Friday, September 28, 2007

Sorry for the back to back work related posts but this just strikes me as odd.

There is a woman who works on my floor. I see her all the time - by the elevator, the ladies room, at the salad place around the corner from the building. Every time I see her, she is always friendly. Always waves, always smiles. But I always say to myself " I know her from somewhere". I've thought this for a few months but could never quite place where I know her from. I ran through the list. High school?? No. College?? Hell No. Neighborhood??? Nahhhh. I couldn't place it until this week.

She looks like Ugly Betty. No, she doesn't look like the actress, America Ferrera. She looks like Ugly Betty, the character on the show. The day the realization came to me, she wore an emerald green mu-mu, shapeless dress, with royal blue ballet flats. "Betty" even had an emerald green ribbon tied in her long, dull jet black hair, the kind of thin ribbon you might take off a gift box. She was waiting for the elevator at the elevator bank, talking on her cell phone, and carrying a stack of folders. She pressed the "DOWN" button again and waves in my direction. I wave back with the brief pressed smile. "Betty" hangs up her phone and tried to throw it in her bag. Somehow, she drops all these damn folders and papers are all over the place. I bend down to help her pick them up. Just as I am handing them back to her, she reaches up to push up her glasses in the middle and that's when it hit me. "Oh shit! Ugly Betty works on my floor!!!" The next day I see her and she has on another "fashion interpretation": a rust shapeless tunic over a shapeless straight black skirt, knee high socks, plaid ballet flats, and you guessed it, a rust headband. She waves. I wave back as I head into the ladies' room.

Now this is odd. I wonder if she always looked like a character on one of my favorite TV shows, or does she somehow "feel" like an Ugly Betty in her world and has adopted the style and personality of her favorite character??

Yes we all idolize someone on TV. I love when my friends call me the Black Carrie (from Sex and the City. Not the pig blood freak from that scary movie). Just need her wardrobe budget. And the (paying) writing gig. And Big. Wait, I may have that part. Who knows??? I'm just as confused about relationships as she was. hahahahahaha. When I go out with my girls and we are dressed up, what do I say? "I gots my freakum dress on" and somehow embody Beyonce-esque moves (minus the falling down the steps. oh wait, that happened to me once at a club. hahahahahaha). We all have a celebrity or two that we identify with. One that we secretly wish we could be. But damn, Ugly Betty???

I really want to talk to "Betty". I want to know if this is truly "her" or if wants to be this character on TV. We don't work together so I can't strike up a Thursday morning conversation like, "Hey girl! Did you see Ugly Betty last night??? Can you believe what Wilomena is up to now??" Since that's not going to happen, she is my very own Ugly Betty. But if she's Betty, who the hell am I????

Thursday, September 27, 2007

There is a guy that I see every day at work. He stands about 6'2. Nice athletic build. Always impeccably dressed in a suit (I like the charcoal gray one the best), tie, modest shoes. He has the complexion of a Werther's caramel candy. His hair is cut low, not bald but conservatively low. He walks with his left hand in the pocket of his pants, with the confidence of a man who is relaxed and at ease but always ready for what comes his way. His facial expression is always the same, slight grin like a model in a GQ ad. We don't work for the same company (lucky him), we don't even work on the same floor (at least I don't think we do). We share an elevator bank. He works somewhere between the 10th floor and the 17th floor. I don't know for sure because whenever I see him he's either getting off the elevator and I'm getting on or vice versa. The worst is when he passes through the security gate before me and the door to his elevator closes just as I pass through the gate. The other day, when I was coming back from lunch. I stepped on to the elevator and immediately the elevator fills up with a crowd of people. I look up just as the doors are closing and there he is. He gives the "oh hell no I'm not squeezing on this damn elevator" wave and turns away to get on the empty elevator across the way. Slight grin in tact. In my overly imaginative mind, I leaped off the crowded elevator and glided a few feet to the empty elevator where my Elevator Prince Charming swooped me up into his arms and threw me up against the elevator walls, pulled my hair a little and.......damn its getting hot in this crowded ass elevator.

Anywho, my elevator bank crush will remain just that - a crush. I'm not the type to approach a guy. There have been 2 times in life when I appeared to be the "aggressor" when in actuality, it was someone else acting on my behalf or nudging me along. First time, a woman I worked with called a guy, said she was me, asked him to be my prom date (since I dumped mine the night before and prom was in a few days), and invited him to lunch. She tells me what she did exactly 30 minutes before he arrives at the office. My boss sprung for lunch (apparently the whole office was in on this), we go to lunch, and he is forever immortalized in my photo album as my "Prom Date", even though he later turned out to be an ass. The second time, my best friend and I are at a bar and we run into a guy we grew up with. After he flirts for a few minutes, she strongly suggests that I write my number on a napkin to pass to him. I say no. So after a few minutes of her oh so loving nagging, I say "FINE". She gives me a pen. I grab a napkin off the bar, write my number on the napkin and the rest is manchild history. Of course, she will never live this one down (hahahahahaa).

I actually like that the elevator bank man is just a crush. If we actually spoke, he might sound like Mike Tyson, and that would rain on my fantasy parade. Or he could be a manchild, and I'm immune to them (like chickenpox - have them once, can't have them again). Or he could have the ghey and I would be the Grace to his Will. No, I'd rather be the Karen to his Jack so I can have her money and her closet.

So I will continue to look for the impeccably dressed man with the GQ grin at the elevator bank around lunch time and crush on him. And wait until he throws me up against the elevator wall. Again. Damn it's hot in here.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

BET. Black Entertainment Television. Usually I roll my eyes at the mention of this television station. Yes, it has it's purpose. Like when I'm trying to learn the dance from Soldier Boy's video, I can count on seeing it when I turn to Channel 42. Last night I flipped through my favorite channels looking for something anything to watch (or at least listen to as I cooked dinner). When I landed on Black Entertainment Television, the guide on my screen said HIP HOP vs. AMERICA. Since this wasn't the normal video show or the millionth time they played the movie "Juice" I stopped to see what this was about. It was a forum of open dialogue between those who exist in and profit from the music business (HIP HOP) and those who have issues with the content of hop hop (AMERICA). The panelists included Nelly (I swear money and a personal trainer made him SEXXXXXXYYYYY...hahahahaha), T.I., Dr. Eric Michael Dyson, Stanley Crouch of the New York Daily News, Benny Boom (music video director; kinda cute, big head though), Diane Weathers, former editor of Essence magazine, Master P, and Big Perm (known as the Rev. Al Sharpton to the rest of the world...hahahahaha)

For one solid hour, BET held my attention. I didn't turn the channel during commercial breaks. I didn't even get up from my chair to cook dinner until the program was over. I watched, listened, nodded my head in agreement with some things and shook my head and/or rolled my eyes at others. It was captivating to watch both sides articulate their problems with the other. (Don't think I didn't notice that the producers for the show picked 2 hip hop artists who have a pretty decent command of the English language to sit on the panel for the duration of the program. What? Trick Daddy wasn't available??? hahahahaa).

Honestly, I agree with both sides. Music, regardless of genre, has always had an edgier, more adult content subculture. There are sex and/or violent songs in just about every genre in American music. However, the question is why is it that it's primarily the sex drugs and violence that is portrayed in the hip hop music?? When are we going to see the versatility?? Who's in control - the artist or the record label or the channel that plays the videos??? During the dialogue, everyone kept talking about Nelly's "TipDrill" video as the prime example of what's wrong with hip hop music, especially the scene where he apparently swipes a credit card down some chick's ass. A writer on the panel whose name escapes me at the moment, said that it is unfortunate that regardless of everything he may have done in his music career, Nelly will always be known for that video and nothing else. She went on to point out though that because of his stature in the hip hop community, he shouldn't have had to do that type of video for BET's Uncut. What I found interesting about this conversation is no one called BET to the mat for its role in perpetuating these stereotypes. T.I. made a point by saying something to the effect of "if we hired teachers in button up blazers and dresses down to their ankles to dance in our videos, BET would look at it and say 'we can't play this, mannn' and it would never see the light of day. " However, amongst everyone else trying to speak at the same time, his argument got lost in the sauce.

Another interesting point made by those on the HIPHOP side was since when did music become the end all and be all in the Black community?? When did music become our parent, our teacher, our pastor, our guru, our saviour??? When did music solely define who we are??? No one one the panel fully answered these questions. But it raises a valid point. There is no distinction between child content and adult content anymore in this country. Period. When I was a child, and my grandmother would host her infamous parties, my ass was in the bed sleep. That was when they played the Millie Jackson and the raunchier, edgier music of their day. If I even peeped out the bedroom and was past the bathroom, I would get acquainted with her hand on my behind really quickly. I was not allowed to watch Purple Rain because that was for "grown folks" even though I loved Prince. When I was a pre-teen/teenagers and songs like "Do Me, Baby" by BBD were on my cassette tape, I would fast forward past that song so my mother wouldn't throw the tape in the garbage (which she eventually did when she heard that song). The lines are distorted now. Parents and children listen to and watch the same thing when it comes to entertainment. It's not up to BET, the rappers, the singers, and music executives to explain to children what is and what isn't appropriate for them. Last I heard, that job belonged to parents.

Do I think that a lot of the music coming out today is pure USDA Grade A shit??? YES! Do I dance to it in the club??? DAMN RIGHT! Does this crap define who I am as a Black woman in this country?? NO. Do I think people may initially judge me because of the images they see on a channel like BET??? YES, unfortunately. But who's fault is that? The artist for detailing the stereotype? The record label for funding the stereotype? The music channel for perpetuating the stereotype? Or the person watching for not looking past the stereotype??? This program raised more questions than answers. Maybe there will be more answers in Part 2, airing tonight on BET.

Thanks, BET. You should air more programming of this caliber. We as BLACK folks can be ENTERTAINed by more ways than one by what we see on TELEVISION. Now can you play that Soldier Boy video just one more time??? I am thisss close to have that dance down.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Someone posed a question to me and I thought I would pose it to my readers. Now, readers this will require you to answer so I am expecting a million comments underneath (laughing at myself again for thinking a million read my blog when its more like 10. million. hahahahahahahahahaa...I got my Kanye arrogance/confidence game tight!). Your response could be anonymous. I don't care. I really really really need the feedback. So if you've never commented, you need to comment today, sucka!!! (damn, I gotta stop watching Kanye go off at the VMAs. hahahahahahaha)

Here's the question:

Would you purchase a publication if you knew I had a column in it? Would you subscribe to this publication???

I'm asking because my dream job would be to write this blog as a column for a written publication. Yes, it would be more frequent (ummmm, I think my boss would be paying for quality AND quantity). But I'm curious if there really is an audience out there for my work.

So yes this is short and sweet today but this time I'm expecting you to do the writing.

Monday, September 24, 2007

A few weeks ago, I unexpectedly dyed my hair blonde. And I do mean blonde. Wait let me back up. My hairstylist dyed my hair. He knew it was going to be blonde. I, on the other hand, had no clue. To all the ladies, that are reading this you know this a tremendous leap of faith - almost greater than Moses telling people to follow him into the waters. My stylist asked me did I want to go lighter, and since I was on the phone, I simply replied "Sure.", thinking he was talking about a lighter shade of the reddish brown that I was rocking at the time. Now, usually, when he makes a hair recommendation, I have tons of questions, I want to see a sample/picture, something to give me an idea of what I can expect. However, this time, I was on a long distance, close connection phone call, and was far less concerned with the minute details of changing my appearance.

My initial reaction to the lighter hued hair sitting on top of my head was "Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit! This is briiiiiiiight!" I just kind of stared back at myself, blinking as if that would change what I saw in the mirror. Everyone in the salon loved it, including my best friend. My stylist remarked that my hair now matched my personality. I always thought my personality should shine brighter than my hair, not the other way around. So as you can see I wasn't so sold on the idea, initially. Me as a blonde?? I just didn't see it as working for me. I thought it looked nice but I felt....weird, out of my comfort zone. For the next couple of days, every time I would walk past a mirror, I would jump because I was not expecting to see "Blondie" (as my mother has now started calling me). And then I don't know if I was paranoid or what, but every where I went I would catch someone staring at me. Oh great, now I'm a freak show. You know the chick you see walking down the street with the orange/green/blue/red hair and you think to yourself, "where the hell does she work???" or "she ain't got no friends". I am now that chick.

But the initial shock wore off after about 48 hours, and of course about 3 compliments from men (only knew one of them...hahahahahaaa). Of course I asked myself, why did I care if a man liked it or not???? Come on now. I don't care how self-evolved, liberated, independent I can profess to be, if my look is not appealing to the opposite sex at all, I might as well sit home, get fat, and live vicariously though Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha.

Fast forward a couple of weeks and I AM LOVING THE BLONDE LIFE!!!!!! Despite the very few lip turned up, eyes rolled to the heavens looks I've gotten from a few haters (I guess they didn't read the blog on haters, huh?? hahahahahaa), and the question I received about my "blackness" (what the hellll?? how ignorant can you be to assume I'm not "black enough" because of my light skin and my blonde mane?? I hope that was the Hennessey talking, bro), I have received nothing but positive feedback from people. My hair it seems is a conversation starter. I've noticed people will come up to me and strike up conversation usually starting with my hair. While perfect strangers coming up to me is nothing new, I've rarely had them come up to me to comment on my hair. People are so much friendlier, more accommodating. The other day an older woman let me skip her and her cart full of groceries on line in the supermarket since I was only picking up some shrimp skewers to throw on the grill (yes, I have a grill on my terrace that I plan to use alllllll freaking winter! hahahahahahah). When I turned to thank her once again as I was leaving the register, she replied "No problem, sweetie. I love your hair!" Wow, thanks lady! Over the past couple of weeks more times than I can ever remember happening, men (especially white men) have been giving up their seats for me on the train - during rush hour. Now all of my train commuters know, chivalry died long before the token on the subway system in New York. I have seen men turn their heads when an obviously pregnant woman boards the train. So the first time it occurred I got offended because I assumed this man thought I was pregnant. All this hard work I've been doing at the gym (need to get my ass back on routine though) and this mo-fo thinks I'm pregnant???!!! "NO thank you!" If only he could see me rolling my eyes behind my Marc Jacob sunglasses. The guy gets up anyway and says "I'm getting off at the next stop." and gestures for me to take his seat. "Ohhh thank you!" accompanied by the nicest grin I could muster while I swallowed my salty attitude. If he could only see my smiling eyes behind my Marc Jacob sunglasses. But chick, I see you rolling your eyes because he didn't offer the seat to you. Don't hate, just salivate. hahahahahahahaaaa

I told a friend over drinks all of my blonde experiences. She posed the following question to me: "do you think it's because you're blonde or do you think it's because of the mood boost this new look is giving you?" Damn girl, why you gotta get deep on me after a few glasses of Grand Marnier & pineapple juice??? In true Janelle fashion, I laughed and said "I dunno. Probably both". But in my sober state of mind, I would hope that people's reaction to me is because of the mood boost this hair color has given me. Maybe because now I have no choice but to stand out in a crowd, I'm allowing the real me to stand out too. My stylist was right: the hair and my personality are in sync (on most days anyway...hahahahahaa). I don't call him the Colored Colorist for nothing.

Forcing me to step out of my comfort zone is the best part of being blonde. However, I can do without the stereotypical blonde moments like when I walked out of my sister's apartment without my shoes and my purse on our way to a club. Shit, I'll just blame that on the alcohol.

Monday, September 17, 2007

I am sooo in love right now with Jill Scott's new song, "Hate on Me". When I hear those trumpets blaring at the beginning of the song, its like a call to stand up and take notice. As the season has begun to change and the open toe sandals are pushed to the back of the closet to make room for my peep-toe pumps, this song is my battlecry. It is my change of attitude. It embodies just what my spirit has been saying for a minute: I DON'T GIVE A FUCK!!!!

Yes there are many things that I care about: family, friends, my book, global warming, poverty in the face of abundant wealth, the miseducation of our youth, the current political climate in this country, what the hell am I going to where this fall now that I've lost all this damn weight. This goes on and on. But recently the haters are trying to take up space in my domain, and I've had it! This message is for them.

Dear haters:
You can blow my phone up until 3, 4 in the morning. I don't give a fuck. You can fill my inbox with hateful, misspelled grammatically incorrect diatribes on your hatred of me. I don't give a fuck. You can try to leave more misspelled, grammatically incorrect comments on my blogs (I guess Hooked on Phonics doesn't work for everyone, huh??). I don't give a fuck. Your juvenile delinquencies and petty schoolyard pranks have no effect on me because quite frankly I don't give a fuck. You can blame me for global warming, poverty in this country, Bush being president. I don't give a fuck. As far as I'm concerned, I am President Bush and you are the victims of Hurricane Katrina. I don't give a fuck. I leave you in the bowels of the broken levees while I sour above and look down upon you from the luxury of my surroundings on Air Force One. You are the comedy and I am the audience. I laugh at your futile attempts to steal my joy. You can sink and slither as low as you can go but one things for sure you won't drag me with you. As Jill Scott says: 'Hate on me hater/Now or later/ "Cause I'm gonna do me/ You'll be mad, baby/ Go 'head and hate on me hater/ I'm not afraid......"

So while you continue to dwell on more mundane ways to hate on me, just remember NOTHING you say and NOTHING you do has any bearing on my life. Your threats are meaningless. I have no fear of you. I actually pity you. But that feeling is fleeting (hater, the definition of fleeting is quickly passing. I tried to dumb this message down for you as much as possible). There are far more important things to think about like the economy and how much am I willing to spend this month on this new fabulous wardrobe. All I hear above your incessant cries and whines is my battlecry.

Me, the Object of your Hate

Thursday, September 13, 2007

The assignment was to gather up all the artifacts from a particular time in my life and bring them with me for further examination. I tossed shoes and shoe boxes out of the way and poked around in the back of my closet until I found the Rubbermaid storage container I was looking for. I took off the lid and stepped back into a time when partying like it's 1999 was in the not too distant future, when my current age seemed ancient, and when I was young and cocky enough to think that life was actually going to go exactly the way I planned it. Hidden beneath the college newspapers and freshmen year mementos was my high school layer of memories. This was the era that was requested in my assignment. It was there that I found what I was looking for. The pictures, the key chain made at an amusement park, the programs from important times in our lives. All of these things had lonnnnnnnnnng been pushed to the far recesses of my mind. I kept shaking my head, thinking to myself "damn, I still have all of this???" Oooooh, my diary (before I was the sophisticated woman I am today, my thoughts were written in a diary not a journal. hahahaha). Despite all the warnings of eminent danger written on the front and back covers, I opened it anyway. It was like walking into a some Star Trek episode where they went back in time. As I flip through the pages, and read teenage antics, my adolescent thoughts, I can't help but laugh at the teenage edition of me. Everything was so urgent and dire - no wonder I liked soap operas then.

Now if my assignment was to bring the collected artifacts from that particular period in my life, wouldn't that include my diary?? It was easy to set the pictures, the key chain, the event programs to the side. They were mere representatives of the memories. My diary, though??? How could I betray my 16 year old edition? She explicitly wrote all over the diary: ONLY AUTHORIZED EYES PERMITTED ( I was so official back then...hahahaha). She never specified just who was authorized. How can I reveal these thoughts? Especially to him. Does he really need to know about her impression of him when they first met? Will he laugh at her when he reads how she waxed quite poetically about how she fell for him?? Can he handle the pages upon pages upon tear stained pages when the love affair ended?? This is way too heavy for a first visit and I toss the diary back into its Rubbermaid hiding place.

But the current edition of me steps in. "Janelle, you blog. You've written some really vulnerable, heart wrenching shit and posted it online. You tell millions your innermost thoughts." (look at me thinking there are millions who read my stuff when its more like 5. hahahahahahaha). I sat on the edge of my bed and let the 16 year old edition and the current edition of me weigh the pros and cons of Diary-gate. At the end of the day, the assignment was to bring the artifacts, and good, bad, or ugly this was an item from our history. So I retrieved my diary from its resting place and packed it with the other mementos in my Kenneth Cole cloth shoe bag (hey if its good enough to protect my favorite olive green pumps by Kenny, its good enough to protect these precious keepsakes.)

"So what you got?"
Moment of truth arrives. Here we are sitting across from one another, having dinner, both still grinning from ear to ear (SIDEBAR: it's really really difficult to smile and stuff your face at the same time. hahahahahaha). I retrieve the cloth bag from my purse. Sure, I could have easily just handed it to him and allowed him to stroll down memory lane at his own pace. But no. I needed to be his tour guide. First came the pictures. We laughed at how much younger (and smaller) we looked in those pictures. We had a very spirited debate about the positioning of my booty in a picture. He thinks he's right but I know I am. All in all, laughter was on the menu. One by one I pulled out all the other artifacts; all of which were discussed, analyzed, and debated. We studied our history like nerds studying for a final. He peeked in the bag and saw there was still one item I hadn't put on the table. Through his smirk, he asked me why did I bring my diary if I wasn't going to show it to him (smart ass. how did he know what it was???). I thought for a minute and realized some things have to be classified. Just like any moment in history no one knows the WHOLE story. The 16 year old edition of myself would have been heartbroken if I violated our code. At this moment he was the general public and I was George Bush. I only gave him what I wanted him to know not what he may have needed to know. The information was way to sensitive to pull out of the bag at least not now. Maybe when we're senior citizens, sitting in our lounge chairs on the back porch watching the grandkids splash around in the pool, I will dust off the Rubbermaid container, sign off on the authorization and declassify all of our history. At that point will it really matter??

Assignment: complete or incomplete. Depends on who you ask. Depends on who is telling our history.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

September 11, 2001.

A day, just like for many New Yorkers, that is intrinsically etched onto my soul. Sure I could blog about where I was, what I wore, how I got home, the smells of burning steel, the eerie silence that permeated the City that Never Sleeps, the shell shocked look on the faces of people who passed me on the street wearing soot like army fatigues. I could write about how the first person to get through on the phone was my father, a man I had chosen not to speak to for about 3 years, and how that day forever changed the dynamics of our relationship for the better. I could relive the anguish I felt when I waited up all night to hear from my lover, and cried myself to sleep as I accepted the fact that he most likely died in his office on the 72nd floor. I could detail the pure joy I felt when he called me at 6:30 the next morning to tell me he was okay, and had been trying to reach me all night.

Yes, I could write about all that and so much more. But on this fittingly gloomy day, I am pissed. Over the past weekend, it was National Muslim American Day. In New York, the 22nd Annual Parade to commemorate this day was held on Madison Avenue. I read in a newspaper that there were people planning to protest. Their reason? Having a parade for Muslim Americans so close to September 11 was "disrespectful" and the parade was a threat to security in New York. What the helllllll? Have we as a country slipped soooo far into the abyss of ignorance that someone can call a parade celebrating beliefs and a way of life "a threat"? Are we so brainwashed that we are stupid enough to believe that all who believe in Allah are terrorists???

I know my pissivity stems from my own experiences. As a Black woman in this country, I know wherever I go, whatever I do, the mere presence of me conjures some negative imagery for a segment of my fellow American citizens. While I may be judged as "loud", "ghetto" "lazy" "uneducated" before I even open my mouth, it pales in comparison to being labeled a killer.

I am embarrassed by the depth of this country's ignorance. The argument for protesting at the parade is asinine at best. Had the parade organizers invited Osama Bin Laden to be the grand marshal? Were the families of the 19 hijackers sitting prominently on a float in the shape of an airplane??? No, but for some reason these idiotic protesters think there is a correlation between religious beliefs and terrorist attacks. That's like saying because I'm black I must eat chitterlings. Or because I was raised in Harlem during the 80s, I must have sold crack during my lifetime. Or because I'm a black woman over 30 (slightly over 30. hahahahaha) I must have a shitload of kids by a bunch of baby daddies.


What will be the legacy of that day? Ignorance or acceptance? Respect or stereotypes? What more will it take to learn the lesson?

Monday, September 10, 2007

Journey (jur-nee): passage or progress from one stage to another.

I'm writing this in my journal as I soar above the clouds at an I don't want to know how high altitude. I'm on my way to Florida to map out the next phase in my life. I need to step back in order to move forward. I'm in desperate need of a vacation and a ticket to the Sunshine State was a Godsend. As much as I love New York, it's energy is beginning to suffocate me. The disappointments both professionally and personally have taken a toll on me, and my spirit is yelling out for a break from it all before I completely succumb to the madness.

I can't contain my excitement over this trip. Even now, I am more excited than the pretty little girl sitting next to me. We're both bouncing in our seats and grinning from ear to ear. Honestly, I've been smiling about this trip for the past week. The closer my departure came the bigger my smile grew. Anyone who knows me knows that I LOVE LOVE LOVE hot weather. There is no better feeling that the sun kissing my skin and the warm glistening glow it creates. Clean white sand, ocean water that's actually blue is just what I need to cure me from acute city sufficationitis.

However, as much as I can't wait to dig my feet in the sand and catch some sun on the body parts not covered by my bikini, the cause of my happy seat dance is my nerves. Right now, I feel like all I am living for is that moment at baggage claim. Its not the what's at baggage claim that excites me (even though missing luggage is my biggest traveling fear. While I must admit I look cute, this is not what I want to wear for the next 5 days! hahahaha) It's who will be there. Spalding. Throughout the course of our endless phone conversations, it soon became apparent that a face to face meeting was inevitable. While I have a whole itinerary of visiting family, visiting beaches, and get acquainted with the nightlife, seeing Spalding for the first time in 10 years is at the top of my agenda. I can't believe I am going to see him. I am that kid waiting for their parents to wake up on Christmas so I can open my presents. I am the little girl sitting next to me bouncing in her seat because she is going to see her Grandma who apparently spoils her to death. I am the actress sitting her on hands waiting for the presenter to call her name as the winner of an award. I am the person sitting on the couch with my lottery ticket just one number away from more money than I could spend in 20 lifetimes. I thought that sitting here and pulling out my journal would contain this nervous energy. Nope. Still bouncing in my seat. I know this mother must think I have Adult ADHD.

I have no expectations for this visit. Wait I take that back. I want to relax, refocus and have a great time. That's my expectation. But when it comes to Spalding, I have no expectations. We are not Big and Carrie, and this is not the series finale of Sex and the City in Paris (is it??? if so where are my Manolos??? hahahaha). Plain and simple I just want to see him. OK, maybe not just see him (hahahaha). Seeing him will make all these 6 hour conversations real. Seeing him will probably raise more questions than answers but whatever comes out of this I'm ready for it. That's why I wanted him to pick me up from the airport. I know once I see him the nervous energy will fade. He will be my Ritalin for my ADHD attack. I'm happy he's able to pick me up because I think my family would want to admit me in a hospital if they saw me in this state.

45 minutes to go before I land. My stomach must be a botanical garden because the butterflies in there are having a feast. This journey on my aeronautical carriage seems so metaphorical to me right now. I took off from a place that was mentally exhausting and will soon descend for my rejuvenation to begin. I know I've written a lot lately about my own personal journey over the past couple of months. Ive left that all behind on the tarmac. manchild is no longer a factor in my life. Through a series of events, the depth of his dirt was revealed to me right up until I boarded this plane. On some level, none of it surprises me. I left all the hurt and the anger at the security checkpoint (they wouldn't allow me to stow them in my carry on in the Ziploc bag. hahahahaa). I now laugh at the foolishness and his manchild behavior that seemed to reign over my life. I am at peace with all of it: with who he is and what he will never be for me; with who I am and how far I have come. The journey through the manchild chronicles is over. Maybe my happy seat dance it caused by this. Nah. My happy bounce is for what's in front of me, not what I left behind. Who gets on a plane, excited about the place they left????

As the plane begins its final descent, I know I'm supposed to put my journal away. But I realize that the next journey of my life has already begun and I eagerly anticipate all it has to offer. Once I get to baggage claim, collect my now lighter bags, and smile into the eyes of my designated driver, I will know all of the crap that I've gone through is worth it. Just for this reunion at Baggage Claim. I already feel that kiss from the sun. Life is good. Finally.