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.

Jury Duty

I heart this song. Like immensely. Like when I hear the riddim in the beginning, my hips are already cued to start swaying like a palm tree in the island breeze. The breakdown for the chorus makes me strike a pose with the right hand raised like YESSSSSSSS. Complete with the hand sway, snap. But the words? Ummm not so much. I have absofuckinglutely no connection to the words. I really really listened to the words and I can honestly say I have never felt like "I need you bad as my heart beat". Don't get me wrong, I've had my heartbroken (it's well documented, no need to rehash the foolywag). But "it won't get no betta 'til you're together"...well shit that's deep. My philosophy has been it won't get no betta until I'm over it. But a need so passionate, so basic, so Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs??? In the words of my man Clay Davis, "sheeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiittttttt"! I've never felt it. Ever. I've never felt like I've 'needed" someone that badly that I would profess it so eloquently. It that a blessing or a curse??? Jury's still out.

He called me. I should have expected it after I helped his brother. But after 7 months of silence, seeing his phone number pop up on my caller id was waaay down at the bottom of expectations. Like down by "hell freezing over" and "McCain choosing Paris Hilton as a running mate" (wait that shit might happen..hahahaha). But it happened. And I answered. I didn't realize how angry I was listening to him until I felt it boiling in my belly. When all of the nonsense happened with the email I was too preoccupied with my mother's health to deal with something so Sweet Valley High trivial. But now, I have the time and mental to space to deal with it. I heard what he had to say. And I hope he heard what I had to say. I don't plan on repeating it. Not even here. It just never ceases to amaze me how much power men seem to think they have over me. Do I give them that false impression that they have this unwavering steadfast power over me or is that the male ego assuming that I will take whatever comes my way??? Jury's still out on that too.

Jazmine Sullivan has another song on her upcoming CD, Fearless, called Lions, Tigers, and Bears.

I'm not scared of lions and tigers, and bears. Oh no but I'm
scared of loving you
I'm not scared to perform at a sold out affair, that's right but I'm
scared of loving you....
Just cause I love you, and you love me It doesn’t mean that we’re meant to
be.
I can climb mountains, swim cross the seas But the most frightening thing is
you and me..... *

Now this is me. Like immensely. Not in regards to anyone in particular. This is generally, eloquently me. At least I know where the jury stands on this one. At least for now. I'll eventually file an appeal.

*(if you're my friend on crackspace, this song is on my playlist. If you're not, sorry I had to make my page private. Why you may ask. Remember that song, "I always feel like somebody's watching meeeeeeee". That's why! hahahahahaaa)

He said, I said

(pic courtesy of Coldstone Creamery. do you see why I fight my inner chubby girl)

He said: Hmm, I have some ice cream in the freezer.

I said: Oooh, what kind?

He said: Umm, Pralines & Cream from Baskin Robbins.

I said: Yummm, that's my favorite. That's not fair. You can't share. *

He said: hahahhahaha. You want some? Then come get some.

I said: Don't tempt me. That's my favorite. You better save me some.

He said: I better, huh? HA! And if I don't?

I said: There will be problems and repercussions, mannn. Don't make me cut you over ice cream! hahahahaha

He said: If I finish this, I think we can find something else in the freezer you'll like.

I said: You better! hahahahahhahaa

So ummmm was this conversation really about ice cream??? If it really wasn't about my beloved dessert, at what point did ice cream become code for ummm I scream??? Honestly, it wasn't until we got off the phone an hour later did it occur to me that this could possibly be about far more than a cold creamy fattening treat. But damn if I didn't have a taste for some Pralines and Cream ice cream allllllll dayum day. Sitting here wishing on a star that my fruit salad could somehow morph into the taste of Coffee Lovers Only signature collection from Coldstone Creamery (my other fave.....my inner chubby girl loves some ice cream)

*(Back story: this conversation occurred across a few state lines so sharing at that precise moment was impossible unless someone has a beam me up Scotty machine they would like to sell me.)

** If I ever decide to write about "he" again, his name will be Baskin Robbins. Oh and I've written about him before just didn't have a name for him then. hahahahahahaaa ;)

Emotional

About 10 minutes ago I got a text from Prego's husband with a picture of their daughter. Fresh out the oven. 24 hours of labor later. After jumping up and down in my living room like I just won the Super Bowl, I broke down in tears. The tears are still streaming. I am overwhelmed with emotion. Words can't describe how happy I am for Prego and Hubby. I thought that by sitting here and writing I would find the words to describe my feelings. But the words are escaping me like last minute's breath.

How can I love something so much that I have yet to lay eyes on?? How did this happen?? Her birth renews the belief in the possibilites of life. She's not even mine and I feel like my life has already changed.

Welcome little one. I can't wait to see how life unfolds for you. Your auntie will always be here cheering you on.

But ummmmm can we talk about this 24 hour labor thing???? This is soooo not making motherhood any more attractive to me. ;)

Butterfly in Philly Part Deaux aka Butta flies in da hood 2

So while in Philly, my cousin and his bride planned an afterparty for their friends and family who were of a certain age that loved to partay without the need for BenGay. They reserved a VIP section at a club named Plush, complete with bottles (stress the plural) chilled and ready for our consumption upon our arrival.

I was kinda tired after the reception. I was on Prego-watch the night before until 2 am and then made the drive up to Philly very early Saturday morning(no, the little one is not here yet and her mother has absolutely no patience. ahahahahaha). However, my cousin threatened eternal silence if I didn't bring my ass to the club. For once in my life, I didn't overpack so I tried the "I have nothing to wear" to which he said "You can wear anything". This right here should have been clue #1. So I dumped my overnight bag to see what I could make work. While cute, I wasn't putting back on my dress, so that's out. I have the denim shorts I wore to drive to Philly and I have the silver grey heels I wore to the wedding. Okay I see the makings of a club outfit. But damnit no cute tops. I have a brown t-shirt that says "What you see is what you get", a wifebeater (yeah I know the term is derogatory but damnit I like it.....hahahahaha), and a blue fitted t-shirt. Okay the brown t-shirt won't work because it doesn't go with the shoes, the wife beater is too sheer (its one I sleep in hence its purpose in my overnight bag) and the blue t-shirt just screams too boring. Looking back, I know I was overthinking this but I hate going out not looking camera worthy. So I roll out of my hotel room in my denim short shorts, wifebeater, and the blue tee over it to break up the look. And lets not forget the shoes.

On the way to the club, my cousin (the groom aka Cuz), my cousin Nik (the driver), and groom-cousin's childhood friend, Young 'n' Fab, do what we do best - laugh and gossip ("I don't care if she used to be over 200 pounds, she should have worn more than a tshirt to a wedding!!!!! Your grandmother was complaining about seeing the girl's draws!!!!!!!! hhahahahahahahah). As we venture into the area near the club, I am reminded why one of my favorite bloggers, the Field Negro, calls Philly "Killadelphia". According to his site the murder count in Killadelph is currently at 182, and damn if I didn't think I might be number 183 that night. Sketchy is an understatement and seedy was a come-up when I thought of how to describe the essence of the neighborhood . Yeah, yeah I know I'm from the New Jack City Era of Harlem but damnit we always had street lights. hahahahahaha I got out the car anyway thinking a) the club is called "Plush" it must be nice and b)I don't think sitting in a SUV with out-of state plates in the middle of what has to be the hood is such a great idea.

Nik, Young n Fab, and I get frisked and bag checked to enter the club (clue #2) as Cuz waited outside for the rest of his friends and his wife to arrive. As we entered the cavernous club some big momma in cheetah print booty shorts (read too tight sausage cases aka clue #3) tried to jump on the bandwagon because we were waved in for free. Meathead at the door stopped me with "She with you?" I turned and looked. Now my initial reaction was to say "HELLLLL FUCKIN' NO THE CHEETAH WEATHER GIRL IS NOT WITH ME." But then I remember that saying something like that just might make me # 183 indeed, so I turned back and politely said "no, she's not." Now big momma cheetah weather girl did look a lil salty because I didn't give her a pass or maybe that was just her 10 inch fake eyelashes getting caught on her vaseline/lip gloss but I digress. So we enter Plush and the first thing that came to mind was this:

What the hell is "plush" about red painted wood walls, broken down couches, sheets for curtains and a black linolieum dance floor?? Chicks were dancing barefoot all around us. I looked down at the floor and saw all kinds of liquids spilled, and crap shrewn everywhere. I really was in the middle of the barn. With no hay to smoke. We stood out like the sore bourgie thumbs that we are. We waited in the common area for my cousin and his wife to point us in the direction of VIP. As we tried not to laugh directly at the ghettofabulosity surrounding us, Nik announces "I need a drink!" I started to follow her but there was big dude eyeing me like I was a cheese steak with all the fixings by the bar so I decided to stay my black ass right where I was standing. She comes back with a small dixie cup. You know the type that you used to have in the bathroom as a kid??? Yeah that. For 12 bucks a shot of Patron came in a dixie cup (clue #4). Yeah it was that kind of night.

We ran into a bit of trouble with the VIP Meathead but eventually we were allowed up to our secured very important place in the joint - a loft with circle "beds" (read a circular piece of plywood covered in craft store foam and a threadbare piece of material) overlooking the stage and the dance floor. After a shouting match or 2 with somebody, the bottlessssss were brought by the waitresses who were wearing black boyshort undies and tank tops as "outfits". Oh and instead of glasses for the copious amounts of champagne, wine, vodka, and jack present, we were given a sleeve of...you guessed it dixie cups. But at least this time these were the grown-up ones.

Now you would think this would be a recipe for ghetto disaster. Mannnnn, we had a shitload of fun. From my perch in VIP, we drank, we danced, we clowned. At some point Cuz and I realized this was the first time we officially partayed together (as we both drank Moet...he from the bottle, me from the glass I got from the waitress). You would have thought we were in the most exclusive club in New York. We didn't care. It was a celebration, bitches!!!! By the time the needle slid across the record and the lights came up simultaneously (that is really how they ended the party), we were nice and tipsy. So tipsy, I borrowed (read stole) the wine glass I was drinking from, filled with the last of the champagne (email me to ask me how I did it. hahahahahahahahahaha). So tipsy I descended those steps from the VIP loft with the grace of a debutante at her ball with a wine glass secured in her bra and clutch held to chest to cover the "third boob" (oh dayumm, I guess I told you.....hahahahahaha). As we retrieved the car from valet and thought of the best way to get Cuz to his wife's hotel suite and us back to our hotel (not the same hotel), the grime of the hood began to fade in my twisted haze as the beauty of the day illuminated well into the wee hours of the night. I was profoundly happy for my cousin. And nothing could take me away from that moment. But ummm, valet dude, can you hurry up before I'm #183???? Thanks! :)

More pics....

(Wedding party, friends and fam in VIP. yes that's a sheet at the entrance to the right)

(the non-VIP down below. please note the couple dancing to the right. At one point he was banging her so hard from the back I thought she was gonna fly across the room. And yes she doesn't have on shoes. hahahahahaha)

(the newlyweds on the road to drunkville...hahahahahaha)

(me and the "bed".)

(the groom and me on the road to drunkville...hahahahaha)

(I love my shoes...hhahahahaha)

(the shoe game I play is addictive)

Butterfly in Philly....

(you know I love butterflies. Philly 2008)

This weekend I left The Big Apple and landed in the city of Brotherly Love. My presence was requested at the wedding of my cousin to his girlfriend, the mother of his 2 sons (notice I did not call her baby momma...hahahahahaha). I was more than happy to be there to witness this occasion. My cousin is like a lil brother to me. He, like me, is his momma's only child, and since our mothers are sisters, our childhoods are intricately woven together. I remember, at 7, wanting to take him to school for "Show and Tell" the week after he was born (and telling my aunt she didn't love me when she said no....yes I was dramatic even back then...hahahahahaha) I remember picking him up from daycare with our great-grandmother and his disgusting love for turkey franks. I remember his first real crush (Tina Turner - that Private Dancer album cover did some thangs to the tyke...hahahahahaha). I remember when he came to visit me at Hampton and was completely in love with the "black college experience" and couldn't wait for the day he went away to school. I also remember from that visit that when my boyfriend at the time came by the house, my scrawny 13 year old cousin came to the door with the broom like that was gonna do something (SIDEBAR: Oh, how I wish lil cuz had swept that sucka out the door...hahahahahaha). I remember surviving the torture of driving him from Harlem to Atlanta when he decided to go to Morehouse.

So here he is, 25 years old, graduate of Morehouse (I don't hold that against him...hahahaha), father of 2 sons, and now about to be a husband. The little boy I used to take to violin practice. The little one who used to cling to me and run from my mother. How can this be?? Life. That's what happened. Just as I have grown, he did too. I can't imagine at 25 being responsible enough to be married with children. (Shit, I can't imagine at 32 being responsible enough to be married with children...hahahahahahahah). But that's the life he has mapped out for himself. And as always I couldn't be prouder of him.

Now the only trepidation I had about going to this wedding was caused by the anticipation of what the hell my family would say to me. I already know how my grandmother feels about my single life but I knew this occasion would give her fair game to lay it on thick. And lay it on she did. She tried bribery ("I'll pay for it. Just get married already."), guilt ("I would like to see you married before I leave this earth."), interrogation ('well who are you seeing? and why isn't he proposing??"), prophesying ("You're next. I see it.") and bartering ("okay, I'll get my knee replacement surgery so I can dance at your wedding. You work on the wedding. I'll work on the surgery."). I thought I was gonna need my grandfather's flask filled with something potent to deal with her but luckily my cousin didn't sit us at the same table. (SIDEBAR: I owe you one cuz!). But he did sit me with my mother's younger sister and her 4th hubby and she of course picked up where my grandmother left off. Watching my cousin and his wife celebrating their nuptials, I get why I was getting the full court press (check out my sports reference..HA!). My family just wants to see me happy and to them happy means husband, 2.5 kids, white picket fence. But that's not my definition of happy. Happy for me is peace of mind. Happy is knowing that I am living as close to drama free as allowed. Happy is taking the time to figure me out. I have to reassure them that I am in fact happy. Life isn't perfect but it's mine and I'm working on it. I was tempted to give my grandmother this website address so she can see just how happy I am and to understand me better (because I don't think she has a clue who I am). But then I remembered my last post and decided against it. hahahahahahahahaa

This blog wouldn't be complete without pictures of the joyous occasion.

(the ceremony took place outside at a gazebo at WaterWorks in Fairmount Park in Philly. Each guest was given a pink umbrella to protect themselves from the beaming sun. tres chic)

(My godson apparently didn't like the attention that he got as ring bearer. )

(while his baby bro was chillin'...LOL)

(yeah!!! he kissed the bride)

(when his mommy and daddy kissed my godson stepped down from the gazebo to give his lil bro a kiss. awwwww how cute)

(I loved my dress but I was having Marilyn Monroe issues the entire time. I mooned the entire city of Brotherly Love. Thankfully I didn't wear a thong! hahahahahahah)

(the bride, groom, and bridal party getting down to You're All I Need by Method Man ft. Mary J. Blige. The first dance was the original song by Marvin Gaye and Tammy Terrell, and then they segued into the other version when the bridal party was asked to join them. That was hot - I equally love both versions. I wish I thought of that...guess I can't use that IF I ever get married...hahahahahahahaha)

I couldn't resist posting these songs. Like sweet morning dewww/I took 1 look at you/ and it was plain to see/ you are my destiny........

Have you ever.....

Have you ever......

.....felt your entire body glisten with illuminating droplets of sweat and wondered is this what morning dew feels like?

.....laid there and listened to your labored breath and wondered is this what the wind bristling through leaves sounds like up close and personal??

......felt the tops of your toes and tips of your fingers get all tingly and wondered is this what shooting stars feel like?

......felt your heart pounding in your chest and wondered is this what a hummingbird's wings flapping against a summer breeze feels like????

.......had a pulse pulsating in the southern hemisphere and wondered is this what a volcano erupting feels like????

.......felt the remnants of a single tear dance down the full slope of your cheek when it was all said and done and wondered did I just fucking shed a tear??? DAMN! DAMN!! DAMMMMN!!! (I hope he didn't notice)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Last.....

At last my life is mine again. As noted in previous blogs, this past Saturday was the Baby Shower for Prego (aka Zilla) and her husband. It was beautiful chaos. Over a hundred people in attendance. Air conditioners not working as great as they should. Tears of joy and gratitude. Laughter. Good food. Ahhh, good times indeed. But damn it's a lot of work. From conception to execution my hand was all in the pot. My friends and I worked together to pull off an event to remember. And by the end of the night I was so exhausted I couldn't even talk straight. And I truly believe that was the case for everyone who worked soo hard. But it was all worth it. Zilla cried from the moment she walked in the place (I was NOT surprised...and this has nothing to do with her unstable hormonal state...hahahahaha). And by the end of the evening after mountains of gifts were opened, Zilla and her hubby shed tears for the outpouring of love, support (and gifts) from everyone in the place. I had a convo with my girl Eve as we were on our way out to Brooklyn the next day about the emotional outpouring at the shower. She explained it best "a baby shower is one of those few moments in life when you really really know how people truly care about you because of the love they show you and your child. It's a rare opportunity to actually see how people feel about you." With that conversation, I finally got it. Sure, Twiggs, D. and I said throughout the planning and running around for this shower "[Zilla] is lucky I love her." And in our own way, that ties back into what Eve said. Trust and believe I wouldn't do 1/3 of what I did for someone who didn't mean as much to me.

So in the next couple of months I will once again be on the planning committee for D's baby shower. Sheesh. I need a break from this madness. While I love seeing creativity come to fruition, these visions rob me of my own personal creativity. No blogs. No book writing. Can't even recommend a decent restaurant for a friend or plan a nice bday evening for Hustle (technically he fell asleep when the subject came up but I had no energy - or money- to insist...hahahaha). So I'm asking all my friends near and dear to me: please just send me an invitation so I can just show up like everyone else.

This onesie pretty much sums up this baby. I know her momma. hahahahahaaaa

We started a college fund for the baby. There will be no pole dancing in her future.

Do you see this mountain of gifts??? And this picture was taken early. Man, this baby shower business is a racket. I think I'm going to throw me a Single Shower, celebrating my singleness. Where should I register for gifts???

Believe it or not this is actually a cake. The entire "bag" and its contents are edible. Now that's creative. We had to stop a few little ones from grabbing the "pacifier".

Start the baby's taste for the finer things in life early. Hmmm, I think I just found where I am going to register for my Single Shower. hahahahahahaa

So now I'm back. I slept for the past couple of days (okay I went out Sunday to a BBQ in Brooklyn but I slept all day Monday...more on Sunday later). Since I'm back there will be more of me on here. More Hustle stories (it was recently brought to my attention that I haven't written about him in a while...he apparently has fans....hahahahaha), more dating stories, more commitment-phobe wonderings. You know, the usual.

Easy Like Saturday Morning.....

Dear Friends, Fans, Stalkers, and Stans:
I know its been almost two weeks since my last post. I just have to two words to speak to my absence: BABY SHOWER. Man, I love my friends to death and into eternal life thereafter but I am pooped. And since I KNOW Prego is reading, all I will say is "I can't wait for this to be over." I promise one of these days I will blog about the experience in detail (and maybe with pics). You deserve better and I promise to do better. (I think I got that from that new Will Smith movie. Funny, I can quote a movie I have absofuckinlutely no desire to see)

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming (I've always wanted to say that...hahahaha)

On a sunny Saturday morning, I looked out the window for some out of the house inspiration. Since the view in front of me is strictly residential, I was looking more at trees, houses and a few cars drive down the street below. From the corner of my left eye I saw a couple walking down the street. It was obvious they were basking in more than the glow of the sunshine. He walked with his arm wrapped confidently around her shoulder as she snuggled in closer to his embrace. Left. right. left. right. Their steps were in tune as if they were competing on "Dancing with the Stars". Halfway down the street, just as they were directly in front of my view, he dropped his hand and reached for her hand in one fluid motion. Instinctively, their fingers reached out to one another and were intertwined before I could blink. And with the swing of their arms, their leisurely stroll continued down the street. I watched them as they faded from sight, but not from memory.

It's scenes like this that make me long for that easy breezy. The I'm comfortable with you no matter what stride, that we're in this together embrace, that you're all I need to get by swagger. The type of bond that makes people stop and stare from a window in a t-shirt and undies early on a Saturday morning. The kind of connection that......
Smack. "Here drink this."
Ow, stop smacking my booty. What's this?"
"It's tea. Now stop asking me questions and drink. It's good for you."
"Oh shit, it's hot."
"It's tea. What do you expect? hahahahahhaha"
"Ha ha - very funny."
"What are you doing?"
"Ummmm, just looking out the window, enjoying the view." (I can't tell him what I was really looking at)
"You have too much time on your hands. I'm getting ready for work." Smack.
"Owwww, damnit!!!!"

(Confession: I wrote this last summer after a visit with Hustle. I stumbled across it on my phone - apparently wrote it on the lonnnng train ride home that day and decided to post it today. No rhyme or reason. Just wanted to share) Now I'm off to handle baby shower details.