Catching up...

It’s been three months since I moved to NYC. These last few months have just been dedicated to adjusting to the change. I’m homesick already, which I didn’t think would happen! I was in such a rush to leave DC, I didn’t stop and think about what would happen should I actually miss it. And miss it, I do. I miss the people I left behind every single minute of every single day. I have some great friends and DC and though I celebrated them often when we lived in the same city, now that they’re so far away, I am appreciating them so much more.

I was walking around saying that I miss the people in DC, but not so much the city itself. But now, I miss that too! One morning, I was lying in bed remembering Georgia Avenue. I have driven down that road so many freakin times, I know it like the back of my hand. I can conjure up near perfect images of it in my head, but not seeing it live everyday is tough. A lot tougher than I expected. Speaking of driving, I miss that too! I never EVER thought I would say that, but some mornings when I’m waiting to get on the overcrowded subway, there’s nothing I want more than to hop in my moderately-priced mid-sized sedan and roll the eff out!

And then, there’s the cleanliness issue. I never noticed or appreciated it before, but DC is one of the cleanest cities I’ve ever been to. New York, while lovely, beautiful, trendy, and fabulous, is a dirty cesspool of a place. For a germophobe like me, functioning here has been a real challenge! Riding the subway everyday and getting coughed and sneezed on by all manner of sketchy people, I’m basically living out my worst nightmare! I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve nearly fallen when the train accelerates because I’m trying not to hold on to the poles on the train. Those things are a breeding ground for germs! It’s been rough on the kid!

The thing is, despite all of this, I am loving this experience! Getting out of DC and living in the one city that I have found so intriguing for my entire adult life is a dream come true (even if that “dream” is sometimes a “nightmare”!)! But I must admit that the situation would be even better if I lived alone. I love my apartment… like, it is THE best apartment that I’ve seen in New York. Well, with the exception of Jack’s apartment… that thing was sick! But other than that, my apartment takes the cake. The only thing is… it’s not MY apartment. I live with a roommate who actually owns our unit. And even though I pay rent here, and I suspect that I probably pay the majority of her mortgage when you really break it down, I will always feel like a guest in this house. That’s why the last couple of weeks I’ve been literally obsessed with finding my own place.

I’m sure you were wondering what I could’ve been doing all these months that was so freakin important that I couldn’t be bothered with updating this blog? Well, I couldn’t focus because I literally spend all of my free time searching for apartments. And what’s the best way to find apartments in New York City? Well, I polled a bunch of people and they all assured me that, these days, everyone uses Craig’s List. I found this unbelievable, but no matter who I asked, I was directed to CL, and so I finally decided to use it. That’s how I ended up in my current situation, which is not “bad” by any stretch of the imagination. It’s just not “good” either. I am looking for the perfect NYC apartment, and what I’m discovering is that the perfect apartment is as elusive as the perfect man… is hard to locate than the Holy Grail, is more difficult to secure than an Olympic gold medal or a Super Bowl ring. Yeah, it really is that serious. Ask anyone who lives here. It takes WORK to find the “right” place. I don’t have a ridiculous list of criteria that this place has to meet either, so I really don’t see the big deal. I mean, basically, I’m looking for a studio or 1BR apartment, in Manhattan (preferably the Upper West Side or Southwest Harlem), that’s close to the train, with a doorman, an elevator, and a convenient laundry situation, and that won’t break the bank. Doesn’t sound hard, right? Well, guess what? Apparently, that shit is damn near IMPOSSIBLE to find. I look everyday, and the things that I come up with are always subpar.

I did find a really nice furnished 1BR apartment in Soha (South Harlem… and, yes, the real estate folks really call it that! There’s also SpaHa, which is short for Spanish Harlem – a place I am trying to avoid!) for a great price, BUT even though the unit was nice the building itself was a dump… AND you had to take your clothes to a Laundromat. But, um… I don’t do the Laundromat. That’s not a part of the deal. So, I had to scrap that. The highlight of that trip was that the owner and I had been going back and forth and he seemed like a decent guy. His name was Sal and he was a nice older Italian man who was always available when I called to ask questions… or so I thought! I woke up early on a Saturday morning to meet Sal so that I could view the apartment. When he showed up, I was surprised to find that he was an uber-tall super fine really sweet Dominican dude that was around my age! Of all the luck! But after we talked a little more, he explained that he was renting his apartment because he is moving in with his long-term girlfriend. Of course he is!! Again, of all the luck… BAD luck! Argh! Anyway, it was nice to see that there are fine professional brown male homeowners out here in Harlem. Gives me a bit of hope, I suppose.

I’ve met a few other really cool people as well, but those are stories for another day. Right now, I’m faced with a dilemma that I’m having a hard time solving. So, basically, I found an apartment that is damn there perfection. The only thing is, it’s in the same complex where Mystery Man lives. Oh yeah… I suppose I should also tell you a little about that. We’ve actually spent quite a bit of time together since I moved here. We’ve had some really great times, and, again, those are stories for another day. (Hopefully, I’ll get around to writing them all down sooner or later!) At any rate, despite all the great times we’ve had and wonderful memories we’ve made over the last three months, we’re no closer to being together than we were when I lived in DC. That’s disappointing. But what’s worse is that now we might end up living literally around the corner from one another. That could be a very good thing, but it could also be a very bad thing… a thing with numerous repercussions… some that aren’t even foreseeable at this point. This worries me (cue Tim Gunn).

Prime real estate in NYC, especially Manhattan, is a rare find and, should it present itself, must not be passed over under any circumstances. So should I consider giving up an apartment that basically meets all of my criteria to keep from creeping Mystery Man out? I mean, he knows that I’ve considered his apartment complex before, but I wonder if he’s considered how he would feel if I actually moved in there. I mean, whatever… I am seriously considering it. Teresa made a good point – what would I do if I happened to see Mystery Man around there with another woman. Well, basically, it would kill me, but maybe that’s what I need to see so I can move on! My thing is, the community is HUGE… there are like 11 buildings. And I refuse to live in the same building as he does, so that’s not even an option. But a surrounding building shouldn’t be off limits. I have every right to move in there. It’s a free country and I can do what I damn well please… but I also don’t want him to feel weird or to feel as though I’m a stalker. It could get weird! Honestly, this place is just the best fit for me, and I’m drawn to it for some reason. I’m gonna go for it!

But if it’s such a great idea, then why do I feel so strange about my decision?

Hey! You remind me of a girl that I once knew...

First things first, you’ll recognize that the blog has a new look. Our new design is courtesy of my good friend from high school. He’s into graphic design and all that jazz. I told him I wanted a new look and he got to work, showed me a few mockups and this was our final choice. What do you think? I’m really digging the little picture of the girl with the flipped hair. In college, I wore my hair in a flip, like, everyday, so when I first saw the new page, I fell in love. Thanks, buddy, for all your hard work. He’s going to keep playing around with things, so the layout might change over the course of the next couple of months, but… we’ll see. I like things the way that they are, but I’m open to new ideas if he happens to come up with something better.

So, I disappeared for awhile. I think I’m back now, but who the hell knows. I’m actually tired of making promises that I can’t keep, and I figure that you’re probably tired of hearing my lame-o excuses, so let’s just agree that I’m wack for staying away for so long and then keep it moving.

On to the real topic.

Try to describe my physical appearance. Go ahead… try. Those of you who know me would probably say that I'm short… thick/chubby/fluffy… brown skin, brown hair, brown eyes… pretty non-descript. There's nothing more that could really be said… what I outlined above pretty much sums me up. There is nothing striking about me. In fact, I think that if you tried to "describe" me to someone who's never seen me before, Your description could probably apply to just about every brown girl in the universe.

I'm pretty regular. And I guess that explains why I have the most familiar face - if not in the world, then certainly in the Washington Metropolitan area. I can't go anywhere without people either thinking that I'm someone else or comparing me to someone I know. On my first day at the new job, one of the admins stopped me in the corridor to ask me if I was related to some family that lived in her neighborhood because I "look exactly like their youngest daughter". I'm sure this is a perfectly nice family, but I'm definitely am NOT related to these people.

I'll be standing in line at the deli during my lunch break and the guy who spreads the mustard will tell me I look exactly like his cousin or his ex-girlfriend. Yesterday, I went to pick up Sister Souljah's new book and as I walked from Barnes & Noble to my office building, I ran into a group of older homeless men who were sitting on a bench along E Street. One of them calls out, "Hey girl! You look like this woman I knew once." I couldn't even be mad. I had to laugh. It was a real trip. Lol! I'm thinking do I really look like a woman you "once knew". Really?

So, yeah… the familiarity thing was getting to be a tad bit bothersome. Although, it has also worked to my advantage a few times. A couple years ago, VH1 had this show called "Divas Live". I never watched the show, so I'm not 100% sure about the premise of the show. But what I do know is that apparently there was a contestant on the show who looked like me and she was beating the shit out of all the other contestants! Well, one weekend while this show was on the air, my girlfriends and I went to our favorite late night eats spot in Adams Morgan. The very gay, but very cool manager of the spot came over to our table with a starstruck look in his eyes and immediately swooped down on me, asking breathily, "Are you the girl from that VH1 show?”

My face reflected my genuine confusion. “Which VH1 show?” I asked.

“Divas Live!” he said. “I love that show!” At this point, he actually starts fanning himself as though the thought of me being this girl in the flesh was just too much for his body to take. It was as if he had officially overloaded his circuits at the mere thought. LOL!

“Um… no. That is not me,” I sadly informed him.

He paused for a second and tilted his head with a puzzled look. I’m certain that for a second he thought I was lying about my identity. He was positive that I was this woman.

After a minute or so of silent contemplation, he decided that he believed me.

“Well, you might not be her,” he said apologetically, “but I am happy that you’re here, honey. You are just adorable!”

I was flattered. I’ll take a compliment no matter who’s giving them out. And, from there, I had a genuine friend for life. Nelson (that was his name) always hooked my friends and I up from that moment on. Whenever we wanted a table in that particular spot, we’d ask for him. He would float through the crowd and shower us with air kisses and the next thing you know, we’d be seated with a minimal wait time even during on the busy nights… and there would almost always be a discount applied to our bill. Not bad for just resembling a “celebrity”.

The funniest part about it all was when I was getting rung up at the cash register at work and the cashier said, “Did anyone tell you that you look just like the girl on the VH1 “Divas...”

“Yes,” I cut her off mid-sentence. “I have heard that before.”

Finally, I decided that I better look up this person so that I could see if there was really any resemblance. I was SO disappointed when I saw her. No disrespect to this woman, but I don’t feel that I resemble her at all. But, hey, if it gets me prime seating at my favorite restaurant and a discount on my food and drinks, then who am I to question?
One day, I was standing in the line at the pharmacy picking up some medication for my grandmother and this older gentleman who was also standing in line was staring intently at my face. I got to the counter and picked up the medicine and was heading back out to the car, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and it was the old man from the pharmacy line. He asked me my name and I told him. Then, he asked me if I was Haitian. That was the first time I'd gotten that. I've been asked if I am Ethiopian, Dominican, and Panamanian, but never Haitian. I told him that I’m not.

"Why do you ask?" I said.

He told me that I reminded him of a woman named Marie Claudette that was his "friend" in high school. I put the word friend in quotation marks because while he described their friendship as platonic, he had a wistful look in his eyes that suggested there may have been more to their relationship (maybe it was one-sided… who knows?). I wondered how he thought that I could be someone he went to high school with. My mother probably wasn't even born when he was in high school – so surely I couldn’t have been! Maybe he thought I could be Marie Claudette's granddaughter or something.

Well, the old dude looked so hopeful that I might BE Marie Claudette or maybe at least related to her and so hopeful that they might be reunited, it hurt me to have to tell him that I didn't know her at all. He proceeded to tell me a few stories about Miss Marie and I could see that she was a character (as am I!) and I could also tell that this man cared for her deeply. His eyes danced as he described her and he chuckled a few times... It came out sounding more like a giggle, which was disarming coming from a man of his age.

As much as I enjoyed talking to him, I wrapped up our conversation and he ended it by saying, "Marie Claudette was a beautiful person both inside and out. Even if you don't know her, I can tell that you're a lot like her." And he smiled a very vibrant smile and wished me well. It was a touching moment. Usually, I'm bored with people who mistake me for someone else, but this particular moment, I was glad that I was able to take this man back to a happy time in his life.

I guess that I’ll continue to try to reap the benefits of my familiar face. Although, it could get to be a problem if someone thinks I remind them of a person that they don’t particularly care for.

Until then, whenever someone says, “Hey, you look just like…”, I’ll just smile, graciously accept any compliments, explain who I REALLY am, and move on.

Naptime: it ain't just for kids anymore...

We've had a lot of loss this week. First Bernie Mac, then Isaac Hayes... they say that death comes in threes and I hope to God that "they" are wrong about that. No more dying! (I know this is a unrealistic request, but this is really stressing me out!). There may be additional blog posts because of these losses, but I'm not making any promises. Even though it's only Monday and the week JUST started, it's turning out to be hellish thanks to someone at work (NOT my boss, thank God) who happens to be the devil incarnate. I guess the honeymoon is officially over... Anyhoo, inkeeping with the promise I made to you and to myself, here's this week's post. If I can keep this up consistently (looks like I might succeed!), then maybe we'll move up to two posts a week, and then three, and then... well, you get my drift.

Totally random thought.

The question that begs to be answered is – when did it become imperative for me to take a nap in order to be fully prepared for a night out with the girls? When I was a kid, you couldn’t pay me to take a nap. I remember when I was in pre-school, all the other kids would pull out their cots and their pillows and blankets and hit the sack for at least an hour during the school day. But not this little Brown Girl. I’d be helping my teachers put toys back in their places, or assist with decorating our classroom, or simply sit and listen to my teachers gossip or discuss the intimacies of their home lives. I’d do a lot of things during that nap hour, but the one thing I wouldn’t do was sleep.

When I got to be a little older, every night around the same time, I’d complain to my mom that I didn’t feel well. To which she would roll her eyes and respond, “You feel fine, baby. You’re just sleepy.” Today, it strikes me as odd that I wouldn’t know the difference between feeling sleepy and feeling tired since the feeling of fatigue is so familiar to me at this point in my life.

I never took naps in high school because during the week I’d come straight home from school and rush through my homework in order to be able to socialize or watch television. And, why waste time sleeping when I could be talking to my boyfriend on the phone or watching a good movie on cable? On the weekends, when I actually had time to sleep, my goal was always to go out with my friends late at night. My father, a champion napper, understood a nap for nap’s sake, but didn’t understand the logic behind sleeping during the day to go out with your friends at night. And, in fact, if he caught me sleeping during the day and then I asked permission to go out at night, he’d use my nap as evidence that what I really needed to be doing was going to bed early (because obviously I was tired – why else would I need a nap?) instead of hanging out with my friends. So, of course, my solution for that was to pretend that I was upbeat, chipper, bright-eyed, and bushytailed ALL DAY – even if I was exhausted – in order for me to pass his test. It usually worked and he’d let me go out and stay out late. And rarely did I need a nap the next day. But, of course, this was when I was young and had energy.

I didn’t, in fact, become a fan of naps until college. I took them not because I needed them, but because they seemed like a luxury. After my first semester, I arranged my classes around two things: Jerry Springer and naptime. In between classes, I would leisurely make my way back to my dorm room, kick off my shoes, wrap my hair and tie on a scarf, and lie down for at least an hour, during which I’d fall into a deep and peaceful sleep. And, best of all, there was no one there to judge me. My roommate understood the value of naps just as much as I did, if not more, and therefore respected my quiet time. Come to think of it, she and I had a beautiful roommate relationship built on mutual respect and understanding and a common love of naps.

But back then, napping was something I wanted to do, not something I needed to do. Imagine my surprise a few years ago when I first uttered the words, “Whooo girl. If we’re gonna go out tonight, I need to take a nap.” The words didn’t even sound right coming out of my mouth. “Need” to take a nap? But why? I’d never needed a nap before. And then, it hit me. My youth – those reckless days of staying out til 5am, only to awaken at noon and do it all over again – were in the rearview mirror. Never again would I be able to survive for a week on no more than 10 hours of sleep. Gone are the days of me partying six nights a week and “catching up” on that sleep with a 2 hour nap on Sunday afternoon that would leave me good for the rest of the week. Those days are behind me now. Now, I NEED sleep. It’s a bit disconcerting to know that most weekends, I am unable to function like a normal person if I stay out past 3am two nights in a row. That means that I have to decide whether I’ll go out on Friday or Saturday night because my near-30-year-old body, it turns out, is not cut out for sleep deprivation.

Right now, it’s nearly 1am on a Friday night. The original plan was to go out with the girls to a party that some people from college invited me to. But, when I got home from work, I felt that familiar blanket of exhaustion wrap itself around me and I knew that I would be no good to my friends (or to myself for that matter) if I didn’t get a nap in before the night began. The plan was to lay down around 7pm and wake up around 8:30 to start making myself presentable. I had a bunch of things to do after work and so I didn’t actually stretch out until 7:45 or so. I slept right through my cell phone alarm at 8:30 and didn’t actually crack my eyes open until 9:35. When I woke up, I felt terrible! I’d missed four phone calls and six text messages from my girls, trying to determine the plan for the night. I was embarrassed. Had I really slept that long? How could I have ignored my alarm? Why was it that I needed the nap in the first place? What kept me from being able to come home from work, eat a nice dinner, make myself presentable, and go out and have a good time with my friends – without the need for a nap?

As soon as I’d had a glass of water, I picked up the phone and started reading my text messages. I had received a text from Bestie at around 8:45 saying she had a headache and was bowing out of our plans (she has been doing that a lot lately – BORING), I rolled my eyes and then returned calls to Shawn and Soleil. Shawn answered the phone, her voice thick with sleep. She had fallen asleep, too. So we agreed that we’d hang out another day. Soleil had actually left a text message saying she was going to bed and that she would call me later. I sent her a text apologizing for being inaccessible and told her that we’d kick it another time.

And then it hit me. I am not alone in my need for beauty sleep. All my girls were asleep, too, and it wasn’t even 10pm. While I took some comfort in a “misery loves company” sort of way, I was also sort of sad for us. We were no longer the nocturnal party girls that we used to be. That energy eludes us now. But I guess these sorts of things will come to pass and, eventually, more and more signs like this will remind me of the fact that I am not the person I used to be.

In some ways, I grieve the person that I was. I liked her. She was fun. She took a few risks and didn’t care about the consequences. But, only a FEW risks. In fact, I often wish that I had taken advantage of my youth more. When you are young, you can make mistakes and nobody says, “Wow, look at that pathetic woman who has seen so much and, as a result of her experiences, should really not be making immature decisions like that. Shameful!” No. In fact, when you are young, people laugh and say, “Look at that crazy kid, taking a chance to see what life has to offer. She messed up now, but she has many more chances to make it right.” It’s sort of depressing to realize that youth will not always be on your side. No more will you have a defense for your naïveté or your gullibility. You should know better. And because you know better, you should act better. You should BE better than what you once were.

I don’t know if I’m better than what I was back in my college days when I partied til the sun came up and thought that it was passé to go to bed before 10pm. What I do know is that now, I need a nap before I socialize at night and, sometimes, I need to stay home on Friday nights. Somehow this change in my routine has made me aware of the fact that whether or not I’m “better” than who I used to be, I’m certainly “different” than what I used to be. And, actually I’m ok with that. I think…

"Beautiful"

I made it just under the wire! It's only been six days since my last post - not yet a week. Today's post was a LONG one, so I broke it up into two parts. I'll post Part II by 10 am on Wednesday. I promise at least four posts this week, so check back tomorrow... you can hold me to it.

Have you ever been moving along with your life, minding your own business and then… BOOM! You catch a whiff of someone’s perfume or cologne, you see something that catches your eye, or you hear a certain song, and it brings back memories of days long gone? That very thing happened to me this morning on the way to work. I was listening to my iPod and had my “Sunny Day” playlist on shuffle. All of a sudden, I heard the opening bars of Snoop Dogg and Pharrell’s “Beautiful” come blaring out of my speakers. And, boy, oh boy, does that song bring back memories. The first person who popped into my head was Terrell. Cause that was “our song”. Even bestie knows that. Every time it comes on, she asks me about him. I wish I knew where he was, but it’s been YEARS since we’ve spoken. Our romance was intense, but fleeting, and it is one “relationship” that I still lament on a pretty regular basis (or at least when I hear Pharrell belt out the chorus to “Beautiful”).

Terrell and I met in my second year of law school. My cousin convinced me to go to a little whole in the wall down in Adams Morgan (a funky DC neighborhood with tons of bars and clubs) called Fasika – those of you from DC probably know it. It was one of my favorite spots back in the day. I wasn’t really in the mood to party that night – sometimes I get into moods where I just want to vege out in front of my television and it takes a lot of convincing to get me outside, but with a lot of pleading I can be persuaded to venture out. I threw on a T-shirt, some jeans, and some boots and a little lipgloss and that was about as much effort as I allowed myself to put into me getting ready to go out. We got to Fasika, stood by the bar and drank a little bit. And then the DJ got good. We hit the dance floor and danced and giggled and sweated out our hair (which, in Fasika, is really easy to do).

I saw a tall, handsome man standing against a wall watching the dance floor. And, then, I realized – he was watching ME in particular. So, I put a little twist in my hips just for him and we made eye contact more than a few times. Eventually, when he didn’t make a move, I just kind of forgot about him and danced with a couple other people. I finally noticed that my cousin was nowhere to be found. I ducked out on the guy I had been dancing with to head to the bar and see if she was up there. She was there, talking with some guy and sipping a drink. I went back to the dance floor and started to dance again, getting lost in the music. My cousin came back with the guy she’d been talking to at the bar. He introduced himself as Akil. Akil tells me that he thinks my cousin is beautiful and he hoped that he would be seeing more of her in the future. I noticed that the good looking guy I’d been exchanging glances with all night was still standing in the same place. I turned back to my cousin and Akil and I point – very brazenly – to the handsome man against the wall.

“You see him,” I shouted over the music, settling my gaze on Tall, Dark, and Handsome. “He is fine. Wonder why he won’t leave that wall?”

“Yoooo,” Akil says. “That’s my boy! I came here with him.”

Light bulb moment.

“Um… soooo hook me up!” I was feeling flirty and – for some reason – much more confident than normal.

“Be right back,” he said. And he hurried away to the other side of the dance floor where the man had taken up residence.

While he and Akil spoke, he and I did not take our eyes off each other. After Akil said his piece, both he and TDH made their way over to my cousin and I.

Akil took my cousin by the arm and guided her away. That left me and TDH alone on the dance floor (looking back on it, it seemed like we were alone but I’m sure there had to be at least one hundred other people around us).

“I’m Terrell,” he said. And I noticed that he had a slight southern twang.

“I’m [Brown Girl],” I say, taking his hand and shaking it lightly.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. He didn’t let go of my hand.

We just stood staring stupidly at one another.

Until he said, “Tell me about yourself.”

Of course, he was a lot taller than I am (that’s not hard to imagine) and I had to stand on my tippy-toes to yell into his ear over the thumping bass. I tried to tell him a little about myself, but it was too hard to try to carry on a conversation in that type of setting.

So, I yelled, “Give me your phone.”

And he did.

He watched my curiously as I punched in my cell phone number. And then I stood on my tippy-toes one last time and said, “Call me.”

That much he understood. We would discuss biographical information later, but for now we would enjoy the night.

We danced, hand-in-hand, for the remainder of the evening. And, right before the lights came on, the DJ played “Beautiful”. Terrell and I were done dancing and we just looked at each other while he mouthed the words to the chorus and smiled at me. And, at that moment, it was official. I was in love. Or at least in serious like. And for the rest of my life, every time I heard that song, I would think of him.

But, everyone knows that there can be magic in the club when the lights are off, but when they come on, reality hits. Not so this time. He was just as fine in the light as he was in the dark. In fact, moreso. After the music died down, we spoke just long enough for me to find out that he is from Memphis, Tennessee by way of Philadelphia, and he discovered that I was a DC girl. Which, for the record, counted against me, but I got a pass cause I live in the ‘burbs. We immediately clicked. The conversation flowed for about 30 minutes until my cousin was begging me to cut it short so we could get home.

We stood in awkward silence for about 30 seconds.

“Well, I’ve got your number. And, I WILL call,” he said, holding my hand.

“You better,” I said.

We finally let go of each other. And, about halfway down the sidewalk, we both turned and looked over our shoulders and gave a casual wave.

My cousin laughed at the silly grin on my face all the way back uptown. But I couldn’t wipe it off. I was walking on air!

It took him two days to call. Two, long, hard, miserable days. I kept panicking that maybe I hadn’t saved my number correctly in his phone. I was hating myself for not getting his number. All I had to do was hit the “send” button on his phone to capture his number. But, if I had captured the number, would I have actually called him? I probably would’ve been too embarrassed that he hadn’t called me first. Of course, I obsessed over it. I even told my mom about it who basically thought I was crazy for being worried that a guy hadn’t called me the day after he met me. I thought she was crazy for thinking it was ok for him to wait.

On the third night of him not calling, he finally, FINALLY decided to use my number. I was busy obsessing over him to Bestie and I heard the call waiting beep in my ear. I look at the number and don’t recognize it, but I have an idea of who it is. I answer on the second beep and he says:

“[Brown Girl].” It not a question, but a statement. As if I my name is the answer to a question he may have been pondering.

“Yes,” I say. And we pretty much go on from there. We talk all night. And he is more than I could’ve hoped or dreamed for. He is attractive, funny, intelligent, educated, employed (thank you Jesus!), without offspring, and – according to him – single. We had a lot of fun chatting each other up and finding out more about each other. He was from Memphis, but had spent the last few years of his youth in Philadelphia where his mom was a teacher. He came to DC for college and never left. He didn’t have a girlfriend, but had been in serious relationships before and wasn’t opposed to another. That was a positive sign.

I called my cousin to tell her the news. That we had spoken – and I was STILL interested. For those of you who don’t know my dating history know this, I meet guys ALL THE TIME. I’ll like them for five minutes, mull over their qualifications and then assess my physical attraction and nine out of ten times, I will lose interest. I don’t know what that says about me, but damn, for a person who’s actually interested in being in a relationship, I am waaaay too picky! Anyway, Terrell made the cut. Golly, did HE make the cut! When I told my cousin about him and how I was feeling about him, she said that she had connected with Akil and, based on the conversations we had with them, Akil and Terrell were best friends. How perfect was that? Cousins dating best friends! It couldn’t get any cuter.

My cousin made plans to see Akil on a Friday afternoon and we happened to have been shopping together before then. I decided to join her, so we drove over to Akil’s apartment and hung out for a while. I called Terrell to ask if he was coming over, but he was still working. I pouted while my cousin and Akil flirted with each other, play fighting and giggling all over the apartment. Finally, Terrell called. He had just gotten home from work, his roommate was having a party and he wanted to get out of the house. I rushed over to pick him up in my cousin’s car and brought him to Akil’s apartment. It was there that we kissed for the first time. And it was magical! I am a sucker for a good kiss…

Anyway, as far as I was concerned, he was my man. Of course, we hadn’t discussed being exclusive, but everything (in MY eyes) pointed in that direction. We spent the next two months kicking it… HARD. Everything was great. And I was falling in love fast and furious. He was all I could talk about and I’m sure that my friends were exhausted by my constant conversations about how wonderful he was and how I couldn’t wait to see what the future held for us. I could almost sense them rolling their eyes violently on the other end of the phone every time I mentioned his name.

Almost two months to the day that I met Terrell, I noticed that he was acting different towards me. For the first two months, he would call me every day around the same time without fail. And we spoke EVERY SINGLE DAY (this was before text messaging was really popular). But all of a sudden, his calls became less and less frequent and his behavior became erratic. He became distant, but was still in touch with me just enough to keep my interest peeked.

Now, during this time, I had also become very close to Akil. He would call me to check on me every now and again and, even though he and my cousin had cooled off a bit, he would hang out with me and Terrell on a pretty regular basis. Since we’d become such good buddies, eventually, I began whining to Akil about the way Terrell had been acting. He was the ear that I needed. He assured me that I had nothing to worry about. Terrell was just busy, didn’t know how to handle stress well and therefore needed space, but he would come around and start acting like his old self sooner or later. He told me everything I wanted to hear. And I believed him for the most part. But when Terrell was still out of pocket two weeks later, I’d had enough...

(Part II tomorrow)

It Could've Been Love...

I promised the new blog would come on Monday, but it's Sunday night and my favorite show in the history of television - "The Wire" - just had it's series finale, so I'm a bit down in the dumps; the blog has been written for days; and so I figured I should just go ahead and post it. No need to wait til Monday...

I know that my last post was a bit out of left field and some people were weirded out by it, so I'm going to hold back on posting about my dreams. For the record, I'm still having my dreams and they are getting stranger, so I think it's best not to let you in on what I've been thinking about in my sleep. Back to what I know and love - men!

Several years ago, I took a trip to the Bahamas where my brother was headlining a music festival. I remember that I woke early on the morning of my flight and was picked up by the airport limousine (aka the Blue Van, but doesn’t “airport limousine” sound so much more impressive??) and caught a plane to Miami. That leg of the trip wasn’t so bad. But when I got to Miami, we had to walk outside to board a smaller prop plane that didn’t really look so sturdy. First of all, I had never been on a plane with actual propellers. And the propellers on this one didn’t look like they would do much to keep us in the air. But, I got on the plane anyway. I had no choice. I called my parents to say goodbye to them one last time just in case the plane didn’t make it all the way across the Atlantic, and settled in for the relatively short flight to the Bahamas.

The first few minutes of the trip were uneventful. Then, we hit turbulence. I looked around to see if anybody else was panicking. The people around me all seemed to be old pros at this flight between Miami and the Caribbean, so I was the only one who looked nervous. After the third of fourth violent turbulence attack, I was visibly shaken. The older man in the seat across from me kept glancing over and chuckling, and I scowled back in response. The flight just got worse and eventually the plane grew quiet. I could tell then that I wasn’t the only nervous person. We all gripped our seats and looked out the window at the expansive Atlantic Ocean beneath us. In time, I lost my bearings and I was pretty certain at one point that the plane was actually flying upside down. And that was when I started singing old Negro spirituals. Not gospel songs by Kirk Franklin and all that jazzy contemporary stuff. No, I was singing the hardcore joints – the ones that got my people through slavery and Jim Crow, because I was certain that only Jesus could save me now!

Well, just when I lost all hope that I’d see my brother and our friends in Nassau, the plane began its descent and we landed safely at the Nassau airport. I had never been so happy to see the ground. I almost kissed it, but then thought better of that idea when I realized just how dirty the floor was. When I got out of baggage claim, I was totally confused. I tried to call my brother multiple times until I realized that my cell phone didn’t work. Fuckin Nextel (got rid of them after that trip)! I finally got outside of the airport and located the shuttle from our resort. But not before I had to fight off the advances of probably 40 men within 5 minutes of walking out the front door. When I found my driver, I was so relieved. I sat back, put on my headphones and watched green, green grass and blue, blue water zoom past me outside the window. I have been to 8 Caribbean islands (Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Jamaica, St. Lucia, Dominica, Grenada, Guadaloupe, and the Bahamas) but I have to admit that the Bahamas are probably the most beautiful out of all those islands. (Many apologies to my Jamaican peeps, but I gotta tell the truth on that one!)

I arrive at my hotel and settle-in and later that night, my good friend and I decided to go to an outdoor festival that was being held in a public lot a few blocks from our hotel. It had rained earlier in the day (it rains frequently in the islands) and the ground was still a little damp. It was January and it was very breezy, but the breeze was warm and coming from the ocean, so I was comfortable with a light sweater over my tank dress. My friend and I walked from stand to stand looking at the wares that each vendor was peddling. We walked over to a stall where a man was making conch salad, pulling the fish out of the large shell, chopping it up with onion and pepper and sprinkling it with salt and lemon juice. We decided to be brave and eat it even though there was no cooking involved. We were delighted to find that it was delicious. We continued visiting stalls, chomping the conch salad on the way.

We saw a stall with a Bacardi sign and immediately made our way over to where they were mixing free drinks. The “bartender” at this stall was wearing a baseball cap and his head was bent as he mixed drinks. I busied myself reading the different bottles on display until he looked up from the table to take my order. He smiled and I was stunned. I was looking at, quite possibly, one of the most handsome men I had ever seen. He had a round sturdy face, with the deepest dimples framing his smile, and bright eyes that crinkled when he grinned. His skin was golden and his head was bald (by choice). He asked what I was drinking and the lilt in his voice brought me back to reality. I ordered my drink and squeezed my girl’s hand, letting her know that a cutie was in the vicinity. She peeped the bartender and immediately started flirting with him.

“Whoa, pump your breaks chick!” I hissed in her ear. “I saw him first.”

We spent the rest of the night hanging around the table making small talk with the bartender and trying to out-flirt each other. This was a test of determination and whoever wanted him most would have him. So, we complimented him, asked him questions, offered to grab him samples from other tables. The competition was really getting kind of ugly. We asked him what his name was. It was the French word for love. My friend, who is fluent in French picked it up right away.

“Is that really your name,” she cooed.

“Yes, that is what my mum named me,” he said. We sighed at “mum”.

Before we retired to our room, we learned that Love had grown up in Nassau, his father was a very well-known local politician. During the day, Love worked for a bank in Nassau and he supplemented his income by doing promotions for Bacardi in the evening and on weekends. We told him where we were staying and gave him the number to our room. We told him to call… and he did. That night, he called the room and spoke to my friend for almost an hour while I pouted on my bed and watched television. He didn’t even ask to speak to me!

I pretty much gave up at that moment, accepting the fact that he wasn’t interested in me. I know not every guy is going to like me, and I’m ok with that. After my friend hung up the phone, she told me that they had agreed to meet for lunch the next day and they wanted me to come along. Great! I get to be the third wheel, I thought. But, of course, I agreed. I really had nothing else planned the next day and it was too breezy to relax on the beach. So, I tagged along with the lovebirds.

Around noon the next day, Love came to pick us up for lunch. He was dressed for work in a blue button-down, tie, and khaki slacks. He drove a yellow jeep that didn’t have any windows or roof. I didn’t really understand how this kind of car was practical given the fact that it rained just about every day in the Bahamas, but I didn’t ask questions. I just sat in the back seat and listened to Love and my friend make small talk on the way to the restaurant. Love took us to an outdoor café a few miles from the hotel. We could see the Sandals couples resort from our table and I thought, this is just fabulous; more reminders of coupledom. When Love excused himself to use the restroom, my friend made fun of the shoes he was wearing. I was wondering how she could even tear her eyes away from his handsome face long enough to see his shoes, much less care about what they looked like. The dude was F-I-N-E.

I ordered a heavy lunch, thinking that if I wasn’t going to meet the man of my dreams on this trip, I might as well eat what I wanted. My friend excused herself to go to the restroom and Love and I were sitting at the table alone. I was slurping away at my pasta and just when sauce dripped onto my shirt, Love looks over at me and giggles.

“You’re so cute!” he said. I rolled my eyes in response.

“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip of my Sprite and dabbing at the spot on my shirt. I then busied myself salting my pasta until my friend came out (yes, it was waaaay too salty by the time she showed back up, but I ate it anyway) – anything to keep me from having to make eye contact with Love.

We hung out with Love pretty much everyday until it was time for us to go back home. He would come by after work and chill with us by the pool or meet us for lunch in the middle of the day, but it was always the same: Love and my homegirl chatting it up while I pretended to be bored and took every chance I could get to stare at him out of the corner of my eye without him noticing.

On the last night of our trip, we all got together to go to dinner – my brother, one of his friends, my friend, me and Love. We to an outdoor restaurant that was right by the water. The food was amazing, the service was impeccable. Love noticed me staring at him a few times during dinner, and once he winked at me to let me know I had been caught. Another time, his leg brushed mine under the table and he looked up at me and grinned. It was all a bit too much for me, the atmosphere, the company, the food… the wine. It was all going to my head.

After dinner, we made our way to a tiny cigar shop, where Love knew the owner. We bought cigars and puffed them, while strains of Andrea Bocelli, singing some Italian masterpiece, filled the humidor. My friend was literally throwing herself all over Love, which seemed to make him uncomfortable. I couldn’t see why. She looked great in her seagreen tube dress and I looked frumpy in my black slacks and summer top. But for some reason, tonight, he didn’t seem interested in my friend’s advances.

We finally made it back to our hotel and my brother went to meet up with some other friends. My friend and I sat on the beach with Love until late in the evening. All of a sudden, my friend, growing bored with Love’s lack of interest in her flirtatious ways, announced that she was tired and was going back to the room to lie down. So, that left me and Love together. Alone. For the first time since my friend excused herself to go to the restroom during lunch so many days before.

It gpt breezier than usual and, even though I am wearing a jean jacket, I begin to shiver. Love, who was wearing only a polo shirt and shorts, put his arm around me to warm me up.

“Is that better?” he asks softly.

“Yes, thank you,” I said weakly. I am all of a sudden very nervous to be sitting here with him alone.

“So, I take it that you don’t like Nassau,” he says.

“Are you kidding?!” I shout. “I love it here! I’m so sad that I’m going home tomorrow.”

“So how come you always look so bored.”

I just laugh. I didn’t know how to tell him that I had been feigning boredom in an attempt to hide my disappointment that he favored my friend over me.

“I’m not bored at all,” I say. “You just make me nervous.”

If I am not mistaken, I think he actually blushes. He looks down and then away.

“If I make you nervous, does that mean that you… like me?” he asks, staring at the surf.

“Well, I…” my voice trails off. “I… I mean, yes, I guess that’s what it means. But I am not going to disrespect my friend. She likes you, you like her. So I just stay in my lane.”

He looks at me like I am crazy. “I don’t like her!” he shouts. “I mean, she’s cool, but it’s not her that I’m interested in.”

“What?” I ask, genuinely confused. “But ever since we’ve been here, all you have wanted to do is spend time with her.”

“Well, she’s the one who asked me to hang out. She’s the one who engaged me in conversation. But, you’re the one I’m interested in. Haven’t you noticed that every time she and I make plans, I always ask you to come along? It was you…” His voice trails off and we just look at each other.

“I can’t believe you’re just telling me this now!” I say. “We could’ve spent time together. Alone!”

He stands up, grabs my hand and we walk back into my hotel. We don’t say much to each other along the way. I guess we are reflecting on all the things that could’ve happened had we just communicated our desires a little better. I walk him through the lobby and out the front door. His jeep is parked across the street. Now, it is probably 2:30am and my flight leaves at 8am, but I don’t want this night to end. He stands there staring at me. The ocean breeze is blowing all around us. My hair is in my face. He reaches down, brushes it away, leans into me and kisses me. The feeling is surreal. And the kiss is even better than I could have ever imagined. When we finally break away from each other, he backs away from me.

“I am glad that I know you,” he said. “Please call me sometimes when you are back at home.”

All I can say is, “I will.”

I move toward him, hoping to kiss him again, but he turns and starts walking toward the jeep. In my head I am screaming “NO! DON’T GO! COME BACK!” But, in reality, I say nothing. I just watch him walk away. Before he hops into the driver’s seat of the jeep, he turns and looks back toward me and gives me a slight wave. I blow him a kiss. Then, he is in the jeep and speeding down the road toward home.

I go to sleep that night, thinking about him, the way he smelled, his handsome face, and I wonder whether it would’ve been better if I had continued thinking that he had no interest in me. In fact, I think it definitely would’ve been preferable given the fact that I now cannot stop thinking of all the fun we could’ve had. Torturous thoughts of coulda, woulda, shoulda, plagued me all night.

The next morning, I boarded a plane back to DC. And once I got settled back into my routine, Love and I emailed each other regularly for a time. There was even a brief period when we discussed him coming to DC for a visit. But it never happened. Eventually, we communicated less and less, until we stopped altogether, and all I was left with were memories of our kiss by the ocean.

These last few weeks, my girls and I have been planning our annual Girl’s Getaway. We threw out a lot of destinations and someone mentioned the Bahamas. Love immediately popped into my mind. All of a sudden, I had to know what had become of him. I email him, praying that he still used the address I had for him. I tell him that he had been on my mind a lot lately, that I missed him, and I hoped all was well with him. The next day, he replies and says:

Hey stranger!

It's funny that you emailed me... I thought about you the other day... How have you been?

I got married! January 6, 2008 was our one year anniversary. How about you? Any news? Marrige? Kids?

How is....????? (Can't remember her name) You know, the one who came down with you that time.

I really hope all of you are well. It was so good hearing from you, and I hope to hear from you again soon.

Love

After reading his message, I literally laughed out loud. First and foremost because my Love got married. I should’ve expected it. It was really only a matter of time. He was a catch and practically royalty in Nassau. I knew there had to be many women waiting in the wings. Second, because of the line of questions that he threw at me. Am I married? Hardly! Kids? Far from it. Third because he couldn’t even remember my friend’s name. (That made me feel kind of good, in a sick and twisted way.)

So, another one bites the dust, huh? All my men are moving on. For whatever reason they are finding happiness with any woman but me! I am happy that Love is happy, though. He is a good man who is worth his weight in gold. And his wife is a lucky woman to be able to wake up next to that face every morning. Good Lawd!

I probably won’t contact Love again. What good would it do? I am just glad to know that he is ok and content to have the memory of our time together so many years ago…

Taken Out by Haters - The Notorious B.I.G. (5/21/72 - 3/9/07)

So, the Brown Girl is FINALLY pushing a new whip!! Whoo-hoo! I bought the car more out of necessity than anything else. Let me just share something: American cars are NOT the lick! I will never buy another American car if I can help it. Sorry, USA, but your cars SUCK! Anyway, as I was cleaning out the old Chevy in preparation for trading the damn thing in, I came across a few old CDs under my driver's seat. The one that I have been pumping NONSTOP ever since is Notorious B.I.G.'s "Life After Death" disc one. Oh my God, those songs bring back soooo many memories. You don't even know. And the beats are STILL hot and the lyrics are STILL dope - a decade later! How did this dude manage to stay relevant after all these years? Anyway, I still have so much love in my heart for B.I.G. While riding to work on the strength of "I've Got a Story to Tell" on repeat, I remembered this post that I wrote back in March of '07 and thought it would be a good idea to repost. (Plus, it buys me some time to crank out another - original - post for y'all...) Enjoy! And bless up to the Notorious One. You are sorely missed...

Christopher G.L. Wallace b.k.a. "Notorious B.I.G."
(May 21, 1972 – March 9, 1997)

I was just 17 years old when Biggie died. March 9th was a Sunday and I was driving home from church… can't remember exactly what I was doing or where I was headed, but I remember the DJ saying that Biggie had been shot in L.A. and that he had died. I was dumbfounded. Just seven months earlier, Tupac had been shot and killed in Vegas and people were in such disbelief about it that there were rumors floating about that he wasn't really dead and was off in the Caribbean lounging on a beach. I liked Tupac. He was cool and all. And I found his music enjoyable. But, B.I.G. was "that dude" for me. And hearing that his life had ended so suddenly was shocking and sad.

When I do the math, I realize that B.I.G. was only 24 years old when he was murdered. At the time, I was a senior in high school and 24 seemed soooo old to me. Pac, B.I.G., Puff… they all seemed like adults. But today, as I look at pictures and watch video footage of B.I.G. in action, I see a kid. A BABY (no offense to those 18-25 year olds, but y'all are young!) who's life was cut short. Nobody really knows the motive behind his murder, but we can pretty much put money on the fact that it was over something stupid. Senseless murders (and to be real ALL murders are senseless) frustrate the HELL out of me. So many of our black men are killed over nonsense. So, I'm just gonna say it… beef, that's backed up with gunplay, is for suckas. If that's how you get down, you are WACK.

I remember my college roommate and I got into a really big fight over Biggie (petty, I know). She was a DIE-HARD Pac fan. I mean, this girl would wear all black every September 13 in observance of his death. Yeah, it was that serious for her. I, on the other hand, had always been down with B.I.G. My roommate and I were riding in the car on the 5th anniversary of Pac's death and a Biggie song came on the radio. I turned up the volume. She turned off the radio. I looked at her like she was crazy. She told me that she didn't want to hear music from Pac's rival on the day that he died. I challenged her on it and she got mad. Her retarded ass wanted to turn the Pac/Biggie beef into a me/her beef. I wasn't having any of it.

I know that B.I.G. had so much good music still left in him. His rhymes were so dope. I knew the words to every song on every album he ever recorded. Knew all the uhns and the baby-baaabys and the skits in between. And to this day, whenever I hear a B.I.G. track, I just gotta dance. There is no way around it. I was in a club here in DC during the MLK holiday and the DJ played "Hypnotize". I swear, it was like the late '90s all over again! People got so hyped when they played that song. And I got a shiver down my back when I remembered how young I was when that song came out. I wasn't even old enough to get into a club when Hypnotize was in heavy rotation. I remember when his deep voice said "Is Brooklyn in the house?" on "Get Money". Back then, I had never even been to Brooklyn, but there I was on the dance floor screaming "Without a doubt!!" just cause I was caught up in the moment. Good times, man. Good times…

I'll always respect Biggie because everything he spit became an instant classic. The minute I hear the first strains of "Big Poppa" or "Notorious Thugs", I am instantly transported back in time. All the memories associated with his songs are good ones. And, truthfully, there aren't many other artists from the late '90s whose songs you can play 10+ years later and people still jam like the song was released yesterday. In my mind Biggie is an icon. There will never be another like him. It is hurtful to know that his life came to such a tragic end. He deserved more than to be shot up by a "faceless" assailant. (I put "faceless" in quotes because one of those muhfuggas in the car with him saw the shooter's face. There is no doubt in my mind about that.) And a decade later, there have been no arrests, no trials, no prosecutions in connection with his murder. Talk about injustice…

B.I.G., you may be gone, but you are certainly not forgotten. Today, 10 years after your death, I am still a fan of the Notorious B.I.G.… probably now more than ever.

Rest in peace...