"Just f*ck your wife."

Yesterday’s blog was purely gratuitous. I usually try to make a point, but sometimes all I want to do is laugh. I still can’t get over people documenting their affair and illegal job-related activity on their government-issued phones. (And for all you people doing the same on your work computers, even from your personal account, um, yes, they can pull all that if need be.) But I think we should learn something from Kilpatrick’s and Beatty’s fuck ups, along with the fuck ups of a couple of Northeast politicians.

I’ve had this blog in my phone for awhile (wrote it before I could figure out how to pull the essays off) so I apologize in advance for the dated subject matter. However, I think several points are still relevant.

Sometime in early April

What is going on in Northeast politics? Spitzer steps down after he's caught patronizing whores to the tune of 80k over 10 months and faces federal charges for transporting her over state lines. He's replaced by Paterson (full disclosure: 4 years ago I applied for a job in communications at his city office. They tried to send me to Albany instead- no go.) Paterson gets sworn in and immediately confesses to cheating on his wife at a Days Inn near his Harlem office. He also took his wife there to add some spark to their marriage at the recommendation of his therapist. (The Days Inn is the best we can do? Your fucking your wife at a Days Inn because it is close to your office?) I can spend another 1000 words detailing his confessions in the days after this one. They involve more women, alleged videotape, and the use of campaign funds to cheat.

The same day, NJ governor McGreevey, the dude who confessed he was boning his male staffer and had given him a job in his administration though he was unqualified (state security advisor?!). So yeah, that dude, confesses that he and his wife used to have threesomes with his boy toy (of course, she denies it.)

Not in the Northeast, but his fuck ups and gangster are of such monumental proportion that he deserves a mention here. Kwame "it was good and I want some more'' Kilpatrick, who was indicted on a million charges and faces a billion years in prison. The 14k in text messages to his friend with benefits on his government issued phone was bad enough. Now a civil suit looms for the death of a dead stripper, supposedly an entertainer at a party held at the mayor's mansion (if ever there was a time to take the fun to the closest Day's Inn, this was it.) And the city council has now voted to kick him out of office, to which he is ignoring because the vote is "irrelevant." (Just last week a coalition of Black Detroit Women rallied to support him. "Black women will forgive Lucifer," my coworker quipped upon hearing this development.) He's still got the kids, his wife, his job, his freedom and his law license-- for now. (He'll probably only end up with the kids.) Fuckery, just fuckery.

People, what can we learn from all these scandals? I suggest the following:

1) Just fuck your wife. No one ever got in trouble for having consensual sex with their own wife. Marry a woman who likes all the kinky nasty shit you like and do it with her. When it gets boring and you think you've tried everything, role play. Do all the same kinky nasty shit, but put on costumes, use accents, and pretend you are different people doing it to get things fresh again.

2) If you must fuck someone else, for the love of God, don't lie about it under oath. Plead the fif. (This advice comes from a lawyer and former West Coast, big- city Mayor, who advised this at dinner at Red Eye Grill to a bunch of political insiders. Don’t ask. My circles run wide.) If someone's asking you while you're under oath if you fucked someone besides your wife, there is a good chance they know you did it. They just want to hear you say it. Clinton didn't almost get impeached for fucking, he almost got impeached for lying about fucking (or um, sucking.) Kilpatrick didn't get indicted for fucking, he got indicted for lying and trying to cover up the fucking. Spitzer.. Well, that fool was on some next shit. (How are you prosecuting hoe-rings when you're patronizing hoes? I'm not sure what we should be learning from him. Maybe don’t go hard on the people you got dirt with?)

3) Don't spend campaign funds on fucking! Paterson, the first black and blind mayor, has put it all at risk over a few hundred or thousand dollars. He's embarrassed his poor wife (did she really have a J.O.? And if so, why can't he be found?), his poor children (teenagers), and has provided endless material to laugh about for the foreseeable future. Unless he does something amazingly phenomenal or more notorious, he will always be known as "who Paterson? The Black blind guy who got it in at the Days Inn?" That legacy is fine if you're Day Day* on the block; But not if you briefly ran the state of New York.

What more can we learn, people? Let’s find the positive spin on these notorious and baffling fuck-ups.

* long live The Wire

The Black Larry David

Today, I've taken my first vacation day since November. I have workaholic tendencies and I thought perhaps I was getting kind of bad when my boss was like, "um, you should use your vacation days, you know." I planned on sleeping in this morning, but alas, the gym and computer call (and I have a lunch date!) I've been doing two-a-days for the last week and yes, already I can see a difference. (damn hills!) Gold Dresses Tai had a bday party last night and I don't know if it was dress, the photographer, or the lighting, but I dammit, I looked good.

Oh, and Tai and Anthony have some words for ya'll about the ride-or-die post. I told them (cause like shoes, they come as a pair) that they could take over the blog for a day when they got a formal response together. I've heard the gist of it. You won't be disapointed. Oh, and words of wisdom from Anthony M. Patterson: "Ladies, you have to control your man. We are like dogs. Don't give us any discipline and we will be pissing in corners and shitting on the floor. We need to know we can't get away with shit."

LOL! With Tai's permission, of course, I'm going to have to add this dude to my inspiration list. There are certain people I call when I can't think of anything interesting to write about. Anthony's proving to be a go-to.

Okay, this isn't a real blog, (I'll be posting later with more Kilpatrick thoughts), but I had to throw this up, well because this dude is wild.

Keenan is a cat that runs with the crew, but I don't see him that often. He has a wifey and a job, so that could explain it. Anyway, he seems so civilized when I encounter him. And I know his girl (sorta) from back in the day. We used to run with the same crew when I first moved to New York. I recalled her as a take no shit woman and I shared as much with Keenan, the author of today's post. I didn't understand how he could write what he writes and have her riding for him. "Oh, she's still take no shit," he said with pride. "She just puts up with me." (Is she the Black Cheryl?) I'm beginning to notice that men in stable relationships have a way of bragging about the lack of sheer shit their women don't take. (Anthony does it too. With pride.) Take from that what you will. I'm still thinking on it.

Anyway, Keenan's blog is my new favorite thing. I read it the other day and my response was "Oh. My. God. You need Jesus." It's real Man Mind. Keenan just got back from a last-minute flight to Brazil aka "The Black Man's Babylon." These are his pontifications upon his return:

"Even if you’re the kind of dude who has no problem with bending over some fly native for the mere price of one date in NY, there’s nothing wrong with that in my book. While women may know within 8 seconds of meeting a dude if she’ll ever sleep with him, men know within that same amount of time if he could ever wife her. Pay attention, I’m not saying that he definitely knows that this is the woman he will marry but, he knows instantly if she’s someone he’ll never marry. For women, once she knows she’ll never sleep with a dude, it’s over right there. If she can’t sleep with him, she can’t wife him. But for a dude, just cuz we know that a woman doesn’t have a cupcake’s chance [of survival] in a fat camp at getting wifed up, that doesn’t mean we still won’t hit it! So with that being said, we know the game is that we probably gotta take you on a date or two, hear about your stupid day, perform and make you laugh like we’re at amateur comedy night and all that other jazz. So can you blame a dude who doesn’t want anything more than gushy stuff from skipping the middleman and just taking his American dollar on the road?"

For more of Keenan's rants, click here.

SATC - *SPOILER ALERT*

SPOILER ALERT* * SPOILER ALERT* * SPOILER ALERT**

I've been anticipating the SATC film like a man anticipates his next nut. I love SATC. LOVE it. The title of my blog is a take on an episode title in season three. I own every episode on DVD. I have framed Carrie Bradshaw posters in my house. I have books. I can recite entire scenes on command and when I watch the DVDs, I watch with commentary to make sure I get all the nuances. When I tell you I love this show, Ilove it.

It pains me to say this, but frankly, the movie sucked. (I acknowledge that as a former book editor, I can be harsh on plot lines.)

Charlotte had no plot line. She soiled herself (which was sophomoric humor and out of place) and was afraid that her life would be too perfect, which she promptly got over 2 minutes later. The End. She had one grand moment where she played Carrie's protector that was pretty damn good (never said she was a bad actress), but otherwise eh...

Samantha realized he had to be the star in a relationship (surprise, surprise) and she's living in LA flying back to NYC at any given whim because she’s not being fulfilled by Smith. Her repeated arrival in NYC felt very repetitive. I didn't understand why everyone was so excited to see her if she was always there. She finally leaves Smith in a very odd break-up scene and tells him that he will find someone. He asks her, “what about you?” And I wish their break up had come earlier so that answer could have been explored. I didn’t really get what was next for Samantha. If he wasn’t fulfilling, I’m with her on finding someone who is. But what fulfills her? It’s never really said. I started to get what the naysayers of the show were saying when it was still on HBO. I think slighting them for trying to figure out love and life in their mid 30s was premature. But at 49, which Samantha is in the movie, I thought she would have it more together. It seemed unrealistic that her character hadn't grown at all. If that same criticism is made of the movie now, I agree.

Miranda probably had the best plot-- starting out at least. Steve cheated and she bounced. But that's not enough conflict to carry a 2.5 hour film. Midway through when the film repeatedly showed how depressed and regretful Steve was, it was pretty clear he was a good guy who did a fucked up thing instead of a fucked up guy given to occasional moments of granduer. Miranda seemed more like a bitch for being so hard on him than he did for cheating. (Perhaps I feel this way because cheating is not an automatic deal breaker for me.) But Miranda’s in full on bitch mode in the first part of the film, more consumed with work than her family and they aren’t having sex. It was pretty clear why Steve cheated. I kept waiting for her to see her own role in their demise.

Now for the nitty gritty. Big offers Carrie a half assed proposal early on sort of like an 'ok, we can get married if that's what you want.' She accepts this for whatever reason and runs wild with it. Later, he leaves her at the altar for a bullshit reason: he needs reassurance that it’s just him and her. I didn’t get where that was coming from. She doesn’t answer her phone on the day of the wedding and so he arrives at the church, sees her, but never gets out of the car to ask for the reassurance he needs, then tips on out with a phone call to say he’s not ready.

The writer's try to redeem him by giving him a quick change of heart, but I'm sorry that's not enough for me. They've been off again/ on again for ten friggin' years and consistent for about four, he still can't make up his mind about what he wants? And he's a grown ass man? You tell a woman you're not showing up for the wedding and you're the groom? And you expect that you can change your mind after you've said that? Huh?

Carrie, of course, falls into an understandable deep depression and a good chunk of the film is just painful to watch. She’s in agony and trying to get her life back in order post-Big. If this was the first time this had happened, maybe I would have understood the ending better, but this is like the third. The first time someone fucks up, you say shame on them. The second time, shame on you. The third? That’s still a shame on you. I kept wondering how many royal fuck ups do you give someone? At what point does it go from an incident to a coincidence to a sign of deep character flaws and a lack of respect and basic decency. At what point do you get that the relationship is dysfunctional and he is not the man for you?

So after she gets left at the altar, after she mourns and brings herself back from the brink, she encounters him and in a devastatingly odd turn of events, she accepts a marriage proposal. I literally LOUDLY said, “are you fucking kidding me?” in the theatre. I was too done. Now granted, he did make attempts to reconcile, but he never showed up or went looking for her the way Steve did for Miranda. He sent a few e-mails over a six month period. He left messages on her voicemail while she was on their honeymoon. But he never called the house or called the phone again after those initial gestures. The apology for the grand fuck up, should match the grandness of the fuck up (see Kobe and the four million dollar ring as example.) What Big gave gave her what was convenient for him to offer and it baffled me why she took it.

She marries him in the end in a move straight out of the Miranda Steve playbook. Low key, anti-climatic and simple. Which would have been fine if that was the type of girl that Carrie was, or if all that other BS hadn't come before it, but it just seemed to me like she settled for whatever he offered (again), which wasn’t much, just to have him. I wanted someone to tell her, maybe Jennifer Hudson as The Black Mammy, that she deserved better. Where was that friend like Ace or The Girl Across the Hall who sits you down and says what needs saying because it needs to be said?: you are playing yourself, selling yourself short. You can't keep doing this to yourself. You've got to stop now.

(A note about Hudson: I was happy to see a Black person in the cast, but frankly, I’m sick of seeing Black folk swoop in to fix white folk’s problematic lives. We have other uses, you know? Her plotline was completely underdeveloped.)

My girl, who liked the movie a lot, kept saying it was a Hollywood ending because everyone got what they wanted. I don’t agree. Hollywood gives you the belief that there’s happily ever after when you leave the theatre. I just got the feeling that Carrie fucked herself over (again) and she would have been better off alone. I don't think that because you are a good and groan adult that you have all the answers and can see everything clearly. But I think, I hope that by 40 folks would have the presence of mind to learn from thier past mistakes and at least see the pattern a little bit. And when they can't, that's what friends are for.

I wonder as I type this if her choices/actions were true to character and I’ve just grown up more since the show went off the air. That could be why I hated it so. I used to identify with Carrie's character so much. But I know I’ve changed. I walked away from a real love and though we speak every now and again, I know I can’t go back. He ain’t for me and I ain’t for him. When I see myself falling into that pattern or see Mr. Ex's traits in other people, I walk away. I kept wanting Carrie, at 40, to make the same realization: to finally acknowledge that she was in love with a flawed man, but understand that loving someone doesn’t mean you have to be with them. I kept wanting her to realizes that she deserved more than he offered. When he proposed, I was waiting for her to give a speech again about she was someone looking for love, the real and inconvenient type. I wanted her to show her self-value, to show that she had matured since Season 1. But she just said a disappointing “yes.”

All I could think was “why?”

After they’re wedded, her friends show up to congratulate her. I couldn’t have shown up to the party-- not even for Ace. There was nothing there worth celebrating.

HBO would have been better off letting the show just be. The ending to Season Six was tolerable (the alternative where she leaves Big was better); this movie made me hate one of my favorite characters.

Kwame Kilpatrick

Remember when Dave Chappelle was at the height of his popularity? All he had to do was walk on stage and people would start chuckling. Like they knew that hilariousness and lots of it would ensue at any given second. There would be laughter (Rick James? Pleading the Fif?). There would be shock (the R. Kelly spoof?) There would be appall (the STD puppets with the kids on stage?!)

That’s how I feel now whenever I hear Kwame Kilpatrick’s name. It’s guaranteed that whatever new information is about to be shared  will make me giggle  uncontrollably through the read, re-telling or following discussion. Yesterday’s news story was no let down. More texts have been released, courtesy of a Detroit judge declaring a document that contains them be released to the public record.

So I read the whole document this morning. And I considered that the 50 or so messages shown there are just a small sample of the more than 14,000 that they exchanged. But I can’t figure out the depth of their relationship. Like they were sexing, no doubt. And she was in love or something like it, no doubt (she left her husband during their affair.) But was he in love with her too? Was there ever really a fat girl’s chance of getting thin that he was going to leave his wife to be with her?  (Yes, this is a major scandal involving the downfall of a big city Black mayor, corruption, lies and possibly murder, but this is the question that really interests me.)

I mean Beatty has given it all up in the name of love— the cooch, her husband,  her dignity, her job, and since the texts were first released by The Detroit Free Press a couple months back, she’s been indicted and in hiding. Mayor Kilpatrick? Still got his job, his wife, his law degree and  though he’s been indicted too, all in all, he’s coming out waaaay ahead in this thing.

But I wonder if there was a love between them that made it worthwhile, especially for Beatty since she’s lost so much in all of this?  Like every great love has a great sacrifice that is a testament of how great the love is (Romeo & Juliet?) Is this a twisted, modern day love story? Or just two folks who liked to fuck and one got caught up?

To me, the texts from him to her read like a man maintaining “game” and taking what’s thrown. (What comedian said “a man is only as faithful as his options”?) Not a real love. With one or two exceptions, he’s playful and jokey—could be his personality though (I met him  at the NAACP Awards a few years back and he is silly/playful) —and all the declarations of love come from Beatty. He seems more interested in sex.

Did a grown ass woman just throw it all away for a man who could have given a damn about her? In my early 20s, when I "woke up" from doing some stupid shit along these lines, I thought I was a forever-ass. A grown woman said to me, "be lucky that you learned the lesson now. There are 30 and 40 and 50 year old women who haven't learned that lesson.

Give a read and tell me what you think. Kwame was in love or not?  Did Beatty give it all up for a man who gave a damn?

09.15.02

CB: I really wanted to give you some good hEad this morning and I didn’t know how to ask you to let me do it.

KK: Damn, I just got out of the shower and looked at my two way. Next time, just tell me to sit down, shut up, and do your thing! I am fucked up now!

09.19.02

CB: I’m in my office. Do you want me to come to yours or you coming to mine?”

KK:” I’m coming down there… LOL ditto. Freaky Chris.”

CB: LOL! I told you to stop saying that. You are going to make me revert back.”

09.23.02

CB: I love you so much man! Thank you for showing what it’s like to be head over heels in love.”

09.24.02

CB: This is one of those little things that I just had to tell you. Last night when I was laying on your shoulder in the car and you held my face and sand whatever song it was, that felt so good. It was just one of those little moments when you just made me fall some more.”

09.30.02

CB: Just FYI now that I’m tipsy and will say anything: one thing that sticking with me from Saturday was when I asked you why it felt so good, and you told me because I was your lady, that for whatever reason, was something that stayed with me real strong! Crazy huh?”

10.03.02

CB: “In case you haven’t noticed, I am madly in love with you too! More and more everyday! I can’t believe how much more it grows. Is there a limit?”

KK: “Not till death do us part.”

CB: “Wow I’ll buy that.”

Belle: Pause. I could not be his wife right now. This shit here would have killed me.. or made me go Bernadine on his ass.

04.07.03

LB (CB’s husband): It’s amazing how you can go out of town, come back refreshed, and I immediately piss you off… You had an attitude until KK came over. Then you were smiling. Wish you smiled at me like that.”

Belle: God, I felt bad for that man when I read this.

04.08.03

KK: “I might be their stepdad one day.”

Belle: More murder. I could not be married to a motherfucker who said this to another woman.

CB: Why might? What happened to “not yet”?

KK: The might is on you

CB: LOL! Nigga, I already claimed it! KCK 2012. You told me that you would be my boyfriend everyday until I was your wife. Are you renigging?”

KK: “Hell no! Don’t start none. Won’t be none niggette! LOL!”

Belle: This n*gga here. DIVORCE!

KK: My nigga! I love you, you know that.

04.13.03

CB: It is sometimes so amazing how much I love you. I can’t even describe most of the time how I feel inside when I think about you. You are an amazing man. Everything about you makes me love you. Your passion about your life, your sense of humor, your presence, and your love of family. TBC

CB: All those things and more make up the love of my life… I have so much admiration and appreciation for you. You are like a dream in my life and I can’t believe sometimes that our friendship is real,”

CB: Thank you for fifteen plus years of friendship. Thank you for loving me!

04.27.03

CB: No response needed to this, but when you held me in your arms and looked me in my eyes and said I was your woman. All was right with the world. I love you.”

KK: Damn! Thank you.

CB: Can you promise me that I will always be that?

KK: You were my girl for as long as I can remember. I was too young and stupid to know. I promise for the rest of my life you will always be my girl.”

Belle: Wow. You think he meant that? Or was he spitting game?

The Condom Conundrum

I was tossing around some ideas for a story the other day and I bounced a question off of Kenneth. Though not technically part of the magazine staff, he’s 25, an alpha male, dating happily, and regularly appears at my cube to shoot the sh*t. I go to him when I quickly need a male perspective on any matter of issues that involve sex and relationships and can’t wait for reply e-mails or phone calls from men outside the office.

“So, I began. “What do you think of a woman who carries a condom in her purse?”

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Ride or Die Chick

I was thinking the other day about why I don’t have a boyfriend and yes, I’ve decided that I want one (for various reasons). But do I have what it takes to be in a relationship? I’m not so sure. I’m not a ride or die chick. There’s just certain shit I’m not putting with up with. (As my boy would say, “D, your lists have lists and even your rules have rules.”) Unfortunately, being (or having) a ride or die chick seems to be the common denominator of all my coupled friends.

My epiphany came the other day when I was reading about Carmelo Anthony getting pulled over on the way home from a club and detained at the police station for DWI (or DUI?) and his fiancee’s stark refusal to go pick him up (which she denied a couple days later.) When I initially read the story, I saw nothing wrong with what she did. Adamantly, I argued that like her, I am not going to the police station to pick up some fool of a grown ass man who got himself locked up for some dumb shit (adults being too f*cked up to drive and getting behind the wheel is some dumb shit.)

I’ve been to the police station once before to complain about some stupid shit that a Black man did. Standing at the counter waiting to speak to a female officer, my girl who went with me observed, “well, you’re officially a Black woman now.”

I asked her to explain and she said: “Oh, showing up at police station for some shit that a dumb n*gga did is like a rite of passage for Black women. It’s like getting your period and getting a perm. Congratulations, D, you’re a real woman now.” (She and I don’t talk like we used to, but damn I miss her sarcastic wit.)

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Butterflies

Langston hit me on Wednesday to ask my professional opinion on what I thought was common knowledge. "Do women get nervous when they like a guy?" he wanted to know.

"Um, I guess," I wrote back. I don’t, but I’m sure there are women who do. In the moment, I couldn't remember the last time I'd cared enough to actually have butterflies. Mr. Ex, maybe? (I was so jumpy at a lunch in 2005 that I knocked a glass off the table while he was in the bathroom.) That's not to say I haven't genuinely liked anyone since his departure, but as a general habit, I don't really get nervous over dudes. Stressed? Perhaps, but never nervous. I mean I’m damn-near thirty. My antsy days over dudes are long behind me.

"Do guys at our age still get nervous ?" I typed. ( I forgot to ask what inspired his query. )

Before Langston could respond about that, he realized it was time for us to meet for lunch in the atrium to people-watch. By the time we got up, we'd moved on to different subject matter.

Him: What percentage of women out here do you think are not wearing panties?

Me: I'm not a dude. I’ve never thought about it.

The following evening, I bail on meeting up with friends to attend the Jose Cuervo event on the rooftop of the Hudson. I hadn't been to the gym in a week and I could see the difference. I do two miles for endurance, another grueling, incremental uphill run for a mile to build my legs, then crunches until it's way past painful. (Summer’s coming, dammit!) I look a wreck by the time I'm done. And by the time I get to the locker room only to discover I left my flip-flops at home and can't take a shower, I'm pissed. Just horrendous and angry and funky and sweaty too.

It would be just my luck to leave the locker room and run into my biggest crush coming up the stairs. Me and this dude hung out for a minute when we did and for the couple months or so we interacted, it was cool. No fights, no arguments, all good times and easy living just the way I like it—until I realized he was also kicking it with a chick that I knew of. Suddenly this made things complicated for me. I realized I was catching feelings and we clearly weren't on the same page. One early Sunday morning after I’d put two and two together, I was taking a walk in Brooklyn and bumped into him a block or so from her house. He lives deep in Flatbush and nowhere near where I ran into him. (I didn’t say a word about what I knew. We weren’t in a relationship so it wasn’t my place.) Instead of complicating everything with a long talk about feelings, I decided it would be to our advantage if I just fell back. I figured it was for the best as I wanted us to always be how we were at our best—light, simple, easy.He hit me a couple days after I’d run into him that random time and I told him we shouldn't hang out anymore, assured him that he'd done nothing wrong and that I was trying to get focused on one of the 50 million projects I was working on. Not entirely dishonest, just not wholly true. I’m pretty sure he didn’t understand where this was coming from, but true to form, he respected my wishes and things between us stayed light, simple easy. It was exactly what I wanted.

The only small problem was because we’d never had a big blow out that killed all my feelings and interest in him, I still liked him. And his continued respect and easy demeanor when we encountered each other, made my like morph into some weird crush. It got so bad that I turned into a thirteen- year- old around this dude, hanging on his every word and trying not to gaze like a puppy at him. I like to think myself articulate most days, around him, I could/can barely get words out. I advocate daily for women speaking in their big- girl voice, but around him I squeak. I say all that to say there is probably no other person in New York proper that I care about looking decent in front of except him-- and I looked a hot ass mess.

Someone grabs my shoulder, I look up to discover it’s Him…and I get butterflies. Stripped of my heels and the accompanying strut, my hair looking raggedy and being in sweats and blotting perspiration with a towel and exhausted and caught off guard, I was without any of my external accessories to boost my external swag when the internal is running low (and in that moment it was. I was deep in thought about my life’s direction the whole time I was running. Looking in the full-length mirror at the locker room Exit didn't help.) He of course, looked flawless, as usual. (F*cker. LOL!)

For the worst two minutes ever, we exchanged small talk outside the gym. He was effortlessly confident, as usual, and I managed to stumble over my words and give awkward responses to everything he said. At one woefully pitiful moment, I realized I was absentmindedly shielding half my face from him with my gym towel. I was literally trying to hide. When he walked off in one direction and I went the other, I was beyond embarrassed at my inability to get myself together. For the whole, long train ride back to Brooklyn, every time I replayed our encounter (basically the whole ride), I wanted to kick myself.

What the hell was that, I wondered. How can I be damn-near 30 and still getting nervous over a dude? Go figure. I guess I’m not as immune to butterflies as I thought.

Superficial Paradise

I've watched 2.5 seasons of Flavor of Love and as much as I hate to admit it, it's a guilty pleasure. I laugh to the point of near-tears at the antics of Flav and the females vying for his affection. A good portion of my friends call me purely ignorant for enjoying such foolery. "Don't you see what this is doing to the race?" they ask.

I don't. Or better, I didn't.

I live in Black world. I work with mostly Black women and a few non-Black people who relate to us just fine. I live in a Black neighborhood. I party with Black people when I get off work and I date Black men. I encounter non-Black people in exchanges that involve money. My debit card always goes through so those interactions are limited to telling me my total and wishing me a nice day. Sometimes I say excuse me on the train or its said to me. Occasionally, there's a non-Black guy at the security desk at my building or I order a drink or a meal from a server who is non-Black. There. That is the near-complete summary of my semi-regular interactions with non-Black people.

I point all that out, not as a matter of skewed racial pride, but to say that I live in a bubble. And in that bubble, I forget sometimes how the rest of the world works, how "they" (many, not all) see Black people. I don't always realize the cultural impact that shows like Flavor of Love have on non-Black people, who like me, live in their own same-colored world too.

In Black world, I'm perceived as a bourgeoisie chick. Maybe its the purses or clothes, maybe it's the strut, maybe it's the hair or just simply the way I carry myself. I dunno. But I'd never and I've never been mistaken by a Black person for a hood chick or anything near the variety that populates Flavor Flav's harem. Whatever small distinctions that Black people pick up on from one another to determine who's what on the social and classy spectrum, I always fall on the ladylike side of the equation, which I'm totally okay with. Perhaps I take that for granted.

The magazine I work for won an award tonight-- magazine of the year within a media conglomerate with several publcations. It's a big deal. A really big deal. We had an impromptu celebration after the awards at a nearby restaurant. The undercurrent of the shindig was who knew that our little engine really, really could? We're in friendly competition with titles whose numbers and budget far exceed ours. But with dedication and ingenuity and late hours and unlimited talent, we've managed to not just chug along, but be recognized as outstanding among our peers. See? A really big deal.

I sat at that dinner in awe of the ladies in that room. Occasionally, the shine of my job wears off with late nights and pending deadlines. But in certain moments, the sparkle returns and I am reminded of my co-workers' beautiful Blackness, their brilliance and I am humbled to be listed on the masthead among such amazing women (and men) who accomplish so much. I take so much pride in what I do, where I work, who I work among, and the product we produce each month.

Post- dinner, we were leaving the restaurant en masse. A drunk white guy blocked our path to tell us he'd never seen so many beautiful Black women at once. He looked genuinely moved at the sight of such beauty. It was kind of flattering moment-- until his drinking buddy began to yell "Flavor Flav!!!" It was the way Fav does at the end of each episode, shortly after he pours half a bottle of champagne on his own damn floor. This dude looked at us-- educated, sophisticated, respectable women-- and he thought he saw the line-up to Flav's bad-weave wearing, half-dressed, barely educated, hood-ified harem? What?! Is that what every pack of Black women looks like?

It shouldn't have, but his comment took a little of the shine off the celebration. Brought me out of Black world and back to reality. But instead of being just insulted, I got motivated. His comment reminded me why I have to work so hard at my job, why I have give it 110%, and why sometimes I have to work 11 hour days without complaint. Black women don't have very many places where they are celebrated and respected at all times. I am happy that I can be a part of a place that provides one of them.

Flavor of Love, now in its third season, does more damage than I ever thought. I gotta stop watching that shit.

When Men Express #3

I hated riding in the car with my mother when I was a teenager. Dad would let me listen to whatever station I wanted as long as I didn’t fiddle with the buttons too much. With Mom, we would only listen to WHUR or Majic 102.3. Mommy (from the Midwest, grew up on Motown) wanted to hear grown folks music while she drove and my stations (WPGC, WKYS) didn’t cut it. I could talk freely over the music--- unless any song by Luther Vandross or a particular Marvin Gaye song came on. At that point I had to shut up.When the intro to “Distant Lover” began to play, Mommy would turn up the volume knob, place both hands back on the wheel to steady herself, and as soon as Marvin wailed the opening lines, “Distant Loverrrrrr,” she would throw up both hands in the air, do a small shake of her head, then I’d watch her, thinkingMommy has lost her mind, as her thoughts drifted to some unknown placethat I still don't want to know about. Mommy really liked Marvin… or whoever it was that she thought about when Marvin sang. (My parents are still married. I hope it was my Dad. LOL!)

I didn’t get her reaction for a long time. That is, until I was grown and away at school in New York, but back home for some break to check for my BF. I was driving to his dorm (he was still in undergrad), and I was listening to WHUR on the way over. (Go figure.) The deejay dropped the intro to Troop’s “All I Do Is Think of You” and yes, I had a Mom moment. Fiddled with the radio volume, braced myself, and threw both hands up when the lead sang in his oh-so-perfect falsetto, “I can’t wait to get to school each day…” And then I drove a little faster on the Beltway.When was the last time a song came on Hot 97 (or whatever station that is geared toward non old-folks R&B/ Hip-Hop in your town) that made you do that?

Sunday night, I made a list of my 20 songs that make me throw up my hands when the intro drops and have my mind wandering to places I don’t discuss in a public forum like this. (Hi, Dad! Hi Cousin In Mississippi who I hear gets to work, checks the local news sites, then scrambles over here!) Then I went to YouTube because for some reason the songs I thought of  like "Cold Sweat" by Faze aren't on my iPod. (Why don't I have this? Who has this?!)

Take a look and a listen of some songs from my favorite male R&B groups (a couple exceptions). These men had some feelings and some strong inclinations to share them (Aaron Hall can't wail "I miss you" like that without having missed someone at some point.). Then tell me what your “old school” jams are that make you think back, waaay back on these chilly Spring nights.

(Adjust your audio if you're at work.)

Public Service Announcement

Two in one day because it needs to be said.

Men of greater New York and beyond:

Hollering at women is neither sport nor national pasttime. I get it. Today is like the third day of Spring and the ladies are out from underneath sweaters and coats. And yes, we are in our pastels and ruffles and heels, but hollering at me-- even politely gets annoying.

I couldn't get off the block without a lusty good morning from the local dope feind and a hey baby from the middle-aged owner of the speakeasy around the corner. Before I crossed the nearby thoroughfare to catch my train, an ambulance driver felt compelled to roll down his window to yell he liked my style (my favorite compliment and yes, I put in work to swag it up this morning.) I replied with a humble thank you. As I passed his vehicle, he wished me a nice day. I wished him one in return. Then he waited until I walked far enough that he was behind me to say, "oh, yes indeed I will."

It's not yet 10:30am as I type this (you know I got a no hollering before 11 rule) but surprisingly I'm not annoyed. It's Day 3 of Spring's return and I'm as excited to see the men strutting around without suit jackets so I can admire a proper "V" as the men must be to see women's shapely curves. Today and tomorrow and definitely thru the weekend, the attention from masses of menfolk will be amusing. Hell, over the next few days, I'll probably wish a few broad shouldered gentlemen in starched collared shirts some innuendo filled "hellos" or extend wishes of "oh, yes, you have a wonderful day" with a knowing look to a Mr. Snug Pants with a lovely rear. But we're all going to have to know when to stop. I mean, like milk in a refrigerator, that hollering shit gets old after about 14 days.

In two weeks, one-liners (even the good ones) will be as valued as the American dollar in a European land. So gentleman (I address you because you do most of the hollering), enjoy these first 2 weeks of Spring when the ladies bask in your attention. It's been a long winter. We like the reassurance that we still got it and you still want it. Holler respectfully, holler often, holler in the morning even. I'm flattered today and a witty line from a cutie will likely result in a number exchange. But for the love of Hova and four more Black people, shut the fuck up by May 1st.

Happy Spring!!

The Confusing Kind

2007

I met a guy I liked. He was digging me—or at least I think he was, but I figure out he’s not looking for a “wifey,” which he thinks I am. (For better or worse, most men who meet me think this. I’m emitting something evidently.) He called, I call back. We hung out once, he never called. I called (cause I liked him) and he never called back. That was that.

So I end up at the same venue as him a couple weekends later. He sees me, comes by, chats me up… then flirts?

“ Hey, D.” He flashes all 32 of his bright white, braces-perfect teeth. I am a sucker for a smile and it’s hard for me not to sigh where I sit. “You dancing tonight?”

Me: I’m drinking. I might. [Sip. Sip.]

Him: “If you’re dancing, I’ll dance with you.” Another flash of that smile. Oh, heart be still!

Me: “Ummm… Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.” [Sip.]

I brush him off—not to be mean, but to respect the parameters he’s defined. You’re not interested, dude, why are you flirting? Why the mixed signals?

WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

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Booty Call Etiquette

New discovery: my father reads my blog.

Next topic.

I love my job! Love, love, love it! I was out sick yesterday (that’s what I get for running around all day Saturday in good weather without a jacket) and I loathed every minute of what I could be missing. Got so bad that I started e-mailing co-workers about a bunch of ideas that I’ve had but never got around to pitching.

The only thing I hate about my 10-6 is that I get all these interesting relationship tidbits from the sexperts that I talk to all day and I can’t write about them on here until the article’s come out—and by then, my mind’s moved to something else. *sigh*

Anyway, when I wasn’t drugging myself into oblivion, I managed a coherent conversation with Patent about booty call hours. Like when does booty call time begin?

I argue for 11. Any invite to my apartment or arrival at such after that time and I think it’s reasonable for a suitor (or J.O.) to expect something to pop off. Not saying that it will or that it should, but I can’t really call a man out of line for trying to push up after that time. (11 was the time after which I could take phone calls as a teenager. I think that’s how I decided on this.)

Patent argued for somewhere around 10, which I thought was a little early. I feel like I can call at 10, realize I’m not doing anything and you’re not doing anything so maybe we can do something non-sexual together at the crib without any expectations of breaking out the condoms.

Far and long ago in a conversation with my mother, she advised against inviting men over without expecting a pop off at anytime--day or night. “You want to spend time together?” Mom began. “If you don’t want him to think anything will happen, you spend it outside of the house.” (She’s a strong advocate of not sending mixed signals, an idea which has been instilled in me.)

I thought this was too conservative, and just what I expected to hear from Mother, who is by and large a conservative woman. That is—until I bounced the thought off an infrequent member of the crew who I’ve known forever, but grinds too much to hang out. “You can invite a man over at 3 o’clock on a Sunday," he said. "Sex is an option at any time of day, D. You don’t want him to think it will happen, stay outdoors.”

With that in mind, I decided on a compromise. If it was after 9 (just in case), and I’d invited company by (very short list of men that I allow in my home. Very long list of criterion to get over the threshold) that I wasn’t intending to be intimate with, I gave a short speech. “Just so you know, we’re not having sex. I just want to hang out.” There, it was said. Open communication. All cards on the table.

That short speech managed to ungodly offend every man to whom I said it. I got everything from bellows :“Did I ask you for sex? Who said anything about sex? You’re the one that’s mentioning sex!” To dead silence, followed by a baffled: “Are you fucking kidding me, D? That’s the dude you think I am?”

I stopped giving that speech, realizing the negative effect it was having and I realized that the average grown man just goes with whatever signals he gets during his stay—- no matter what time the call comes through or what time he arrives. It’s been my experience that as long as I’m chilling, he is too. And when I'm in the mood for more?... Well, Daddy's reading so I'll just leave it at that.

Hi Dad!

She Fell

Edit: I tried to write on the train this morning and for some reason, couldn't. I have writer's block. Like, have I run out of things to write about? (More like there's a limit to the stories I'm allowed to tell. There are TONS of hilarious stories that I won't write about for various reasons, including bad timing.) So if you feel like there's a relationship/sex topic that needs to be discussed or re-addressed, hit me at abelleinbrooklyn@gmail.com. Or you can just hit me because you feel like it and that will make me happy to. It's always interesting to know who's reading this thing, especially since the number grows by 250 people every week. Like who are you new people? LOL! Shout out to the 4 faithful St. Kitts readers who have been with us for about a month now.

Okay, back to our regularly scheduled programming:

Everyone has a stand out feature. Some women get big booties, some breasts, some flat stomachs and high metabolism. I got hair. It is what it is. Not to sound arrogant, but I'm used to people approaching me about it in the street. With the exception of when it was just-got-over-chemo short, I can count on at least someone complimenting it at least once a day when it’s done (it’s been not done 3 days since September and that was because of the gym.)

The problem though is not really the people running up to me; it's why. It seems there’s a portion of the female population that think I'm gay... or at the very least bi.

I was out with The Guys a few weeks back at the Everybody Eat At Lola's Campaign to support the Black- owned struggling restaurant when Langston spotted a pretty woman we'd run into for the third time that night. He was determined not to let the final opportunity pass without saying something. When she trots by again, he introduces himself, and she seems mildly interested-- until she sees me.

At this point, her face lights up, she cuts my boy short and she smiles, introducing herself. "I met you before. You work for XXXXX, right?"

I've never seen her before in life, but I shake her hand because it's the civil thing to do.

"At Pop Burger, remember? I was with Stephanie?"

No clue, but I go "oh yeah, good to see you," anyway.

She gives me a huge smile... To remember her by? I dunno. And then walks off with just a quick bye to my boy. Ouch.

I assume I read too much into that until my three capadres point out, "um what the hell was that? She was so hitting on you." Then they do a play by play breakdown (yes, men do it to just over different subjects) of what just happened and how they could tell.

"It's been happening a lot lately," argues Langston, who is unarguably fine. "You got chicks falling for you left and right. I'm walking with you and women are looking at you not me. Trust me, I notice."

Eh. I'm not convinced. She was friendly. Odd, but friendly. And I haven’t noticed any chicks really scoping me. Behaving oddly? Yes. But trying to get at me? Nah.

A couple days later, I decide it's time to go back to the gym and I revamp my eating habits to abide by a new workout plan. Instead of Starbucks lattes and muffins for breakfast, I'll go with all fruit smoothies from the Jamba Juice near my job. I walk in and wait in the forever line behind tourists who can't make a decision. The girl behind the counter keeps smiling at me, giving me an apologetic look. It's uncharacteristically New York nice. When I finally order, she keeps looking at me. It's the look up, look away passive aggressive gaze that I give a guy when I want his attention without being bold. Why is she doing that?

After she gives me my change, she wishes me, "have a nice day" with the full on glare. Er? And when I'm on the way out the door with my juice, she raises her voice to say "bye" over the bustle of the room, which includes simultaneous blenders whirring. I look back. She's smiling.

"Um, bye."

At my desk, I convince myself that I've been paranoid ever since The Guys told me I was getting hit on by women. Maybe both of those women were from the South or new to New York? And they were both young (early 20s), so maybe she was just all happy kid energy? Maybe since the weather’s nice women are committing random acts of Spring? I dunno.

That night, a bunch of us get up to enjoy the first warm night of the season. We stop here, head there, then find ourselves at our old NYU stomping grounds for $4 margaritas, warm tortilla chips and salsa music. I tell my boys the story of the Jamba Juice girl. Much to my dismay, they agree; she was flirting.

"You miss all the hints," Patent argues. "For girls and guys. Unless it's over the top, you don't see it, D."

I still don't believe it. Do I look like a lesbian? Summer’s coming, I want to attract menfolk. Tall, chocolate, broad-shouldered ones. Maybe I should cut the mohawk off, I ponder out loud. Maybe I’ll look more feminine?

Langston hits me with of his infamous sideways glares. "Yeah," he snorts. "Get a Caesar. That'll really help."

Two hours and way over my limit later, the three of us are headed to the Exit when Patent runs into a guy he hasn't seen in ages. The chick he's with is of undeterminable Spanish descent. Patent's chatting away and in our silly drunkenness, Langston and I take to the dance floor. He's proudly Jamaican, but swears for the first time ever, he has Costa Rican ancestry and this makes him qualified to teach me how to salsa. We're making fools of ourselves when the “Spanish” chick hops off her stool and tries to teach me to dance.

She comes close, grabbing for an arm and a hip. I gently shrug her off, feigning not being in the mood to dance anymore. I look over at Langston and he's laughing and shaking his head. I feel like I’m on the outside of an inside joke. Since I won't dance with her, she starts doing this sort of backward shimming thing a little too close to me. She's leaning back and she's swaying, her low cut top dipping lower. If I were a man and into breasts, or for that matter a woman and into breasts, this could be enticing. But it's not. It’s just odd. Really really odd. Why is she shaking her breasts at me?

She’s staring at me and I know that look. It’s the one I give to dudes. She reaches for my hand to catch me up in her rapture. I move it away and just then it dawns on me that she is hitting on me. Right in front of her boyfriend no less. Are they swingers? I look up at Langston again is near hysterical trying to hold in a laugh, then turns away from me to keep from letting it all loose.

I look back at the chick with a "really shorty?" look. "Is this what's good in 08?"

Apparently it is. She’s still staring, giving me her best come hither gaze. I smile, maybe kinda cocky-like, because as odd as this scenario is and as hetero I am, I have to admit there's also something remotely flattering and slightly ego boosting about someone making a scene over me-- even if it's a chick. I laugh because… what better can I do in this moment?

Shorty mistakes my laugh for interest. She shakes her shimmy a little harder. She leans back, she sways, she rocks …

She falls!!

I mean busts her ass on the hard wood floor, her head connecting with the ground with that hollow pop!before the rest of her did. She’s sprawled out on the floor, limbs all askew and Langston and I are standing over her staring with—literally—our mouths hanging open.

I extend a hand to pull her up. Langston actually bends to lift her off the floor, and Patent, who only saw the landing, but not the fall, gets her other side. (Her date never comes to her rescue.) They sit her on the stool, I ask if she’s okay. She nods, embarrassed. There’s nothing else to be said as Langston and I are near tears trying to hold in laughter. We attempt to escape the room, and her date stops me before I can make it to the steps after Patent and Langston.

“Um...” He pauses as if he doesn’t know how to ask. “Did she just fall dancing for you?”

I compose myself just long enough to say “yes,” then I sprint after Patent and Langston to the lobby to find them doubled over with laughter. I join them, howling until I pant and long after tears have ruined my concealer. Langston declares it the funniest/weirdest/most outrageous shit he’s ever seen.

“Now do you believe us?” he asks.

I do.

The next morning, I wake up to the blaring alarm with a slight hangover, likely the result of cheap liquor at the college bar. My very first thought: I can’t believe she fell.” Then I burst into giggles all over again.

It’s going to be a long, hilarious summer.

Booty Call Etiquette

New discovery: my father reads my blog.

Next topic.

I love my job! Love, love, love it! I was out sick yesterday (that’s what I get for running around all day Saturday in good weather without a jacket) and I loathed every minute of what I could be missing. Got so bad that I started e-mailing co-workers about a bunch of ideas that I’ve had but never got around to pitching.

The only thing I hate about my 10-6 is that I get all these interesting relationship tidbits from the sexperts that I talk to all day and I can’t write about them on here until the article’s come out—and by then, my mind’s moved to something else. *sigh*

Anyway, when I wasn’t drugging myself into oblivion, I managed a coherent conversation with Patent about booty call hours. Like when does booty call time begin?

I argue for 11. Any invite to my apartment or arrival at such after that time and I think it’s reasonable for a suitor (or J.O.) to expect something to pop off. Not saying that it will or that it should, but I can’t really call a man out of line for trying to push up after that time. (11 was the time after which I could take phone calls as a teenager. I think that’s how I decided on this.)

Patent argued for somewhere around 10, which I thought was a little early. I feel like I can call at 10, realize I’m not doing anything and you’re not doing anything so maybe we can do something non-sexual together at the crib without any expectations of breaking out the condoms.

Far and long ago in a conversation with my mother, she advised against inviting men over without expecting a pop off at anytime--day or night. “You want to spend time together?” Mom began. “If you don’t want him to think anything will happen, you spend it outside of the house.” (She’s a strong advocate of not sending mixed signals, an idea which has been instilled in me.)

I thought this was too conservative, and just what I expected to hear from Mother, who is by and large a conservative woman. That is—until I bounced the thought off an infrequent member of the crew who I’ve known forever, but grinds too much to hang out. “You can invite a man over at 3 o’clock on a Sunday," he said. "Sex is an option at any time of day, D. You don’t want him to think it will happen, stay outdoors.”

With that in mind, I decided on a compromise. If it was after 9 (just in case), and I’d invited company by (very short list of men that I allow in my home. Very long list of criterion to get over the threshold) that I wasn’t intending to be intimate with, I gave a short speech. “Just so you know, we’re not having sex. I just want to hang out.” There, it was said. Open communication. All cards on the table.

That short speech managed to ungodly offend every man to whom I said it. I got everything from bellows :“Did I ask you for sex? Who said anything about sex? You’re the one that’s mentioning sex!” To dead silence, followed by a baffled: “Are you fucking kidding me, D? That’s the dude you think I am?”

I stopped giving that speech, realizing the negative effect it was having and I realized that the average grown man just goes with whatever signals he gets during his stay—- no matter what time the call comes through or what time he arrives. It’s been my experience that as long as I’m chilling, he is too. And when I'm in the mood for more?... Well, Daddy's reading so I'll just leave it at that.

Hi Dad!

More Random Quotes

Did you see Belle in the Get Em Girls e-mail blast? Much love to Shakara

I haven't done this in awhile. I don't know why. I encounter some hilarious people. If I ever write fiction, I'm incorporating these lines into the narrative. These people have quick wit and/or no self censor. I still find it odd that people think of me funny when they read the blog. I'm not used to it, I suppose. I'm by far not the funny one in my crews or for that matter anywhere I go. I'm usually considered the too serious one.

Anyway, more snapshots of my Brooklyn life. I hope you find these as hilarious (or random) as I did.

*"White girls are the shit!" -a Black man YELLING this as he walked down a Bed Sty street

*"Sitting on the couch, juggling my nuts like Chinese balls and watching King Kong."-- a man's (over) detailed response to 'what are you doing?' (and folks wonder why I don't date him. LOL!)

*"Stop all that yelling! This aint Harlem!"- a man in a 300 deep line at the US Weekly Kanye party to a woman who was way too obnoxious in trying to get the attention of the doorman.

* Madiba owner (pointing to a woman): That's Hope. She has a sister named Faith and another named Change.

Bartender: No shit?

Owner: Yah, (they're Afrikan. They have accents) really.

Bartender: (without missing a beat)They should have a brother named Obama

*Me: Me and him? We could so get married and live happily ever after.

Her: You know he's going back to Africa at some point, right?

Me: Your point?

Her: You'd be known as Obi's white wife.... who can't make curry goat. You're saying you'd be okay with that?"

*"Her? Never had sex, but she let me dry hump her one night in 94." -XXX giving the backstory about an attractive woman across the room.

"Hot chocolate is that hot in hood?"-- Patent, upon hearing that the hot chocolate story set a new daily hits record for the site. (It was broken a week later with the legends post.)

*"If my dick could talk, it would call me stupid."- My "brother" (king of the one liners.)

* "If you're going to throw a pity party, I can help you promote it."- , a lawyer/ event planner, responding to my self-indulgent woe-is-me blog. (We had to part ways for various reasons, but damn if I don't miss that wit.)

*"OMG! I'm convinced God loves us more than anyone else." -Patent calling with more good news. Fact: We dream it. Then we live a better version of it. He's convinced this doesn't happen to everyone.

*Him: When your biological clock starts to tick, remember me. I have good genes.

Me: I'm a rolex, baby. No ticks. ;-)

*Him: (clueless mofo) When I'm with a woman, the first two orgasms are all about me.

Me: Ugh! A pussy should swallow you whole... then burp.

*"Pump your breaks shorty, you're in the wrong lane." --JayHov shutting down a chick who thought he was trying to holler when he most certainly was not.

*(Picture Eddie Murphy as The Sexual "Chocolate dude when you read this.) "Gotdamn you look good, D. Just got the girls all out. It's like my birthday. Happy birthday to me!" -- XXX , 3 seconds after being introduced to my new suitor and standing less than two feet away from him. This dude was born without a self censor button.

*"She's an anteater. You heard it here first." -- JayHov, describing a woman he'd encountered who he found particularly unattractive.

*Her to Him: I start coaching kids basketball today!!! I went out and bought my coach's whistle this afternoon. XXXX, I'll be using on you for all of your FOULS [like when you say] "So I was working today..."

*WHISTLE!!!! "Technical Foul...No Proof of Job. 2 shots."- XXXX to a dude in my crew who we swear 'ain't got no job' ala Tommy on Martin. (He's an image consultant and works from home. His day starts around 2PM.)

"Summer, summertime..."

A super duper shot out to Jen over at The-B-Life. Imagine my suprise yesterday when I click over there, as I do every day, to see what's going on and see a big shot out to Belle!!! I loved it! THANK YOU!

Last Saturday

I woke up this morning thinking about Spring. It was bright and sunshine-y outside and laying on top of the covers it was relatively warm in the bedroom. I got excited, made great plans for a fabulous dress and just my favorite denim jacket to be worn after I got my toes did around the corner.

If Spring were here, then soon it would be summer and summer means weekend trips to the beach with or without friends, standing in the water with a Starbucks cup while listening to Stevie Wonder on my iPod, singing out loud and off key, and two-stepping alone in the waves. I had way too much fun last summer, WAY TOO MUCH but out of all the parties and all the park outings and all the cafes and bars and gatherings, that was the moment I remember the most.

I called out of work in mid-September because after a string of low 70s days, the temperature hit an unexpected 85 on a Wed. Summer had returned for just a day and I took advantage of it, thinking will I remember what I do today at the office or remember my day at the beach?

There was practically no one on "my side" of the sand. The kids were back in school. It was just me and a few other worker bees who'd had the same fuck-work thought and were e-mailing and conducting conference calls on beach towels. Oh, and a housewife who'd stood up the garage repairman to bask on the sun one last time. (She was nearby. I overheard the whole phone conversation about her having a family emergency and being unable to wait for him all afternoon.)

After my water dance, I plopped on my towel and stared at the ocean while scarfing down homemade guac and chips from my favorite beachside restaurant. I turned off my phone, lest the working world interrupt me with one of its predicaments, then lay to bask for a sunshine nap while humming along to Donnie Hathaway. ("I believe in music, I believe in lu-uvvvve.")I woke up around 2, realized it was still hot, and went in the water to dance some more, this time to Al Green ("what a wondrous thing love isss...") I was no where near love, not even close to like with anyone, but I had that amazing feeling that you get after a great first date or later, a first kiss. It's like being in love with the possibilities.

I lay around somemore, staring at the waves, just thinking about life, wondering what's next. Next job, next writing assignment, next vacation, next kiss, next great anything. When the temperature dipped around five o'clock, I covered up and packed up my stuff from the trek back to BK. At the boardwalk, I paused, took a last look at the waves and water, the sand, listened to the sound of Long Beach, a place I wouldn't enjoy for another nine months, and smiled. I'd definitely remember this day more than anything that would've happened at the office. (As a true testament to my thought in that moment, I can't rememeber the titles or plots of any of the books I worked in the two months following.)

Saturday morning I put on sweats and flip flops to go to the nail shop. It was fucking freezing. 40 tops. (Note to Stringer Bell, people remember 40 degree days.) On the corner, the guy who sells magnets in the shape of fruit had his radio blasting. The deejay forecasted a 67 degree high. No fucking way. (It hit 47, maybe I heard wrong.)

Seems like Spring, and then summer, will never arrive. Sigh.

Legends To Be

I posted this weekend; go back and read Preacher Man. Oh, and I'll just tell you upfront, you'll have to bear with me if you don't see me around or I'm posting late or all erratic for the next month. (This post will partially explain why.)

So, I think YouTube is one of the greatest developments of the 21st Century. Whenever I have those Saturdays that I don't want to leave the house, I search for random ish. One night it was old Jodeci videos, which led to watching all 90s videos, and somehow led to watching old school girl groups like Oaktown 357. "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah" is a great, but pitifully overlooked song. A deejay could spin it now and still make a party pop (CEO that was a hint for you.) Another night it was random SATC clips, even though I own all the seasons on DVD. Last night, I was watching clips of Oprah’s Legends Ball.

If you didn't see it then and/or don't have time to watch (make time: it's good), it was all about Black female legends-in-the-making honoring Black female living legends. Somehow I’d missed the show when it aired on ABC, so I watched it in its entirety on YouTube (God bless whoever posted that.) It was fabulous, over the top, elegant as Oprah events tend to be. (Instead of gift bags, they received diamond earrings. What a great life!) But what really struck me was the feeling of it. Here are these great and amazing women, being honored by each other and paying tribute to those who came before them. Do you know what kind of ego boost it must be to be called a legend in your own lifetime? Or the purpose and pride you recieve to be considered one in the making? Wow. What a way to push people to be thier best! (Watch Alicia Keys and Mary J. Blige's reactions. They were changed by the experience.) Oprah pointed out that her rationale for the whole thing was everyone shows up with flowers to pay respects when you die, but who honors you when you are alive?

I got to thinking about all those young women out there who are steadily achieving their dreams, but don’t get the recognition they deserve and too, that they need. I don’t think you should have to be on a Forbes list or be a nationally recognized name or a VP for a major corporation to be acknowledged. Someone should recognize them-- and not just in a blog or in conversatons that they never hear.

I thought back to this all-women dinner that Penelope and I did last year. We called it “A Gathering of Girls” and invited all of our fabulous friends to come and break bread with us. So often, women are thought of as catty and jealous of one another, but we don't know very many women like that. We wanted to have a time where a bunch of likeminded, happy girls could just come together and enjoy each other's company and meet new friends and enjoy being girls. Very few people just sit around and celebrate women of color for just being and even though it was a simple idea, we thought it would be fun to host an occassion that does so.

New York was hit with a monsoon the day of the event, but 20 women gathered on the tent covered patio of P and I's favorite restaurant, the since-closed Rialtos (RIP cocunut martinis). Now anytime P and I plan something, she is in charge of decoration and logistics. She won’t even tell me what’s going on with any of that, just assures me that everything is fine and it will be fabulous. She’s never let me down.

When I arrived, the table was covered with beautiful roses. She had our menu pre-printed. We had a black waitress who spoke French so every time she talked, it made the moment seem extra fab. (She told us later that she wasn’t even scheduled to work that day, but when she found out it was our event, she signed up. See what being nice –and tipping well—will get you?)It was gorgeous, more grand than anything I could have ever expected. And I wasn't the only one who was surprised. Midway through dinner, Shannon looked around and declared, “I feel like I’m at Oprah’s Legends Ball. We’re like legends to be!” (Oh, the warming of my heart in that moment.)

And so with all of that in mind, P & I have decided to host a Legends To Be Dinner next month so that fabulous women can gather to celebrate those among us who are doing amazing things. I’m so excited, I’m blushing three shades of pink, which is highly possible for a pale-skinned girl. :-)

The Preacher Man**

October 2004 Thursday

I’d signed a lease for a new apartment a month prior and I was prepping for the move in three days. My boyfriend at the time had enlisted the help of a strong-armed friend who happened to have an SUV and they’d moved most of my packed boxes into my new space. All that was left for the movers was furniture and clothes. (I needed my entire closet for three days. I dress according to my mood.) Going home to an empty apartment with no frills and just the basic necessities bored me to tears and provided too much time to let my mind wander—especially under the circumstances.

My grandfather was sick, had been for some time, and his health was declining rapidly. My mother had more or less moved from MD to the Midwest to be with him in what we were beginning to suspect were his final days. She’d asked me to meet her in the Midwest, but I was too busy trying to get all my stuff packed to oblige her request.

“Maybe this weekend?” I’d told her. There wasn’t much left to do with apartment, I could go stay two days or overnight, then be back for Monday to move that morning with little fuss.

To keep my mind from spinning, I headed to Bed Bath & Beyond to search for wine glasses. I’d finally have a grown up apartment so it was time for grown up stemware—not the 4 fragile kind for $5.99 that I’d bought in a box previously, all of which broke within 60 days. I was an adult. I should not be drinking good wine out of juice cups. I’d loaded up a cart with vanilla candles, fluffy white bathsheets, and a few other items I thought would up my grown quotient and was standing in the stemware section when my mobile rang.

It was my Mom. I answered. Silence, then that weird empty noise when you know the line is live and no one’s saying anything, then finally, “He’s gone,” she choked out.

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Ugh- Random Ish

You people. HA!

After two weeks of bullshit filler blogs- I ain't been right since that blow up I posted about all cryptic about. I know this so thank you for bearing with me (oh, and where's Hypnotic? I count on certain people to keep me on point)-- I come back with Old School Belle bangers and 4 comments on yesterdays blog? 4!!!? That Eddie blog is my MAGNUM OPUS (look it up if you don't get it.) 4 comments?!!

Ya'll are the toughest crowd ever. And I know you're reading, because I checked the numbers. I'm too scared now to post the second part (yes, all that was part one. We didn't even get to Midwest Anne and what happened Saturday night. That is the better story of the weekend.)

I don't post here for the glory and praise; it's more about documenting the insanity and non stop dramadey that is my life than anything, but I know when I give up a good one. 4 comments? Eddie tops the London/Paris/Italy blog from the HONEY site, I think. I'm trying not to take it personal. Really I am. LOL!

Don't mind me right now. I'm on some "I am an artist and I'm sensetive about my shit." That, and I have another great story from today that I can't tell. People have actually started telling me upfront, "whatever happens today isn't blogable, D" or "Don't quote me on there." LOL!

In other humorous news, I got a call today from my Dad, informing me that a co-worker of his reads my blog. I actually talked to her and she said the nicest things ever (she has favorite posts!), wanted to know why there was no book yet. I'm working on it! I swear I am. Oh, and I am so happy I had the good sense not to blog about so much crazy ish and when I do, at least change the names. There are so many unexpected people reading. Main Street is the whole NorthEast Corridor.

Today's shout out goes to the corporate DCer's laughing at their desks. Oh, and my Dad who has no clue what goes on here, but just knows it's something to be proud of.

So, I need your help. I need to put together Belle posts for an agent. What are the best? If you're a long time reader, feel free to pull from the HONEY site. I just need whatever you think is good or great. It's hard to be objective about my own ish.

And yes, I will post a "real" post later today. But not another story. 4 Comments? People!

Last: a shout out to the subject of Monday's blog. Most hits ever, son. What?!

Oh, and for those of you too shy to post: you can hit me at abelleinbrooklyn@gmail.com

~B aka D

When Men Express Again... (The Hook Up)

I don’t know if it’s because I know what to look for now or it’s because spring is coming or what, but I’ve seen more male expression. I showed up to brunch at A. Bistro on time yesterday to meet up with three other black people. I was five minutes late. Another was 20 minutes. The other two (one of which was the host) strolled in casually 45 minutes later. I would have been mad at the host at least, (“I want to call you a nigga,” I said at 2:50 when he breezed in) but he brought 2 bottles of champagne to make up for his tardiness. :- )

It was the case the second arrivee walked in the spot in all his rock star glory. Aviators, a freshly shaved heard, and more than anything he had The Stance. After bustling to get through the heavy curtains blocking the cold air from the patrons, he swaggered in, stood in the middle of the restaurant like Kanye entering the MSG stage and in slow motion, scanned the crowd soaking up the attention of every woman in the room.

I laughed. Because when you actually know the person who does that shit and watch the way people react, it’s just funny. His entry caught the eye of at least one fluffy-headed patron and they spent the next five minutes looking back and forth. He guessed they’d met before or at least had friends in common. He was trying his best not to arrogantly assume that she was just that into him.

The more he looked, the more he liked what he saw. But he couldn’t figure out if he was familiar to her, or if she was interested. She was being too subtle with her glances. He is more or less clueless sometimes and only overt acts of interest make him notice.

“Uh, sweetness,” I explain. “She can’t be blatant. She doesn’t know if we’re together or not.”

“Good point.”

Until he can think of way to approach that will leave an impression, we decide to warm up with hot chocolate. It’s amazing. Extra chocolate-y with a cinnamon stick to boot. He’s still making google-y eyes across the room while I get on the phone to curse out folks for showing up 30 minutes late.

“I should send her a hot chocolate,” he says when I hang up the phone.

I nod. “Sweet gesture. I’d like that.”

“You sure? That’s not corny?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Let me think about it.” (And they tell us we think too much.)

The other half of our party finally arrives and they too co-sign the hot chocolate idea. We’re keeping a watch on the table for when she finishes her meal so the beverage can be delivered at the right time. Somehow, we get lost in conversation, and forget to pay attention until we see the waitress taking a plastic bag to their table.

It’s now or never for the hot chocolate. He asks for a pen and a hot chocolate from the waitress and a piece of paper from me. He scribbles a note, which I ask to proofread before it’s delivered.

“Nah, I got this, D.” He’s back in swagger mode, which I guess you have to get in when you risk a possible rejection. I swear, I could not be a guy.

The waitress takes the beverage and the note across the room and it’s like time has slowed. She walks. We wait. She arrives at the table. We wait and watch. The girls do a squeal when the waitress explains where and why this hot chocolate has arrived. Whew. Mission accomplished.

They look over, we play it cool and look away. He’s in the corner seat, blocked by the curtains, so me and the person next to me give a play by play of what’s going on.

She’s cheesing. They’re looking over here. They’re laughing. Um… they are taking pictures of the hot chocolate. One looks over with a curious expression that asks, “who did this come from?” I point across the table. She nods and turns back around to discuss with the other ladies. He is too pleased with himself now.

A few moments later, a note arrives via the waitress. He reads it and breaks out into a huge smile.

“What’s it say?” we want to know.

He looks at us like we’re crazy, then places it in his pocket. “It’s private.”

One of us guesses he note must have the number on it since there was that smile and he sees no need to write back. “My dude!” Dap all around… well at least the boys do.

The ladies leave, offering a flurry of goodbyes on their way out the door, but no stop at the table. The waitress comes by shortly after to ask what we are doing later and casually mentions that there are good drinks at Red Bamboo. “You should go,” she suggests with a knowing look. “Might be fun.”

Twenty minutes later, we walk up to Red Bamboo. We spot her friends outside smoking, and we all just look at each other and laugh. Undoubtedly the subject of my boy’s affection is inside. We left a good tip, but the waitress deserved more for this one.

He walks in, spots Fluffy Hair at the bar, and takes a seat to properly introduce himself.

When I bounced an hour and half later, they were still ‘saying hello.’