Tell 'em why you mad, son.....

Okay, I'm not really mad/angry per se but lately a few things have been bugging me. These random rumbling have been irritating me just below the surface of my cheery disposition. And I can't ignore them anymore.

1. If you fucked up, pick up the phone. Whether you forgot to pick up the dry cleaning or forgot that you scheduled a date, own up to it. I'm not a screamer (unless you're the owner of the dollar store who told me to take my "bougie money" elsewhere). I understand life happens but own up to the mistake. I'm not going to berate you like a child who just wanted to do hoodrat stuff with your friends. If you call, all is forgiven. Honestly. It's that simple. I think I've proven time and time again that I can be more than understanding and I like to think that I am pretty easy-going. Shit happens and life gets in the way. But if I have to call you out on your bullshit, before you own up to it: Houston, we have a problem.

2. If your approach has worked on chicks with gold teeth, don't talk to me. Yes, Harlem is hood (despite the abundance of white people infiltrating). So by association, since this is my home, I too have some hood in me. However, I don't not wear it like a badge of honor, more like a container of mace in my purse: only bring out when absolutely necessary (like when I have to scream on the man in the dollar store for his deceptive business practices). With that being said, when I walk down the street, I'm in my own world, happily enjoying being a spectator of the stage play that is Harlem on a daily basis. So don't freaking approach me with some "Hey ma. You're gorgeous. I'm Thug Love." as you lick your lips like I'm a T-bone steak, cheese eggs and Welch's grape and expect to get a response. The "hey ma" only slightly annoys me. But do you really think a woman of my caliber (look at me get all siddified...hahahahaha) would respond to a man that calls himself "Thug Love". Are you kidding me???? Am I on candid camera??? And when you call out, "damn, I can't even get a name?!", don't throw a temper tantrum when I respond with "Sorry, I don't have a street name to give".

3. I am not my hair. Yes, that's a line from an India.Aire song (which if I recall, I didn't particularly care for it when it came out. go figure). This actually has inspired a longer post that I will post one day but damnit don't judge who you think I am because of the way I wear my hair. It's a hairstyle not a lifestyle. So don't act all flabbergasted and shit when you see me chomping down on a slab of ribs. Because you think I'm some earth mother vegan does not mean that I have to be. Whatever preconceived notions you had about me when I had a perm, go back to that so I will not have to put you in your place when you say idiotic shit about who I am based on my hair.

In other Butterfly news, Spalding's brother called me last week to ask me to help him with a business plan. I haven't spoken to Spalding since right before that last encounter. I'm not even sure if his brother knows what happened. While I do feel kind of awkward helping his brother, I'm still going to lend whatever advice/assistance I can. It's not his fault that his older brother played himself like the Philharmonic. And I get that Spalding's baby bro has always looked to me as some type of older sister (even though he has one). On some level I feel honored that he came to me but that honor has some weird edges. I just hope he doesn't bring up his brother. My plan is to get there promptly at 6 (okay maybe 5 minutes late...hahahaha), help him for an hour and then skedaddle out of there with my yet to be determined but I need to have some "other plans". No rememeber when stories, no faded pictures in a broken glass. Nada. Just get in, do what I do best (write people....what were you thinking??? hahahahaha), and get out.

I know this blog is kind of all over the place today, but that's kind of where my mind has been - all over the place.