Hi, My Name Is "Stella"...

Some of the best things that have ever happened to me have occurred in the greatest city on earth: New York! Pre-September 11th NYC could not be beat! It was the bomb!! After the terrorist attacks, for a little while it felt as though someone had sucked the life out of the city, but once the initial guilt wore off, people went back to partying – thank God!

In late 2003, I accompanied my cousin on a trip to NY to visit the Fashion Institute of Technology. My two best friends from high school, Jenna and Karina both were living in the city. After my cousin and I finished at the formal open house in the fashion district, we went to visit Karina at her apartment in Midtown. Karina said that her friend Belle had invited her to a house party in Queens later that night.

“You trying to roll to the party,” she asked as I suffocated from claustrophobia in her miniscule apartment.

I looked at my cousin, who just shrugged her shoulders. “Sure, we’re down,” I said while walking to the window to get a breath of fresh air.

My cousin and I went back to our hotel in Brooklyn where we changed and headed out for a night on the town. We cabbed it back to Midtown, met up with Jenna in Karina’s lobby and waited for Karina to come down. We caught the train to Queens, got off on a platform in a very residential area and walked the three blocks to Belle’s apartment. She, her twin sister Ariel, and another girl shared a three-bedroom apartment in Astoria.

A motley crew stood outside on the lawn.

“This is an apartment?” I asked Karina. From the outside it looked like a regular two-story brick house.

A guy wearing an ascot and a Kangol opened the front door for us and told us to walk up the long staircase to get to the party.

The door to the apartment was ajar and Belle greeted us in the dimly-lit foyer. She was a plump, pleasant light-skinned chick with a short haircut.

“Welcome to our humble abode. What are y’all drinking? We’ve got tequila and lemonade and vodka and punch,” she yelled over the thumping base of the music.

Ever the designated driver, I respond, “I’ll just have a coke.” My girls looked at each other and burst out laughing. My cousin shouted, “You don’t have to drive anywhere girl! This is NYC, we took the train!”

Good point! I went to the kitchen and filled a large, red, plastic cup (you know the ones) with the vodka and punch mixture. I followed Belle and my girls into the living room where the music was blasting. Dude with the ascot comes sailing through the apartment, stopping to get love from each girl and give dap to each dude. I noticed him, watched him move effortlessly through the mixed crowd. He was very, very dark-skinned and he had the most beautiful smile and the straightest pearly-whites that gleamed against his jet black skin. He was wearing a tan Kangol (more Sam Jackson than LL Cool J), a white shirt, brown jacket and peach ascot with jeans and pointed-toe shoes. He sure doesn’t dress like the guys back home, I am thinking. I am not yet sure whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.

Eventually, he comes over to speak to me and my girls.

He asks where I’m from. I tell him. Turns out that his parents are divorced and his dad lives in my town. I notice the lilt in his voice and ask where he’s from.

“Jamaica,” he says.

Oh shit! I am about to get my groove back like Stella.

He asks me to dance and we salsa around Belle’s living room floor. We laugh, he asks if I’m thirsty and brings me more vodka and punch. I am starting to feel myself. This is not good. You see, I have this problem with control. I don’t like to feel as though I am losing it. And the second I start to feel it slipping away, I snap back to attention. I put the drink down and step into another room to get some air. He follows and we continue chatting. He is smart. He is funny. He is fiiiine!

Turns out that in another life he used to be a model, a pro soccer player and a club promoter in Manhattan and now he is working on Wall Street at a huge investment bank. Is this guy for real? Eventually, he leaves me and I miss him as soon as he walks away. I find my girls and we hang out for a while. I don’t see Ascot anywhere. My girls have made a decision that we are leaving, without consulting me. I cannot leave without Ascot’s number. I start making excuses not to leave. I will go to the bathroom. I wait in line and there are four people ahead of me waiting to use the toilet. Good thing I don’t really have to go myself. When I finally get inside, I look at myself in the mirror, splash my face with water, and reapply my lip gloss. Then, I flush the toilet and head back outside. Next, I make a really big deal about finding my coat. Karina says, “Hey, you can stop stalling. I can always ask Belle for dude’s number.” I stop cold. Why didn’t I think of that? Ok, I am ready to leave.

We are outside and there is Ascot chatting up another girl. I am floored when he walks away, leaving her looking pretty stupid and lonely, and says “I wanted to give you my card. Feel free to call me anytime.”

Whoo-hoo! I have his number in my hot little hands and tuck the card deep into my handbag.

A few days later, I am sitting at my desk at work and pull out the card. I run my fingers over the raised letters and think that I probably shouldn’t call Ascot at work since he is probably busy doing very important Wall Street work. So, I email him instead, telling him that it was nice to meet him and that his personality and style were very refreshing and that I hope to see him again soon. I take a deep breath and swallow hard, proofreading my words. I change a few sentences, read it again, and slowly, I click “send”. Oh shit! I did it! I have never been this forward before in my life. I immediately want to take it back. What if he didn’t feel the same way? What if he doesn’t even remember me? What if I have made a fool of myself? Oh well, I can’t get it back. It is now floating it’s way through cyberspace and into his inbox. I get up and walk around the office to take my mind off of what I have just done. What do I expect anyway? He’s a friggin investment banker, former model, former professional athlete. What would HE want with lil ol me? And, he lives in NYC, the greatest city on Earth. I’m sure he’s not interested in some out-of-town lovin.

Within 5 minutes, I am back at my desk and he has replied. OMG! I am afraid to open it.

A great big grin spreads across my face as soon as I read the first line. He also found me refreshing, thinks my spirit is effervescent, and… what’s this? He’s visiting his dad down here in a few weeks and wants to see me.

I cannot contain my excitement. The Brown Girl really will get her groove back, afterall!

To be continued…

Catching Up...

Ok, clearly I have a problem with consistency. I had meant to be consistent with this blog. I really did. But, life got in the way, I suppose and I just couldn't manage to keep up. The strange thing is, not much has changed since my last post in 2005. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. But, I'm pretty happy with the way that things have turned out.

Don't think that I've just been sitting idly by since my last post. I have actually been blogging away on my MySpace page (http://blog.myspace.com/lovelybrowngirl) about various issues. Just to keep you from having to take the extra step of logging in to MySpace to check my latest blog posts, I'll go ahead and repost them here for your reading pleasure. (A few of the most popular are posted below.)

If anyone is reading, please, please comment! I would love to hear your thoughts on what I have to say. I am making a promise to blog more regularly in 2008, but I'm going to start as early as today. I figure, I say some pretty funny things from time to time... God know's I THINK some pretty funny thoughts from time to time. I might as well put fingers to keys and share these words with the world.

I'll try to keep it interesting and will never use real names or identifying characteristics to protect the "innocent", but all you not-so-innocent mofos... get ready to be exposed!

(I'm kidding!)

FLY beats PRETTY any day of the week. Or does it?

Originally Posted: October 10, 2007 - Wednesday

Cute, sexy, fly, pretty… how would you like to be defined? It seems that all four of these words are complimentary and most women would be proud to be defined as one or the other or – ideally – a combination of them all. But some women are downright tired of being called one or the other. Speaking from personal experience, I always get the "You're so cute!" And, behind my feigned flattered smile, I am thinking "If one more fucking person calls me cute, I will SCREAM." I move through life wishing to be called something other than "cute", a word that, to me, evokes images of stuffed animals, pink frou-frou ribbons and lace and the plain-Jane "girl next door". I ache to be seen as "sexy" or "pretty"… even "fly". Just call me something other than "cute."

Ugh.

But, there are just some titles that people can't overcome. I suspect that I will always be classified as cute. I don't have the overpowering confidence to pull off "fly", don't have the classic beauty that defines "pretty" and look too much like an adolescent to be called "sexy". So, "cute" it is. I'd rather be cute than nothing at all, I suppose…

Anyway, to all my lady friends, how about you? Would you rather be classified as cute, sexy, fly, or beautiful? Looking for a way to distinguish one word from another? Well, I'll give you some examples:

Cute – Ashanti/Rihanna/Reese Witherspoon

Sexy – Beyonce/Angelina Jolie

Fly – Kelis/Gwen Stefani/Victoria Beckham

Pretty – Halle Berry/Penelope Cruz

Now, Ashanti, Rihanna and Reese are all good company in the cute category, I must admit. But once, JUST ONCE, I wish I could join the sisterhood of sexy. Bey and Angie are DAMN good company!! I mean, even I am dumbfounded by the way they present themselves (no homo).

I have had the opportunity to discuss this issue many times with friends and it seems as though everyone wants to be called something they are not. Take, for instance, my homegirl from college – a statuesque, "brickhouse" of a woman that some would find attractive, but most found her undeniably sexy. And, as a result, men took her "sexy" appearance to mean that she was only good for… duh, having sex! Me, on the other hand, well, I had to convince the guys I dated that I really do like having sex. They'd try to hold my hand and kiss my cheek and I'm thinking: "Ok, really. What exactly is the problem? You, me, twin bed, no roommate. Let's do this!" They'd say "Are you sure?", and I would say, "Dude, I'm not 12 and I'm not afraid of being intimate with a man!" Once they got over the initial hesitancy of "taking advantage" of me = the "girl next door" a.k.a. "you remind me of my friend's little sister", things were all good. But, while I'm convincing men that I'm not a prude, my sexy homegirl is trying to convince dudes that she is not a nymphomaniac. It's amazing how quick people are to judge a book by its cover!

But, as usual, I digress…

Sexy homegirl once said, "For once, I wish a guy would look at me and think 'cute' and not 'sexy'. Maybe then someone would take me seriously." I shot her the dirtiest look and told her "Be glad you're sexy. Cute is for the muthaphucking birds!" What can I say ladies and gents, the grass is always greener, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Another time I had this conversation (there have been many instances where this issue has come up, but I'll stick with two prime examples) was with a group of very opinionated folks over a picture of Kelis and Beyonce at some black and white party that Nas hosted in New York City. Kelis was in the foreground of the picture, chatting it up with some inconsequential person while Beyonce sneered at her in the background. Someone made a comment that Beyonce must have been upset that Kelis was stealing her shine in all her platinum blonde, red-lipped glory. Then, that brought up the debate of whether Kelis's flyness (equivalent to a man's "swagger") was preferable to Beyonce's classic prettiness. It was decided that we would have to agree to disagree on the subject because those that were on the side that Kelis's flyness was the lick were adamant that Beyonce's pretty didn't measure up. And vice versa for the Beyonce fans who couldn't believe that someone would rather be called "fly" than "pretty". But, as one friend said, "Fly beats pretty any day of the week." I (sorta) agree…

So, what does this all mean? Well… NOTHING, as a matter of fact. I discovered that this debate was hopeless when I showed my above-listed examples of "cute", "sexy", "fly" and "pretty" to a (heterosexual – if that matters) male friend. He took one look at the list and was like "She's 'cute'?! Wait, wait. She's 'sexy'?" and doubled over with laughter. I didn't find his reaction amusing, so I asked another male friend (homosexual, but fine as hell [LOL] – if that matters) what he thought of the list. He, too, found my examples to be way off-base.

As a result of these reactions, I have come to the conclusion that whether one is defined as "cute", "sexy", "fly" or "pretty", will depend on who's looking at you. In other words, the old adage rings true "Beauty [cute/sexy/fly/pretty] is in the eye of the beholder". So, I guess that means that although I have only been called "cute" to my face, maybe someone somewhere who I have encountered at some point on my life has thought that maybe I was "sexy", "fly" or "pretty", too.

Ha! Cut me some slack. A girl can dream…