish to add lessons of your own?

Take a look!

1. Most men only want 1 thing
2. Never depend on a dude for anything
3. Whenever you go out with a dude keep money on your person in case he tries some BS.
4. Always keep pepperspray/mace/tazer/stun gun.
5. Learn how to fight (my daughter's gonna learn how to kick some ass male or female).
6. Don't be as pathetic as these women
7. Don't do anything to embarass Daddy.
8. I have no problem disowning you if you violate rule number 7.
9. Dudes ain't shit and your daddy's included.
10. Fuck dudes get money.

1) all men want is sex.
2) we will tell you anything to get it
3) men will only change when they want to on their terms
4) only way to really tell if he cares about you is to take sex out of the equation and see if he still tries to "earn" you
5) we are not above saying we love you when we do not mean it as long as it keeps you docile
6) men judge things in terms of power relationships and results. if we know we can cheat and you will take us back, we will cheat.
7) if he REALLY loves you, he will always put you first. i know some DAMNED good men out there but the woman don't ever appreciate them.
8) stop dyckriding alpha males. they get away w/ murder because they know women are desperate for them
9) being single is a PRIVILEGE. most of your friends in relationships are miserable as hell
10) don't let other chicks tell you about dudes cuz they aren't holding their own shyt down right 90% of the time

10. Men cheat
9. Men tell there friends everything, unless they really like a girl
8. Men dont believe in emotionally cheating
7. Not all men are the same, but 95% of them are.
6. You cant change a man.
5. Men can smell desperation and insecurity.
4. Trapping a man is the worst thing you can do.
3. Take your time when dealing with a guy. Go Slow. (In all aspects)
2. Love and respect yourself more than anything else.
1. If you are into/attracted to a guy, 2000 other women are too.

1. Make sure he Loves God, good character, and is attractive to you and your values.
2. See how dude treats people who can't do anything for him. If he is kind and can have conversations with janitors, trash men, etc, then he has character.
3. Dress to attract the type of man you want.
4. Read Proverbs 31. Do that.
5. Look up to your moms who ... Read Moreare the best role models.
6. Study the career of Jurnee Smollett. That girl has got it going on in every way.
7. Have your own identity apart from your man. He will respect you more for that.
8. Make sure he is a clean and tidy dude. Nothing worse than a messy man.
9. Cook for him on occasion, and have a lot of sex (after married).
10. I'll kill anyone who hurts you, so pick a good one.

1) Men are good at Math (There's a 10:1 chick to dyck ratio, you're replaceable)
2) Although men are good at math, you do not have to settle
3) Men are selfish
4) Want to find out if a man is really into you? Make him wait for sex (not all men are patient enough to wait you out AND play the numbers game on the side)
5) Make sure your man handles business like me! (I plan on being a model citizen by then, lol)
6) Always have your own money, especially on the first date (You don't want him feeling entitled to "more" just b/c he let you supersize...also may need cab fare home if he's acting up)
7) Men will sleep with girls, but marry women...RESPECT YOURSELF!
8) Do not compromise who you are to fit one man's requirements
9) Refers to #6, allow a man to be a man (i.e. provide, take care of you, etc.) but NEVER become dependent on him
10) You're daddy's "little" girl (and daddy has a BIG gun!)

1. The importance of family. How one treats their family is how one will treat you.
2. All men are attracted to one thing at first meeting you. But that does not mean that he is not going to get to know you.
3. #2 gives you the power , watch my ACTIONS
4. Have respect for yourself and no one will be able to disrespect you
5. You can be fly but if you dont't carry yourself with dignity you will look like trash and trash will be attracted to you
6. Keep a positive attitude and treat all people equally because you never know who is who, no matter where you are or how they look.
7. Do You. Have goals, task and aspiration to accomplish on a daily basis and you will attract the same type of individual.
8. You can fall in love more than once, FOCUS

1. Your confidence and self-respect should do a good job eliminating the type of guys you do not want.
2. Don't look to TV for your model life.
3. Listen to me and your mother!
4. Try to walk the line of being stern without being rude.
5. Smile. Look happy.
6. Listen well. If it sounds like a duck and looks like a duck...
7. Stay focused. Keep things in perspective.
8. Talk to other people! Especially us!! (a wise person has many counsellors)
9. After a date, keep the goodbye short. LOL Long goodbyes turn into other things.

*I didn't edit these lists at all, so please forgive any weird formatting or typos. These are the exact words of the guys who wrote these lists with no interference from me.

Spare the rod, Spoil the child?

This weekend, I was pretty sick with asthma and allergies. Lemme tell you, people, nothing is scarier than not being able to breathe. It is really not a game. That's some frightening shit. Anyway, needless to say, I wasn't up for much stimulation this weekend, so I took it really easy. MBF and I decided to hang out with my mom. He met my mom and I at our church because the Usher Board was having a cookout and the food was off the chain! There were barbequed ribs, chicken, fried fish, baked beans, potato salad, cakes, cookies, pies & ice cream. Good gracious! This is why I LOVE being a Baptist! You will never go hungry at a Baptist church. Lol!

Then, we decided to go to Starbucks and drink coffee and people-watch. People-watching is one of my absolute favorite things to do, so I was pretty much in Seventh Heaven (why do people say Seventh Heaven? That means there has to be at least six other Heavens out there! Weird...) drinking iced tea, hanging with two of my favorite people, and providing a running commentary of everyone who walked by. So, after a while, this White man (I promise that the fact that he's White is relevant to this story) and his child start walking toward us. All of a sudden, the child drops to his knees and refuses to get up. His father, clearly confused about what to do next proceeds to drag the child along the sidewalk. When he gets to us, he stops, and asks the child why he won't get off the ground.
"I'm tired!" the child snaps. "How much longer do we have to go?!"

The father stops and tries to reason with the kid, but he is inconsolable and unreasonable, so the father resorts to dragging him down the remainder of the sidewalk. The father seemed embarrassed, but not embarrassed enough. Like, I think that maybe this wasn't an isolated incident of dragging the child through the street.

I looked at MBF and said, "If that was my child, there would be no reasoning. There would be a butt-beating (or at least the threat of a spanking... I'm a big softie & probably wouldn't go through with it) and that would be the end. But when a child is being unreasonable and is behaving like a heathen he/she will be treated as such.

MBF said, “There wouldn’t be any reasoning because my child would never DO something like that!”

Touché.

Now, I fully understand that MBF and I can talk all day about the way people discipline because neither of us has any children. So, I’m sure that it’s much easier said than done, but it seems as though the answer is so simple. Put the fear into your kids and get the results you want.

My mother’s entire immediate family lives within 15 minutes of each other. I have five cousins – three boys and two girls – and we’re all around the same age. We were raised as more than cousins… we were like brothers and sisters. My two cousins D and E were closest to me in age and their mother and my mother are sisters. Because our moms are very close, we spent A LOT of time together when we were growing up. Our mothers used to take us shopping at the mall almost every weekend.

We had a routine. My mother would drive me to my aunt’s house. We’d get inside and I’d play with my cousins while our mothers talked. Then, they’d call us downstairs and make us use the bathroom in preparation for the “long trip” (in reality it was probably more like a 20 minute trip, but it seemed like a long-distance road trip). Then, just as we were about to step out of the door, they’d look at us and say in a very stern voice, “If you embarrass me in this mall, you are going to be in big trouble.” We’d get in the car and make our way to the mall and then they’d repeat the warning, “Don’t embarrass us in this mall… or else!” Well, the combination of the tone of voice and the menacing look was enough to keep me in line. I never once got in trouble while at the mall… or anywhere else for that matter.

Well, except for one incident.

For this story, I must go into the third-person. When Brown Girl was four, she was at her grandparents’ home with all of her cousins, aunts, uncles, and a few guests that her grandparents were entertaining. Brown Girl’s mama used to always pride herself on the fact that Brown Girl was not one of the grandchildren most likely to show-off in front of company. In fact, Brown Girl was generally shy and spent most of the time in her cousins’ shadow. On this particular evening, Brown Girl went downstairs to the basement, saw a can of Arrid deodorant on the couch, opened the can, and ate some of the deodorant. She is not sure why she did it, although she vaguely recalls that it had something to do with her newfound acquaintance with the concept of shock-value. And, boy, were the innocent bystanders shocked… and disgusted… to say the least. Brown Girl’s older brother, who was about 12 years old at the time, ran upstairs to snitch on Brown Girl to their mother. Brown Girl’s mama, stopped her grown up conversation, got out of her chair, came downstairs to the couch where Brown Girl stood eating deodorant, and – for the first and last time – tore Brown Girl’s legs up. Mama had always threatened Brown Girl with “do not to make me get up out of my chair… or else”. Brown Girl had never been sure of what the “or else” consisted of, but that evening, Brown Girl found out. Brown Girl’s brother, who had never seen their mother angry enough to lash out at anyone, began to cry hysterically (don’t tell him that I told you this) because he was so afraid.

[end third-person]

I never received another spanking in my life, although there were a handful of times when I probably deserved one. I don’t remember the details of that deodorant-eating day, but I vaguely recall a negative encounter with my mother that day. Honestly, I remember eating the deodorant, but not the spanking. I’m not sure what that means… maybe it means that I was more impressed by my own rebellion than the punishment that I received as a result of it, or maybe it means that I blocked out that negative experience, maybe it means that the spanking wasn’t as significant as my brother and mother like to recall, or maybe it just means that I’m getting old and don’t have the mental capacity to recall things that happened that long ago. Whatever the case, it’s more of a funny story than a traumatic event.

But I know one thing, whenever my mother looked at me sideways, I recalled the fact that she had spanked me before and she just might actually spank me again, and that was enough to keep me in line… So, maybe if that man had given his child one good lick, he would’ve been able to shoot the kid a look and make him think twice about crawling on the damn ground in front of hundreds of people.

(I know I’ll hear a bunch of objections and complaints regarding my idea of rearing a child, but I plenty of folks have been spanked and still turn out to be normal and functional human beings. So, if you happen to disagree with my methodology, then make some suggestions for better ways to handle out of control kids. Please… I welcome your suggestions.)

Dropping names/Shut down at the door

It's been a while. A long, long while. And I have no legitimate excuse (other than being lazy), so I'm not even gonna offer one. Hope all is well with everyone. Don't give up on me yet. There really will be "more later"...

Boy, oh boy. It’s funny how a few weeks can change your entire life. After my love letter to NYC post a couple months ago, I caught so much flack over the way that I dissed and dismissed my hometown. And, funny enough, some of the people I offended weren’t even native Washingtonians, but rather people who had chosen DC as their home away from home. This didn’t surprise me. I did give DC a pretty bad rap. And I do still love New York (doesn’t everyone?!), but I’ve recognized that someone is trying to send me a sign that I don’t belong there. Since I’ve last written, I’ve gotten a new job. A job that I really, really wanted and a job that might possibly cure me of my eternal brokeness. I could’ve never imagined that I could’ve secured such a salary increase with just one semi-lateral move. They came at me with a pretty decent offer and I was tempted to accept it. And, trust me, I am not trying to look a gifthorse in the mouth (whatever that means), but I read an article once about how women NEVER negotiate in these types of situations. So, I decided that I would send them back to the drawing board at least one time before I accepted. I thought that the offer they came back with was ludicrous, actually, and I figured I’d better take their offer before they realized that I might not be worth what they are paying me. Now, trust me, it’s not like they’re paying me a boatload of money. But compared to what I’m being paid now, a “normal” salary is such a HUGE improvement since my current position is basically legalized slavery. ANYTHING would be better than my current salary situation. But, I digress. The point is that I got the job and I’ve accepted it. I’m happy with the salary and I’m looking forward to making some positive contributions to my new employer.

Unfortunately, the offer extended was for the DC office of this company and that meant no relocation to NYC after all. So I was a bit bummed about that. But, given the fact that I was JUST complaining in my last post about people who have bunches of blessings, I’m sitting here criticizing the blessing that I have been given. Once, a very wise woman from my church said to me, “When it’s time for you to make a transition to another location, it will happen easily. Everything will come together if it’s what God wants for you.”

Well, it sure is taking me forever to get to NYC, so I’m starting to think that maybe it’s not meant to be. For now. But now that I’ve committed to this new job of mine, I have to settle into DC for at least another year. And, so, I’ve got to find some ways to make this city more fun. In an effort to get out and have some new DC experiences, I decided that it was high time I start spending more time with my older brother.

For those of you who don’t know, my older brother is somewhat of a celebrity. Or maybe, come to think of it, actually a bona fide celebrity. The first time I realized that my brother was a celebrity was maybe four or five years ago. We were walking through downtown Silver Spring, where his office is located, on our way back to the office from lunch. A man was watching us walk down the major thoroughfare. He stopped my brother on the street and struck up a conversation. While he was talking, I tried to place his face (I’m really good with faces). I studied his facial features and came up with nothing. I didn’t recognize him. I waited until they were done speaking and the guy had walked away.

“Who was that?” I asked my brother.

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“You don’t know,” I repeated. “He sure did know you.”

My brother brushed it off and we kept it moving to the next location. That’s when I knew he was a local celebrity. And, then, there was the time I discovered that he was a national celebrity. My brother and I were taking the train to New York for some photo shoot or something (a normal celeb activity) and we were sitting in one of those four-seater sections on the Amtrak Metroliner. An older white woman was sitting across from us and we could tell by her cell phone conversation that she was a lawyer. My brother (and lawyer) and I (at the time a law student), occasionally gave each other knowing glances and rolled our eyes at certain parts of her conversation. Afterwards, my brother told the woman that we were a lawyer and a lawyer in training. We found out that she was a corporate lawyer from Northern California who was up and down the East Coast for a week’s worth of meetings. She asked what kind of law he practiced and when my brother told her that he didn’t actually practice, but was a musician who owned his own record label, she went ballistic.

“Oh my God!” she said. “That is so awesome! Would I know your music?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I play jazz.”

“Ok, I love jazz. What’s your name?” she asked.

“[Brown Girl’s Brother],” he said.

This time she went ape shit. “I know you! I just saw you in concert a few weeks ago in the Bay Area,” she said. She started asking him for autographs and all that shit. It was very surreal. That time, even my brother was impressed. His name was well-known on the West Coast. Or, maybe it was a coincidence, but to us, that was pretty serious stuff.

At any rate, he knows tons of people here in DC. So, I decided that if I wanted to see the best side of DC, it is best to roll with him a couple times so that I, too, could enjoy the star treatment. So, I decided to hang out with him and his wife a few Saturdays ago. Oh, and, yes, he IS married. But that is a story for a different post. I don’t have the time to get all into that just yet. LOL!

I met my brother and my SIL at a place called Jordan’s 8, which is located in Southeast DC on Capitol Hill. Now first of all, I have pretty much avoided Southeast for my entire life. It is the most notorious and treacherous quadrant of the city. When I was growing up, one just did not venture into Southeast unless one had to. As I received directions to the spot via text message from my brother, I spotted the “SE” at the end of the address and pretty much made up my mind right then and there that I would not be attending the party.

“Stop being a scaredy cat,” my brother scolded.

I was having dinner with Bestie out in Rockville (the ‘burbs) and headed into the city alone because Bestie decided that she’d rather sit this one out. Once I reached Capitol Hill I began to see how gentrification had taken over this part of the city as well. It was about 11pm and there were white people all over the neighborhood, jogging, walking dogs, riding bikes, etc. I was shocked. Clearly, I don’t get out enough. As I made my way over to the area where the bar was located, I noticed that things got even busier. There were tons of people walking around and I passed through blocks and blocks of cute restaurants and trendy bars. This was definitely not the Southeast I remember. Everything was so nice! And new! And clean! Gentrification had really changed things up!

I was able to park on the street right in front of the spot (!) and I could see the sign for Jordan’s 8 in my side-view mirror. I walked up to the door and a very large man was standing in front of it, blocking my view of the inside. He held a clipboard with a list of names attached to it.

*Pause*

Now, let me preface the remainder of this story by saying two things. First, I rarely go out alone. I am usually ALWAYS with at least one other person. And, if I do go out alone, I make sure that I am meeting someone at the front door of whatever venue I’ll be visiting because I just do not feel right about being out alone at night. I think it’s mostly a safety issue, but I also feel as though having another person with me can prevent me from having to talk to or interact with other people. I also find that having a conversation (or pretending to be having a conversation) on your cell phone is also a good strategy to help get yourself out of awkward social situations. This time, I had nobody traveling with me and my cell phone battery was nearly dead (that damn Tmobile DASH), so I was trying to hook up with my brother and SIL as quickly as I possibly could. I just felt so vulnerable arriving at the club alone. (I understand this is a personal issue that I need to work on.)

Second, I hate – I mean, absolutely HATE – to drop names. My friends don’t understand my hesitation. So, for instance, it was Howard’s Homecoming weekend, which is one of the busiest weekends of the year in DC. My friends wanted to get into a party at one of the most exclusive parties. My brother knows the owner of the club and the promoter of the party pretty well. He tells me to go to the door and ask for “Steve” and tell him who my brother is and my friends and I will get in for free. I listen closely to the directions that my brother is giving me over the phone, hang up, turn to Denise and say, “Pick another party. We’re not going to that one.”

“What? Why?” she asks.

“I am not going to walk to the front of the line, ask for some guy named ‘Steve’ and then hope that he’s feeling generous when I tell him who my brother is. What if he makes a fool of me? Like, what if, when I tell him my brother’s name, he tells me to go to the back of the line?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Denise says. “Your brother wouldn’t set you up like that.”

“Well, I am the one who would look stupid, not you. I’m not doing it.”

And so, we went to a different party that night. All because I didn’t want to drop a name. But, I’d rather stand on my own two feet than rely on my brother’s name to get me into places. So, most times, even though I could probably get into all the hot parties in the city, I stay home and twiddle my thumbs. But, recently, I’ve decided that I should get over this fear that I’ll be rejected at the door.

But, I digress (as usual).

So, back at Jordan’s 8: Before I speak to the guy at the front door, I text my brother who is already inside with my SIL.

Is there a cover, I write.

He responds, You are on the list.

Great, I think to myself. No worries.

I approach the door and the guy looks down at me and asks, “Can I help you?”

“I’m here for the private party,” I say.

“Are you on the list?”

“Yes.”

“Name?”

“Brown Girl.”

He flips through the papers. Scans the papers. Flips through them again. Looks at me and then starts flipping through them again.

“I’m sorry, you’re not on the list. You’ll have to see the people inside.”

He steps aside and opens the door. I walk into the very sexy Jordan’s 8. Everything is glass, chrome, and primary colors. Sounds like a strange combination, but it works. There is a woman with big curly hair wearing a puffy dress and a jean jacket standing near the hostess stand and a tall, burly man standing near the wall.

“Can I help you?” Burly asked.

“Hi, I’m on the list, but the man standing outside didn’t see my name.”

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Brown Girl.”

He scans the list, looks up and breathes heavily, then looks at the list again. This time, he tells me to speak to the girl in the puffy dress.

“What’s wrong?” she asks Burly.

“This young lady is supposed to be on the list, but she is not.”

While they confer, I pull out my cell phone and begin sending a text to my brother asking him to come downstairs to get me. This is getting embarrassing and other people are being escorted into the party while I am being publicly humiliated at the hostess stand.

“What is your name?” the woman asks me.

I repeat my name for the third time that night. She asks me who put me on the list, what time I was added to the list, how I found out about the party – basically a shitload of questions that I didn’t have answers for. I tell her that my brother told me about the party and he is the one who said I was on the list. I tell her my brother’s name and she doesn’t believe me. Now, my brother is well-known, true. But, it’s not like I told her that my brother is Michael Jackson, or Diddy, or Denzel. Why she found it unbelievable that I am my brother’s sister, I am not sure. But at any rate, she tells me to call my brother and ask him to come downstairs or else I will not be allowed into the party. At this point, I am feeling like getting in my car and heading back to the burbs. For a person who is umcomfy with name-dropping, this night has already proved too much for me!

They are saying I am not on the list and I am embarrassed and if you don’t come downstairs to get me in the next 2 minutes, I am leaving, I text.

I wait 5 minutes (which happened to be the 5 longest minutes of my life as I watched several groups of people walk right into the party after finding their name on the list), and just as I am about to turn on my heel and hightail it out of there, a tall, overweight man comes down the stairs and walks over to me.

“Are you Brown Girl?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“I’m Shank. This is my party. Come on in.”

Thank you, Jesus! After ALL that nonsense, I am finally allowed to go in and join my brother and SIL. And the funny thing is, once I got past the velvet ropes, the party wasn’t all that. My SIL looked gorgeous, as usual, and almost immediately after my brother bought me a drink, she was ready to “find a sexier crowd” (her words). All of that to turn around and head out to another party?

Ok.

So, once we head downstairs and pass the hostess stand again, the girl in the puffy dress says, “Sorry for all the confusion.”

“No problem,” I lie.

“Are you on our email list?” Burly asks me.

“No, I’m not.”

“Can you put your name right here so we can tell you about our other parties.”

I am tempted to laugh in their faces and walk away, but I think, this is the perfect opportunity to get my name/face out there so that other people will recognize me and I don’t have to depend on dropping my brother’s name in order to get into a party. So, I grab the list from Burly, which happens to be open to section of the names that begin with the letter of my last name. Within one second of looking at the list, I see the words “Brown Girl” plain as day in the middle of the page. “Brown Girl.” My name. It’s there. All that hoopla and I was on the list after all, but THREE adults couldn’t find my name on the page.

I scribbled Minnie.Mouse@gmail.com next to my name (which, btw, is NOT my email address) and walked out behind my brother and SIL to find the next party where, hopefully, I wouldn’t have to drop a single name.

Believe it or not, the night actually got a LOT better.

More later…

Wade in the Water

So at the beginning of every year, I set at least one goal for myself that I vow to accomplish by year’s end. Last year, I set my sights relatively low and really only wanted to “surprise myself in some way". By the time I finished 7 days on the Master Cleanser, I felt I had surprised myself enough and pretty much coasted for the rest of the year. In an effort to avoid coasting through 2008, I set multiple goals for myself this year. The first is that I will read the Bible from cover-to-cover by December 31, 2008. I began reading the Bible (I am reading the Old Testament, New Testament, Psalms and Proverbs simultaneously by reading a small portion of each section each night) on January 1 and haven’t missed a day in 11 days! I am a person who suffers from a lack of discipline and I am terrible at following-thru on goals that I set, so this will be a challenge for me. Like, right now, it’s Friday night, so I just got home from a party and it is late. But, the Bible was waiting for me on my bed and I read my excerpt, which – in turn – motivated me to write this post. So, even if I get in at 5am, I will set aside 15 mins of reading/study, which really isn't even that much of a sacrifice.

Then, I started thinking about WHY reading the Bible is important and I recognized that I am motivated to study the Bible because it is the cornerstone of Christian faith. And, despite the fact that – at times – I can drink like a fish, cuss like a sailor, and engage in premarital sex, I do, in fact, consider myself to be a Christian woman. So, I thought it might be interesting to tell the story of HOW I became a Christian. Everyone’s story is different. Mine isn’t stunning… I didn’t have some miraculous conversion, I just knew that a Christian is what I was meant to be. Let me explain…

My dad was a Catholic when I was a kid. We went to mass a few times (that I can remember), but it didn’t really stick. My mom and her parents are Baptist. And, I frequently went to church with my grandparents and my mother and observed what was going on in the service. My parents taught me to pray at a very early age. I can remember being afraid to sleep in the bed by myself – and I had to be in nursery school at the time – and my dad making me go into my room and pray for God to protect me through the night. I also remember my dad reading the Bible to me as a bedtime story a couple times as a kid. He had this HUGE, old illustrated Bible that featured pictures of white people on every page. I just saw that Bible the other day and, now that I look at it, the pictures are reminiscent of the paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. They're beautiful, but incredibly skewed toward a European view of the world. But, I digress.

The Pastor at my grandparents’ church was a powerful orator. Even today, in his late 80s, he can preach a sermon and weave words together that invoke such vivid imagery that you can’t help but to be entranced. I saw the respect he got from the church members and the community at-large, and I started telling my folks that I wanted to be a minister when I grew up. I don’t think I realized the implications of the profession, but my parents were thrilled and loved to tell visiting relatives and family friends that their daughter aspired to be a preacher.

I had seen people get Baptized in church before. (One of the many things that I like about my religion – or, at least my church, because I have no idea how other Baptist churches handle this – is that you come to Christ of your own accord. That means that you are not Baptized as a baby. You make a conscious choice to accept Christ and are Baptized at a much older age.) When I asked my parents what the whole Baptizing/being submerged in water thing was about, they informed me that when people accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior, they get submerged in water and their sins are washed away. At this point I was about 5 years old and I knew what sin was. And I knew that getting sins washed away was a pretty good deal, so I was all for it. It was at that point that I asked to be Baptized. So, about a month before I turned 6, my parents and I walked to the front of the sanctuary and joined my grandparents’ church as a family. My mom and dad had both been Baptized, but I had not and I was scheduled for Batism on June 6, 1985. Two days before my 6th birthday.

Because I was so young – though, I don’t think I am the youngest person to be Baptized in my church – the Pastor wanted to have a meeting with me to be sure that I knew what I was getting into. So, my mom dressed me in a cute outfit, took me to the church one evening and walked me into the Pastor’s office. He came around to the other side of his massive desk (or at least it was massive in my 5 year old eyes) and got down to eye level with me.

“Do you know what it means to be Baptized?” he asked.

“It means that Jesus is my Lord and Savior,” 5 year old me said.

“Yes, that’s right. So you understand what will happen on Sunday?” he said.

“I am going to get dunked under water,” I responded.

“That’s right.”

“And, what’s going to happen to my hair?” (even at 5 I was a little image-conscious)

“You’ll wear a swimcap to protect it.”

I panicked, “But, I don’t know how to swim!”

“I’ll be right there. You’ll be safe.”

We talked a bit more about what was to happen at my Baptism, but at that point, I was ready. The Sunday following the meeting with my Pastor, my mom dressed me in a white dress, white tights and white patent leather shoes (it was the 80s people!) and we were on our way. I remember getting changed into a white robe and a deaconess helping me stuff my fluffy hair into a swimcap and, then, it was just me and the Pastor in the Baptismal pool. I remember thinking the water was warmer than I thought it would be. And I was a little afraid.

I stood in the Baptismal pool with my arms crossed over my chest and the Pastor stood on my left side and said a few words and then he said, “And now, [Brown Girl], I baptize you, my sister, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

And then he dunked me under water.

Only thing was, he didn’t tell me to hold my nose and he didn’t hold it for me. I came up out of the water coughing and sputtering and shivering. It wasn’t so pretty. My aunt cried when the Pastor dunked me and my younger cousin asked her, “Mama, did [Brown Girl] die?” I guess cause we were at church and her mom was crying, she thought maybe it was a funeral instead of a Baptism (?). Who knows what really goes on in the mind of a child! At any rate, I was especially upset that my hair had gotten a little damp under the swimcap (typical ME)... But, afterward, my family was so proud. My mom and dad gave me a small gold crucifix on a delicate chain and we took lots of pictures. That was also when I received my first Bible. My Baptism was a very significant moment that I remember clearly to this day.

That was my first step on the road to becoming a Christian. I still have to fight daily to be a “good” Christian. It’s hard. You guys have read the other posts. Even though I live a pretty tame life by most standards, I do manage to get into some things that aren't so angelic... But I hope that you’re not too surprised that I profess to be a Christian. If you are, I’m not doing something right and I need to try a little harder!

Coming full-circle, my reading and studying of the Bible in ’08 is an attempt to help me figure out just what my responsibilities are as a Christian. It is also a way for me to reaffirm that choice that I made some 23 years ago. I wanted to be a Christian then and I want to be one now. In a lot of ways, I’m still like that little 5 year old girl that asked to get Baptized way back when. Not much about me has changed. But I’d like to think I have a better understanding of what being a Christian actually means, and I hope that 23 years from now, I’ll have grown even more in Christ.

Daddy Dearest

Sorry it’s taken me a few days to post. Things have been busy on the home front. At any rate, here’s a blog I wrote back in December. It’s a long read, so if you don’t make it all the way through on the first read, come back and finish it later.

For the past few weeks, I haven’t been feeling my best. Those of you that know me love (or hate) my quick wit and (sometimes mean-spirited) jokes. But, they have been on hiatus and my usually easy smile has become infrequent. I had been moping around for a few days, complaining to my BMFF [best male friend forever] and my BGFF [best girl friend forever] about:
1) My life being utterly boring
2) My job being a hellhole, and
3) My checking account being empty (not necessarily in that order).

I didn’t think anyone else noticed the fact that I’d had a terrible case of the “blahs”. At work, I kept on a happy face and most of my friends thought I was pretty happy with the way things have been going in my life. But, this weekend, when I was hanging out with my parents, my father noticed that something wasn’t quite right.

Now, for those of you that know the nature of my relationship with my father, you know that I avoid speaking to him at ALL costs. I am cordial, saying “hello” and “goodbye”, but I steer clear of any conversation that takes us further than casual greetings. We get along so much better when we are only exchanging pleasantries. I used to talk to him all the time, letting him on my innermost thoughts and dreams. After all, he is a mental health professional who tends to build a rapport easily with his clients and with complete strangers. But, the second I let him any further into my life, our relationship heads straight down the toilet. He is super-critical, outrageously judgmental, highly opinionated and über-conservative. All of which means that when he is around, my mouth stays, pretty much, cemented shut.

But, on Sunday, he approached me and asked if he could speak with me for about 15 minutes. I immediately tensed up. I just knew that he could only be interested in criticizing me about something I had done or said. But, I reluctantly left my place on my parents’ couch and headed downstairs to chitty-chat with my dad. We are sitting in his blue-walled man room with the TV turned on mute and his desk light shining on my face like a spotlight. We sit across from each other and size each other up.

Then he says, “So, let’s talk. We haven’t talked in a while. Tell me what’s been going on in your life.”

I freeze. I can’t think of ONE thing to say to him. I am thinking that it’s pathetic that I don’t even know how to start a conversation with my father!

“I’ll start,” he says.

He asks me about my piece o’ shit car and what I am planning to do about getting a new one sometime soon on my very limited budget. I sit silent, trying to see where he is going with this line of questioning. But, as I study his face, I recognize that he is being genuine. So, I let down my guard and we start talking. And, although he asked for 15 minutes of my time, we actually ended up talking for over an hour. The conversation came quickly and the laughs came easily. And he gave me some sound advice on life, love, career and finances. My father is a smart man, brilliant actually. (A girlfriend of mine and I had discovered that our fathers had been friends years ago and she said that her father had described my father in this way: “[Brown Girl's Daddy]? – that’s a smart nigga right there.” LOL!) Anyway, my father encouraged me to use him as a resource when I have things weighing on my mind. And, I have to admit that after talking to my dad, I felt 100 times better about my circumstances and my lot in life. I felt… hopeful… for the first time in a long, long time.

When we were wrapping up our conversation, he says to me, “I just want you to be my ‘buddy’. Just came and talk to me about anything.” Um… what? My father and I “buddies”?? The thought had never occurred to me, but if he was going to maintain this personality (Who knows how long it will really last? I am hopeful, but not naïve.), this level of understanding and compassion, maybe we really could be “buddies”. But, I’m not holding my breath.

Anyway, the holidays are about to roll around and after I thought about it for a while, I realized that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday of the year. It’s a time when nothing is expected of anyone, no gifts are expected (Christmahanukwannzaka), no declarations of undying love (Valentine’s Day), no lauding of long-forgotten historical figures. It’s just a time to sit back and reflect on all the things for which we are grateful. And I realized that the case of the “blahs” that I had suffered from for so many weeks was immediately cured when I realized all the things and people I have been blessed to have in my life. I have come to recognize that it is important to stop and gives thanks for all things that bring goodness to you life. So, I thought that giving thanks for those people and things that have impacted my life would be blog-worthy. This is the first in a series of blogs where I will give for someone or something that has been a blessing in my life this year. So, yes, you guessed it. I am saying that the first person on my list for whom I am thankful is… my Dad.

As much as this negro gets on my gotdamn nerves, he’s a pretty great guy. Rewind to a couple of months ago. I was chilling at a friend’s house for the Labor Day holiday when my mom called and told me that she needed me to drive my dad to the hospital. Now, my dad does NOT get sick. He barely sniffles and never stays home from work due to illness. So, when my mom called, my adrenaline started pumping. I ran out of my friend’s house, collected my mom and dad and drove my dad to the emergency room at Johns Hopkins. My mom and I were waiting in the Emergency Room all night (with a room full of colorful "Baltimorons", including a man who purposely pissed on the floor when the people at the admitting desk ignored his requests to be seen first – no joke) and were awakened early in the morning to the news that my father had been transferred to ICU while we had been sleeping. The diagnosis was internal bleeding and they didn’t know where the bleeding was coming from. By the time the whole ordeal had ended, my father had two blood transfusions and three procedures to stop the bleeding. He was in ICU for five days. And, for weeks even after he had been discharged, my father who walks approximately two miles everyday, got winded from going to the bathroom. It was a devastating experience. The doctors made it clear that we had almost lost him. For a few days, all was good and perfect in the Johnson household – that is, until my father realized that he wasn’t going to die and went back to annoying the hell out of everyone.

While we were talking on Sunday, I looked into my dad’s face, which is lined with years of creases, and at his head full of soft gray hair and I started thinking about the fact that my dad wouldn’t be here forever to bug me, judge me, get on my nerves. One day, he will be gone. I know the thought is morbid and – believe me – I hate to think about death. But, I sat and looked at him and imagined him in a casket. And I imagined myself throwing myself over his body and screaming and crying at the front of our church very melodramatically. I sat back and thought, do I want to be crying out of regret for having a terrible relationship with my father while he walked this Earth? And I decided right then and there that I don’t want that. And that I want us to have a good relationship. I want us to be “buddies” (I think).

So, Dad, I’m grateful for you being the critical, judgmental, opinionated, conservative that you are. And this year, I thank God that I’ve had you in my life... even though you’ve worked my last nerve.