I Don't Die, I Multiply...

Sometimes the blogs just write themselves.

I checked my MySpace inbox today. This is what I found:

From: Demetria Date: Feb 15, 2008 11:17 AM

Hello,

My name is Demetria XXXXX and I write for Amsterdam News here in New York. I just use my first name for blogging and other stuff to stay semi-anonymous and what happens is that people ask if I am Demetria Lucas. In fact, because I recently got married and just changed my last name to XXXXX, some of my old friends think I am in fact Demetria Lucas and that I write for XXXXXXX.com. LOL! No worries, I always set folks straight.

I have no idea if you are the writer Demetria Lucas, but it is not a terribly common name, so I figured I'd try my luck and extend my MySpace friendship.

If you are the Demetria Lucas I think you are, then I have read a lot of your stuff in various magazines and I could definitely be counted as a fan.

-Demetria

This is comedic to me on so many levels. First, how many friggin Black people are there named Demetria? How many Demetria’s even outside of Greece? (I was in the AT&T store last month and a Greek woman helped me. She pointed out that my name is like the equivalent of Emily in the Old Country. It comes on key chains and everything.)

Second, eight years ago, in J-school, I had my very first clip published in the Amsterdam News. The morning it came out, I ran all over downtown NYC trying to find the paper. I bought it, and in a clichéd movie moment, snatched open the paper, found my name, and showed it to the guy at the stand. He gave me a polite smile and an “okay, you’ve paid. Get the hell away from my stand” look. Fucking New Yorkers. I cried when I read it. Wept tears of joy, right there in the middle of the sidewalk on Broadway & 8th.

Third, people know my writing? Wow. When something I write gets published, I read it once when it comes out, then put it on the shelf with the other magazines. (Long way from crying in the street, huh?) I don’t even tell my parents anymore. I was talking with Ace last month about how we used to pour through magazines in high school and college and actually read names (I think that’s rare for non-writers, no?). I would still cut off my right pinkie toe to flip a phrase like dream Hampton, asha bandale, Lola Ogunnaike, Margeaux Watson or Miles Marshall Lewis (the latter two were mentors at one point.) As many people have pointed out, I grossly underestimate myself and have a hard time putting life in perspective. In her ‘ [Belle] this is your life’ speech, Ace pointed out that some high school or college girl now reads me the way I read (and still do) others. That’s so humbling and amazing. All I could say is ‘Wow.’

Life is a fabulous, wonderful amazing thing. I live a great life (half based on outlook, half on blessings). I take credit for nothing. God directs, I’m just another human ad-libbing lines.

Oh, and I was so wonderfied by Demetria’s email that I invited her out to drinks I have to meet her! Two writers with the same name! I’ll let you know how it goes when I make it happen.

"Urgent Like A Motherf*cker"

 

So I usually don't plug movies on here. I 'm not a spokesmodel and I don't get paid for it, so what's the point? I have to love something before I'll tell others they have to have, see or listen to it. But I just got an email with the trailer for Be Kind, Rewind this new flick with Jack Black and Mos Def. Quick summary: 2guys own a video store. The videos get erased and so they recreate the bootleg to sell versions of movies like Ghostbusters and Driving Miss Daisy. The idea seemed fun and fresh and amusing, but I didn't exactly have the urge to run to the theatre. I'd definitely Netfliks it though.

I read further in the message and see that there's a party for the movie this week and there will be an opportunity for guests to make their own scenes from their favorite films. I pause. I think. LOVE JONES!!

Immediately I forward the invite to all my friends telling them that they have to go to this party so we can recreate our favorite scenes. I cast myself as Nina (“Falling in love… that shit is played out like an eight track”), and then assign the other roles based on the personalities that match the characters.

John as Darius: “This here, right now, at this very moment is all that matters to me. I love you. That’s urgent like a motherfucker.”

Gary as Wood: “I believe in that shit like flowers, candy. Just not every day.”

Patent as Savon: "Falling in love ain’t shit. Somebody please tell me how to stay there.. Do I love my wife? Hell yes. Is she here? Hell no.”

Aria as Josie: (She declines based on her hair and says she'll be Sheila): “Oh, nigga, I got your progressive.”

Carmen and Penelope will have to duke it out for Josie (both have big hair.) Carmen decides she'll get a blow dryer and play Troy (''Don’t wait by the phone, Negro!”) Leaving Penelope to ask, “Played out like an eight track? You did say that didn’t you?”

In a flurry of e-mails we start quoting our favorite lines, regardless of character:

Darius: “Romance is about the possibility of the thang. You see, it’s about the time between when you first meet some fine ass woman and when you first make love to her. And when you first ask a woman to marry you and when she says ‘I do.’ When people who have been together a long time say that the romance is gone.. Mmm-mmm, what they really saying is they’ve exhausted the possibilities."

Savon: “You asking me if I married my soulmate? It depends on what day you ask.”

Ed: “Romance is dead they said while cheating at pool. But the very last frame of this nine ball game, the cat who had the date on the top of the Empire State is the one who got hustled like a fool.”

Nina: Ah, persistence. Darius: You’d be surprised about how far it can get you.

Wood: “I can’t help it if I’m the Chosen One.”

Nina: It was like his dick just… talked to me. Josie: What’d it say? Nina: Ni-na! Josie: Damnnnn. Day-ummmmmn

Marvin: “I’m going out for some motherfucking Toasted Oats. You’re trippin.”

Darius: “You and I both know you don’t want to be out here this late stomping up and down like somebody done stole your fucking bike.”

Darius: “Saving something for later? Baby you ain’t got to save mine for later. I’d rather have it right now anyway.”

In a rare emotional admission, John aka No Heart confesses that this movie had a profound effect on his life: “Ya'll don't understand. This movie came out and was the source of 99.9% of my inspiration when I was in hollering at my first wifey.”

I think we all kinda felt that way when we saw it. How often --before or since-- have you gotten a cast of Black characters in a contemporary drama that acted, thought, and looked like you and your crew (or at least how we hoped to be in 10 years. I was 17 or 18 when it came out)? One that so aptly portrayed two people who were so feeling each other but let themselves and their egos get in the way (isn’t that most people’s biggest problem? And why is sooo hard to get out of your own way?)

The movie has its flaws (why did a high-paid Negro offer her a train ride to New York? That ish is 8 hours and the same price as flying); Nina gives a new address at the record store, but she’s house sitting. Her apt (and Darius’) change without notice or explanation midway through the movie. And did anyone get her poem at the end? (50 viewings and counting. I’m still baffled.)

Despite any of that, on my first and only trip to Chicago for business, I extended my stay by two days, mostly so I could run around the city and visit all the landmarks in the movie. I was positively giddy in Grant Park walking to Buckingham Fountain. And I also started drinking white wine because Nina looked so sophisticated holding her glass in the “set scene.” It’s also the reason I learned how to step (DC style, not Chicago) and wear “bloomers.” (Go watch the movie if you don’t get that last one.)

Hands down, it’s one of the greatest films of all time, and it happens to be Black. It gets even better when I start picturing my friends acting it out.

I can’t wait for this party!!

Go Big: The V-day Story

I have a habit of doing everything “big.” For my bday last year, I figured a way to get a magazine to sponsor my party (shout out to Suzanne and Tamera at Honeymag.com), found a liquor sponsor (shot out to Darrin and “Gold Dresses Yaz” at 1800 Tequila), and co-hosted a party for 200 at a very sexy NYC venue (shot out to Honey). My boy did the fliers (shout out to “Math”), I had a gigantic gold cake for 75 made into the shape of a present (shot out to Heavenly Cakes who made it for 100 by accident) and The Wizard (ie, Nic) turned the private room of an already uber-lush venue into an sparkly, exotic-flower filled masterpiece (no description will do it justice).

Suzanne’s husband and a DJ friend (Parler) spent hours making mix CDs so the aural vibe was right. Of course, a professional photographer (shout out to Mecca) clicked through and every person I’d ever met in the city—(many unexpected) rolled through to give me birthday wishes and greetings (shout out to everyone)! It took a team of friends, extended friends (the gentlemen who carried the big ass cake and placed it in my fridge), pseudo-family, colleagues, and benefactors to make it big and fabulous, just like I like it. And as far as birthdays go, I don’t think it could be topped as the 32-teeth grin on my face in most of the pictures will attest. (As a rule, I don't smile in most pictures. Every once in awhile, someone gets me)

See? Big. I usually can’t think of any other way to do life.

Many months later, one of my besties also turned 28. He’s an over-the-top-per too, but for some reason, he was opting out of a big celebration. At the last minute—ie, 4pm on the day of his birthday—he decides he wants to celebrate finally. I already had after work plans. I dropped them to head over to the Grae’s party at Level V. Sherrod's (relatively) sober when I arrive , which I immediately get to remedying with vodkas and cranberrys. He looks fab, as always, but Patent notices he’s missing a hankercheif from his pocket that would really put the look over the top (we try to flatline, we can’t help ourselves.) Patent pulls the hanky from his own pocket and places it in Sherrod's so his outfit looks complete for the pictures. At some point cake appears, and the ten of us celebrating our boy dig in. We dance, we laugh. We eat, we drink. We move to another venue and another friend (and the night’s promoter- shout out to Stan @ Home) breaks out a bottle. We dance on furniture on a Tuesday night.

It’s a low key affair, pretty much what we do every few Tuesdays for no reason (minus the furniture dancing. That’s for special occasions), but this time we are partying for a cause. Sherrod realizes this and at some point stands on the love seat because he “has an announcement.” (Code phrase for “everyone, shut the fuck up!”) He thanks us for coming. He thought no one would show up and we did (why he thought that baffles me). He tells us what this celebration means to him (I remember exactly what he said, but he made me promise in his speech not to blog it), and in my recollection I swear he got choked up. (He swears he didn’t.) Sherrod then attempts to bear-hug all of us one-by-one. We all had a moment with this emotional fool (said with love) who proclaims that re-doing what we do every few Tuesdays has made this the best birthday ever with minimal flash, no pomp and circumstance.

I had to tell you all that, so you make sense of this:

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Between Then & Now

I waited till the last minute to make plans for V-day. So I baked the only thing I know how to make. It's in the oven. I'm listening to the Bee Gees. I have a shower cap on my head because I'm dyeing my hair jet black to look perfect for tomorrow (I can't cook, then look like I actually spent time cooking. Ruins the illusion.) I ran 3 miles earlier, after leaving work at 9pm. I haven't worn make-up in 2 days. The mail guy at my job had an intervention with me about this. ("Nothing's wrong? Then at least put on some mascara, D!") My legs hurt from running. I am not fucking Superwoman. Fuck this "S" under my ruffled dress.

11:37 PM 2 weeks ago till today

I didn't go out tonight. Stopped by the Bad Boy showcase since the venue was around the corner from my job, but the line was way too long and people with more clout than me were waiting in the cold. I got home around ten and settled on the couch to watch BET's show about the 25 events that mishaped Black America (oh, the irony.) Besides putting color issues way too low on the list of importance, it was actually pretty good-- even if anyone who ever heard of slavery could have predicted what was number one. Lots of colleagues, friends and superiors got a chance to shine and it gave me another professional goal to strive for. Hell Date came on after (the irony continues.) I'm hard on BET but I do think they're finally moving in the direction they should have been headed all along.

Anyway, I have so much on my mind, I don't know where to begin.

Let's start here. When I ran into my Ex last week, I mentioned the blog to him. He asked how to find it and I told him to Google me. He did. He found this blog and the old blog at Honey and in less than a week, he read everything, something like 75 posts. He told me he was searching for the reason that he and I didn't work. He said he knew he wasn't perfect, but he never really understood. This is the ex that I always refer to as a good dude. He's a man's man and a great guy that any woman, including me, would be honored to share her time with. But... The reason I think it didn't work is a private conversation. I was kind of surprised he'd think I'd talk about that here. I talk about a lot of ish, but I'm private about some things and I show respect for people's feelings that I respect. We didn't go the distance, but I didn't lose any love for him when we ended.

I e-mailed him back to ask if he really wanted the answer and he didn't respond. I'll take that as a respectful no.

I ran into him Saturday night. He was with a new woman. He's the only Ex who I am happy for. I think he's a great guy and deserves happiness. I hope he's found it.

I've been listening to a lot of Amy Winehouse lately- always a bad sign because the emotions (depression/desperation) make sense. I test my emotional stability by whether she and Lauryn Hill (Unplugged) sound like gibberish or not. When they do, I know not to make any major decisions; I just kinda coast till it sounds like the rantings of mad women again. I've been palying ''Wake Up Alone'' on repeat. That, back to back with Aretha Franklin's ''A Rose Is Still A Rose.''

Sometimes I wake up in middle of the night when it's still dark and find myself startled by my surroundings. I wonder what a Southern girl like me is doing in this big city in my big apartment in my big bedroom in my big bed all alone. For a moment I feel lonely, then I remind myself that I'm here, far from home, for a reason-- to be a writer and editor. When I was 16, I completed an independent senior project (mandatory for graduation) and it was a collection of short stories about relationships. Somewhere in the introduction, I wrote something about wanting to grow up to become the voice of my generation. I sat on the back steps of my parents' house and chain smoked and cried everyday for eight months when I was 22-23 asking God for three things only: let me get back to New York and let me have a chance to compete among the best writers and let me be great at what I do.

I was 22; it was all I wanted. I'm not where I want to be yet, but I see the hoped-for land on the horizon. Maybe I should have asked for more.

I don't feel like pouring right now. Sometimes writing these posts has me tapping into emotions I don't want to feel. I think if I'm going to write, it's my duty to lay it bare. I do it cause it's cathartic and because by telling my truth, I can show someone a better way, a different way or at the very least have someone read and say, "I might be bad, but at least I'm not [Belle]." When I don't write, it's because I have nothing to say. Or at least nothing to say that I feel like sharing. I just want someone to connect to my words however they can. That way, what I sacrifice -- sleep, companionship, time, whatever else-- isn't in vain.

Sometimes Belle gets lonely. I"m going to sleep now.

Representing The Race

 

I just want you all to know, that I stayed at work late to get you a blog. It’s not the continuation of the survey (no time to compile all the quotes. I’ll get to it later). But this (more Joyce) is what’s on my mind for today:

I went to brunch at my favorite out-of-the-way BK spot yesterday. The cook/owner makes French toast that tastes like cake. I don’t know how he makes it, but I LOVE IT! The problem is, so does half of Brooklyn. Everyone and their mother has figured out where my favorite spot is. So we (me, Aim, Patent) get there after church, only to discover that it’s packed. Not surprising since it only holds 25 people. Usually we’d just wait outside because we have no problem waiting for good food. But it’s freezing!!! (One hour later, we will be sitting inside and I will look out the window to observe, "it looks like we're sitting in a snow globe.")

So we walk down the block to the nearest coffeeshop. We’re in the middle of what used to be the hood but is now completely gentrified. The coffesshop is foo-foo chi-chi. We sit at the counter and watch a man further down eat lettuce like it’s steak. He's really enjoying the lettuce. Not salad—because salad has more than lettuce. It has croutons, dressing, tomatoes, ish like that. No, this guy is just eating large pieces of lettuce. He offers some to the lady he is with. She enjoys just lettuce too. My boy and I laugh at them because... well, because it's fucking bizarre.

The waitress comes over. Everyone else gets some form of tea. I get hot chocolate, which she mentions is bittersweet. Fine, I’ll just add sugar, I respond. Five minutes later, she brings their tea in teacups; she brings my hot chocolate in a gigantic bowl.

I look at the bowl. We all look at the bowl. It’s cold and there is a lot of warm liquid to be savored in front of me. I picture myself lifting the bowl with both hands, bringing it to my face to slurp the hot chocolate... in public. I shake my head.

“I can’t do it,” I blurt. “On behalf of the race. I can not do it.” I call for the waitress and ask for a cup.

She takes the bowl, returns with a cup that holds half the amount of what was in the bowl. My girl notes aloud the same observation I have just made. I weigh the amount of liquid in front of me in a cup versus the embarrassment I would cause the race by slurping from a bowl in public, in my Sunday best no less. I will gladly pay the same price for half the amount if I can preserve the dignity of the race in this restaurant. One small stand for a Black girl in Brooklyn; one small step forward for The Race.

I do not eat watermelon in public unless it has been cut into squares. I do not eat fried chicken ever, but ten years ago when I did, I didn’t do that in public either. (Just picture me with that wild ‘fro I used to have eating watermelon or chicken.) I will not embarrass the race. It is one thing to embarrass yourself, it is another to embarrass The Race.

This is the undercurrent of what it means to be black and “aware,” You can’t always enjoy life’s simple, sillier pleasures because you are always thinking about The Race and your Blackness. How it appears to others, how what you do represents 10 million other people. It’s hard to just be and be comfortable when you’re walking in such big shoes.

PS-- I'll try to post more often. But be forewarned, it's gonna be random. That's just the mood I am in.

A Belle Update

Have you been telling people about Belle? I don't know what happened, but we've got 2000 new readers in two weeks and an insane number of hits. This makes Belle happy! But who the hell is reading this thing? LOL!

I've intentionally never put a full picture up, but I still get people asking, "hey, do you do the ABIB blog?" Maybe it's the eyes. Anyway, it scares Belle when strangers talk to her about the details of her life in public. Belle loves making new friends, but don't scare her.

At this point, I will now stop referring to myself in the third person.

A new blog is coming later (I think.) It is the case that I am getting killed at work, hence the no-shows last week and the question about today. But there are 2 new blogs, a survey and then the first part of the results with the man quotes.

A special thank you to the men who participated. But more about them later. Okay now. Since you asked-- 2 are married (happily and to fabulous, gorgeous ladies.) The rest are single and dating. All are employed-- and pretty well, I should add. All are cute AND articulate too! Most are tall. They range from about 27-39. Pause. Why am I not dating any of these men? They're all really good guys.

That's all I can give. I promised the gentlemen that they would be anonymous. It was the only way I could figure to have them be perfectly honest.

Now on to this morning's brief story:

My girl asked me to describe the guy I've been hanging with recently. He's a lot of good things, but the most accurate way to say what he is -- which I told him 20 minutes into our first date-- is he's a male me. Like if I was a guy, I would dress and talk (minus the NY accent) and swag just like this dude. It's funny how many traits we have in common.

I happened to be downtown last week and stopped by his office for a breif visit. It was the case that he was showing me his Wall of Fame on his laptop, a monthly compilation he keeps of all the stupid shit people either say to him or in his presence (sound familiar?). I was suddenly realizing that he has dual personality/ asshole tendencies (a good thing. I can't deal with pure nice. I tend to run over people like that) when his co-worker returned to the office they share.

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Survey Results- Day One

Okay, so 1) I meant to post this morning, but I wanted to get 20 guy responses. Only had 18 when I got to work; 2) I intended to post the full results all at once, but the guys’ answers are so hilarious and insightful that I had to quote them.

I’ll do the answers day-by-day, which should be easier now that I have Internet access in my house again.

Here are the results to the first question:

*70% of men polled WOULD DATE a size 14 woman and ALL who said they would, would date her publicly.

What men said:

“I know there are some charming and pretty plus-sized girls out there, but that just doesn't appeal to me.”

“If you can carry [the weight] well and your brain is right, IT'S ON!“

“Skinny or large, I wouldn’t be gung ho to be in public with someone that can’t dress.”

“Not preferably, but they're not off my radar. Many plus-size women have sex appeal.”

“Size 14 and above to me equals, lazy. I would however have no problem with 10-12.”

“ Size 14 is SOOOO not an issue. My major drawback is whether a woman has a large stomach; Everything else is negotiable.”

“I like my women cute in the face and thick in the waist!”

“In public fo' show! I grew up with full-figured women in a culture that embraces healthy women not women who have the bodies or young boys.”

“Yes, as long as she was well proportioned, and her skin is tight no cellulite. If she was a sloppy size 14.. hell to the no. Hell, a sloppy size anything hell to the no.”

Belle's Back (Sorta)

Belle's happy again, but she's been busy. No more crying over yogurt for the the forseeable future.

So last night I had dinner with two women and of course, we talked about men.

I won't tell you who said what, but it was me against them in terms of opinions on men. I tend to look for the good in people, which means I often find it (no one is pure evil.)

So the result of our dinner conversation was a survey. Emily wrote it and this morning, I sent it out to 26 anonymous, opinionated (and attractive) Black men in my 8125 (I will not upgrade. I love that phone!)

The answers are still pouring in (and I do mean pouring, within 10 minutes of sending it, almost half had already responded.)

So here's the survey: Dear Man,

After debating the topic of men with 2 lady friends last night, the three of us are trying to clear some things up about the opposite sex. Please answer the following and send back to me. It's all confidential. I promise not to write about you in the blog... at least not with names.

Thanks in advance for being a man with an opinion I can trust.

XO

[Belle]

A Survey of 20 Good Men

1 - would you date a plus size woman (ie 14 and above)

In public? In private? Why or why not?

2 - would you date a woman taller than you (ie 2 or more inches without heels)

3 - You're in a party and spot a young woman across the room. This first thing to catch your attention is:

A. Her attire B. Her face C. Her body D. Her personality

4 - Have you ever stopped dating a woman because of what others have said about her?

5 - while on the train a woman makes it a point to smile and say hello to you. You initially think she is:

A. Flirting B. Just friendly C. Crazy

This is all I have for now...

Think you can predict the answers? Just Try.

A Joyce-like Stream (Only English Majors will get that)

 

I don't want to talk about relationships today.

Belle needs meds. I've been having mood swings lately-- and no, it's not PMS. I was depressed as hell for two days, a horrible bout of self-loathing. I wrote, but it's too damn depressing to post. Oh, I haven't partied in 2 days. That should indicate to you the depths of my discontent.

Part of the problem is that I'm homesick. I love New York. I mean LOVE this city. But as of late, I've been noticing how filthy and inconvenient everything is. I forgot to go grocery shopping this weekend and around 8pm on Sunday I realized I was starving since I'd only had brunch hours earlier. The grocery store and every decent take-out within walking distance were closed (Kennedy Fried Chicken is not decent food. I wanted something with vegetables.) In order to hunt for food, I would have to get on a train. Wasn't going to happen. I went back in, watched The Wire, then fell asleep on my couch so I wouldn't get any hunger pains.

Yesterday morning, I go down into the subway to take the train to work. Someone has thrown up multiple times where I usually stand to wait for the train. The whole damn station wreaks. I get on the train, transfer at Atlantic, and wait for the B or Q to shuttle me to Midtown. For some reason, I look at the tracks to see a shitload of garbage, like someone has just dumped out their entire, very large rubbish bin on the tracks. Rats are scurrying through it.

After I literally gag, I decide I am going home for the weekend since I now (temporarily) hate this city. I get to work and my Dad calls in the morning to remind me that he and my Mom will be here this weekend. Fuck! Jason's birthday is this weekend so I wouldn't have gotten bored in the pretty, clean, spacious suburbs. And Stars will be down there this weekend. Total 2-fer. And I'm trapped here. I love my parents. I want to see them (and eat a full meal.) But I want to see them in a clean space.

I'm moving into their Midtown hotel room as soon as they arrive. If all goes well, I'll have a view of the park. Wide open space tends to ease my homesickness for a bit. I'll stare out the window until I feel better.

I woke up this morning to the sound of the 7-year old upstairs practicing the piano. She's actually getting pretty good. She used to bang out The Farmer and The Dell and I wanted to tell her parents to get her another hobby cause a piano player, she was not to be. But she's kept at it faithfully and now it sounds pretty nice. She's got a way to go, but I can see the light in the tunnel. I'm listening to a child grow.

I put on Mary J. Blige's new album, a fucking masterpiece if one was ever made. All morning, I've been singing "just fine, fine, fine, fine!" and dancing in my chair. All was well until I went to lunch. Since I'm on this whole gym thing, I decided on yogurt. I get to the stand and they have butter pecan. I almost burst into tears. Butter pecan was my grandfather's favorite. He died 4 years ago, I think. So I got a medium cup instead of a small, put rainbow sprinkles and ate it in his memory.

Now I'm here typing to you. Okay, I'm done. I'm going back to work. I love my job-- it's like waking up everyday, getting dressed in my fashionable best and going to sit in the sorority house for 8-10 hours-- but like without the bulima (we're mostly Black).

Okay, I'm really done.

Talk amongst yourselves.

"She don't believe in shooting stars..."

New York is a small country town of 8 million people. And I live on Main Street. I went out Wednesday night to a bourgeoisie Black politico affair with Patent not expecting to see anyone I knew. Frankly, I was looking forward to being anonymous. I go out way too often and it’s rare that I don’t run into someone I know when I leave the house. Last night, in addition to the 10 other people I encountered, I ran into my ex and my former SO (remember him?)

The ex was cool, although the initial greeting was awkward. But I eventually wound up chatting him up for 30 minutes about nothing while his best friend repeatedly loud-whispered in my ear, “I miss you!” (There was an open bar and Henny was in long supply.) In that half hour, I remembered why I dated my ex—and couldn’t bring myself to break up with him even long after I realized it wasn’t working. That’s a good dude and he is funny as f*ck. He also doesn’t put up with my sh*t (also in long supply.) His new girl is a lucky woman. She better be treating him right!

Anyway, today’s blog:

I’ve been trying to arrange an outing with this guy for 2 months. We have the worst schedules ever. I work like a slave; he does too. Whereas I refuse to leave the house or wear heels on weekends and call that a vacation, he actually leaves the state.

We’ve sort of never met. I was in DC for Thanksgiving and attended a party my boy from college threw. When I got there, my boy was sitting at his table with a gentleman who had his back to me. I noticed he had etched stars in his hair. They were fabulous! All I could do was stare until my boy interrupted my fascination with an offer from his bottle.

I saw some more friends from school and left the booth to go chat. When I returned, Stars was gone. I ask my boy where he went and am told he left.

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"My suit? It should thank me."

One of the reasons I go out so much is to be a better writer. I never know what will inspire me and I keep my mind and ears open to all manner of situations in the hopes that I will get a good thought off of it.

The fight party on Saturday was a source of great inspiration for my writing. I was talking with Halle, and she was telling me about her new beau. He’s apparently gorgeous and when she’s with him, she notices a lot of women checking for him. They look at him, then look at her and she gets the feeling that a lot of folks wonder why he’s with her.

I looked at her like she was stupid. She’s beautiful, has dimples so deep you could save water in them if ever there was a drought. She’s not a size six and her tummy isn’t flat and her hair doesn’t hang half-way down her back. But evidently, she’s a dime to her dude if he’s with her. If there’s anything I’ve learned from hanging out with an all-guy crew, it’s the average man doesn’t hand out the girlfriend title to just any woman who wants the position.

She was telling me how she was taking the day off to prep herself for his upcoming birthday dinner - hair, nails, make-up the works. And I got that she was doing it so she felt fly, so I let it ride. What I wanted to tell her in all my newly acquired relationship guru wisdom is that none of that really matters.

I think women –myself included—get so caught up in impressing the man we’re dealing with that we forget to be the woman we were when he met us. We’re always trying to change and switch up and keep it fresh, which is good. But we forget to keep the same things-- like confidence-- that attracted the man to us in the first place.

He approached her because he saw something he liked. Whether it was the size of her hips or the aura that surrounds her, or both. My guess is that he came over because she is a confident woman with her shit together. (She’s pretty, but I don’t give much credence to that. New York is full of beautiful people.) She’s far from stuck up, but she carries herself like she is a prize—which she is. And I hated that she was letting looks from other women make her doubt that she belonged on her man’s arm. She was trying to keep her man interested by getting done up, but I think she’d be better off just staying who she is—a confident, beautiful woman… with mad swag.

Her comment struck me because I’m dealing with a similar issue. I hang out with someone who knows me well and occasionally we walk that fine line between friendship and more than friends. It’s the case that as I begin to think of him as something more than “just” a friend, I’m switching up. Instead of just saying what I would usually say or doing what I would usually do, I’m questioning everything I say and do before I do it. Instead of just being the me that he came to like, I’ve turned to this weird place of trying to give the best impression of me. I’m self-censoring when being off-kilter and unpredictable is one of my best traits—-albeit depending on who you ask.

I know what I should do-— just be me. But it’s not as easy as it sounds when you want someone to keep liking you. I realized what was happening and I had to break out some Erykah to re-up my swag, re-enhance my belief in the phenomenal force that I am (See? It’s working.) There’s nothing like singing in the mirror, “You’re booty might be bigger, but I can still pull your n*gga” to get your mind back where it’s supposed to be.

I hope Halle reads this and does the same.

Happy People

Today's a happy blog. Yesterday depressed the hell out of too many people. We're just on an emotional rollercoaster this week, huh?

When did I become so stiff? I went to the Chris Brown concert at MSG, last Thursday. I was surrounded by tens of thousands screaming, dancing teenagers who had no self-control when it came to cheering for their favorite artist. Five minutes before Chris appeared, a digital clock appeared on the stage counting down the next 300 seconds. A good half the crowd actually counted. When it hit the one minute mark, I thought it was impossible for the crowd to get any louder—and then the clock hit ten seconds. That’s when I knew my ears would be ringing all the next day.

Girls stood on chairs, they danced hard at their seats, they sang along to all of the songs. They jumped up and down. And as I watched them, I wondered when did I become the woman who didn’t let go? Who observed hysteria and never participated in it? Who goes to events and spends more time checking her e-mail and texts less she look caught up in the fabulousness of it all? When did looking bored become cool?

I remember being 12 or 13 when Jodeci toured with MC Hammer as the opener. I begged my parents to let me go to the show. My Dad shelled out $50 a pop for me, my best friend, my chaperone, and her best friend to go. I gave a damn about Hammer—who was already starting to fade in popularity. I wanted to see Dalvin and DeVante. Through the whole Jodeci set, I screamed until no noise came out, sang along at the top of my lungs to all the songs and especially when the mic was held out to the crowd. I damn near passed out from pubescent hormonal overload when the four of them-bare-chested-- stated humping the stage or working their hips. (I fully understand why Elvis was only shot from the chest up.) I knew nothing about sex or men or their mechanics, but I knew they looked damn good doing whatever they were doing and it would be damn good if done to me. I feigned for those two brothers and everyone around me knew it. I let go and got lost in the moment. And I never had more fun. My night was so complete that I left after the Jodeci set and missed Hammer altogether—no regrets.

Somewhere around the 8 second mark, I got caught up in Chris Brown’s hype. Though I was sitting a row in front of C. Breezy’s publicity managers and a couple seats down from one esteemed writing colleague and next to another, I became 13 again. My girl was trying to take a picture of me—which I stopped cheering to pose for. But then Chris hit the stage. The picture turned out with me in a full-on scream, hands above my head, and a euphoric look of glee on my face. I loves me some Chris Brown!!!! (Hey you, if you’re reading, send me the pic!)

During an intermission the DJ took pity on the grown folks present and played some mid-90s pop-offs like “It’s All About the Benjamins, (Baby)” and “Jigga, My Nigga” that took me back to my college days. I sang along and danced like I was 18 again. Forgot to care that anybody might be watching. Forgot to obsessively check my e-mail or voicemail. (I did, however, text my mama that I was at the CB concert—she’s loved him since she saw This Christmas and a clip of his performance at the MTV Awards. She texted me back to ask if he was dancing on tables again. The answer? Well, sorta.)) When Diddy and 50 (separately) hit the stage, I screamed some more. I was hoarse the next morning.

I can’t promise any of this is going to have me dancing at industry parties or squealing the next time I see Jay-Z walk into the room (though if the Denzel incident taught me anything. I will shove a recorder in his face for an interview. My co-workers (and Dad) were more disappointed that I didn’t get an interview than they were excited that I met him. I’m such a newbie sometimes.) But I’ve promised myself that I will do what I feel (within reason) a lot more. I’ve never had so much fun not giving a f*ck—- well, not since Jodeci.

Regret

I got hit with a question about Mr. Ex yesterday that fucked me up. I don’t have many regrets in life—- I believe everything, good or bad, happens for a reason and you’re supposed to learn something from it. That said, there are some lessons that I wished I learned another way. Maybe because they were so painful (Mr. Ex) or shocking (almost drowning, my car doing a 180 on the beltway in heavy traffic, etc.) that I learned them the first time around. I don’t know. Regret is also a wasted emotion because there is nothing really that you can do about the past since you can’t change it.  

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Just Like the Water

 

My perspective changes based on my reality that moment and my experiences. Sometimes I read old blogs—published and unpublished—and I think, what the fuck was I thinking? Luckily, I put most things in context so I know what inspired a particular train of thought. I say that to say, take nothing that I write in stone. There’s a song from Lauryn Hill’s Unplugged album called “Just Like the Water” the chorus goes something like, “He’s (God) changing me and moving me around.” That pretty accurately describes what I’m going through.

I was at a fight party last night and I encountered a couple that I’d met before. Long ago, they inspired me to do something that I haven’t posted yet—- and maybe never will. (It's not my proudest momement. I made the right decision at the wrong time, but that’s another story for another someday.) But I watched them last night, saw the ease with which they interacted, the quiet intimacy between them, the self-assuredness that comes with having a partner who loves, supports and respects you. They didn’t do anything really—- just talked. But in a room full of people, they were lost in themselves. I thought to myself, if that is what love—real love—is, then I want that someday. I also realized that doesn’t come with force, or with labels, it just comes when it comes. I often say I don’t want to be married and recently started saying that I don’t do relationships—- but I think that means I’m just not ready either. After watching that couple, I knew that I wanted to be in love someday. I’ll patiently wait until it’s my time.

At the same event, a friend who reads my blogs pointed out that I was hard on the guys. “Damn, D,” he began, “Do you ever encounter any decent motherfuckers out here?” (Excuse the cursing. Songbird had multiple gin and tonics.)

I do, I just don’t blog about them often. There’s usually no decent story with decent motherfuckers. And then I remembered that by far, my most popular blog was the one when I asked a bunch of Black men why they loved Black women and posted all their answers. Dumb dudes doing dumb shit makes for juicy tales. But good men doing good things gets more blog hits. Go figure. So I’m going to try to focus on the good—at least for today.

Here’s a positive tale. Remember the woman who told me that married people shouldn’t take advice from single folk? This is her story.

Oh, and a special shout out to Tai and Can-writer for thier posts on yesterday's blog. Thanks, I needed that. :-)

He was The One. She knew because God told her the moment they shook hands. She was an assistant; he was the newly hired manager in another department. They’d just been introduced. She shook off God’s words, which were “He is your husband,” as nonsense. She was 22. She wasn’t thinking about nobody’s marriage.

When she got back to her desk, there was a message from her co-worker asking her if she’d met the new manager yet. And if she hadn’t, she should. He was perfect for her. She laughed and deleted the message. She would find out later that yet another co-worker had made a similar call to him.

The new manager made nice with his new employees. At company gatherings and post-work happy hours, the woman and the manager interacted. There was definitely chemistry. But it couldn’t go anywhere. Not so much because both of them had a I don’t shit where I eat philosophy about dating folks at the job, but because the guy had a fiancée back in the Midwest where he’d transferred from. They remained causal associates from a distance. She wasn’t the chick to play side-piece (not that he asked) and well, he needed to stay away from her if he wanted to continue to be a happily engaged man.

A year and a half later, the man flew to the Midwest and called off his engagement. Things weren’t working out. He returned to New York called his casual associate from a distance and told her what he’d done. Then he said something along the lines of this: "I dig you, I want to see if we can build something together someday, but I just got out of a relationship and I’m not at a place to be with you now. Just let me get myself together."

She reminded him that they were just associates—albeit associates with amazing chemistry—and she had never asked him for more. So while she appreciated his call, it was unnecessary. If she was available whenever he got himself figured out, then maybe she would agree to a date.

A week later, he called back. He was ready. No bullshit. He’d never met a woman like her and he didn’t see any point in wasting any more time when he felt like she was the only woman for him. He asked her out, she agreed to go.

A month later, he asked her to marry him. His proposal went something like this: "I don’t have much to offer. I have a basement studio in a bad part of Brooklyn, I’m paying off student loans, and I’m broke. But I work hard and I have a plan. And if you’ll stand with me and support me, I know I can be anything. I’ll do my best to make you happy if you’ll honor me by becoming my wife."

They got on a plane to Vegas that weekend and got married—- TEN years ago.

She didn’t bullshit me about her marriage. “It’s hard and it’s work,” she said. “Don’t let anybody tell you different.” They argue and he gets on her last good nerve sometimes. When they have problems, she talks to her folks (married 40 years) or his (married 50 years.)She doesn't bother mentioning her woes to her single friends. They also have rules. No matter what happens, they cannot embarrass each other- everything else is negotiable, including adultery. (“I’ll be damned if some chick’s gonna make me lose my lifestyle and my love," she said. "We’ll stay in counseling forever until we work it out.) They also have God. When that last good nerve is worked, they pray-- together.

When she talks about her husband, she gets that same look that my girls get when they meet a great guy and we’re getting together to rehash that first date. That’s the kind of love that I want. There's no sense in settling for anything less.

Married Life

I asked and I received. I was running low on blog topics awhile back and one of my bestests from the Old Country hit me with this idea. She’s married and in her late 20s, and has two of the most precious munchkins- almost 1, and nearly 4-- on Earth. She wrote:

At my wedding reception, when I threw the bouquet all of the adult women, ages 22-27 backed away when it started coming their way. They all thought by catching it some curse of marriage would be laid upon them. Growing up, I would go to weddings and ladies loved the fun of catching the bouquet. There was no "curse" only hope.

If it wasn't my wedding and I was the same age I would have thought it fun to catch the bouquet, but that could be because I liked the idea of "one day" getting married. I don't know. Maybe if you were there [long story as to why I was not] you may not have gone with the group mentality to cross your arms and back away. Or maybe you too would have looked at others thinking "I don't want to be next." Please blog on this. I know the general assumption is that marriage is a loss of fun and freedom. And those who think that are right. Marriage is less freedom and it takes a lot of sacrifice, but it’s no less fun and rewarding.

My girl was way off. In July, I went to a wedding of one of my close NY friends in Long Island. It was a gorgeous outdoor affair on a perfect day at the beach. Just beautiful—but I digress. At the reception, when the MC called for the women to gather for the bouquet toss, I was glued to my seat. Even after being asked several times to get up—by the bride no less-- I refused. I didn’t even want to chance catching the thing or going through the effort of backing away and letting it hit the floor.

I’m terrified of marriage.* TERRIFIED!

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No Belle

Belle's been bad. Well actually, Belle's been good.

I went to the Ne-Yo show at Spotlight Live last night. His new artists aren't so bad-- 2 were pretty good, in fact. If I hadn't been so busy working the room, I probably would have caught their names. Maybe next time.

I sat at the table of a prominent record label to watch the show. But then I got booted from it when Fabolous showed up. They had to scramble to fine me another seat. And they did. Two minutes after I sit, Denzel comes and sits next to me. Yes, Washington. I'm pretty level-headed usually, but damn, it was Denzel. I had my OMG! moment, sent a hysterical text to my mama and a few more folk (Tariq: try not to jump his bones, D.) Then I calmed myself and remembered that I was a respectable journalist for a respectable publication. I have no idea what song Ne-Yo sang first because I was staring at Denzel. The man had on a wrinkled button down and wrinkled pants, hadn't seen a barber in a least a month and still.... if I got it, he can get it. I was so enthralled, that I didn't even ask if we could get an interview for the dot.com at my job :-( (a senior editor pointed that out when I was retelling the tale. I am such a newbie sometimes.)

Anyway, i write all that to say, that I got home late, forgot to post a blog, woke up late, didn't have time to post a blog, and so this is what you get for the day. I don't know what I am doing after work-- likely the gym so you'll get a real blog. In the meantime, talk amongst yourselves. Or not.

Here's a topic for the day-- does the number matter? I thought I didn't care what his number was, then I realized I did. A lot.

Oh, and c-writer. That letter basically meant, she liked the book and/or your writing style but it didn't work for her line. she's telling you what she wants and if i were you -- a new writer-- I would do it. It gets a whole lot easier after you've been signed. Do what you must to get your foot in the door. Also, don't trash the book. One editor may hate it; another may think it gold. Keep pitching. Sometimes it takes a day, sometimes it takes awhile. Oh, and life gets phenomenally easier with an agent. Editors have tons of unread manuscripts on their desk. Agented manuscripts take precedence. And yes, sadly, apartheid exists in publishing. That said, if you don't tell them you are not white, how will they know until they meet you?

~Belle

Life

When I had an email address for the blog on the Honeymag.com site, I used to get hit up all the time by aspiring writers and journalists asking what they can do to become better. One, good writers are good readers. Two, good writers observe. Three, great writers, write all the time, at least once a day. I learned that in a Creative Writing class I took junior year of college. The professor gave me a B+. I argued for the grade and she told me point-blank that I was “Good, but a long way from great.”

The still loathe that damn B, even though it’s almost 10 years later and long, long after anyone’s cared what my college GPA was. I did, however, learn a lot in her class, and I still use her writing tips. When I’m not writing for work, writing for freelance, or writing a blog, and I don’t have my head buried in a book, I just write about whatever’s around me. It’s an exercise to keep my skills sharp. (No lie, the pace of my writing and my skill has quadrupled since I started blogging. In college it took me upwards of 4 hours to write 4 pages- even after all my research was done. I can do it in about an hour now. Though I don’t know if all the blogs are A worthy. Maybe collectively, they’re just a B+ LOL!)

This is what I wrote one morning on the way to work as it was happening.

Think you're having a bad day?

I was standing in the train station with a couple of other people-- two nurses in crisp whites and this kid counting the money in his wallet. Maybe he’s 15. The express train upstairs breezed through the station creating a strong wind. The money blew out of the wallet and rained onto the train tracks. About five bills. The kid paused in disbelief, took another moment to take it all in, looked right, glanced left (trains only come in one direction) then crouched to jump onto the tracks.

''No! No!!'' one of the nurses yells, providing a needed voice of reason.

The kid pauses. Thinks. Sanity returns. He runs up the stairs, his backpack flapping against him.

Thirty seconds later, a gaggle of teenage girls come down the steps and happen to peer onto the tracks. They count up the money. Roughly $10.

The kid was about to jump on the tracks for $10?!

Another minute passes before the kid runs back down the stairs. He stands next to the girls to peer at his loss one more time. I wonder what he was planning to do with money. He stares at his dollars as if willing them to float up to him. It’s obvious he's re-contemplating his decision not to jump. Another hard glare at the tracks and he walks back upstairs calmly.

I peer down the track at the bills, some folded, some delicately strewn on the track like fallen feathers.

I wonder how much money it would take for me to jump on the track.

The Cousin & The Chemist

Every now and again I meet someone who I have insane, immediate chemistry with. It only happens every few years and the last time it happened, I dealt with dude (Mr. Ex) off and on for six years. It’s more than physical attraction, it’s just something… call it an aura, if you will, that powerfully attracts me to this other human being. I have met another chemist. It is the case once again, that the feeling is reciprocated. And it scares the shit out of me...

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When It All Falls Down

My iPod is the soundtrack to my life. I’ve picked up this annoying habit of never knowing what I want to hear. I’ve got 6500 songs --mostly R&B. When I’m in need of a story or a blog, I put it on Random and just listen, mostly as background music, hoping something will jump out of me, or at least plant a seed that will eventually grow into a full- fledged article or blog. Call it inspiration by osmosis.

Anyway, after hours of listening while I cleaned my apartment, a song struck a chord. It was Boyz II Men’s “On Bended Knee” and it was the line of the chorus when they sing, “ Can you tell me how a perfect love goes wrong?”

I thought of a man from my past. It wasn’t love; it wasn’t perfect, but it was good at one point.

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The Roundtable

I have a thing about men and relationships. Here’s the deal society has given men— by virtue of being bestowed with a penis, He is to be a leader. He is to be head of the household. So the question that leaves me with is if he is to lead and head, what the hell am I supposed to do? Follow?

GTFOH:

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