Thursday Night: When the Fun Used to Happen

Being the “Industry Girl” that I am, I only party Monday thru Wednesday. Occasionally, I head out on a Friday or Saturday for a birthday party or any Keistar event, but those are few and far between. I live for the beginning of the week now (album release parties, liquor promos, new magazine issue celebrations) but there was a time when I lived for Thursday night. Thursday night was for ignorance, debauchery, fun. The music was usually bad, we sweated out weaves and dresses, and we bummed a ride, 6 of us in a Honda Civic, at 3AM. That was the evening for 18 and up, i.e. people who wanted to party, but didn’t have an ID to do so properly If we were lucky then, we could find a 21-year old junior who was still gracious enough to go to Republic Gardens in D.C or one of the many bars down on Route 1 in College Park and buy our drinks. If we were unlucky, we got drunk on cheap liquor (Mad Dog, Lynchburg Lemondade, Bacardi coolers). Either way, we spent all day Friday nursing hangovers and dragging in afternoon classes. It was the best we could do, so we made the best of it. We didn’t know we could do better.

Last Friday, I partied like it was Thursday night in 1997. I went out for a night on the town—well actually an afternoon- looking for fun. Ace is in town on Spring Break (she’s in grad school) and I had the day off, it being Good Friday and all. We woke up around 9AM (she’s an early riser and I went to sleep at 9PM the night before) and finally left the house around 4PM. It’s Spring Break, what do you want? We started our adventure in search of food. A. Bistro, my personal fav wasn’t open for lunch (next month they start), so we headed back toward DeKalb to Chez Oscar for a breakfast of omlettes and French toast. Two strawberry mimosas later and with the sun still in the sky, we were officially tipsy.

After a very grown-up breakfast, we hopped on the train to meet up with friends at Calico Jack’s Cantina, an Eastside watering hole with a Mexican menu that caters to recent grads on a budget and city workers with new promotions. Now this isn’t my usual fare. I prefer chi-chi foo-foo places with dim lighting and celebrity deejays , but a lovely new associate who I met a couple weeks back at Slate and adored immediately extended an invite and I was happy to attend. Turns out $20 at Calico Jack’s gets you all-you-can-drink margaritas, beer, or mid-rail drinks (Jack & Coke.) Ace and I stuck to strong, but tasty frozen strawberry margaritas as strawberry seemed to be the theme of the day.

The deejay started off awful and maybe it was the strength of the margaritas (many) or the jello shots (!) but by the time a waitress in a halter started walking on the bar pouring bottle shots into the eager open mouths of male patrons, I didn’t mind “Whoop There It Is!” I hadn’t heard it in more than a decade. I guess I was feeling nostalgic.

Ania and Daven and many more had joined the fun and our party of 15 scored a table away from the mad fray that the bar had become by 8PM. Everyone inside the venue was joyful and fucked up and well, it was loud. We were giggling over something but nothing and attempting sobriety by consuming amazing guacamole when the deejay dropped the “Electric Slide.” We laughed at the randomness of the music selection while Ania rushed to the dancefloor with the hundred or so other people and dipped lower and kicked higher than a woman a year shy of 30 has a right to (“Pilates,” she explained. “Keep yourself limber. Helps on the dancefloor and other places too.”) She stayed out for “Bunny Hop.” (“Right hop, two times.”) We were so drunk we didn’t realize we were partying to Black wedding music.

From there, 8 of us headed to Pop Burger Midtown for an industry insider’s birthday party. More friends, more drinks, more ignorance! All in all, a great night. By 1AM we were all too done to be fit for public and not embarrass ourselves for weeks to come (we realized this when Ania decided to show how low-low-low she could go to Flo-Rida and T-Pain), so we made a pact to leave in 30 minutes, thus giving everyone time to close all deals for future hook-ups. Outside, us Brooklynites had to get a cab for a way too tipsy Harlemite (college rule: you make sure everyone is safe and the call when you arrive in your home is mandatory.) With our girl on her way safely, three more of us hopped in a cab headed South, and eventually stumbled into our adult dorms to crash.

I woke up Saturday morning with a hangover. (Cheap liquor!) LOL! A perfect Thursday type Friday night.

When Men Express...

Sometimes I wonder if men have feelings. They don’t often express them in ways I understand (verbal, written) and even when they do, I don’t get it most of the time. A gentleman once spent five minutes stumbling over his words about us having much in common and wanting the same things out of life, then finally blurted out, “I think you’re great!” I thought ‘wow, he must really like me. A week later, I figured out that ‘you’re great’ actually meant “this isn’t working.” He was letting me down nicely. Huh?

Whenever I begin to doubt the existence of emotion in men, I put on my Boy Band playlist. It’s mostly Jodeci, Dru Hill, and Boys II Men. These men had feelings. The wail on “I’m Still Waiting” or “U and I?” The begging on “One Good Reason?” The confused emptiness on “End of the Road” and the passionate promises to make love to you like you want me to? (Pause. They just don’t make music like they used to.) I know they’re performers , but all that deep emotion you just can’t fake. They felt something for someone and some point. And they’re like men, so there, it does happen. You just have to wait and pay attention close for when emotion comes out.

I finally saw—instead of heard—a little man emotion recently. And frankly, it’s just odd, like seeing a six year old in a stroller. Now let me set this up for you. I roll with a travelling party of three, sometimes four, dudes most days. They are all fine/handsome, confident, and pretty suave without really trying. Two of them I think of like Brothers. Two are just in the Untouchables Box for various reasons. Combined, I’ve watched them—all single-- meet or converse with hundreds of women over the past year and change. And most days of the week, they can just kind of stand around in a room and the women will come to them. They never have to try too hard and depending on which combination happen to be standing to together, it can be like watching women throw panties on stage for an R&B crooner. (Honestly, that might be the best approach as they can be generally oblivious to the effect they have on most ladies.)

Last night, at The Roots listening, one encountered a woman that left him, usually witty and charismatic, stumbling over his words Then he got quiet. He’s never quiet. I was standing next to him while he chatted and turned around to see what the hell was going on. The woman he was speaking to was flawless. Not in the big hair, big boobs, lots of make-up kind of way. She wasn’t even wearing make-up and she glowed. She was wearing a simple outfit, which if photographed anytime between now and 1960 would be fashionable. Oh, and she had perfect teeth. He introduced us, and in the 10 seconds we said hellos and how are yous?, I gathered that she was super nice, but also didn’t take any shit. She’d be perfect for my boy, make him show some consistent act right and stimulate his mind… ( I think he knows this too. Hence the stumbling.) But she has a man.

She gave him a minute more of brief conversation, then went about the business of to working the room. He spent the next 20 minutes and most of the train ride to our second destination) talking about how great she is. And not once did he mention anything physical. Well, except to say how just pretty she is.

We headed over to Lola’s for a fundraiser of sorts to help a totally amazing, but struggling restaurant that’s facing adversity for being too-black in a non-black neighborhood. There, our pair encountered the other half of our crew. A woman stopped by to chat for a few minutes and another of my usually chatty friends, suddenly had nothing to say. Er? When Ms. Amazing walked away, he looked a little awestruck, then actually declared himself, I quote him, smitten. He and my Roots companion actually got into a conversation about how good it feels. I thought they were joking.

Later in the evening, Ms. Amazing (also, simple, nice, smart, and relatively physically flawless), was walking in our direction, headed toward the exit. He leapt—no really, a full leap, not just a hop or a jump-- from his bar stool and jetted—not just a run or a sprint—to open the door for her and say good night. The remaining three of us gave each other the ‘what the fuck’ look… then burst out laughing.

He swaggered back to his seat with a grin, looked at us like we were stupid. And then lost himself re-thinking of his very brief encounter with Ms. Amazing. He was just too pleased with his act of gentlemanly courtesy .

So that’s how man-feelings come out, huh? Actions, not words. I guess that means I should stop waiting to hear declarations of like and watch for what happens next. I wonder if anyone’s smitten with me and I just haven’t noticed because I’ve been waiting for him to say something?

Hmmm.

20/20 Man-Vision

I need a new pair of glasses. I don't have 20/20 vision. I can see people and things well enough from a distance, but the details sometimes miss me. Most of the time, I prefer to live in my own soft edges bubble. Sometimes, I need to see clearly.

Once per year, I look at someone that I see repeatedly and think, ''when the hell did that happen?" Somehow I have encountered the man 2-3 times per week for the better part of many seasons, acknowledged that he was attractive and likable and articulate but never gotten around to liking him. I hear women complain again and again that there are no good men left. No, if you’re like me, we've become man-blind. Date-able men are everywhere if we just pay attention to the details.

It was the case last year that I was introduced to a young man who had recently entered the "industry." He was tall, cute, but at 22 and fresh out of the South, he was totally off my radar because 1) we'll inevitably work together someday; and 2) I'm six years his senior. I began to see him frequently on my adventures in the city and he was always warm and polite and witty. In a month's time, we went from smiling hello across rooms, to double cheek kisses, to grand hugs whenever we encountered each other.

He went on hiatus for winter as many frequent party attendees tend to do in preparation for the flurry of events that occur in late spring and summer. Only a monumental event or a dope album brings hibernators out. It took me six weeks to realize I hadn't seen him. And another 2 to realize I missed him. I chalked it up to a big sister/ little brother thing though I'd never thought of him as such. He was 22 but more mature than most almost 28 year olds I've met.

It was the case last month that there was a dope album released for an artist I love. At the listening, I saw his crew, but not him. I inquired of his friends and was told he was in the building somewhere making the rounds. I actually went looking for him. My search was in vain. No 22. I even sent him a text asking where he was hiding. 5 minutes later, no response.

Sigh.

I'd given up on finding him and was outside the venue with friends trying to figure out what party was next when he appeared from nowhere. He seemed taller, broader. The man glowed.

I beamed.

He beamed.

I attacked him with a bear hug and he returned the sentiment. I had no idea why I was so happy to see him. Was it his absence making me grow fonder? Was it because it was almost Spring and everyone looks better in decent weather? I dunno. I hugged him again just because I felt like it. I pouted--yes, pouted-- and asked why he didn't text me back.

He swore he didn't get it. "Don't I always hit you back?" he asked.

True.

Why did I care? Why did I keep hugging him? Why in the hell was I pouting at 22? And that's when I realized I must be wearing the glasses that give me perfect man-vision. No more bubble and soft edges; the details were clear. And I have a crush on a 22 year old. Ha!

*Before you even ask, I will NEVER act on this. I don't date in my industry.

Sexual Harassment?

 I’m running at full capacity at work again and well, after thinking all day, I don’t want to think at night, which is when I usually write. (That and I haven’t figured out how to get the essays I write on my Blackberry during my commute off my phone.) But then I read a story in the NY Post about a young woman who is suing Wendy Williams, her husband, and the media empire to which Wendy Williams is employed for sexual harassment.

The ins and outs of her lawsuit were quickly (and thankfully) published by TMZ. The woman suing, Nicole, (I use her real name because it’s splashed all over the papers) is a very good friend of a very good friend and I’ve met her enough times to get a sense of her. I know enough people who know her and we all universally agree that she doesn’t strike any of us as a pathological liar. She, alleges that among many things Williams husband repeatedly asked to “fuck” her and her multiple complaints to HR were met with punishment—to her. I’ll let you go and read the details (fascinating really), but what strikes me most about the case is that she actually complained. I’ll let a jury (or the size of the settlement) determine what is and what may not be true, but if the facts turn out to be what she says, I’m proud of her for coming forward. She’ll get enough shit over the next few months from people questioning her motives and her story (TMZ already has), but unless something completely crazy happens to make me believe otherwise, I won’t be one of them.Far and long ago, I “worked” for a magazine and I was invited to go on a photo shoot and told to pack the equipment. I asked what the odd gangly thing that resembled a vacuum I had to wrap up was and I was told by Sean, an editor, it was a steamer to get the wrinkles out of the clothes.“Who irons the clothes,” I asked naively. As the intern, the job was mine.

“Think of yourself as a fluffer,” I was told.

“Fluffer?”

Sean laughed. “They’re the warm up girls on porn shoots. Look it up.”

So I did. Fluffers are the women employed to head off the male actors to get them hard for their “love” scenes and keep them afloat in between takes.

Huh?

While on the shoot the following day, I went to the bathroom in our rented trailer to adjust my headwrap. I was going through a particularly modest phase where I insisted that my hair, arms and legs be covered at all times—even in September humidity. I went in the tiny facilities room, began to untie my wrap, and Sean followed me inside and pulled the door behind him while cutting the lights. I screamed holy hell and he flicked the light back on, but didn’t leave. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared. He played it off like it was a joke, like I was overreacting. Was I? I had (and have) no idea what his intentions were, but I insisted he leave and he did. Neither one of us ever mentioned the incident.

Common sense says that I should never have gone on another shoot with Sean, but I did. He had the knowledge that I was trying to learn and he had a job in the industry that I was trying to get into. Complain? It never crossed my mind. I just made a point to make sure we were never alone in the same place.

He was fired a few months later and I didn’t know why. I just showed up to work one day and his office was empty, all of his posters and photos gone. I heard later that it was for sexual harassment and I’ve always wondered exactly what he did.

Many years later, I was actually working for a media empire in a division that employs mostly young (avg. age was 27), African-Americans. Every day of work was like going to the club. There was loud music, plenty of people, du-rags and caps and mini-skirts and lots of cleavage. There was occasional dancing and if ever you worked past 6:30, usually some liquor. There was a guy, Ivan, who worked in the offices next to mine that made a point to stop by my cube almost daily to tell me how “sexy” I was. I thought he was a little creepy, but it didn’t really bother me. He meant it as a compliment, I think. He asked me out a couple times; I declined.

One day, after I’d been working about four months, he stopped by my desk and asked me if I wanted to see a picture on his phone. Judging by his excitement, I figured it was a picture of him with his shirt off (he was hella built) or a picture of naked woman. I finally gave in. Turns out it was a picture of his erect dick.

Fun. I looked and without giving any expression, passed the phone back to him.

“It’s my dick,” Ivan told me lest I assume it was someone else’s dick in his phone.

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm? That’s it?” I think he wanted me to be impressed by its length or width or girth, which left no impression on me one way or another.

“Yah.”I rolled my eyes.

Ivan went away and I went back to work.

A couple weeks later, I was working late on deadline and had finally decided 9PM was late enough to call it a night. As I was on my way out, Ivan stopped by unexpectedly and asked for a hug.

“What? No.”

“Why are you always so mean, D?”

I scrunched up my face to give him the ‘nigga, are you crazy face.’

“Come on,” he said, approaching me a little too forcefully for my comfort.

I pushed him away, but he insisted on coming at me again. I pushed once more and he stayed back.

“What is wrong with you? You’re not leaving until I get a hug.”

I realized then that he was blocking the entrance to the hallway I needed to walk down to exit. And I realized that it was 9PM, no one knew I was still in the office, the rare silence signaled most if not all of my co-workers were gone, and though short, Ivan was much, much bigger than me.

Fuck.

If I hug him, then he has me in his embrace and if he’s got any intentions beyond a hug, I’m easier access. Or he could let me go. Something told me that the former was more likely to happen than the latter. If I don’t hug him, we could stand here indefinitely. The later it gets, the worst my options.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I was saved by the bell. Well, actually my Sex and the City ringtone. I snatched my phone from my pocket and answered, informing my caller (if you can piece together the timeline, you’ll know who) that I was still at work, getting ready to leave, and most importantly, “just in the office with Ivan.” God forbid if something happened to me, at least someone would not where I was and who I was with.

Ivan walked out the office then, leaving me to my call. I stayed on the phone until I got to the lobby. As I walked the three avenues back to the subway, I questioned whether I was overreacting. Was I being frigid? Was I jumping to conclusions? I mean all the man asked for was a hug. But then why did all my sensors go haywire? I dunno.

I never told anyone at the office what happened and I stopped working late and took my work home with me when I had deadlines. Ivan stopped by my cubicle a couple times after that during regular hours, but after a couple “what the fuck do you want?” lines with the official Black woman stank face, he decided I was somewhere along the lines of a bitch and made a point not to speak to me.

A few months later, he was fired. Seems a bunch of women that worked for the same company, but a floor under ours had complained he was “too aggressive.”

After I moved to a new job, I was at dinner with the girls and we were talking about the crazy shit that happens at the office. I told the Sean story, and then, the Ivan story.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Nel asked. At the time, she worked in HR. “What happened to them?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you complained. Were they fired?”

“Um, I didn’t tell HR.”

“Why not? You didn’t think that was sexual harassment?!”

“I guess…I dunno.” I shrugged. “I never thought about it.”

“Uh, it was, hon.” She just looked at me. “Wow. I can’t believe you didn’t say anything.”

Nel was baffled, and really so was I. I still don’t know why I didn’t complain—at least about Ivan. (I kinda knew what Sean did was fucked up.) Maybe I just chalked it up to what happens in the workplace. Or a part of life you just deal with as a woman. These were the only times I’d felt threatened in an office setting, but it was mild to what you can encounter at a club. And beyond about three minutes in total of being scared shitless nothing ever happened that was all that bad.

Is that’s harassment?

Yes.

Sex and the City

I laid around the house all Sunday afternoon watching Sex and the City and suddenly it dawned on me that I’d never written a blog about the show. It’s also been months since I watched it even though I own all the seasons on DVD. I don’t know how that happened. It’s had a gigantic impact on my life, everything from the blog, the job, the book deal, my relationships, my outlook, my fashion, my apartment (2 gigantic framed posters and I painted the walls in black stripes because I loved the bathroom in Splat!) Everything but my outlook on sex. Huge, gigantic, monumental impact.

A good friend, Amber, a native New Yorker, refuses to befriend most women who have lived in the city for under five years because she thinks they’re living the Carrie Bradshaw fantasy (which admittedly, is unrealistic for a multitude of reasons. And yes, tons of women actually move here to live out that dream.) I met Amber after only a year here, but she made an exception to her rule for me. I think because there are valid similarities between my life and the show's heroine—and likely because I don’t try to live like Carrie's, life just kinda turned out somewhat similar (there are also a lot of differences when you get to the deepest details- the most obvious being that I am not a 30-something, size two white woman.) At the time I met Am, I was already writer, obsessed with relationships (high school thesis was a series of short stories about relationships, I worshiped at the altar of Terry McMillian from 13 on), already met who would turn out to be Big, already believed in good fashion like religion (cried in Paris at 20 at the sight of Dior window display because I was so moved), already surrounded by an insane group of friends and I wouldn’t see the show (even though it was on the air) for another two years. I got called the Black Carrie Bradshaw long before I knew who the hell she was.

A lot of people don’t get the appeal of the show. To them (and I was once one of them), it’s too-old, shallow white women with fucked up lives that they don’t know are fucked up. Oh, and they’re whores. LOL! ONce I started watching, the appeal for me was of course, the relationships, and that I—or one of my friends—have experienced a great deal of the encounters depicted, or something very similar. (Live in NYC long enough and actually leave the house on a regular basis, you will too.) Everyone always harps on how the friendships are the best part of the show too and undoubtedly that was a draw. But what made me obsess was the writing, the fashion (after season 3), the unglamorous glamour of their lives and the city. (4-way tie.) The writers are just plain brilliant. The show is hilarious after multiple viewings and that it spawned cultural catch phrases and instantly recognizable quotes should be some indication. The fashion because Patricia Field is a fucking genius—mismatched ish, thrift and couture all mixed together. Ugh! Carrie wore some weird ish over the years, but my Season Six she consistently looked like a billion. The glamour-- well, they kept the heroines in somewhat honest lives. Sometimes you're up, sometimes your down (anybody remember the episode where Carrie was "fashion roadkill?") And finally the city, well because I love this place and it was much a part of the show as the main characters. I still go places and realize, “hey isn’t this the view where scene XXX was shot?” New York can, at times, be a disgustingly grimey city. I loved that SATC always showed her (but not always her inhabitants) in her best light.

So in honor of one of my favorite shows and the May release of the movie, which I am anticipating like a summer rooftop party, I give you my favorite Carrie quotes (tried to give you clips. That didn’t go over so well.) If you’re a fan of the show, what are yours? (Carrie or anybody else.) And if you've been reading long enough, you probably know why I chose most of them.

Carrie: “There are [relationships] that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous."

Carrie: “Maybe mistakes are what make our fate... without them what would shape our lives? Maybe if we had never veered off course we wouldn't fall in love, have babies, or be who we are. After all, things change, so do cities, people come into your life and they go. But it's comforting to know that the ones you love are always in your heart... and if you're very lucky, a plane ride away.”

Carrie: “When you're young, your whole life is about the pursuit of fun. Then, you grow up and learn to be cautious. You could break a bone or a heart. You look before you leap and sometimes you don't leap at all because there's not always someone there to catch you. And in life, there's no safety net. When did it stop being fun and start being scary?”

Carrie: “I admit it's tempting to wish for the perfect boss - the perfect parent - or the perfect outfit. But maybe the best any of us can do is not quit, play the hand we've been dealt, and accessorize what we've got.”

Carrie to Big: “This is it! I am done! Don't call me ever again! Forget you know my number! In fact, forget you know my name!”

Carrie: “Maybe the past is like an anchor holding us back. Maybe, you have to let go of who you were to become who you will be.”

Carrie: “It's important to remember that love is possible. Anything is possible. This is New York.”

Carrie: I've done the merry go round I've been through the revolving door I feel like I met somebody I can stand still with for a minute and... don't you wanna stand still with me? Big: You dragged me out to a park at three in the morning to ask me if I wanna stand still with you? Carrie: ...Yes.

Carrie: “When it comes to relationships, maybe we're all in glass houses, and shouldn't throw stones. Because you can never really know. Some people are settling down, some are settling and some people refuse to settle for anything less. Than butterflies...”

Carrie: “Think about it. If you are single, after graduation there isn't one occasion where people celebrate you. ... Hallmark doesn't make a "congratulations, you didn't marry the wrong guy" card. And where's the flatware for going on vacation alone?”

Carrie on New York: “ Welcome to the age of un-innocence. No one has breakfast at Tiffany's and no one has affairs to remember.”

Carrie: “There is one day even the most cynical New York woman dreams of all her life…She imagines what she’ll wear, the photographers, the toasts. Everybody celebrating the fact that she finally found a publisher. It’s her book release party.”

Carrie: "I will never be the woman with the perfect hair, who can wear white and not spill on it, and chair committees, and write thank you notes, and I can't feel bad about that." ** this was my screensaver for years

Carrie: "I'm looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each-other love. I don't think that love is here in this expensive suite in this lovely hotel in Paris."

Big Brother

Afternoon/Evening:

So this afternoon went a lot better. I bounced out to get a haircut. (The vibration of the shears on my head is relaxing.) My barber must have sensed my woe cause he hooked my shape up extra tight. My head, it should thank him. My mirror certainly does! Ha!

Then, I realize three of my favorite people are headed North from DC-- by coincidence-- within the next 4 days. Starting tomorrow, it becomes the unofficial Get Belle Back in Good Spirits week. Ace arrives on Wed. to relive XXX and Mom and she will put in a week's worth of fun. (ie, the city is about to get ignorant. Plus, we have decent weather. I may throw a party in her honor.)

My favorite male delight sensed my woes (he's weird like that) and has offered a firm, wide, muscular shoulder to lean on should I be in need. Oh, and his pillow. The one on his bed or he can bring his own to my spot. I remind him that "Sir, we have never shared pillows!" He reminds me, "you have options that you don't use." Touche. Oh, and he'll replace the light in the bedroom. Yes, I have been getting dressed in the semi-dark for a week.

Three more besties have expressed shock and outrage at the turn of events and I've even found a kind ear in the BFF of an unlikely source. Check-in phone calls and e-mails all day.

I love how my people rally around me. I've been swarmed with attacks of love and finally honest declarations, ("well, frankly, i never liked his ass anyway.") And I super appreciate all the menfolk who have gone out of their way to be extra sweet (and super protective). "He sucks. Men do not suck. Don't blame us for him!" I won't, guys, I promise.

I was looking forward to a serious depression for the forseeable future. But when life gives me lemons, they make me spiked lemonade. Evidently, there are benefits to being the "baby" of the bunch. And too, I'm reminded, Spring is coming. That means fresh shape ups and white wife Bs (my weakness) on dudes. It is better for a bad occurence in the late Winter than in the early Fall when I've missed the chance to gather a Winter Starting Five.

"But I really liked this one," I argue.

"And you'll really like the next one too. Now, go put on your blush. Your cheeks ain't naturally rosey."

LOL!

Thanks, ya'll.

Morning: 8AM I wake up in a rush

9AM On the train getting crushed

10AM Get an offer from Breezy

11AM Why can’t life always be this easy?

At some point around NOON I’m just staring at the screen on my desk

Ten minutes later I realize my life is a mess

You wouldn’t believe the last 18 hour dramadey that is my life. I swear, I‘d write the story, but no one will ever believe me. You just can’t make this shit up. I got the go-ahead to write it (really, it’s the least extension that could be made.) But I’m saving this one for the book. Some shit I can just pound out. Other stuff? I just have to wrap my brain around what just happened for a long, long time.

I tried to listen to my iPod, but all I got is deep thinking music. I want to hear ignorant shit. Shit about rims, and Caddys, and d-boys.

Everytime I think about it, I laugh. What else can I do? It’s like some the universe is somebody’s tortuous big brother and he’s holding me down, tickling me relentlessly. This motherfucker will not stop. Ha!

I’m getting off Main Street. This place is a gift and a curse. If I didn’t love my job so, I would buy a one way ticket out of the NE Corridor.

I swear, I am not built for this shit. Shit= anything grey.

If you find the time, send up a prayer for Belle. I need it.

Have a great weekend, everyone. Be anonymous.

18 Years Old

I know this blog is supposed to be lite and fluffy and about relationships, but that just ain’t where my head’s at right now. At least not when I’m off work. I write whatever inspires me and that topic—though there are tons of developments--just isn’t giving me the energy to write. Blame today’s blog on “Twinkle” by Erykah. 

Tariq sent me the link earlier today. (It’s a long read, but very worth it.) I’d heard about the story and if you haven’t clicked the link, it’s about a 17 year old boy, an athlete, who was murdered near his L.A. home. The reported story is he was walking home and some boys, gang members supposedly, asked where he was from, allegedly gang code for what set he claimed. He wasn’t involved in no gangster shit and he didn’t answer. They shot him. The father was home, and close enough to hear the shots. He called his son to warn him there was trouble near the house. When the kid doesn’t answer, he gets that terrible feeling, and runs outside. He finds his boy, his junior namesake, on the ground. Dead. In interviews with his Dad, the father’s said all he ever wanted was to get his boy to 18. If his boy could get to 18, the Dad thought he’d be okay in life. Just to get him to 18. The 18 Year Old Plan is what it’s been dubbed.

I heard the story and thought, what a tragedy. Yet another by all accounts good kid with college ambitions, gone. No death other than a natural one of an old person is senseless, but this one… senseless is the only word in my lexicon that I can think of to describe it. I got to thinking about the limited, but perhaps realistic expectations of the Dad. Just get him to 18. Just 18. 18. That’s so young! I read the article and choked up in Act One. Act Two the tears welled and at the final sentence in Act Three, I cried at my desk. I think of anyone under 25 as children. Anyone under 21 are babies. 18? You might as well be on a bottle.

I wrote a blog awhile back (2007) called 18 Years Old. I never posted it. It was just stories and after several attempts, I couldn’t find the point I was trying to make in writing all that I wrote. So I put it in the Belle- To Be Continued folder on my desktop. This is it (with additions):

18 Years Old.

My former co-worker used to talk about her nephew* all the time. I worked with her off and on for 4 years, so I constantly heard about this kid. He’s the greatest aparently and her eyes light when she mentions his name. She’s so proud of him. She's a year younger than my mom. She has no children so her nephew is like her own son. He lives in Newark and she is the cool aunt in the city. When he wanted to go shopping, he called her. (She knows how to find a good sale!) He had money. She paid for his stuff anyway. He wanted videogames. He called her. He wanted to get away from his parents... He went to college last September (2006). He was having fun and fucking up. The last Saturday in 2006, the cool aunt took the 18 year old to lunch for a sit down, talked to him about getting some act right. He knew he was wrong, said he’d do better next semester. New Year’s Day, he was in the passenger seat of a car, leaving a Wendy's with his friends. A SUV hit the vehicle on the driver’s side, smashed it into the tree on the passenger side. The driver has a few scratches. The boy in the backseat has some broken bones and will have to learn to walk again. The 18 year old has been in a coma since. Swelling on the brain. A damaged brainstem. The doctors don't know if he will make it. Life support is the only thing keeping him with us. They've already talked to the parents about “pulling the plug.”

My co-worker was out for a week and I heard through the workvine what happened. When she returned, I went to her office to.. to just say, “I’m here, whatever you need.” Her eyes were puffy and her face was swollen. Rumpled tissues all over her desk. I asked how he was doing and she opened her mouth to speak. She got out, “He’s…” and burst into tears.

18 years old.

At 18, my “brother” -- bless his soul-- decided that college is not for him. He wants to find himself. I argue there is no better place than to get found than in college or the military. I’d advocate for the latter, but uh, we’re at war. He barely got a high school diploma (long story). He got suspended from college (don’t ask) his freshman year (longer story), wrecked his car (walked away)... I could go on, but I’ll stop now. Life happens. We don’t all get it “together” at the “right” time. And Lord knows I fucked up in many a way before I got some sembelance of act right (the worst were the one “and a half” arrests and a near run-in with DEA. Longest story. My godsister, a brilliant writer, is supposed to working on the screenplay in her free time.) I’m hard on him, sometimes tougher than I need to be because I want the best from him and he doesn’t know what that is yet. I”ll give him credit, he believes in hard work. He always holds a job. But he’s thinking today and tomorrow (and rims for his new whip), when I’m thinking of what’s in his decades to come. He was raised to run, not to walk. I give him shit, but I let him know, “I’m here. If you need me or you need anything, I’m here.” He usually only calls me when he’s in trouble. Every time I see his name on my phone screen (like early contractions, the calls come far apart), I get worried and start praying. Whatever it is God, let it be fixable. He’s 19 now, still trying to figure it out. I’ll pray again tonight for the day that he does.

18 years old.

I’ve never met this kid, but he’s a friend of the family’s 18 year old son. He graduated from military school last June and decided college wasn’t for him yet. If you haven’t figured out, I come from a background that strongly advocates college. Declaring you're not going is somewhere up there with telling a Southern Baptist you’re an atheist. His Mom says he needs time to find himself and gives him leadway to make the discovery. The child has visions of backpacking through Europe (on his parents’ dime) and that will be his way to making the X that marks his spot. It’s not the worst thing in the world and it is the acceptable, if not expected, post-graduation standard in Europe. Instead, he ends up hanging around Maryland finding the best fun a not yet of age boy can get into in a boring place. He’s driving home from wherever one night in January. Crashes his car on a freeway. He doesn’t survive. When my parents tell me, I’m stunned into silence over a kid I never knew. I mourn his passing and his abbreviated future at the same time. I can't manage a physical sign of grief. No loud gulps. No tears. Stunned silence and then, "Gosh.. he was only 18..." is all I can come up with.

Even the babies aren’t promised the tomorrows we count on every day.

*By the grace of God and the near-miraculous rejuvenation that comes with youth, the kid pulled through. He’ll walk and run and live again. And in time, he’ll be pretty much just fine with few limitations. The worst affect that he’ll have for the forseeable future is that he’s forgotten a year of his life. He doesn’t remember turning 18 or going to college or the accident.

Getting Grown (Or at Least Trying)

I took the last two posts down. It was the case that the latest duo might have offended some— totally not my intention. I know how many people read this thing, but when I write, I don’t always think about the far-reaching places my words might reach or the effects they can have in the places they land. Perhaps I should have thought out that post more before I banged it out and put it up. And perhaps, I could be misguided. Patronizing? Eh. Maybe.

I wrote all of that to basically get to this (it was in pat 2):

"Since the first time I read her blog, I realized I was behaving like an ass because I saw my worst flaws in someone else. I’ve learned to carry my baggage, but I’d like someone like me to have a lesser load if they can. I imagine what I could be now if the progress on my work had started just a little sooner. If only it didn’t take me till somewhere not so long ago to realize life won’t be easy, but it’ll be okay perhaps I'd be a lot further than I am."

I can be subject to errors in better judgment and sometimes wade into the deep end of the pool knowing I can't swim. So this is me, apologizing publicly and sincerely to anyone, especially the subject, that was offended. I meant no harm.

I blog about so much shit on here, and probably get a little more honest than I should be a times. I write as catharsis and to make sense of my jumbled thoughts (and to become a better, faster writer) more than anything. I was talking to a fellow writer about my purging from last week and she was like, “what do people who aren’t creative do to get it all out?” I have no clue, but I couldn’t imagine what I would do without words and a semi- articulate way to express myself on the page.

I've been thinking a lot lately on how we get to where we are, and how we grow to whatever we will be. My Pastor said one time, that while you may not like wherever you are, Thank God you are not where you were.

Sometimes there are consecutive days when I think I have it all together. I gain a heightened sense of purpose and I feel like I’ve found my place in the world. I feel like what Maya Angelou calls a Phenomenal Woman. I start to capitalize my own Self, get to thinking 'I am Woman, hear me ROAR!!!' I get a little extra strut in my step and well, yeah, I start feeling myself too. And then I encounter a Real Grown Woman and I get put back in my place, humbled in her presence (this would be the type of woman I look toward to guide me to the next step.)

These days, I don’t have to look far. At my sun-up to sun-down, I’m surrounded by them. Quietly fierce women who are confident and bold and smart and wise and funny too. They carry themselves like forces of nature. My first month on the job, I was so awed, I could barely open my mouth for watching them in action. But I’ve gotten past being star-struck so that I just admire and try to pick up what I can about what it takes to achieve greatness. It takes time and experience and stumbling and rising to be a Real Woman, I’m learning, and though I’m pushing 30 in couple years, I realize I am still a woman-in-training.

It was the case CBC weekend and DC that I ended up partying with a bunch of grown women. CBC weekend in the Old Country is the NYC version of the MTV Awards or LA’s version of the Oscar’s. Every venue that can hold people opens its doors for the revelers. From around the country, everyone in politics and anything remotely related (including relatives of the related like me) comes out, makes an appearance. Ace wasn’t feeling up to the after-parties for the Black Tie gala, so I rolled with my Dad’s friends instead —Real Women, grown women in their late 40s, early 50s. These are the chicks that own homes (note the plural) across the country and in tropical islands, in addition to their main residence. They push luxury vehicles and wear jewelry that they bought and paid for with their own salaries and thier baubbles cost more than my annual income. But it’s not just that, they got internal swag for days. I’m still reduced to flirting, flashing cards and dropping a professional affiliation to get in some places, they just walk up and enter. (And then come out and get those left behind. Ha!)

We party-hop to a few locales near the main hotel. I’m having the time of my life networking and air-kissing (not my industry, but who knows where life will take you? You can never know too many people.) They are bored stiff. Ali gets on her cell and calls around (they don’t text, they actually call) for a better venue. She learns of a party at the French Embassy in Georgetown and tells me to gather my things. I do, in haste, or risk getting left behind.

The Embassy is gorgeous and filled with grown folk in ball gowns and tuxedoes. Everyone the grown women introduce me to is the President or Vice President of some publicly traded brand (ie, paid!!!) or the Chief of Staff to some notable politician whose name I recognize even as a “civilian.” But this party ain’t about airs and titles. It could have been a juke joint except for the marble floors and ladies in expensive dresses. “Solider Boy” comes on and a room full of VPs and such proceed to do the full out fucking dance in the middle of the floor. DC Parties. Hard. Don’t let the conservative climate fool you.

I spot a woman across the room in floor length leopard print grown, sporting a rock that would make Liz Taylor weep over its beauty. Her dress dips low in the back, sexy not trashy. She’s got her hair in a French chignon that’s flawless. And she is backing it up for a bit on whom I believe is her husband. She’s beautiful, but what makes me pay attention is her grace, her confidence. She just has an aura of a woman who’s got it all together. I’m not envious, I’m proud to see a woman flaunt her shit so flawlessly, so elegantly, so amazingly! That is what I want to be someday when I’m late 30 something, about how old I guess her to be. (I’d wish for it tomorrow, but that kind of grace takes time, I know.)

With more than my share of wine coursing through me, I decide to find out what she’s all about. I’m guessing she’s a model (or a former one.) Turns out, she’s a mother or three, a stay at home Mom to some little ones. She’s flattered that I’m so awed and tells me as much, of course with the pure humility that only someone so fabulous can manage. She hadn’t had time to get her hair done in months but she spent a fortune on her ‘do that afternoon. And she just bought the dress and shoes that the morning off the rack. (She looks like a million. Who cares how short or long it took to get that way?) No time for tailoring. This is the first time she’s been out in forever, and ‘wow! Sweetie, you’ve made my year,” she tells me.

I feel like she’s just patted me on the head, but I’m not miffed (Normally, I hate being called “Sweetie”). I know my place and I know I’m not where she is. But she’s given me a direction to go in—- not necessarily the housewife angle (the Grown Woman crew I rolled with and the Grown Women I work with inspire me professionally), Mrs. Leopard Print makes me strive to be radiant and gracious and better up close than I can be from a distance.

Her husband stands beside her beaming with pride, seems like he knows he’s got a dime whether anyone bothers to point it out or not. She gives me a (mama) hug and I go on about my way, newly inspired.

F*ck Analog

My thoughts on Friday’s blog, which seemed to alarm a lot of people:

Look in my eyes/ Tell me what you see/ Do you see perfection in me?/ To you, do I look complete?/ Now take one more look pass my celebrity/ That's where you'll find the real me/ To you, do I still look complete?

I got every material thing I could ever need/ I got the love from my fans that adore me/And I'm grateful/ And I thank you so very much/ But my love for myself is lacking a little bit/ I can admit that I'm working on me/Staying faithful/ And what I’m trying to say is

Just like you sometimes I get down/Sometimes I just wanna cry/Sometimes I get depressed/ And just like me, tryna be complete/ Just understand we're all just a work in progress

-MJB “Work in Progress” Growing Pains

After Thursday’s emotional breakdown, I got to thinking that maybe it was time I stopped thinking for awhile. I figured I‘d get through Friday at work, hit up Cat On A Hot Tin Roof (great, but really really long) on Broadway after, then spend the weekend using no more than 10% of my brain power. Mother Nature seemed to be on my side as it rained most of the day Saturday so I didn’t feel like I was missing anything by staying in the house all day. I moved my laptop into my bedroom, got under the covers, and read gossip about my favorite celebs. I spent hours mindlessly googling pictures of Rhianna, Kelly Osburne, and Kelis, my three most-adored fashionistas, then debating for another hour who had the best style. At first it seemed like a three-way tie, but I picked a winner by wondering whose wardrobe I want to steal most. Kelly wins. Hands down.

Things were going well. Then the last bulb in the light fixture in my room blew, leaving me in darkness except for the glow of the computer and TV screens. But all was still good. Brain power was operating at 7% tops. The phone rings. I have a 15 minute conversation that leaves me feeling pretty much like Nina in the first five minutes of love jones and I decide that this falling in like shit really is played out like an eight track (hence the blog title.)

Liking someone should be the easiest shit in the world, shouldn’t it? But somehow it always ends up complex. I end up staring at the ceiling wondering “what the fuck just happened?” People can’t say what they mean, or we say it, then realize the other person doesn’t feel the same way. So then we feel stupid and wonder why in the hell we ever listened to any of the 10 people who told us to be more vulnerable anyway. Or sometimes we just have nothing to say and then it’s all “what’s the problem? Something must be wrong. You’re not saying anything.” There are all these weird expectations to live up to (I called. You didn’t. Why not?) and subtle games people play (I’d rather hear “I don’t want to tell you” than “I don’t know.” You fucking know!). Hints thrown, careful suggestions about what you might possibly want to change about me to get along better with you, schedules to match up. Today it takes you 5 minutes of winding sentences I don’t understand for you to finally say, “I think you’re great.” Three days from now, I’ll remind you of a Sade song. A night later, maybe you’re a square and I’m a circle. Get it, D?

What changed? Did I miss something? Misread the signs? Huh? I thought I was great? I’m getting off the phone. Fuck, my brain is in overdrive. Where’s my Mary? No, no, no, I will not listen to My Life.

So I lay on my back and stare up at the ceiling, or actually the covers because the comforter is over my head, and I think, “is it me?” Because it’s got to be me. At the very least, I chose the wrong people to get into. Then I think of the date. March 9. Hmm. Two months. Right on target. It’s never been the intent to be a serial dater, but I guess that’s exactly what I am. And I’d cry, but I decided two years ago that I wouldn’t shed another tear over any dude. What does it solve? It just makes my face puffy and I’d be unpretty in the morning for church. If I shed real tears, it’ll be for a real reason.

What I left out of the final version of Friday’s blog was something about how I came home Thursday night and thought: maybe this is it. Maybe this is all I get in life. Maybe I get the great apartment, and the great job, and the great friends, and live in a great city. I get a great talent that I actually get to use, and people actually tune in and pay attention to what I write. I get some great vacations and some great parties and some great hair and great clothes along the way. Maybe I’ll get the great book deal (as a testament to how great the job and my boss are, I wouldn’t even quit, not even if I got a rare six-figure deal) and maybe I’ll get the great car someday (although I don’t actually need it). And maybe I just don’t get the great guy. No one gets it all—at least not at the same time. And I don’t think I would trade in anything that I have to get that one more thing. I don’t want it all. I am happy with what I have. Why do I keep thinking I need more?

When I wrote that paragraph the first time, I wasn’t okay with that. Twelve hours later, I am. Maybe I give up to easy. That could be true. I know I‘m tired of meeting someone, easing my way into allowing myself to actually like him, (one at a time. I’ve tried to juggle and date like a guy. I can’t do it), then watching it all crash and burn. Again. Again. Again. I mean how many times am I supposed to try over and over at something before it kicks in that this is just not for me or I’m just not good at it? Isn’t that the definition of insanity? And don’t I have other sh*t to do with my in stereo, digital life than watch the same piece of it go to shit once again? Shouldn’t I just focus on further cultivating the things I know I’m good at it? Won’t I get a better ROI doing that?

I’m curtsie-ing center stage after a mediocre performance. I don't expect an ovation. Please save any applause.

Mommy Don't Play That

Part writing exercise (cause I just write for writing’s sake sometimes.) Part blog. I edit a monthly essay for work that always gets bumped back to me for revisions. Frankly, I’m not used to being edited so hard. I’m learning a lot. But fuck if growth isn’t hard. You’re just going to have to read more randomness as I intentionally practice more at putting jumbled thoughts into cohesive expressions.

Oh, and I now believe in shooting Stars.

I was in the nail shop around the corner earlier getting did right for the week. It was pretty empty—just me, a Jewish woman and her two kids—appx. 3 and 2—and the staff, 3 Hispanic ladies and the Asian owner. The Jewish lady was on her cell phone and her kids were roaming free. The older one went to use the bathroom, then complained she couldn’t wash her hands. The mom paused the call to ask the owner to turn the facet on for her. Then the little girls came to stand right up on the woman doing my pedicure. All up and invading the woman’s space—and her ability to focus on my feet (which after 3 weeks with no pedicure were jacked!) I finally, very nicely, told the oldest girl that she should go sit next to Mommy because Mommy missed her. The woman was oblivious to all of this. The oldest one tells me no(!), but then I add some bass and some firmness to my voice and the little girls finally leave. They wander around the shop knocking shit over, which one of the Hispanic ladies cleans up. Then they wander to the front of the store. Mom= oblivious.

I speak functional Spanish, but not enough to say ‘this bitch is tripping.’ However, facial expressions are near universal and that was enough for me and the Hispanic ladies to have a mutual chuckle at how recklessly absent this woman was in paying attention to her kids.

I tried to go back to reading my magazine, but I couldn’t. (When the hell did I start getting protective of kids? Is my biological clock ticking?) There are a host of dangers that kids can get into in a nail shop and well… I felt like I needed to make sure they didn’t harm themselves. It’s not their fault their mother isn’t raising them right or paying attention. When I look up, the 2 year old is playing in the trash can (germs!!!!) and the older child is pulling on the door to get outside the shop (danger!!!). The mother still hasn’t noticed.

No one else in the shop speaks enough English to alert the woman to her gross errors in parenting, so I take it upon myself to yell at her loud enough to interrupt her phone call. “Excuse me, Miss! You need to watch out for your kids!” I point to the door that the older child is still holding open while she stares at the Black lady yelling at her Mom. The younger one is elbow deep in trash and unfazed by my shouting.

Mom beckons the kids over by offering chocolate (yes, let’s reward bad behavior. No need to wipe your filthy hands, little one.) They pay her no mind. Maybe the fifth time she says something, they walk over for a treat. They eat, are momentarily still and silent, then go back to their antics. Mom never does end her call.

The littlest one climbs on a chair near where the polishes are displayed. She’s grabbing at them, using the plastic display case for leverage. The older one is sitting next to her flipping through nail magazines. Mom is all into her call. Still. I try to ignore them. I mean these are her fucking kids; I’m not a gotdamnned nanny. If she doesn’t care about the safety of her kids, why should I? Because they are kids and they don’t know any better. She’s curious. Not bad. Just has no home training. It’s not her fault her mother’s an idiot.

I get a vision of that display case giving way, and a 2-year-old tumbling off a chair and onto the wood floor head first and broken glass and nail polish everywhere. So I yell for the mother again. (My logic is not yelling at them is that if I can get the Mom to show some act right, then maybe she will learn some. It all goes back to feeding a man a fish and teaching a man to fish. Think on it.) I stop myself from shouting rather demeaning, “hey Lady” and go for another, “Miss! Your daughter!” and point. She looks at me in the mirror like I am annoying her by saving her baby girl from busting her head wide open.

More chocolate for the kiddies. Yes, let’s feed hyperactive mofos (yes, I just called kids mofos) more sugar. This woman needs a damn parenting book. Or at least some common sense. I can’t help, but to say, “Are you fucking kidding me?” outloud. The woman scraping my heels laughs. Evidently she understands more English than I thought. Or maybe she got the tone and didn’t need the translation. The other two women are just shaking their heads. The owner has put us all on ignore. I’d be lying if said there wasn’t a part of me that wishes I should have just let the child fall. Then Mom might have learned her a lesson. But what a thing to do to a kid just to spite the Mom.

I think about what my Mom would have done if I did that. I can’t even picture it. She never would have let me get that out of hand. I would have been sat in a chair next to her with a toy and it would have been made clear that I was not to move and I was to be quiet. When I tried to get up, cause I know I would have, I would have been stopped in my tracks. Mommy didn’t play that.

The woman never made her kids sit still, just like she never got off the phone. When she left the shop, I was relived. And then I sent up a prayer for God to watch over her babies. Someone needs to.

Surviving vs. Thriving

I’m so happy the writer’s are back, I don’t know what to do. I just watched Real Time with Bill Mahr and The New Rules have returned. It’s the funniest shit I’ve heard in a long time. Thank God for witty mofos who can flip a phrase, make parallels and allusions and just blast all over people so intelligently they’re not even sure it just happened. Long live writers!!! 

Now, on to today’s blog.

I went to a very official Brooklyn houseparty on Saturday night at a very fabulous loft in Bed Sty. It was huge-- not even by just NYC standards. It was a birthday party for a dear friend and former mentor (one of my first editors (Vibe), who now, as life would have it, writes for me :-) He and a fellow Pieces rented out the space for their party, brought in a host of amazing deejays, and 500 of their closest friends, colleagues, and associates to celebrate. I have no idea how old he turned, but he brought in his next year of life quite right.

As it would turn out, the loft —newly renovated, I believe-- is up for rent. As I was ravving about the space and inquiring about the owner, I was told there was a sign by the entrance advertising for it. My curiosity got the best of me and I went to see how much a gorgeous space like this would go for. I figured it would give me something on which to set my sights for the future.

Three THOUSAND motherfucking dollars. Per MONTH. RENT!

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Student-Teacher

I’m on a new kick about how kids—and adults—learn. It’s the case lately that I am both teacher and student. Weird feeling. Forgive me if (and when) I ramble. Try to find a point and comment on it.

I know I’m getting old because I’ve stated to get protective of kids. As I type, there’s a birthday party for a young girl going on in the rec center underneath my apartment (no, I didn’t know that when I moved in.) I’m guessing by the pink balloons and the matching table settings everywhere and the sound of the voices as they sing along to the music, that she’s somewhere around seven. It just so happens that I can hear the words to every song line for line. I’d go down and complain about the sound and the bass, but it happens that he deejay is pretty damn good. His set is like my iPod and I’m in a particularly joyous mood since I went to the barbershop on a Saturday afternoon and found there was no wait. (Shout out to Kurt!)

Anyway, the playlist is very adult. There’s no Aknelye (cue “Put It In Your Mouth”), but there’s 50 singing all over a chorus about not wanting to make love, just needing sex, and T-Pain fake singing about buying drinks and being in love with a stripper. The deejay isn’t even bothering to play the clean version of anything. Somehow I just don’t think most of his set is appropriate for a kid’s party, much less for the kids to know all the words and be able to sing along. Like all single people with no kids, I say, “if I had a kid, I wouldn’t allow them to listen to that…” but perhaps that’s easier said than done.

I don’t know where I got the idea that kid’s minds should be protected from adult words. My father cursed like a man in white sailing the seven seas when I was coming up. The result is I curse in front of (but normally not at) my parents on a semi-regular basis. When I was growing up, my mother—a rather conservative woman—didn’t believe in censoring anything other than (of all things) Nickelodeon’s You Can’t Do That On Television, which of course made me want to watch it more. She actually let me watchNightmare on Elm Street Part 1 when I was around 8 or 9 and I fell asleep with the light on in my bedroom for the next 5 years, but that’s another topic. Shows like DeGrassi High, Facts of Life, and A Different World, which often dealt with adult fare, were fair game. We often had parties at our house (we’ve always had a bar and a dance floor in our basement) and I can recall being privy to way too drunk adults saying way too adult things in front of me- some of which I understood. I still don’t know which parent went through the phase of reading the Black literary cannon (it’s a toss up), but there were walls of bookshelves everywhere. By the time I was 12 or so, I’d plucked off Native Son, Black Boy, a few Black Panther books (I could recite the 10 Point Plan by the time I was ten), and some Terry McMillan and Danielle Steele novels. From these I learned that white folk can be really evil, black men could be really fucked up, and rich white women had great sex. Not really things that a pre-teen needs to know, I don’t think. But no one seemed to mind what I was reading as long as I read.

My Dad, who spent most of my kiddie hood on the road, wasn’t so liberal. I got caught at school (seventh grade, Baptist school) listening to Big Daddy Kane’s “Cause I Can Do It Right” on my Walkman and had to take a trip to the principal’s office because of it. I sat in front of two hyper-religious middle-aged white men (the principal and the teacher who found the tape), trying to explain what “It” was that Kane could do so well. (I got out of a suspension by feigning ignorance. I told them that “it” meant meet girls.) My father, a Mississippi bred Black man could put up with near everything I did, but lying ("I hate a lying bitch!" he would rant) and any sort of fucking up in school (“you got to get your lesson, D!” was his mantra until the day I earned my degree from grad school.) He was livid when he found out. He happened to be in town and when he came home—late as usual—he raided my tape collection. Anything with an explicit lyrics label (damn Tipper Gore!) ended up under the heel of his hard bottom shoe smashed to bits. Reams of skinny brown tape and broken plastic littered the grey carpet of my bedroom. As I cleaned up the mess, I cried for Tone Loc (“Funky Cold Medina”) and NWA (“Straight Out of Compton.”) I loved those tapes and still can’t listen to anything by them without thinking of this incident.

I learned a lesson from it though: I was too young to listen to adult lyrics—at least at school or in Daddy’s presence or where uptight adults might be lingering. I learned to play my profanity-laced lyrics on my Walkman (when I finally got it back. Dad held it hostage for awhile as punishment). And when my parents were around-even my Mom since she ratted me out-- I stuck to R&B. I was forbidden from taking the Walkman to school.

I don’t think I was harmed by hearing or reading anything too grown, but I also had a mother who was hell bent on discussing everything I might have overheard or encountered. She also preached to me about acting like a lady with religious fanaticism. (I think this was her balance to allowing me to see, hear, and listen to everything.) I hope the kids downstairs have Moms and/or Dads who do that too.

The Taller the Better?

Who's got down time? I do! I do!!

It dawned on me just now when I received this email (see left) that I never finished the man-survey. I had to go back and re-tally the number. Lost the Word document that had everything totaled up.

As it turns out, all but two dudes gave women 2 inches taller than them a definitive yes. I think that's 88%? I knew many liked tall ladies, didn't know the numbers would be like this. So YAY tall! (you have to remember when Rudy said something similar on The Cosby Show to really get that. It's from Season 2.)

Here's what the menfolk had to say:

“I’m 6'3, a woman taller than that is NOT what's up, I like my women 5'5 and lower. I LOVE small women.... LOVE. I keep a step ladder in my car trunk (just kidding)”

“I'm 6'6". I have dated women 6'4", but I haven’t met any the same height as me. My height requirement is in regards to lack of height not excess. I don’t date women below 5'6".”

“It’s awkward, but if she’s cool with it… I know more women have a problem dating men shorter than them. Like I would just assume she wouldn’t want to talk to me because I was shorter than her.”

“Long legs are sexy. Especially if the legs are athletic....whew....you know that indentation in the thigh when they sit down and cross their long gambs...LORD HAVE MERCY.”

“The pussy is the same size so height should not matter. -> D, that is a joke”

“An attractive woman over 6' is like finding a pink diamond in Sierra Leone!”

“Not dating a woman taller. It's an ego thing about being a man and having a physical presence.”

New Amerykah

I went to two Erykah Badu outings last week-- the taping for her VH1 Storyteller show, and then the listening for the new album New Amerykah the following night. I was moved at both events. Could hardly contain myself from the rapture I wanted to slip into at the show, especially when she performed "Me." Just zoned the hell out and got lost in her melodic funk at the listening. I took so much from both experiences and knew they—and she—would be the source of a blog (or several) in the near future. (This is just the beginning. I can only listen to that one song right now.) It was just a matter of pinpointing what I wanted to say.

In "Me," she just strips bare. Outlines a great deal of her faults, puts her biz on Front Street, and she finds an acceptance in herself—-flaws and all. I find a strength in her vulnerability. I think too often, we –or at least I— define strength as being stalwart, never letting anyone see me sweat, keeping a strong upper lip. But I think my greatest strength is in just being me, whomever I am when I think no one is looking (someone is always looking, ftr.) I think a great life is fucking up (can’t help this no matter how hard I try), learning from the fuck up (not always easy), and attempting to do better (the hardest part. Patterns are hard to break.) When you stumble off the path, allow your heart to guide you back.

All these inspirational posts I've been writing as of late are a result of this one song. Check the lyrics, cop the album. IT'S IN STORES TODAY!!!! BUY IT (not free download) I think this is the first time I've ever endorsed anything on here and with good reason. (I don't get paid.) But this album (and this song in particular) flipped my whole shit up. Badu's music has been responsible for a great deal of my way and thought in life. She surpasses all expectations with this one.

GO COP THE ALBUM!!!

"Me"- E. Badu

...Sometimes it’s hard to move ya see? When you growing publicly But if I have to choose between I choose me

Had two babies different dudes And for them both my love was true This is my last interview Hey, that’s me

…I used to pray to God above But now I’m filled with so much love But even if the world can’t see It’s still me

Will I escape this vanity? Or will I keep on smoking trees? But I’ll just let it go and be, be, be Me

…Sometimes I don’t know what to say So many leaders to obey But I was born on Savior’s Day, yeah So I choose me And in this world of greed and hate They may try to erase my face But millions scream up in my place Oh, believe in me

...We all show grow before it’s done So I salute you Farakhan Cause you are me Before I leave this crazy dream Before I take one for the team Your ass’ll match the gasoline. Yes Let’s go lead

You're still here? Go to iTunes. NOW!!!

New Amerykah

I went to two Erykah Badu outings last week-- the taping for her VH1 Storytellers show, and then the listening for the new album New Amerykah the following night. I was moved at both events. Could hardly contain myself from the rapture I wanted to slip into at the show, especially when she performed "Me." Just zoned the hell out and got lost in her melodic funk at the listening. I took so much from both experiences and knew they—and she—would be the source of a blog (or several) in the near future. (This is just the beginning. I can only listen to that one song right now.) It was just a matter of pinpointing what I wanted to say.

In "Me," she just strips bare. Outlines a great deal of her faults, puts her biz on Front Street, and she finds an acceptance in herself—-flaws and all. I find a strength in her vulnerability. I think too often, we –or at least I— define strength as being stalwart, never letting anyone see me sweat, keeping a strong upper lip. But I think my greatest strength is in just being me, whomever I am when I think no one is looking (someone is always looking, ftr.) I think a great life is fucking up (can’t help this no matter how hard I try), learning from the fuck up (not always easy), and attempting to do better (the hardest part. Patterns are hard to break.) When you stumble off the path, allow your heart to guide you back.

All these inspirational posts I've been writing as of late are a result of this one song. Check the lyrics, cop the album. IT'S IN STORES TODAY!!!! BUY IT (not free download) I think this is the first time I've ever endorsed anything on here and with good reason. (I don't get paid.) But this album (and this song in particular) flipped my whole shit up. Badu's music has been responsible for a great deal of my way and thought in life. She surpasses all expectations with this one.

GO COP THE ALBUM!!!

"Me"- E. Badu

...Sometimes it’s hard to move ya see? When you growing publicly But if I have to choose between I choose me

Diary of A Happy Black Woman

aka "The Best 36 hours of My Life" (check the dates)

2:21pm 12/31/07

You ever just have one of those great days? Not because anything happens, per se; you just wake up feeling great! That's how I feel today. I got up before noon for the first time in a week, cleaned my apartment (well, everything except the bedroom. I'll get to that later though). Still had too much energy so I moved the coffeetable out the way, put on some Marvin Gaye (What's Going On)and danced around my apartment long after I sweated out my hair and my wife B. Tried to calm down but I've been attacked by fits of laughter. I cannot stop smiling! I'm on my way to the gym to use up some of this energy in a worthy way.

I'm excited about tonight-- got church, then a few parties with good friends and strangers. But it's not just that. I'm looking forward to the new year. Got some great ideas for work; SSO and I have parted ways so I'm planning to enjoy my freedom (thought I was ready for a situation. I'm not. Out of respect, let's leave it at that... for now); I have amazing friends; I have great music; I have some great vacations planned; I have God on look out; I have my health... What more could I ask for?

I wake up many mornings excited about life. Great things just come my way with little effort on my part (ask me how I'm doing and my response is sometimes: 'blessed and highly favored’) I feel like this year is gonna be big.

For 2008, I wish you what Jay Z wished us all. “I wish you well/ (how sick am I?)/ I wish you health/ I wish you wheels/ I wish you wealth/ I wish you insight so you can see for yourself.

Dream big. Live bigger.

4:12 01/01/08

I didn't make it to the gym. Got sidetracked for dinner at Ruthie’s w/ Patent. It’s a total hole of an establishment but it has the best soul food I’ve had north of the Mason Dixon. We ate, then chilled for another hour shooting the shit and laughing with other customers about Patent trying to convince me to not go to church before the parties that night. Or at least have some wine before chuch. (I have my heathen moments and I'm well aware of what Jesus did with the wine, but even I know it’s just wrong to go to church with liquor breath.)

I brought in the New Years at Rachel's. (And yes, I went to church.) It was still early in the night so there were only about 25 of us present. Some Beyonce song came on, the one where she instructs everyone to “pat your weave, baby!” I looked around the room and realized that of 20 Black women, not one had a weave. The fact that they were all beautiful wasn’t lost on my male companion, who turned around and gave me a “thank you” that was so heartfelt you would have thought I was doctor who’d just saved a dear relative’s life.

We stayed there till one-thirty, then made our way to a thorough Brooklyn affair. We knew the crossstreets, but not the address, and found the house by following the music and hearing a DJ scream “where Brooklyn at?” Remember Biggie’s “One More Chance” video? That’s what the party looked like. Beautiful people, partying so hard. No posting, no wall standing, and every person I’d ever met in all the years I’ve been in New York rolled through. (I was so tipsy that I forgot I’d seen a few faces until days following. Events of that night are slowly filtering in.) I have no idea how much I drank, but it was enough that I had the second greatest night of my life (the 2006 all-girl Miami trip trumps this one. I danced on a table until 4am!), and not so much that I was belligerent nor threw up nor woke up with a severe hangover. By all accounts, I was my usual nutty self. At one point, I got a phone call from someone I adore, and went in stood in the corner like a dunce. At another, I slid down the wall after encountering a particularly beautiful man. I did nothing to shame the family name for this generation or any to come. (Those are all the details you get.) The low-light of the affair arrived when I found myself being screamed on by a brown-skinned man for my “lack of melanin.” (“You woulda been out in the field with us, D?” he yelled at one point.) I could only look at him blankly and ask, “Are we really having this conversation in 2008?”

Yes. In fact, we were.

1/02/08 9:36am

I should at least be over the bridge by now if I want any hopes of getting to work on time, but sadly, I am still on the train in BK avoiding Social Hour on the B train in order to write (blog coming soon.) I have had the greatest 36 hours of life. After I stopped writing yesterday, I met up with Patent and Evan for dinner. We meant to get brunch but between recapping the night for Evan (suspiciously MIA for New Year's Eve), laughing about the second party, and moving slow, we ended up at dinner at Madiba. I realized midway through dinner that this is our (me and Patent. not Evan) tradition. We did the same thing last year.

On the way to dinner, I got a call from GP, who invites us to a Happy New Year shindig at his home. We’re trying to figure out what to take to the mini-event (GP asked me to bring a dish; I had to remind him I don’t cook) so Patent decides on Honeywine from around the corner. Turns out they can’t bottle it. I’ve never had Honeywine, which Patent insists I should try. Dinner’s running long and time is of the essence, so Patent calls over to have it prepared and waiting when we arrive.

We close out the bill and head over. When we turn the corner, we see the bartender headed toward us. He looks at us funny, and we look at him the same. He’s holding three martini glasses and a jug.

“You’re here!” he exclaims. “I was going to bring it to you!”

At the restaurant? How did he know who we were? The three of us look at each other and laugh.

The bartender explains that the restaurant is closing soon, hence why he was bringing the goods to us, but we are welcome to come in and sip.

We take him up on the offer. While we’re enjoying our goods (amazing!!), the bartender comes back. He’s figured out a way to bottle the Honeywine if we want it. (We do!) We order a bottle for $30. He comes back with two, tells us that both bottles and all of the drinks are $40. We give him $60 on general principle.

After I go home to change, (I had on sweats and thermals; no way in hell I would wear this to a gathering of friends), we head over to GP’s. It’s a small collection of my favorite New Yorkers (some native, some not.) We eat, watch TV (old 80s videos on VH1 Soul followed by Jason’s Lyric aka one of the worst movies ever made), and crack jokes. It’s the perfect wind-down to get me back in the mood to grind today.

Now if I could only get to Manhattan.

Happy New Year, folks.

Diary of A Happy Black Woman

 

aka "The Best 36 hours of My Life" (check the dates)

2:21pm 12/31/07

You ever just have one of those great days? Not because anything happens, per se; you just wake up feeling great! That's how I feel today. I got up before noon for the first time in a week, cleaned my apartment (well, everything except the bedroom. I'll get to that later though). Still had too much energy so I moved the coffeetable out the way, put on some Marvin Gaye (What's Going On)and danced around my apartment long after I sweated out my hair and my wife B. Tried to calm down but I've been attacked by fits of laughter. I cannot stop smiling! I'm on my way to the gym to use up some of this energy in a worthy way.

I'm excited about tonight-- got church, then a few parties with good friends and strangers. But it's not just that. I'm looking forward to the new year. Got some great ideas for work; SSO and I have parted ways so I'm planning to enjoy my freedom (thought I was ready for a situation. I'm not. Out of respect, let's leave it at that... for now); I have amazing friends; I have great music; I have some great vacations planned; I have God on look out; I have my health... What more could I ask for?

I wake up many mornings excited about life. Great things just come my way with little effort on my part (ask me how I'm doing and my response is sometimes: 'blessed and highly favored’) I feel like this year is gonna be big.

For 2008, I wish you what Jay Z wished us all. “I wish you well/ (how sick am I?)/ I wish you health/ I wish you wheels/ I wish you wealth/ I wish you insight so you can see for yourself.

Dream big. Live bigger.

4:12 01/01/08

I didn't make it to the gym. Got sidetracked for dinner at Ruthie’s w/ Patent. It’s a total hole of an establishment but it has the best soul food I’ve had north of the Mason Dixon. We ate, then chilled for another hour shooting the shit and laughing with other customers about Patent trying to convince me to not go to church before the parties that night. Or at least have some wine before chuch. (I have my heathen moments and I'm well aware of what Jesus did with the wine, but even I know it’s just wrong to go to church with liquor breath.)

I brought in the New Years at Rachel's. (And yes, I went to church.) It was still early in the night so there were only about 25 of us present. Some Beyonce song came on, the one where she instructs everyone to “pat your weave, baby!” I looked around the room and realized that of 20 Black women, not one had a weave. The fact that they were all beautiful wasn’t lost on my male companion, who turned around and gave me a “thank you” that was so heartfelt you would have thought I was doctor who’d just saved a dear relative’s life.

We stayed there till one-thirty, then made our way to a thorough Brooklyn affair. We knew the crossstreets, but not the address, and found the house by following the music and hearing a DJ scream “where Brooklyn at?” Remember Biggie’s “One More Chance” video? That’s what the party looked like. Beautiful people, partying so hard. No posting, no wall standing, and every person I’d ever met in all the years I’ve been in New York rolled through. (I was so tipsy that I forgot I’d seen a few faces until days following. Events of that night are slowly filtering in.) I have no idea how much I drank, but it was enough that I had the second greatest night of my life (the 2006 all-girl Miami trip trumps this one. I danced on a table until 4am!), and not so much that I was belligerent nor threw up nor woke up with a severe hangover. By all accounts, I was my usual nutty self. At one point, I got a phone call from someone I adore, and went in stood in the corner like a dunce. At another, I slid down the wall after encountering a particularly beautiful man. I did nothing to shame the family name for this generation or any to come. (Those are all the details you get.) The low-light of the affair arrived when I found myself being screamed on by a brown-skinned man for my “lack of melanin.” (“You woulda been out in the field with us, D?” he yelled at one point.) I could only look at him blankly and ask, “Are we really having this conversation in 2008?”

Yes. In fact, we were.

1/02/08 9:36am

I should at least be over the bridge by now if I want any hopes of getting to work on time, but sadly, I am still on the train in BK avoiding Social Hour on the B train in order to write (blog coming soon.) I have had the greatest 36 hours of life. After I stopped writing yesterday, I met up with Patent and Evan for dinner. We meant to get brunch but between recapping the night for Evan (suspiciously MIA for New Year's Eve), laughing about the second party, and moving slow, we ended up at dinner at Madiba. I realized midway through dinner that this is our (me and Patent. not Evan) tradition. We did the same thing last year.

On the way to dinner, I got a call from GP, who invites us to a Happy New Year shindig at his home. We’re trying to figure out what to take to the mini-event (GP asked me to bring a dish; I had to remind him I don’t cook) so Patent decides on Honeywine from around the corner. Turns out they can’t bottle it. I’ve never had Honeywine, which Patent insists I should try. Dinner’s running long and time is of the essence, so Patent calls over to have it prepared and waiting when we arrive.

We close out the bill and head over. When we turn the corner, we see the bartender headed toward us. He looks at us funny, and we look at him the same. He’s holding three martini glasses and a jug.

“You’re here!” he exclaims. “I was going to bring it to you!”

At the restaurant? How did he know who we were? The three of us look at each other and laugh.

The bartender explains that the restaurant is closing soon, hence why he was bringing the goods to us, but we are welcome to come in and sip.

We take him up on the offer. While we’re enjoying our goods (amazing!!), the bartender comes back. He’s figured out a way to bottle the Honeywine if we want it. (We do!) We order a bottle for $30. He comes back with two, tells us that both bottles and all of the drinks are $40. We give him $60 on general principle.

After I go home to change, (I had on sweats and thermals; no way in hell I would wear this to a gathering of friends), we head over to GP’s. It’s a small collection of my favorite New Yorkers (some native, some not.) We eat, watch TV (old 80s videos on VH1 Soul followed by Jason’s Lyric aka one of the worst movies ever made), and crack jokes. It’s the perfect wind-down to get me back in the mood to grind today.

Now if I could only get to Manhattan.

Happy New Year, folks.

A Dream Deferred

I wrote this blog for the high schooler in St. Louis and the young lady on the brink of her college graduation who hit me on my work e-mail to ask how she could get to where I am. I’m humbled that anyone could look up to me and I take that responsibility (because that’s what it is, really) so seriously. Thank you for reading.

I got a call today from an old college associate. I haven't heard from him in 7 years, at least. He found my work number on an email many weeks ago and so he decided to call for a chat. Far and long ago in the Old Country, he'd extended a few courtesies to me-- the driveway in his off-campus apartment when the lot was full and I needed to park my car and a few waves into the VIP section when he was a promoter of note and I was just one of many wide-thigh southern girls on the less prestigious side of the velvet rope. I don't forget people who look out, even if it's in the smallest of ways. Anyway, we had a 20 minute conversation and at the end of it, I was baffled as to why exactly he'd called and made me promise to stay in touch via email and cell.

He told me he hated NYC. (He's from here.) He made a point to tell me that he works at an advertising firm that's #1 in the country and he's the #3 person there. He wants to move back to DC because there, his name rings out. It’s like Norm on Cheers when he walks into room, everyone is excited to see him. I had to remind him that he only gets that reception because he doesn’t live there. I feel the same way when I go home. Everyone drops all their plans when I come in town to hang out. When I was having difficulty trying to make my way in New York I debated moving home because I got so much love there. Tariq pointed out that was only because I was visiting. I thought he was wrong until I went home three weekends in a row and by the third weekend, everyone was like “oh, hey. D’s here… again. Sorry, I got plans.” The old associate told me that the information I’d just given him was like telling a kid there was no Santa.

He then reminisced about the good old days. When he, in his estimation, was the man to know. He told me in detail about a fellow alum and so-called journalist who made a nationally infamous name of himself by fabricating stories and how he was the one to help him get his start in college by getting him news and putting him in contact with sources. Allegedly, dude used to beg him for contacts because he was so popular. (I don’t recall this, but perhaps I was out of the loop.) Then he told me of all the contacts he had now, of all his clients, and how because he knew me, he’d be willing to extend them because I was always a cool chick. (Evidently, I am poor and pitiful and contact-less and cannot do this on my own.) He rattled off a list of names, many that I know because I know the people personally. They come to my annual house party or I party with them on a regular basis. One of those people he name dropped with pride, I take the B train to work with most mornings (I swear, I have to write the Social Hour on the B train blog, Every morning it’s like going to an industry event.) He told me that the guy we had in common was a good dude. Funny, I—and everyone else I know who knows him— complain about what an asshole he is. (Very industry. Only becomes friendly when you drop your title and professional affiliation.)

He reminisced about freshman year, told me that I was a pretty girl prone to fucking myself over by the way I dressed and wore my hair. He always thought I could be so much more if I would just be pretty and not “try so hard to be different.” People would kill for my hair and my body, he said. So why did I try so hard to detract from my beauty? I told him that many seem not to find a problem with my look. For better or worse, I only pull businessmen, lawyers and IBs, which I am not complaining about. I can’t get an “artist” to save my life. Then he offered to take me on a tour of his job, which he spoke of like it was The Chocolate Factory— not R. Kelly’s, but Willy Wonka’s. He asked if my look would be appropriate for such a monumental event as walking through the production room of his place of business. I informed him that I currently have a mohawk, to which he responded, “ugh!”

He concluded by telling me what he could do for me, if ever I was just to ask. All the right contacts, all the right people, the world could be at my feet, if only I would cross the threshold into his friendship. I am aWire fanatic and hang on every phrase. I remember a scene from Season 4 when Norm, the political advisor, cautions could-be Mayor Carcetti not to make an enemy. He said (something like): “A man does not burn a bridge unless he can walk on water. It’s an old Ashanti proverb.” (He was speaking of the African tribe, not the singer.) I thought of that and held my tongue to keep from blurting out, “dude, I work at XXXX. There are very few people who won’t take my calls or make nice with me.” Instead, I thanked him for the offer and gave a promise that if I was ever in need, I would indeed hit him up. I have an ego, yes, but you never know who you might need and when. I got to where I am—and I’ll get to wherever I go—by remembering that.

When the conversation about then and when ended, I was baffled. “When I used to” and “When I get to” are not places I think about all that often. I think about tomorrow, maybe a week or two in advance, and I plan each day thinking of what I can do to get me to chilling in a Miami condo overlooking the Atlantic when I’m 80 (just one of the homes I’m grinding to eventually get. There’s also one in Paris on the eventual horizon.) Mostly, I think about now. I am happy where I am, I am taking concrete steps to get to the next stop and then the mountain top (I have a dream dammit!) but reminiscing on the glory days that have past, just isn’t something I do. I’ve had a great life, but I firmly believe the best days are right now, and whatever comes with the next rising of the sun. Every now again, I think, “damn, that was great!” and as soon as I think that, I wonder what I can do to top it and make moves to do that.

I felt sorry for dude at the end of that call. His surface conversation came from his perceived superiority and his great place in life, but it was overshadowed by his sense of failure. I call it failure because that’s what life is when your best days are behind you or in a distant future that you are not working toward.

When I was miserable in DC at the tender age of 22, I thought I’d fucked up my life by leaving New York. (I’m so dramatic. Can you even fuck up your life at 22 short of going to jail on a life sentence?) I was complaining to a good friend, Mazi, about my best days passing and how miserable I was currently—- at my job and in my life. He told me that I had a choice, whether I knew it or not. Every morning, I chose to stay in DC, to get up and go to a job I hated, stay for 8 hours, and go home. If I wanted to, I could get on a bus, go to New York and never ever come back. If NYC was where I wanted to be, I should just go, if that’s what would make me happy. Happiness, he said, was a decision, not a dream.

I took a lot of paths that scared me. Didn’t always make the safe choice, didn’t do what everyone who wanted me to be safe and warm wanted. I leapt, although that’s not what I ever really think of myself as doing. But anyone who grows up in DC will tell you, leaving is a leap. I never gave up on my dream. Sometimes I wonder if it will all be worth it in the end. If I should have ignored Susan Taylor’s advice (“Make your own path. You’ll get lost following someone else’s road map.”) If I should have chosen a big salary over my passion. If I should have stayed in DC and followed in my Dad’s footsteps. If I should have married my ex. If I should bare myself for all ten thousand(!) of you in these posts…

I talked to this dude for a third of an hour and I know for certain that I made/am making the right decision. There is no one more miserable then someone with a dream, who chooses to defer it.

Main Street News-- The Story of Anthony M. Patterson and Gold Dresses Tai

My friends and I have this saying that “we live on Main Street.” It sums up the idea that everyone Black and college-educated in New York all know each other. We thought it was just those who work in entertainment, but nope, all it takes is those two factors. There are no more than two degrees of separation between anyone you want to know or want to avoid. We are all connected in some twisted way.

Sometimes it’s fun (“Ooh, he’s cute! Introduce me!” or “I went to elementary school with him.”) Other times, it’s downright depressing (“Um, you dated him too?” or “Fuck! We gotta go. Long story.”) In a city/country town of 8 million people, I haven’t shown up at an event in over three years where I did not know at least five other people in the room (Wednesday night, that number jumped to 30. I was air kissing and hugging all night). You really can be anything in New York—except anonymous.

V-day, I was walking out of Stars’ office building lobby and randomly encountered Anthony M. Patterson. We don’t know-know each other, but we greet each other like old friends. I ask about his girlfriend like I know-know her and chide him for not being with her at that moment (He had to work. He was headed to her within the hour.) As life would have it, we share a story from the Main Street funny pages. See if you can keep up.

July

I attend a wedding with Meeka* who lives across the hall and happens to be my godsister’s best friend from Howard. The wedding is for Ieshah, who used to live in Meeka’s apartment before Heather. She also went to Howard. I get seated at the table with David. We chat, discover that we live walking distance from each other. He’s a liquor sponsor and needs an event to promote; I need a liquor sponsor for my birthday in 8 days. We exchange info. While planning the party, I discover David works for a woman named Tai.

November

I get a new job. The second week there, I send out an e-mail, calling for Black men 21-50 who want to talk about relationships. I get 500 responses. I pour over pictures for days to come up with the 150 cutest to work from. I can’t remember names, but I remember faces. For the next 3 months, I will see at least one of these guys every time I attend a party. Damn near every time I am introduced to a man between 21-50, he pauses, cocks his head and asks, “you work for XXXX?”It’s one the privileges and drawbacks of having a unique name.

January

Because my e-mail addy was on this message that went out to the men, PR reps and promoters of NYC, I get invited to all manner of events-- most parties and everything that has to do with relationships and matchmaking. I ignore most of the parties unless they come from someone I know.

Over a two week period, I get this invite to this one birthday party and its updates no less than 5 times.Who the hell is Anthony M. Patterson? I assume he’s yet another promoter. Delete.

Fast forward: My job throws a party to celebrate the new issue. Every attractive, employed Black woman in the city shows up in heels and a fresh ‘do. Of course, all my boys were invited, but only one of them comes. The others are just MIA for no apparent reason. Patent texts me while I'm at the event to say he has a b-day party to attend and won't be coming through. I tell him of the ratio of women to men where I am. Regretfully, he has to pass.

Huh?

Seems the event he’s at is fabulous and is for a very dear friend and they have a million friends in common, all of whom are there. He won't leave.

The next day we exchange re-caps. My party was all women. His was all men. They went to a cigar bar, every one (well almost) wore suits. The few women that were there looked amazing. It was very sexy. Very fly. I should have been there, I would have loved it, he tells me. I nod. Sounds hot. I’m never mad at men in suits.

The following Monday, I get another e-mail from Anthony M. Patterson. The party happened and now he’s sending pictures. My curiosity gets the best of me and I open the e-mail and click the link. The first picture is of who I assume is Anthony M. Patterson. Cute guy. Never seen him before in my life. Just what I thought. Some random promoter. I click the next picture. It’s who I’ve assumed is Anthony M. Patterson and a woman who I assume is his girlfriend. I've seen this dress before, haven't I?

Turns out Anthony M. Patterson sent his contact information and picture to be considered as a male advisor. The picture he included was of him and a woman wearing a fabulous gold dress. I passed the picture around the section I sit in 1) they were a really cute couple and 2) because the dress was so fly. It’s a million dollar ensemble and the woman was wearing the hell out of it (you know that look we give when we know we look good.) I give props where they are due.

I click to another pic and my mouth drops open. It’s a group shot of 15 people, I know half of them! How the hell have I not met Anthony M. Patterson before? We have the same crew. I click again, and there is Patent. Why the fuck didn’t he invite me to this event? We go damn near everywhere fabulous together! I look at the date on the picture. It was the same night as my company event. Oh… so that’s where Patent and the other guys were. It really was a great party then!

I fire off an e-mail to Patent that recaps my discovery of who the hell Anthony M. Patterson is and how I figured it all out by remembering the gold dress his girl has worn to two different events.

Patent laughs. “Oh, yes, Tai can dress her ass off. She’s known for the gold sparkles.”

Pause. “Who?”

“Tai. That’s his girlfriend. ”

How many friggin Black Tai’s are in this city? “Tequilla Tai?”

“You know her. She was at your birthday party.”

I know her name and I vaguely remember being introduced to her at a Honeymag.com event in August. Not my birthday.

My Outlook is down so I pull the picture of Anthony M. Patterson from my file to take another look at Gold Dress Tai to jog my memory. It’s not the same dress! I feel awful now that I have sent an e-mail implying that a fellow fashionista has worn the same dress to two different fabulous events. Like me, she would consider this a cardinal sin. I imagine her reading the e-mail about recognizing the dress (because undoubtedly Anthony M. Patterson will send it to her) and being mortified. She might even ban gold, sparkling dresses from her wardrobe for the forseeable future. It’s what I would do.

February

Me, Stars and the friends head out for a rare Saturday night on the town (by choice and fun -maximization, I only party Monday thru Thursday). There’s a restaurant opening in BK, then a Downtown party for a friend who opened a shoe store Uptown, but knows there’s no way on God’s green earth the BK crew will go to Harlem on a Saturday night (for the time it takes to get there on the train, you can drive or Amtrak to Philadelphia). After that, there’s another party in the Meatpacking District.

It’s at the second party that I finally meet Anthony M. Patterson and Gold Dresses Tai. Turns out that he’s not just at the party, it’s his party. He would be the guy who opened the shoe store (Shoetique 124th & St. Nic.)

When Patent brings over Gold Dresses Tai for an introduction, I tone down my excitement to meet her because I realize that while I’ve figured out the long backstory on how we’re connected, she may not have. She may also hate me for thinking she’s worn the same dress.

Turns out, I had nothing to be concerned about. She’s beautiful and as sweet as Patent promised she is. And she’s wearing red… with no sparkles.

*most, but not all of the names have been changed.

The Little Things

I've been posting all weekend. Go back and read.

A friend of mine, Stephie, stopped by the office last week to do the rounds. While she was sitting at my desk, we got to talking about life and loves and she mentioned that her beau of 2 months hadn't gotten her a 30th birthday present, not even a friggin' card.

''He didn't have to do something big, Stephie began. ''But something would have been nice.''

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