He's Fine But...: A Story of Deductions

I was out the other night and spotted a stone cold cutie. Just uber fine for no damn reason. Six-two (check-plus), beard (surprising, but check), maximum swag (check-plus), prettiest teeth like ever (well, until...), and not even chocolate hued (again surprising, but check). Not my usual type at all, so you know he had to be some kinda fine to turn my head. I point him out to my girl. She looks over her shoulder and confirms the loveliness of this masculine creature. Even better, she knows him.

Her: "Oh, that's XXX."

Me: "Introduce me."

Her: "Eh… He's fine, but…"

Someday, I would like to see and/or meet a new man that does not have a litany of extraordinary vices that immediately come to my mind when he crosses someone's path. Flaws, I can handle. We all have them. But it seems that everyone that raises an eyebrow lately comes with some I-am-a-writer-and-I–could-not-make-this-trifling-sh*t-up-even-if-I-tried backstory. It's like I see a dime-piece, and the second I acknowledge him, the deductions just start racking up. By the time the stories are finished, my dime has been reduced to two pence.

*sigh*

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The Save for Later Box

''you don't have to save mine for later. I want mines right now.'' -darius lovehall.

I have a save for later box. It's not a friend box (cause you know once you're in that box, there's no getting out.) It's more like a what-i'll-do-when-I grow-up box, but this one only has men in it. I put men in there who are good boyfriend material-- maybe even hubby material if I believed in marriage. The deal is that the timing to date them is just not right or it hasn't aligned for us yet. Maybe they're in a relationship. Maybe they're having their 20-something fun like I am and can't deal or don't have time for a relationship. Maybe I know where my head is right now and what I have the potential to ruin by dealing with them (especially since I just got over Big sometime in late Dec.) so I don't. I put them in the box until the timing is right...

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Quotes: Part 2

 

I know some of the funniest, most witty and insightful people on the planet. I am pleased to have each one of these nutcases/intellectuals in my life. Day-to-day would be so not amusing nor interesting without their never-ending stream of advice, insights, and (un)intentional humor. They make my life like a primetime dramadey (minus the cameras)

"Fuck ya'll. I am out!" – Dad. The day before my grandmother's funeral, my Mom's cell rings around six o'clock. It's the cemetery calling to say someone from the family has to come view the gravesite and sign off on the location before my grandmother can be buried the NEXT day. Otherwise, they can't bury her...

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"What Are You?" —Random People

"What are you?"

There is only one other question that I am asked on a regular basis that causes me the same level of frustration (guess what it is. It's not 'Is that your hair?') I'm never quite sure how to answer just because I think it is so apparently obvious what I am. I have a rather large, nappy 'fro with nappy roots and prominent lips. I think it is stunningly apparent that I am black. Yes, admittedly I'm pale, but sheesh! After I finish giving the questioner the screw face, if they are still standing there, I look at him (sometimes a her) like they are stupid and I blurt:

"I'm Black!"

"Really?"

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Let's Not Play The Game

 No more 4am MySpace postings about not being able to sleep or write. Now that that's over, I've started auditioning suitors again and I'm realizing some very unflattering truths about dating. These are just my top TEN general observations.

1. I really feel there is something inherently wrong FOR ME to be sitting in a room where I or the person I am with have sexed more than one person in it. (I realize this is a personal peeve that most people do not get upset about. I'm okay with that. But this is all about me and my issues.) As I get to know more guys and the sex conversation inevitably comes up, I realize even the so-called "nice" ones have grocery lists of who they had sex with. It's near impossible for us to go somewhere like a concert and not meet up with a bunch of women he's been enveloped by. I realize that the older folks get, the more past they have, but damn. Don't hump everyone you meet.

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Lookin' Stank

I've tried and I've failed. I have numerous male friends who I query daily in my attempts to understand the male psyche. Just when I think I've made significant inroads, I realize again that I know nothing at all. I just don't get how we are all bred in the same culture and society and have entirely different outlooks on so many subjects.

I'm convinced men like women who look like hell...

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Charlene, Maxine & Michelle

Never knew that love could hurt like this/ Never I thought I would/ but I got dissed… Before I heal it's gonna be awhile/ I know it's gonna be awhile chile' - E . Badu, Phase 2, Green Eyes

Anthony Hamilton sang about Charlene. John Legend sang about Maxine. Cody ChestnuTT sang about Michelle. They're all songs of unrequited love and/or great love somehow gone awry. They're odes to lost love sung with emotion that belies a wound that's never really healed by people who gave all of themselves to a relationship that is no more. Listening to the bone-deep agony reflected in these melodies got me to wondering. So like if once you emotionally exhaust all your resources with your First Real Love-- your Maxine, Charlene or Michelle-- and it doesn't work out, is it possible to give your all to another relationship again?

I don't think most folks can. And if you are one of the few who can go full throttle at a second shot at love, I think it's ill-advised to do so. Now I know I sound jaded, but really, I'm not. I stopped crying over my ex a long time ago. I don't wonder if I should call him anymore. I don't wait for the day when he will call me again. When I look through pictures, I can see his and think without regret, "wow, Boy, I really loved you" and keep flipping. I've passed the open-hostility-toward-all-men phase. And I slow hurdled through indifference. I finally hit the phase where I'll contemplate dating again. But I know I can't give my all to anyone. Most is the best I got to give—and by that I mean somewhere around 70%. Even if I could give more, I honestly wouldn't.

With your First Real Love, you love and live without the possibility that heartbreak can happen to you. You don't know true romantic pain so you love with abandon, without safety guards to protect your head and your heart from emotional WMDs. The unwritten promise of that FRL is that if you give your all, it will work. You do your best and it will work. It's a forever –forever, ever—that you happily contemplate and perhaps take for granted (which is usually why the relationship goes to hell, but that's another blog.) So once you know that you give your all and it can still not work out, what's the incentive to give 100% a second time?

The unofficial definition of insanity is doing the same thing more than once and expecting a different result than the first time. Why arewe still expected to give 100% for a second love when we did that the first time and it all got flushed counter-clockwise down the porcelain bowl? Shouldn't we be trying something new and making sure we don't end up an emotional mess again? Along with not making the same obvious mistakes of inexperience we made with the FRL such as not calling enough, not spending enough time, not showing how much we care, etc. shouldn't we be protecting ourselves better this time around too?

You give 100% to another person and you're too likely to wind up in alcohol-numbed, teary-eyed heap again. Maybe if you give 80% on the next shot and it all falls apart, you figure it could hurt, but not as bad as going full throttle. You're still giving a lot and 80% is a passing grade on any exam. Maybe you give 40% and keep a back up on reserve, then when it's done, you don't miss a beat. Maybe you give 0% and it's like the whole relationship--if you can call it that—never even happened. But that's okay, because at least you don't hurt again. (I wonder too if there is some correlation in the amount of you that you give to the next relationship and the progress you've made in getting over the FRL. Hmmm.) Of course, none of this is fair to the next person you're in a relationship with, but this isn't about fair. It's about self-protection/preservation.

I tossed this idea out the other night at dinner with The Girls. One of my friends likened the way you handle the FRL to the first time you touch a hot stove. You're too ignorant to know the pain that's in store, so you just throw down the white-side of your hand and your whole palm gets a first-degree burn. Now you know the swollen pain that your blissful ignorance caused. You're scared and scarred after the experience and you don't go near the contraption for awhile. Then you realize you have to at some point if you want a home-cooked meal. You put on the big glove—maybe one on each hand just in case—and THEN you touch the stove again.

I don't see why love should be any different.

Shoot Me Now

A Discourse on Dating/ Shoot Me Now Chivalry is not dead. I saw it with my own eyes. A truck pulled up in front of my house. A 20-something man—in a hoodie, Timbs, and jeans got out and OPENED THE DOOR for his lady companion. In a fur-lined bubble jacket and jeans, she stepped out with all the grace of a 40s movie star, gave her gentleman a much-earned kiss good-bye and headed to her door. It was so romantic I almost teared up.

I can't remember the last time I saw something like that, much less experienced it for myself. I usually can get a door I'm approaching opened, but to actually help me out of the car? Not since high school when everyone was still getting regualr pointers on dating from Mama and Papa have I had a car door opened if I'm still sitting in the vehicle

I hear an equal number of men and women griping about the bleakness of the dating scene. There's a lot of confusion and animosity going on amongst the single public. If we could get back to basics somehow, start approaching each date for the event that it is and not just thinking of each one as another way to casually pass the time, we all might be a little more satisfied with what and who we encounter.

In this current culture of post-feminism, equality between the sexes, and technology-proficiency somehow most of us forgot our proper dating manners. Texting compulsively is not a sufficient replacement for actually calling a person of interest and having a conversation with them. (My friend Kisha has an excellent blog post about this.) Real dates are not made on keyboards. Long e-mailed letters cannot take the place of actually telling someone you miss them or even sending a generic Hallmark card or the act of writing a letter (my sophomore year college BF—a romantic if I've ever met one—was the last one to write me letters. *sigh*) Leaving a message on a Myspace page does not compare to hearing the voice of the person you care about right before you fall asleep or watching a person light up when you walk into a room. Opening a car door is still a fine gesture, it makes a woman feel like a lady and it makes the man opening the door a gentleman. A man paying the bill makes it an official date. Me paying or us going 'dutch' makes it an outing, NOT A DATE. It is still good manners to bring a gift when going to someone's house—especially if it's your first visit. It's not a bad thing for a man to walk on the outside when he is walking with a woman. It's the difference between walking with one of your boys and walking with your lady. A great date is not defined by how much you spend, but by how much you connect. (My greatest dates have always been just talking to someone for hours in a secluded spot— fountainside at Central Park, on a bench at Prospect Park or the Brooklyn waterfront, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial-- with a great view.) Even going to church together is a fine—and impressive-- date.

And before I get accused of harping on the men….

I've been dating again. And I'm finding that more I behave like a lady, the more my date behaves like a gentleman. It's like some weird cycle. I put my feminism aside and graciously let him sit in the man-seat at restaurants (the one facing the window and the door) and I start getting my chair pulled out and he rises when I leave the table. I make it a point to walk on the inside and I notice that my companion takes my elbow when I step off the curb. It's really quite amazing.

I think women might find we get more out of our experiences and a little more gentlemanly behavior if we got back to being ladies while still being empowered women (men who actually like women, not just p****, like women with an opinion.) A little lipstick, a fresh coiffed 'do, some make-up and yes, some heels and a skirt go a long way, further than I imagined. Unless the event calls for such, we should not dress for dates like we are lounging around the house. A man really seems to like it—and respond appreciatively-- when we pretty-up for him. (Whether it's for you or for him, just let the man think it's for him.) A nice scent, a few genuine smiles flashed for your partner, a call to thank your date for a pleasant evening works wonders too. We might also do better to talk like ladies as well—no swearing or harsh language. (Just watch, you don't curse, he won't either.)

As much as I hate to admit this and loathe the rersponsibility of the role, women really are the trendsetters and as Nina Simone called us, keepers of the flame. We set the standard. We act, men react. If we keep waiting around for men to suddenly behave like gentlemen while we continue to casually act like one of the boys instead of their female of interest, then I'm afraid we'll just keep on being dissatisfied with our encounters.

All thoughts are welcome…

On My New York Ish

New Yorkers—and after six years here, I consider myself one-- are known for being pretty blasé about everything. In a city where there is so much going on, you train yourself not to react to anything unless it's major. Still, we are some of the most observant people you'll ever encounter. We listen, we watch, we are intuitive with strangers. We're always kinda on guard even when we seem like we're not. We can tell when something's off.

I'm on the subway on my way home from work. I get on, take a seat in the corner. Everything seems normal. Not too many people at one end of the car. No offensive smells. Not too many teenagers. I see a bunch of working people on their way home too. A few conversations. No loud noises. All is right with the world. Not things that I consciously think about, but I observe them before I choose a train car.

So I'm sitting, reading my book. Before the train gets to the next stop, I hear a girl yelling. I didn't catch what she said. I look up to the other end of the car and see a black girl with wild hair and orange sweatpants sitting cross legged on the seat facing the window. Her back is to the rest of the train. There was so much pain in her voice. Raspy like she's been crying. She yells again, something like "Why?!!! Don't touch her. She's just a little girl! You can't do that to a little girl!!!" Then silence. It was disturbing. I wonder what has happened to this girl--17-20 at best—that has caused her to yell out on a train. I wonder if she is the little girl she is trying to protect, if someone has done something to her and who?

I notice the train has given her the requisite 5 seats to battle her demons. One to her left. Three to her right. There are two middle-aged white men sitting just beyond her three seat invisible insane box to the right. She yells out again. The train moves. I go back to reading my book. Crazy isn't something you encounter everyday, but I've encountered it enough times on the train not be alarmed. She's not moving. Just yelling at the window. Everything is okay. No one else seems particularly alarmed. We all seem to be in agreement that she's just the standard New York crazy.

She yells out again. I don't remember what it was. The doors open. They close. Headed to the next stop.

She gets up and attacks one of the men to her right. Just gets up, walks toward him and yells "you can't do that!" and tries to claw at his face. He grabs her wrist, stopping her from hurting him. His other hands grabs the other arm so she can't move. He's up out of his seat, holding her so she's immobile. She's yelling, squirming, trying to get free. Somehow they end up twisted with her down on the seat, him pinning her. She's yelling, "why are you hurting me?!" He has to. For his own safety. For all of us. No one knows what she'll do when he lets her go. His friend is standing over them, watching, on guard for whatever comes next. They're still. No one knows what to do. No one is moving or talking. We're all frozen. My mouth is literally hanging open. I can't believe what I've just seen, what I'm seeing. (Contrary to popular belief, New York is a town of relatively sane people who behave reasonably well.) All I can do is watch. A big black man gets up and walks down the car. He observes, comes back to his seat to pick up his Timberland shopping bag and gets off the train, presumably to go get help. (I note that cause when was the last time you saw anyone just leave their possessions aside on a train?) I finally snap out of my trance and get off the train to find the conductor. I'm on the platform looking for someone with their head out the window. I don't see anyone. The man with the Timberland bag appears from inside another car and is walking toward me. I ask him, "did you tell the conductor?"

"Yeah. I can't let them beat on that girl like that."

The man didn't beat her. He just held her down. He restrained her. He hurt her, but he had too. (I can only imagine what this man must be feeling right now. He was a decent person—evidenced by the fact, that he didn't hit her. How he must feel for HAVING to hurt a woman, a girl at that.) I get back on the car to witness what's going on. The train is not moving. The man has let the girl go and she is getting off the train. She's on the platform and I'm on the train. The train still isn't moving. I sit and the woman next to me, who just got on, asks me what happened. I tell her.

The train still isn't moving. I get off again and look for the girl, but she's gone. I don't know why, but I have to see if she's okay. At the very least, to see that she hasn't jumped on the tracks. (don't know why this was my concern. Maybe because she's unstable and that is the most dangerous thing you can do in a train station.) The conductor announces the next stop and I get on and take my seat in the corner. The doors close. I read my book again, but I wonder what will happen to the girl. She's off the train, yes. We're all safe again. But what if she does jump on the tracks? What if she gets on another train and attacks someone else? What if the next person she attacks, isn't so humane and beats the shit out of her? And why did I just watch the man pinning her like everyone else? Could I have done anything? Shouldn't I have jumped up and run for the conductor as soon as the train stopped? Should I have gotten off and stayed and alerted the subway attendant and had someone come get that girl? This was major. Why didn't I do anything? Why did I do nothing but watch? Why did I freeze? Am I that blasé by living here all these years?

I got off the train at my stop and I walked to my apartment. I turned the corner to my block and I made the sign of the cross over myself and I said outloud, "there but for the grace of God, go I." I sent up a silent prayer that the girl will be okay. That someone will be more active than me, that someone she encounters next will have compassion on her and the sense and humanity to go above and beyond and do more than I did. That's the best I can do at this point.

Pray for that girl, ya'll. Please.

Quotes

If you've ever had more than a five minute conversation with me, you've heard me quote someone. I listen and retain even when it seems like I'm not paying attention. When something clicks, it stays with me. And I believe in paying homage to the many wise people who have taken the time to share their words with me—even the not so nice ones.

Words are powerful. Use them wisely. You never know who you might affect or alter with them.

A few quotes that changed my life:

"You will get lost following someone else's road map" – Susan Taylor I was in New York working a job I loved for next to nothing. My parents were sending me a stipend each month to make sure I didn't starve in New York. I lived in a shitty apartment (by DC standards not by New York's) that my mother hated and tried to forbid me to move into when she saw it. (her trying to arrange it so I lost the apartment is a whole nother story.) I was broke, but happy. My parents kept pushing for me to go to law school—as I had originally planned to do all through undergrad. I entertained the idea long enough to take the LSAT, fill out applications, and write the essays. I was discussing what schools I was applying for and they were telling me which ones to add to the list. Then they were telling me what I should specialize in, and that I should move back to DC and where I should intern and who I should eventually work for. They were literally mapping out my life for me. And I was going along with the program mostly because they'd been stressing me out for a year at that point about what a mess I was making of my life and they'd finally let up when I started getting with their program again. I was miserable. Now broke and miserable. I was reading Essence back cover to front cover as I always do when I found this quote in the edit letter. I never applied to law school. My parents were livid (especially when I told them "it's my life to fuck up as I please.") I was happy. And they eventually got over it.

"When you know better, you do better" – Oprah I dated someone I had no business dating for years. I was watching Oprah one day and she said this. I already knew I had to end the situation, but I kept making up reasons not to do it. When I heard this, I couldn't come up with anymore reasons no matter how hard I tried. I was forced to either call myself stupid for continuing to do what I knew was wrong or I had to break it off. I tried to ignore the thought, but it nagged at me. I finally ended the situation. I was sad but I felt better. Then I went back. Again. And again. And again. And the quote stayed in the forefront of my mind every time. I was driving myself crazy trying to keep myself from doing the 'better' thing. Finally I did better for good.

"If money were easy to come by, everybody would have some. Don't get involved in any money pyramids." –Dad This is what he told me the night before I went to left for college. We were sitting in the living room on the loveseat that he'd owned since his bachelor days looking out at the empty street. In typical teenage fashion, I wanted to be anywhere but there. I thought it was the stupidest thing he could advise to a girl going away to school with all those horny boys on campus. I remember thinking just that as he was talking. I'd forgotten he even said it until three years later when someone asked me to go into a money pyramid with her and then I bust out laughing cause I remembered it. (still think there was other advice he should have been giving me that night. But he was trying.)

"Gatewaaaa-y"—random man on the street I stopped eating beef when I was 16. As soon as I stopped, I picked up this obsession with cows. I love cows. I collect the miniature Cow Parade figures and I have more than thirty of them now. I have a cow pillow that moos when you squeeze it. A cow chess set now too. I also have a cow-print coat. I used to wear it in DC and random people would "moooo!" at me all the time. I added it to my list of reasons I hated DC. Everyone was so conservative that I always stuck out like a clichéd sore thumb. That and they were unimaginative. Ugh! I moved to New York years later and wore the coat to a friend's party. I rode the subway from downtown Manhattan, walked a couple avenues and no one so much as batted a lash at the coat. I was crossing 21st and Fifth and a man from the other side of the street yelled this at me. (For the uninformed, the Gateway computer box has cowpint all over it.) I laughed and laughed and it made me so happy. One, because it took a good 500 people to say something about the coat. Two, because when someone finally said something, it was original.

"What do you know? You're the descendent of a gotdamn slave?"—freshman year boyfriend (from Guyana no less.) We were arguing about something stupid and I was right. He was backed into a corner and this was his comeback. It stands out because I hadn't read enough about black history at the time to tell him his people just got dropped off the slave ship first. My self-esteem was also so shot that I stayed with him after he said that to me (and he said it countless times after that too.) Whenever I think of how much work I need to put in on me, I think about that moment and how much I've learned and grown.

"But what's changed?" –most recent ex I was in a relationship that was good, but was not working for 2.5 years. It was perfect in everyway except one. We ignored the issue, then we argued only about that one thing for years and finally we broke up because of it. It was for the best—he knew and I knew. But when I encountered the dating scene again, I was mortified by the abysmal options. I think he was too. I wanted to go back to what was good, but not great. More importantly, it was familiar. So I told him I wanted to come home. And I could tell by his initial reaction that he wanted to let me come back. But he was always the more logical one between us. He asked me this question and I knew the answer: nothing. I'll always respect him for thinking with his head and not his heart.

"You always have a choice. But do you want to deal with certain consequences?"—Mazi This man is wise beyond his years. Always has been, even in college. Whenever I was in the midst of a crisis (or what I thought was a crisis) I called him and he always talked me down from my mental ledge. I was flipping out about being trapped in DC and working a job I hated and wanting to get back to New York and how my life was falling apart and I was trapped and he said this to me. He went on to say that if I wanted to, I could hang up the phone right then, walk to the train station, buy a ticket to New York and go that day and never come back again. I had chosen to go work that morning, to sit at my desk, to stay in DC and to call him instead of going to New York. Just realizing that I had choices and was making them day in and day out was empowering. I immediately felt better. (I hadn't thought about this in years, but I talked to someone yesterday and told her this story and it was an "aha!" moment for her too.)

"A real man ain't no punk" – Fahiym It's a definition by negation, but a valid definition nonetheless. I was meeting with an editor about a music assignment and somehow we started talking about marriage and relationships when he dropped this gem. I have my own multiple ideas about what a man is and what a man isn't, what he should do and what he shouldn't. But this really gets to the essence of what a man is, I think. Fah was talking about the way women sometimes try to boss men, treat them like children instead of like men. He thought this was because black women are so used to 'wearing the pants' that when they encounter a real man they don't know how to deal with one. I've looked at my encounters with men a lot differently since this conversation.

"You can take her, but you'll have to do something with her hair first" –Grandma It was early on in my non-perm years. Iwas probably 19 or 20. I finally had this huge nappy/curly fro that I was so proud of. (Angela Davis would have been too.) I was standing next to my grandmother at her church and one of the ladies who hadn't seen me since I was a kid complimented her on my development. She said something like I was such a nice young lady and she would love to take me home. Then my grandmother dropped this bomb. I was so hurt and so offended but I said nothing and laughed my embarrassment off. I was really angry at myself for a long time for not standing up for myself right then. In retrospect, I know it would not have made a difference. My grandmother is from another generation—one that equates straight hair with prettiness and ladylikeness and no amount of outrage or indignation from me would have changed her mind. It would have just been an ugly scene. For years, I remembered this as a moment I should have stood up for myself, at least to keep me from feeling extra belittled by letting the insult slide. Now I think of it as a moment where I chose to pick my battles. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

Ask Mommy

So Jay-Z makes the cover of LIFE magazine with the subheading "World's Biggest Rap Star." Hmm. He's huge. He's brilliant. No doubt. But world's biggest? I look up the demographics for LIFE and it seems that Mommy, with the exception of being black, fits it pretty well. College educated, her household makes over 60K, she's two years above the age of the average predominately female readership. She raised a Jay-Z enthusiast, who bumped his albums in her house and cars for at least six summers. I figure if he's the world's biggest rap star, Mommy must know about him.

me: mommy, who's jay-z? mommy: singer/rapper. me: can you name a song? her: no. me: who's Jay-Zs girlfriend? her: beyonce me: can you name a song? her: the one where she shakes, shakes, shakes

Hmmm. Seems Mommy doesn't know very much about the World's Biggest Rapper. Let's see what Mommy knows about other popular rappers.

me: mommy, who's snoop? her: rapper with braids

me: mommy, who's 50 cent? her: (looks at me like i'm stupid) he's a rapper. me: can you name a song. her: no, but he got shot 9 times.

me: mommy, who's Eminem? her: the white boy.

me: mommy, can you name a rap song? her: no, not off the top of my head...

(five minutes later) Her: yes, i can. (very proud) R. Kelly. me: R. Kelly. hmm. Can you name a song? her: step to the left. step to the right. he's a great artist. he writes for a lot of people me: know anything else about R. Kelly? her: he does indecent things with children.

mommy: hey, what am I being interviewed for? me: Jay-Z made the cover of Life mag-- her: what? LIFE? why?

(five minutes later) me: hey, mommy. who do you think is the world's biggest rapper? her: snoop or 50 Cent. me: are you saying that cause i just asked about them? her: no (with attitude). cause i actually know who they are. me: can you identify 50 Cent in a photo? her: no. me: can you ID Snoop? her: yes. he has braids and dresses like a pimp. he's been in movies and on talk shows. me: can you ID Jay-Z? her: (thinks for a few seconds).. i keep picturing the little guy Janet's engaged too. no, i don't remember what Jay-Z looks like. i just remember seeing [Jermaine Dupri] and thinking, 'Janet could do better than that.'

me: hey mommy, who's kanye west? her: the guy who says bush doesn't like black people. he's very successful and a good writer. me: do you know any kanye songs? her: no. he wrote a song for his mom though. me: really? how do you know that? her: he was on oprah.

me: mommy, who's notorious BIG? her: he was killed. big guy. he was killed in vegas or new york. me: really? her: it was new york. the other guy got killed in vegas

me: mommy, who's tupac? her: that's the guy that got killed in vegas. it was a drive by. me: what else do you know about him? her: his mom manages his affairs now. she keeps the estate together. me: anything else? her: he makes more money dead than he did alive.

edit: after this chat, I tell Mommy who everyone is and why they are relevant. She nods, but I'm not sure she cares or retains what i say. 2 hours later, Mommy asks me, "[Amelda] who sings, 'It's Your Birthday?" I tell her. She's suprised.

Her: I thought he was a thug. Me: He isn't? Her: {confused look} Thugs make birthday music? You said he wears a bulletproof vest. Me: He does. Her: {another confused look} To sing birthday songs? Me: {laughing hysterically} Mommy, can you sing the song? Her: Yes. {she sings the entire chorus, including "go shorty" and "gonna sip Bacardi like it's my berfday." } Me: Mommy, how do you know that song? Her: {looks at me like I'm stupid}They play it at birthday parties. (all of her friends are 50+)

My Father Called Me A Party Girl

 

I've had this theory for awhile that men like "boring" women. And by boring, I mean women who might think too much but don't ever say too much, certainly nothing controversial or challenging on most levels (admittedly this is a whole 'nother blog to be completed shortly. Just thought I'd throw that in there as a teaser). By my observation, they don't like women who do too much either. It's fine for a woman to visit with her family, maybe hang out with a girlfriend or two every now and again, but men really seem to have a thing for these bland women (in both looks, dress and personality) who prefer to stay home and hold down the fort while they go gallivanting through the streets. I realized one day that all the women I know with boyfriends are bland and stay home all the time. And I know they're not bunned up with their bfs cause I run into those dudes when I'm out...

READ THE REST in  A BELLE IN BROOKLYN: The Go-to Guide for Advice on Living Your Best Single Life. ON SALE NOW (ATRIA)

All Hustle, No Flow

I started my one-woman tirade against Hustle & Flow when [a Black women's magazine] put Terrance Howard, a man who was playing the role of a pimp that tricked out two black women, on the cover. Perhaps it was because his "bottom bitch" in the movie was black (at least his heart was with the sistah?) they felt this cover would resonate with the mostly female, mostly black readership. Perhaps it was because he's an attractive man—sans conk, of course. Perhaps it was because the movie was just so good that it transcended pimping, somehow reached into the soul of a man, who just happened to be a pimp, so much that his occupation didn't matter and that's why he received the cover.

Weeks after the movie debuted, I decided it was finally time to see for myself what all the hype was about. I didn't get "it." The movie sucked. It was horrible. I fell asleep in the theatre it was so bad. I laughed when people were trying to be dramatic the same way I do when I watch Showgirls. I thought that maybe it was the subject matter that bothered me so. I don't like to hear/ watch women degraded in rhyme, on screen, anywhere, but somehow I do manage to be a die-hard fan of The Mack, Superfly, Dolemite, American Pimp, and various other movies about pimping. It wasn't that H&F was more degrading than any of those (though I could have done without Taraji P. Henson's greased up face the whole movie), it was just a bad movie about a pimp. There weren't even any memorable lines, any memorable scenes for viewers to quote or act out the next time they're giddy and drunk. Folks have been quoting Goldie and Dolemite for 30 years now. Your average black man can recite The Mack start to finish at will. No one's quoting Hustle & Flow today, much less tomorrow. It was forgettable and I wanted my money back before the credits rolled. Walking out the theatre, I was really puzzled as to how this movie even got made.

When I read that Howard had been nominated for Best Actor for H&F and "It's Hard Out Here for A Pimp" had been nominated for Best Song, I was appalled, but like most, I thought there wasn't a chance in hell that either would win. I should add that I cringed when I heard Three 6 Mafia would be performing the song...live (oh no!) ... at the Oscars (WTF?).

If that performance wasn't a modern day minstrel show, i don't know what else could be. White folks in black face could not have done better. All the group needed to compliment the hoes parading around the stage, and Henson belting off key, (anyone else notice how she substituted "bitch" for "wench," or was it "witch?" Both?) was a porch monkey. Let me break it down-- a man named Crunchy Black rhymed about pimping while women dressed as prostitutes provided the scenery. Anyone who can't get see the minstrel show connotations in all this needs a refersher course on what is dancing and what is shuffling. ASAP, watch Bamboozled and tell me life is not imitating art.

Black people looked like coons on TV for all the world to see. Not the first time it happened, certainly won't be the last. For those of you who don't have a problem seeing Black folks portrayed like that on TV, well you're in luck. There will be a plethora of degenerate movies with catchy, pre-school like theme songs coming to a theatre near you for a long time to coming. Black film suffered a horrendous blow that night. You think a black movie with any kind of integrity is getting green-lighted in the next 18 months?

"It's Hard Out Here for A Pimp" won. I just don't understand. The song was a'ight, catchy even, but by no means nominee worthy, much less Oscar-win worthy.

Three 6 Mafia has the statue now. So be it. I ain't celebrating it, but i'm sure they will dance a jig and then some to make up for that. (Last I heard, they were travelling around Hollywood with the statue in a brown paper bag and breaking it out to gain entry to clubs.) While they are shuff...dancing, I just hope they finally get a porch monkey to make the act complete.

Another Discourse on Dating

Anybody know the cost of a date? Fellas?

I wound up back at Tillman’s for a buh-bye party for a now-former editor. I bought a drink, the same one I’d had two of the previous evening. It was $12 for a chocolate martini. That’s about average for a NYC drink at a proper establishment in Manhattan (and it beats Bar 89’s $14 martinis) so I didn’t bat a mascara-ed lash at the price. It was only later when I realized Stars had to have dropped $60 on our date that I gained a sense of pause.

$60 for 4 drinks? Can that be right?? That’s ludicrous! And suddenly explains why some guys expect sex in under a month. I mean a good 30 days of dating is what, like 8 outings? So we’re talking a good $600 p/month easy, no? That’s a harem of prostitutes in Brazil for a week. If a guys is dating a woman who doesn’t “give up” the ass quick, the flight to South America, plus accommodations, and ho money might be more fiscally responsible. (I say that with the understanding that dates are about getting to know someoneand leading up to sex.) Suddenly, I’m beginning to understand Black men’s obsession with Brazil. (More on that later. A book about that topic just landed on my desk at work. Looking forward to reading.)

I bounce my newfound revelation off Patent, who informs me that my tally is grossly under-calculated. I’m only counting drinks and maybe occasional appetizers to end up with $600. He breaks it down like this—an average outing is dinner and a movie or dinner and a lounge. Dinner is $40 - $60 a person easy, plus a bottle or two of wine? (Are two people really drinking two bottles of wine? Two glasses has me done.) Just there you have approximately $150, not counting prior entertainment or a lounge after. For a full-out night, you could be talking $250 average! I checked with some more guy friends about the price of just a regular date, like a Wednesday night dinner with a drink-- Jason reports $120 for DC, Tariq, also in DC says $100. Alan from ATL (*sigh*) says $70-$80. Is it just me or is this range crazy? I had no idea dates cost this much.

I think about my ex, a bourgoise negro if ever I’ve met one (said with love.) He loved good food as much as he did good service and I don’t cook so we ate out at nice places—a lot. The deal was that if the check was under $50, I’d pay. Over $50, he paid. At one point he was preparing to buy a co-op (he has five properties now) and so one of the ways we decided to save money was to not to drink out anymore. (We’d pop a bottle at home instead. My house= home.) Even with that caveat, I think I picked up the tab five times in the two and a half years we dated—and that was probably for brunch.

I think about the tabs when I go out with my girls—and largely I eat at the same places on my dates. (I like knowing the restaurant staff by name.) I prefer little known, cute-sie places with great food, service, drinks, décor, and energy. Foo-foo chi-chi places are reserved for dining with Daddy when he comes to the city twice a month and picks up the check. In BK, the tab runs $20-$30pp for brunch or dinner. Lower Manhattan about $40. Midtown? About the same. (I have no idea what Uptown is since my favorite restaurant closed in 2006.) But to go out to just dinner with my dude to my type of spot in the city is at least $80? No wonder men want women to cook more.

How the hell to guys keep from going broke with prices like this? I think I just gained so much more respect for a man with a decent credit score and home ownership. Suddenly I feel an urge to get a cookbook, if for no other reason than to keep my suitors out the poor house.

A note to the guys (who I feel sorry for right now): my very best dates have been cheap as hell. I know your heart is in the right place when you drop dough like this, and yes, you should take your lady out now and again. That said, if a woman really likes you, she will chill with you on a park bench. (Ladies, co-sign me on this one.) I ate at Whole Foods and drank Jamba Juice (I paid for the juice) with a “friend” recently. I couldn’t have been happier if for no other reason than I was there with him. Oh, and if the girl you’re digging is the wifey-type, you can’t spend to get her draws off quicker so don’t even bother.