Introducing.........

A few blogs back I mentioned Rufus Leroy. This is an actual person who works in my office building. I don't know his real name but Rufus Leroy just seems to fit. After reading this you'll know why.

The first time I met Rufus Leroy was on my first day. I was new and without a clue so when he stopped into my office looking for someone else, I greeted him pleasantly and informed him that the person he was looking for no longer worked for the company. This is where being cordial bites me in the ass. Since that first encounter, Rufus Leroy makes a point to attempt to strike up conversation. And in his attempts he is really old man slick with the information he includes. So far, I know that Rufus Leroy is about to be 44, he just moved into his own one bedroom apartment, and that his kids "and they mommas" are "finally" out of his pockets. Now why do I know this???? Because whenever Rufus Leroy is bringing something that I've had delivered or something that one of my business contacts has messengered over to me, he brings it to my desk and always asks if he can have a piece of candy. Now as long as he understands that all I'm offering is the lifesaver candy in the candy dish and not the candy sitting in my seat, then we are cool. However, I'm beginning to notice that in his candy conversation he drops ridiculous hints about what's going on in his world. Like. I. care. And to make matters worse, whenever I'm walking through the lobby of the building whether out the front door or through the side door to Starbucks, he calls out like I know him from the neighborhood. In front of all the security guards and other building personnel. Yes, it has dawned on me that Rufus Leroy might be making his move and (attempting) to mark his territory but here are the Top Five Reasons it ain't gonna happen:

1. I don't want ya, Rufus. Rufus has a grey patch in the middle of his head that is about the size of the plattering of bird poo. He probably wieghs a buck forty and is about 5 feet 5 inches tall. Rufus Leroy looks to be about 54, not 44. Not that there is anything wrong with 54 year olds. They're just not right for me. Until maybe when I'm 54. LOL My rule is if your back in the day stories sound like my daddy's, keep it moving sir.

2. Rufus Leroy looks as if he used to have a substance abuse issue. I can't be worried about my shoes and jewels being stolen or being made to feel guilty when he falls off the wagon.

3. Rufus Leroy works in my building. Even if he were fine as hell, looking all Boris Kodjoe-ish, I would really have to think about whether I could date someone who has that kind of access to me ("I know you leave at 5; which entrance you leaving out of?"). And someone having that kind of access to me screams stalkerific.

4. Rufus bragging about his kids and "they mommas" being out of his pockets ain't cute. What the hell am I supposed to say to that??? "Oooh that's good Rufus Leroy. Now take me to Sizzler?" Yeah, okay.

5. Refer back to number 1. hahahahahahahaha

So what am I gonna do about Rufus Leroy??? I can't have him calling "Hey Ms. ________ (name of my company)" through the lobby like that's my nickname from eighth grade. But I don't want to offend him either. I'll never get another package. Maybe I'll just put a picture of me and my "boo" up as a screensaver. Or maybe I'll start talking about digging in my babies' daddies' pockets every time they get paid. That should make Rufus Leroy run. However, no matter what I think, there will be more Rufus Leroy stories to come. Sigh.

Oh wait, I forgot to mention that he tells me that his breath must be "kickin'" everytime he takes a piece of candy. Ewwwwwww. Just loverly. LOL

Update....

My mom is home. Finally. She's not 100% but she's better than she was 2 weeks ago.

These past 2 weeks have been exhausting. Work. Hospital. Home. Repeat. (with a few distractions. Talks with friends. Brunch with friends. Dinner with friends. Debate watching with friends. Eric Roberson with friends. I heart my friends).

As I've said before there are absolutely no words to describe the outpouring of love, prayer and support that I have received over the past couple of weeks. Hopefully, that doesn't reflect on me as a writer. LOL But seriously, I don't know how I would have survived through this without my family in Queens, Harlem, Tennessee and Florida (the rest can kick rocks. real talk), my beautiful gems I call friends, and everyone that stops by this page. Even though I am my mother's only child, time and time again, you reassure me that I am not alone in this world. And that touches my spirit in a way that rarely lends itself to words. Its a swirl of gratitude, love, and energy that has kept me going. I can't lie, there have been some scary moments during these past couple of weeks. Moments when my own strength failed me. It was the strength of my loved ones that picked me up and forced me to surge forward. How can I ever repay that debt??? I could fill this blog with 700 billion thank you's and it wouldn't be enough. If Wall Street gave me the estimated trillion dollars it lost yesterday, that still wouldn't be enough. (well, on second thought that could buy each of you a really nice....CARD! HAHAHAHAHAHA).

I don't think I can ever ever repay you for all that you've done over the past couple of weeks. But I'll carry this memory on my wings forever.

Smoochies,
The Resident Butterfly

From the bottom of my heart.....

I received all the emails, the comments, the text messages, the phone calls. My mother is still not out of the woods. In fact, she will have surgery today. While I face this and deal with the complications, I feel the love and support freely flowing. Sometimes my tears are actually tears of joy that my friends, complete strangers and family (well some...but they know who they are) shower with an overwhelming dose of support. On the days I've been down, you've been here for me. And I am eternally grateful for your kind words and multitude of prayers.


As you can imagine, I have been through it this past week. From the outside looking in, I must look like a basketcase. One minute laughing hysterically on the phone, the next minute sobbing on a street corner. Thanks to the lady who walked all the way over from the other side of the train just to give me an unopened pack of Kleenex tissue as I silently cried on the D train. Thanks to the friend who let me vent for 30 minutes uninterrupted when my grandmother pissed me off (as I completely expected her to but that's another story for another day...I'm actually in a decent mood today). Thanks to my cousin who just let me break down and verbalize my fears (sidebar: I'm still waiting to hear about that pole dancing class. I ain't forget. LOL). Thanks to the bus driver who made me laugh and forget my troubles while we were stuck in traffic because of the kids in the street after the African American Day Parade (sidebar: did anyone go? was the chubby dude with the marching band from Baltimore who is a FAN of high kicks and twirls there??? those bands from Baltimore are something else - not sure if that's a good thing or not. LOL). I even have to thank my boss, for dumping a huge multi-million dollar project in my lap and expecting me to have it completed by Monday (which I did.....at nine p.m. sigh) . It was just the distraction that I needed. Oh, and I may just have my laptop after all. Watch out, Carrie. Now all I need are my Manolos or better yet, Louboutins. Or maybe, both. LOL

I have so much I wish to blog on. I miss writing like a fish misses water, like Pookie misses crack. I must introduce you to Rufus Leroy (my blog name for this character...hahahaha). But that's for another day. I just wanted to send my thanks for your love, encouragement and support as I travel through this extremely difficult journey.

Yesterday

Yesterday evening, I received a call that stirred up one of my greatest fears. My mother was being rushed to the emergency room. Those that know me know that my mother is not in the very best of health. And I often struggle with this notion of "what will I do when.....?" It all came crashing down around me when I got the call. I tried to be strong. I tried to be rational. But when I arrived at the hospital, I felt like a scared five year old, lost in the grocery store, only wanting her mommy.

"Yesterday all my troubles seem so far away/Now it looks as though they're here to stay/Oh I believe in yesterday "

How do I balance being a scared five year old in the body of a supposed fearless 32 year old??I have to be brave, strong, rational. But really, I just want to curl up with my blankie and close my eyes until all the monsters under the bed go away.

Yesterday, I had to leave my mother at the hospital because they want to run tests. Leaving her in a hospital bed should be easy for me. I've had to admit her and be listed as next of kin 3 times in my adult life. While the outer me handles the various people at the hospital like a champ, the inner me is slowly dying.

"Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play/now I need a place to hide away/Oh I believe in yesterday "

Please, whatever deity you believe in, ask him/her/them to watch over my mother. Oh and call your mother and tell her you love her. I just did.

I don't know when but I'll be back........just need a minute to get over yesterday.

I got beef.....

....with the dude who mans the fish counter in Pathmark. Apparently, this is an ongoing feud. So before I reach over and smack the shit outta him with a rainbow trout let me get it out of my system. Now let me explain, I am often in the supermarket. Usually because I'm inspired to cook something that is not in my freezer on the way home from work. With that said, I have no idea when the beef in the fish department started even though I frequent it often. I wasn't aware of this dude's 'tude until one day a couple of weeks ago.

What had happened was.....
I walked over to the fish counter all set to pick up a grouper for dinner. There was one chick ahead of me that fish dude was helping (I now know, according to his name tag, his name is David; that's right full blast, negro. LOL). Now he's helping this chick but also flirting with her as well. His rap made me chuckle because while it was quite lame, it was kinda cute. While I'm listening to this banter and eyeing the 2 groupers that would look yummy on my dinner plate with a spinach and orzo pasta dish I had a taste for (yes, I can cook, damnit! LOL), another lady steps up to the fish counter. David glances over and continues his mackin'. Normally, when a fish dude has wrapped up your seafood, they reach over the ice and the glass partition. But uh, mack daddy fish dude had to walk around the display and hand it to his lady of interest for the moment. Initially, I thought the gesture was sweet until he took a few steps away from the counter to holla at shawty for a minute. Wait make that a few minutes. The other lady and I stood there in disbelief as he abandoned his fish duties to get a number. Now if he was really suave with it, he would have had the digits before he even handed her the ten dollars worth of scrimps she ordered. But apparently suave is not an attribute taught at fish school. So being the sarcastic butterfly that I am, I asked "Ummmm, is the seafood department closed?". Shawty and the older woman standing with me chuckled. David rolled his eyes and kept waving his pen to shawty for her to write her digits. The older woman waiting with me left to find a manager while I stood there, waiting. I receive a phone call where I tell friend on the phone the audacity of hood that is going on around me. David hears my account of the details as he saunters back to his station in life. Dude sucks his teeth with a "Can I help you?". (SIDEBAR: first he rolls his eyes, then he sucks his teeth. Is this dude a questionable sexual????) I turn to him and say, "Wow. Oh thank you for taking the time to help lil ole me. I'll have these two groupers, head off and split. Thanks." Hey I said it with a smile. He did as I asked, handed me my package over the ice and partition, and off I went on my merry way. By the way, dinner was yummy. Gold star for me.

Fast forward this week, I was in Pathmark and picked up a bluefish which I broiled. It was sooo good that I decided to have it for dinner the next night. (No he wasn't at the counter that night. I received my bluefish without incident). The next evening, I stop in Pathmark on my way home from work, ready for my bluefish. I walk over to the counter and look who's there - Fishy David along with another fish dude. I peruse the selection and don't see any bluefish but hmmm, the red snapper looks mighty delish (well it will after I cook it. LOL). "Yeah, can I help you?" "I look up and ask "Do you have anymore bluefish?" "Nah." and with thatfishy dave walks away to resume his convo with the other fish dude. Ummm I wasn't done. So I could have gotten hood with him and started the whole neck roll, hand on hip, screaming at him like he stole something thing but I was still basking in the glow of my new position and wasn't quite ready to come off the high. And as you know, hood ain't me. But I digress. I stand there and wait, making sure the annoyance is painted on my face like the new fall collection of makeup from MAC. The other fish dude, who's back was to me the whole time, turned around and said to fishy dave "yo, did you help her?" he responded with a "yeah she wanted some bluefish and told her we don't have no more". To which other fish dude responded: "well did you think to ask her if she wanted anything else??" Hellllloooooo, what kinda shady customer service is fishy dave operating on?
"Ma'am what can I get for you?" the other fish dude inquired as he brushed past fishy dave. I asked him again about the bluefish because "someone else seems too preoccupied with his conversation to give me a full answer." Take that fishy dave.
"No, we ran out earlier."
"Dang, okay I'll have the red snapper, head off and split, please."
"Sure, no problem."

Fishy dave had the nerve to turn around and ice grill me. And I gave him the "what the fuck is your problem?" look of disgust. His refusal to help me, his ice grilling me, his overall rude behavior made me wonder what the hell I did to deserve this "fishy" attitude? I'm a lover not a fighter. I don't want no beef. Only fish.

Behind the Wings: Hustle

Dear Readers: Okay, I'm cheating. This was composed during the week of my vacation and was supposed to be the next entry in the Behind the Wings series. But because of my lack of internets access, it was left in the draft box. I have so much I want to blog about but I'm trying to navigate this new world I find myself existing in. Honestly, I have the time to blog at work. Sssshhh, don't tell anyone. :) But I'm still trying to be on my best behavior. At least for now. LOL So please enjoy what you should have read last week.

Smoochies,
The Resident Butterfly
***************************************************************
Now you know I couldn't do a best of series without Hustle. For those that are new to the site (i.e. my family - heyyyyy), Hustle is a guy that I've been dating for about a year. He's not my man/boyfriend/exclusive significant other. He and I are the walking wounded when it comes to relaysheeships. As my friends, fans, stalkers and stans know I've written about him a lot, primarily because he is so damn funny. And because he has his own set of fans and stans on this site (Goooo Team Hustle...NOT! hahahahaha)

I first wrote about him in July of 2007 in my first post breakup dating story. While that wasn't our first date, I felt it was time to start writing about my dating experiences. And besides all that breakup emotional shit gets old and repetitive really quickly. I was moving on. It's funny. I don't even remember what happened to the other dude I wrote about. But for some reason, Hustle is still around. My friends have their theories about us. But theories are meant to be disputed and refuted.


In a stranger twist that even my overly active creative mind couldn't come up with is the fact that he reads my blog. I have no idea how long he'd been reading but he let me know that he thought a date I went on was hilarious one day via text . Of course I wrote about the experience. I was mortified then and it's still something I struggle with. It's one thing to want an audience to read and appreciate your work. But it's another to actually know someone in that audience is going to what to discuss and disect what you say. Especially when you are invested in that person. In preparing this best of series and reading everything I have posted since November of '06, I realize that once I knew he was reading, I'm not as candid with my dating stories. I don't hide them but I'm always aware that he may be reading so I do censor stuff or delay writing about this other side of my life. I know this ventures into some serious shades of charcoal grey but this is the life I've created for myself for the time being. And yes, he's still reading (and has even commented! Twice. HA!). I got a lecture on Sunday about documenting going to the grocery store with no panties. The old man thinks he's my pops! HA!

We have what others may view as relationship tendencies. He leaves me in his apartment. I still have friends who question me about that and cram to understand how I attained this right when he and I are not in a relationship. I can't explain why. Mostly, it's out of necesity (mornings and I are currently engaged in the 100 year War and I am oh so slow to the daily battle) and he should know by now that I'm not a snoop. I respect him and vice versa. He's pissed me off. Just a handful of times. But once, I was soooo pissed I sat and wrote about it. In his apartment. On his laptop. Of course weeks later, he brings it up. Just by quoting a line from what I wrote about the incident. I blush. He laughs. But we discuss it. And keep pushing the cart through the aisles of Costco.


My favorite Hustle post is the Questionaire. It was my first two part post, and to me its simply hilarious. This is quintessential Hustle to the max. His questions and my answers are typical banter between us. Say what you may about what we are. One of my friends actually called us Big & Carrie one night after a party. I think she was drunk. I know I was. LOL But on the real, we aren't Big & Carrie ( I still don't have a laptop or the Manolos). I am me and he is he. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

What the helll....

Okay this is just a quick post. But I had to share. I've been in my new office (in my new position...HOLLLA) for approximately 2 hours and I've come to realize that I work in an office with damn Republicans. Now their party affiliation doesn't bother me. I expected it...they are middle age and wealthy. McCain's aces in the hole. Now what I didn't expect was the constant political banter. "Oh I really like Palin. She's the fire we need." "Yeah, did you see the numbers. We got a good bump from the convention. It's only going to go up. "Hey, we have our own hockey mom." (said after I politely put my foot down with a vendor). "Should we book our tickets to DC now for the inauguration?" Jesus Christ of latter day saints, church of the Mormons (what I say so technically I'm not saying the Lord's name in vain. LOL). What have I gotten myself into?

You know I can't hold my tongue. I don't know how to smile and nod. There are going to goad me into a political conversation. I feel it. Besides visions of fat paychecks dancing in my head (and doing the 2 step in my bank account), what the hell am I to do??? Do I lie? Or do I wear my Obama button on my lapel??? I don't think I've ever worked in an office where NOBODY has my my political point of view. So I ask, WHAT THE HELLLLLL AM I GONNA DO???

Excuse me ma'am....ummmm, your panties???

Well that's where the story ends (or begins depending on your perspective). Of course I can't just leave that statement out there without any explanation. So what had happened was..........

I always overpack. ALWAYS. I can't help it. I need options. So instead of packing outfits and sticking with the plan, I pack the highlights of my wardrobe for the season so I can't say "damn, I wish I would have brought blah blah blah because it would look soooo cute with yadda yadda yadda". What complicated the matter further was that I didn't get a chance to do laundry before I left. But my sister has a washer and dryer at her place in Florida. (Yes, I spent by "break from the world" in the hotbed of American debauchery well at least on the east coast- Miami ). So I grab a plastic bag, stuff my dirty clothes in it, and pack said bag inside my suitcase.

Now, since the airlines are now in the business of nickel and diming its customers (shit, they'll take pennies too), most have some type of paying for checked bags policy. Delta's policy your first bag is free if its under 50lbs. That's a whole lot of luggage for most people but for moi? Lets just say if that were an Olympic event the US wouldn't even send my ass to the trials. I have no concept of measurement estimates. NONE. So basically, the airline execs salivate and get hard-ons when they see my name on the airline's travel manifesto. But I digress. I arrive at Laguardia and a skycap takes my bag from the curb. Papi chulo drops my bag on the scale and informs me that my bag is 18 pounds overweight. "Mami, can you take anything out the bag? I don't want to charge you $80 to check it." Excuse me??? Eighty dollars. On top of the what I paid to sit my ass on the plane?!
"Welll, " I respond. "I have a bag of ummmmm clothes in there but I can't take that on the plane."
"Lemme see."
So I unzip the top of the bag and begin to tug at the huge, bright yellow Ikea bag. Why did I pick that damn bag? Why couldn't I pick a more chic plastic bag to hold my currently un-chic garments?

Of course once I take this ginormous sunshine yellow bag with royal blue lettering splattered across the side out of the bag, papi chulo skycap is willing to let me check my bag without paying the overage fee.
"Are you surrrrrre I can carry this on the plane?"
"Yeah mami, you good. That will be $3 for curbside check in."
Do you take pennies, papi? Of course you do!

I walk away from curbside check-in. I look down at my chocolate brown walking shorts, tan top, and natural colored espadrille wedges. Cute. Chocolate brown suede Coach carry-on bag. Cute. Ginormous yellow bag filled with dirty clothes. Not cute. I take a deep breath, hear Tim Gunn from Project Runway in my head (Make it work."), and stroll to airport security. I get through security with no problem. I even stop at Starbucks to fuel my addiction before boarding the plane.

Okay so the Ikea bag isn't cute but damnit I'm going on vacay. This is the break I need. Some sun. Some fun. Maybe even a little debauchery. I board the plane. Stow my bag in the overhead compartment and begin my mental relaxation. I was fortunate enough to pick a window seat with no middle passenger so I and the gentleman in the aisle seat had room to stretch out.

"We are taxi-ing to the gate. The weather in Fort Lauderdale is currently 88 degrees with a few passing clouds. The weather here should be great. Thank you for flying with Delta."
Ahhhhhh, I made it. I already feel the humid breeze blowing through my straight hair (of course not for long). The drinks, the nightlife, the fun with my sisters are all calling my name as I pull my bags down from the overhead compartment. I'm sailing on the joy of what this week will bring when I hear a "Excuse me ma'am...ummmmmmm, your panties?" Scratch the needle across the record. I turn around and there they were. My chartreuse lace Vicky Secret thong, dangling from the overhead compartment.

Who knew a black woman could turn beet red?! "Ohhh shit!!" I laugh and snatch them down from their airplane display. Stuff them BACK into the Ikea bag and saunter right off the plane. What else was I gonna do??? Luckily there weren't too many passengers still on the plane as I was sitting in the pre-Montgomery Bus Boycott section.

First stop on the vacay? The Mall. The butterfly needs another carry-on. With a zipper.

I need to explain.....

Okay, so my Behind the Wings series didn't fly quite as planned. I planned on finishing the edits and behind the wings commentaries on the entries I picked but was denied access to this here site the entire time I was away. So while enjoying my fun in the sun, I was also going through blog withdrawal. I couldn't write a blog. I couldn't read my favorites. I felt so disconnected from my blog world. But I'm back. If I had access to this here page the next entry would have been a break in the supposed scheduled program.

Behind the Wings: Snap ya fingers......

For those who haven't been keeping up, I'm taking a break and figured I would do a best of series, entitled "Behind the Wings". If you're new to the blog, this will probably be new to you. If you're a vet (Rashad), take the walk down Memory Lane with me. Either way, comments are always welcomed. Enjoy.

(Originally published Saturday, August 25, 2007.)


As I've written before, I am reentering the dating scene. Classify this under the "what the fuck was I thinking?" file of my life.

About a month ago, I was at a party with some girlfriends. I arrived at the party tipsy because of the 2 16 oz raspberry peach frozen margaritas I had with dinner. This party was dark and PACKED. Wall to wall people grinding and bumping, bumping and grinding, 2 stepping the night away. After another round of drinks at the party, of course my bladder was doing its own 2 step, and before it started walking it out right of my body, I shimmied my ass through the crowd and navigated my way to the bathroom. How do you spell relief? A clean bathroom with no line but I digress (I've been watching Golden Girls reruns lately...hahahaha). On my way back to the bar where I knew I would find my intoxicated friends, I literally bump into a Tshirt that reads "I Love Black Women" designed just like the I Heart NY Tshirts. As I apologize, I also offer up "Oooh, nice Tshirt." That my friends, was mistake number 1. I offered up this compliment without even checking dude out ( I can definitely blame this on the alcohol in my system because if I were sober I would have thought it and not said it...hahahaha) and when I looked up into his face he looked like TPAIN (minus the gold locs). This guy could be T-Pain's body double and I couldn't help but giggle when the thought crossed my mind (again blame the alcohol). So my compliment accompanied by my giggle must have given dude the green light to make his move. He offers to, you guessed right, buy me a drink, At which point I proceed to crack up. He asked me what was so funny. I respond that I am actually on my way to the bar. We finally arrive at the bar after a few minutes of contorting our bodies so not to disturb people's groove on the dance floor. We arrive at the bar and I just order a bottled water. He asks me "Are you sure that's all you want?" I respond "Yeah" through my fit of uncontrollable giggles. As we wait for the bartender to bring our drinks of course the interview begins: "What's your name? Where are you from?", etc., etc. Shortly thereafter the bartender comes back and before I can escape with a "thanks" and a wave, he asks the inevitable "why don't you give me your number so I can take you out?" Awwww snap! What the hell am I gonna do?? Now in the very brief conversation over the loud music, he seemed to be a pretty cool guy. Independent of the T-PAIN images running in my head like a BET marathon, he made me laugh in that short time, which is definitely a plus for anyone I'm dating. So do I give into to my shallow side and say hell no or do I rise above his looks and agree to his request?

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and I have actually spoken to dude a few times. On the phone, he's polite, funny, and easy to talk to. I finally agree to meet him at a restaurant down in the Village for dinner and drinks. I arrive 20 minutes late but he's patiently waiting at the bar. As soon as I spot him, that synthesized music starts playing in my head.
"shawty snap/ yeah"
I think he read my smile as my excitement to see him. I was actually biting the inside of my cheek to keep me from laughing again. I hop on the bar stool next to him and he asks if I want to remain at the bar or grab a table.
"woooooo/snap yo fingers, do the step, you can do it all by yourself"
Ummm I think the bar is fine is my response. At that point there was no way I could sit across from him at a table with the intro playing in my head already.

"baby girl/what's your name?/let me talk to you/let me buy you a drank"

After we order a couple of appetizers and drinks (yes, call me shawty, because I let him buy me a drank! ooooo weeee ooooo), the conversation turns to dating and relationships.
"I'm Tpain/you know me/Konvict music/nappy boy oooooh wee".
Can you believe the faux Tpain is a playa?? He proceeds to tell me about at least 4 women he is currently dating ( I stopped counting after 4). I almost choked on my margarita. I wonder if these women think he is really Tpain or do they think he is related to the synthesized "Rappa Ternt Sanga". He seemed to be proud of the fact that he hasn't been in a serious relationship in over 8 years, and was content to "just live, ma". Granted I'm not looking for a new love, baby but damn he seemed to be building a harem like he's an 80 year old white man who walks around in a smoking jacket. I appreciate his honesty but honestly? He is like George Bush seeking a third term in office - IT AINT GONNA HAPPEN!!!!! I'm didn't return a manchild to upgrade it for the TPAIN model (or would that be a downgrade? the jury is still out on that one).
"I got money in the bank/shawty what you think bout that?/ find me in the grey Cadillac"

More giggles. Eventually when he was tired of talking about himself and his "situations", he inquired about my previous relationship. Oh boy, here we go. Now I could either sum it up in a nice neat package and keep the conversation going, or I could give him War & Peace, the unabridged version of the manchild chronicles. What's a girl to do???

So after about 30 minutes of stunned silence, (SURPRISE! SURPRISE!) he was ready to leave. Sure, I could have spared him some of the details from the manchild chronicles, but I needed to insure that I was no longer a candidate for his harem nor was I looking to be the inspiration for T-Pain's next hit: "I'm sprung off the coat check girl who used to be a bartender but dreams of being a stripper". He offers me a ride home as we exit the restaurant. I politely say no thanks for 2 reasons. One: TPAIN does NOT need to know where I live since he will never be invited over and Two: "Whats the chance of you rolling with me?/ back to the crib/show you how I live/ let's get drunk /forget what we did..." Hell no, I know the lyrics to your song, mannn. I know a setup when I see one. "We in the bed like ooooh oooh ooh" Ugh, get me outta here. The dating gods must have been shining on me, because just as I stepped into the street to hail a yellow taxi, one immediately pulls up and is very willing to go to Harlem. I opened the door, turned around, gave him a finger wave, thanked him for an "interesting" evening and slid into the back seat, all in one fluid motion. "shawty got class/oh behave"

Grateful for the evening to be over and to finally stop giggling, I sunk back into the faux leather seating of my chariot home. Alone with my thoughts, I thought of how far I've come in the past couple of months, and how far of a journey I still have to go. I haven't figured out quite what I want in a relationship (I think) but I know what I don't want, and that, my friends, includes TPAIN or anyone else with manchild tendencies. I asked the driver to turn the radio on and you guessed it,"Snap your fingers/do the step/ you could do it all by yourself" came blaring into the back seat. I laughed all the way home.

BEHIND THE WINGS: Yeah this is seriously filed in the "what the fuck was I thinking file?" hahahahahahaha
TPAIN called a few times after our date, suggesting that I "come over". We all know that's code for "let me attempt to bang your back OUTTTTTTTTTTT". Uhmmmmmm, no thanks. I'm good. And quite disgusted. :) Thankfully, he eventually gave up (only took 2 "uhmm, that would be a no" before he got the hint and moved on).
I ran in to TPAIN's clone a couple of times at the same party where I met him but I never spoke. Why would I? He's building a harem and I'm not a harem type chick. But I'm still proud that I didn't initially give in to my shallow side. You never know what packaging your mate may come in. I'm just grateful it didn't come in the TPAIN model.

Behind the Wings: Airport Experiment

Originally published Tuesday, July 3, 2007

During my recent travels, I decided to conduct a little social experiment. Stepping out the box or should I say stepping over, around and through the box is pretty normal for me. Coming up with this idea while as zany as it was falls right in line with my "hey! Why not?"philosophy on life.

My friend, Rashad, has written in his blog on several occasions about how he reads Playboy during his morning commute. According to him, he is genuinely reading the articles, but I know he also wants to see what peoples reactions are. I mean, can you imagine getting on the subway with your IPod in one hand, newspaper in another, racing for a seat, and the only seat available is next to a dude reading Playboy at 8 am like its the Wall Street Journal?? Every time I read his blog or talk to him about his reading choice, I laugh hysterically, secretly wishing I were on the train with him to see people's reaction to him.

So the night before I left town, I was inspired to try my own social experiment. I was at my best friend's house, just chilling, doing what best friends do: talking shit. During the conversation she tells me about a bachelorette party she attended that weekend., and of course the conversation turns to the entertainment. While describing his ummmm shall I say skill sets, she tells me that he kept talking about being on the cover of the recent Playgirl magazine. Oh really?? I asked her if the issue was on the newsstand. She wasn't sure so we looked it up online (ahhh the power of the Internet! LOL). My plan was coming into play. Over whatever the hell we were drinking that night I told her I was gonna buy Playgirl at the airport in the morning. She gave me that "no you're not!" side glance, and we both fell out laughing. When we came up for air, I said I was going to buy it , read it at the gate, and document people's reactions to me. I rationalized that this would be great material for a character in my book (SIDEBAR: writing this book has been an unbelievable journey. I am sometimes in awe and amazed at the words I've poured onto paper. I still can't believe I'm living out my life's dream. Hopefully one day you will read it). And besides after all the manchild drama of the past few weeks I needed to feel like the lyrics to a Prince song:

"Let's go crazy/Let's get nuts/Let's look 4 the purple banana /'Til they put us
in the truck./ LET"S GO!

(SIDEBAR: I had noooo idea these were the lyrics to the chorus of the this song. Purple banana??? what the helllll???? Prince was on some shit!!! LOL Still one of my favorite songs though.). I needed something to feel as carefree and giddy as this song makes you feel when you hear it. Don't front. Right now, the song is playing in your head and you want to get up and dance around the room like a fool, head bobbing, fingers snapping, kicking your legs out in front of you like a rockstar. LOL

The next day I carefully chose my attire from the casual Gap section of my closet: blue and white seersucker pants (not too tight, but hug my now lil booty just right..LOL), white tank top, white fitted jacket, white leather flip flops. I carried my brown suede Coach carry on bag (yeah I know it didn't match the outfit but its the biggest one I can get away with carrying on the plane with my notebooks and the rest of my government sanctioned crap. And it says stylish, sophisticated traveler). If my social experiment were going to work, the people needed to believe that I at least appeared to be a sensible, classy, normal traveling woman, who would probably read Marie Claire, People, and maybe Time instead of Playgirl. If I wore anything from the club section of my closet, no one would have thought twice about my reading choice. I almost wore my glasses to the airport to make the look more authentic but everyone knows I never leave home in my glasses. NEVER. lol

Despite a small glitch that morning, I arrived at the airport 2 1/2 hours early - plenty of time to breeze through airport security and get my experiment started. I was giddy with excitement, not just from my trip but from what was going to happen as I waited at the gate before boarding my plane. Passing through airport security, I saw a newsstand to my left and a Starbucks to my right. I must admit I was a little nervous, so I made a detour to the Starbucks. Nothing like a Venti skim, sugar-free, iced cinnamon dolce latte - no whip to steel my nerves (it was too early in the morning for a shot of Patron Silver at the bar. Well at least for me.LOL). So now I'm armed with my expensive, but diet-friendly coffee beverage (with extra espresso shot, thanks to the cutie making my beverage. heyyyy!), and I begin the walk across the way to the newsstand. I step into the enclave with bright lights and shelves of magazines, books, and overpriced snacks and beverages (they are going to hell for charging $5 for bottled water that cost $1.39 at RiteAid). I scan the shelves to direct me to the Women's section of the magazines. You know where they clump all the beauty magazines and gossip rags in one area?? As I walk past the Men's Section (sports, cars, electronics, etc.), I notice Playboy on the top shelf wrapped in strategic graphic-printed plastic. When I arrive at the Women's section, I immediately look up to the top shelf, looking for my own strategic graphic-printed plastic wrapped magazine. All I found on the top shelf were magazines about knitting and traveling. I walk over to the counter to ask the women working there if perhaps the Playgirl issue was sold out. In my best prep school voice: "Umm, hi. yes. I'm looking for the recent issue of Playgirl magazine. I can't seem to find it." And in response, I got "Playgirl? Weaintgotdat. But Playboy is ova dere. Get dat instead." And again in my prep school voice: "No, umm, I'm looking for ummm Playgirl not Playboy. Why would I want to read Playboy? " "What's wrong with reading Playboy?" was the response from the large woman with the wife beater on under her airport issued smock from behind the counter (did I fail to mention the Allen Iverson-esque cornrows and rings on every finger??). Aww shit, this is not how my social experiment was supposed to happen. I walked out of the newsstand deflated (and a little scurred 'cause big momma was eyeing me like a slab of ribs on the grill..LOL).

I arrived at my gate, sipping my latte. I started thinking. Why wasn't Playgirl sold at the airport??? Why is it in 2007, it is socially acceptable for men to read whatever the hell they want wherever they want but I, as a woman, am limited to tips on summer makeup trends, knitting, and who is sleeping with whom in Hollywood??? What about the smut for da ladies??? Since I had time to kill, I walked to another newsstand (you didn't think I was going back to big momma did you??). This time I scanned the Men's section. There were at least a dozen magazines with scantily clad women on the cover from Maxim to King to Playboy (well from what I could see through the graphic-printed plastic wrap). The only smut for da ladies were those Harlequin romance novels but damnit they don't have pictures, and I didn't want to read about how some lonely desperate woman's breast heaved from the heat her lovah's passionate kiss was sure to bring to her boring dull life. blah blah blah.

As I walked around the newsstand, I realized the only magazine of its kind that I could think of was Playgirl. However, I could think of a multitude of smut magazines for men. In this world of "equality" where is the equality in the adult magazine trade. I'm not talking about straight porn but a little smut is good for everyone - men and women. I want my smut too!!! I want access to it when I want it (at the airport where no one knows me and I will hopefully never see these people again! LOL).I walked back to my gate, and in my caffeine induced haze, I came up with a plan. I wondered if Big Perm (ahem, I mean Al Sharpton) would march for my right to smut magazines, a "Smut 4 Da Ladies' campaign. Would he lead protests outside of LaGuardia Airport because I was denied the right to my smut??? Would he rent a steamroller and roll over copies of Ladies Home Journal and Redbook until my need for smut in the airport was met??? Would his hairline revert back to its natural state after his fiery passionate speech about women having equal rights in this society?? Damn, maybe I need to lay off the caffeine.

My social experiment may be halted for now. Next time I will just bring the damn magazine with me, and avoid another encounter with Big Momma. Now excuse me while I go looking for that purple banana.

"I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!" ;)

UPDATE: While I have traveled a bit since I wrote this, I haven't carried out my social experiment. Most of the times, I forget all about it until I'm in the airport and pass a newstand. I'm thinking about conducting the experiment again. Maybe I'll pick up Playgirl while I'm downtown before I head to the airport. Or maybe not...LOL This once really about Playgirl for me. This was a quest to seek some sort of carefreeness (did I just make that up? LOL) back into my life. It's been restored to a certain degree, so I'm not sure if I have the desire to try my experiment. But you have to admit, that would be funny as hell. LOL

Oh, and the book. I know many of you are wondering about the book. I should have been finished writing it by now. But obviously I'm not...I go back to it, write pages upon pages upon pages. Then walk away from it when I get stuck. I really really want to finish. Just have to commit more time and energy to doing so. Even if only one of you reads it, I will still feel accomplished. I must get back on track.

Behind the Wings: Theme Music

Originally published Tuesday, May 8, 2007.

In the movie, "I'm Gonna Get You Sucka", Jack Spade questions John Slade about the band following them down the street. Slade replies, "Oh, that's my theme music. Every good hero should have some." While it would be highly impractical for me to walk the streets of New York City with a band playing my theme music every step of the way, I do believe that every woman should have some theme music playing in her ear. (SIDEBAR: if anyone out there could actually make that happen and get a band for me, even just for one day, one hour even, please get The ROOTS. How hot would that be?? LOL)

On my IPOD I created a playlist entitled, "STRUT". That's right - STRUT. It's my walking music. Walking to the train station, walking to the store, walking to meet some friends, walking to the gym, any walking that I do. However, instead of walking, I now strut to the tunes in my ear. AND yes, there is a difference between a walk and a strut. A walk is left, right, left, right, stop when necessary. It serves it purpose; it gets you where you have to go. It's blah, has no presence, no standing out in the crowd. Now a strut??? Honey, let me tell you. A strut is more left, bounce, right, bounce, left, jiggle, right, jiggle, and stop with a swish in the hips. A strut is the walk you do when you know that fine ass brother is watching you walk away. You want him to stand there and watch until he can't see you anymore, captivated by your strut.

My STRUT list consists of music that no matter what the day holds for me, I feel like a hot seductress, taming the jungles of New York. No matter the outfit or the footwear, there is an extra swish in my hips, a little jiggle in the booty (SIDEBAR: this is intentional jiggle. Not the "I ate a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts last night after dinner and it went straight to my ass" jiggle. There IS a difference. LOL). With this playlist, I walk with my head high, smirk on my face (like don't you wish you knew what was making me smile?? LOL), shoulders high, and pep in my step, always in beat to the music. Ms. Jay, Tyra, and the contestants on America's Next Top Model ain't got nothing on me. I feel confident, sexy, carefree, even when reality doesn't always allow me to feel that way. It's a mood booster. It's my drug of choice as I walk the runway of the city. And yes, I'm addicted. No rehab, please.

So you may ask, how did I come up with my STRUT playlist. As with everything, there are rules, my friend. Commandments if you will. They are as follows:

1. Songs must be songs that have a good beat. It could be mid tempo or more
upbeat but the beat must be something you can strut to.
2. No depressing songs. You want a song that will make you sashay across
the street not slash your wrists.
3. Song must be a song you have danced in the house to. Matter of fact, if
the song has a video, you must have danced along with the video at least
once.
4. Song must be a song that you would play while getting ready to go out. I
mean go OUT: party, club, hot date, whatever. Something that gets you in the
mood for the rest of the night.
5. Songs must connect to you somehow. When I hear every song on my STRUT
playlist, I must feel all the qualities I feel that go along with a good strut.
They make me smile.
6. Playlist must be personal to you. Whatever gives you that swagger, that
strut, whether its the Dixie Chicks or DMX.
7. Songs can be changed at will. Replace your songs with old or new strut
songs. Playlist should be fresh, never feeling old and boring. Nothing old and
boring lends itself to a good strut.

There is a downside to having my theme music playing in my ear. I want to sing out and dance right in the middle of the street or on the train, like I'm begging for change. While I may listen to Beyonce (my alter ego by the way..LOL), I probably sound more like Bea Arthur. So singing out in the middle of the street may get me beat up, arrested, institutionalized, or most likely, all of the above. I think there should be a car on the train for those who want to sing along to their IPODS. This would allow us to belt out the favorite part of the song or the whole damn song if you want to without the stares from the other passengers. Hey, it's an idea. Who's ready to sign the petition to the MTA?? LOL

This blog wouldn't be complete with out a great STRUT song. Ladies, get to STRUTTIN' and fellas, watch out for the bounce, jiggle, swish; you will be mesmerized.

UPDATE: This has to be one of my favorite blogs. It was written during a time when I didn't think I could tap into my whimsical, silly side. But one day there it was sitting on my brain, waiting to be born on this page. I haven't changed my STRUT playlist for a while on my IPOD. Yeah I know that's a direct violation of Rule #7, but what is that they say about rules being broken??? LOL While the playlist isn't fresh, I still listen to it. And strut to it. And according to some, I strut very well. Very well, indeed. LOL ;) Oh, and I'm still taking signatures for that MTA list. So far I have.....let me see......damn, only one. Mine. LOL

One Eye on the past while facing the future

As I've written before, this blog can sometimes be a blessing and a curse. I'm amazed that people continue to come back and not only read my thoughts but connect to it on some level. I'm also appalled at the lengths people will go to, just to read my thoughts and somehow attempt to use it against me. All in all, I love this tremendously. It is, after all, my refuge. While I may not write here everyday, I love what I have accomplished thus far on this blog. I like to think I've expanded my horizons as a writer and have faced some emotions I would have bottled and placed on a shelf somewhere until it exploded from the pressure. I've shared some deep shit. Deeper than I ever imagined possible. It invigorates me to continue on but I'm terrified of the judgment that may follow. I'm not going to lie - I censor myself way more than I did when I first started this blog and had one reader (Rashad). Mostly to protect those in my life and fear of having to discuss my inner most feelings. Sometimes I wish I could write just for the hell of it, with reckless keystrokes, people's feelings be damned. But honestly, what joy would that bring? I thoroughly enjoy the feedback and sense of camaraderie this blog brings. And most of all, I want to stay in the good graces of my loved ones.

As I've also written before, I am in desperate need of a break. So I'm taking some time off. Taking a little vacay if you will. I can't share where I'm going just yet (thanks, stalkers) but I won't leave my family, friends, and stans with nada. I realize that many of you are new to my refuge (Welcome to my humble abode) and I seriously doubt you read all the way back to November of 2006 (oh shit, am I coming up on 2 years???!! already?!). So, for the next week or so, I'm going to do a "best of" series - go back into the archives, and re-posting some older entries. Don't worry. I won't be reposting any of the foolishness from last year. Who the hell wants to go back and relive that??? I sure as hell don't but you are more than welcome to click your way to it, if you choose. And for those who read the original post (yeah you, Rashad aka My Guy Guru), I will post some commentary at the end of each entry. I was supposed to start this on Monday. But Michelle moved me in another direction. I christen this series, "behind the wings", a la "VH1's Behind the Music (SIDEBAR: Remember that show? I can't believe VH1 got rid of that in favor of crap like I Love Money and New York Goes to Hollywood. *smh Ohhh the humanity! ). They won't be any particular order (maybe chronologically), just entries I would like to highlight and revisit. I shall return sometime next week. "Behind the Wings" are already scheduled to appear everyday. If time allows I may post something new during the vacay if it just can't wait until I return. Enjoy the (re)view.

The Resident Butterfly

A moment in time......

I have to take the time to document this moment. Once somebody posts it on Youtube, I will upload the video here to preserve what I've witnessed. Michelle Obama's speech was one of the most moving speeches I've heard in my lifetime.

Take a pot. Throw in admiration, pride, love, reverence, gratitude, sheer awe, tears of joy, tears of belief, and a heaping dose of hope. That's what I have brewing in my heart at this very moment. I admire her devotion to her family and community. I'm proud of her accomplishments. I revere her strength to take the road less traveled. I'm grateful that she has the courage to show a side not often seen of black women in the media. I am in sheer awe that she even moved white folks to tears tonight in the convention center (and probably all over this country).

And can we talk a minute about the transparent love between Barack and Michelle??? Even Stevie can see they love each other's dirty funky draws. And not in a saccharine sweet over the top this only happens in fairy tales kind of way. In a simple honest yes we fight and disagree but we love too kind of way. All this time we looked up to the Huxtables but this is even better. It's real. Live and in living color ("you can do what you want to dooooooooo/in living color" - I couldn't resist...hahahahahaaa). For everyone to see. For white folks to see that black love is not what you see in a random ass in the air video on BET. For black folks to see that "yes we can" love each other without losing yourself.

Remember those "Like Mike" commercials where the kids sang about wanting to be like Michael Jordan. Well today, I wanna be like Michelle. But in stilettos. ;)



Lord, I love Youtube. By the time I composed this and chatted with friends who were also in awe, someone had posted this video. Even watching it again, my goosebumps blushed as my tears swelled in the corners of my beautiful browns.

Let's Not......

Maxwell - Let's Not Play The Game
Uploaded by FDEHA

So if this is you
Here's what you should do
Don't even come up
Don't even say stuff
You know it ain't true
Baby what's the use
Let's not play the game

Save the games for the kiddies on the playground. What's the use??? Honestly, 99.99% of the time you'll get EXACTLY what you want when you're upfront and honest with your shit. My name is not Monopoly, Spades, or Bid Whist. I'm a grown ass woman who can handle way more shit than you would ever believe. As Method Man said, "if you keep it real with me, I'll keep it real with you". Why can't this be the new Golden Rule???

If its only about the games and trying to get over, then I quit this bitch. That's me. Walking off the motherfucking playing field. Giving the referee the middle finger as I smile at the spectators. Say what you want, write what you want. I could care less. Think of me as the rookie who got the signing bonus and still walked away from the game and kept the check. I know my sports analogies suck but hopefully you get what I'm trying to say: NO MORE GAMES.

Real Talk Tuesday.....On a Wednesday

Yes I know yesterday was supposed to be Real Talk Tuesdays (like the title??). But yesterday's post was supposed to be Monday's post, and when I sat down to compose my real talk-isms, that entry was all up in my cerebrum, taking up much needed space, daring me not to pound it out on my keyboard. Get it?

So for the sake of continuity, we're just gonna say today is Tuesday so I can post my isms on he weekly basis I intended. Got it? So without further adieu:

TOP TEN REAL TALK-ISMS OF THE WEEK (in no particular order):

Real Talk: Rocking a head scarf, bamboo earrings (at least 2 pair), an "ethnically" printed dress, and oversized sunglasses does not hide the fact that you are a white girl strolling in Harlem. Don't try to assimilate. Not all of us dress like that. Now, give me my damn head scarf back.

Real Talk: If you are over the age of 10, overalls are soo not cute. And I don't know which is worse: one strap buckled or both.

Real Talk: Men: If I ever see you repeatedly putting on chapstick in public (especially the red one), don't even bother talking to me. I will already assume that you are a questionable sexual. There are just certain things a woman doesnt want to know about a man. Yes, we want you to have soft kissable lips but we don't care to know how you keep them so soft. You could rub lard across your lips for all we care. And if you MUST use chapstick, DON'T BUY THE RED ONE.

Real Talk: Ladies: The pantyhose with the open toe/peep toe shoes MUST STOP. When was this ever in style? This seriously makes me cringe. Stop being lazy and lotion up your legs and feet, put your shoes on, and walk out the door. I want a presidential sanction for this offense. You may receive a pardon if you are over 80 but even that's not guaranteed.

Real Talk: If you are wider than ummmm I don't know, the state of Kansas, don't plop down in a seat on the train with half your "state" in my lap. You paid the MTA to ride the train, not ride me (pause).

Real Talk: Everything about you can't be fake. If you're wearing a weave, colored contacts, acrylic nails, carrying a fake Fucci bag, and wearing matching fake Fucci shoes (Fucci = fake + Gucci), stay your ass at home. If you hadn't bought the weave and the colored contacts you might have been able to afford the real Gucci bag (a really small one).

Real Talk: If you toss a container of frozen rock solid ice cream over my head in the supermarket, expect to get cursed the fuck out. I don't give a rat's ass if it's Sunday and you clearly have on Church clothes. For that reason alone, you should have known better, asshole.

Real Talk: If you call your child a motherfucker in the supermarket (or anywhere for that matter), don't be mad if I laugh when he says "no, you a mothafucka, mommy."

Real Talk: Starbucks is really addictive. I had 3 skinny cinnamon dolce iced lattes yesterday and I'm about to have my second one today. I even swiped someone's receipt yesterday morning so I could get 2 iced lattes yesterday evening for 2 bucks each. Somebody find me a rehab (and I'll say no, no, no! LOL)

Real Talk: Sometimes you just have to let the inner freak out of you. At someone's child's first birthday party is just not one of those times.

So there you have it. Any others you can think of??? Good.

"Get it girl!"
Have funnnn!"
"Yeah lots and lots of funnnnn! hahahahahahaha"
"You better call tomorrow, chick. We want updates!!!"
"Bye, ladies. Love ya!" I called back as I descended the stairs in the restaurant, leaving my BK crew to continue to enjoy dinner without me. Only moments before, I received the text I had been waiting for all week: "I'm outside on the corner. " Each step my silver peep toe shoes took reverberated in my stomach. I can't lie. The refuge of the butterflies must be in the pit of my stomach. Before the doorman could open the door for my exit, I checked my lip gloss (it was shinin') and smoothed the invisible wrinkles out of my green, black, and silver mini-dress. I took a deep breath and step forward, motioning for the doorman to open the door.

"Hmmm. You're not leaving all by yourself, are you? Do you need a taxi?"
"No, ummm, I'm meeting ummm someone. But ummm thanks, anyway."

While it registered that the doorman was indeed checking me out, it wasn't his approving eye that mattered. I scanned the street, looking. I slowly walked to the corner (those glasses of sangria were the TRUTH!). As I approached the intersection, I scanned each immediate corner. He said "on the corner" so where is he? I stood on the corner for what felt like an eternity. And then I saw him, halfway down the block. Standing almost as tall as the No Parking sign he was leaning on. Waiting for me. Inwardly, I squeal. I crossed the street as the butterflies inside soared. I saw that fleeting "Wow" I was looking for in the arch of his eyebrows. The city block felt like an ocean and time seem to moving at a snails pace. But my mind was racing. Where do I look? Do I continue to lock eyes with him as I approach? No, silly, look away, look away before he sees the butterflies. So I look up. No silly, you look like a tourist doing that; someone is gonna jack your purse. Okay, so I look straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. This isn't a runway and you are not America's Next Top Model, chick. Okay, pull yourself together girl; you're almost there. He strides over to end my anxious walk and envelopes me in an all consuming embrace. Hmmmm, he smells good, like the fragrance of a candle I once loved, only manlier, sexier. He steps back and laughs.

"We match." He chuckled.
"We what?!"
"We match. Look!"

As I gaze up at his green polo shirt and down at his black pants, I realize exactly what he was talking about.
Could this be a sign??
I laugh as the butterflies escape into the summer night.

What I didn't bring to the grocery store......

A couple of years ago someone had a song called "T-shirt and No Panties on" or maybe that was the chorus. I dunno. All I remember about this song was that part: "t-shirt and no panties on". (SIDEBAR: Who the hell made that song?? All this damn disposable music on the airwaves leaving me with kibbles and bits and bits and bits floating around in my musical memory). This song/chorus/whatever came to mind last night as I got dressed to go to the grocery store. Yep I wore a t-shirt and no panties on. But I did wear a skirt so I was covered per se. I hope you didn't think I would really go outside with just a t-shirt???!!!

Now this may not be news or blog-worthy to some, but it is to me. Yes I've left the house forgetting to put panties on before (and I was a teacher at the time....talk about an uncomfortable day....hahahahahahaha). And yes I've gone out with a significant other without the comfort of silk and lace underneath ( a la: "marrrrrrcus dahhhling, I'm not wearing any panties"). But last night, I consciously decided to go commando to do something so mundane and ordinary as going to the grocery store. Had no rhyme or reason to do it, except for the what the hell factor.

And I loved it!!!! I walked the 2 avenues over to the grocery store with a certain sashay in my walk like "Heyyyyy, if you only knew what wasn't under this skirt". The pep in my step was defiant to conventional notions of having to wear undies. The jersey knit of my black flowy skirt felt as soft as a bed of rose petals as it swished across my bare bum. I did get a little nervous when the wind began to pick up in the evening air, especially with my recent Marilyn Monroe experience in Philly. But this skirt was waaay longer and didn't have the kind of volume that would have embarassed me and most likely gotten me arrested. I also thought about that old adage about making sure to wear clean undies and how mortified I would be if I did get into an accident and the paramedics/doctors/all of 7th avenue would discover that there were no undies in sight. But oh well, too late now. (Thank the Lord, I didn't get into an accident)

Now while in the grocery store, I learned rather quickly that some adjustments would have to be made to my normal shopping experience. First of all, there was no way in hell that I was buying anything off the bottom shelf. While the skirt is mid-calf length, I'm not sure how high it rises in the back. And there are cameras everywhere in the grocery store. I couldn't take the chance of Big Brother capturing videos and pics of my big booty. Also, if I dropped something it, I didn't pick it up. Same reason as above. And last but not least, standing in the freezer aisle with the ice cream door open while I try to see if they have my favorite flavor of frozen fruit bars is OUT. Yes, I may have been letting "her" get a breath of fresh air but no reason for "her" to freeze to death. I still need ummm "her".

In writing this, I realize that I may be exhibiting some oh so not like me behaviors lately. First the stroll in the rain, now the commando food shopping excursion. What is going??? I have nooo idea but I'm loving it. Maybe I'm finally stepping out of my cocoon. We'll see.

(Okay it was killing me. I had to google it. Adina Howard - Ms. FREAK LIKE ME circa 1995 - sang that song. And the song was "t-shirt and MY panties on" What the hell was I thinking?? Maybe I was getting my kibbles mixed up with my bits...LOL. By the way googling anything with the word "panties" in it can be an eye opening experience to exactly what's out there on these here internets...hahahahahahaha)

The Debut

The other day I was on g-chat with my girl E.V.E. doing what we do best -keeping each other sane (read laughing) in an insane (read crazy, cruel) world. At some point during the conversation, she brought up one of our literary dynamos and how she is fierce but sooo not cute. I responded:
Real Talk: she had to be fierce because she is so not cute.
Then E.V.E. replied:
Real Talk: If you are not cute, you NEED to be fierce.

Thus began our afternoon jaunt into the world of Real Talk-isms. As many of us know, "real talk" is used to denote that what I'm about to say is SERIOUSLY the truth. And sometimes, the truth isn't quite loverly. This Real Talk g-chat inspired this post. Actually, it has inspired what I hope to be a weekly postings of Real Talk - things I want to say in a not so pretty lady like way (you know how I usually do..lol). The real talkisms may be about people I know, people I don't know, people I don't care to know. But all in all, its something I have to say. Real Talk.

Top Ten Real Talk-isms of the Week (in no particular order):

1. Real Talk: Muffin top is only cute when it's on a blueberry muffin. That shit coming out the top of your pants ain't cute.
2. Real Talk: Why do we give a fuck who John Edwards is sleeping with??? And why does his career have to be over because of it?? I don't see you cheating motherfuckers losing your jobs at Morgan Stanley/NY Knicks/UPS/street pharmaceutical companies because you chose to give the "business" to someone other than your wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend/baby momma/baby daddy.
3. Real Talk: Just because we slept together in nineteen ninety something, doesn't mean you still have the keys to the kingdom. Your pass has been REVOKED* (until further notice....hahahaha)
4. Real Talk: Are you over 25? Lose the cornrows. Wait, scratch that. Are you over 18? Lose the cornrows.
5. Real Talk: A do-rag is not grown and sexy. Never was, never will be. Having it match your outfit doesn't make it any better. In fact it makes it worse, so take that shit off. And no, I don't want to see it under your hat either.
6. Real Talk: Getting therapy doesn't mean you're crazy. NOT getting therapy does.
7. Real Talk: I chose who I want to have conversations with. And you are not among the chosen. Get over it.
8. Real Talk: Ex lovers can be friends (without benefits). But don't ask me if any of my friends are ex-lovers.
9. Real Talk: It's going to take a couple of presidential administrations (and presidential miracles) to undo the shit of the current administration. So save your high hopes for relevant things like sports and soap opera hook-ups.
10. Real Talk: If you're upset with someone, speak on it. All that hinting and innuendo bullshit is pointless because they will just act like they don't fucking know what you're talking about. Thus pissing you off even more.

So what do you think? Should I continue with weekly Real Talk-isms? Feel free to post your own Real Talk-isms in the comment section.

Summer Rain

When I walked out of the store, it was raining. I should have known rain was imminent as the sky went dark in the middle of the day. But I stopped in the store anyway. I could have made the mad dash for 4 blocks to the train station, hug the buildings for the protection of their awnings, or purchase a rinky-dink umbrella from the African man on the corner. Instead I walked. At the same pace as when the sky was as blue as the tropical sea. Slowly, calmly I strolled in the rain. Me and my thoughts. My thoughts and me. I smiled. Stronger. Harder. Faster. More. I really wanted to feel a torrential downpour. Cleanse me. Heal me. Wash me. Renew me.

During my stroll, I caught a few running passersby doing a double take as they whizzed past me. Why is this chick not running with the rest of us?? As if I knew something they didn't. I smiled. They shook their heads as if I was crazy. But I felt no pressure from my peers and continued my leisurely stroll. In the rain. Me and my thoughts. My thoughts and me.

I descended into the train station soaked. My white tunic and undershirt clung to me like they were trying to somehow morph into my DNA. My jelly flip flops skidded more that flopped as I tried to will my slippery feet to grip them even harder. But I didn't care. It felt good.

As I sat down on the train a couple to my right looked at me like they saw a ghost. "Oh my God! Is it raining?!" she said to me as she patted and smoothed down her weave. I looked down at my skin peeking through my clothes, shook my head and said "Uhhhh, yeah!". I wanted to respond something like "No, I just got out the shower - clothes and all" but sarcasm seemed to escape me for the moment as I reveled in the wetness of my skin and my clothes. I laughed. He smiled. She wrapped her arm around him a little tighter. But I didn't care. It was all about the rain.

When I got off the train 5 stops later, I was hoping the sky had really opened up by now so I could continue my leisurely stroll in the rain for the block and a half I had to walk to complete my journey. As I ascended the stairs, I saw the sun beaming. Once above ground, I looked to the ground, not a puddle or a drop of moisture in sight. As if nothing ever happened. I slipped my shades down from the top of head to the top of my nose. There were raindrops on my sunglasses. It did happen. I smiled.