"Bye. Have a great day!"
Kiss.
"You too. Don't forget to turn the air off."
Smack on booty.
"OUCH! I won't. Bye."
"Bye."
Door closes.
And I'm all alone. In Hustle's apartment.

The very first time I stayed at his apartment, months ago, Hustle left me there while he went to work. That first time was a disaster. I woke up. Heard him in the shower, and I thought to myself, "ohh I'll get up when I hear him turn the water off." Next thing I knew I rolled over, and heard nothing. Figuring he must be out the shower, I stumbled across the hall into the bathroom. After taking care of my morning tinkle, I walked toward the living room, fully expecting to see him there. Nope. Besides me, the apartment is empty. "Maybe he went to the store." I get back into his ginormous, comfy king size bed, and flip through the channels. 10 minutes. 20 minutes. 40 minutes. Enough time to watch a movie on HBO passes and still no Hustle. I call him. He answers the phone with "Damn you sleep late." Where are you?" I inquire. "I'm at work." "Well what time are you coming home?" I ask thinking, he owns the damn business he can come and go as he pleases, right??!! "Probably around 6." 6??? It's 11:00 in the freaking morning!!! Of course, I freak out. He tells me : Relax. Make yourself at home, run a bath, there's food in the fridge. movies on the table. Whatever you want. I'll be back before you know it" I paced the floor for a minute, pissed that I was stuck since I had no clue where the train station was and I wasn't going to "ask the doorman" to point me in the direction of the train as Hustle initially suggested. Then I thought about his offer. Relax. And I did just that. Instead of a bath, I took a long hot shower. So long that I looked like a light skinned version of a California Raisin and all I saw were swirls of light brown looking back at me in the fogged bathroom mirror. I raided his kitchen, made myself an adequate lunch, turned to HBO on Demand, watched a couple of movies I'd been meaning to see, took a nap, and relaxed. Ever since that first day, if he has to leave the house before me, its cool. I now know where the train station is located (like 2 blocks away), and I've become quite familiar with that particular train line.

What amazes me, and amazes many of my friends is the fact that he's okay with leaving me in his apartment. They can't believe I have full access to anything and everything: food, TV, his computer. They are even more amazed when I tell them, swear to them, that I don't snoop. I've never been that kind of person to look through some one's stuff. I've done it twice in my life. Both in college, and both with disastrous outcomes. I found exactly what I hoping I wasn't going to find. Ever since then I've never snooped. Primarily because I don't want anyone looking through my stuff. I once dated a guy who joked about reading my journal that I left on my coffee table. When I realized he wasn't kidding, I kicked his ass out of my apartment, and never went out with him again. Yes, I'm serious.

As my friends know, he's not the first guy who is comfortable with leaving me in his apartment. Whether it's for a few minutes or a few days, guys just seem to trust me in their humble abodes. Hustle and I have joked about it, and he says that he's not worried because of "all the cameras". I know he's joking because he's not that tech savvy, and he would have already clowned me about the day I was dancing and singing along with Prince on my IPOD in my bloomers. But I really am curious to know: why me??? Is there a look I possess, or something I've said in conversation that deems me trustworthy enough to leave by myself??? Do I not look strong enough to get the plasma screen TV off the wall and out of the apartment??? Is my purse too small to pocket the laptop???

What blows my mind even more is that we aren't "together" as in I wouldn't define him as my boyfriend. I don't have one of those. And I'm not currently in the market for one either. I'd written a while back on giving up on the whole love thing. Now, I'm not so sure but I see that for right now, love has no place in my life. I know the people I care about, and I know those that I love. But in terms of romantical love (flavor flav inspired use of the word romantic...hahahahhaa), right now, its not important to me. It doesn't seem to fit in my life, at least for now. When friends inquire about our status I say "we enjoy each other's company". We are both damaged goods who share time together without the pressures and demands of a "relationship". We respect each other tremendously, and like exactly what we have, regardless of what our friends may say. We are cool with the non-status status we have in each other's lives. But being a non status status person, I can't help but wonder why the hell would he be comfortable leaving my non status ass in his place? On a regular basis??

I'm not going to lie. I've been curious. But not curious to violate the trust bestowed upon me. He has been so open with me, why would I destroy that?? A girl I know asked me, "You don't look at stuff on his computer??" "HELLLL Noo" was my response. For what??? That's his personal stuff, none of my business. I'm just grateful he's okay with me using his laptop to write, to blog, to check my emails, and IM chat with friends in his presence and in his absence.

This phenomenon will never cease to amaze me. I've asked myself "Would I be comfortable leaving him in my apartment if I lived alone???" I don't know. Instinctively, instantly, emphatically, I initially answer "YESSS. I would have no problem!" But as I think about it, I'm not so sure. You know what I'm most terrified of him discovering? No not old photographs and letters. No, not the black velvet bag in the top drawer of my nightstand. If I were to leave Hustle in my apartment and he snooped, I would be devastated if he read the manuscript for my book. And I guess I treat his stuff as if it were the pages of my unpublished book. Sacred. And yes I always remember to turn the air off.

I was all prepared to write about the VH1 Hip Honors Award rerun that I watched last night. But this morning, I got a phone call that I just had to share. The phone rings and my talking Caller ID identifies the caller. Of course it distorts the name so I run to look at the Caller Id. If it says "out of area", "unavailable" or the number begins with an area code that isn't familiar to me, I curse myself for running to the damn phone in the first place, then return to my morning regimen. This morning it was a 212 area code but I didn't recognize the name. I decided to answer in case it was a friend/family member calling from someone else's phone because of an emergency (I know I always think the worst...hahahahaha). I answer the phone and an older gentleman identifies himself as being part of some acronym organization I had never heard of. Now I could have hung up right there, but I didn't. Don't know why I didn't because I usually cut them off with a firm "No thank you. Goodbye". Since the gentleman didn't get this from me this morning, he continued with his spiel. He went on to tell me that his organization was working for the eradication of the "N-word" from our vocabulary. Now I think that's a tall feat so I was kinda intrigued by what he had to say. For about a minute he tells me the mission of his organization. I reply with an "okaaaaaaaayyy??????" like I'm not sure what you want from me but I'm sure its coming. He then hits me with "We're selling these tote bags to raise awareness of our cause." Tote bags??? To eradicate the N-word??? That's the best you can come up with??? Nigga please. hahahhahahhahahahah. I politely said "No thank you. Goodbye.", hung up the phone. You didn't really think I said "Nigga please" to the gentleman on the phone?????!

Seriously, I applaud the effort of the cause no matter how futile I think it will be. You can eradicate a disease but a word that is well documented, written in books, poems, songs, etc., ??? A word that is so embedded in daily vernacular, some use it more frequently than "the"??? How is that possible? And somehow a cotton tote bag is going to help further the mission??? Give me a break! I should have asked the gentleman on the phone EXACTLY what was written on the tote bag. I can't imagine what could possibly be written on a freaking tote bag that would stop the world in its tracks from using the "N-word"? Can you imagine a group walking down the street laughing joking "nigga" this and "nigga"that, see a fine ass woman such as myself (yeah I'm feeling myself today...hahahaha) carrying this tote bag, and while checking me out, they happen upon the message on my bag. An epiphany hits and they INSTANTLY stop using the word and pledge to remove it from their vocabulary. We don't live in a 30 minute sitcom where life's problems are solved in 22 minutes. I have no answer to reduce the use of this word. I think its a personal decision to want to stop using it. But it will continue to exist. And its going to take more than a tote bag to rid it from our vocabulary. That's for damn sure.

I just have one question about the Hip Hop Honors Awards. Is Phife from A Tribe Called Quest sick??? I didn't recognize his emaciated frame or his hoarse, breathy voice. Tribe is one of my favorites and it just made me sad to see him in that condition. Damn we getting old. No scratch that, y'all are getting old. I am well preserved!!! hahahahahahaa

This is a version of my original entry from Friday - the one I lost. For some reason, I just couldn't let the topic go, so on Friday, while I was sitting under the hair dryer at my salon, I composed this on my trusty Treo.
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Whenever I stay with Hustle, he wakes me up very early in the morning, usually before 6am. We lie in his ginormous king size bed discussing life, current events (CNN is our topic moderator), past relationships, etc. until one of us absolutely has to get up to get ready for work. For those that know me, KNOW I am not a morning person at all with my grunts replies for yes or no questions, my frowning smooshed up face, and my constant need to throw the covers over my eyes. Unfortunately, none of that flies with him. Somehow, he pulls me into some deep, meaningful, and entertaining dialogue that I cannot resist despite my usual morning grumpiness. This morning was no different. The conversation was a continuation of a conversation we had on our way to dinner the night before - failed relationships. He has a theory that both parties in a relationship shoulder the blame and are culpable in the failure of the relationship. He says no matter who did what, both people can look back at the relationship and see where they failed and what they could have done differently. His theory comes from his own failed long term relationship and he cites examples from it to prove his theory. Of course I disagree. In terms of cheating/dishonest relationships, I believe that there's a right person (me) and a wrong person (them). I asked him did he think I was culpable in the failure of my 2 most recent relationships. "No.....well, yeah". Damn. He asks me did I think it was a coincidence that both exes cheated on with/left me for women that are very similar in looks/style/personality. I never gave it much thought beyond both women and I fell into their typical profile of women, you know their "type" per se. He further probed by saying "could it be they sought these women out because there was something these women were bringing to the table that you were weren't? almost like a better version of you" Damn, can I eat my Wheaties before I tackle something so heavy this early in the damn morning?? I never thought about the why they cheated, why they lied and treated me as poorly as they did. The manchild chronicles are well documented. Still don't know why he did what he did but is it really important now??? The ex before him?My friends call him Verizon because one night he blew up my phone all night after we were over and he saw me out with the next man. Verizon cheated on me for months with a woman that was so much like me I almost thought we were related. So according to Hustle, was I also to blame for their wandering eyes (and every other part of them that wandered)? Hustle says no. According to him, I have to look at my role in the relationship before they even betrayed my trust in them. He clarified by saying that the responsibility of the success or failure of the relationship didn't solely fall on me. He says their actions and the consequences thereof are the burdens of my exes, but Hustle forced me to think about how I contributed to these failed relationships. I've never examined them that deeply. It was "ohhh he lied/cheated ! Whoa is me!" That's it. I never looked at the whys. I figured I would never get a straight truthful honest answer out of them anyway so why get hung up in the whys. But while I will never know their whys, I can examine mine. My first attempt at answering this is my pride. I pride myself on being resourceful and self-sufficient. I hate asking a man for anything whether its taking me to some fancy restaurant or taking me to COSTCO. If he does, that's cool. If not, that's cool too. Either way, I'm fine. And money??? Forget it. I never borrow money from a man or accept offers to pay bills, pay for my beauty regimen, etc. I would rather be penniless and do my own hair and nails. I know for a fact that when the relationships have met their end, one of the first things I say is "I NEVER ASKED YOU FOR SHIT!!!!!! And this is how you treat me??" Could that be my problem? Am I too self sufficient that the men in my life may feel like I don't "need" them? Someone once told me "women want to feel wanted; men need to feel needed". I never gave much thought to that but maybe I should. But how??? I hate feeling vulnerable. There. I said it. Vulnerability is a weapon of mass destruction that is hunted and when found, it's harbored to only be used against you to cripple you and render you paralyzed and incapacitated. To express that I need anything from anyone is admitting failure in myself to handle it. Could my unwillingness to need drive someone away??

As I think about Hustle's theory, I think about what I could have done differently. This may sound harsh or bitter, but, honestly, I had no business being with either one of them, especially in terms of a relationship. Verizon and I had stupid arguments almost from the beginning. It seems like it was too much effort to be together. I never saw that we would be together 5 years down the road. Shit I never saw us making a year together. The relationship was a constant roller coaster. I think I got with him because I was tired of being alone. Classic excuse but very true. I took the drama because it was something to have. The year before we met, I wasn't seeing anyone. When Verizon's deceit came to light, I was hurt but I wasn't surprised. He should have been a guy that I occasionally went out with, no more no less. And manchild??? That's been well documented here but I will say that in the beginning, he told me many, many stories about his past misgivings in relationships. What made me think that I was different???He told me in his own words how he would be in a relationship, and because I've known him since we were kids, I thought he would never treat me the same. I heard the stories but I didn't listen to what he was really saying.

So what lessons have I learned? Where did I go wrong??? So far, I've learned: Save the roller coaster rides for the amusement park. Let go sometimes at the right time with the right one. Stop looking for the good in everyone because maybe what you are meant to see is right in front of you. Its better to listen than to simply hear. I take full responsibility for the demise of these relationships in particular because I was culpable in their inception. Had they not begun, they would have never ended. I blame myself for giving myself to the wrong ones. Do I know all the answers? Of course not, but have I learned something about myself? Yes, a little bit. But that little bit gives me a lot to think about. Thanks Hustle, for the Lesson of the Day. Can I have my Wheaties now???

I am so pissed right now, I could smack somebody. I just finished a blog entry. It was great. It was about my night with Hustle and our conversation this morning, past relationships and our responsibilty in their failures. It was deep. So deep I shocked myself at how honest I was being. No sugarcoating. No bullshit. A true examination of me and my flaws. I was editing it, just typed a few words to clarify a sentence. I hit something on Hustle's laptop and its gone!!! Just as I tried to retrieve it, this lovely blogpage does its autosave and it saves a blankk fucking page. It's not in my draft section. It is gone. I want to cry right now. Where the hell did it go??? Oh man I want to yell and scream and have a temper tantrum right here on the carpeted living room floor, arms and legs flailing and everything. Where's the humanity??? I don't even have time to type it again. Just as I was sorting out my feelings and gaining the clarity I so often come here for, my words disappear. Man, this hurts. I don't have shit else to say.

HAPPY FUCKING FRIDAY!!!!

My morning started out pretty good. I woke up on time. Ironed my clothes while listening to Prince on my Itunes. Danced around the house as I got myself together and it was time to leave. Before leaving the house, I checked myself out in the full mirror hanging on my bedroom door. Tan pencil skirt. Cream kimono style wrap shirt with brown, gold, baby blue, green, and white embroidery. Gold stilettos. I turn and check the booty profile. I think I'm looking pretty cute today. I leave my building, greet my security guard and the old man who reads his newspaper in the lobby every morning, and slip on my oh so lovely celebritous Marc Jacobs sunglasses. The sun is shining bright and I am in a sunny mood. It's just that kind of day. I have a date later on tonight with Hustle, and I'm looking forward to it (hence the extra effort in the cute factor of my work clothes..ummkay?!)

I descend into the subway station across the street from my apartment. I need to get a metrocard but I hear the distant rumble of my steel chariot. I use my backup card to swipe my way through the turnstile. As I pass the bench I see a neighbor and give her the grin greeting – you know the one where you don't say a word but you smile and nod in the person's direction to acknowledge the person's presence? I walk a few more steps and stand in my spot. Yes, my spot. All commuters have a spot. And if you've ridden the iron horse as much as I have in my lifetime, in certain train stations, you can stand in the exact spot where the doors will open and you will be the first on the train and hopefully get the all important seat on the train(and since my stop is the first stop on that train line I never worry about not getting a seat).

I'm standing in my spot, the rumbling is getting louder, and I see the headlights of the train as it turns the corner to enter the station. As the train approaches, I take one step closer to the edge, positioning myself to get my seat (yeah I have a particular seat on the train too..hahahahaa). I hear a "WHAT THE FUCK?" in a deep baritone voice and a half ass " 'cuse me." Before I could turn to see what happened, I feel a nudge. No I take that back. I feel a whole body shove and I stumbled forward. I feel someone grab my arm and help to reverse the momentum of me falling either in to the path of the train or being slammed against the train as it passed by. In the midst of all this, I yell "WHAT THE HELLLL?" and I too get a half ass " 'cuse me" from a fat bitch with a nasty rat's nest weave sitting on top of her head as she passes me by. The train comes to a stop, the doors open, and the other passengers who were boarding ask if I'm alright. I say yes but I'm a little shaken up. I mean that bitch almost killed me. Her first victim, a husky chocolate brother, sits across from me. He tells me she bumped him hard like she was checking him on the field. I had no clue what that meant but I assume that was some sport reference, and shake my head incredulously, shocked at the kind of crazy I encountered this morning. He then goes on to say "She bumped me but she pushed you on purpose" and the other passengers nod in agreement. What the helllll??? All I did was walk into the damn train station. So now I'm pissed but I try to play it off like "whatever. I'm not going to let her ruin my day." I shrug and dismiss her as crazy. The guy starts making jokes about the validity of her femininity and the whole car is chuckling. I dig in my bag and pull out my IPOD. I need some Maxwell, Jill Scott, and Joe to calm my nerves (sidebar: I really need to step up my jazz game on my beloved IPOD. Any suggestions??). As we pull into the next station, guess who walks through the connecting doors from the other car?? That's right. Crazy Bitch. Everyone either groans or rolls their eyes. She stomps through the car like she is auditioning for America's Next Top Psychotic Model and this is her crazy ass runway. Chocolate gives her the serious ice grill – like touch me again and I will body slam you. I just shrug my shoulders and continue to place my headphones in my ears. I secretly pray that she is going to continue on to the next car. NO SUCH LUCK. Crazy Bitch sits diagonally across from me and proceeds to ice grill me. The entire car is watching. My neighbor who took the seat next to me leans in and whispers "do you know this chick?" "Helllll no" with a laugh is my response. On the inside, all kinds of crazy shit is running through my mind like "oh shit somebody named manchild hired a hit woman to off me" like this is the Sopranos or "was she trying to steal my heavy ass purse?" or "Ashton is that you? Am I being PUNK'D?". However, on the outside, I am cooler than the air conditioning blowing in my office. I change the playlist on my IPOD to the "STRUT" playlist and immediately start bopping my head and dancing in my seat. I cross my leg and let my foot wiggle in time to the beat. Life is a party and her crazy episodes have no bearing on me. I glance over, she is still ice grilling me and Chocolate sitting across from me. He leans over and says "I think we have an admirer." I tell him "That's all you playa" as I laugh and put my headphone back in my ear.

The train continues on its ride through the city, and eventually I ignore Crazy Bitch. I'm not insane though. I do glance her way a few times, just to keep an eye on her and any sudden crazy movements. The next stop is my stop – finally. And I can leave Crazy Bitch to ice grill Chocolate. Sorry dude, but she is like your height, your weight; you can handle her. Me on the other hand, I know she would kick my ass. I'd give a good fight if I had to but, in the end, it would be my ass kicked, not hers. As the train passes through the station before the next stop, Crazy Bitch jumps up. I'm thinking "awwwww shit! Crazy Bitch is going to finish her mission in Times freaking Square." She walks over to the map at the other end of car and hovers over the people sitting beneath it. The white people who were not privy to her earlier outbursts eye her nervously. The rest of us give a collective "awww shit. here we go again!" look. After studying the map for a minute she barrels over to where Chocolate and I are sitting and stands right next to my seat. Aww hell to da naw! I did not sign up for this brand of crazy, at least not today. The train pulls into the station and I turn off my IPOD because if Crazy Bitch is going to kick my ass I at least need to hear her fat ass coming at me. I stand up to exit the train, and I can feel the dragon heat from Crazy Bitch ironing the wrinkles out of my shirt. I am terrified. Yes, I can admit my own fear. As the train doors open and I'm about to exit and I take one last look at Crazy, a good look in case I have to pick her out of a line up later. Chocolate asks me if I wanted him to get off the train with me. I tell him no and say loudly "I'M NOT AFRAID OF CRAZY!!!" Okay, so that's a boldface lie but like a dog, I can't let her smell my fear. He laughs, I chuckle, cut my eyes at crazy and quickly step off the train. As I walk to the stairs to catch my connecting train, I turn around and see Crazy Bitch is still on the train. As the doors to the train close, I wanted to stand there and say everything I wanted to say to her, every curse, every threat I could think of but then I would look like the Crazy Bitch. And unlike at my train station, they would lock up my crazy ass at Times Square.
As I walk to my next train, I think about many things. First off, of course, I think that I could be dead right now. At this very moment, I could no longer exist. I wouldn't be here right now to tell the story. This train of thought is really depressing and most importantly screwing up my day, so I try to rationalize why she did what she did. I don't know her from a hole in the wall. Can't even say I recognize her from the neighborhood. Maybe she really is crazy, and maybe didn't take her medication today. This train of thought, too is depressing. I get off the next train at my stop, and decide to stop in Starbucks. No, a venti sugar-free cinnamon dolce latte is not in my budget today but damn it, I deserve a treat, and since its too early in the morning for a shot of tequila, coffee will have to be my drug of choice. I walk into Starbucks and I hear a "HEYYYYYY stranger!" I turn around and look at the Asian woman behind me, and she is just as clueless as I was. I actually look at the guy speaking and realize that I vaguely remember from the neighborhood when I was growing up. We chat for a minute, even though I'm still dazed from my earlier incident and most importantly, I don't remember his name. He asks me what I was ordering (did I mention he works there??), I place my order and he waves away my money. Wow! "Thank you" with the most sincerest grin I could muster for No Name. I walk out sipping my ever so delicious, calorie conscious, FREE beverage and think that maybe today is going to be a good day after all. Wait until I tell Hustle this story tonight. Maybe by then I'll be able to laugh about it.

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????

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Sincerely,
Me, the Object of your Hate

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.

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.

I want to scream at the protesters: HEY STUPID! THE PARADE WAS STARTED 22 YEARS AGO LONG BEFORE THE TOWERS CAME TUMBLING DOWN. YOU AND YOUR IGNORANCE ARE THE REAL THREAT TO THIS COUNTRY'S SECURITY. YOU ARE THE ONES WHO ARE DISRESPECTING THE MEMORY OF THOSE WHO PERISHED ON THAT TUESDAY MORNING.

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

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.

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 a few more 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. It actually was 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 almost choked on my drink. 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.

Have you ever had a time in your life when you wished that every hour, every minute, every second was documented? A period of time that when you look back on it you never want to forget a thing, not even the color draws you were wearing at that very moment?? A time in your life where cameras followed you wherever you go as if you were one of 7 strangers picked to live on The Real World?

14 people. 10 women. 4 guys. Location: Atlantic City. Time Frame: One weekend. From the moment I boarded that damn bus to Atlantic City and the stinky Middle Eastern man sat next to me (SIDEBAR: no I am not saying he stank because he was Middle Eastern, he stank because...well, because quite frankly I don't think he washed his ass before he set out to gamble in Atlantic City. And funk knows no race, creed, or color. I judged him on the content of his stanky character. Dr. King would be proud. hahahahaha) to the moment I put my key in the door upon my return home, I tried to hold on to every single memory. From the onset, this weekend was special. The beautiful gems I call friends and I were given complimentary rooms at a casino in Atlantic City. Yes, you read that right - complimentary, as in gratis, no dinero, FREEEEEEEEEEEE!!! Call it fate, kismet, divine intervention, whatever, but we befriended a really cool dude who gave us the hook up. And no, the exchange rate was not booty claps for room keys. He thought we were cool and just wanted to hang. I guess that's what happens when you are going through transitions in life. You take chances you would have never dreamed of taking. But I digress. So 3 of his buddies and 9 of mine, all converged in Atlantic City, New Jersey, for a weekend I bet none of us are soon to forget. From the lemondrop shots by the pool to the New Edition vs. Jodeci war to my tipsy paparazzi wave upon leaving the 40/40 club (still don't quite remember that but hey, anything is possible!! LOL) to the near beatdown of the Applebees staff for messing up an order and trying to overcharge us. This weekend was the time of my life. How can I forget when I "drop down low and sweep the floor with it"?? Or when my lil sis did more than a 2 step on the dance floor and actually walked it out?? Or when the birthday girl tried to eat her cupcake with the candle still lit and almost burnt her nose off (mind you, this was before the drinking commenced. LOL)?? Or how about when one of the guys realized the shoes he just purchased weren't his and Aldo's was already closed for the evening?? Or how about when the white man on the sundeck asked me if I was going to be a Jet Beauty of the week after my "photoshoot" in my scandalous bathing suit? I never want to forget any of it. Sigh. Where were the camera crews when I needed them? I tried to document it as best I could. I took over 100 pictures in a 3 day period, which is sooo unlike me. But there were soooo many shots I missed like our group hug in the parking lot when everyone was heading home. But pictures can only capture but so much. What about our conversations, our debates, our catching up on each others lives, our getting to know these dudes, and chillin' with them like we've known them forever? What about our reactions when we first saw our rooms (One word: AMAZING!!!! no wait, change that to CELEBRITOUS. I told you I'm going to get that word in the dictionary!! LOL)??? That is something my Canon couldn't capture and I couldn't be everywhere at all times. Celebrities complain about the paparazzi and being stalked and hounded every minute of their lives. I can imagine that can be annoying as hell but just once, just one time I wouldn't have mind being followed by a camera crew and paparazzi because at least then there would be documentation of our celebritous weekend.

Over the past week, I've spoken to various friends about our weekend, and we each giggle over the stories and the moments. We all end the conversation saying "This was fun" and "When's the next weekend?" In the back of my mind I wonder if we will be able to have another weekend like this. When we gathered in Atlantic City, we all left behind responsibilities like jobs, husbands/wives/boyfriends/girlfriends, kids, books to write (wait that's mine and no, I didn't get any writing in but I did manage to haul my drunk ass to the gym Saturday morning. LOL). Life gets in the way of just letting go and having fun. No one told me about this part of adulthood or maybe they did and I was too stubborn to listen. I would have kept better track of these memories.

Ever watch the finale of any Real World and you see the cast crying, boo hooing about leaving? I can finally relate after experiencing this weekend. Its not about not keeping in touch. Because with effort you will email, call, or text, even hang out occasionally. But there won't be another time like this when you can actually leave the real world behind and step into this moment of surreal reality. So until the next celebritous adventure, I will share a laugh with a friend, smile while looking through my pictures, and scout camera crews who would be willing to tag along on the next adventure for FREEEEEEEEEEEE! LOL

Okay so when I sat down to write the previous post this was supposed to be a part of it but when I started to flow, it just didn't fit. However, I really wanted to blog about this so I'm posting 2 in one day. Don't faint. Pigs ain't flying. As far as I know, hell hasn't frozen over (I know someone I can ask though, if you're curious. LOL). It's just one of those days. (hey remember that song by Monica??? Yeah I took it back. LOL)



They say that "art imitates life"(SIDEBAR: who's "they"??? I'm curious?? LOL). I have never paid much attention to that statement until recently. The idea for my book came to me about 5 years ago. Without going into too much detail ( I do want you to buy the book, ummmkaaaay???? LOL), the main character unexpectedly hears from someone from her past. So you know where I am going with this right? LOL A couple of weeks ago, when I was still very much in the trenches of the bullshit detailed ad nauseum in previous blogs, I get a email telling me that I have a message from Spalding on MySpace (let's call him Spalding for the purpose of this blog) . I see this email and I think to myself, " I only know one Spalding. But nah it can't be." I immediately log into MySpace, thinking the name must be a coincidence and this is actually someone trying to get me to listen to their music on their page. I opened the message and just reading the first 5 words I knew it was him. Here's the background story. Spalding is a guy I dated in high school. I haven't seen or heard from him in about 10 years. Before, during, and after the manchild chronicles, he has been that one guy I think about from time to time. The one that makes me wonder how my life would be different if things between us had been different. The only one who still owns a piece of my heart. A friend of mine referred to him as my standard - the one guy I measure all others against. I thought about that and it is indeed true. Spalding is my barometer as to whether a guy has passed or failed in my life. So sitting there reading that email, I couldn't help but realize that when I finally got serious about my book despite the madness going on in my life (or maybe because of the chaos???? hmmm, something to think about), here he is, just tiptoeing back into my life in almost the same way it happens in my book.

Since that initial email, I have spoken to him a few times on the phone. The first time we spoke, I couldn't believe he was on the other end of my cell phone. His voice initially was not what I remembered. But then I heard it. That certain swagger he has in the way he puts words together. His half laugh, half chuckle. It was there, probably never left. We speak as if an entire decade hasn't passed. We've caught up on family and friends. We've laughed over long repressed (but not forgotten) adolescent memories. He's read my blogs and we've discussed the manchild chronicles, and he completely gets me, without me having to explain the whos, whats and whys. I'm amazed that after all this time has passed and after the detours our life journeys have taken us, we still inexplicably understand each other.

While I know where the story is going in my book (thus far), I have no idea how Spalding and I will play out in the pages of my life. I don't know how long we will remain in contact. Hell, it may be another decade before we speak again. (I hope not.) But if the feeling I have now is any indication of where my story is going, this is going to be one hell of a read.


Now maybe I should write a book about how I won the lottery and see what happens. LOL

First off I would like to apologize to anyone who reads my blog. I've gotten the calls, emails, texts, and/or IMs inquiring about when the hell I am going to post again. I have been extremely busy lately. No my lack of blogging is not due to any emotional turmoil. I am past all that foolishness (still on the fence with the whole love thing but that's another topic for another day). There have been sooooo many things I want to blog about but to write it the way I want to would require an extra 2 hours added on to the day. Besides work and trying to keep up with my social life, writing this book has become my priority. This book is my baby (my unnamed baby but that's besides the point. LOL). I wake up in the middle of the night and jot stuff down, sometimes falling asleep with my glasses on (nothing new) and pen in hand (and yes I have woken up in the morning with ink all over my face. Must be trying to write in my sleep. LOL). I change the crap that I write as soon as it gets a little funky in the story. I now carry ginormous handbags just so I can carry my notebook with me where ever I go, in case inspiration hits. I feed my notebook several times a day with words, sentences, conversations, paragraphs, and chapters, just so it will have a balanced diet. I fret over its future constantly. Is this any good? Will anyone besides my friends read it? Can I really be an author? Will it become an Oprah's Book of the Month?? (hey, a girl can dream, right??? LOL) I want only the best for my baby and when I'm ready, I want the world to see how beautiful I see it to be. And now matter how many other books I may write after this, this one will always be my baby, the one I learn from and the one I cherish.

So please forgive me if my blogs become more sporadic than they are now. It's not that I don't love this blog. I really do. I still have so much more I want to say here. But I'm a mommy now and I have a baby to tend to.

Okay I had no intention of posting another blog this quickly about dating but this one has me stumped. I will most likely ramble and you probably won't even like this post but I need some clarity and you guys know I always feel much better after I get shit off my chest, my heart, and my brain. Maybe once I get it all out, I can make better sense out of the situation. Or maybe my readers will actually comment and leave feedback. Well my readers besides Rashad. He is consistent and loyal. He reads AND comments on every blog. He's the best, supreme, and after I shitted on the bitch....... (sorry inside joke. Rashad, stop laughing! LOL).

Okay heeeere we go........ (gotta say it like Slick Rick in "A Children's Story" for full effect. LOL)

Once upon a time, not long ago.....
I met this guy. Let's call him Text. Text because our sole means of communication is via text (duh!). I can count on one hand how many times I have spoken to him on the phone over the past month or so. Text and I "speak" daily via text or IM. The difference between Text and Hustle and Suit (damn this sounds like the title of an Outkast song...LOL) is that Hustle and Suit actually pick up the phone, and our phone conversations last longer than 2 minutes (actually, checked my call log for this one. LOL). So after a couple of weeks of text messaged convo, Text decides he wants to see me. The night in question we both had plans but agreed to meet at an outdoor bar prior to our other commitments. I meet him at the bar, all is good (yeah I was 15 minutes late. told you I'm working on it..LOL). We are laughing and joking, good times all around. He asked what I was drinking, I said water. He asked why. I told him I didn't feel like it because it was really humid outside and I wasn't feeling all that great (truth). He asked the bartender to bring me a glass of water. The bartender brings over a bottled water. He didn't blink, everything is cool. He had 2 drinks over the duration of our mini-date. So our mini-date ends. He pays the tab. He goes his way and I go mine. The evening doesn't end without (of course!!) a text message conversation.

Second time I saw him he picked up some Caribbean food for me (which I love), and we just hung out, talking (more like debating the finer points of life). So by now we have gone back and forth over text messaging about when we are going to see each other again for a third time. Finally he "says" to me: "Its ur date so u plan it. I respond " I don't know what u want to do. whatever is cool w/ me" He tells me that he recently got his ass kicked in bowling and could use the practice. I tell him that there is a really nice bowling alley here in Harlem, black owned (right fist in the air for my people!! LOL). He asked do they serve drinks. I tell him about their bar and lounge on the second floor (should I have questioned whether he was an alcoholic or if he was trying to get me drunk??? lol). He then asked "are you going to feed me?" Now, I thought this was odd but then I thought about the delicious jerk chicken he bought for me, and replied "surrrre, they hv food @ the bowling alley." Because of a hectic schedule on my end right now, I couldn't set a date until today for this bowling date. I texted (is this a word?? LOL) him today " what day next wk is ok 4 u 2 go bowling?" His response: "u want 2 take me bowling on friday??" Take him bowling??? "ummmm ur taking ME bowling. friday is good 4 me." He then unleashes a text tirade telling me that I said I was taking him bowling and apparently the plan was a farce because it appears that I don't want to see him. And he doesn't like the games I'm playing. Huh??? Games?? What the hell did I miss here???

Okay here are my arguments on this case:
1. Dude has yet to take me out on a "official first date". Meeting for a drink to kill time does not a date make. And your honor, may I clearly point out I had a bottled water while he consumed 2 alcoholic beverages. Now he may count bringing me something to eat as a date but damn, can I sit in a restaurant??? Can you eat with me and share conversation between bites??? Can you stare into my beautiful brown eyes across the table and compliment me at least once (am I asking for too much? NOT! LOL)????

2. It was his damn idea to go bowling. No, he didn't say " I want to go bowling." but he put the suggestion out there and I happen to know a venue to facilitate the activity. So if this was his idea why am I expected to be his Suga Mama for the night??

3. Okay I know this is going to sound really shallow and bourgie, and stuckup but fuck it:
Bowling: $8 per game + $4 shoe rental, each per person. And lets say we bowl 2 games.
Drinks: $40, for 2 rounds (but if he's an alcoholic for real this could easily double).
Can't forget about food: approximately $20-$30 for 2 people to dine on bowling food.

Dude spent $4 for bottled water and I would say approximately $8-$9 on the jerk chicken.

So how is it that he spends less than 20 bucks on me (I'm not counting his 2 drinks. He drank them, not me!!! LOL) and I am expected to pay at least 100 freaking dollars on a guy that has yet to take me out on a real date??? Can someone out there help me??? Am I wrong in my assessment of the situation? Have the rules changed that drastically in the dating world? If so, was someone supposed to send me a memo or an email 9or in this case a text message...LOL), something before I curse this dude out??? Which by the way I haven't. I live up to my bourgie roots and responded: "it seems we hv a misunderstanding. call me later 2 discuss." This was 6 hours ago and Text has yet to call. If he doesn't call and texts me instead, I doubt I'll respond. My thumbs are tired.

Goodnite! Knock 'em out the box, Rick. Knock 'em out, Rick. Knock 'em out the box, Rick.

Over the past couple of days I've gone on a few dates, dipping my feet back into the dating pool. Testing the waters if you will. Who knew I was such a cheap date??

Date #1 lets call him Suit. Suit is tall, dark, and well he's average looking but has a smile to die for. He's a Wall Street man - you know the type: Brooks Brothers suit, Brunomagli wingtip shoes freshly shined by the old man at Grand Central Station, Wall Street Journal neatly folded under his arm. The type that plans to be on the cover of not only Black Enterprise but also Forbes magazine. In our pre-date conversations I've learned that Suit went to the right schools for undergrad and grad, because he got in and also for the networking opportunities each school afforded him. He is in his mid 30s, no kids, never been married. After a slew of Treo to Blackberry text messaged conversations, and a couple of very brief phone conversations thrown in for good measure, we finally were able to coordinate our schedules to go out on an actual face to face date. Suit suggested a Zagat top rated restaurant (yes I checked...LOL) for dinner. I arrived on time (for those who know me..YES ON TIME...LOL) at the restaurant, dressed in a simple but subtly sexy sundress with my shoe game tight. As I approached him at the bar, he was on the phone. Since it was a work day, I figured he was wrapping up some last minute business. Ten minutes later, he profusely apologized and we were seated immediately. Conversation was pleasant but predictable. The meal was incredible, and according to him the wine he was drinking was really a good year. The only downfall to the evening was the incessant vibrations from his Blackberry. Every couple of minutes or so, he would pause our conversation to have one with his Crackberry. After he finished phone call or text I would have to remind him where we left on in conversation. After the fourth time this happened I was beginning to feel like a court stenographer retelling someone's testimony during a trial. I spent most of the meal, eating in silence - not because the food was so amazing but because my dinner companion was on a date with his Crackberry. Each instance he would promptly apologize, briefly explain business reason for call, then ask an update on where our actual conversation left off. At the end of the evening, in proper prep school fashion, I allowed him to kiss me on my check with promises to do this again, as he helped me into my taxi. We have since resumed our Treo to Blackberry text messaging relationship.

Now on to Date #2. Let's call him Hustle. Hustle owns his own business. Don't let the moniker deceive you - his business is legal. Hustle is tall, somewhere around 6'3", dark (like milk chocolate) and handsome with a killer smile. (hey I'm a sucker for a smile! LOL). Hustle is in his mid-30s, divorced, no kids. In his Che Guevara Tshirt, jeans, and sneakers you would never know this man has the business savvy of Bob Johnson (minus the whole perpetuating the stereotypes of Black folks for the comedic pleasure of white folks.) Our Treos have a text messaging relationship as they speak almost daily. Our most recent date was not our first date. We go out whenever our work and social calendars are in sync. Whenever we are together we talk and talk and talk. Politics, religion, men-women relationships. money, business, movies, TV, cultural differences, history (his, mine, and the world's), you name it. We have more topics that a week of Jeopardy episodes. Now this date in particular was prefaced by a conversation about salad. Yes salad - you know lettuce, tomatoes, etc. Hustle claims that he knew a place that made the best chicken salads in the city. I asked him what was so special about some chicken on top of lettuce and tomatoes. He told me I would eat my words with my first bite of this salad. The time arrives for our date. I meet him about 15 minutes later than I was supposed to (hey, I'm working on it. LOL). We drive to an Italian pizza shop - the kind where you can buy pizza by the slice. "Are you telling me that this hole in the wall has the best chicken salad in the city??" I asked. "Look up at the sign, punk!" Sure enough there was a ginormous (SIDEBAR: did you know my word is in the dictionary now?? I've been saying it for years. Now I gotta work on getting celebritous in the dictionary!! LOL) banner above the store proclaiming "BEST CHICKEN SALAD IN THE CITY PERIOD". We walk in and place our order with an older gentlemen who looked about 8 months pregnant under his tomato sauced stained apron. Hustle slides 20 bucks on the counter. Prego hands him his change and our beverages. We sit at a table decorated with red and white checkered table cloth and topped with a glass vase with one silk rose. He with his Corona and I, with my bottled water, continue the ebb and flow of our conversation. About 15 minutes later, Prego slaps 2 red cafeteria style trays on the counter and announces, "You're order is ready." Hustle goes and retrieves both trays and places the prettiest grilled chicken salad in front of me. The mozzarella cheese was slighly melted by the warmth of the grilled chicken underneath. Hustle waited for me to taste the salad - said he wanted to see me eat my words. I picked up my plastic fork and dug in. That first bite was like a first kiss - full of anticipation but worth it in the end. That salad was AMAZING - the best salad I've ever had. Period. The grilled chicken, mozzarella cheese, fresh mushrooms, roasted red peppers, black olives, mixed greens, and green peppers all made for a very delicious meal. Conversation ceased again. This time because the food really was delicious. The only thing I said between bites was "Oh my God. This salad is soooooo good. Mmmmm." and his response was "Told you, punk!" To steal a line from a friend of mine: Good times indeed.

Both dates were cheap dates. On the surface one would say Date #2 was the cheap date. He gave the man 20 bucks for 2 chicken salads, a Corona, and a bottle water and still got change back. Now while Date #1 spent way more monetarily on me, he was cheap with his time and attention. And where Hustle didn't break bank to try to impress me, he lavished me with great conversation and attention. But overall, both cheap dates were the best dates I've been on in a lonnnnnnnnnnnnnnng time. In their own way, each man wanted to impress lil ole me. And they each succeeded in their mission.

So who will I go out with again? Both of them. I'm relearning the art of dating. I'm not leading anyone on. They both know from whence I came, and where I am in life. They respect that and still would like to spend time with me. Now it would be naive of me to think that neither one wants the keys to the garden. But right now that's irrelevant. I'm just testing the waters and the waters feel really good. I'll dive in when I'm ready.