Maybe I'm Crazy (33, the Belated Birthday Post)

At 32*, I wrote about not finding that fine line between between being a brand and being well, me. I never figured out which side to fall on. In fact, I’m more confused now than ever. I just habitually line step and hope for the best.

There was a time when I could say what I wanted with out much clapback other than a call from my father about the number of f-bombs I drop.  I was essentially a fart in a mitten, the term once used to describe the societal usefulness of Paris Hilton. I was mostly writing for myself to get the thoughts out of my head so I could sleep at night.

Over time, I’ve been fortunate enough to have people give a f*** (sorry, Dad), which is a blessing and a curse (more on that later). A blessing for the obvious reason—I love what I do and I can do it from anywhere. Writing has brought me a freedom, professionally and personally, that I never imagined. On good days, I marvel at how I operate. The idea of sharing my thoughts and being paid for what I love doing from anywhere in the world? Every time I deposit a check, I’m amazed.

I listen to Alicia Keys’s new album a lot. On "Brand New Me", she sings “It took a long, long road to get here/it took a brave, brave girl to try.” The long, long road? I get that. But I don’t think of myself as brave. More like risky. I wonder how long this lasts. I’m sure about today. It’s the tomorrows that occasionally keep me up late.

The curse is my doubts. I like to think of myself as a hustler—not the get over kind, more like put in work. I met with the publisher of Uptown once, my hustle icon. And he told me when you work for yourself, “you eat what you kill.” When my back is against the wall, I kill. I like that about me.

I lost a cushy contract last month, and didn’t even take time to sulk.  I’d talked to my Dad just after I got the news, when he was on his way to the airport. I hit up my contacts, landed two to replace one in six hours. By the time he landed, I was straight again. He was impressed. So was I.

But sometimes I wonder if I’m just a dreamer who’s luck hasn’t run out yet. Most of what I do is easy. I can write with my eyes closed. I’ve honed a skill that comes naturally. I feel lucky more than I feel talented.

That sounds self-depreciating and I thought that meant something was wrong because I’m supposed to be confident, right? But then, I talked to other women and many say the same thing. I think that’s supposed to make me feel “normal”, but I think no, maybe we’re all just screwed. And maybe that is normal too.

I don’t think I’m supposed to say that as a life coach or advisor though. Life coaches are supposed to have it all figured out. Isn’t that why people hire us? Like if I have fears and doubts, does that make me unqualified to help people work through theirs? Or does that make me more equipped?

I do know that anyone who tells you they have it all together is bold-faced lying and you should run because they are sociopaths. I know a lot of things that are true. Trying to apply them? Sometimes I say and read things that are empowering, but I occasionally have trouble believing them or practing them. Faith is believing what you can’t see or touch. So I have faith, and I hope. I haven't mustered the audacity to wish.

Over the years, I stopped writing about my life so much. I always held back certain details, but I wrote this story once, inching up the curtain higher. It was how I came up, where I go, what I do. I wasn’t bragging, just being honest and setting the scene to make a larger point. What I said wasn’t even impressive to me, as everyone I really know lives a similar life. But I received this huge backlash. Apparently I grew up in a bubble, was living in one and I was bragging. By then there was a book coming, and I was one of the faces of The Magazine and I was popping up on TV.  I panicked about the brand, me, being unrelatable. If they don’t like me, will they still buy the book?  Will they read the column and blog? Will they watch? Will “they” care? I spent way too much time thining about “they”.

Ultimately, I decided: I didn’t work this hard to self-implode here. So I shut up.

In some ways, I felt like I was becoming unrelatable. Of course, there were people who got it, but many more who didn’t. And I blamed “them” for not getting it until I called Tariq to tell him about who called, and what they offered, and who I met that knew my name and where I went and was going and he would just say, “Wow, baby girl!” And then, I called him to complain about this deal and that one and how they conflicted and I how they wanted X in exchange for Y and should I go with A, B or C?  And I wondered if I was being greedy to want both when I "should have been" happy with just one. And my boy, who had always had all the answers said, “Damn, I don’t know. It’s over my head.”

Shit. Mine too.

My world it moves so fast today The past it seems so far away, And life, squeezes so tight that i can't breathe

There was also just weird sh** happening that I'll never get used to. Women come up to me shaking and teary and they say what my blog or my story or my writing did for them. Nothing prepares you for that. I say,  “thank you” and really mean it because I’m glad just writing could resonate with someone. But in my head, I think, “all I do is write. Really?” And then I think about how I couldn’t get my words straight the first time I met Terry McMillan. I’m good, but I’m no Terry McMillan. (Yet?) Other times, I meet people, and they immediately start talking about what they read that I wrote. And I get being a published writer is a big deal in some circles. But I’m a writer. It’s what we’re supposed to do, write, right?

I skipped an annual party I live for to go to Tariq’s wedding in Maryland. It killed me to miss it, but there was no way I was missing my best friend’s wedding. There were a lot of people from college there. These are guys who I vacay’d with, who have crashed on my couch and/or floor, who I’ve driven home because I’d stopped drinking when I realized everyone else wasn’t going to. I’ve been one of two human crutches to get them upstairs and in a bed face down so they didn’t choke on their own vomit. But that was years ago. They’re husbands and responsible fathers now.

I spoke to one of them at the wedding, one of those dudes I looked out for and had looked out for me. I offered a big “Heyyyyyy” and he said, “hello” respecfully and introduced me to his wife as “Tariq’s friend. The one who wrote the book.”  Really? That's it? I wasn't going to start telling old stories there (I've never even written about those years). Plus, I had my ring on and CBW was right there. I wasn’t some perceived threat of a single girl. His wife beamed and told me she read my book and loved it. I thanked her as my heart broke.

Later that night, Tariq’s wife thanked me for coming to their wedding. Huh? “You thought I would miss it?” She said sincerely, “I don’t know. I just thought you might be too busy.” For your wedding?!

I wondered then if it was something I was giving off. It wasn’t the first time I’d been treated apart. It had become something quite common. And I had grown used to it in some circles, but not from my friends. They matter, but somehow I didn’t feel they felt that they did. There was this weird distance between all of us. I talked to Tariq about it after his honeymoon and he said, “You’ve been in New York a longtime. They see you on TV more than they see you, D.”

Wow.

There are so many stories I want to tell, but there are unspoken rules now. You don’t talk about what happens behind the scenes and confidentiality contracts are iron-clad. That and I never want to be perceived as bragging again. Also,  I feel like if I speak about something before the ink is dry, then it won’t happen. And after a good run, I don’t want to look a failure when I say, “I met XX  and they promised YY” and then nothing ever comes from it. So I talk to a small group of five people. And I talk to myself in the mirror too. I say, sometimes through tears, “God didn’t bring you this far just to drop you off here.” And for awhile I’m convinced and then I doubt again. And I start over. When it's nice out, I ride my bike to the park and talk to the ducks. I’m sure people see me and think I’m crazy, but that’s actually how I keep myself sane. Go figure.

I read a Samuel L. Jackson profile in New York Magazine once. He talked about being a stage actor and wanting to do Hollywood. His manager told him to be patient. “If Hollywood wants you, they will call,” he said. So Jackson waited, and waited, and he called his manager every now and again to ask if they called and the answer was “no”. He kept going until one day they called. And then he went to Hollywood.

I got that call, actually three times. I packed my bags with my best dresses and headed West. I had pool side meetings and sat in cushy offices with big windows with views overlooking the hills and sometimes the ocean. I looked out and allowed myself to dream that what I want now is possible. I talked to executive producers at the top production companies and networks.  I did my little song and dance, telling my story and selling myself (but not my soul), trying to make them like me, really like me. They told me I was great I what I’d be perfect for. And I beamed. And they called back and took calls from my team, which my manager swears is a good sign.

I went back and shimmed some more. And a third time. And they still take the calls, and they say, “yes, she’s on our radar.” And I do the auditions and everyone raves. But then projects gets delayed or dropped or they haven’t found the vehicle for me just yet. “Soon” they say. “Soon.” My manager insists this is part of the process. I trust her or maybe I just want to believe my effort isn't in vain. Actually, both.

And so I wait. I watch others get on. And I’m genuinely happy for them. I think of them as paving the way.  I watch how they move and adopt the best practices. Tweak that, fine tune this, expand into uncharted territory.  But I still wait.

The wait is what kills me, makes me think about giving up, getting a day job at the library (surrounded my books) and calling my dreams a wrap.

My manager isn’t just the woman who books me for gigs, she’s also my therapist. So is one of my lawyers. So is CBW. So is my wife. They, along with Tariq, share the full-time job of managing me when I get to listening to Lauryn Hill Unplugged and start equating my life to scenes from The Wire.

“Remember when Stringer Bell wanted to kill Senator Davis?” I begin. CBW knows this is his cue to pause whatever show he’s watching on TV or look up from his laptop. “And Avon told him that Slim Charles wasn’t built for that and Stringer needed a jackal? And Stringer had this plan to get out of drug dealing? And Avon told him he was caught between two worlds? Maybe too good for the street and not good enough for what’s beyond that? Remember that?”

CBW nods dutifully.  We’ve had this conversation a million times.

“What if that’s me?” I ask. "Too good for a cubicle, but not good enough for anything else?"

He assures me it isn’t the case. And I want to believe him too, but I want what I want and I want it now and all I hear is “soon.” Sometimes there’s even a date, but those deadlines come and go. And new unfulfilled promises come too. I‘ve learned not to believe in anything until it actually happens. I think it's making me jaded.

My manager reminds me, “success isn’t an sprint, it’s a marathon.” She reminds me of my best traits and what’s on the table: plenty of offers that come with contracts and hefty lawyer fees. I look at my dwindling account, the money from my book advance and writing round-the-clock. I repeat to myself, "this is an investment in your future." But I also think of how I lived this crazy life to write this blog, to get that book to get that check and I see the money flying out the window. I’m gambling and I sometimes I have the sinking feeling that maybe I’m not the investment that I thought I was. Maybe I should have bought stock.

In the 3AM hours, I think about this woman I sat on a panel with at NYU once. She was pushing for a news anchor job and getting rejected over and over and over. And then someone told her “go where the water’s warm.” So she executive produced her own Internet show, and she’s been thriving ever since. Writing is warm water.  Coaching is lukewarm, but getting warmer. Maybe this is where I should stay. Writing and coaching work out for me consistently. TV is like the water in Cape Town. Cold. Is swimming where I am settling or is it sensible?

I don’t know.  And that’s when I go stand in the mirror and talk to myself.

In the quiet hours when I don’t have a deadline hanging over my head, I wonder if I’m crazy. If I should have stayed in my cubicle and chosen building someone else’s dream over my own. Enough people told me I should have been happy with that and I wonder if I thought too highly of myself by trying to do something different. I remind myself that if I stayed, I wouldn’t be able to "see some world" or earn in a couple days what I used to clear in two weeks at 100 hours. The Magazine had a future mapped out though. It was certain, at least for awhile longer anyway. I liked my work there. I liked my co-workers. It held a prestige. I’d say, “Oh, I work for The Magazine” and people were automatically impressed. I liked that feeling.

I didn’t want to leave. I had to and I was in the position to, so I did.

No time soon will I tell what my breaking point was—the moment that made me reach across the conference room table to my mentor and say, “I can’t do this anymore.” (A month later, I was out.) But I will tell you about the social media conference I watched on YouTube. It was a new entrepreneurs panel, and this guy talked about how he started this side business while he had a full-time job. It was rapidly successful and he ended up on The Today Show. He talked about how it’s so hard to get to that level of exposure, and you have a six-month window to capitalize it. That same day, a prominent new author was on Twitter complaining that Black authors didn’t get the same exposure as white authors. “We don’t get the Today Show,” she wrote.

Actually, I’d taped the Today Show that morning. It would air the next day.

Early one morning, I got all dolled up, and hopped in the black car the studio sent. Traffic was heavy and I was late, but I tried to look at the bright side: more time to practice for whatever questions they might lob at me. (No, they don't give you the questions in advance.) I rehearsed answering every possible question in front of my laptop camera for weeks.

My make-up artist was even later than me. She beat the hell out of my face in 15 minutes, and I ran upstairs to the set barefoot. I waited backstage, nervous like I’d never been as I slipped into unsteady heels, poofed up my falling hair (not enough spritz) as I prayed with my eyes open, “If You gotta drop me off, not here. Just not here.”

After the taping, I kept my fancy dress on to walk in flip-flops around the corner to my office where I changed into a comfier outfit. I sat in my cubicle and pretended the biggest moment of my life hadn't just happened. I'd become annoyingly good at that.

So I watched that live stream, and I read that tweet. And I went to that meeting where what happened, happened, and I reached across the table and said what I said because I had a rare chance, and too I was tired of pretending that what was a big deal wasn't and I thought it would be stupid not go after my dream. Chasing it was "urgent like a motherfucker" (Sorry, Dad.) I had a lot to lose either way. But I’d tried the cubicle and that was that. What would happen if I tried something else, if I tried Team Me?

I couldn’t be okay with not trying.

When I’m feeling optimistic, I re-tell myself that story like it happened to someone else. I remind myself that writing got me to where I was, and to where I am and if I’m not able to get any further, then at least I got here. I tried. If I fail, I can go back to a cubicle, knowing at least I gave me my best shot. I can be okay with that.

I think. I hope. I pray.

Fin

*(I'm at not 33 in this pic. I think this is my 27th birthday)

Clutch: 10 Things Every Non-Black Person Should Know (By Now) About Black Women

We’re more than a decade into the 21st century. I’d hoped– in vain– that some basic understandings of how non-Black people should interact with Black people could be something I could take for granted. But no. Somehow there are “those people” who remain entirely clueless, so much so that they will call a 9-year old the c-word, or paint a white model bronze-Black, or not even, as so-called, journalists, bother to learn the pronunciation of an Oscar nominee’s name. This is unacceptable. Recently, I read the comments section of a post onClutch where a male reader was baffled as how to initiate a conversation with Black women and asked for some rules. Several helpful women obliged. In the same spirit of combating ignorance, I offer rules for non-Black people to  engage Black women without causing offense. If you can manage NOT to do the following, you can probably come across as a decent human being.

Humbly, I submit a basic list, my Rules of Engagement, and ask you NOT to do the following:

1. Talk Bad About (Black) Kids It seems ridiculous that this has to be said, much less lead the list. I’d assumed everyone knew better, but apparently not. (And you know what “they say” about assuming.) Look here, dissing kids – all kids, of all races, creeds, and color is UNACCEPTABLE. You want to talk greasy about your own kids? Eh… still unacceptable. Kids are off-limits. Period.

2. Touch Our Hair I know our hair– braided, permed, natural, whatever– is pretty great. We treat it like art because we can and well, it is.  However, it is never, ever, EVER okay to touch the hair of a random Black woman you’ve just encountered or even the familiar Black woman who you share the cubicle with. The world is not your personal petting zoo. Black people are, well, people. DO NOT TOUCH US (without permission).

3. Mispronounce Our Names/ Rename Us Look, all Black folk don’t have multi-hypenate names. We have Janes, Marys and Beths too. And somehow our single syllabic sisters learn how to pronounce names like La’Taquisha, Marquaysa, Taiwanas, etc. You know what our secret is? Lean closer.

WE ASK.

Read more: here

Clutch: Solution to Marriage 'Crisis': SBW Should Just Marry Each Other

Note: Please click the links in the article.  Ok, back to business.

Are you:

Single?

A Black woman?

Over 15?

If you answered “yes” to all of these questions, then you’re likely desperate to get married.

College- educated?

Oh, you’re definitely desperate.

It doesn’t matter if you claim to have a boyfriend, a fiancé, you’re a lesbian, don’t want to get married or even in high school. You’re still single and worse, lonely, and worse still, unlikely to marry.  This is, of course, is based solely on the thoughts in my all-knowing head—not on like actual studies that say otherwise. I know all women—and girls too— want to be married not like right now, but like yesterday. It’s urgent like a motherf***er. I saw that ABC special where that one thirty-something woman said she cries into her pillow at night because she’s not married and I know that applies to every single Black woman—or girl—alive.

How do I know?

Because I think like a man.

So why aren’t you married yet? Because your standards are too damn high like rent in New York City. You have nerve to be employed, think for yourself and as desperately single as you are, the audacity to scoff at broken men, cheating men, weak men, men you have to support, down-low men, and even your last resort for marriage, bi-sexual men. You out here acting like being single is something to celebrate.

Girl, bye.

You’re miserable. And even worse, you got these good men with better things to do out here trying to work with you and dispense quality advice. These male relationship experts are trying to help difficult you “keep” somebody, and you ain’t been listening: Submit! Shut up! Cook! Clean! In heels! Every day!

F*** your bunions and your feminism too. Let a man lead you even if it’s into a damn hole. At least if you fall in and die, you would have a man—hopefully, your husband— by your side at your demise. Being Mrs. [it only counts if you take his last name] is all you should want to be remembered for anyway.

Unfortunately, it’s probably too late for all of you, especially if you’ve wasted prime husband-hunting years getting a diploma when you should have freed up your time to find a man by getting a GED.  All the hetero Black men alive and even not yet born have, are now or will be planning to marry White women.  And because in the history of mankind no desirable man of any other color has ever been really interested in a Black woman as a wife, you’re left only with one hope for marriage: women.

Yeah, I said it. Single Black women should marry each other.

Think of the benefits: you’ll be married!!! You’ll be married!!! You’ll be married!!!

This will work out well for lesbians because you know, all this time ya’ll have been settling for women because you couldn’t keep a man. But for the rest of you, it’s time to “turn” yourselves gay. It can’t be that hard since the millions-strong LGBT community just rolled over one morning when they hit puberty and decided to go against the grain. You can too!

Just go on and roll over.  Roll, dammit!

Read more: here

The Root: Wedded Bliss Is a Labor of Love

(The Root) -- With all the fuss over what's keeping black women and black men from jumping the broom, black married couples have been lost in the fray. Yes, of course, they exist! In fact, the vast majority of black women and men do indeed get married.  Of course, many of us are putting our own spin on how we love and make it work. The "traditional" route -- love, marriage, then the baby carriage -- works for some, but for others, love comes in the form of a blended union, a lesbian wedding or a multipartner (not-so-legal) marriage.   In a three-part series on black love and commitment, The Rootwill celebrate Valentine's Day by taking a look at how black folks are loving each other, the problems the community faces and the solutions for making it work.

To kick off the series, The Root caught up with Divorce Court'sJudge Lynn Toler. She took over the bench on television's longest-running court program in 2006, and since then, she's seen it all when it comes to what makes -- and, of course, breaks -- a marriage.

Here, Toler, also the author of My Mother's Rules: A Practical Guide to Becoming an Emotional Genius,breaks down when it actually makes sense to get divorced (rarely); two major issues that black folks overlook when it comes to picking a partner; and how to avoid unnecessary problems -- like Facebook -- in your marriage. "I'm a big fan of black love," says Toler, who has been married for nearly 23 years. "Black marriage is a great thing."

The Root: According to statistics, black couples marry less and divorce more than other segments of the population. What steps can we take to keep the marriages we do have intact?

Lynn Toler: Our people tend to meet each problem as it arises. Black folks that want to make it in an environment where marriage is not as common need to preplan with their partner by having conversations about how they are going to change in order to support the marriage. You have to say, "I am comfortable with this, and I am not comfortable with that." You have to decide how much hanging with the boys and girls is still comfortable. You have to decide if you're comfortable with who of other genders is coming in the house.

When you're in a community that isn't married, the rules about all of that -- texting and on Facebook, who you can talk to, how flirty you can be -- are different. You have to decide to change those habits to support your marriage.

TR: I'm glad you brought up Facebook. It, along with social media in general, is commonly blamed for divorce these days. How do social media play into a healthy marriage?

LT: You have rules about what you do when you're married, about who you can go out with, go to dinner with. We haven't made those rules about social media, so it's such a slippery slope.

Social media is seductive in its relative ease and its seeming innocence. You're not really cheating. You're typing a couple of words; you're not touching anybody. You can do it from home. You're not going anywhere. But what happens is people find themselves on the wrong end of disrespectful.

People always ask me, "If you're flirting online, is it cheating?" I don't think that's the question. The question is, "Is what you're doing online disrespecting your spouse?" Where you draw the line is if it would hurt your spouse to know what you were doing.

Read more: here

The Root: Who You Calling A "Female"?!

"What's your take on men who refer to women as 'females'? Dude hit me up on a dating site, and his profile, when describing what he's looking for, referred to women as females through the whole thing. Why couldn't he just say 'ladies' or 'women'?"--D.F.
  Some form of this question comes up on a regular basis. My usual response is something like, "Run." Perhaps it's the nerdy English major still living within me, but I believe that the words people use to describe themselves and others can tell you a lot about them.

For instance, the guy who reached out to you on the dating site is clearly there to meet women -- the proper name for adult, female human beings -- and yet he chose to use a term to describe them that he seemingly doesn't realize highly irritates many women. It's as if he doesn't have a basic, functional understanding of what makes most thinking women tick or, better yet, what turns them off.

That you are startled by his use of "female" in a nonscientific context implies that you and I may have similar thoughts on the use of the word. To me, it's objectifying women, robbing us of a bit of our personhood. And that makes it sound woefully misogynistic.

That, of course, is a red flag, one that many people don't recognize. The heterosexual man who enjoys sex with women but doesn't actually like women -- or, er, "females," as he might call them -- is initially a bit of an enigma. I believe that calling women "females" is one of his calling cards. Whenever I hear it, it's as if the guy is trying really hard not to say "b--ch."

Referring to women as "females" also implies a lack of formal education to me. Perhaps he went to school but didn't pay much attention. And perhaps I should infer by the way he uses "female" in a sentence that he is speaking of a woman, such as, "I like a female who knows how to let me lead." Often, though, I find myself wondering, "What kind of female? A female cat? A female zebra? A female buffalo?" I'm never sure. But a female human never really pops into my head, probably because, again, female humans are called women, and it's unclear to me why anyone would go out of his way to refer to actual women as anything else.

Read more: here

Adventures with White Man Leroy, Part 3

Adventures with White Man Leroy, Part 1 Adventures with White Man Leroy, Part 2

I have no idea what goes on at the pool. I can’t see it from the DJ booth. And even if I did know, I would not tell because what happens in Johannesburg – at least the wildest stuff—stays in Johannesburg.

Anyway, everyone’s gone for an hour. I stay in the living room spinning. I do an R. Kelly set—TP2—to help out whatever situation is going on in the pool. At 7:30, a new group of people show up, ask where everyone is, and head down for their own dip. I still get the feeling that something is up, something I can’t put my finger on. I’m up because I’m jet lagged and my body thinks it’s midnight. Why is everyone else up?

CBW wants to know the same. “Are you at a sex party or a drug party?” he BBMs

Neither one of those crossed my mind, but it would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?

At 8 AM, the DJ relives me. I head back to the kitchen to rummage through the bottles for more champagne. One of the guys, a regular at Leroy’s parties, finds me and asks what I’m looking for. I tell him. He smirks,  opens the fridge and pulls out a fresh bottle of bubbly. This goes against everything I know to be okay as a guest. You don’t just open someone’s fridge and drink their liquor. He assures me it is A-Ok.

“What’s the deal here?” I ask. “Like dude just invites a bunch of Black folk to his house to party?”

He doesn’t get why this would be odd. “Yeah. He does it all the time.”

“And he just goes to bed and leaves us in his house?!”

He laughs. “He’s in bed, but he isn’t sleeping.”

Oh.

We sit in the kitchen and talk about life. He’s married. His wife if pissed because it’s New Year’s Eve, or, er, Day, and he hasn’t made it home yet. He says he offered to pick her up and bring her to the party. She just wants him to come home and stay. He’s not willing to do that. Um… okay. So here he is in the kitchen chatting with me.

Now he has questions for me,  like “where’s your man?” He’s not hitting on me. It’s a genuine question. Like there’s the ring, but here’s the woman thousands of miles from home without the significant other. “What are you running from?” he follows up with.

I’ll never see him again. And if I did, he has no stake in the story, so I spill. I’m stressed, at a crossroads, can’t figure out how much is too much, whether this next venture I’m attempting is brave or just plumb dumb.

He listens, remains silent long after I’m done.  I finally ask, “What do you think?” to fill the silence.

He pours the rest of the bottle into his glass. Yes, we’ve finished the bottle already. He has a taste, drawing out my suspense.

“I think you’ve come too far to give up now.”

That’s it.

Other people come into the kitchen to forage for more alcohol. Somehow I end up in a conversation about relationships, my least favorite topic when I’m not working. (Imagine yourself talking about your job in your off hours.) The music is blasting so we head out by the pool. We’re talking about the differing expectations of men and women and how we’ll never see eye-to-eye. If this guy is the barometer for South African men, they’re not so different from the general American Black man. Go figure.

As we’re talking, I notice the dust on his nostrils. Coke. I’ll mention it to someone later and get a run down that as far as drugs go, the upper echelon of South Africa is currently operating like it’s 1980. Cocaine is huge and finally, I have a partial explanation for why everyone is wide-eyed at damn near 10AM. (For clarity, some folks are running on adrenaline only)

At 10:30, my sense of decency has kicked in. I know I’m in another culture. I know the same rules don’t apply. But now it just seems uncivil to still be at someone’s house at this hour. That and I’m finally crashing. I have to go home.

It’s also  Tuesday and I have to write.  My job as a freelance writer allows me to write anywhere in the world where I have a computer and Internet access. The downside is there are no days off. I don’t write? I don’t get paid.  I don’t get paid, I don’t eat. At it’s core, this is an “you eat what you kill” operation.

Some guy helpfully suggests I take a nap in one of the bedrooms. There are two downstairs and there’s only one person in each of the beds and I can just crash until I’m ready to go.

Uh… no. I’m sure everyone will be on their best behavior, but that’s just not going to happen. I find Stephie tanning in her party dress down by the pool. I don’t know if it’s the lack of sleep or the affront to decency that has me imploring her to get me “home”, ie, back to her place. She seems to get it though and finds us a ride.

I’m expecting her to crash with me—we’ve been up the same length of time, but at her loft, she’s switching from heels to flats.

“I have FOMO,” she says by way of explanation.

I cock my head. FOMO?

“Fear of missing out.”

When she leaves, I attempt to pass out in the bed so I can sleep before I write. Stephie has gigantic windows like mine back in Brooklyn, but with a much better (and brighter) view as she doesn’t have curtains. I can see the iconic Telkom Tower and Vodacom building from where I’m laying. Back in BK, I can see a building  across the street.

I roll over, pull a pillow over my head to block out the midday light, and I giggle. I didn’t stay out till 11AM even in college.  But this isn’t college; this is Africa.

Demetria L. Lucas is the author of “A Belle in Brooklyn: The Go-to Girl for Advice on Living Your Best Single Life” (Atria) in stores now. Follow her on Twitter @abelleinbk

Adventures with White Man Leroy, Part 2

Adventures with White Man Leroy Part I is here 2013 is going to be the sh-t. I don’t know that for sure, but I’m trying to do what life coaches tell you to and speak my will into existence.

It’s started off well-enough, anyway. On that rooftop in Johannesburg, we get wind of a house party allegedly close by. Johannesburg is like LA in the since that “close” actually means a 30 minute drive.

We—me, Stephie, and Thuli, park in front of a gated home somewhere around 1:30 AM. The house is dark and there’s no music or sound at all. We fear we’ve missed the party on the long ride over. Weird, because Johannesburg, like New York, parties into the wee hours.

Finally someone comes to unlock the gate and I ask in all my American naivety, “Have we missed the party?” I over enunciate “missed” making sure to add the “d” on the end. Americans tend to speak lazy English and despite the influx of American entertainment, it can make us difficult to understand. That, and we sound straight up ignorant to English speakers elsewhere.

“No,” the host informs. “You can’t hear the music from the main house.”

Oh.

Don’t ever let anyone tell you South Africans don’t have money. I’m from the ‘burbs, a so-called affluent one at that. And the Black wealth in this city is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

We walk down a pathway on the estate to the backyard, which is the size of a half a football field. The pool, to me, looks Olympic sized. There’s a full-fledged braai going on. Everyone is what we would call in the States “white boy wasted.” Here’s the thing about Johannanesburg though. What we call wasted is what they call getting started. I can drink. I can hold light liquor, including shots, with the best of 'em. No stumbles, no slurs, definitely no falls. I can’t hang in Joburg.

Everyone’s just real extra, celebrating the new year. Some guy—someone’s husband—is running around with a bottle of Goldschlager convincing everyone to take bottle shots, which plenty of people consent to. He seems put off when I decline, and insists I drink something. It’s just uncivilized not to have a drink in my hand, so I accept a barely red glass of Goose and cranberry.

There’s another girl, who I have to assume is drunk because she’s so obnoxious, but she ain’t wobbled or slurred once. She’s a close talker, treating everyone she meets like they’re her best friend and declaring, “you’re my new best friend!” to Thuli. I rescue her by asking her to grab something to eat with me from the table.

Noshing on carbs is when I discover that Thuli is Zulu, and that’s when I make the connection between South African Zulu and New Orleans Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club. I went to my first Mardi Gras last year, and hence my first Zulu ball—30k black people in tuxes (with tails) and gowns packed into the convention center. I’ve never seen anything like it.  Somehow in my stupor I recall that my great-aunt, born and raised in New Orleans, calls her mother “Go-Go” allegedly because she’s always on the move, and realize it’s the Zulu word for “granny”. I wonder if this is coincidence or some cross-cultural-continental connection. But I don’t say that. I just ask Thuli if she’s ever heard of New Orleans Zulu balls.

“I’m sorry what?” she says. She’s never heard of such a thing.

I try to explain to her, in my very limited understanding of New Orleans culture, what the Zulu ball is and the parade, which is a wondorous and fascinating experience if ever there was one. I do well enough to convince her to come to the States for 2014 Mardi Gras to see it for herself.

The party was winding down when we arrived, and quickly does further while we’re there. After an hour, it’s cleared out and we’re down to the actual friends of the hosts, not just the people who showed up for the revelry. We’ve retired to I guess what would be called the basement. It’s got a bar the size of any TGI Friday’s and stocked just as well. It’s “only” 3 AM and everyone’s trying to figure out where to go next.

“There’s a party going on at Leroy’s,” Nandi, another friend, suggests. And just like that it’s decided. Off to Leroy’s we go.

So here’s the thing. You tell me we’re going to a party at "Leroy’s", I’m thinking “Oh, Black guy.” I’m expecting a Brooklyn-type houseparty—sweaty black bodies., full of smoke, all of us packed in someone’s basement. I’m so down.

But that ain’t what we walked—better, drove into. We pull up to the house and there’s no cars. Party done?

Not quite. Leroy lives on estate, too, a bigger one. We pull up to the gate and someone opens it for us to pull in to park inside. The lawn is littered with BMWs and Audis.

Leroy’s house isn’t a house, it’s palacial. And "Leroy" isn’t Black. He’s a well-perserved Italian guy in his late 40s or early 50s. This is a private party. Maybe 14 people. The DJs white, his lady is white, and Leroy is white. Everybody else is Black. I don’t get it. Harpo, why this middle-aged white man got all these Black “friends?"

Leroy couldn’t be happier to see me, Stephie, and Nandi.   He beams when we walk into his kitchen, takes Stephie by the shoulders and turns her sideways. Grabs me next and positions me beside her, and then places Nandi beside me. “That’s how I want you!” he declares. “My Dreamgirls!”

It’s funny. Harmless enough. But I have the sneaking suspicion something ain’t right.

Leroy is beyond a gracious host. There’s empty bottles of Moet littering the counter. On the island, there’s gobs of food, and while I’m fixing a plate of veggies, Leroy pulls a fresh roasted chicken from the oven and starts dispensing meat on to everyone's plate like it’s Thanksgiving turkey.

Leroy wants to know what I’m drinking. I scan the remaining bottles—all hard—and decline. I’ve been drinking since 10. I can’t drink like a South African or I will throw up.

“Champagne? You want champagne?” Leroy asks. He opens the fridge and it’s stocked with champers like a new money rapper on MTV Cribs.  So yeah, I take him up on the offer.

Nothing really eventful happens between the hours of 3AM and 6AM. The DJ is spinning in the living room, people are chilling and dancing and chain smoking on the patio. I don’t really dance anymore, but when Leroy approaches me at 5AM in the middle of a Biggie set, I give him a two-step out of obligation to the host. I can’t just drink up the man’s top shelf liquor and not give him a wiggle.  Shortly after that he disappears—to bed?—and the party keeps going.

Around 6, when the sun is coming up the DJ complains that they party is going a little long. He’s from Atlanta and used to a late night ending at 4AM, not whenever this is ending, which even now shows no signs of stopping. He needs a break.

Everyone seems to be having a good time, and me being the American guest, I think of all of them as my hosts. I decide to relieve the DJ. Mind you, I've never spun a day in my life.

I get in the DJ "booth", the actual DJ shows me the basics, supervises me as I cue up my first song and transition to the second, then plops in a chair nearby to for a catnap. Just like that, I’m DJ Belle Belle.

I actually do all right. I start with —surprise—a Kanye set, and people, scattered all over the hosue by now, come back to the living room to dance.  After the first four songs, I gain a new respect for DJs.  I actually like this, but it's singlehandedly the most aggravating thing I have ever tried to do. The pressure of reading the "crowd", queing up the next song, searching thru a song list, and al on a short timeline is intense. When a song gets down to the last 30 seconds, my screen flashes an annoying red light. Pressure. Pressure. I’ve been to enough parties to know that whatever I do, I can’t let the music stop. Picking a bad song or a song that has no similar beat to the previous one is better than silence.

Some guy comes by and announces everyone’s getting in the pool now. He wants me to join them and let the DJ do his job.  Uhhh…

It’s not that I don’t have a swimsuit. Undies and someone’s t-shirt would suffice. It’s also 7AM, ie, bright light, not a midnight swim. It is because these are strange, although very nice men. There’s no explaining this one to CBW who I’ve just BBMd to wish a Happy New Year on East Coast time.

“Nah,” I decline.

He insists. “Why not?”

I look at my ring and back at him. “Hubs ain’t going for that.”

I'd have said "fiance" but "hubs" carries more weight in these situations.

“Oh, is he here?” the guy asks.

“He’s in New York.”

“You gonna tell him?”

I laugh because the game doesn’t change, even on other continents.

And no, I don't get in the pool.

Part III, coming Tuesday.

Adventures with White Man Leroy Part I

I've run off to South Africa the foreseeable future (up to 90 days). I bought a return ticket but it’s anybody’s guess as to whether I’m getting on the plane next week. That’s for two reasons. One, I like it here. There’s a similar vibe to what Brooklyn seemed like based on Spike Lee movies (especially "She's Gotta Have It" ,  one of my favoirte films) from the 90s. And Two, I’m completely stressed in New York for reasons I can’t yet disclose. (I will say it has nothing to do with my relationship, since that’s the automatic assumption whenever a woman says she’s stressed.) I can say it seemingly requires me to give up my first-born (that would be this site). And figuring out how much to give of who I am to become who I think I might want to be? Well, that ish is stressful. Calling where I am a crossroads, would be accurate. It wasn’t until I was here for a week, and coming to after a nap on a Durban beach (where I burnt the hell out of my face to the point it looks like chapped lips) that I realized this whole adventure is quite Chappelle-esque. During the Season 3 taping of his self-named hit show, he flipped, ran off to South Africa, and when a Time magazine reporter caught up with him, he was in this country’s version of Vegas with an actual beach.  What’s at stake for me is nowhere near $50 million. But the stakes are high for me. I get why Dave ran and how he ended up here, specifically. This isn’t some third –world country. This is a creative’s haven/ heaven.

Anyway, I leave New York on Dec. 28^th, arrive here at 10AM on the 30^th after a 13-hour stopover in London and an 11-hour flight from the UK to South Africa. That first day is a blur. I hit a braai (like a BBQ) that night, met some cool people and managed to last until 10:30 PM before I zonked out. (Two weeks later, I’m still jet-lagged.)

The next day is New Year’s Eve. I don’t recall what we did that day other than eat and hang out and debate which parties to go to and in which order and who’s driving. Oh, and nap. It’s the same thing I’d be doing in Brooklyn.

Around 9, I get all dolled up in a gold and silver halter-ish dress, and I realize upon leaving the house that I am completely overdressed. But it’s NYE and I like to sparkle, so….

My host, Stephie. and I go for dinner with her friend at House of Baobab, a West African spot in Maboneng, around the corner from her house. I order jaloof rice and fish to which one of the her friends says, “you’re in Africa, be adventurous.” And I remind him that I’m from America, jaloof rice is adventurous (and delicious). He concedes.

The restaurant, one of the few open in the area (it’s like the entire city of Jo’burg goes on vacation from Dec 25- Jan 7), is empty except for us. All the action is outside in the streets. A restaurant across the way is having a braai in the streets and blasting music. An unseen group of people are yelling “woo hoo!” outside.

“White people,” Steph's friend deduces.

“I guarantee they don’t have shoes on,” I quip.

Some things don’t change, not even on the other side of the world.

After dinner, we head upstairs to “Living Room”, a rooftop lounge that looks, well, like a really fancy, really large living room. There’s a view of the Johannesburg skyline with its iconic Telkom Tower and the scenery rivals that of Atlanta, Chicago and yes, even New York.

The DJs play dubstep and I notice the white people actually have rhythm.  We are, after all, in Africa. Oh, and the white boys have major holler. I’m headed either to the bathroom, or the bar – drinks are R40 (ie, $5US) here— and a tall, broad white guy, says, “Hello, Sister! You look lovely tonight?”  Word?

Approaching midnight, I get my first (and so far only) pang of homesickness. It’s a bit of tradition to guess which song will play as the clock strikes 12, and I know at whatever houseparty I would have been at in Brooklyn—a bourghetto mishmash—it would be “All Gold Everything.” I would have been backing it up on CBW to “popped a Molly I’m sweating Woo!“ and toasting expensive champagne in cheap red cups with friends. They won’t be celebrating  the NYE for another seven hours.

I pull out my BelleBerry—yes, it’s back—to check the time. 11:59. The DJ is playing Outkast’s “SpottieOttieDopaliscious” (aka “Damn James”).  I don’t need my watch to know when midnight hits. DJ Fonque drops the sickest beat I’ve ever heard, a dub-step mash-up that, combined with copious amounts of rum & Coke, has me dancing like I’m 22. Sparklers emerge from, like everywhere. Everyone has one

but me Midnight in South Africa and I’m mad I missed them being passed out (or bought?). Friends and randoms happily toast and double-cheek kiss anyone who they can get their hands on. It’s beautiful people and a beautiful night. But it’s the Johannesburg skyline that takes the clichéd cake.

There are no official New Year’s fireworks in Johannesburg, but the entire skyline has lit up like giant fireflies are attacking the city.  It. Is. Beautiful. And I am so glad that I am here, bringing in the New Year in Africa. A year ago, I was anticipating my first trip here, a trip I’d been talking about one-day making since I started my blog in 2006, and couldn’t figure out how or when I’d get here. But I made it. F***ing finally.

It’s my second trip in 2012. It’s been alternately the most fun and the hardest year of my life. I’ve never struggled like this. I’ve never lived like this! I bite my bottom lip, dreaming of what’s to come, hoping 2013 will be better.

To be continued....

The Root: Is Landing A Baller Really Winning?

"Where does the expression 'hoes be winning' come from? I never understood why so many women believe that only sucky women get good men. Am I naive? Can you clue me in?" --H.J.  Oh, where do I begin?

I can't pinpoint for the first use of the phrase, but I first began hearing it in 2011. Around that time, Kanye West had recently broken up with former exotic dancer Amber Rose; Drake had dated Maliah Michel, a stripper from Miami's King of Diamonds; and Chris Brown was dating Draya Michele, also a dancer and soon-to-be reality-show star.

The men, based on their fame and wealth, are deemed desirable -- yes, even Brown. Because some of the women they chose for temporary partners had past occupations deemed less than favorable, the women were designated "hoes." And because they landed desirable men, some considered them to have "won." Hence the birth of the (disgusting) term "Hoes be winning."

Here's the big problem with the phrase. The women are being judged solely on the perception that they have loose morals -- a standard to which men are not usually held. But even if one believes that these women practice less-than-ladylike behavior, that's not all they bring to the table.

What all of the above-mentioned women who have been called "hoes" have in common is that they are widely regarded as exceptionally attractive. That's a trait that some men -- and women, too -- prize. It allows for some people to ignore other potential shortcomings, at least until they get bored. Also, if a woman actually was that sexist epithet, that would not negate any other positive traits she may possess, like loyalty, kindness or empathy.

I hope folks resist falling into the trap of thinking that being virginal (or close to it) makes a woman automatically "good," and allegedly having sex with multiple men makes her automatically "bad." Women are multidimensional. There's no need to buy into a limiting Madonna-whore dichotomy. Some groups of women "win" despite their alleged pervasive sexual history -- certainly not because of it.

Read more: here

Part of the Process

Happy New Year!!!  Hey ya'll. I'm back. I had a glorious holiday break. Hope you did the same.  I wrote a million blogs, but I'm posting them in the order I wrote them-- which means you'll get a New Year's rant in about 12-15 days if I keep this up. I probably won't. I'm feeling a little random these days. Been on a 72 hour streak of happy feelings... but there's a blog about that later, so I won't spoil the moment.  I wrote 2 or 3 a day some days, so we should be good on blogs every workday through the end of the month and into Feb... I think. I bared a little too much in some of these and there are a whole lot of you reading that I don't know. You'll have to forgive me if there are some things, I'd just like to keep to myself.  Okay enough about me. On to the main event.

Many weeks ago, I hopped aboard the party train one Monday night with my boy Cliff. I invited him to my office holiday party I work with some of the most beautiful Black women in the world—inside and out-- and well, Cliff wanted to bask in their glory—even under the agreement that he was not allowed to holla (but could holla back). I behaved well at the company event—drank wine, chatted up some co-workers I wanted to get to know and work on projects with, managed to appear sane and responsible, realized how much I love working with Black people again, then bounced to the next event—a PR party thrown my one of boys’ company.

There—well there I behaved not so well. I’m always a lady, but I was a lady with one (or three) too many glasses of wine. The deejay got the idea to play Baltimore club music and I was taken back to my youth in the DC suburbs. In my tipsy brightness and on a bad knee that had been bothering me all weekend, I got low (“ahhh, pick it up, pick it up!”) and got back up just fine. I didn’t know I still had it in me. Gold star! I took the train home and giggled myself to sleep that I was not only young at heart, but in body too.

The next morning, I realized I wasn’t as young in body as I thought I was. I could barely walk. My right knee was swollen to the size of 2 fists. I wrapped it up to go to work and by the time I got there, my calf, ankle and foot were magnormous!

I’m not 22 anymore.

Over the Christmas holidays, I headed to DC to see the folks. Boredom got the best of me and I headed to the club with some of my NYC friends that are also from the uh-re-ah. Christmas night I made my way to Eyebar for what promised to be a fabulous event. I walked in—skipped the line because my girl went to HU with the promoter—and headed upstairs to the party. On the first floor, the average age was 25. Further upstairs, I was afraid to even brush anyone lest I catch a case. In a room full of 18 year old “men” with angular frames that hadn’t filled out yet and faces that were baby soft from lack of hair, I felt like a cougar. I got a glass of wine (the bar was less packed upstairs) and promptly descended the steps to party with the legals.

As the night wore on, I noticed something. All of the grown folk were in VIP with me, Ace, and Melinda. We were all dressed conservatively. Blazers and sweaters for the men; comfortable tops and shoes and other chill attire for the women. We looked like the grown folks we were. We were mostly chatting and small talking, trying to figure out how we knew each other (there’s only one degree of separation for all black people who went to college anywhere on the East Coast or South). As the Henny and Mo got to us, we began to dance—mostly two-stepping that involved plenty of fancy footwork. It was at that point, I noticed the kids—as I affectionately refer to anyone under 25—watching from outside the rope.

The girls... er, young women, had on sexy clothes—skin tight jeans and half tops in the dead of winter. Way too much make-up and way too done hair and stilettos that looked painful to walk in. When they danced they stood on furniture and wined, backed it up on some boy who hasn’t learned how not to get hard when a girl shakes on him, or they got low, low, low. (I didn’t even attempt it that night. I’ve learned my lesson.) I watched one young girl shaking to the floor to a song that I used to get loose to in my day.

Back when Love was still Dream and I was a tender 22, I would go to the club and Ace and I would challenge the Baltimore folks to dance. I had the technique, but they always won (B-more folks can out dance anyone on sheer stamina alone.) But there was a time when I was the girl in the middle of the circle, when it wasn’t a good night unless I sweated out my hair and my outfit before the walk to the car. Ahhh, youth.

Taking in the scene, it hit me. “It” being that grown is not a fashion sense, it’s a state of mind. No amount of make-up or hair, or heels can make you grown or make you look grown. You just look like a young girl playing dress-up. But you have to be grown to realize that. Two, there is nothing worse than a person of grown age trying to appear that they are less grown they are. Even if I had my 22 year old body, me in near-nothing clothes and/or gyrating around at the club would just look plain foolish. (And by the way, I found pictures of myself from when I was 22 while I was home. I was a size 3 with no boobies, booty or hips, and still starving myself because I thought I was fat.) And finally three, it takes time to get on the other side of the rope. You have to earn it, be around long enough to build your network (or bank account) so you are the person looking out from VIP and not the person looking in.

I smiled at the youth, watched them do what I no longer can and still be able to walk in heels the following day, watched them looking in VIP with overshadowed eyes at the grown folks on the grown side of the rope. I appreciated where I was and how far I’d come. The song changed, my moment of clarity passed and then I danced with a 23 year old in a t-shirt and jeans, who I taught how to two-step and properly twirl a woman.

Each one, teach one.

New York Times: Facebook Is A Gift & A Curse

Facebook is the dating world’s greatest gift and its greatest curse. For those seeking companionship, it opens up vast opportunities. It speeds up possible love connections by showcasing the bonds that tend to strengthen relationships: mutual friends, interests and points of view. Because so many users offer an intimate look into their lives through their status updates and photo albums, it’s possible to remove a bit of the “blind” aspect that comes with dating a new person. Of course, this works best when the online persona and the actual person are one in the same, which is not always the case. Most importantly, Facebook is a great place to meet potential partners, but not to date. After a few online exchanges, I think it’s best to meet in person, or at minimum, on Skype.

MTV’s show “Catfish” highlights the necessity of this approach. Each episode features a “love” affair where the participants have never met in the flesh. When they finally meet face-to-face, the outcome quickly becomes a reality check. Someone has used an outdated photograph, while someone else has created an entirely fictional character. I’m waiting for the inevitable episode featuring a married person with a “single” avatar. “You can be whoever you want to be,” said one woman on a recent episode.

She’s right, and that can be a huge problem.

Facebook can also be tricky for couples, so much so that I actually encourage partners not to befriend one another because of the numerous issues that can arise. Twenty percent of divorces involve Facebook and 80 percent of divorce lawyers have reported a spike in the number of cases that use social media for evidence, according to a survey by the American Academy of Matrimonial Lawyers.

There have been countless stories that cite Facebook as the cause of an affair. There is certainly a wide swath of potential partners available to married users who want to relive their glory days. But here, Facebook gets a bad rap; it didn’t cause the cheating. It just made it more convenient to do (and perhaps easier to catch).

Read more: here

Women Wept: Michael Ealy Is Now Married

According to the Mayan calendar 21-12-12, tomorrow, is the end of the world. We’ve heard this before and for whatever reason God has spared womankind. Until this afternoon, I assumed we’d get another reprieve. But now the signs point to the end being imminent. I say this with a heavy heart, ya’ll:  Michael Ealy is married.

People.com reported that the actor, 39, married longtime  girlfriend (4 years) in a private ceremony back in October. "Michael has always been a private guy, and he wanted to enjoy his time as a newlywed with his wife privately," his rep said. "Now that some time has passed and the holidays are here, he wanted to share the news with his fans that he is married and very happy."

A moment of silence…

.

.

.

Did you hear that? It’s the sound of a million hearts breaking in unison.

Five years ago, when Halle Berry announced she was pregnant, men figuratively wept, mourning the “destruction” of Halle’s banging body. She was full (and glowing) with child, and so many men could only focus on losing their ability to ogle her. Women called their outlook “stupid”, mocked it, openly laughed at their selfishness. And now, the boomerang we unleashed has returned.

Halle’s shape returned with a f%^ -you vengeance, placing all their worries about her “blowing up” in vain.  Michael Ealy is gone, ya’ll… for good.

I was a little late falling into the trance of his aura. I’d missed his brief appearances on Law & Order and Soul Food when he was making his foray into acting. He first caught my eye in Barbershop, a film I have no recollection of other than him being the Brother with the blue eyes— blue like the clear water surrounding any Caribbean island— … and the cornrows. The hairstyle was past its heyday, but if he’d just “do something with it”, there was potential to be worked with. Most definitely.

Like some sort of “Catfish” participant, I fell in love with a man I’d never met watching “Their Eyes Were Watching God”. He was Tea Cake, his wife-B stained with sweat from a hard day’s work, wild-haired, hairy –chested, and sexy as all global get out. He was the young thang who courted Miss Janie, by bringing by strawberries, teaching her how to shoot a pistol, and tickling her feet with a rose. When Tea Cake finally put it on Janie, he leaned into lick her mouth and I leaned into the screen, mouth agape, wishing it was mine. I. Was. Sprung.

And I stayed that way. I sat though “Miracle at St. Ana” and “Seven Pounds”, both god-awful films, because Michael Ealy was in them, and because my love had tripled like the Grinch’s heart when I discovered he was from Maryland, just like me.

I watched “Takers” twice, watching Michael Ealy —not Idris Elba—swagger all over the screen in a tailored suit. I wore my stank face, the same one guys make when they’re walking behind a woman with a little waist and a big ass.

“They still make this model?” I wondered, practically drooling in the theatre. Michael Ealy, fitted in his crisp-tailored suit, moved in slow-mo across the widescreen and even slower in my mind.  He has that sort of masculine fine, the kind that wears testosterone like it's cologne. I thought Denzel was the last off that product line.

It was around this time that I stared referring to Michael Ealy as “Motherfucking Michael Ealy!” He isn’t just a man; he is a god. He should have a befitting title to distinguish him from the mortals while he visits our earth.

I interviewed him for the first time during the press tour for the ”Takers”. I’d been a working journalist for a decade. Had interviewed hundreds of celebs without any hitches greater than a tape not recording, which happens even to the best. On a stage, in front of hundreds of people, I stuttered my way though the worst twenty so-called professional minutes of my life. I even dropped my notes, which Motherfucking Michael Ealy picked up for me. He touched my arm, turned those blazing blue eyes on me and asked, “You okay?”

He smiled. I sighed and managed and “uh-huh” and forgot about the audience.

Backstage, we took a picture. Motherfucking Michael Ealy suggested we pose, “like it’s prom.”  He was behind me with both arms snuggling me to him. I nuzzled back.

I was dating CBW then—not in a relationship yet—and he was PISSED when he saw the photos (plural). A mutual friend sent it to him on Facebook.

“Why you got your ass on Michael Ealy?!” CBW demanded after

I insisted it was a joke. Harmless.

He didn't buy it.

When I was still working at Essence, Motherfucking Michael Ealy stopped by the office unannounced.  His version: he was walking through Midtown and saw an office building with ESSENCE on the door. He knew he was welcome because ESSENCE had recently featured him as a “Do Right Man” in the August issue, and he’d worked with the magazine plenty of times before.

So he walked up to the security desk, and asked for the Entertainment Editor. The security guard called upstairs to notify her,  “Michael is here to see you.”

“Michael?” she wondered. She thought it was an appointment she missed. She went to the door to wait on this Michael and it turned out to be Motherfucking Michael Ealy.

I was at my desk at the time with my back to the hall. I heard a man’s voice—sort of rarity in that office— but I was too deep editing a story to turnaround. A few minutes later, the Entertainment Editor called for me. “Demetria, someone’s here to see you.” She said it all chipper like.

I turned around.

“Hiiiiiii”, I said a little too loud to be cool. Motherfucking Michael Ealy spread his arms to give me a hug. I lept out my chair and into that embrace.

The last time we met, he f#@$ed up. I was hosting a press dinner for the cast of “Think Like A Man.”  Lala, Gabrielle Union, Kevin Hart, etc. had managed to make it to the interview on time. I was doing all right moderating a celeb panel in front of a room containing my (highly critical) peers... until Motherfucking Michael Ealy walked in 20 minutes late and threw me off my game. I meant to say “thank you for joining us” pleasantly, but my nerves made it come out a little zippy. Not so good.

He caught up with me later on the red carpet. He was already in front of the long step-and-repeat, wrapping up his photos. I’d just arrived. I’m trying to “suck it in”,  be graceful in my unbroken-in platform stilettos, hit all my angles that I practiced for hours at home to get right on demand. I’m turning my head just so for the photographers yelling “look here” and “Demetria!”, a nerve wracking experience if ever there is one.  Who knows where these pictures will end up? And wherever that is they will live forever on Google images.

“Demetria” a voice says, not calls. It’s coming from the side, not in front of me. I hold my pose for the photographers. Out of the corner of my eye, I see it’s Motherfucking Michael Ealy callling my name. I keep looking ahead and tell him “one sec” because even Motherfucking Michael Ealy isn’t worth f#$king up my pictures.

He says, “I’ll wait.”

Word?

And he does. When I’m done, he’s standing there, still on the red carpet, hands in his suit pant pockets, looking all delicious and his blue eyes giving my face their undivided attention.

“Hey,” I say, again too energetic. I just cannot keep my cool.

“I just wanted to apologize for being late to your event, I did my best,” he says. “Will you forgive me?”

I smile with all my damn teeth.  Flashes go off. I know in the moment those are some ugly pictures. “Of course,” I agree breathlessly. There go those teeth.

He asks if I’ll take a picture with him, and throws his arm around my waist to pull me in as we pose.  My stance is off. My smile is crooked. The wrong leg is bent. Angle is all wrong and my dress looks ill-fitting. But I don’t care. It takes everything in me not to lean on his shoulder and sigh.

This here? Is a dream come true.

#TeamSingle lost a prize today. At least we still got Idris.

Demetria L. Lucas is the author of “A Belle in Brooklyn: The Go-to Girl for Advice on Living Your Best Single Life” (Atria) in stores now. Follow her on Twitter @abelleinbk

Essence.com: Is "Letting Yourself Go" A Valid Excuse For Your Man to Cheat?

Surely you’ve been following the fallout from ex-CIA director David Petraeus’ affair. You can hardly turn on a news channel without seeing a salacious update. Given that Petraeus’ gigantic screwup has led to repercussions beyond anyone’s juiciest imagination, so many of us have been wondering just why he did it. The usual motivations have been cited: because he could, because of a midlife crisis, and obviously because he thought he wouldn’t get caught — an especially baffling outlook as he was the leader of the Central Intelligence Agency, whose mission it is to know all manner of things it is not supposed to.

During the guessing, another, less kind reason for Petraeus’ affair has been cited. It’s about his wife, Holly, his spouse of more than 37 years. News sites and bloggers have been kind enough not to go on record saying it, but commenters have not been so polite. They say Petraeus cheated because his wife “let herself go.” Over on Voxxi, a story about Mrs. Petraeus’ charitable work on behalf of military families devolved into a lengthy critique of her looks, with suggestions on how she could improve her image and possibly save her marriage.

I’m sorry, what? This “blame the woman” mantra is as pervasive as it is stupid as it is damaging. Not only it is victim-blaming and sexist (and it ignores that Petraeus himself is no prize package), but it also puts forth the idea that as women there’s really something we can do to stop men from cheating, other than, you know, not dating, committing or marrying ever. That’s not to say that all men cheat. It is to say that there’s nothing you do to make your partner cheat, and there’s also nothing you can do to stop him from cheating.

I shouldn’t be shocked by the mental contortions that some will go through to let a man off the hook for almost anything, and especially any sex that he shouldn’t be having. But I am.

Read more: here

Clutch: Rules for Being A Side Chick

I’ve published this with a bit of trepidation. Years ago, a fellow writer-friend wrote a similarly titled post about how to be a good jump off and hell fire and damnation rained upon him from across the Internet.  To be clear: in no way am I suggesting that a side-chick is a role to strive for (nor is being the “main chick”, the implication being that there’s you and others). I am, however, suggesting if that Girlfriend Number Two is the role you have settled upon, then you must stay in the lane you chose or leave the “relationship”. It seems like everyone and their mama is talking about former CIA head David Petraeus, who resigned on Friday due to an extra-marital affair. It was on the front page of most newspapers and their accompanying sites, and every commentator has been ready with talking points, which can be loosely summarized as “what the hell was he thinking? Petraeus was the head of the Central Intelligence Agency and some baffling way how thought he could send letters to his mistress and they would go undiscovered.

The affair – with married biographer Paula Broadwell —would have likely gone undetected a wee bit longer, if Broadwell hadn’t sent anonymous and threatening emails to Jill Kelley (also married), a woman she believed was romantically involved with Petraeus. (Kelley denies she any romantic involvement.) Kelley reported the harassing emails to the FBI, they traced them back to Broadwell and in the process discovered her affair with Petraeus. Womp, womp.

Broadwell’s actions make it clear that some side chicks are confused about their role in relationships (or, er, not. Ebony.com recently ran a story about a mistress of 15 years who was uncomfortably cool in her lane.) In the spirit of helping all the “other women” out there, I offer the following suggestions:

Do Expect Him to Cheat With Other Women I know he’s told you his “situation” is “complicated”  and maybe he’s even said “I love you.” If he really did, you would have already been Number 1. It’s all lies (which for the men reading, ya’ll have to stop doing. Filling women’s heads with fantasies, even if she should know better, is how you get the windows busted out your car). Maybe you two really do have some sort of bond. Fine. It’s still completely unreasonable to expect someone who is demonstrating a penchant for infidelity by being with you, to be faithful—sort of because he’s still having sex with the woman he’s claiming—to you.

Do Use Condoms Don’t be in denial. He’s not just having sex with you. At minimum, it’s you and the woman he’s still claiming. Your situation is bad enough. There’s no sense in bringing a kid into it (and that’s also no guarantee he’ll leave his woman or that she’ll leave him) or contracting and sexually transmitted infection.

Do Not Contact the Main Girl You knew when you took up with him—or shortly thereafter– that there was already someone in the Number 1 spot. You may not have liked it, but by staying, you accepted your role. Her position doesn’t change because you caught feelings and now you want him to be yours alone. And too, she probably knows about you—you’re likely not the first or the last—and for whatever reason, she’s chosen to stick around.

Even if “wifey” were to leave, opening up that main slot, you’re unlikely to get promoted to the position. Plus, do you really want it? If he cheats with you, he’ll definitely cheat on you.

Read more: here

The Root: BF is Asking for Sexy Photos; Should I Send?

"My boyfriend wants me to send him some sexy pictures, and I'm hesitant about it. Aside from the fear of them somehow getting out and ruining my hypothetical chances of running for Congress, I'm no Victoria's Secret model! With all these naked picture scandals, are women still sending their men sexy pictures?" --R.M.  The advent of email and camera phones means that going forth, some women -- and men, too -- will forever and always send naked pictures to their partners. And lots of those images will be seen by people for whom they were not intended. One of the main reasons for capturing an image is so that it can be shared with others.

You're right to be concerned about your pictures getting out. It seems that everyone thinks that won't happen to them, but of course it can. Your pictures may not be splashed all over the Internet for millions of people to ogle -- like, say, those popular nudie NSFW photos of Rihanna, Amber Rose, singer Cassie andBasketball Wives co-stars Jennifer Williams and Evelyn Lozada -- but you'll feel the same embarrassment if you ever find yourself posted on Exgfs.com, postyourgirls.com or girlfriendgalleries.com. Those are just a few of the many NSFW sites dedicated to showcasing nude photos of wives and girlfriends.

Even if you're one of the lucky ones who doesn't find your naked pictures being held for ransom or posted online, be mindful that your images can still be circulated via text and email. I've lost count of how many supposedly private naked pictures I've seen of people who are or have been associated with folks I know or have met.

Plenty of folks like to brag about their latest conquests and their partners, too. On multiple occasions, I've received a text from one of my guy friends with a photo of a woman scantily clad, if clad in anything at all. (Guys, beware: I've also seen plenty of emails featuring your magic sticks.)

The images are requested because the partners genuinely want a keepsake. But they are shared partially because those partners like to show off who they're working with, and also because of the ego boost they get from showing others how they can get someone to do something seemingly illicit.

Kudos to you for thinking about your professional future and how sexy pictures could impact it. I'm sure NBA coach Mark Jackson wishes he had had your foresight. In 2006 Jackson, who was working as an announcer for the New Jersey Nets after retiring from professional basketball, sent naked pictures of himself to an exotic dancer with whom he was having an affair.

Six years later, the father of four and church pastor was the head coach for the Golden State Warriors, and his ex and her accomplice were demanding hundreds of thousands of dollars from him in order to keep the photos from leaking to the media.

Read more: here

Clutch: Black Students, White Schools

Over the weekend, I stumbled across a story in The New York Times “Admitted, but Left Out” about Black students who attend or did attend elite, mostly white private schools in New York City. Unsurprisingly, the article took on a familiar refrain, documenting the awkwardness and difficulty that students of color can encounter when they don’t match up neatly with the dominant race, and often the culture and class level, of their peers. It’s a downside of private education that I’ve often heard discussed and worried over, mostly by Black parents who want the best education — often perceived not to be a public one or in a predominately Black environment — for their kids. Even when the kids hail from Black families that are staunchly middle-class or even affluent, those parents still wonder specifically how their Black kid will manage, it being a given that they won’t quite fit.

It’s a worthy concern, as demonstrated by the Times article. A lot of kids face adversity and culture shock that thus far there hasn’t been a way conceived to fully prepare them for. It’s important to acknowledge their stories and work on ways to help the schools and students adapt better to diversity. But there’s another side to the story too, a much less dramatic or controversial one, which is why I’m assuming it’s not so often told.

I’m one of those Black kids who went to what some might consider an elite prep school. It wasn’t in New York, but Maryland, and as far as the elite ranking of prep schools goes, mine probably fell midway on the list. My parents were lured to send me there by its proximity to our house and the promise of its 100 percent graduation and college attendance rate.

We had a campus, not a building, but no one was delivered to it via helicopter, or to my knowledge, a personal driver as can be a non-eyebrow raising occurrence at the most elite schools. Most of my classmates didn’t have nationally notable surnames like say a few students at our rival school Sidwell Friends where Chelsea Clinton earned her diploma and the Obama girls are currently educated. My schoolmates did include the offspring of a high–ranking government officials and notable local businessmen, but mostly it was the spawn of two-parent households where both degreed parents worked hard, got paid well, and sacrificed a bit to shell out around $17k (adjusted for inflation) a year for their kid, often more than one, to attend.

I showed up at my school in 1991 as a 12-year-old eighth grader. Until then, I’d attended mostly Black private schools. I lived in a Black neighborhood, went to a Black church. At my new school, my class — around 30 kids and at the time, the largest in school history — was the first with a significantly “of color” population, about one-third of the class, the same as the students mentioned in the Times story. Both the senior and junior class that year has one Black student each. I don’t recall any other “of color” students among them to add to the diversity.

At the new school, it wasn’t so much the white that was the issue, it was the freedom. There was no asking to go to the bathroom, just get up and go. There were breaks and free periods where students could just roam anywhere we wanted to on campus and as long as we weren’t destructive, no teachers bothered us. It sounds like a free-for-all — and it seemed like one initially coming from a place where students were treated more like inmates — but it was just differently structured, not poorly structured.

Read more: here

The Root: Is It Really Cheating If There's No Sex?

"How often are affairs nonsexual? I've dated married women before. Two relationships were not sexual -- not because they didn't want it but because I wasn't interested." --F.T. Wow. I'm sure the husbands of the two women you didn't have sex with appreciate your lack of carnal interest in their wives. But you don't get any kudos, sir, for knowingly "dating" married women. The nonsexual relationship you allude to is most often referred to as an emotional affair.

In David J. Moultrup's book Husbands, Wives & Lovers: The Emotional System of the Extramarital Affair,he defines it as "a relationship between a person and someone other than [their] spouse [or lover] that has an impact on the level of intimacy, emotional distance and overall dynamic balance in the marriage." Even though there's no sex, the relationship you describe can be just as devastating to a marriage as sexual infidelity.

Unfortunately, the frequency of emotional affairs is hard to accurately quantify because few people confess, even anonymously, to an affair of any kind. Nevertheless, some reports say that emotional affairs are on the rise, thanks to the convenience of technology and the plethora of social networking sites that keep everyone so connected.

There's also the troubling issue of people who think like you do, who are having emotional affairs and rationalizing that what they are doing couldn't be so bad, since it's not as if there's sex involved. This could not be further from the truth.

Did these wives tell you things they didn't tell their husbands? If their husbands knew about you, did they downplay the relationship by saying "He's just a friend"? Did these women look forward to spending time with you more than they did their husbands? If you answered "yes" to any of the above, then you were having an emotional affair.

An emotional affair doesn't come with the pesky risks of sexually transmitted infections and pregnancy. But just like a sexual affair, it contains deception, secrecy and a breach of trust. You know those times when you wooed married women over cozy dinners or long walks by providing a listening ear and "just" allowing them to be themselves, with no judgment? In those moments, you were robbing a husband somewhere of his wife's feelings, time, interest and concern. You were a participant in stealing the soul of a marriage.

Read more: here

The Root: Does My Hair Texture Affect My Dating Life?

"I took a break from dating, which inspired me to go natural. My head full of big kinky hair gave me confidence again! But now that I want to date again, nothing's happening. My cousin says it's because black men may be 'intimidated by an Afro.' Any truth to that?" --E.C. I won't pretend for the sake of being PC that there aren't men who won't be into your natural hair. There is a healthy chunk of black guys who prefer (for various, complicated and lengthy reasons that require a separate response) for a black woman's hair to be straight. "Some men fall subject to the brainwashing that the media does and have this notion that 'good hair' is flat, long and straight," said a man I asked to offer a guy's perspective on hair. "It's the lack of appreciation of the natural hair of our forefathers, parents and themselves."

Additionally, some of those men will equate your hair texture and style with being, as one friend put it, "militant, competitive, feminist or argumentative," all traits that can be a turnoff when it comes to dating. But that's not who you're looking for. There are enough hurdles to work out when it comes to pairing off, and trying to convince someone to accept the hair on your head just isn't a battle worth fighting. You want someone who appreciates what you're bringing -- in your heart and via your follicles -- and thankfully, many men do.

You don't have to take my word for that, though. I asked the Male Mind Squad -- my go-to group of 50 guys who meet my standard of "good dude" and have allowed me to pick their brains over the years on topics such as women's very personal grooming, why a woman carrying condoms in her purse is a turnoff and what men mean when they talk about a woman "submitting." These guys are raw, candid and incredibly insightful, and except for one, they all agreed that a woman rocking natural hair is of very little concern and not remotely intimidating, at least not to a man who appreciates a confident woman.

In an effort to unload the politics of black hair, I don't think hair texture should be interpreted as sending messages. But if it must, you'll be happy to know that many men interpret your natural hair as a sign of self-love. "It shows that the black woman is no longer buying into what society has deemed 'beautiful' and owning who she is, what she is and what she looks like," said one guy. Another thought that natural hair showed a sign of "fearlessness." He added, "Often, I feel as though women hide behind their weaves and lace fronts."

Read more: here

Essence: Domestic Violence isn't "Sh** Happens"

Back in September 2010, Josie Harris, the mother of three of boxer Floyd Mayweather’s children, filed a restraining order against and accused him of breaking into her home, attacking her by pulling her hair, throwing her to the floor in her living room and punching her in the head as two of the pair’s three children watched. Mayweather also threatened to kill Harris and her boyfriend. That December, Mayweather pled guilty to a charge of felony battery and pled no contest to two counts of harassment. He was sentenced to six months in jail with half the term suspended. (He served two months.) Harris has been quiet about what took place between her and her ex — until now. Over the weekend, she spoke to TMZ about her relationship with her ex, now engaged, and the incident that landed him in jail.

"[Floyd] loves his kids and is a great father,” Harris said. “He would never do anything like that again... I'm sorry the situation happened... now we will just progress and start over and move forward together."

She added, "S**t happens. I'm not mad at him at all... I love Floyd to death."

Harris is entitled to feel anyway she wants about her ex. I applaud her noble ability to forgive him, release any anger she may have felt, and move on with the job of co-parenting. I’m not even mad that she loves him — the heart feels what it does. But I am taken aback by her calling him a “great father” and her seemingly cavalier dismissal the brutal incident that took place in front of their children. Great fathers don’t beat the mother of their children, and especially not in front of the children.

Read more: here

Clutch: Everyone Doesn't Get to Live the Dream

It’s timely for me that The Cut would broach the topic of how interns are treated. My latest one, my third, started on Monday. With her arrival, I’d been thinking about writing an essay called something like “How to Train and Treat Your Intern”. I planned to solicit stories from all my friends – anonymous, of course—about their experiences and how bosses could improve. I thought is necessary since most who have help are not given formal training on what to do—or not. Interns get treated pretty much however the person they are working for was— good, bad, and at times, super ugly. But then Kayleen Schaefer wrote a fascinating story about former Harper’s Bazaar intern Diana Wang who is suing the Bazaar parent company, Hearst Corporation, for violating federal and state labor laws since they did not pay her for her work. Her attorneys want Hearst to pay its former interns “back wages, overtime, and other damages.” Her suit, has become a class action one. My idea, went to the  back burner.

Wang described her four-month internship as a “horrible” and “outrageous” experience. She worked five days a week from 9AM to 8PM and her pretty standard duties were to “track the thousands of purses, shoes, and pieces of jewelry lent to the magazine for photo shoots. She managed as many as eight other interns, sending them on 30 to 40 errands a day, and helping them file expense reports. She answered the accessories director’s phone, writing the caller’s name and holding it up, so her boss could decide whether or not to take the call.”

Her tales of woe include the night she stayed late at the office after everyone left to unpack “a trunk full of accessories, tissue-wrapped piece by tissue-wrapped piece, to dig out a single misplaced necklace. Or the practical agony of getting through a subway turnstile with seven shopping bags in her hands. She chafed at tasks unrelated to the magazine’s operations, like hand-delivering new outfits to editors between Fashion Week shows.”

Despite her “E” for effort, Wang was not offered a job at the end of her internship, and her editor declined to write a recommendation, which means Wang wasn’t so great at her duties or her editor was straight up evil. Both are possible.  Hearst has derided the lawsuit as “without merit.”

Why? Probably because what Wang describes is a walk in the @#$%ing park.

Read more: here