Preserving the Sexy

Many, many years ago I watched an episode of Oprah that featured women who did not look their age. There was one woman—a Black lady in her mid-50s-- who did not look a day beyond her late 30s. She was radiant, charming, gorgeous! Oprah told her as much and then asked her how she kept such a youthful glow. With a smirk, the woman said “I date men in their 30s” as if that statement was explanation enough of her striking looks. Oprah didn’t understand and looked quizzical. The woman looked at Oprah and in her most dignified voice added. “Men in their 30s… well, they take direction well.”

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Crash Into Me

 

You ask and you receive:

A Refresher, The Crash clip [video width="560" height="315" id="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EtvbEtPIGiA" type="youtube"]

So I usually wouldn’t take the time to discuss a three-year old movie in this forum (blogs are all about discussing current events, no?). I don’t care that it won an Oscar. It’s an old film. But alas, the topic of that pivotal Crash scene when Terrence Howard does nothing as his onscreen wife, played by Thandie Newton, is molested in front him by the cop keeps coming up in conversations. Yes, still. I’ve discussed it a thousand-million-hundred times with bunches of different people from varied Black backgrounds and while no group can agree on what should have been done, each person in every grouping universally agrees/claims that what was done (or rather not done), was not what they would do. ‘Dude should have done something’ is always the refrain I hear and from there ideas are tossed out as to exactly what he should have done beyond just stand there.

Anything TH did would have likely gotten him beat or shot, perhaps killed, and at the very least got him arrested. And while I, as a black woman, don’t want be the cause of another Black man in The System, certainly not the impetus for yet another Black man killed or beaten by cops, I also don’t want to be married to a man who won’t defend me at all costs. Yes, Thandie mouthed off and should have shut the fuck up. Yes, she should have stayed in the damn car. But she didn't. As a result, she 1) got screamed on by another man-cop or not– in front of her so-called man (I'll give TH a pass for not reacting to that. She had it coming); 2) The cop snatched her up (note: she tried to resist, to fight back and couldn't defend herself); 3) she got shoved up against the truck IN FRONT OF HER SO CALLED MAN; and 4) the man, cop or not, palms her ass; and 5) THEN he feels her up IN FRONT OF HER SO CALLED MAN.

She is increasingly humiliated throughout the ordeal and when she finally looks to her just standing there husband to help, he does NOTHING. In fact, he looks away.

I’m not usually one of those people who supports noble martyrdom and legend-making displays of male honor. In all the so-called snitch conversations re: TIs bodyguard, I’m always the one arguing 'tis better to be a free ‘’snitch'’ than an incarcerated stand-up guy. But when it comes to defending your woman, especially your wife, from a physical threat by another man, I expect a man to fall on the sword– literally, metaphorically, figuratively, whatever. I don’t think as a woman I am rendered unable to protect myself because a man is present. The onus is on me to protect me. But for whatever reason I try to and God forbid fail as Thandie did in that scene, I fully expect my man (or any male that I know that is present) to help me. Any male not willing to do so doesn’t deserve the honor of calling any woman his own or even calling himself a man.

Discuss…

Humble Mumble: A Story in Many Acts

Act One

Two weeks before V-day 2006, my ex gave me the verbal equivalent of the shaken peace sign and said we should go our separate ways. I couldn't argue with him. The break up had been months in the making and though we had been great together at one point, things had fallen apart. He was a good guy and I wished (still do) him well at our parting. He began to walk off and just when I thought our split would be amicable, he sauntered back to say this:

"You will never find another man as good as me. I was good to you, D."

And he was. I have to believe that was his ego talking (the male ego is a fragile thing) so I've never held that parting shot against him, choosing to focus on the great 2 years and the somewhat iffy last six months instead. You'll never hear me say anything negative about that man.

In the year and a half since we dissolved our relationship, I've seen him a few times.

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PSA: A Word to Birds

Oh, and who knew ya’ll liked Exie so much? LOL! Go figure.

Keep posting. It makes me happy, let’s me know someone out there is reading.

I was at Book Expo in June, an annual gathering of the who’s who in the book industry, with a fellow editor from another publishing house. She's a southern belle too and we were exiting the convention center when a girl ran up to my girl, introduced herself, and began to nervously pitch her manuscript. It seems the girl had dated a high profile football player (NY Giant) for a couple years and she’d written a tell-all book about their tumultuous relationship. Belle2 politely passed the woman her card and said the same thing every editor says to anyone who verbally pitches an idea: send me a proposal next week. (You'd be amazed at the number of aspiring authors who never follow up on this.)

The woman switched away in a tight white dress that highlighted one of her better assets and as she did, Belle2 and I turned to each other and gave the ‘’are you fucking kidding me?'’ look, scrunched up faces and all. I’d walked the floor at Jacob Javitz for 3-4 hours that day and the day before wearing a badge that listed my title and pub house. That was the 7th woman I’d encountered in 2 days looking to dime out her ex-whatever in a book. Over an early dinner at my then- favorite restaurant 44&X, Belle2 relayed the same stories of similar encounters as did a bunch of other editors who joined us later. By the third round of chocolate martinis, a table of publishing's finest had concluded that there is a national epidemic of chicks who can't control their beaks.

I sorta get why. You can get famous simply by heading off someone famous. Just ask Monica Lewinsky. And you can get grossly paid for it too. Ask Supahead, who received a mil-plus advance for a 3 book deal in her last publishing contract. (The alleged $7.5 mil she received for book one was a gross exaggeration. More like $75k.)

Flocks of feathered friends are turning up in unexpected places now too--like the cover of Essence. Last September, KP opened her beak to the reigning Black women's magazine about her love affair with Crazy bka Sean Combs. Last month, she squawked again. It seems that after getting played timelessly, she finally left Didster in a dramatic fashion that included packing up her shit and bouncing with the ninos while he was out of town. In the most recent TMI rant, she dimes the negro out about another child he fathered by yet another woman.

That the whole reading-world knows the ins and outs of their relationship (which any relationship expert will tell you is a no-no) takes a secondary place to the fact that the whole reading world knows Kim is the biggest bird since Sesame Street. Not because she went back. Again. (A week after the Essence story hit stands, she in Did I Do That? were hanging and shopping in the Hamptons on White Party Weekend.) But because she keeps speaking pigeon. Why oh why won’t she shut the f*ck up? She’s told us how Didster's fathered children outside the relationship, pointed out that he has three children by her and he won’t marry her, more or less acknowledged that he cheats on her rampantly and yet she's still with him. Bird. And unlike authors, Kim’s not even diming her and Didster out for the money. The OK! Interview she did pre-Essence might have paid, but Essence was free. She's whoring out her life solely for the attention! (Note to all fathers: hug your young daughters. Show them how a man who loves a woman treats her. Treat them like Irv Gotti treats Angie.)

Sometimes when birds flap their beaks, it's not about the fame or the fortune, just simple revenge. I heard a woman bragging recently to a chick about a dude they had in common. He was dating (officially claiming) one of them, but still calling the other one. The chick who was being called--not claimed–was proud of that. My first thought: Bird. I heard another story that's making the Industry rounds about a popular male celebrity who likes to be baby powdered down, then put in a diaper and spanked. The chick who pinned the nappy and lit his ass on fire tells this tale every chance she gets as if it's only degrading to him. Bird. Another chick –a chubby girl with horrid self-esteem issues-whines to anyone listening about how her man talks to her greasy all the time. Apparently, he paid most of her bills (she worked but spent all her dough on ill-fitting clothes) and when she got mad at him she would punish him by refusing to give him sex, but kept giving him head. (Full disclosure: the real reason she wouldn’t break him off anymore was she was fucking another dude he sorta knew.) Oh, and he used activator to keep his unnaturally curly hair in curls. She tells his business to anyone with ears but doesn't seem to get that while she's talking, everyone's thinking, 'why in the hell are you heading off a disrespectful negro who a jheri curl?' Bird!

So after the women tell these stories, diming out the men who trusted them, or at the very least supported them as in the case of Carmen Bryan and the chick dating Ol Soul Glo, these ladies (again, I use the term loosely) want to be treated with respect. Carmen gets mad when Wendy Williams goes at her grimey on the show. She's proudly confessed to fucking 2 dudes at the same time and expects to be treated like the First Lady. Supahead gets tight on some other radio show and demands to be called by her government name from here on out after she's penned a second book about her dual-industry whoredom. Are you really demanding R-E-S-P-E-C-T after you S-U-C-K-E-D half the Billboard 100--and then wrote about it?

Whoooddahh! Whooddahh! (My attempt to call to the pigeons in their native tongue.)

Pause your wings (and beaks) mid-flap and listen up.

Be scandalous! Do dirty nasty, filthy lewd acts that will shame your surname for generations to come if you so chose. I’m not old-fashioned enough to tell women to keep their legs closed and not to do any dirt. All I’m saying is keep your mouth shut so no one’s talking about what you do. You can fuck every dude in the Tri-State who asks to just put the head in and still be a lady. I maintain that you’re only a whore or a bird if everyone knows your business.

All you secret-spilling women with these juicy stories about fucked up lovers should know that you are showing the world just how fucked up you are too. Oh, we're reading and watching and listening to your tales of explicit woe and salacious fuckery, but when you're done we're laughing at you. Not with you.

Think on that the next time you whore your private life for attention, fame, or finance.

Choir Boy 2

Choir Boy's gonna think I'm an idiot. A stone-cold, obsessive, insecure idiot! No! NO! NOOOOOO!!!!!! (See yesterday's blog if you don't know what I'm talking about.) I send off another text, triple-checking that it's headed to Tariq before I push Send telling him the idiot mistake I've just made and forwarding the original text that went o Choir Boy. I need Tariq to tell me how to get out of this one gracefully--if at all possible. I have to be able to redeem myself somehow, right?

I am mortified. He's gonna think I'm nuts. Or maybe he'll think I'm grown up and honest and don't play games. I dunno. What would you think?

Trying to make light of the situation, I text Tariq again: Wed's blog... How texting is ruining my life.

120 seconds pass and Tariq doesn't hit me back. Neither does Choir Boy. I decide to turn my phone Off (which I NEVER do) for 20 minutes as a self-punishment for mis-sending the text. I tell myself I will cut myself off from the world for a third of an hour to teach myself a lesson. It's the worst punishment I can think of. But really, I can't bear the thought of reading Choir Boy's response. What if he says something? Worse, what if he says nothing? My mind is running in a thousand different directions that lead to a decaying brick wall like the one at the end of Brewster Street. The nothing that Choir Boy and I already had is now officially ruined. I won't even be his girl after this, now that he knows I'm crazy.

I down a glass of wine and try to think "well, fuck it! Que sera, sera."

Thirty minutes (an extra ten to teach myself an extra lesson) and another glass of wine, I turn my phone on. One new text message. (The rest of the world must have known I was on punishment. My phone is never this silent.) Tariq, a true friend, tells me it's not the end of the world.

"It's aight," T texts. " It happens, D. I would think she can't stop thinking about me... Good sign for me."

Though Choir Boy is yet to respond, I'm sort of convinced that I haven't killed my chances with him. A beam of hope edges through my dark cloud.

"You wouldn't think I'm a needy chick?" I type back to Tariq. "The thing is, he just texted me to hang out. I'm glad he invited me, but if he likes me shouldn't he want to hang out with me one on one? Like we party together a lot, but like, we never just hang out him and me."

Before Tariq can answer, a text comes through from Choir Boy. I put the phone face down on the counter and polish off another half-glass of wine. I have no idea what CB will say. I take a deep breath, flip the phone over and read his text.

Huh?

He texted me to say sent his response to my email because his reply was too long?

Oh Shit.

I text to Tariq, who still hasn't responded to me. I think he’s annoyed that I’m blowing up his phone.

"Oh Shit! He responded. Sent the answer to my email because it was too much for my phone. I'm scared to check my email. LOL!"

T. tells me to woman up and check my e-mail. He doesn't have to tell me what he thinks dude is thinking because dude has told me himself if I would just check my email. I resist the urge to down another wine, (I'm not an alcoholic. Geez!) I take another deep breath and log on to MSN.

Choir Boy has apologized. Er? Explained what the hold up was on asking me out. What? Said he hoped the delay didn't hurt his chances of getting to know me better and furthermore, can he take me out for the evening on XXXX night?

Huh?

Can life be this simple? That you ask what you want to know and a simple answer is delivered just like that? You tell someone what you want, and you get it?

I pour another glass of wine (I'm celebrating my epiphany this time) and text Choir Boy back, happily accepting his offer for a proper evening with me. I'm so pleased with myself that I sit on my counter and giggle like a toddler learning to work the DVD Player as I marvel at my profound discovery.

I asked what I wanted to know and I got the answer. Better than that, I got the answer that I wanted to hear. Can dealing with men (not boys) be this easy? Imagine if I did this in every aspect of my life.

I text Tariq my thoughts, updating him on my new theory to approaching life: ask and you shall receive. Can life really be this simple?

He writes back 30 seconds later:

YES!!!!!!

Choir Boy

So I typed this text to this boy I used to see... Well, actually I didn't. I just always wanted to start a blog with that line. Anyway, I typed a text to my best friend Tariq. I'd met a guy, a couple weeks back. We share a mutual friend and after a night of partying, the friend called to let me know his boy had expressed an interest in me and asked if it was okay to pass my number along. Said boy is tall and wide and solid and fine. He is also a pure sweetheart, the last of a dying breed. Had I thought he was remotely interested, I probably would have thrown myself at him in a lusty liquor-fueled fit earlier in the evening, so it's best that my bubble-vision didn't allow me to realize he was checking for me. (The Lord works in mysterious ways.) Anyway, I agreed that my number should be passed along and when I arrived at work the next morning, there was an email in my personal account wishing me a "Good Morning and Happy Wednesday."

From that Wednesday to the Wednesday two weeks later, we e-mailed all day every work day, texted in the evening, and talked on the phone for at least an hour almost every night--high school style. He went out of town to party with his friends below the Mason Dixon for weekend and he didn't forget about me during the southern debauchery. I was so busy basking in the attention of my newfound crush that it took a full 14 days until it hit me that he hadn't asked me out. Two weeks and no date?

The revelation hit me as I was logging off of my Outlook and AIM at work around 8PM. Just as I was about to get on the elevator, a text came through from Choir Boy inviting me to a party he was headed to that night with his boys in the Meatpacking District.

With his... boys?!

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Animal Kingdom: Part 1

‘’What’s a pimp with no hoes/ you know the game and how it goes/ We trying to get chose.'’ - UGK "International Players Anthem"

I usually don’t do clubs on weekends for a number of reasons. 1) I can party and drink for free Mon - Thurs.; 2) there’s no dress code Mon-Thurs. so my guy friends can get in wearing sneeks, a tee and a fitted if they so choose; 3) weekends are for chillin (i have to rest at some point); and 4) whenever possible, I prefer not to leave Brooklyn.

One Saturday night I made an exception. A friend had a housewarming to celebrate the purchase of his second condo. Many of my friends were in attendance, the drinks were flowing and the vibe was right at his very lovely home. His shindig was winding down but the festive mode wasn’t. A group of us decided to keep the party going like Jesus with the wine and took it to the city. My boy from DSA media was doing an all-star party with the Giants & Jets at Crash Mansion, a spot just over the BK bridge, a connect at the door, Just Blaze on the 1s & 2s, and Hennessey and Patron sponsoring the event. What could go wrong?

We get dropped off outside the venue and its sheer pandamonium. Heads everywhere. Despite the craziness, Dante keeps his word and whisks me and my girls to the front of line (good look, D). We get downstairs and it’s crowded. Check. More men than women ('’I'm in a sausage factory,'’ Phoenix observes.) A surprising, unexpected check. And they’re all tall– really tall! And well constructed– really well constructed! And glittering from the ropes of diamonds (or CZs) hanging from their necks…

Oh no! They are all athletes!!!!

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Beauty Fades: The ROI Story

I woke up this morning wondering what to write. I meant to edit something together yesterday, but I had a one-day roundtrip flight to Toronto for work. 7:20 AM flight after partying till 2:30 at the Chrisette/ Henny party at Nikki Midtown the night before. (Not a good idea in retrospect.) I was in no place to put together a coherent thought before a good night's sleep. And even after 6 straight hours (I was on the phone high-school style talking to my new crush till the middle of the night), my mind pulled a blank. Thankfully, one of my muses (GVG) sent me an e-mail that served as inspiration, and in part, today's post.

If you read my very first blog, you know that I have a special disdain for Beautiful But Superficial folk. This city is packed with them--women who rely on heir beauty to compensate for a personality (and in some cases a brain) and wonder why they can't find a good man. Hello? Because you are not a good woman. These folk expect the world, offer nothing at all but a pretty face, and have the nerve to wonder why "lesser" women pull dudes.

Someday I'll tell the story (in my book) of my arch-enemy, the eternally-single, beautiful model chick who pouts to get her way with men and women, behaves like a spoiled brat (damn near tantrum) and whines when she is not appeased. Model Chick is in her late 20s and perpetually in search of a "may-ann" to wife her because she is beautiful and she deserves it. Every week I see her on the arm of a different fine fellow. And the following week, I see another woman on his arm. Some woman who he actually listens to when she is speaking. Some woman who he doesn't leave waiting at the bar or the table while he talks to "lesser" women or his boys. Some woman who may not be as beautiful as Model Chick, but some woman who has caught and kept the fine fellow's attention. (Cue Erykah Badu on "Cleva," - 'your booty might be bigga, but I still can pull your n—a').

I'll flow from that story to the one about my father's friend, who divorced his first wife for a younger woman. All was good till the young woman got old too. You can look at her now and tell she was beautiful, but her glory years have long passed. She is in her late 50s, looks like she's in her mid-70s. Her husband talks to her like a child because she acts and thinks and behaves like one. (She pouts too.) The four of us sat at dinner one night in Miami and only 3 of us engaged in conversation. (Hubby had her on ignore the whole night.) She can barely hold a conversation (real talk) and relies on the toss of her thinning, waist -length ponytail to curry favor. Old, formerly beautiful women with nothing to say ain't a pretty picture, folks.

I say all that to say: ladies, please cultivate a good personality. It will take you far, far beyond your looks. Beauty fades, babes.

Now onto the inspiration for today's post: (Gosh, I wish I had the original link to this!)

THIS APPEARED ON CRAIG’S LIST

[She says:]

What am I doing wrong? Okay, I’m tired of beating around the bush. I’m a beautiful (spectacularly beautiful) 25 year old girl. I’m articulate and classy. I’m not from New York. I’m looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year. I know how that sounds, but keep in mind that a million a year is middle class in New York City, so I don’t think I’m overreaching at all. Are there any guys who make 500K or more on this board? Any wives? Could you send me some tips?

I dated a business man who makes average around 200 - 250. But that’s where I seem to hit a roadblock. 250,000 won’t get me to central park west. I know a woman in my yoga class who was married to an investment banker and lives in Tribeca, and she’s not as pretty as I am, nor is she a great genius. So what is she doing right? How do I get to her level?

Here are my questions specifically:

- Where do you single rich men hang out? Give me specifics- bars, restaurants, gyms

- What are you looking for in a mate? Be honest guys, you won’t hurt my feelings

- Is there an age range I should be targeting (I’m 25)?

- Why are some of the women living lavish lifestyles on the upper east side so plain? I’ve seen really ‘plain jane’ boring types who have nothing to offer married to incredibly wealthy guys. I’ve seen drop dead gorgeous girls in singles bars in the east village. What’s the story there?

- Jobs I should look out for? Everyone knows - lawyer, Investment banker, doctor. How much do those guys really make? And where do they hang out? Where do the hedge fund guys hang out?

- How you decide marriage vs. just a girlfriend? I am looking for MARRIAGE ONLY

Please hold your insults - I’m putting myself out there in an honest way. Most beautiful women are superficial; at least I’m being up front about it. I wouldn’t be searching for these kind of guys if I wasn’t able to match them - in looks, culture, sophistication, and keeping a nice home and hearth.

[He says:]

I read your posting with great interest and have thought meaningfully about your dilemma. I offer the following analysis of your predicament. Firstly, I’m not wasting your time, I qualify as a guy who fits your bill; that is I make more than $500K per year. That said, here’s how I see it.

Your offer, from the prospective of a guy like me, is plain and simple a cr@ppy business deal. Here’s why. Cutting through all the B.S., what you suggest is a simple trade: you bring your looks to the party and I bring my money. Fine, simple. But here’s the rub, your looks will fade and my money will likely continue into perpetuity…in fact, it is very likely that my income increases but it is an absolute certainty that you won’t be getting any more beautiful!

So, in economic terms you are a depreciating asset and I am an earning asset. Not only are you a depreciating asset, your depreciation accelerates! Let me explain, you’re 25 now and will likely stay pretty hot for the next 5 years, but less so each year. Then the fade begins in earnest. By 35 stick a fork in you!

So in Wall Street terms, we would call you a trading position, not a buy and old…hence the rub…marriage. It doesn’t make good business sense to “buy you” (which is what you’re asking) so I’d rather lease.

In case you think I’m being cruel, I would say the following. If my money were to go away, so would you, so when your beauty fades I need an out. It’s as simple as that. So a deal that makes sense is dating, not marriage. Separately, I was taught early in my career about efficient markets. So, I wonder why a girl as “articulate, classy and spectacularly beautiful” as you has been unable to find your sugar daddy. I find it hard to believe that if you are as gorgeous as you say you are that the $500K hasn’t found you, if not only for a tryout.

By the way, you could always find a way to make your own money and then we wouldn’t need to have this difficult conversation. With all that said, I must say you’re going about it the right way. Classic “pump and dump.” I hope this is helpful, and if you want to enter into some sort of lease, let me know.

Reserved Reverence: A Hair Story

Somewhere before my 18th birthday and long before Lauryn Hill spit "hair weaves like Europeans/ nails done by Koreans/ come again," I got this urge to be as God intended. I think I'd just read The Autobiography of Malcolm X a fifth time or maybe I'd just copped the first Badu album, or maybe I'd just completed my first African-American studies class in college. Then again, it could have been the open sores on my head from my perm staying on too long to alleviate any sign of a kink. (I believed in getting it straight.) It could have been the track glue that seemed to get everywhere and never come out (my pre sew-in days), or maybe it was sitting in the nail salon on Saturday for hours waiting to have my nails filled in by a woman I couldn't communicate with beyond gesticulating and basic English that only got complex when it came to telling me tab. Whatever the motivation, the result was the removal of my bra-strap long, jet black, bone-straight weave, axeing my hair into a Caesar to get rid of all the perm, and popping off my airbrushed acrylic nails. I did it for convenience (no longer fearing the rain, sweat or humidity) and self-love and so I wouldn't be slave to salons anymore. I expected to be free-er. What I didn't expect was the reaction I got from men.

With a perm, I was "Aye short-ay" and if a dude hollered and I didn't speak, I sometimes became all types of "bitches" and "hoes" as I kept walking down the block. Dudes opening lines were peppered with drops about what they could afford, what expensive location that they wanted to take me to, what they could do for me. (I guess I looked like a gold digger?) Sans-perm, I got 'Hello, Sista." I suddenly became "Beautiful Black Queen" and "Nubian Princess" and a whole range of other endearing, respectful sentiments. (My biggest crush refers to me as "Nubiana" these days. *Sigh*) I get doors opened by strange men who ran to open them and told me with appreciative sincerity, "you look very nice today.” And seats on the subway, which are damn near unheard of in this city. The block huggers in my neighborhood offer to carry my bags from the grocery store or send their sons over to help. Nine-tenths of men I encounter go out of their way to be chivalrous in a way I never experienced with acrylics and a perm. (One guy literally laid down his jacket for me to walk over a puddle a la LL Cool J on "I Need Love.") I didn't carry myself any different, didn't dress any different. The only thing that changed was my hair so I have to surmise that the hair is what made the male response to me switch up.

Earlier this year, I got the bright idea to straighten my hair. A couple well-placed tracks, 5 hours, 2 blow dryers and a pressing comb later, I had a bob with bangs (pre-Rhinnna dammit) that skimmed my shoulders. I went out to a Giant party at Cielo on Day Two and people that I saw 3-4 nights a week for the last few years didn't recognize me. (One of my aces greeted me like a fan, then did a double-take.) I had to re-introduce myself. That wasn't the bad part. That was the hollering from dudes again. The "Aye, Ma", the ungodly psst, psst, and the staple of let-me-get-at-you, "Excuse me Miss, can I have a moment of your time?" The latter wouldn't have been so bad, except that it was coming from 18-year-old boys with cornrows and du-rags and pants hanging off their ass. My new hair attracted a new man that I didn't dig. (For better or worse, I typically only pull guys with MBAs or who work in Finance. I can't figure it out why, but I am not mad at it.) The quality guys who I usually get approached by that make up the staple of my dating life were nowhere to be found. After 10 days of suffering through pressing my edges every morning and one "well fuck you then.... Bitch" when I didn't respond to a man hollering out his car window (are there women who actually walk up to the window?), I said "eff this" and stuck my head under the shower stream to get my kink back.

I'd tell you what disrespectful dudes say now when I ignore them, but I honestly cannot remember the last time a dude was disrespectful to me when I’ve had nappy hair. I've got multiple reasons for rocking kinky hair (or at least naturalesque.) But the top of the list is the way I'm treated in the street. For whatever reason, there's a reserved reverence that most men hold for un-permed hair. I like being treated like a Queen. And though I'm never mad at the respect that comes from wearing my hair without chemical processing, I just wonder why I'm just a chick or a shor-tay or aye bay bay with straight hair and a Nubiana with some kink to it. I'm a Queen either way, but shouldn't I always be treated as one regardless of the way I wear my hair?

(Men, I know you're reading 'cause you blast me about how hard I am on dudes. I'm dying to hear your comments on this.)

Relationals

Hey Honeys!

I am headed to DC for CBC weekend. I have absolutely nothing to do with politics beyond being the offspring of a man who lives it. I am going strictly for the parties. Even before I discovered that our Nation's Capital is also a big party city, this was always a HUGE weekend. It's when the black political industry decides to celebrate itself and goes all out with fashion shows, concerts, and straight throwdowns. The only weekend that tops this in the city is Howard's Homecoming if you went to an HBCU. (Sidenote: Boo to HU, who is conveniently sharing its homecoming weekend with my alma mater this year, thus completely overshadowing any UMCP events.)

Anyway, as I've been preparing to travel and tie-up loose NY ends before my weekend departure, I haven't had time to edit a new blog (at any given time, I have 5 or so in production, but I don't clean em up till right before I post.) So today, you get your first guest.

She's been mentioned before a few times on here--not a regular like Penelope, Ace, and Tariq--but she pops up under a pseudonym (like everyone else). She's a hilarious BK-by- way-of-Cali-girl (but not the stereotype) and super insightful without even trying. Over a sushi dinner in BK on Saturday, she summed me up as "that girl." The one who lives in a bubble (mostly true) and often fails to notice the subtly obvious until it's blatant. She has a totally different perspective on life than me and is 2x the socialite that I am. Oh, and she's also a dope writer.

We were Uptown one night with the DC-in-NY crew at Society and she mentioned this very new term: RELATIONALS. (I mentioned it in the last blog.) I insisted she write about it. The world needs this PSA.

Here goes:

dunno what this blog is going to be called but my girl amelda said i should write one after our conversations last night…so here goes na-than

RELATIONALS: after teaching a couple of my DC buddies how to play bones and scream out “DOMINO MU’FUCKA!!!” like on Snoop’s first record–Cali style-E of course–we got into a convo about relationships…or lack thereof. knew it was gonna happen, with 3 chics and 3 dudes, nobody was dating, everybody just friends. you know how that goes…

FIRST: you’re prolly like what the fuck is a relational…comically, my boy and I had a conversation earlier this year about folks that are in undefined situations (read: relationships) and because no one’s ever made the situation exclusive it can’t be an “official relationship” BUT you’re dealing with each other like bf or gf? THAT’S a relational.

RELATIONAL CHECKLIST: if these joints apply to you-watch yo back!

1) you’ve been dating and/or sleeping with this person steady for longer than 5-6 months with no commitment

2) when they page or call you, you hit them back quickly because “you don’t want to hear their mouth” or you don’t hit them purposely to punish them for something they’ve done

3) when you use the bathroom at their apartment, you have your own towel, toothbrush and/or soap

4) you guys have arguments about little things like him/her wearing shoes in your shoe-less apartment, dirty dishes or hair in the shower because you’ve had to tell them one too many times

5) you guys routinely spend time together a couple times a week and when the QT doesn’t happen, someone has to explain

6) songs like Plies’ “shawty,” 50’s “Follow My Lead,” John Legend’s “Another Again” or any other “I really like you but we’re not together” tracks remind you of that person

7) your friends know you’re together but NOT together

8) you’ve ever had to say, “I’m sorry” for some shit that prolly wasn’t your fault to keep the peace if more than three of these predicaments apply to you, then you might want to either lock that situation down, or move on because-take it from me-that joint could go on for YEARSSSSSSSS, lol…

LIKE BLACKSHEEP-THE CHOICE IS YOURS: now the men in last night’s convo brought up a good point, saying people only treat you how you let them treat you. and if women folk allow the men folk to get away with “relationals” (not to say that chics aren’t instigating relationals too, we do) then we’re enablers. and i had to agree. you know when you’re in some dead end situation that’s never going to mature for whatever reason. like keyshia cole- “you need to get if he ain’t gonna love you the right way–he don’t wanna.” and alot of us ladies like/love the dude so much, that we’ll take their presence in any wack ass form…but FUCK THAAAAAAAAAAAT. move on, or else you’ll most likely miss the person that WILL take off their shoes in your apartment, wash the dishes and keep the shower clean.

If you want to more insight on her, check out her other MySpace blogs at www.myspace.com/killahills

Snapshots of My Brooklyn Life: Part 2

I have a great life. Mostly because I am surrounded my great, hilarious, overly observant people. (Leads me to believe that I am doing something right.) I compiled a few of the crazy, random thoughts that they’ve said over the last month or so. And yes, the names are changed to protect the nutty.

I would love to write each of their stories in a complete blog, but I’m saving the good stuff for the book :-) Just wanted to give you a taste of what’s eventually coming and the fools (said with love) that inspire me to write.

Hope you find this as funny this time around as you did last time.

Quotes

‘’I appreciate your respect for my gangsta.'’- a lesbian chick @ Night of the Cookers, who fed a beautiful woman, left with her, and came back 15 minutes later with a different, equally beautiful woman. (My boys dapped her up for her flawless pimp skills.)

‘’I think I’m an imaginary hoe'’- Ace @ Republic having a moment of reflection while watching the men go by and lusting mightily.

‘’I saw balls!'’- a conservative, Christian woman, recapping an episode of HBO’s Tell Me You Love Me. In the hour long premiere, she saw a man ‘getting happy by himself'’, a 60 y.o. woman giving head to her husband, a hand job, and a few other graphic sex scenes. She called to ask if I’d seen it and more importantly, if I knew when the next episode would air.

Man A: ‘’What I got to do with that bitch being pregnant? I ain’t tell that ho I wanted a kid.'’ Man B: ‘’Man, these hookers out here…'’ -overheard conversation b/w 2 guys while walking through Brooklyn Heights, confirming (again) my belief that a lot of heterosexual men like p***y but not women. (I stumbled when he called the woman a hoe.)

‘’You’re a horrible wingman'’ -Timothy, an amazingly beautiful platonic male friend (we love each other as friends, would commit simultaneous suicide if we were in a relationship) after he met several of my women friends and I absentmindedly failed to put in a good word for him (Sorry, women don’t have to do that.) ‘’Well, you had the chance to have me, D, now you’re in my Save for Later box too…'’ - Fidel, an absolutely gorgeous platonic male friend, smugly informing me that my window of opportunity had closed after I wondered out loud about the panty-dropping effect he has on most women (I’ve never seen a fully clothed man get so much attention.)

‘’Is this coincidence or you think it actually means something?'’- Rome, who is chocolate-dipped in masculine essence, after in a week’s time I bumped into him on the train, two parties the following night, a party the next day, the train again coming home from work that Friday, a party three days later, then again on the train the following morning. (I’ve bumped into him 2 more times since I initially wrote this blog. Last night he saw me again and said, ‘’I'm sick of seeing you now…. Joke.'’)

‘’Relationships are like working an assembly line. You tighten a screw, loosen a bolt and each woman passes him on to the next worker. Eventually he’s complete, then someone buys him and takes him home.'’ –Celice the Brilliant over brunch at my new favorite BK restaurant.

‘’My phone stopped ringing. This must be what women feel like'’- Shane in SoHo, the week after he decided to go celibate and informed all his ladyfriends.

‘’You have to look your best. Try to have sex the night before.'’- Hov’s advice on how to up my swagger and clear up my skin for an upcoming event. (Pray for me. Right now. Bow your head and send up a prayer to Bless me.)

‘’I don’t write, I get high and ignite?! That’s a metaphor for your ass'’ - a BK teenager going crazy in the street at 9AM over a Wayne line. (I’m impressed by the lyric, more impressed that the kid knew a metaphor when he heard one outside the classroom. An English teacher somewhere is on point.)

"Do you know how bad it is when she doesn't swallow? When a woman spits out my seed like it's disgusting? It just hurts. You have no idea, just no idea." - a drunk, very emotional man on the walk to the train at 3:30 am (don't ask). This is what I get for trying to discuss feelings with a group of (gorgeous, tall, usually articulate) men post-club.**

"Everybody doesn't get to live the dream"- Carmen's boss, explaining why she is lucky to work where she does (Evidently she has no idea how much she hates her job.)

"Womp womp"--Exie's cousin in the background after Exie declines via phone my post-midnite invite to hang out. (He's now mad that I don't take him seriously or call at decent hours. Who is the chick in this relational (see forthcoming blog by a guest writer for definition)?)

“I don’t know why he’s playing. The closet door is open, the light it on, but he’s in the back trying to hide behind the coats. I’m like ‘hallo, we can see your feet!’”– Ace on why a shared acquaintence should just confirm to his wife (and us) what we’ve all known for a decade

**I've been avoiding the Learn to Swallow Blog for months. I see I'm going to have to suck it up and just do it (no pun intended.)

"Exie"

Recently, I was on the phone whining to my former flame after another disastrous date. Pause. I’m being dramatic.

He’s not my former flame and the date wasn’t disastrous. Exie is an "old friend" and the date? Turns out Mr. Amazing has a kid that’s almost a toddler.

Exie asks if this is the same guy who messed up my [electronic device]? It’s not. ED fell by the wayside too. Good guy, but he habitually referred to himself in the third person.

I get asked about other people I’ve mentioned to Exie in passing since we became "just" friends late last year. The lovely specimen who mispronounced any word over three syllables and some two syllabic words too (he was really nice), the producer who strung me along (Exie actually co-signed this one for awhile), the industry guy who... Hold up. There’s nothing wrong with him… except he’s in the industry.

Exie listens intently, pointing out more flaws that I seem to have forgotten about these dudes. Then he launches into how he still needs to come through my spot and fix the electronic device the other dude messed up.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m buzzing him in to the apartment. The first thing he says when he walks in: ‘’Daddy’s home.'’

I roll my eyes and fling his jacket on the back of a chair. He’s not staying long.

Exie, who bought the damn device (long story), undoes dude’s re-wiring (longer story) and redoes it back the right way. It takes him five minutes and when he finishes, he turns around with a stern father-look and says, ‘’don’t let no dudes play in my sh*t again, D.'’ I couldn’t tell if was talking about the system or something else.

He’s being weird. I roll my eyes again.

I watch as he sits on the couch and fiddles with the remote. The previews for some movie come on.

‘’You testing to see if it works?'’

He just looks at me. ‘’You got any juice? Get the lights on your way back too.'’

‘’Um, you’re staying?'’

‘’I shouldn’t have ever left.'’

I plop on the couch and snatch the remote from his lap, flip back to cable and flick through the channels. The system is good as new.

‘’Why aren’t we together?'’ Exie asks like it's a question I should have been expecting.

I pause in flipping channels, but I don't look at him. ‘’Huh?'’

‘’You heard me.'’

‘’Cause we’re just friends.'’ BET, BETJ, VH1, VH1 Soul, MTV, MTV2...

He snickers. ‘’No, we’re not.'’

Er? ‘’So what are we then?

‘’When you need something, who do you call?'’

Oooh! Sex and the City re-runs on TBS. ‘’Depends on what I need.'’

‘’Stop being difficult.'’

“I’m not being difficult.'’

Exie takes the remote and clicks off the TV and surround sound. I look at him finally, giving him the undivided attention he clearly wants.

‘’When you need something, you call me. When someone else f*cks up, you call me to fix it.'’

I grab a magazine from the coffee table. Oooh Keyshia Cole on Essence! ‘’Is this about the ED?'’

‘’No, listen.'’ He waits until I put the magazine back and give him my full attention again.

‘’You need to talk? I’m here. You don’t want to be alone? I’m here. You got a problem? I get it fixed, you understand?'’

I nod. ‘’So like, where are you going with this?'’

‘’If I’m the one you always run to, why aren’t we together?'’

I thought, What?! but I didn’t mean to blurt it out.

‘’It makes sense, D." He's staring at the coffeetable like it's going to talk back. "We kick it, we party, we chill, we never argue. I still like you. I know you still like me.

‘’You think I like you?'’ I ask playfully, trying to make light of the conversation.

‘’Would I be here if you didn’t?'’ He's dead serious.

Touche.

‘’So whatdoya think about that?'’ He takes my hand and I look at our fingers intertwined, then look up at him. For the first time in nearly a year, I think about us. He makes valid points. He’s dependable, reliable, likeable, fine. I’m definitely attracted to him. We don’t argue and he is fine. (Did I say that already?)

‘’Um… I dunno.'’

‘’You don’t know?'’ He nods, presses his lips together. ‘’So think about it, okay? I’m serious, D.'’

He reaches for the remote, leans back and flips back to the DVD. The opening scene to love jones flashes across the screen.

"love jones?" I attempt that one eyebrow thing again and fail miserably.

"It's your favorite movie, right?"

"I didn't tell you that."

He laughs. "I read your blog."

He motions for me to lean on him. I get his juice, cut the light and then I snuggle into his masculinity (a wall of man, it is.) Why haven't I thought about dating Exie before? It makes sense. It's just honestly never crossed my mind since we agreed to be just friends.

Could I date Exie? Is that really any different than what we do now?

When Darius fumbles his drink at the bar, I turn on Exie, look up at his face.

He looks down, kisses my nose. "Keep thinking. No rush."

Tipping Points

 

By and large, I live on an island of attractive people. Whether it's natural or affected, whatever the source of a New Yorker's beauty, a good one-fourth of the population (appx. 2 million people) are easy on the eyes. Being pretty or handsome here might get you a base, but it won't score you a homerun. (Amazing how many people still think it will.) Anyone who's lived here longer than a year should have noticed by now that just around the block, there's always a woman prettier, curvier and with a smaller waist and a bigger booty and a man with bigger muscles, a more chiseled jaw and a larger salary. In order to stand out or leave an impression or make it even semi-big, you have to be about more than just a pretty face or a dope body– you need a personality or at the very least a skill or a hobby. A guy I had just met insulted a frenemy. I'd met him -sort of--four years prior when I was just starting as freelance writer. He was my editor at a music magazine and he'd assigned me lots of work over the years. We'd e-mailed, texted, and phoned a hundred times, but had never met face to face. He has a unique name so when I was at a party and I heard someone say it, I asked my girl to introduce me. She did. Although, I hadn't written for him in a bit, he remembered my name and my work and he--who has a rep for his ego--was very sweet to me. He ran down some upcoming projects and said he'd be interested to get me involved. We exchanged new info.

The frenemy, also a writer, approached him after he and I had parted ways. He wasn't so nice. He tersely suggested she send him her clips to review and summarily dismissed her. The difference in his reaction to us.... Well, it made the frenemy feel not so nice.

Months later, after the guy and I have worked together a few times and become pretty cool face-to-face, I asked him about the incident. A true journalist, he remembered it in detail. He didn't see anything wrong with what he did since he didn't know who the hell she was.

"She's a pretty girl, you could have been nicer," I insisted, trying to convince him of the error of his ways.

He scrunches up his face. "She was okay, but even if she was cute, do you know how many pretty girls there are in this city? Pretty ain't nothing special, D. You gotta be more than pretty to make someone care."

I'm at dinner with a very attractive platonic male friend a couple weekends back and he spots yet another beautiful woman in the restaurant. Like the others, she's adorable too. *Big shrug.* He tries to catch this one's eye a couple times and she's polite but not eager. This piques his interest a bit. She smiles the next time she walks by (she's a hostess) and he thinks he has a chance. Finally after this little flirtation goes on for a few more moments, he pulls her aside to speak while I zone out and listen to the loud band playing in the corner.

They chat a little more until some more people come into the overcrowded, loud establishment to be seated and she has to go back to work.

"She's going to Newark tomorrow," he says as she walks off. He gives what would be a smitten sigh if a woman did it, but I'm told men don't sigh.

I look at him like he's stupid. "You're impressed because she's going to Newark?! Have you ever been to f***ing Newark?"

"What? " He slams his Corona on the table and now he gives me the you-can-not-be-this-stupid look. "She's going CANOOEING!!!" he yells over the music.

"Oh!!!!!" Pause. "Canoeing?" I turn around and look at her again, then turn back to him. He looks lost and love struck. "Interesting," I add and take another sip of my chocolate martini.

"I know, right?" There goes that non-sigh again.

I roll my eyes and laugh.

I'm on the train yesterday morning with the guy I keep running into. We're up to seven unplanned bump-intos in ten days. (Someday he'll figure out that I barely talk not because I am mean or shy or stuck up, but because: 1) he has the most gorgeous profile ever and I can't pay attention to what he's saying for all the warnings I send myself to stop gawking and resisting the urge to bite the tip of his nose (I think it is sooooo cute); and more important 2) he is a low-talker on a loud train and I can never hear what he's saying and I hate to sound stupid as I keep saying "what? huh?") Anyway, we strike up a conversation and he's telling me about how he ran a marathon last year and how he only does it every other year because it takes so much out of him and... Hold, up! He ran The Marathon, twenty six-point-whatever -tenth miles around and through the city? A Black man... who runs marathons?

Now, I'm giving him the same cheese-y grin that my boy made over Canoe Girl. I run daily and I have no desire to run all damn day ever. (Did you ever see the pics of Diddy's post-run feet on that MTV Diddy Runs the City show? His toenails turned black and fell off!!!) But that's not the point. The point is Bump-Into-Guy is now beautiful and not run of the mill, evidently. I was always attracted, now I'm interested to know more. I actually want to hear what this gorgeous man with this cute-tipped nose has to say. I guess he picks up on this switch in perceptions (I am, after all, grinning at him with my head cocked to the side) so he asks what I'm doing later. Maybe, he suggests, we can actually plan to get up instead of just bumping into each other randomly all the time?

You already know my answer. ; -)

The Girl, Not the Girlfriend

"I don’t need any more friends.'’ It’s what Tariq told a woman he dated freshman year after she decided that she was feeling somebody else more. He’d moved on too and he and the girl who said this were parting on good terms. He’d always thought the girl was cool as hell and enjoyed hanging out with her, but for whatever reason, he wasn’t interested in being just her friend. For years, I thought he was an ass for handling things that way. But now I get it.

I’d met a boy. Remember the one that had me posting all erratic throughout July because I was cooing in his pretty face? The one who said when I was near-death last month, ‘’D, come to Queens so I can take care of you?'’ The one who sent me a book called Queens about black women and their fabulous hair and their love for it as a Get Well present… Hold up, did I tell ya’ll that last one? Well anyway, he wants to be just friends.

His version of events: we were always just friends. You misinterpreted things.

My version of events: I ain’t misinterpret ish. (I checked every action against He’s Just Not That Into You. This guy acted like was.) I assume now that he a) found somebody he liked better or b) it was all flawless game from the start or c) both of the above.

WANT TO READ MORE BELLE? STAY TUNED FOR MY BOOK IN JUNE 2011: A BELLE IN BROOKLYN: ADVICE FOR LIVING YOUR SINGLE LIFE & ENJOYING MR. RIGHT NOW (ATRIA)

Crowning Your Glory

Every time I have to go to the OB/gyn I am plagued with a sense of dread. Not because of the chair, or the metal stirrups, or that damned speculum. No, I’m pretty fine with all that. I've read enough Essence to know to tell my doctor the truth even if I lie to everyone else and myself, and to ask questions about my health and point out any problems. I never freak out over the OB/gyn topics that are discussed in all the articles about The Visit. Too wax or not to wax? To shape up? Line-up? Go bare? These are the questions that distract me in the days leading up to my trip.

This is the issue– my gyno and I are kinda like friends. Not in the circle I hang out in all the time (she's always working), but we're close enough in age and met through a relative (my father) a long time ago. We often end up vacationing in the same places at the same time and attending the same events whenever I toy with the idea of going corporate. We party together in resorts and islands and we chat enough in the city that when I go to my yearly appointment, she doesn't need an update on my sex life because she already know who and when, but not where. I also text her to make appointments and ask questions. She's not my Ace but she's my girl.

My mother insists that doctors don't care what vaginas look like, ("if you've seen one, you've seen 'em all," she says). But I know my doctor well. And well, I care about what her impression is. I'm concerned even if mother is not.

I ask an elder friend (everyone 30+ is elder to me) what she thinks. "Um, D, as long as you don't look like Wolf Man Jack, I don't think she cares," Penelope says.

I agree. I am a firm believer that though the hair on my head is wild, the hair elsewhere should be tamed. The natural look should be reserved for your crown of glory, not the crown decorating your glory. By personal preference, I'm never looking like Mother Nature would intend. But this isn't about what I prefer to see, this is about making an impression on someone I have to see at social functions.

"Go Bare," says Anita when I ask her what should be done. "I always go bare. I want her to get a good look at everything."

Bare? I thought that was reserved for pop stars, porn stars and pre-teens. However, I humor this thought for a moment longer than I usually would. The last time I went to my doctor, I was trying to point out something. She said she didn't see what I was describing. I tried to tell her again, but it's hard to give Map Quest worthy directions to that location. She pulled out a mirror.

"Show me!" she says and holds up the looking glass so that it reflects my glory. I sit up the best I can in that sloped chair with my feet still in the stirrups and her head way too uncomfortably close between my eagle-spread limbs. I prod and point until she finally sees my concern.

"Oh that?" she inquires, poking with me with a gloved index finger. I bite my lip to keep from laughing hysterically at the lunacy of this situation. "Uh-uh. It happens. Nothing to be concerned about. Trust me." She then offers an explanation full of technical words and blah, blah, blah. All I care about is that it's "nothing to be concerned about."

I suppose that whole experience could have gone a lot smoother if there was nothing in the way. Maybe I could have saved myself from that moment of sheer embarassment. Maybe bare is best.

Anita's given me the number to her waxer, who she promises doesn't hurt.... that much. I make an appointment to remove all the grass from the lawn.

I mention my prep-work to my ISO (insignificant other, def. a male companion with whom you are emotionally entangled who fulfills boyfriend-like duties, but has no benefits... yet.) He's appalled at the idea. "That's gross," ISO says, scrunching up his face. "You'll look like a little girl. I don't wanna see it like that."

I give him the fool-please look.

"I'm serious, D. I'll wait till it grows back."

I'll admit, I'm not all that thrilled with the bare idea either. Though it seems like a good option, I keep thinking of all the pain. The shape up hurts bad enough. I want to look nice for The Visit, but I don't want to be tortured.

I cancel the appointment at the spa, decide I'll go to my regular lady for the job. I tell her that The Visit is coming up and I want to look nice. She looks at me a little crazy at first, then nods like she understands. I think she's pacifying me.

She gives me the usual with a twist– a nice trim, sorta- like a fade this time– and a crisp shape-up. She leaves the room so I can get dressed and I look at myself in the mirror. It looks... nice. Not too flashy, but definitely shows that some thought went into the look. I think this is just the impression I hoped to make.

Now I'm looking forward to my appointment.

September 11: Five Blocks from Hell

For the past five years, New York has unofficially slowed itself in memory of 9/11. Today is the sixth anniversary, and I guess that means the statue of limitations on the unofficial city-wide (and nationwide) period of mourning has lifted. I have a plethora of invites in my Inbox for major parties tonight. (Yes, I'm going.) Nobody's moaned that hip-hop has staged a battle on this date. It seems we've moved past the attack.

The recovery may be over (although there's still a big hole where the towers once stood), but I wouldn't feel right not acknowledging the day somehow. Though thankfully, I didn't lose any family or friends that morning, I did lose something else: a sense of safety

I work near Ground Zero. Every now and again, the wind blows a certain way and I can smell the metal-death stench that lingered in that section of the city for months. Sometimes fire trucks blare down the street and I get a flashback to that day and tense up. Every time there's a loud boom in the city, I get all panicky and instinctively run to the nearest window to see what's been hit. A lot of people here still do that. I am not alone.

Everyone who lives or lived in New York that day has a 9/11 story. This is mine:

I lived across from the New York Stock Exchange, which is like 5 blocks away from WTC. My BF called to wake me up for my internship and while I was on the phone with him, there was this big boom. The building shook, all the car alarms went off. I was like “wtf?!” There was always a bunch of noise going on in that area. There used to be parades and events outside my building for the NYSE workers almost every day. But I'd never heard anything like that before. I figured it had something to do with the parades.

I talked to the BF a little while longer, then called down to the front desk to ask when they were coming to fix my tub that was stopped up (someone was supposed to come up the night before). The attendant told me it wouldn’t be anytime soon because a plane had just flown into one of the twin towers. I turn on the TV like, “oh sh--! That’s what the BOOM was!” I see the tower burn on TV and I watch the second plane run into the second tower.

BOOM!

I grab my camera and run eleven flights down to get outside. (I was in journalism school. It made since at the time.) I’m running up to Broadway and I see people coming away from the towers and everyone just looks blank. There was a woman wailing in the street and someone (a co-worker, I think) was trying to console her. I remember her 'cause she was the only person with any emotion. I get to Broadway (3 blocks away, tops) and everyone is just standing in the street, on the sidewalks, looking up at the buildings. The police, tourists, workers, everyone. They are all just staring silently. Some guy starts saying that the buildings are going to fall and people start yelling at him. People are really mad at the suggestion, like they’re about to fight him, literally. I take a bunch of pics and I run out of film (pre-digital days).

I run back to my apartment to get more film. As soon as i get upstairs, the first building falls. My building is shaking and I'm scared. I hide under my roommate’s bed (it was up on blocks) and I scream “what is going on?! what is going on?!" at the top of my lungs. I’m staring at the TV and all I can see is smoke and dust. The newcasters are trying to stay calm but I can hear the fear in their voices. I see the building 5 blocks away is now dust.

When everything settles, I get from under the bed. The room is filled with this weird-like smoke because the windows were open (beautiful day.) I stick my hand out the window and spread my fingers. the air is so thick with beige-ivory powder that I can’t see my hand anymore. It can't be healthy to breathe this. I shut all the windows.

I watch CNN until right after the second building falls, then I go out again with the camera and a bunch of film. I walk around for a couple hours taking pictures. Everyone is in a daze. There are inches of debris covering the streets. Pieces of paper singed at the corners lay like seashells on a beach. Phones are left hanging from when callers ran without time to hang them up, or they were shaken off their perch. Police officers are crowded around another phone bank trying to call loved ones to say they are okay. They are stunned too. I get to the Brooklyn Bridge and watch the mass exodus from the city. No one is coming in. I wish I could leave with them. but I live in the middle of this confusion.

When i get back to the apartment, there are 43 messages on me and the roommate's answering machine. Everyone is in varying states of hysteria that we are not answering the phone. I thank God she is out of town. Every morning on her way to class, she would stop by the Krispy Kreme for a doughnut and coffee. She would have been in there when the first plane hit.

I listen to all the messages and realize my parents haven’t called. The phone won’t let me dial out on the first try, so I just sit on the couch and watch TV again. I am covered in soot. (I can’t shower because of the tub.) I sit on the futon and turn to CNN, watching them tell me about the chaos that is happening outside of my window. Then I see that DC has been attacked. (My dad is there.) Newscasters are running wild with unsubstantiated reports: explosions at embassies,  the White House, the Pentagon,  the Lincoln memorial. the monument. all of downtown DC. I hear that all planes have been grounded nationwide. No one has said it on air, but that's when I realize we have been attacked.

And that’s when I freak out. It finally dawns on me to call my mother (had to search for a phone card since cell phones are down where I am.) She’s in Detroit where she’s visiting her parents. I call and call and I finally get through. She answers and I blurt, “Mommy, mommy, i’m ok.” And she’s all, “uh, why wouldn’t you be?” My grandmother was very sick that morning and my mom never got around to turning on the news. I tell her to turn on the TV, any channel. She does.

Mommy tells me I have to get out of my apartment. I have to get home to DC. The picture the news is showing is of Lower Manhattan as a ball of smoke and I am sitting in the middle of it. I tell her DC has been attacked too (technically, the Pentagon is in VA, but it's right on the DC border.) I haven’t heard from my father. I can't get home. They've closed off all the bridges and tunnels into Manhattan. I don't have anywhere to go. I have to stay here for now. She gets off with me to track down my Dad wherever he is in downtown DC.

I stay in the house watching CNN. The building cut off the gas. I found this out when I tried to cook, and then someone comes to tell me the power is going to be cut. The phone rings and it's a voice I don't recognize when I answer. It's my friend "Kaye's" line sister. Kaye can't call me because she is in hysterics that she has not heard from me. She thinks the worst. the LS convinces me to walk to Union Square to stay with Kaye. I cannot stay downtown, she insists. Mr. Ex also gets through and tells me I can’t stay where I am, I should come Uptown and stay with him.

I pack and start my trek to Union Square. People are looking at me funny. I remember that I am covered in beige-ivory soot.

I crash in Kaye's apartment for a few hours. We go out to Union Square and everyone just looks lost. There's a circle of people gathered around 2 men arguing. They are debating if this was a home grown attack like Oklahoma City or outsiders. And if outsiders, who?

Eventually, I take the train Uptown 'cause I want to be as far away from Manhattan as possible. I don't feel safe.

The next morning when the city opens the tunnels, I buy an Amtrak ticket to Maryland. I want to be as far away from New York as possible. I listen to Billy Joel's "New York State of Mind" on my CD player. I look out the window when we approach Newark. The downtown view of the city I love is still covered in smoke.

I have no idea when I'll be able to come back.

Fast forward to a couple weeks later…

i develop the film from my camera. the first roll of film is half shots of lower manhattan and the twin towers from Sept. 08, 2001 when me and my BF went to see the Statue of Liberty. I stood on the top deck of the ferry and took a bunch of pics cause it was such a beautiful view and I'd never seen it in all it's glory before. The second half of the roll is the towers--with big gaping holes--burning.

A Belle Leaves Brooklyn: Part III

d planned to go to church Sunday morning, but I was too tired (and too hungover) from the night before. Plus, I had to meet with the Gorgeous god Among Men. I'm watching the live service of my church from back Home online when I get a text from Jason. We're going for brunch downtown at Café Asia (www.cafeasia.com). I invite him to come see Park Place with me since I plan to swing by the venue after we eat. Ace and I pick up Jason and head over to the restaurant. It's closed. At two o'clock on a Sunday? Labor Day Weekend? In the heart of DC with all these tourists everywhere? That's.... odd. I try my best not to say "this would never happen in New York." We walk around the corner to Lotus (www.lotusloungedc.com). For the longest, every time I've talked to Jason, he's mentioned how dope this spot is and how packed the Tuesday night party is. It's closed too. We try another spot. It's closed. Finally, I can't take it anymore. "This would never happen in New York," I blurt.

I expect Jason and Ace to explode, but they actually concede that this is one of the downfalls to DC. Too many of the good, downtown restaurants cater to the working political crowd during the week. On weekends, they aren't open evidently.

It's too late to get a real meal and meet the Gorgeous god Among Men on-time. We grab seafood appetizers from Café Soliel (www.cafesoleil.net) the only place that's seems to be open, and head over to meet Joe.

A consummate professional, he's waiting for us on the corner when we walk up to make sure we don't get lost. He looks like a god, of course. When I shake his hand, my palm is sweaty. That's never happened before. What in the hell is wrong with me?

He shows us around the four-story restaurant/ lounge which is still under construction. It opens in thirty days, but it's only half-done at best. No flooring, no paint on the walls, no furniture. I thank God that Ace, an interior designer, is here to visually place everything together. She's practically giddy as the god points out what will go where. All I can see is a big mess and a lot of empty space. She sees a blank slate beaming with possibilities.

The god leads us up the stairs and over to the fourth floor window and points. "Take a look at that!"

Now it all makes sense. The floor-to-ceiling windows face Franklin Square Park, which is full of leafy trees and a huge fountain. The view is amazing, just beautiful. It reminds me of the scene from the Time Warner building back Home.

He's giddy now too. The god walks us to another corner, and points out a long window that shows the strip down the 14th Street Corridor. It's gorgeous. He leads Ace and Jason through the rest of the club, excitedly pointing out this and that, but my mind is somewhere else. I think I miss DC. I hated this place when I lived here. Hated it! Now... it's changed. There's stuff to do now. Beautiful places to go and see. And all my ride-or-die friends are here. Why did I leave again? Maybe I should come back.

To live.

I catch up to Jason, Ace and the god while they're discussing the venue's opening. They've got three shifts of workers on this project so the club will open on time. They're aiming to bring in John Legend for an acoustic show the same weekend. They're going to look for furniture and dishes next week. Ace is about to burst with joy. She's been debating moving to New York because that's where all the interior design action is, but it seems her hometown might be coming up with enough to keep her happy and busy and creative. Park Place gives her hope.

The god walks us out, mentions he's going to meet up with his wife before he heads back to work later that night. *sigh* I knew he had to be married- or seriously flawed. Nothing that fine stays on the market this long with a serious commitment or a serious dysfunction. I'm glad he's married. All that fine should not go to waste.

We had down the Georgetown waterfront, thinking we'll head to Sequoias (www.arkrestaurants.com). Every Sunday, the hundreds of who's who DC folks gather there for drinks and dinner. It's closed for some private party with a deejay that's playing Prince's entire catalogue. We head to Tony & Joe's (www.dcseafood.com) instead and take a table with a spectacular view of the Potomac and the Kennedy Center. We stay long enough to catch the sunset over the water and by the time we leave, the bar in the front is packed with all the usual Tony & Joe's patrons, plus all the people who wanted to go to Sequoia's and couldn't get in. There are men-folk everywhere. Tall, gorgeous ones.

I walk through the crowd and bump into several guys that I knew when I lived here. They are all grown up and looking good. No better, than good. Great! They're happy to see me. I haven't changed a bit. Am I here for the weekend or back for good? It's a shame that I'm not, I hear more than one time. I get a lingering hug from a guy I vibed with all through college but never explored. "You should come home more often," he tells me. "It would be good to see more of you."

Hmm. Would it?

Just before midnight, Jason, Ace, Tariq and I head to K Street Lounge (www.kstreetdc.com). Dominique from Avenue (www.avedc.com) on Friday is staying outside and lets us pass the long line. It looks like a video set inside. A big white room with flat screen monitors and people everywhere. Some guy is standing on a table in the elevated VIP section with his arms spread like Jesus on the cross. He has a bottle of Moet in one hand, which he keeps swigging from. Then he turns in circles. He reminds me of the guy who declared himself a golden god in Almost Famous.

It takes 15 minutes to make it through the crowd. As I look around, I feel like we are the oldest people in the room. This has gotta be college night. It's too packed and too hot to move around the club, so we find the closest air vent and stand near it. After 15 minutes, we debate heading to the next spot, but then I hear it. Finally!

Go-go.

I don't know what band it is and I don't care. (Tariq tells me later that's its UCB feat. Raheem DeVaughan). I. GO. CRAZY!!! Whenever I get homesick in New York, I listen to go-go on some streaming music site my girl (also from MD) sent to me. But listening on a computer and a booming system are entirely different things. The congos have infected my hips and my rear. That groove is running through my shoulders and my head. Completely sober, I throw my hands above my head and I dance till I drip sweat. Eff trying to be cute.

Jason, a New Yorker, who despite living in DC for a decade, is unmoved. He's ready to go. (To his credit, there were way too many young, drunk dudes in that spot, dancing too hard. A fight was going to break out at any second.)

We head to Lima down the block. There have got to be more people outside than in. The Too Cute Assistant from Love is outside and she waves us in. It occurs to be then that I haven't paid to get in anywhere all weekend. How much are these places charging?

When Jason tells me, my mouth drops. $40 for WOMEN?!!!! $60 for dudes?!!!! Are you fucking kidding me? In DC? Oh, hell no. Jason adds that it's Labor Day Weekend, as if this justification makes any sense.

Lima is uncomfortably packed. It's a super-sexy, four-level space, but I can't peep the décor for the people. We do a quick walk through the crowd and we're all ready to go. I'd be pissed if I'd paid to get in.

After three days of partying, I am too exhausted to hit another spot. Tariq drops Jason off first and as I hug him good-bye, I know it's the last time I'll see him for awhile. He's shown me a great weekend, proven beyond any doubt that DC is not the bored-to-tears city I remember. I'm thankful for the fun weekend, but I'm a little sad too. It's like he's shown me what my hometown has to offer, the life I could have enjoyed had if I'd stayed.

But I didn't. I don't live here anymore. As the train pulls out of Union Station Monday night, I feel homesick. We haven't even hit the Maryland border yet. DC's not NY, but it is home. It's Home too.

In the five years, I've been gone, for the first time I have serious doubts about my decision to leave. I spot Love out the train window and I finally give a voice to what I've been thinking all weekend:

"Maybe I shouldn't have left."

** please comment, that is if the option is available (it’s not always). When no one says anything, I think no one’s reading (the view number at the top is not accurate, I’ve learned. there are LOTS of you reading apparently) or that you’re not feeling it. More important, I get ideas for other blogs off of the responses. Be my muse, please!!!!

if you’re too shy to post, you can always reach me at ABelleinBrooklyn@honeymag.com

Next Up: either Sept. 11: I Didn’t Forget

A Belle Leaves Brooklyn: Part II

I wake up Saturday morning to the sound of chirping birds. It's like 85 degrees and apparently they haven’t gone South yet. I guess it’s only September and just because it’s Labor Day Weekend and my summer Friday hours are no more that doesn’t mean the season is over. I look at the clock. 9AM. Damn, birds.

I pad to the kitchen and in the process discover no one’s home. My father is likely at the golf course, my mother at the hair salon. These are their weekly rituals. I check the fridge for breakfast contents. It’s virtually empty– except for lots and lots of meat, which I don’t eat. My parents, like everyone else in the county, are on Atkins. It’s the Master Cleanse of the suburbs. I nibble on leftovers from last night’s dinner, get dressed to run on the track. (Just because I’m away from home doesn’t mean I slack off.) I always run in the gym and everyone keeps telling me running outdoors is better. Apparently jogging in a circle beats running in place. I figure I’ll try it out. And I can breathe fresh air into my citified lungs while I do it here. I take a Claritin in case my allergies flare again and head out.

I’m only supposed to do 12 laps, but I end up jogging 15. The local community college men’s track team is doing an informal training and what’s another .75 miles when I can ogle fine young men with tight booties, strong broad backs, and narrow waists (it’s all about "The V," I tell you.) A too young cutie with pretty white teeth hits on me as I’m doing my cool down lap. He’s chocolate and 18. I could show him shit he’s never seen, the 7 wonders of the world. (ha!) He asks my age. I tell him, and 18 says, ‘wow, girl, you look good…. for your age.'’ I ain’t showing him shit.

Back home, I shower, change into my father’s sweats (the A/C is set to Arctic, but I’m not complaining.) I’m in the lounger trying to figure out how to work the fancy panel screen TV when Ace calls. Apparently, I am not sitting in the house until tonight. I am going to Georgetown.

Before I moved to New York, Georgetown was my favorite place on Earth. It reminded me of the Village, which I always hung out in on my 2 annual trips to NYC. Then I moved North and realized I was deluding myself. (Since I moved to NY,I don’t even bother shopping in other American cities--except LA. If I want it, New York’s got it, so what’s the point?) ‘’I don’t wanna go,'’ I tell Ace.

‘’Be ready in 30. You’re driving.'’ Click.

Georgetown’s better than I remember, has most of the chain stores from back Home, they’re not crowded (by NY weekend standards), and the store and dressing rooms aren’t cramped. Plus, all the weird, funky clothes I like are there in my size. Most are even on sale. (I don’t care how great DC’s club scene is, it’s still a conservative-dressing town). I pop into Urban Outfitter’s and pick up a pair of high-waist jeans that I’ve been searching for. In the Georgetown Mall, I find a handcuff-bangle at Taxco Sterling Silver (I forgot about this place. I dropped entire paychecks from my part-time job here back in the day.) I stop in a boutique and check out cocktail dresses to wear to CBC if I come back in town at the end of September. Ace and I make our way through H&M, Intermix, Zara, Arden B, Bebe, Anthropologie, Disel, Adidas, Ralph Lauren, Pottery Barn, Betsey Johnson, and a few boutiques that sell quirky-cute clothes. Four hours later, I am pooped!

Fendy, the Too Cute Assistant from Love calls my cellie. Apparently, Love owner Marc Barnes is opening another space on the 14th Street corridor called Park Place and she thinks I should check it out. (Full disclosure: I mentioned I might write about my DC trip. That’s why she’s calling.) When it opens during CBC Weekend, it will set a new standard for DC restaurants and lounges, she promises. Too Cute Assistant is in PR mode (they lie for a living) so I’m skeptical. (Sorry to all the PR people I just offended. But ya'll know it’s true.) It’s still a work in progress and the Gorgeous god Among Men will be there to show me around… if I’m interested.

I'm definitely interested.

We’re headed to Lauriol Plaza (www.lauriolplaza.com) in Adam’s Morgan or Busboys and Poets (www.busboysandpoets.com) off U Street, both chill sections of the city by day with plenty of boutiques, ethnic restaurants, and bars. Even after hanging out in the West Village for so many years, this strip still reminds me of the West Village. We turn the corner to get back to the car and spot the cutest restaurant with outdoor seating. Ace looks at me. I look at Ace.

‘’Sangria?'’ we ask at the same time. (We know each other way too well.)

Indeed.

Ney-La (www.neyla.com) has the best waiter on the planet who tells us we should have a pitcher instead of a glass. ('’The pitcher will make you feel better,”’ he says with a knowing look.) Two drinks in, the conversation has turned to boys and sex and I am laughing way too hard and telling too much too loud about the time I.. When he.. And how I shook and cried tears of joy after… And he laughed at me!… I was mad… Till he did it again. (I gotta blog about that someday.) I am officially tipsy. That’s when I realize I HAVEN’T EATEN all day. We immediately order a plate of the biggest grilled scallops I’ve ever seen to share and though the Middle Eastern meal does not come with pita bread, the waiter drops off a basket for us anyway. I think he knows we’re tipsy.

We sip and talk, talk and sip, till the pitcher is done. The best waiter on the planet doesn’t rush us from the table. He lets us marinate to enjoy the breeze and the view of cuties trotting past.

All the sudden I love DC. I think it's the liquor talking.

Finally, we sober up and can drive home to take naps before the evening's festivities. Back in the ‘burbs, Ace declares herself exhausted and passes on another night out. I’m tired too, but I don’t get a pass. Jason and Tariq are still taking me out.

After my nap (I’m old. I can’t run on adrenalin like I use to), I shower, put on my favorite short dress, and a pair of super high heels. Jason tells me we’re headed to an uber exclusive, boutique club where entry is based on the doorman’s discretion. Only the super fashionable and the super wealthy get picked to go in. I’m on a writer’s budget so I rely on a good outfit and hope sheer confidence will get me approved. Jason picks me up (Tariq’s meeting us later) and takes me to FLY (www.flyloungedc.com). The doorman singles us out in the crowd as we walk up and usher’s us in. I guess NY swag (J’s from NY) translates nationwide.

FLY is adorable. The spot looks like the inside of an airplane and the hostesses are dressed in stewardess uniforms. Flat panel screens line the walls and show pictures of friendly skies and gorgeous sunsets. I love it!

We hit the least crowded bar and order. I ask for a chocolate martini (my version of a Cosmo) and the stewardess tells me she’ll do better than that. She makes some concoction called an Almond Joy and I am in heaven after the first sip. The crowd is sexy and very Euro. The music amazingly good. I feel inclined to dance and so Jason and do another diddy, this time to some Justin song that sounds even better coming from these speakers. I could stay all night, but Tariq is waiting for us at LIV (www.myspace.com/livnightclubdc) right off the U Street Corridor. ("Corridor" is like DC’s favorite word.)

Jason calls the John Legend look-alike as we walk to the car. No answer. No Ibiza for us tonight either.

LIV is less posh and doesn’t give a damn about a fancy dress code. It’s a party-party, not a see and be seen affair. I’m freaking out about the wait till Jason calls a friend and gets us in without anymore hassle. Turns out the promoter for this party is a guy (Shi- Shiiiii!!! Inside joke) we went to college with at UMCP. A text from him to Jason’s phone deletes a wait at the door and the cover charge.

The decoration is minimal, the drinks are cheap, and the party is packed. We head upstairs to the balcony and we’re chatting it up about absolutely nothing when a burst of cold air assaults me and everything goes white. Seems I’m standing right under the fog machine.

Jason laughs at me. I laugh at myself.

Tariq and friends show up and I’m all golden. He’s brought the back-in-the day party pair with him. These two are married with a kid each now and it’s their first time out in months. We party like it’s first semester Senior year, 1999, when "International Players" comes on. The whole club breaks into song on the chorus. ('’I chose youuuu, Baby. I chose youuuuuuuu‘’) They go wild again for ‘’Superman That Ho'’ (I hate this song for content but it’s catchy as hell.) I refuse to do the Superman.

I dance so hard to everything the DJ plays that I sweat through my dress. I go stand near the fog machine so I can get blasted again and cool off. I haven’t partied like this since my undergrad graduation. And I’m drunk like back then too. Hanging with the fellas, I am subjected to drinking what they drink. No foo-foo chi chi ish like chocolate martinis. They keep coming back from the bar with Henny straight for themselves. Henny with Coke for me.

After another hour, Jason and I bounce to Republic Gardens (www.republicgardens.com) up the block. This is a DC staple and I partied here all through college. It has a new (non-black) owner, I hear, but dude has had sense enough not to change the décor or the vibe. We try to head through the sexy lounge area on One, but it takes forever because I’m cheek-kissing half the room. This is like Homecoming or something. Half the campus that I went to college with is in here. Upstairs we pass through the dance floor and find the other half of campus. EVERYONE is in here tonight! We head to the upstairs lounge and by the pool tables. There is just something so dang sexy about this place and it’s not just the nostalgia. Folks look good in their good wares. Fly, established, sexy, grown. I love it!

We mix and mingle till closing and outside we debate going to Adam’s Morgan for big pizza. There’s a couple spots on the strip that serve a quarter of a pie for $3.00. It’s the gooiest, cheesiest pizza on the planet and it sobers you up by the time you devour it. (No one just eats at 3AM.) I wanna go but I don’t want to walk, its far and I don’t have my back-up flip flops in my Louie.

Jason looks at me like I’m stupid when I say this. ‘’You’re in DC, D. We have cars here.'’

Oh. Riiiight!!! It’s what Oprah calls an A-ha! moment.

Jason drops me off at home and as I cuddle into my old bed at 4am, I realize I miss DC. A lot. I shouldn’t have stayed away for so long. That, and how is it I’ve been to 5 clubs in 2 days and haven’t heard go-go yet.

I have to hear some congos before I leave here. Jason will have to make that happen tomorrow. Part 3- SUNDAY, coming Sunday

A Belle Leaves Brooklyn: Part I

Anyone who's run into me in the last six months has heard me gripe about being homesick. Seven years ago, I couldn't wait to get out of DC (I was bored to tears). However, for the last year, I've been dying to go back--for a visit. Even if it's boring, home is still home. Problem is, I've been too busy grinding--my current resume lists me as a reporter/ editor/ blogger/ author/ event planner who dabbles in marketing and PR. It so happened that I was being forced out of the city for Labor Day weekend. The West Indian Day parade, the biggest annual event in the city, takes place one block from my apartment. It's one thing to go to it and an entirely different matter to live in the middle of it. Every year, I leave for the weekend. This time, I decided on a visit to the Old Country (Maryland.)

I booked an Amtrak ticket and looked forward to a delightful weekend of peace, quiet, and near-boredom. I planned to lay about the house all day, cuddle up in lounger (because my parents don't have couches) and watch DVDs of movies I'd missed in theatres. I would bask in the glory of central air and a stocked refrigerator and pantry (!) and then maybe just hang out in the laundry room for awhile, marveling at the suburban luxury of having a room just for the care of dirty clothes. (Yes, I know this is weird.)

Ace picks me up from the train station, and immediately I get to complaining about the suburbs and all things DC. The fresh air and greenery are irritating my allergies. I can't stop sneezing and my eyes are watery. And why is everything so damn bright? It's like these trees are in Technicolor or something. ("D, you need to go to the park more up there," Ace begins. "No one should ever be alarmed by a cluster of trees.") I whine about how much space everything takes up. ("Look at that parking lot. Do you know how many condos would fit there?") I moan about the wideness of the streets (wasted space), all the SUVs (gas guzzlers) and about how I won't be able to sleep well like I planned to because I know the sound of crickets (and birds) will keep me up (or wake me up). That and I was invited to a million BBQs and park parties in BK this weekend. I'm missing out on everything. I shouldn't have come. I want to go home--New York.

Quickly, Ace has enough. "You are not going to complain about my city all weekend," she lays out firmly. Ace, who never yells, is yelling at me. "You never thought it was this bad before. You've gone to New York and now you think it's better than everywhere else. Well, it's not!"

Ace grabs her cellie from her purse and calls reinforcements--Tarik and Jason, two amazingly well-connected guy friends or ours. She reports what I've done and said (Bad, D!) to each of them. They discuss and devise a plan (the Demi in DC Love Movement) to teach at least one New Yorker that "up top" ain't the only place where things get poppin'.

Friday

I rode 3 hours down on the train, but that's not enough of an excuse to get me out of partying with Ace & Crew for the night. It's too early--10:30--to go out, I remind her when she shows up at my house. And I typically don't party on weekends. And I only go out during the week because... Ace cuts me off and reminds me that I am not in New York and that I need to put on my highest heels– right now. "We get dressed to go out here," she reminds me. Then she reminds me that the clubs close at 3. Early, but better than LA. I'm skeptical... in five-inch patent leather heels.

Jason and Tarik drive us to Love (www.lovetheclub.com), formerly known as Dream. Seven years ago, I spent every Friday of the seven months of my discontent at this nightclub. I also celebrated my 23rd birthday here. My friends booked a table that came with its own bouncer, white choclate cake, 4 bottles of champagne (for the 4 of us)and choclate -covered strawberries. By the end of the night, I was dancing on a couch and smearing cake on men’s noses (long story.)

This place is still open?

Indeed. We valet the truck in front of the stadium-size structure that calls itself club and I stare at the long, long line snaking down its length. I'm a New Yorker now. I don't do lines--especially not for clubs, especially not for clubs out of state. I turn to Ace with a sour, oh-hell-no! look on my face. She rolls her eyes, grabs me by the wrist, and drags me as we follow Tarik and Jason to the front of the line.

Thirty seconds later we're up the marble steps, through the mahogany and glass doors and inside. Since I was last here, the venue's been reconfigured. The dark wood that once reminded me of a stuffy, Old Money cigar bar has been accented with more modern touches. The massive space feels more homey now, like I'm hanging out in a friend's parents' basement with a whole lot of other people. I look around at all the partygoers moving to and from the bar to the dancefloor. Men--attractive, freshly-shaped up men with broad shoulders who 2-step (ie, they can actually dance) and can get backed up on too– are in properly-sized button downs, properly-fitting slacks (!) and loafers. ("DC men care about fashion," says Jason, who’s decked out in a baby pink button down, white linen slacks and white soft-leather footwear. "Especially shoes.") The women are fly as well, but I was too distracted by the guys--french vanilla, butter pecan, chocolate deluxe– to give you a decent description of them.

Jason--who has turned into a hugely well-connected promoter since I headed off for Northern terrain– arranges for me to meet the venue's guest relations manager and assistant and the GM, an old friend from college who used to manage 40/40 (www.the4040club.com)in NYC. Apparently, the Demi in DC Love Movement isn't limited to just my inner circle. Joe from guest relations and who I immediately gave the nickname The Gorgeous god Among Men, and Fendy, the too cute assistant, take me on an impressive tour of Love. Only two of the four floors are open tonight and they are both packed. And all those well-dressed, well-coiffed, high-heeled folks are paaaaartying hard.

In DC?

The pair takes us for a quick pass through all the VIP rooms and sections and points out one area as the stage where Snoop will be performing the following night, if I'd like to come back. Fendy notes that Erykah Badu and Common will be on that stage in a month for CBC weekend.

DC is looking better already.

Half of the third floor and all of the fourth are rooftop decks filled with super cute all-white cabanas that remind me of Miami, especially the fourth floor deck with its hanging paper lights. Very Opium Garden (www.theopiumgroup.com) in South Beach (the only city I party in besides New York. Everywhere else is for relaxing.) I'm... impressed. You know how much a New Yorker loves her rooftop venues! (My favorite, BED, was closed earlier this year after a drunk C-list actor pushed someone down an elevator shaft.) Jason and I dance a quick diddy to "My Drank and My Two Step" under the stars before Fendy leads us to the very-exclusive Penthouse suite, which most people don't know exists and includes its own bar and showers. It's intimate, private, and sexy as all friggin hell.

What happened to the woefully conservative government town that I grew up in?

The Gorgeous god Among Men chuckles at my cluelessness, but I think I fall a little bit in love anyway. *sigh* "That's during the day," he notes.

After Love, we head to Avenue (www.avedc.com) a newer club that I've never heard of. It's conveniently located down the block from the new DC Convention Center (www.dcconvention.com). We park across the street and again, Jason maneuvers us to the front of the line and we are quickly ushered inside. It's not Love. Relatively small by DC standards, three floors, no fancy décor, and undecorated brick walls. The VIP room is just an elevated section with a red, velvet rope. No frills. We start in the reggae rooms on One and Two. It was hot– as in heat. If I had balls, sweat would have dripped down them. Then we work our way up to the hip-hop room on Three.

Dammit if those folks didn't party till the hard wood floors started to shake. At 2 am, sweated out hair and shirts were de rigeur for most of the crowd--though no one seemed to mind. Clearly, these folk came looking for a party and a damn good session is what they found.

We settle into a room off the dance floor with clear plastic furniture and colored lights. (Told you decoration was minimal.) Jason hits the bar to secure our drinks and I have no idea where Tariq is when a familiar face saunters over to me and Ace.

"Dominique?"

He was a promoter when I was in college and hit the club every Thursday thru Sunday. He doesn't know our names, but he knows Ace and I were regulars at his events back in the day. Apparently, he doesn't forget a face. Since I left DC, he and his boy, Tupac, have taken over the DC party scene. He offers to buy me (and the crew) some dranks and invites us to his Sunday night party at K Street Lounge (www.kstreetdc.com). He promises a good time.

Avenue is poppin, but we don't stay long. We have another stop to make. (Club-hopping in DC? Who knew?) Six weeks ago, a new spot called Ibiza (www.ibizadc.com) opened around the corner from Fur (www.furnightclub.com). Jason raved about its to-die-for rooftop deck with a great view of a DC landmark. Unfortunately, we arrived too late and the party was over (damn 3AM close time). One of the promoters– a John Legend look alike, replete with chest hair and an open collar shirt– offers to give us a tour of the club the following night.

Back in the truck, Jason and Tarik rattle off a long list of late-night spots we can hit up to eat and chill– Ben's Chili Bowl, Georgetown Café, Oohhs and Aahhs, The Diner– but Ace and I are tired so they take us back to the 'burbs.

Jason drops me off with a promise to call with a new list of places to go the following night.

There's more?

Indeed.

Part II- Coming Soon (right after I knock out a feature story and take a nap. 3 days of partying in DC wore me out!!!)

Where's the Love?

After I wrote "They Do Exist" about the Black man who doesn't date Black women, I got a ton of e-mails and calls and IMs. I expected the women to get riled up. I didn't expect the men to get so passionate too. (Most began thier rants with “what the f*ck is wrong with this dude?”) One, a great friend, e-mailed me to ask, "why would you write about the worst representation of a Black man, D? He made us all look bad and the vast majority of us don't think that way. It's a whole lot of Black men who love Black women. Why don't you ever talk about them?"

So ladies (and gents) I went and found the love.

It's everywhere!

I asked a bunch of attractive (all), gainfully employed (all), college-educated (mostly), intelligent (100%), articulate, well-rounded, tall, mostly single, straight (all) Black men if they loved us and if so, why. My Inbox was flooded with responses. I took over a conversation at a friend's housewarming and guys had plenty to say on why they dig us so (along with blasting me for that post about He.) Random men on the street (yes, I asked strangers. “Why do you love black women?” is a great pick up line/ conversation starter, btw) couldn't stop talking about what is about us that just does it for them. And not one said a word about our booties and our hips and lips or anything else on the surface. They got deep, ya'll. (Apparently, they know how much we like it when they go deep. LOL!)

Here's what they said:

· "Of course, I love Black women. I think any man of any race who excludes Black women from his dating/marriage options are excluding some of the most beautiful, intelligent, supportive women in the world."

· "I love Black women because of their faces. They just have to give you one look and it's a whole conversation. You can tell when their happy, when you did something wrong, when she's feeling you, when you've gone too far. They get that from their mothers. If you have a black mother, you see her expressions on a Black woman's face. It's familiar."

· "Black women drive me crazy. But I love them. I LOVE THEM!!!They make a man work. Nothing's easy A Black woman will be feeling you but she makes you chase. Other women don't do that. A Black woman will want you and you'll know she's interested but she's gotta play the game. I hate the chase, but when she lets you catch her, she's yours. She'd ride-or-die. Nothing tops that. It makes the chase worthwhile."

· "I never thought about dating anyone else. I'm just not attracted. I love Black women's whole vibe. They just get 'it.' That and they're not corny. Other chicks can be real corny sometimes."

· "Because of their beauty, the pain we can relate to, the strength they have and their overall being. Just because."

· "Honesty, I don’t think sistas hear enough from Black men how much we love them. The reason I love Black women is because I have a Black mother. If it wasn’t for a Black woman… I wouldn’t be here. We've got to do better, find a way to praise Black women as half as much as we complain about them. Black women are looking for us as Black men to defend them. Not to talk about them as being gold-diggers, hoes, and b*tches along with the rest of society. We are supposed to be their defenders. That’s our damn job!"

· "I love Black women because I look at them and see me and my struggles, hopes and dreams in them unlike with any other race of women. Despite the cliche, the truth of the matter is that only a Black woman can understand truly what a Black man goes through and deals with. I love Black women because they come in a lot of sizes, shapes and colors from dark chocolate to light cream and everything else in between. I especially love Black women because my mother is Black and I luuuuuuvvvvvv my mama…and my grandmama!"

· "I have to give the Sisters credit when credit is due. The Sister’s hold it down any shape or form. There are a lot more Black sister’s out there that are about their money and won’t rely on a man to save their life. I won't never ever, ever date a white woman to the point I want to make her my wife. There’s too many beautiful, working, independent BLACK WOMEN. You got to be a strong Black man to be with a Black woman. Ya'll should be happy when men who aren't up to challenge look elsewhere."

· "They call it Home Sweet Home for a reason. No matter where you go in life, what journeys you take, there is nothing like home. Black women are my home."

· “A crown does not make a queen in my book but the way in which you carry yourself speaks volumes of your royalty. I have a symbol tattooed on my back that I read was branded on a prince the day he became king because it embodied all the qualities a king needed to lead. Those qualities were knowledge, courage, humility, and strength. I believe those four things are the foundation of what begins to make you as a black woman great. We strive as men to achieve those four attributes when by nature you as women are those four. A black woman is the personification of perfection. She is nurturing, passionate, firm, outspoken, devoted, sensual, sexual, loyal, supportive (sometimes too supportive to the point that we don't become anything other than a dreamer) but she makes you believe that dream can still come true when no one else believes it including you. I know what to expect from you because within you is all the things that makes me. You know my pain, because you lived it too. You know the struggle, because in your own way you went though it too. You know about "the man" because he's fucking with you too. When I walk in the door frustrated with my head down after a long day in this corporate white washed world saying they are starting to get to me I don't have to go any further because at one point they were getting to you too.

“I know this should be about all the things within that make you great, but the package is just as great as the gift inside and deserves its due. You are beautiful. The glow of your skin. The familiar caress of your touch. The warm welcome within all the hues of your eyes. The warmth of your smile and the pleasure it gives us when we make you laugh at our corny jokes as those beautiful white teeth explode from behind that sun kissed skin. Bodies that speaks of a future and by that I mean the curves on a black woman aren't there by accident that is generations upon generations of creating the perfect vessel to bring forth life. When we look at you we not only see our wives but also the mothers of our children. I love you.”