I Ain't Scared to Say It!

Girl, Go Sit Yo Ass Down Somewhere and Call a Therapist!

2005-03-23T16:43:00.000-05:00

I went to school with this chick who had some very tragic ideas about healthy relationships and how to attain one. She had a boyfriend in high school who, aside from running around on her every chance he got, would whoop her behind for the slightest little thing.

I remember one day, she, her boyfriend and several friends were sitting on a ledge in the back of the school that overlooked a concrete basketball court about 15 feet below. She and her boyfriend started a playful argument that went horribly wrong. Within an instant, the boyfriend picked this chick up and dangled her over the ledge just like Michael Jackson did his own child during that infamous time. But, unlike Michael, this dude dropped Ole’ Girl right onto the concrete—shattering her jaw and knocking out most of her teeth.

She recovered after some time in the hospital. They were able to put back the teeth her friends found on the basketball court. The missing ones were replaced with fakes. Her jaw was wired shut for a while, but today, she looks pretty normal.

She just doesn’t act that way. While she may have grown up physically, she still suffers from the same delusions about what constitutes a healthy relationship. We all do from time to time, but this chick takes the cake.

She finished high school, went off to college, graduated and became a teacher. Here recently, she was principal of one of our elementary schools. She may not be getting her butt kicked on a regular basis, but she still hasn’t figured out right from wrong when it comes to choosing a man.

Her latest choice is the father of two of the students at her school. The fact that this father is still married to these kids’ mother seems unimportant to her. She managed to break up the family, and is planning to marry the father. In fact, she’s even sent out invitations to their island nuptials scheduled for the latter part of the summer.

Funny thing is…the man she’s marrying has yet to divorce his wife.

Who, in their right mind, would send out a wedding invitation when one of the potential spouses isn’t quite finished with a prior marriage? Of all the shit I’ve done in my life, I’ve never done anything that fucked up or stupid!

I just keep thinking about the two kids at the school. How long is it going to take before the rest of the children find out that their daddy left their mommy for the principal?

And why would any principal conduct themselves in such a way with one of their student’s parents?

Word has it that the school board has asked Ole Girl not to return to the elementary school next year. In fact, I hear she’s been blackballed throughout the entire region.

All that for some dingaling? I don’t think so.

I wonder if this chick will ever get her life together. I’m real curious to see whether or not this wedding actually happens later this summer. I don’t know where Dude is in his divorce process, but if his Wifey has anything to say about it, I don’t think they’ll be getting married anytime soon.

We shall see…

And, Ole Girl just bought a house for she and her still-married-husband-to-be. Let’s hope she had the presence of mind not to put the house in both of their names (is that legal?). ‘Cause if it is in both names, Wifey might just get the new crib. And it would serve Ole Girl’s dumb ass right! She’d be homeless, jobless and stuck with a man with too many child support payments to underwrite her lavish lifestyle.

Oh well, that’s what ya get when you act like you ain’t got no damn sense.

The Black College Experience: I’m So Glad I Got Mine!

2005-03-23T14:01:00.000-05:00

I remember the days of my junior and senior years of high school when every adult known to man seemed to be curious about the college I would choose. They would try to steer me with their own memories of collegiate days at their respective campuses. I heard stories of Penn State, Georgetown, Oberlin and Ohio University to name a few. I just took their advice and stored it in my brain’s File 13, because one thing I’ve always known is that I would spend my college years on a Black campus. Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs) constituted my entire pool of options. Nothing in this world could have convinced me that a predominately White college would be the way for me to go.

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against ANY school that can provide a quality education. It’s just that I spent my high school years surrounded by Whites and racially-charged situations. What I needed was four years of my own kind. I knew the basic, core classes would be much the same at any school. But I wanted teachers who could take those lessons and help me understand them through my own world view. That’s what I found at Clark Atlanta University. And I would encourage any young African American high school junior or senior to consider my alma mater and other schools like it.

When I finally got the balls to tell all those Ivy League and White school enthusiasts that I was on my way to the Atlanta University Center—the world’s largest conglomeration of African American institutions of higher learning—I got several responses I wasn’t expecting.

“Why would you choose a Black college,” said one aunt who was raised in the school of If-It-Ain’t-White-It-Ain’t-Right. “Employers will never take you seriously with a degree from such a school.”

“The real world isn’t all Black,” said another one who shared the latter’s world view. “You need to be in an environment that resembles what you’ll face in corporate America.”

And there were other comments with similar messaging. I just disregarded them all.

College may prepare you for the real world. But it isn’t the real world. Instead, it’s a place for you to learn about the real world in an environment that suits you. Considering the cost of my pending education, I felt it would be best for me to choose a university whose bill I didn’t mind paying.

I wanted journalism classes that would teach me more than just the concepts of responsible journalism. I wanted teachers who could show me how to be a good journalist within a system that typically paints my brothers and sisters in a negative light.

I didn’t want to hear more about American history without hearing about my place in that history. My economics classes used examples bred from OUR experiences. To put it plainly, I learned how I could succeed in this world by my own standards rather than those dictated by the status quo.

And now, with my degree in hand, I’ve been able to circle back to those aunts and other nay-sayers with evidence of a fruitful career…one that has touched the corporate, nonprofit and agency worlds…one where I had my own three-year period of self-employment filled with clients spanning a variety of industries.

Clark Atlanta University has not held me back at all. Many of my former employers, particularly in Atlanta, were very familiar with the merits of the school and its other HBCU neighbors. Some of the most respected names in the Black community are associated with those schools…

-Oprah Winfrey, graduated Tennessee State University
-Rev. Jesse Jackson, graduated North Carolina A&T
-Former UN Ambassador and Civil Rights Leader Andrew Young, graduated Howard University
-Thurgood Marshall, graduated Lincoln University-Pennsylvania
-Spike Lee, graduated Morehouse College (but got the majority of his media arts training at Clark Atlanta University)
-Earl Graves, publisher of Black Enterprise, graduated Morgan State University
-Nearly half of the Congressional Black Caucus are graduates of HBCU's

...the list goes on. Hell, even Webster was in some of my classes!

Anyway, I said all of this to encourage more support for HBCUs. It’s alarming just how many of our schools have transformed into mostly-White campuses. My mother’s alma mater, West Virginia State University, is more than half White and actually has a White president. Morris Brown is about to be a memory, and there are many others that raise similar concerns.

As Black people, we really need to do more to support our schools. At one point in our history, those schools were the only places that would offer us a college education. We have to support these schools to ensure that younger generations of African Americans can make the same choices we could when their time comes. We cannot let our schools simply fall by the wayside because we don’t care enough to send a couple of dollars their way on a regular basis.

The Ivy Leagues of the world thrive because their alumni make sure they do. We, as Blacks, need to assume the same responsibility for our schools…regardless of whether we attended an HBCU or Harvard University.

The point is…these schools are OURS, and we need to protect them.

Send some of that expendable cash to an HBCU sometime soon. It’s an investment you can be proud you made.

Removing self from soap box now…

Don’t Get It Twisted…

2005-03-21T10:39:00.000-05:00

One thing that pisses me off more than anything is white people who think they have somehow been so thoroughly accepted by African American culture that they can get away with using the “N” word just because 50 Cent does.

Word to the wise for That-Kind-of-White-Folk…don’t get it twisted! You are never authorized to use the word, and doing so in front of the wrong one of us will get your ass kicked even if we just fed you lunch on a Saturday afternoon.

My recent post about Lil Kim fueled such bravery from one white person on Blogcritics.org. Here’s what this dude had to say…

Lil Kim is a stank ass ho, she represents the very worst of African American culture.

Here are some of the whore's accomplishments: Arrested for marijuana possession; stomach pumped because she swallowed so much cum, flashed her minge at a concert, flashes her silicon-enhanced breasts every chance she gets, bragging about what a ho she is.

All those fine African Americans who defend Lil Kim are idiots. I hope their daughters imitate Lil Kim and smoke week, whore around and suck di** like it be going out of style in the ghetto.

In prison, Lil Kim won't be the Queen Bee, she will be just another ignorant nigga.

Don't even compare the negro Lil Kim with Martha Stewart. Martha is an intelligent, hardworking self-made billionare. Lil Kim is just another stupid, vulgar, whorish African American slut.

Here's one white guy who will be smoking a big ole cigar in celebration when that black whore is carted off to prison.

I can totally feel him when it comes to his dislike for Lil Kim’s over-the-top-slutty image. She has often made me about as sick as an episode of Fear Factor where the contestants dine on moose testicles and coagulated blood balls. But, he truly made that “nigga” line up, didn’t he? And then to follow that up with the "negro" word and a line like, "Lil Kim is just another stupid, vulgar, whorish African American slut" is like purposely throwing straws to break the camel's back! I mean, where is he going with the whole "another African American slut" thing?

Somebody please explain the rationale behind a white person who thinks they can get away with such fuckery! Do they think they can get away with it because J-Lo did in one of her songs with Ja Rule? If you ask me, J-Lo needed her ass whooped for saying it, and I’m mad at every single black person who bobbed their heads to her beat.

The point of the matter is pretty simple. Black folks don’t need to be throwing around the “N” word any more than anybody else. And I say that with guilty fingers pointed in my direction.

But when it comes to white folks, the word takes on a whole new meaning regardless of whether the offending white person has an entire arsenal of black friends and every single NWA album that ever existed.

Let me break it down like this. It is not entirely uncommon for a woman to call one of her girls “bitch” in a friendly way. It may not be nice or politically correct, but it certainly doesn’t mean the women are about to fight.

But let a man call the same woman a “bitch” and see what happens. He’ll probably end up with claw marks down the side of his face.

To put it plainly…if you’re white…don’t ever let a black person catch you throwing around the “N” word unless you’re in the mood to swallow your teeth. ‘Cause that’s exactly what can, and SHOULD, happen if you do.

History has given the “N” word a negative connotation whenever it escapes the lips of white mouths. It doesn't matter if the white mouth is racist or owned by someone who marched right alongside of Dr. King. Whites can NEVER safely use the word in our presence. Just erase it from your vocabulary or prepare to lose your tongue.

Peace…

Lil’ Kim is Going to Jail. Sources Say “Several Years” Likely

2005-03-18T14:14:00.000-05:00

Lil’ Kim is on her way to jail thanks to her conviction yesterday on three counts of perjury and one count of conspiracy surrounding a shootout at Hot 97 in New York. The shootout involved her manager and another friend, and Lil' Kim is in trouble for telling a federal grand jury that she didn't notice them at the scene of the crime. She faces five years for each count, and sources say she’s likely to get a good chunk of her maximum sentence—up to 20 years.

If she does a single day more than Miss Martha Stewart, I’m gonna be mad as hell! Martha only did five months on a four-count conviction for obstruction of justice and lying to federal authorities. If Lil’ Kim ain’t out by Christmas, I’m gonna be pissed.

Now, please don’t get me wrong. I am, IN NO WAY, a Lil’ Kim fan. Never have been…and never will be. But one thing I hate more than her senseless lyrics and Happy Ho attitude is some more racist bullshit from this country.

Lil’ Kim and Miss Martha are guilty of the same crime…not knowing when to tell the truth. The circumstances surrounding the lie are irrelevant from a legal standpoint. The only crime was telling the lie. Therefore, Lil’ Kim should enjoy the same leniency that Martha got.

But as I type this post, I know as well as all of you that Lil’ Kim will probably get a lot more time than Martha. Martha is a rich white woman. Lil’ Kim is a former hood-rat turned rich-black-woman. Martha knits and crochets. Lil’ Kim is most known for popping her coochie. Martha is a white woman’s idol. Lil’ Kim is…well…Lil’ Kim.

Her sentencing is scheduled for June 24, so it remains to be seen whether or not I’m right about all this. But, I feel completely confident that this situation will once again reveal the ugly double standard of American society when it comes to issues of crime and race. You can get away with a helluva lot more with white skin than you can being a ghetto girl who has obviously worked her ass off (regardless of whether she was lying on her back at the time) to get where she is today. Blacks and lengthy jail time go hand-in-hand in the U-S-of-A. So, I don’t think we’ll be hearing much from the Queen Bee for quite some time.

I hope I’m wrong for Lil’ Kim’s sake. We shall revisit this point on June 25 and see…

Free At Last, Free At Last…Thank Ya, Lawd!

2005-03-17T16:56:00.000-05:00

It’s official. I’ve turned in my two-week notice, and am on my way to bigger and better endeavors. I know I’ve been away from the blogging scene for quite a while, but trust me, it was for good reasons. I’ll take this time to update you on what’s been happing in the world of JustMe...

The Homie-Lover-Friend Update

Ain’t a single thing changed on the man front. I still don’t have one, and the prospects are only getting more dismal by the day.

The latest potential Stud is a dude from my past. He wasn’t a boyfriend or anything like that. Just a dude I knew from high school. In fact, he’s a couple of years younger than me, so he definitely had no hope back in the day. However, I spotted him at a party recently and he was looking GOOD.

After talking to him on the phone just one time, I reduced his status from “potential” to “total loser” all within the timeframe of about 20 minutes. That’s how long it took him to brief me on his four children by three baby-mamas—two of which he’s still sleeping with—one of which still cooks his food on a regular basis. Translation…this fool ain’t got no business trying to hook up with me. He may have the body of a god, but he comes with more baggage than a sista can handle in one lifetime.

Gone are my days of screwing just for the hell of it. So, I guess there’ no reason to move forward with anything he’s trying to offer.

NEXT!

The Family

My family has gone through some trials over the past few weeks. We lost my aunt in January, who had been suffering from the after effects of surgery to remove an aneurism from the base of her brain. The surgery resulted in paralysis from her waist down, and she never recovered mentally. We tried to rally around my cousin, who is my aunt’s only child. She is doing very well, however, because she knows she did everything she could to keep her mom happy and comfortable until the end. Plus, she will always have us to lean on.

My father was diagnosed with prostate cancer in December. We went through several weeks of worrisome hell prior to his surgery at the end of February. Turns out, his cancer never spread beyond the prostate, and his doctor thinks he’ll make a full recovery. God is truly good all the time.

JustMe, in General

With all that’s been going on, the biggest personal drama I had just got solved with my new job. It’s definitely a step up, and will look exceptional on my resume. Plus, the nature of the work deals with children, and that means I’ll have the opportunity to do some good with my public relations skills. Can’t ask for anything better than that!

I continue to get more disgusted by the day over the shit our president and his team of fools are doing to further ruin the country. But, I don’t have the energy to dig deeper on this point, so I’ll save it for another post.

I’m convinced Michael Jackson didn’t do it. He may be a bit “touched” as we say, but that doesn’t make him a criminal. I don’t think many child molesters would tell their victims to call their parents to find out of it’s okay to sleep together if there truly was an intent to do harm. There…I said it! Just suck it up if you don’t agree. :-)

I get to take a week off before I start my next job. My last day on this job is March 24. It’s been a long time coming.

Okay…well, that’s the short and skinny of the past several weeks. I’m planning to post more frequently, and am hoping some of ya’ll still give a hoot about what I have to say.

Until next time…peace.

Oh No She Didn’t!

2005-02-07T16:07:00.000-05:00

I pride myself on knowing how to conduct myself in public. But sometimes, depending on where I am, I act in ways that would only make the devil proud.

Like the day I was leaving for Los Angeles. I had just gotten back from a funeral in Missouri the day before, so I didn’t have a lot of time to prepare for this trip. My plan was to get to work early and finish out some things, leave at lunch, run by the shopping center to get some last minute items, stop by the dry cleaners to pick up most of the clothes I needed, and then run home to pack. My flight left at 8:45pm that evening.

Everything was going great at first, except for the fact that I had the flu. I got everything taken care of at work, got what I needed from the shopping center, and only needed to pick up my dry cleaning before going home to pack. I was actually ahead of schedule when I arrived at the dry cleaners.

I walked in the door, pulled out my slip, and proceeded to write out a check to pay for the cleaning.

“We don’t take checks here.”

“Can you take a credit card?”

“No, we don’t take those either.”

Okay, it would have been nice if there was a sign posted as such. My only choice was to head to the nearest ATM to get some cash.

When I got back to the dry cleaners, the attendant—a woman about 10 years my senior with a face that screamed, “I need a lip wax!”—came up to grab my ticket and retrieve my clothes. She started to ring up the order while I was investigating their handiwork. Just as she asked me for $18.75, I noticed the huge coffee stain on the seat of my ivory-colored pants (yes, I actually sat in a puddle of spilled coffee the last time I had them on).

“These pants aren’t clean,” I said. “And I really need to take them with me on my business trip this evening. Is there any way you can get this stain out?”

“There ain’t nothin’ we can do until tomorrow,” Mustache Sally replies like she couldn’t care less.

“Well, I have to take the pants with me this evening. Are you sure there is nothing that can be done today?”

“Like I said…we can’t do nothin’ ‘til tomorrow.” Her attitude was really starting to piss me off.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll deal with the stain myself, because I have to have them today. You can just take the cost of them off the bill, and I’ll pay for everything else.”

“You ain’t takin’ these pants out of here unless you pay for them.”

“I’m not going to pay you for pants that haven’t been cleaned. Can I talk to a manager?”

“There ain’t no manager here. I told you we would clean them tomorrow,” she says like she’s talking to some chick on the street. My patience was out the door at this point, and if this woman wasn’t careful, it was about to be on and poppin’.

“And I told you I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. I’ll pay for the rest of the things, but I’m not paying for these pants. Can you ring up my total and take the pants off?” My pitch was getting higher and more irate by the minute.

“AND I TOLD YOU THAT YOU WEREN’T GETTING THESE PANTS UNLESS YOU PAY FOR THEM!”

Oh no this bitch did not just yell at me! Without even thinking about it, I reached across the counter and snatched my pants out of the woman’s hands.

“Bitch, have you lost your fuckin’ mind?” I screamed. “You are not keeping my pants. And you damned sure aren’t going to force me into doing more business with this sorry-ass dry cleaners.”

“Well, we’ll just take down your license plate and…”

“The number is 9-1-1,” I screamed. “And I’ll help you dial it if three numbers are more than your dumb-ass mind can comprehend. You do whatever the hell you think you need to, lady. I hope the cops really do show up here, so I can tell ‘em how your trifling ass is trying to rob me!”

She picked up the phone, but instead of dialing the police, she called the manager who was apparently chillin’ at home.

“She wants to talk to you,” Mustache Sally said and handed the phone to me. I snatched it out of her hand the same way I snatched the pants.

“Don’t snatch nothin’ else out of my hands,” she shouts like she was about to do something about it.

“Why don’t you come from around that counter and show me what in the hell you plan on doing about it! As much as you’ve pissed me off today, it would be my pleasure to whoop your ass all up and down that damned parking lot. Don’t say shit else to me or I’ll knock that mustache off your face!”

And with that, I put the phone to my ear to see what “the manager” had to say about all of this.

“Ma’am, what seems to be the problem?” the manager asked.

I proceeded to explain the particulars. I told her I was willing to pay for the items that had been cleaned, but I was not going to pay for the pants with the stain. I also explained that I wasn’t going to give them the opportunity to clean the pants again, because they couldn’t do it the same day, and I needed them that evening.

Of course, the manager agreed with me, and asked to speak back to Mustache Sally. Once Mustache Sally wrapped up her conversation with the manager, she handed my ticket to her co-worker to finalize the transaction, and then she went back into the back somewhere.

I paid for all items, less the cost of the pants, and left.

At the time of my argument, it felt almost relieving to scream indecencies at this customer-service-averse woman. I truly had a bad case of the flu, which meant body aches, congestion and all sorts of other discomforts. Puttin’ my foot up her ass seemed like an ideal stress reducer at the time.

But in reality, I can only hope there wasn’t anyone around who knew me or my family. Because I gave them enough bad attitude and bad language to embarrass my folks for decades. I am so NOT proud.

The next time, I’ll try to take the “I Have A Dream” approach and keep things more diplomatic. But that was one “bidnass in da hood” experience that caught me on the wrong day, at the wrong time.

Sorry, Mustache Sally, for threatening you and pointing out your Sasquatch-like facial flaws. But you really pissed me off that day. From now on, though, I won’t let people like you get the best of me and turn me into someone I strive not to be…a ghettofabulous diva who will drop-kick your ass at will.

Here’s to becoming a more mature ME…

I’m a Desperate Fan

2005-02-04T17:26:00.000-05:00

I’m starting to truly question my sanity these days. Of all the things I could be doing on a Sunday evening, I find myself hopelessly glued to my television set at 10pm to watch what is probably the most hyped show on the airwaves…Desperate Housewives. Oh the shame of it all…

But I have to admit that I get a kick out of watching a group of characters with more money than they need getting into so much trouble every week. There’s the chick who was dating the teenager. And then there was the husband who killed the neighbor. I loved the episode where another teenager ran over a woman by accident after she snapped a picture of her daughter-in-law doing the nasty with the teen boy. And all of America knows about the neighborhood slut whose character managed to step outside of Wisteria Lane to create controversy for the NFL.

And then there was the time when one of the husbands had a heart attack while getting his groove on with an unfriendly housewife who was doubling as a high-priced ho. I can’t wait to see the fallout from the teen boy/housewife huddle, because the teen boy’s mama found out about the affair. It would be a waste of good script writing if they didn’t blow that whole drama out of the water…especially since the offending housewife’s husband is on his way to the joint on some Martha Stewart-type shit.

To be quite honest, all the rich White drama makes our Tales from the Hood seem like child’s play… And I guess that’s why I’m a fan.

On Desperate Housewives, the drama is endless. And I’m loving every minute of it.

The Legendary Ossie Davis Has Passed Away

2005-02-04T14:26:00.000-05:00

Ossie Davis, the legend, is gone. They found him dead in his Miami hotel room this morning. He was in the middle of shooting the film, Retirement.

My heart goes out to Ruby Dee, his wife of 57 years. Together, these two have been symbols of African American creative genius for decades, and they clearly defied the Hollywood odds of successful actor/actress marriages.

Mr. Davis was perhaps one of the greatest African American actors of all time. He and his wife have always represented African Americans in a positive light…both on screen/stage and off. I will miss him, and I will pray for Ruby Dee.

Thank you, Mr. Davis, for sharing your talents with us. You have always been and outstanding example of Black manhood and Black courage. Your time in this life was well spent, and your legacy will endure forever. You were one of our heroes, and we will NEVER forget you.

Family Relations

2005-02-02T15:14:00.000-05:00

I had to venture out to Los Angeles on business last week, and got some interesting “holla” from several of the men in my hotel. The majority of the “holla” came from dudes who ain’t worth mentioning, but there was one fella in particular who’s severe lack of game qualifies him for a brief post.

During one of the conference meeting sessions, the fire alarm went off, sending my group of about 90 participants outside to brave the elements. After a couple of minutes, we realized we had a false alarm and proceeded in a mass retreat back to our meeting room. As I was heading up the stairs, I heard, “Excuse me, Miss.”

“Hi,” I said as I turned to face this okay-looking brother decked out in hip hop gear and a baseball cap turned to the back.

“I don’t have a date for dinner tonight, and I was wondering if you would consider going out with me.”

Well, damn, how’s that for bold! He doesn’t give a shit what my name is, but he’s already convinced I should be by his side at dinner. It was an intriguing proposition, but for all the wrong reasons. So, I said…

“Well, I appreciate you asking, but I’m afraid I have to decline. I’m here on business, and already have a prior engagement this evening.”

Now, he must have missed all of that, because his next response was…

“I don’t have a date for dinner tonight, and I was wondering if you would be my date.”

Okay, damn. I thought we just covered that…

“I’m sorry. I appreciate you asking me, but unfortunately, I already have plans for dinner.” Notice the slight tweak in my language. I thought maybe that would do the trick. I was already starting to get strange looks from my peers who were wondering why this guy was keeping me from our interrupted meeting.

“Well, what about tomorrow night?”

“Unfortunately, I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, you don’t have to leave. I can pay for your room for the weekend.”

Oh yeah…like I’m just going to change all my travel plans to have dinner with some fool I don’t even know who still hadn’t bothered to ask my name.

“Well, that’s sweet of you, but unfortunately, I have to get back home first thing tomorrow.”

But, Brotha Man wasn’t trying to hear any of that.

“But, I’m Russell Simmons brother,” he said proudly like it was some rare badge of honor.

Was that supposed to be my cue to take off my thong and toss it at him as a promise of great things to come? This was truly a first. I have never had a dude try to woo me by announcing family relations like they should make any difference at all. Was he mistaking my business suit for a chickenhead uniform? Maybe this dude had me confused with Lil’ Kim’s cousin.

“Oh really! Well, that’s nice. But like I said before, I have dinner plans tonight and will be leaving in the morning. I hope you have a wonderful time anyway. I’ve got to get back to my meeting. See ya!”

And with that, I walked away.

What a joke! Will the real men of the world please stand up and show the rest of the knuckleheads how it’s supposed to be done! Cause I’ve had more than my fair share of these tired fools!

Now that I think about it though…he did kind of look like Russell Simmons...

The First African American Female Secretary of State—What a Joke!

2005-01-20T16:57:00.000-05:00

You would think I would be proud. An African American woman is about to become Secretary of State here in this Godforsaken, racist country. I should be bursting at the seams, right? I should see this as progress for both African Americans and women, right? I should want to meet her and tell her how she inspires me…how she is a role model to young African American girls across the nation.

But to be quite honest, I wish, by some miracle, that she would just disappear from the political scene altogether and take her boyfriend, GWB, right along with her. I’d love to get her into a private room and give her the neck-rolling verbal assault of a lifetime for being African American in skin tone only, yet getting all the credit for advancing a race she clearly doesn’t love. She doesn’t deserve to be called our “first” anything, because she’s a pathetic sellout who probably couldn’t spell “African American” with a dictionary sitting in front of her. Most African American folks I know would gladly turn her over to Whitey for less than the price of tea in China. I personally wouldn’t pee on her if she was on fire and stopped to ‘drop and roll’ right in my path.

Damn…I sound evil, but I just don’t trust her. And I resent the fact that she is the “first woman” of our race in this, or any, arena.

A woman worthy of the honor of going down in history as the “first African American woman…” should never take a stand against affirmative action whether it’s a muted stance or a blatant one. As Provost of Stanford University, it is quite clear that she got that job, in large part, because of being not just a qualified applicant, but rather a qualified “black female” applicant capable of diversifying the university’s administration simply by coming to work. How does one who benefits from affirmative action all of a sudden decide not to support it in order to appease Whitey. Here’s what Miss Condoleezza had to say about continuing the diversity trend her appointment started at Stanford:

“I’m the chief academic officer now. I say in principle that I don’t believe in and in fact will not apply affirmative action (in university appointments).”

Interesting rhetoric for someone who’s gotten as far as she has thanks to affirmative action. And interesting rhetoric from someone whose own boss at Stanford, Gerhard Casper, told the New Yorker in 2002, “It would be disingenuous for me to say that the fact that she was a woman, the fact that she was black and the fact that she was young weren't in my mind."

Condoleezza and Clarence Thomas must be best buds.

She says she’s a Republican because, after growing up in the Jim Crow South, she remembers when Old South Democrats wouldn’t allow her father to register to vote, but that Republicans would. With all of her education, you’d think she’d realize that those Democratic cooks from back in the day are cut from the same cloth as the Republicans she’s in bed with today. If she had any sense at all, she wouldn’t claim either party…throughout our history, both have screwed African Americans at some point or another. In my opinion, it’s all about the lesser of the two evils. And here lately, those lesser evils claim “Democrat” as their party.

And without going into a long litany about the war in Iraq, I’ll just say that her role in all of this mess disgusts me. She has lied for this administration so many times, I’m sure she probably can’t distinguish the truth anymore.

Condoleezza, you are as sad as your hairstyle looks. You may be African American on the surface and have had your fair share of racist blows throughout your lifetime. But you clearly have lost your way now, despite all of your education and achievements.

You’ve sold your soul to the devil, Used-To-Be-Sista-Girl. And for that, there is no forgiveness. I know the Democrats are working to delay your confirmation, but I realize their efforts at this point are unfortunately useless. I’ve come to grips with the fact that you, your Presidential office-stealing boyfriend and all the rest of your cronies will be constantly lying about something, further ruining our international reputation, continuing to get our sons and daughters killed while fighting wars we don’t belong in, and spending money ya’ll don’t know how to manage for the next four years.

I hope you’re happy. Your decision to become the Republican Ho has made you a permanent part of some of the most tainted American history this country will ever see. Enjoy your worldly fame while it lasts because you will truly have to answer to the ancestors someday. And my guess is, they’ll whoop your ass for all eternity.

A Miscarriage Could Earn You a Year in Jail

2005-01-10T14:16:00.000-05:00

My new cyberfriend, Ariel, published a recent post about Virginia State Delegate John Cosgrove (R-78) and the alarmingly foul piece of legislation he is trying to pass that would force a woman to spend 12 months in jail and/or pay a $2,500 fine for having a miscarriage and failing to report it to law enforcement within 12 hours. Sound ridiculous? It’s positively infuriating if you ask me!

Here’s the language of the Bill:

When a fetal death occurs without medical attendance, it shall be the woman’s responsibility to report the death to the law-enforcement agency in the jurisdiction of which the delivery occurs within 12 hours after the delivery. A violation of this section shall be punishable as a Class 1 misdemeanor.

Only a man could come up with something so foul on this particular subject. And I’m not even trying to make a blanket statement against men in general. But surely no woman could have come up with something so bizarre. A woman would understand that there is nothing criminal about having a miscarriage. To penalize a woman for having to endure one of the most traumatic experiences of her life is a sin against basic human decency. And only someone exempt from personally suffering through such an emotionally and physically painful ordeal could actually grab a pen and write down such flagrant bullshit!

This is the kind of crap that makes me want to bitch slap somebody, and then knock out their mama for bringing them into the world for me to slap in the first place. I am truly appalled. Cosgrove sounds like he must have been some sort of test-tube baby with no umbilical cord attachment whatsoever.

I know so many women who have had to endure a miscarriage…some of them went through numerous miscarriages. And as I review their faces, I have yet to conjure a single scenario that warranted jail time.

And let’s delve a bit deeper into the Class 1 Misdemeanor in the state of Virginia. Other crimes with equal penalties include:

• A person 18 years of age or older engaging in consensual intercourse with a child 15 or older who is not a spouse, child or grandchild (more commonly known as “statutory rape”)

• Burning or destroying a building or structure if the property therein is valued at less than $200 (arson)

• A bomb threat made by someone younger than 15

• Carrying a concealed weapon while under the influence of drugs or alcohol

• Stalking

• Purchasing or providing alcohol to minors

Damn! Ain’t it a shame that Cosgrove thinks of a woman who has a miscarriage the same as someone who committed statutory rape? What in the hell has this country come to?

I don’t live in Virginia, so it’s not as if this legislation would affect me if it gets passed…at least not yet! But for all my sisters in Virginia, my suggestion is that you do everything you can to destroy this Bill.

Oh, and if you spot Delegate Cosgrove at the supermarket…kick his ass real good for all the rest of us. The next thing we know, it’ll be a crime to come on your period and not inform law enforcement about the loss of blood! Each and every discarded sanitary napkin could be considered a crime scene...

Lions and tigers and bears...oh my!

Dude...Where Were You? This Happened A Week Ago!

2005-01-03T14:02:00.000-05:00

After damn near a full week following the tsunami tragedy that killed far more than 100,000 people in parts of Asia, our “president” signed a proclamation Saturday ordering all flags to be flown at half-staff to honor those who have been lost or injured. The effort is supposed to bolster America’s so-called humanitarian image.

My question to GWB…why wait until now? I realize that certain aspects like the dollar figure of humanitarian aid require a bit of closed-door negotiation, but would it have been too much to ask for you to take your tacky behind to the podium when all this first popped off to express, at a minimum, some level of concern and regret? Aren’t you supposed to be the world leader who cares about how the rest of the world lives? Isn’t that one of the bullshit lines you’ve been trying to get both your voluntary and involuntary constituents to believe?

Are you and your people really that inept that you think this “gesture” actually means something to the rest of the world? You’ve gone way past proving you didn’t give a shit by taking your damned sweet time to even acknowledge the crisis in the first place.

That mishap on your part only represents yet another piece of evidence proving you are, in no way, capable of representing America on a world stage. You come across as very callous and outright stupid if you ask me. You certainly don’t act like a world leader…let alone MY leader!

You don’t even know how to keep up appearances. In all my years of living, I’ve never known someone in your position who acted with such blatant disregard for the courtesies that MUST be extended from the Oval Office. I’m not so naïve as to believe that you actually care about any agenda other than your own. Most politicians don’t. However, even when they don’t, they understand how to play the game well enough so that people can’t stack up a whole bunch of proof points about their disregard. Where were you when they passed out tact in school? Oh shit…I done fo-got who Iz talkin’ to. You and school probably didn’t get along much, huh?

Anyway, I refuse to waist anymore energy on you today, GWB. The bottom line is…you suck. And you always will.

I hope all you folks out there who voted in his favor are happy right about now. We would have done better electing Scooby Doo!

In Search of the Black Family We Once Knew...

2004-12-28T15:24:00.000-05:00

My cousin raised an interesting point as it relates to the demise of the Black Family and the prevalence of absentee fathers and single mothers in our community. I’d never looked at the situation from this perspective, but I have to admit that it makes sense.

My cousin points the origins of the problem to slavery. During that time, a Black man’s purpose was to work and breed babies who would then be used for labor. The responsibility of raising those children and being a husband was seldom his role or his right. My cousin suggests that this sad tradition is among the many lingering “side effects” of slavery that have become so embedded in Black culture that it is difficult to break the cycle. The end result is what we see today.

Of all the psychological analyses of the Black Family that I’ve been exposed to, this one really struck me. I never wanted to believe that so many of the men in my culture were just lazy, no-good sperm donors who squirt their goods into as many snatches as they can without so much as a thought about the number of kids that might result. But could the baby-mama/baby-daddy syndrome truly be a vicious bi-product of slavery?

It certainly makes sense when you consider that Blacks have spent more time in this country as slaves than as free men and women. There are many in my generation with great grandparents who were slaves as children. So, we can’t actually profess to be as far removed from those days as some would like to think.

And considering the fact that Black men aren’t inherently evil, lazy or irresponsible by nature, there’s got to be something we can point to as the culprit. I think my cousin may have hit the nail on the head.

Far too often these days, you hear about the fact that there are so many more Black women than there are Black men, and that us women need to learn how to “hang in there” with our men if we plan on having a mate. That’s true, but only to an extent. We shouldn’t “hang on” to shitty relationships that will never be right. Nor should we allow the excuse of “there are so many women for every man” to somehow justify shitty actions like unfaithfulness and disrespect in a relationship because we are afraid of being alone.

But where’s the point of compromise? Certainly, there is some degree of accountability on both sides of the equation…or at least there should be. But for some reason, both sides are content with pointing the finger at the other. All in all, nothing changes. And confused people just end up raising more confused children who grow into even more confused adults.

Are Black men and women slowly moving in opposite directions? Is there anything we can do about it? My cousin’s outlook only provides some background data on the potential origins of the problem. But what is the solution? I can’t figure it out, and I guess nobody else can either or I wouldn’t have anything to write about.

The conversation with my cousin caused me to do some inner soul searching about my capacity to “deal” in a relationship. My cousin suggests that men marry the woman who “hangs in there” with him. So does this mean I’m supposed to just wait on him to finish acting like a fool so we can be happy? My name is not Cookie Johnson, and I’m not interested in going through a lot of the bullshit I’ve seen some sistas go through these days.

I’m not interested in hanging onto a man who dips his thing like it’s an oreo in some milk. There was an article in this month’s Essence (the one with Vivica Fox on the cover) that said that out of all the African American men who participated in a survey, at least 40 percent of them admit to carrying on multiple sexual relationships for an average period of more than a year! They called it, "the new man sharing." Considering the fact that the husband I’ve always envisioned is a Black man, does that mean I’ve got to put up with crap like that? The statistics for White men in this survey were far less frightening. But, like I said, I’ve always envisioned a Black man as my life partner.

I guess the real question I’m trying to find an answer to is…how do we bridge the gap that seems to be growing between Black men and Black women? We used to be all each other had, and it would be nice to, once again, see ourselves as partners and not enemies.

And since there is such a prevalence of absentee fathering and single mothering, how do we, as women, raise Black men to truly be MEN? I know I don’t have the first clue about what it takes to be a Black man in this society…despite how many examples I can point to that demonstrate what a tough road they face. I can certainly surround my future son with positive male role models, but if they’re not my husband, their involvement can’t be as in-depth as it needs to be. So, how would I be able to buffer my need for nurturing with my son’s need for strength? I’m not trying to suggest that a woman can’t raise a productive man. We have too many examples that prove otherwise. I’m just saying they shouldn’t have to face such an enormous responsibility on their own.

Okay, I’m rambling now which only shows how confusing all this is to me. However, the deeper I get into my 30s and the closer I get to wanting to be married and have kids, the more I think about stuff like this. It’s starting to seem like the Black Family that I knew and loved, the one I was raised in, is as much a fairy tale as Hansel and Gretel. And it’s just sad…

Somebody help a sista out with some insight… Brothers, your comments are especially appreciated.

Some Simple Rules of Etiquette

2004-12-28T11:31:00.000-05:00

While eating breakfast on Christmas morning, I happened to come across an interesting book published by Random House in 1956 that offered a laundry list of tips on proper etiquette. It’s amazing how many rules still apply (or at least they should). Take this one, for instance…

Children should be taught early that a store, bus or office is not the place for loud noises, arguments, singing or any behavior which would bother others. The same reasoning should be used to discourage staring, particularly at handicapped people, and audible personal comments about strangers and members of other races.

Somebody should tell that one to 90 percent of the kids I see in stores today.

Here’s another one that speaks to the bling, bling culture of today…

There are strict conventions surrounding masculine jewelry, all of them based on the concept that, except for a ring, a man should wear nothing that’s not absolutely functional. It is in poor taste for men to wear diamonds of any kind, except chips or tiny rose diamonds on evening studs or cuff links. Men don’t wear rubies, emeralds or any light-colored stone. Although, for some reason, sapphires are considered properly masculine.

This one’s for Lil Kim and all the other chickenheads…

Specific rules about modesty change with the styles. However, modesty is based not on fashion, but rather on appropriateness. A woman boarding a subway in shorts during the rush hour is immodest not because the shorts are in themselves indecent, but because they are worn in the wrong place at the wrong time. A well-mannered and self-respecting woman avoids clothes or behaviors that are inappropriate or conspicuous.

Another one for the chickenheads and the chickenhead-lovers as it relates to men, women and money…

No girl worth your time is going to judge you by the amount of money you spend on her. There is really no reason not to be frank about money, and the better you know the girl, the less you have to worry about sharing with her your financial ups and downs.

For the plus-sized chickenheads with too much booty in those pants…

Unappealing as it may sound, if you are on the “heavy” side, you should stick to what is known as “vague” clothes—clothes that are not cut to reveal the figure precisely. The dress that is designed to show off a slender rib cage, emphasize a tiny waist, and hug the hips and thighs is not for you. You need clothes with a comfortable softness so that ridges pressed up by your brassiere straps or girdle do not show. You will also look better in loose clothes than in tight ones. It is a pathetic mistake for large women to try to cram themselves into clothes that are too small, under the mistaken impression that the smaller size will magically make them look slimmer. Scant clothes are not for you—not even in evening dresses or bathing suits. Avoid, too, sleeveless blouses, unless your arms are slim enough to look well bare.

And my personal favorite message to the Snoop-Nelly-50 Cent-type “gangster” rappers of the world who like to brag about the number of groupie legs they part…

A well-mannered man does not talk about his conquests. He does not, in fact, say anything about a woman which would give others a questionable opinion of her integrity or morals. Most men automatically accord this courtesy to their wives or sweethearts, but they may be less respectful about a woman whose relationship with them is more casual. Locker-room bull sessions about women are poor manners.

And there you have it...the rules of etiquette, 1950s style.

Merry Christmas!

2004-12-25T10:03:00.000-05:00

The Christmas Shout-Out List:

Saidy
JustAGirl
Angela Bowers
Beautiful Talker
GeekThug aka Rod
Jdid
Dr. D
Solitaire
Iggy
Anonymous Poet
The Marlo Girl
Fiber
The Humanity Critic
Tony Pierce
JCole
Bleek
NWJR
WIGIT
Spitting Venom
Monkey
Jason Manchild
Mister Underhill
Jerry aka JT

Thanks to all of you for dropping by and encouraging me to do this whole blog thing. Your comments and insights have been most inspirational, and I'm so glad to have met such wonderful crew of exceptional people. May you all have a blessed holiday and a wonderful New Year.

Slacker Mentality

2004-12-17T14:47:00.000-05:00

What are you supposed to do when you’re just not feeling your job anymore, can’t afford to quit, and have no exciting employment prospects to speak of. I’ll tell you what you do…you worry!

I’m really worried right now because, for the life of me, I cannot figure out how to restore my motivation for walking in this place everyday. My motivation used to be my check. And even though I can’t live without that check, it doesn’t seem to be that big of a motivator anymore.

I know…I’m complaining and there are thousands of folks who would trade places with me in a heartbeat. So forgive my immaturity today. I just can’t help it. I’ve got the five o’clock fever and it’s only 2:30p.m. That means I’ve got two and a half more hours to fill before I can go out, get in my car, go home, fry up some Nawlins beef hot sausage and fries, and enjoy my rented Collateral DVD courtesy of Netflix.

All I want to do is become a published novel writer. I actually write for a living…only it’s not sexy stuff. It’s bullshit literature for the corporate world, and there’s nothing really creative about it. I mean really…who can be excited about trying to make a metal pipe sound like something worth reading about? And by the time I get home in the evening, the last thing I want to do is write. My job is the main reason why my posts are so sporadic.

I’ve been searching Monster.com and other career resources everyday for sixth months. I’ve had dozens of interviews for jobs I didn’t really want anymore than the one I have. I’m starting to feel like, now that I’ve turned 30, I’ve somehow gotten less responsible than I was in my 20s. A decade ago, you couldn’t keep me away from this job. Now a decade later, I come down with a mysterious case of the flu every chance I get.

Am I being a spoiled, immature diva? Or am I truly at a crossroads—desperately needing direction? Where do you find such direction?

I guess the answer is to go home and write anyway, whether I feel like it or not. But when I do, I never like what I see. So far, I’ve started at least eight novels. But based on what I’ve written, I’m not inspired to finish a single one.

Anyway, I’m not trying to cloud your Friday with a bunch of whining. Especially since, in this George Bush economy, I’m one of the lucky ones. But I just don’t feel all that lucky. My own admission feels like a sin against God and all the blessings He’s given me. But I just don’t know the answer, and find my work life to be an increasingly disappointing struggle.

Gone are the days of my wanting to fight to climb the corporate ladder. These days, that’s just not important. Gone are the days of wanting to be politically correct enough to not offend the jackasses I encounter for eight hours each day. I’m just not that patient anymore.

Am I a pathetic slacker? Or am I a woman on the brink of a major turning point in life? I guess the best I can do is pray for an answer…and just keep on bringing my ass to this awful j-o-b! At least I can eat, right?

Great Advice For Getting Rid of a Blog Stalker...

2004-12-17T08:36:00.000-05:00

In response to yesterday's post, my friend, JT, had this advice:

1. Tell this guy that you are in fact a post transgender patient
2. Find similar blog of post transgender patient or procedure site,
3. Give site address to stalker (for added funny make sure site is of someone of another color)
4. When he comes and says no way that is you for obvious reasons.
5. Inform stalker that miracles of science are performed daily
6. Have men's electric razor on desk, turn it on occasionally when you know he will hear it.
7. Have stalker see you walk into men's bathroom and come back out looking confused.
8. Never utter a word about site and wink at him every chance.

My favorite is number 6, since my stalker's office is right next to mine. I could close my door, turn on the razor and really freak out his nosy ass!

Help! Stalker!

2004-12-16T11:04:00.000-05:00

I’m being stalked by one of my coworkers.

Last Friday, at the Christmas party, I must have had a bit too much joy juice. For whatever reason, I told my coworker that I write a blog. I think he brought up something I thought would make a great topic. Without thinking, the mention of my blog came falling out of my mouth, and since then, he hasn’t let a single encounter escape him without asking me for this URL.

DAMN!

Me and my big mouth! The wine wasn’t even that great! And now, I’ve got a relentless stalker who says he’s “determined to get the address one way or another.”

There’s no way I could continue working at my company if he knew the writer of this content was me. It’s not that I say things that are too controversial or discuss work issues at great length. But the things I write about are way too personal to share with coworkers. I know this blog is titled “I Ain’t Scared to Say It!” And I’m not. It’s just that I don’t want to say it to everybody. The veil of anonymity is what makes an honest woman out of me.

And to top off everything, my stalker happens to be marrying my boss’ best friend. So he has too many ties to the enemy camp to get a thorough briefing on my personal life.

All this shit is my fault though. I usually have enough sense to control my behavior and fluid mouth at office functions. But I guess this time, I was too charged about potential booty onlookers to maintain the appropriate lockjaw.

But what is most odd, is this coworker’s apparent obsession. I get emails on a daily basis, and embarrassing reminders when we pass each other in the halls. Because of his endless questioning, now others in the office know my blog exists. Considering I write half of this crap on the company server, I could become one of those unemployed casualties of the blogging phenomenon sometime soon.

My coworker and I are not very close. In fact, we’re not close at all. Why he is so interested in my business is beyond me. It’s obvious that he means me no good, since he is fully aware of my concerns yet won’t stop badgering me.

So word to the wise for all my fellow bloggers who may sometimes suffer from fluid mouth the way I do…NEVER MENTION THAT YOU WRITE A BLOG TO ANYBODY AT YOUR JOB.

Oh, and any advice for taming this stalker would be most appreciated. I’m running out of polite ways to say, “no.”

For All You Non-Believers Out There...

2004-12-13T16:33:00.000-05:00

...The Cincinnati Bengals are going to the playoffs. That's my prediction. There...I said it!

Keep Hope Alive!

On Second Thought, Don't Look at My Booty!

2004-12-13T09:29:00.000-05:00

Okay, the Christmas party was cool until the carolers showed up. A troop of five singing characters all decked out in Ebenezer Scrooge-era gear came prancing in just as we were finishing dessert. They held us hostage for 20 minutes as they sang each verse and chorus of all the Christmas songs you love to hate.

But, other than that, it was cool.

However, when I compare the events of the Christmas party with the happenings at the after set, I must say the Christmas party was a smash hit hands down. Talk about lame. I’ve never seen such a lame crowd in all my life. I went there looking for someone to give me some attention. But after seeing the prospects in that place, all I wanted to do was run to a corner with a bottle of joy juice and hide.

First off, I felt like I was the oldest person in the place. It was a party given by members of Kappa Alpha Psi Fraternity—the one known for exceptionally fine men. However, this tribe of Kappas was an entirely different matter altogether. This must have been the “we should have never crossed your ass” Kappa crew. There wasn’t a single face there that I thought I could look at on a regular basis.

So, my girl and I sat and drank some blue drink with a glow stick in it called Hypnotic. It was pretty nasty, actually, and I constantly had to keep adding Sprite to make it consumable. We smoked a couple of squares and tried to get into the music, but couldn’t take anymore after about an hour. The place had a DJ who was actually trying to mix songs together without using headphones. So all night, we listened to random beats that never matched up. So, we took our asses home with headaches and no phone numbers or potential dates.

That was it. No hooplah. No fanfare. No nothing. Just a boring Friday night.

My ex called, though. He left a message on my cell phone asking me to come pick him up from the same bar he couldn’t leave until 4:00a.m. last week. I just deleted the message and went to sleep.

I’m still in that room, Big Sis.

Anyway, the rest of the weekend didn’t get any better either. And the Bengals lost too! Damn!

Please Stare at My Booty

2004-12-10T14:45:00.000-05:00

Tonight is our office Christmas party. In most organizations, this event would be totally voluntary. However, in mine, not showing up means you could be on the unemployment line come Monday.

Why, you ask? Because the partners that run this shop are all arrogant enough to believe that their employees actually want to spend an entire day at the office on a Friday, only to run home, put on formal digs, and go spend the rest of the evening with the same mo-fos they’ve been secretly cussing out all week. Oh yeah, I’m really looking forward to it.

The only bright spot is the free drinks. Although last year, those free drinks snuck up on me, and I was throwing up about five minutes after I got back to the crib. One of the partner’s wives actually threw up at the party. At least my mishap was on the down low.

So, I’ll be going tonight. I’ll stay until dinner is over, and then I’m out the door. At that point, I’ll have to run back to my house, change clothes again and go to a real party. Unlike the Christmas party, I am looking forward to the after event.

As ya’ll already know, I am officially single again. So, I’m on the prowl for a date or two. Especially since my last man never had a dime to take me out. So, I guess I’m looking for the opposite of him.

Probably won’t find what I’m looking for though. Depending on how tipsy I am at the Christmas party, I might not even make it to the after set.

But, if I do, I promise you all I will be the finest Miss Thang in there. I’m wearing a seriously form-fitting dress that has lots of bright colors. You’ll be able to see my sexy ass from a mile away. I’ll swing my hips in the “come-hither” way I’m known for and hope for the best.

Oh God, now I sound arrogant. But I’m really just looking forward to having a pleasant evening. I want some attention tonight. Not the ass-grabbing kind, but rather the constant neck-turning kind. I just want someone to notice…

Wish me luck.

Big Sister Wisdom

2004-12-09T17:07:00.000-05:00

I'm goin' through it, ya'll. I'm not even going to try and lie. I know my man was just using me, but I'm having a hard time shaking feelings of guilt over putting him out on his ass. It's the nurturer in me, I guess.

So, I was talking to my sister about the whole drama. At the time, she just listened. But today, she sent along these words of wisdom...

hey you...
i have something that i need to tell you.
do you realize how wonderful you are? do you realize how much you have going for you? do you realize how absolutely beautiful you are? how smart you are? how spirtually grounded you are? how much fun you are? do you know that i could go on forever listing assets?

if you know like i know, then you should also know that you dont need to accept no shit. look back over the course of the relationship with dude...you have dealt with a LOT of BULLSHIT since the beginning...and it has not been that long. we both know that when it comes to a relationship, it will never be 50/50. its just the nature of the beast...women always give more.

more.

not all.

you deserve much better than that. you deserve a man that can meet you on your terms. and dont allow loneliness (the devil in disguise) to make you think otherwise. dont allow family or society to bait you into feeling that you need a man. you dont. think of it spiritually, do you really think that God intended for you to be miserable in a relationship? do you really think that it's about temporary satisfactions of the flesh (this man got it goin on in the bed, he can make me an occassional meal or two, he cleans the house every now and then) only to realize in hindsight that it was done not out of the kindness of his heart, but in order to get something for himself down the line? real men understand their place, and it is NOT to allow another woman to take care of them. ever. every man that you will meet just wont make the cut. not saying dont date them. not saying dont do yo' thang. but you dont have to try to MAKE him a perminant fixture in your life. your lifelong mate will choose you. not the other way around. we as women dont choose our husbands, they choose us. because when that man chooses you, that means that he is ready for the responsibility of loving you. trying it any other way is going against the divine purpose of God...and doing that is setting yourself up for failure and heartache. He never intends for us to suffer, ever!

ok...so off my soap-box i go. but remember that room i told you to go in? are you there? STAY YO' AZZ IN THERE! cause let me tell you this. as inherintly dumb as they are (men), they know how to be manipulative when they know that a woman, a good woman, genuinely cares for them. to manipulate someone that i know cares about me???what kind of person does that make me? would you do that to someone? then dont allow that fool to do it to you. what the hell do you have to feel guilty about? cause you wont let a grown, able body man live in your house, eat your food, use up your energy, steal your spirit and not contribute a damn thing? reading it like that makes you say, " what the hell??" OF COURSE YOU SHOULD NOT FEEL GUILTY! last time i checked, i dont have any nieces or nephews from you. so that means, you have no children. and to me that means, you dont have to take care of anyone but your damn self. which, let me be frank and say, you are NOT doing because you were allowing that fool to bring you down. i wanted to ask you when we were in Atlanta what the hell you were doing with your money. well now i know. and if you dont want your big sistah whoopin your tail, ya betta stop taking care of grown azz men!!! :-) thats not your responsibility AT ALL. and i am willing to bet that the Big Man upstairs has my back on that statement!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

i love you more than life. i need for you to go look in the mirror and realize what everyone else already knows. you are the muthafreakin shit. there aint no two ways about it.

Big Sis

I truly love my sister for those words. And the room she's asking me to stay in is the "Fuck that Man" room. I've gone inside that room now...and I'm locking the door!

Crack Kills!

2004-12-09T11:52:00.000-05:00

I recently went out for drinks with an old flame from last year. We didn’t work out when we were dating because I was on one emotional playing field, and all he wanted to do was play the field.

But it seems his priorities have now changed, and he wanted to run an idea by me.

“I think I’m going to be single for life,” he said.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“I just have too much on my plate. I’ve got this promotional company going. I’m getting grants for my organization. I just bought a five-unit apartment building. And I’m thinking about going back to school to get my PhD.”

“Wow. That is a lot,” I said.

“But I think I’m ready to be a father, so I’m looking for a ‘baby-mama.’ Are you interested?”

Damn. How’s that for trifling? He’s too busy for a wife, but wants to have a child. Go figure?

I translate his message as follows:

I’m not interested in a wife. But I like the idea of having a child. The only problem is that I don’t really have time to raise one. So, I need a woman to raise the baby for me. I’ll come around and be a daddy when the feeling hits me. Other than that, I’ll just send cash from time to time.

My message to him…Lay off the pipe, ‘cause crack kills!

Ya'll Must Be Crazy!

2004-12-09T10:59:00.000-05:00

I was watching the news this morning, and heard about a couple in Florida who decided to launch a strike against their children because they wouldn’t help out around the house and acted like little jerks half the time. The parents pitched tents in the front yard, leaving their 12-year-old daughter and 17-year-old son inside to fend for themselves. They only go inside the house to use the bathroom and shower.

In all my life, I’ve never heard of anything more ridiculous than this. I mean, haven’t they ever heard of a good ass whoopin’? I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay the bills in the house, provide the food, cable and other essentials/desires, only to move out and live in the yard because I can’t keep my kids under control.

What the hell is wrong with people wanting to do all this negotiation with kids today. What happened to the days when children respected elders…when parents commanded the kind of respect that makes situations like these unheard of?

I think it’s sad, because it’s clear the parents thought the whole thing was a neat idea. They created all these picket signs and made a huge spectacle of the situation. While they did manage to embarrass their kids into at least a hint of submission, they should truly be embarrassed for showing the world what pathetic parenting skills they have.

When I was growing up, I had chores to do every single day I lived with my parents. Even during my adult years when “life” forced me to hibernate in my childhood room for a while, I still had chores to do. I just don’t get those people. Why would you leave your own house to prove a point to people living there who can’t support the operation without you?

My advice to those parents…Take your asses back in the house and commence to unloading the greatest ass whoopin’ of all time. It’s a much faster solution with more permanent results.

…And leave all that textbook parenting to all the childless people who write those dumb-ass books!

All Tapped Out...

2004-12-03T16:32:00.000-05:00

I committed a horrible act yesterday. I hauled off and slapped the shit out of my man. And while I realized at the time that my actions could have painful consequences, I was more than ready to brawl.

For those of you who read For Love or For Money and told me to leave his ass alone, I salute your wisdom and wonder why I didn’t heed your advice. The fact of the matter is that he still doesn't have a job, and I have yet to see signs that job hunting is a priority for him.

Now, it’s not like he’s home at my house all day long doing nothing. But instead of being out looking for a job, he only manages to find his way to the recording studio at his friend’s house to make an album that nobody will ever hear. I guess he thinks Puffy is just waiting in the wings for his masterpiece so that he can schedule my man on an upcoming episode of BET’s 106 & Park.

Last night, he called me from the studio at 8:00p.m. to say that he was on his way home and had a ride (my man doesn’t have a car). He asked me had I eaten yet. I told him I hadn’t. He said he hadn’t either, and was on his way.

He didn’t arrive at my crib, however, until 4:00a.m., and he smelled like a brewery! During the interim time, do you think I got so much as a phone call? I was worried sick! I had no idea what to think.

Needless to say, I couldn’t go to sleep. So, I stayed awake waiting. When he walked in the door, I came downstairs and asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing. My ride left me, and I didn’t have any way to call you.”

“So, you’re saying that in the past eight hours since you called to say you were headed this way, you couldn’t find a single phone in Cincinnati that you could use to call me?”

“I didn’t have any money.”

“Well, you do know how to call collect, don’t you?”

“What fucking difference does it make?! I’m a grown ass man! I don’t have a fucking curfew. Why the fuck do I need to tell you where I am?”

Now…let me just say for the record that this man is living in my house with no job, no cell phone, no car and no contributions to the household bills. I, on the other hand, work every single day of the week. Not because I want to, but because I have to. I do so because I want to create the kind of home environment that I want to live in. The last thing I need is some inconsiderate dude yelling at me in my house at 4:00 in the morning because he’s mad that I called him on his bullshit.

“Need I remind you that this is MY house! I pay the bills here! I’ve been up all fucking night thinking something bad might have happened to you. At the very least, you could have called so that I could go to bed in peace!”

I barely got those words out of my mouth before he started loud talking me—not letting me finish a single thought. I was already tired, and way past being pissed. So, without thinking, I used every bit of might I had to send his neck rolling in a 360 degree turn. It was wrong, and I regret that I did it. But I was truly pissed and couldn’t stop my arm from swinging.

I probably don’t have to tell you that there were many other factors that led to my anger. This situation happened to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. I just cannot take his shit anymore. And on top of that, the fact that I hit him means I truly don’t respect him. Therefore, the relationship is as dead as it could possibly be.

After the blow to his right jaw, he proceeds to continue screaming at the top of his lungs until about 5:30 a.m. I was every kind of bitch you could imagine. He was every kind of broke nigga, too. I would try to go into my room to go to bed, and he would simply walk in, turn on the lights, and start screaming again in that “and another thing…” style. It was horrible!

This morning, I woke up after managing about a half hour of sleep and got dressed for work. As I sit and type this post, I am about to fall asleep.

At lunch, I went home to check the status of my house. I had taken back his keys and hid them in my room, but I wanted to make sure he hadn’t destroyed the place while I was gone.

When I got there, I found him in the family room watching television. He came upstairs and walked past me without uttering a single word. I said, “We need to talk.” That led to more arguing. I just got fed up and told him to get the fuck out if he didn’t like what I was saying.

Further discussion revealed that last night, he found out his ride left him by about 9:00p.m. Instead of calling me then, he just stayed “at the studio.” Then, he says he walked several blocks to a bar he frequents to try and find a ride. When he got to the bar, he found out they were having “Poetry Night,” and decided he wanted his chance at the mike. So, he waited in the bar and threw back a couple of beers. He said he didn’t call because he didn’t think it was a big deal.

Notice how his story shifted from, “I didn’t have any way to call you” to “I didn’t call you because I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Maybe under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t be. But the fact of the matter is…he cannot treat my house like the Motel 6! He’s not helping me with bills. He’s not paying for the lights he left on yesterday. He wouldn’t be able to replace my furniture had he burned down the house because he left the coffee pot on all day. Hell, he damn near left lights on in every room!

He’s not putting gas in my car the umpteen million times he’s been allowed to use it to go find the job he can never locate. I realized yesterday that I am just being used. Funny thing is…he wants me to feel guilty about it.

Instead of truly apologizing for what he did, he proceeded to say that I was an evil bitch for putting him on the street knowing he didn’t have anyplace to go. He even called his mama, and from the sounds of his responses to her, she thinks I’m right, too. So, all she got was a quick dial tone from her youngest son (and in the middle of the night, no less).

The lunch hour ended with me dropping him with all of his belongings at the studio. After slamming my car doors and trunk, he spits on my car and calls me more bitches than I’ve ever been called in life.

Well, you know what? I’ll be those bitches. Each and every one of them. I have more than done enough to show this fool how much I care. And he has more than done enough to show me he truly doesn’t. I’m a convenience for him. And at 32 years of age, that makes me feel sick to my stomach that I would even allow someone into my home who has no regard for my feelings.

I am constantly reminded of his situation. I am constantly told that I don't give a fuck about the shit he’s going through. But, he is 30 years old. It is not my fault or my burden that he cannot get his life together. Why should I put my life on hold to wait for a man who hasn't grown up yet?

How does he expect to act all like the “high and mighty man of the house” when he constantly invades its peace with his antics? He even said to me, “You ain’t my wife or my mother!” And he’s right. I am neither. And that speaks volumes as to why he doesn’t need to lay his jobless, inconsiderate ass up in my house.

So, it’s over…finally and for good. It is painfully clear that I can never have a future with him because he has not yet grown into a man. I can’t even introduce him to my family, because he’s afraid they will think negatively of him because of his situation. He acts like I’m out telling everybody I know that I’m dating a man who hasn’t worked since the day I met him. And last week, my sister was in town from the West Coast, and she and her boyfriend came over to watch the Bengals/Browns game. He stayed upstairs the entire time—making me a third wheel at my own Sunday afternoon football set. He won’t agree to meet any of my friends.

I’ve had enough. I just don’t have the patience to see this one through. I’m not even sure where I would begin. And I realize his problems are not mine to solve. Maybe one day, I’ll stop picking up all these stray cats. Cause Lord knows, I cannot afford them. Not financially…not mentally…and not emotionally.

I’m all tapped out…

One last thought. If he didn't have any money to call me from a pay phone, who bought him the beer?...

Against All Odds

2004-11-09T10:25:00.000-05:00

My cousin had known her ex boyfriend since they were in grade school. She had just turned 31 when the incident happened.

Her ex-boyfriend, a deputy Sheriff in New Orleans, decided one day to beat her ass pretty bad for not agreeing with him on some point. The beating put my cousin in the hospital for three days, and she officially ended the relationship.

Instead of leaving her alone, Mr. Deputy Sheriff decides that if he cannot have my cousin, nobody would. He ran around New Orleans promising to kill my cousin and anybody who was with her. But because he was a Deputy Sheriff, none of the authorities seemed to care.

Finally, one day, Mr. Deputy Sheriff decided to stop by my aunt’s house and make his threats known to the family. This aunt wasn’t my cousin’s mother, but was my cousin’s aunt (my Dad had two sisters). When he got there, he proceeded to tell my aunt about his “endless feelings” for my cousin, saying he could not live without her after knowing her for all these years. Since my aunt had known him and his family since forever, she never managed to interpret his threats to the magnitude she should have. But she did call a family conference to discuss the issue.

She, my other aunt (my cousin’s mother) and my Dad all got on the phone to figure out what to do. My cousin’s mother wanted to send my cousin to Cincinnati to live with us for a while. She also wanted to send my cousin’s daughter (who was about eight at the time). Of course, my cousin refused to leave because she felt that her ex might do something to the rest of the family in New Orleans because he couldn’t get to her.

So, she stayed.

About a week later, she went out to dinner with a male friend of hers. Unbeknownst to both of them, her ex boyfriend had been following them the entire time. When they arrived back at my aunt's house, my cousin got out of the car. Within an instant, her ex boyfriend pulled in behind the car, jumped out and proceeded to beat my cousin worse than he had before. She ended up in the hospital for one week. He loosened her teeth and pulled out most of her hair. He cracked a couple of ribs and bruised her pretty extensively.

Once she got out of the hospital, she spent a couple of days at home and then decided to go to the police station to file charges against him. The friend who had taken her to dinner was going to drive her to the station, but they stopped back by his house to retrieve his lunch.

Mr. Deputy Sheriff was following them. When they got inside the apartment, the ex-boyfriend armed two pistols and proceeded to the apartment he thought they were in. He kicked the door in only to find someone else. Irritated, he put one of the guns to the neighbor’s head and ordered him to tell him where my cousin and her friend were. He told them, and Mr. Deputy Sheriff left the guy’s place to go upstairs to find my cousin. The neighbor proceeded to call the police.

When Mr. Deputy Sheriff got upstairs to the right door, he kicked it in and started shooting. He shot my cousin’s friend several times, and my cousin ran to the back of the apartment to hide. She must have heard several more gunshots, because her ex shot her friend at least nine times before stabbing him extensively and then using the heel of his foot to cave in the man’s face.

Then he went to find my cousin. He found her on her knees in the back bedroom. The police say she must have been begging for her life based on the position of her body. He shot my cousin 11 times, even inserting the gun into her vagina to shoot again.

When he was done, the police had already arrived. So, he walked down to them and said that he had just killed two people upstairs. My cousin was dead at 31. And she left behind a daughter…

Once my cousin passed away, the entire family wondered what would become of my little cousin. She would live with my aunt, her grandmother, but we still wondered what would become of her. All of my aunt’s children were grown. The cousin who passed was the oldest of the bunch. We wondered just how much energy would be left over to raise this youngster without her mother around for guidance.

My little cousin’s father was still on the scene, but I was never very informed about his parenting skills. But God obviously had a plan for my little cousin.

She graduated high school and went off to college. She chose Clark Atlanta University…my alma mater. When my cousin arrived at school, I found her and her best friend an apartment in my apartment complex. This way, I could keep an eye on her and reinforce the fact that she had a close network of folks who cared about her even though she was miles away from the home she knew.

During her second year at school, she was dating a dog-of-a-dude who dumped her for another chick. This sent my cousin into a deep depression, and the next thing I knew, she was part of a church group that many likened to a cult.

The church group allowed only minimal contact with the family, and my cousin was not permitted to have friends or boyfriends outside of the church.

The entire family became frightened at this point. We didn’t want to lose our little cousin to a group of people we didn’t even know.

But my little cousin kept assuring us that this group was the best thing for her. Turns out…she was right. My cousin graduated from Clark with honors and got a job as a public relations consultant with an advertising agency.

And then, she met the man of her dreams.

Also a member of this church, my cousin’s man was a reformed drug dealer who had spent time in prison and decided to turn his life around through the church. He met my cousin and fell in love with her instantly.

Last Christmas, he gave my cousin a charm bracelet. She wore this charm bracelet for an entire week before she found out its significance.

She and her man took a trip to New York for vacation over the New Year’s holiday. They were out at dinner when her man told her that one of the charms could be opened. She opened the charm and inside it read, “will you marry me?”

Once she read the charm, he presented the ring. They got married this past Saturday at a small ceremony in Atlanta. It was, by far, the happiest day our family has had the pleasure of spending together. All the previous times the family got together, it was to attend a funeral. Prior to this weekend, we had not all been together since my aunt passed in 1999 from lung cancer.

I must say that I have never met someone I admire more than my little cousin. I’ve never seen her quite as happy as I did during her wedding weekend. Her husband seems to worship the ground she walks on, and she deserves nothing less.

I can’t thank her enough for proving us all to be unnecessary worry-warts about how she would turn out. With all the chips stacked against her, she came through like a champ and serves as a model for all of us.

She is the youngest of the lot of cousins, and is the only female to be married. She has remained committed to following a Christian lifestyle, and I can’t tell you just how many compliments we heard about her from her church friends.

So, this post is dedicated to you, my dear cousin. Thank you for giving me such an inspiring weekend. Thank you for proving us all wrong. And thank you for showing us the true power of God’s work. We are inspired, and we love you.

May God grant you more happiness than you can endure in one lifetime. You are my shero!

Father Forgive Us, For We Obviously Know Not What We Do

2004-11-03T15:04:00.000-05:00

Kerry has conceded to Bush, so it looks like we’re on the verge of another four years of fuckery. So, for all my international friends out there, I’m looking for a new place to call home. Any ideas, please holla at me quick.

Yesterday, when I was watching the election coverage, they interviewed one woman in Columbus, Ohio who said she told her family she was moving to Canada if Bush made his way back to the Oval Office. I guess her bags are packed by now…

Four more years of this shit! I cannot believe it. I am truly baffled to know there are so many people in this country who felt Bush deserved another term. I can’t possibly fathom what reality they live in. ‘Cause the one I see in America these days is far from acceptable.

I guess the world is just so caught up in The Matrix of a comfy-cozy existence that they’ve missed all the warning signs that are way too blatant to ignore. Isn’t anybody alarmed that this man has everybody so frightened that they willingly give up their own rights to privacy to escape terror threats that never seem to happen? How was he so able to convince people that he is our great protector when none of this bullshit happened until his ass got in office?

Doesn’t anybody care that we went to war, lost more than 1,000 troops and injured at least another 7,000 more for no reason at all? Do people really think he’s protecting us when he says that the one person (Osama Bin Laden) who supposedly attacked us isn’t on his radar screen anymore?

Wasn’t Bush the same dude who sat reading school books to children after his aids informed him that the country was under attack? Isn’t he the same mo-fo with all the ties to Bin Laden’s family in the first place?

Don’t people think it’s odd that the two industries that have benefited most from this whole war business are the oil and defense industries—to which this man has extensive ties? The bottom line is…how in the hell does America trust Bush? At the very least, the people have to smell a rat here!

Don’t they care about the fact that the life he’s creating for our children will be of less quality than the lives we enjoyed as youngsters?

Don’t they care about the fact that he was never a legitimately elected president in the first place? Why are we placing our livelihood on someone who robbed us in the first place? That’s like getting jacked for your purse on a Friday night, and sending the offender a “thank you” card on Monday.

I just really don’t get this whole thing at all. Am I the one who’s crazy here? ‘Cause I’m really not sure how I’m supposed to feel.

Certainly, I have no power to do anything about it. I used my power yesterday, and it didn’t work.

It is what it is. Bush is in…Kerry’s out…and our government works on an agenda that does nothing for the people except make things more expensive, less safe, less private, less comforting and more impossible to manage.

I don’t know about the rest of ya’ll, but this election has floored me. I am at a loss for words…and that’s not the kind of problem I usually have.

So now, the job search that started out local and moved to national has now expanded to international proportions. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to escape…my family and everybody I love is here in the states. And considering the state of the rest of the world, I’m not sure I’ll find anyplace I like better. But maybe what I need is not “better;” maybe it’s just “different.”

Different is what I was looking for yesterday. Since I didn’t find it, the search is on to change my landscape into something a bit more my speed.

I don’t want to be paranoid! I don’t want to spy on my neighbors in the interest of national security! I don’t want to have to deal with yellow, red and orange terror alerts every hour on the hour. I don’t want to hear my president on TV acting like he’s only got a sixth grade education. I want a president that can pronounce “nuclear” with no problem.

I want a president who works for the people and not in spite of the people. I want a president who puts diplomacy above battles. I want a president who doesn’t go skipping around the world looking for new countries to bomb.

I want a president…

But instead, I’m stuck like Chuck with four more years of Bush. And that means four more years of Condoleezza (whose name sounds more like a venereal disease than somebody’s offspring). It means the gas prices aren’t going down, and it means that life is no closer to returning to normal than it was on September 12, 2001.

Damn people! How could you do it? How could you elect this man (I would say “re-elect” had he been truly elected the first time)? How can you trust Bush?

I just don’t get it at all…

Leave Me Alone and Let Me Vote!

2004-11-02T16:25:00.000-05:00

When I got home from work yesterday, two judges in Ohio ruled that it was neither necessary nor permissible for the Republican Party to send representatives to voting locations to challenge whether voter registrations were valid or not. Sometime during the night, however, those two judges were overruled. The Republican Party was granted its wish, and we would all be forced to deal with the potential that someone might challenge our right to vote.

The funny thing about the challengers is that they only seem concerned with Black neighborhoods where there have been recent spikes in the number of registered voters. Hmmm…go figure!

The Ohio media is also reporting instances where voters are directed to stand in lines for the wrong precinct. You can’t vote in the wrong precinct—despite whether or not your voting location is correct (there are numerous precincts in each voting location).

So we’ll see how the dust settles in my very pivotal “battleground” state. Stay tuned. Hell, forget that…just watch the news and we can chat about it tomorrow.

KERRY FOR PRESIDENT…or God help us all!

Oh…almost forgot. Since the Republicans have sent representatives to challenge the voters, the Democratic Party sent in representatives to challenge the challengers and protect the voters. The only result I’ve seen so far is even longer lines at the voting centers.

Anything to fuck up the process is what we can count on today. Damn!

2004-11-01T16:53:00.000-05:00

Emmett Till's mother ordered an open casket for the funeral so that the world could see what had been done to her son.

You Owe Me!

2004-11-01T16:24:00.000-05:00

I don’t know how many of you saw the episode of 60 Minutes with Ed Bradley exploring new evidence in the Emmett Till case. But to sum up the major highlight, it looks like they are finally going to reopen Till’s case and prosecute the five offenders who remain alive today. Click here if you need some background on the story of Emmett Till.

I couldn’t be happier about the fact that there may finally be some justice in this case (no matter how long overdue). It’s a shame that Emmett Till’s mother isn’t alive to witness the day she fought so hard for.

But, the case brings me back to a point that keeps popping up in my mind…the case for African American reparations. When I think about reparations (and no, I haven’t studied the arguments in detail—I’m speaking because I’m Black and I can), I think about money being paid to me and the rest of my African American sisters and brothers for the time our ancestors suffered through slavery. I think about the whole 40 acres and a mule promise that was never kept.

But the truth is…I don’t want money. Not a thin dime of it. That, to me, would be a cop out. There is no price you can pay that erases the deeds of slavery. And there is no price you can pay that somehow lessens its effects. The damage is done, and it will take a miracle from God to undo all the evils of slavery and diminish its lasting effects.

You can’t go rummaging through the Atlantic Ocean, pluck out the tens of millions of African bodies lost during the middle passage and plop down money for proper burials. You can’t pay to reunite the families that were torn apart, and you cannot buy me a plaque with my true African name inscribed on it.

There is no way to un-rape the millions of women who unwillingly submitted to their masters’ passions. There is no way to erase the hurt endured by those countless husbands who had to sit by and watch.

You can’t bring back the culture that was lost. You can’t return us to a homeland that no longer looks familiar. Bottom line is, money ain’t gonna cut it. It’s just not an acceptable solution—certainly not as an only solution.

But what I would accept is a historical acknowledgement of the full extent of the crimes. That acknowledgement should be followed by a sincere apology that somehow etches itself in the most permanent places of American history.

I want the U.S. government to acknowledge the fact that there are numerous cases like Emmett Till’s that we don’t know about—both during and after slavery. I want them to admit how many people were killed in places like Rosewood, Florida and Tulsa, Oklahoma when those mobs of crazy White men picked off as many African Americans as they could before destroying their property and stealing their land.

I want them to admit how much they allow today’s cops to racially profile. I want them to admit that the law that places harsher penalties on crack cocaine dealers than it does on powder cocaine dealers is simply a plot to lock up more African American men.

And it would be nice if they got rid of the language in the constitution that categorized African Americans as three-fifths human. I could go on…

The bottom line is…reparations, for me, starts with a fess up. Forget the money. I want the truth. It’s not as if I expect to hear anything I didn’t already know or suspect. But I want to hear the government to admit the fact that what happened was wrong and should never be tolerated again.

The case against the murderers of Emmett Till is a long time coming. But there are so many other cases that will never get their time in court. No one will ever have to admit wrong doing. And that fact is what keeps the wounds of slavery open with puss still oozing out after more than 100 years.

As long as we have a society that hides behind lies—perpetrating a worldwide fraud that it is the leader of justice and freedom—then there is no amount of reparations worth considering.

I don’t want my history dismissed with a check. A check will only lead me to more bad credit anyway.

What I want is the truth. Sad thing is…I’ll probably never live long enough to hear it.

So, tell me what you think. Is there a case for reparations? If so, in what form should reparations come? Is it a dead issue that needs to go away? Or is it an issue that ALL Americans should never let die? This inquiring mind wants to know…so holla at me!

For Love or For Money?

2004-10-29T14:03:00.000-04:00

My man and I are having problems. If I had to guess, I’d say the majority of our problems this week were escalated by the fact that I’m having perhaps my worst period in decades. I feel bitchy, and am content with feeling bitchy. But I’m causing problems I really don’t want to deal with.

I’d rather go home tonight and make love to my man. I want the days to return when he would wrap me in his arms and I’d feel the security of a newborn in her father’s arms. I want him to pat me on the ass while I cook chicken, forcing me to turn off the fire and take off my clothes.

But I want some shit to change, too. You see, my man is suffering from a disease psychologists would classify as Required Independence Deficiency Syndrome. Wait…that’s putting it way too mildly. My man is flat out broke! He is literally a 30-year-old man without a single asset to account for his days of adulthood. I can’t hardly talk, because I live paycheck to paycheck—and more often than not, the time between each check is never enough. But one thing I can do is take care of myself. But now, that is starting to change, because I have an additional mouth to feed in the form of a grown-ass man.

Yeah…I know what you’re thinking…this is totally my fault for getting involved. At least that’s what I’m thinking. But I really like him…a lot! Aside from his financial challenges, he manages to bring a great deal more to the table than Daddy Warbucks or any of the other suckas ever thought about. But I never expected to have to make a choice between a good man with a good heart and no money v. a man with money and not much else worth mentioning. But that seems to be the case here lately.

My wicked period gave me the courage to bring my concerns to my man’s attention. But he didn’t quite take the feedback the way that I expected. He translated my comments into oddly worded language I didn’t speak. Take, for instance, this comment from me:

“When you hand me less money than you were supposed to, I don’t silently berate you for being a broke-ass man. Instead, questions run through my mind like: what happens if I get pregnant? I guess I’ll have to hold it down for both of us because you won’t be able to provide.”

Here’s how my man translates those words:

“I want to have a baby with you now.”

How in the hell does one person translate someone else’s fear of something happening into the fact that this is what they really want to happen? I don’t want to get pregnant by him until he gets his shit together. But one thing I do know…as long as we’re fucking on a regular basis, there’s a chance that could happen regardless of how many condoms or pills we use.

The point I’m trying to make to him is…I’m 32 years old. Gone are my days of having a “boyfriend.” I’m just not interested. Now, that’s not suggesting that I want to marry everybody I date…or even think about it for that matter. But me and my man spend every single night together. In fact, he’s living at my place. I don’t have the energy to invest that kind of time in a relationship that can’t go anywhere.

So, I asked him to look for a better job...to make finding a better job his first priority. He got pissed, saying that he’s been “busting his ass looking for one, and gets tired of everybody else telling him what he needs to do.”

I understand where he’s coming from, since I once was in his shoes not too long ago. But my impoverished status motivated me to spend every waking minute trying to get out of the situation. I just don’t see the same effort in him. And the effort is what he promised me, and it’s really all that I’m asking.

One day this week, I came home from work for lunch. I got there about 12 noon. When I walked in the house, he was just getting up. Now, how the hell can anybody say they are really looking for a job when they sleep until noon?

Where are the newspapers with the want-ads circled? When is he making calls to inquire about jobs? How come he doesn’t get on my laptop when I bring it home in the evening to check out the classifieds? That’s what I’d be doing if I were in his shoes.

The only priority he seems to have is getting into the music studio to finish an album and launch his rap music career. Now, I’m never going to be that person who advises someone else not to follow their dreams. Hell, I want to be a full-time writer. But my job is to go do public relations everyday. And I do it because I have to eat. I have to find additional time to devote to writing. But I cannot put my writing first because it doesn't pay the bills.

Why can’t he adopt the same principles? How does he expect me to feel when I get home at noon to find out he’s been sleeping since I left and he can’t put a single morsel of food in my refrigerator…yet goes inside it constantly to get his grub on?

The bottom line is, if everybody is advising him on what he should do, then he’s obviously giving off the impression that he needs help and isn’t doing all that he can. EVERYBODY else can’t be wrong…yet that’s how he sees it.

I’m sick of listening to his pity-pot routine. I don’t want him to leave. I just want him to get his shit together. And I’m not trying to sacrifice my shit for the sake of his. Is that wrong? Does that somehow suggest that I’m not in his corner? I don’t think so. I just don’t want to have to live on the corner with his ass if things keep going the way they have.

I’m in the process of buying the house I’m living in, and I need all my duckets to make that happen. I can’t have some grown-ass man draining my cash reserves. I already do a fantastic job of that all by myself.

So now it comes down to a choice between immediate loneliness or long-term brokenness…

Damn…I guess I better start looking for some kittens here soon to go along with my inevitable spinster status. Because I’m losing more and more faith in the prospect that my man and I can one day enjoy a prosperous life together. And it just makes me sad…

Talk about a catch-22, cause I'd be lying if I said I didn't want him! I just want a refurbished, more self-sufficient version. Is that too much to ask?

Pimps, Whores and Everyday Culture...Where's the Dividing Line?

2004-10-21T15:38:00.000-04:00

Several years back, I was visiting a Subway in Atlanta for lunch, and I met this 3-year-old girl who had to be the sweetest child I had seen. She was the kind of cute that makes you want to clone her, box her up and sell her to other deserving little girls for Christmas. Truly adorable!

So, while I’m waiting on my food, me and the little girl start to chat. I realized, after about three sentences, that this child was wise well beyond her years. Her conversation was fluent, and her comprehension literally floored me. So, I said, “You are such a sweet and smart little girl. I hope, when I have a daughter, that she is as smart as you are.”

“How old is your little girl,” said the adorable doll-baby.

“I don’t have a little girl yet,” I said, still amazed that we are having such a thorough conversation.

“Oh, so you had an abortion?”

Well damn! Needless to say, my adoration reverted to shock as I tried desperately to figure out how this child, regardless of how well spoken and astute she was, could possibly know anything about abortions…let alone how to use the word in its proper context.

I tried to imagine the world she lived in that would make her assume that the only reason a young woman my age (I was in my early 20s) would not have a child would be because of an abortion. My heart sank at this disturbing lack of innocence.

So, as I was re-reading the post about Snoop Dogg and the other fools that have nurtured the impression that hip-hop culture and full-fledged fuckery were one in the same, this particular situation came to mind. And I wondered to what degree we could blame the innocence lost on our youth on the recent pop culture embrace of pimping and whoring as the new lifestyle of choice.

First and foremost, let me just put it out there that I DO NOT consider these pop-culture numbskulls to be accurate reflections of hip-hop culture, nor are they true reflections of where the culture is headed. They are, in my opinion, an unfortunate by-product of hip-hop music, offering the genre and the music industry no real creativity at all. They are simply puppets who are willing to regurgitate the same messages and themes over and over again.

“I’m the greatest muthafucka out there.”

“All my homies are some bad muthafuckas.”

“We buy all the shit that regular people can’t afford (and we can’t even spell).”

“And we get all the women!”

Those four themes seem to resonate over every mainstream beat that kids dance to these days. And it’s sad.

Now, it’s truly not the responsibility of anybody in the fuckery-rap industry to raise other peoples’ children. There are no laws that suggest that their daily code of conduct needs to be any more polished than the average Joe Blow. However, there is a certain responsibility that comes with the job of an entertainer…the same way every other job has its own share of burdens and obligations. If you’re in the public eye, your standards should be different. You shouldn’t just put out anything you want to for everybody to see. At least that’s what I think.

In other words, you cannot be Snoop Dogg walking two dumb-ass chickenheads down the red carpet of an awards show on dog leashes, with collars around their necks and no real clothing to speak of—especially when you know this award show caters to an audience of primarily teens and tweens. And you cannot take a credit card and swipe it down the crack of a woman’s ass the way Nelly does in one of his shitty rap videos. There really should be a dividing line between porn and the everyday images we see.

And, I’m not just blaming the entertainers. I’m taking my beef to the networks, too, for allowing the shit to dominate their airwaves.

Now, as I type this post, I wonder if my comments place me in the realm of a prude. Yeah, I’m all for free speech, and I even think that sometimes, there is a certain art to porn. I just think there is a time and a place for everything, and that we need to do a better job of protecting our kids from the images they see. And we need to do a better job of demanding creativity and originality from our entertainers, and stop allowing them to just do the same thing album after album and video after video. It’s like buying toilet paper…every damn sheet looks and feels the same.

Since there are so many kids in the world who do not have strong networks at there disposal to show them that the words “nigga” and “bitch” aren’t really terms of endearment, shouldn’t we be demanding more from the entertainment world to protect them? A 3-year-old should not have his/her innocent mind cluttered with words like “abortion.” Kids have their entire lives to experience all the fuckery the world has to offer. Can’t we at least spare them the bullshit when they are young?

So, since I’m admittedly not qualified to come up with an answer to what I consider to be a serious and growing problem, I look to your opinions for assistance. What should be the dividing line between what is acceptable and not acceptable for public viewing on television? What responsibility should entertainers have for keeping their slackness out of the viewing eyes and listening ears of young people? When we catch a 5-year-old girl chanting songs like “Where Dem Dollas At” while popping her cutchie like a Super Ho, should we smile and say, “that’s cute” or knock her on her little ass? Are we going too far in this society with the images we see and accept? And how do we solve the problem of children growing up without positive influences at their disposal?

This inquiring mind wants to know…so holla at me.

I Got A Crib, Ya'll!

2004-10-21T14:08:00.000-04:00

Okay…I’m not homeless. In fact, I’ve truly pulled a George and Weezy with my new home. It’s really funny how God works. Just when you think something can’t be done, He pulls a last-minute rabbit out of His hat that completely changes your perspective.

This whole moving thing was one such situation. Everybody knows why I had to move. And everybody knows how pathetic my options were looking all of one week prior to my scheduled move date. Yeah…the situation was getting ugly for a minute, and I was not trying to have to move home to live with my folks again after 30.

So just when I had abandoned all sense of hope, (less than seven days before my move date, in fact) I got a call from one of my best friends. She’s got a crib to die for that she just bought about a year ago. It’s the perfect starter home, especially for a single female. It has four levels, including a finished basement, and plenty of room to grow. The only problem was that none of the units were available. And anyway, I only had one week to find a place and move into it. Every bit of wisdom I had suggested that you just can’t buy a house that fast—especially if you have credit that looks like mine.

But, my friend called nonetheless to report that her neighbor (who lives only two doors away) was moving to the West Coast to take care of her father who was ill…and she wasn’t coming back. Originally, the woman wanted to rent out her townhouse, but the person she was going to rent to flaked at the last minute. At the time of my friend’s call, the woman had less than two days to come up with a solution for unloading her home.

So, I called her.

“Hi, this is Justine, Aldree’s friend. I’m interested in your townhouse.”

“Oh yes! I’m glad you called. I’m not sure what I’m going to do about this place. Did Aldree tell you what happened?”

“Yes, she told me. And I would say that I was sorry for your trouble, but I’m actually kind of excited about it instead.” I knew Aldree had given her the scoop on my interests, so I wasn’t fearful she would think I was a smartass by that last comment.

“Yeah, she told me you’d been in love with these townhouses since she bought hers. But I’m not sure that I want to rent mine anymore. It’s just going to be too much trouble. And with everything that I’m going to face when I get to my father’s, I just don’t want this house to turn into a burden for me down the road.”

“I wholeheartedly understand,” I said, now trying to sound more sympathetic and less giddy. “Would you consider doing a land contract on the place? I can’t buy it outright at this moment, but in a year, I could. The land contract would obligate us both.” I was truly winging it because I didn’t know a damned thing about land contracts. Turns out, she didn’t either.

“I might be willing to consider that. Why don’t you stop by so we can talk about it?”

I got to the woman’s place on Monday evening, and brought my mother along to help with the comfort factor. Most people who meet my mother just assume that I have common sense because she’s so grounded. I’ve made it a habit over the years that, whenever possible, to bring Mom along before I settle on a place to live.

Mom and I did the grand tour, although I already knew the place was exactly what I was looking for. After the tour, we went down to the family room in the basement to talk particulars. Mom convinced her that the land contract idea was the way to go, because it would bind both parties on an impending sale. But even though our logic made sense, the woman naturally needed to consult her own network just to be sure.

So, I left the house that Monday evening still with no place to go on Saturday when it would be time to move.

Tuesday, I called the woman to follow up. She had been so consumed with her arrangements to get to the West Coast, that she hadn’t had a chance to check my background and solidify our game plan. So, I went to bed that evening with homelessness still on the horizon.

But then Wednesday rolled around. She was already on the West Coast, but she called to tell me she had completed all the background checks, and was happy to have me as her temporary tenant. She said “temporary” because she would come back in one month to convert the lease to a land contract.

God is truly good all the time.

So I have moved into my new crib and my only problem is coming up with enough furniture to fill it the way it deserves to be filled. I’m in no particular rush, since I’m going to buy the place.

I certainly appreciate the concern of friends like BeautifulTalker who has inquired about my well-being during my prolonged absence from this blog. It has been a rough month, but one that ended on the best possible note there could be (especially since winning a lottery with Oprah money as the jackpot wasn’t an option).

I’m back, BEEYATCH!

Countdown to Homelessness

2004-09-28T17:27:00.000-04:00

It’s been almost three weeks since my last lengthy post. BeautifulTalker has already checked to make sure I’m still among the living. And yes…I am. I’ve just been in the middle of some serious transition.

Everybody already knows the story about my lovely new landlady who decided to give me 30 days to get out of my apartment so she could move in. Well, for the past couple of weeks, I’ve been pounding the pavement looking for a new home. And I’ve been finding USDA Grade A bullshit everywhere I look.

This one dude had what sounded like a really cool pad in the redeveloped section of Cincinnati’s Over-the-Rhine neighborhood. The greatest thing about that neighborhood is its architecture. The neighborhood has lots of brownstones that have been rehabbed by some really creative people. The architecture is reminiscent of what you would find in Harlem. In fact, the entire Rage in Harlem movie was shot in Over-the-Rhine.

Anyway, this dude was advertising a two bedroom, two bath townhouse with a fully equipped kitchen, family room, wet bar, deck overlooking the downtown Cincinnati skyline and free washer and dryer—all at a price tag of $845 a month. The figure worked within my budget, so I gave him a call and set an appointment to come look at the place. I took my Mom with me, because she always manages to see the imperfections I overlook and ask the questions I forget.

So me and Mom are checking out the place and trying to get a sense of this potential landlord. He raised our first red flag when he first pulled up because his car looked like the official vehicle for the Bush/Cheney campaign. But hell, everybody’s entitled to their own vote, so me and Mom kept it cordial despite his odd political views.

We went inside the private entrance—gagging after having passed about five garbage cans lining the side of the building that had been packed with what obviously had to be rotten meat. This was a truly funky red flag #2.

Inside the building was okay enough. The Bush-lover needed to get a cleaning lady to pay some attention to the hallway (red flag #3), but other than that, the entranceway was okay. We went upstairs, and I found out that the hallway that the cleaning lady needs to attend to is actually part of the apartment I would be renting. But I wasn’t trippin’ cause I can clean the hallway better than anybody.

Upstairs, we found a large kitchen with appliances so old, they had to be the first models ever made. The stove looked like it was about to literally fall out of the counter (red flag #4). The landlord explained that he really had to "jam it in there" to make it fit. Not a good sign, especially for someone like me who likes to bake. If I put a cake in that oven, it would fall just because of odd angle of the oven. The whole damn thing was just broke down looking. Not the kind of stove that inspires the culinary greatness to which I aspire.

The carpet throughout the whole place was probably the same shit they put down when they built the place a hundred years ago. It was just ugly and worn out, and it looked like a couple of dogs had marked out territories throughout the place (red flag #5). The bathrooms were equally unattractive. But all the rooms were a good size, and a creative decorator and some flashy throw rugs could really make the space work.

We ventured up to the top level, which featured a family room that extended the full length of the building. It had a wet bar, and that’s where the deck with the fabulous view was. And yes, it was truly fabulous. Upon seeing it, I started trying to convince myself that, despite the ancient stove, pee-stained carpet and bland bathrooms, I might be able to work the space quite nicely.

“So, where’s the free washer and dryer?” I ask. And that’s when we discovered the final red flag.

We proceeded down the steps, past the main floor and down to the entranceway. The landlord then takes a turn to go down another stairwell hidden underneath the stairs we just came down. The doorway to the basement steps was so small, even I had to duck down, and I’m only 5’4”. I kept trying to imagine how I would make this journey with a full basket of dirty laundry in hand, but I kept my mouth shut.

We finally climbed down to the basement by angling our bodies and treating the steps like a ladder. I don’t know how my mother managed considering she had hip replacement surgery just two years ago.

The landlord was jabbering away about the washing machine when my Mom caught my eye.

“Look up,” she orders by slowly mouthing the words.

Her frightened expression became mine as I saw what she was looking at. It appeared as if the entire ceiling had been sprayed with one of those cob web spray cans they use to decorate for Halloween. I don’t know if you’ve seen the movie Arachnophobia, but the entire basement reminded me of the scene when they went inside the barn to find the General spider. Everything inside the basement, with the exception of the washer and dryer, was literally covered in web. Web was hanging down from the rafters and drooping off the sides of old lamps and other antiques. It was everywhere. Truly the most disgusting site I had seen in a while.

So, without knowing exactly what to say, I said, “what is all of this?”

“Oh, that’s nothing but about 100 years of cob web down here. The basement is in its original condition. Isn’t that great?”

“No,” Mom and I both said in unison.

“And we need to get out of this basement because I’m starting to itch,” Mom added, rolling her eyes at this man for bringing us into the Spider Queen’s Den.

“So, what do you think of the place,” Bush/Cheyney-lover said once we got back up to the main entranceway.

“It’s a nice place,” I said sheepishly, trying not to have too much attitude with a stranger while my mother was around. “But we still have a lot more places to see.”

“Well, if you like the place so much, then why don’t you just get it,” he responds with a tone neither one of us liked. But, I couldn’t even respond before Ma-Dukes lashed out.

“You certainly can’t expect to rent this place to a woman, let alone rent it for $845 a month,” my Mom says with so much venom that it shocks both myself and the Bush Fan. “That basement is filthy, and no one with any sense is going to take clothes down there and expect them to come out clean. I wouldn’t want my daughter down there under any circumstance. We certainly appreciate your time, but my daughter won’t be living here.”

And with that, we left.

Most of the other places I’ve seen have been much the same. One place had tenants who smoked so many cigarettes, the entire apartment smelled like it was the city dump—but just for cigarette butts.

Another couple of spots were attic apartments that the owners tried to run through a Better Homes & Gardens redesign. But you would bump your head against the attic-angled walls every time you got out of the bed…and you’d pay more than $800 each month to do it.

Some of the folks renting apartments in this town must smoke crack to be advertising luxury in the form of Section 8 at the rate they do. They are the ones with the kind of places that make you want to bitch slap them for showing it to you in the first place.

This one dying-for-a-bitch-slap woman was trying to get me to rent her “beautifully landscaped, two bedroom, high ceiling, Victorian home.” However, when I got there, it was actually a “couple of flowers in a run down garden, a dining room and living room turned into two bedrooms and a kitchen pantry full of roach motels.” And to top it off, she smelled like a can of tuna left out in the sun. I’m gonna just leave it there on that one, but I know ya’ll get the idea. I put her down on my Christmas shopping list for a bottle of Summer’s Eve Feminine Wash.

So anyway, all I’ve been looking at have been spaces that won’t work for one reason or another. Some people might say that I’m being picky, but I’m allowed since this is the place where I’ll be living for the rest of my time in this town. Needless to say, I’m nervous, as I have to move this Saturday, and I don’t have an official new address yet.

So, send up your prayers to The Father, ‘cause your Sista Girl surely needs them. The countdown to homelessness is on, and I’m not trying to live on the streets.

The Surreal Life. The Experience Continues

2004-09-28T10:37:00.000-04:00

Okay, everybody already knows my opinions about the first episode of The Surreal Life. The one key takeaway was the Flava Flav/Wonder Ho drama that was starting to brew. Well, it looks like the world just can't get enough of these two mismatched lovers, as there will apparently be a spinoff show that delves deeper into their odd love affair. Check this out!....

I'm Not Dead...

2004-09-28T09:56:00.000-04:00

I've just been working my ass off lately. I got a promotion, and the workload has tripled. I guess that's a good and bad thing. But I am working on some updates, and promise to have them ready today. So, BeautifulTalker, thanks for checking on me, friend. I'll holla back shortly.

The Surreal Life. It's An Experience

2004-09-10T01:08:00.000-04:00

I watched the first episode of the third season of The Surreal Life last Sunday. I know I should be embarrassed for watching that janky shit, but it truly turned out to be comedy at its best (or worst, but in a funny way). When it comes to putting together the cast of a reality television show, few have been quite as disturbingly interesting as this pathetic mix of has-been’s.

First of all, the house they put the has-been’s in is just plain weird. There weren’t enough bedrooms to accommodate the three men and three women, and the rooms were occupied on a first come, first served basis. At least one of the rooms had no door, and another didn’t even have walls. It was just stuck in the middle of everything else. So already you knew the stage was set for conflict.

But forget the scenery…let’s get to the has-been’s.

You’ve got the infamous Flava Flav, who still sports the same ugly-ass gold teeth he did when Fight the Power was a hit. He also still drapes that big grandfather clock around his neck. The "yeah boyee" is still in full effect, and it seems like any second he might bust out with an old played-out family reunion-type rendition of 911 is a Joke.

Flava seems to have this “thing” for Wonder Ho…oops, I mean Brigitte Nielsen, whose drunk ass couldn’t hardly stay awake long enough to complete the one-hour segment.

And talk about a skeez! Wonder Ho…damn, I keep saying that…I mean Brigitte Nielsen…kept running around the house naked. Now, perhaps during her days of Red Sonja fame, many dudes might have found that ideal. But all the folks watching the show with me nearly lost their buffalo wings when her flat, flabby ass came jiggling across the screen like bowl of way-too-old Jell-O.

She told everybody she likes to be nude, and I can appreciate that. But what she fails to understand is that not everybody else wants such an intimate view of her maybe-I-used-to-be-sexy-back-in-the-day-but-those-days-are-long-gone body. It just ain’t cute. Not even a little bit.

This bitch was so trifling, she was cooking food for the people in the house, and all she was wearing was a thong and an apron. Now, I don’t know about the other folks in that house, but if it were me, Wonder Ho and I would have a serious problem. Nudity is all cool in the neighborhood when you know the folks around you or when you're by your damn self. But to be walking around a bunch of strange people in a thong when your ass is about 12 steps away from achieving success in a 12-step sexy program just ain’t right. Shit…what am I saying? To be walking around on national television in a thong when your ass is about 12 steps away from achieving success in a 12-step sexy program just ain’t right. Some people don’t need to be naked in public. And she’s one of them.

Wonder Ho (fuck it…the name has a ring to it obviously) and Flava Flav had a truly strange type of chemistry going on. They started off slapping each other around trying to see who had the bigger dick. But by the end of the episode, he was sincerely checking for her ass, acting all concerned when she couldn’t get up to eat because she was too drunk. Then he started talking all hopeful about the prospect of climbing her mountain ass.

“Brigitte could walk around me naked eeryday,” he gleefully announced in his famous Flava drawl.

And then I lost my buffalo wings!

Flava Flav must not have seen any groupie love in a long time…cause DAMN! Does anybody know his Mama so we can call her for some intervention? I’m concerned that if he does do Wonder Ho, he might turn to stone. Hell, who am I kidding? Flava ain’t no catch of the day or the day after that either. The two of them might actually make an interesting couple. But if the producers have any compassion, they will spare us the visuals.

Anyway, the show also features Jordan Knight, one of the New Kids on the Block. Remember them? Me either.

This Primadonna-Fool spent the entire episode putting music equipment boxes up in front of his curtain-of-a-door to keep the rest of the housemates from disturbing him. His anal-retentive nature was a perfect addition to the drama of the show, because his boxes ended up laying Wonder Ho flat on her long-back-instead-of-an-ass after she went traipsing around the house drunk. It was hilarious to see, actually. So, biggup to Jordan Knight!

Just so ya’ll know, I don’t truly have issues with Brigitte Nielsen. I barely remember her career, although I do remember harboring a few feelings of disgust for her when I watched Rocky IV and her on-screen husband beat Tha Brotha to death and left his wife a widow. But her behavior during this episode, the first of the season no doubt, was atrocious. She behaved like a low class heathen who can’t get over the fact that she’s getting older. So there! I said it. Now what?!

Anyway, one of the dudes from Full House was there. The one who played “Uncle Joey.” He was pretty uneventful, so I don’t really have much to say about him. But he did end up sharing a room with Flava Flav, so his character may get more entertaining down the road. So far, the majority of his screen time came when he had to leave his and Flava’s room because Flava was snoring too loud.

Let’s see…there was also some chick named Ryan who was a runner up on American Idol. She just seemed lost in the shuffle. Everybody else was way older than she. Plus, she truly had an I’m-more-righteous-than-you vibe about her. The previews of the next show suggest a future falling out between her and Flava Flav. So we’ll check “maybe” on this chick. I’m not sure yet whether or not I actually like her.

Wait a minute…I don’t like any of them…I’m talking about The Surreal Life.

Anyway, last but not least, was the coochie woman herself…Miss Charo. I never understood why she was popular before. All I know is that she was a regular on The Love Boat. I guess she and her agent must have been waiting a long time for an opportunity like The Surreal Life. This woman was the first one to get to the house!

So far, she just seems bossy, and I’m just waiting for her to clash with somebody. I don’t have a clue as to who it’s going to be.

The show airs on VH1. I can’t say that I’m gonna catch every episode. But if Sunday night at 10p (EST) catches me with nothing to do and no brain capacity to read a book, write a post or do something else constructive, I’ll probably check it out. I know I’ll at least laugh at the strange array of showbiz-career-rebound-hopefuls as they learn how to live with each other while trying to get as much publicity mileage out of this dumb series.

And just think…Wonder Ho might whoop somebody’s ass Red Sonja style! Maybe she’ll end up knocking out the Primadonna. Let’s keep our fingers crossed…

Afriad of Love in Cyberland

2004-09-08T14:43:00.000-04:00

With my severe lack of success on the dating scene lately, an empathetic coworker has been trying to convince me to take my search for The One to the World Wide Web. While I’m usually down for whatever healthy avenues I have to combat loneliness, I cringe every time he makes the suggestion. For one thing, I am truly a self-proclaimed diva. As such, I have a hard time using online tactics as if they were my last resort. And then again, I’m scared of the Internet dating scene. We all read way too much crazy shit in the media for me to feel confident that some dude in cyberspace is going to mean me any good.

Case in point was when I first started this blog. I decided to promote it in the Yahoo Member Directory by creating a public profile. I don’t think I used any personal information at all. I said that I was Black, in my 30s, and wanted to be a writer—pretty much the same as my profile on this site. I’d say within five minutes of clicking save to make this profile public, my Yahoo Instant Messenger started lighting up like the Fourth of July. The various introductions from these wannabe suitors went like this…

“Do you ever date married men?”

“Can I come see you?”

“What are you wearing?”

Needless to say, that public profile lasted about five minutes. Damn. These fools are truly foolish indeed!

But just so that nobody can accuse me of not giving it a serious try, I did a “sneak holla” on BeautifulTalker.

First, here’s the background. When I first published my blog, I got a comment from a London-based gentleman named BeautifulTalker who said, “Your verb skills are hot!” I was elated, especially since this was just the beginning. So, I sent BeautifulTalker a Yahoo Instant Message invitation so that we could chat.

We finally did several weeks later. I had already checked out his profile, and had seen the picture of him on his site. He looked intriguing to me, and he seemed nice enough. None of that “what are you wearing” shit at all. It was just strictly blogging talk. After a few lines of niceness, I threw in my “sneak-tip-holla”…it was something casual, but I called him a hottie, nonetheless.

BeautifulTalker just went on chatting like I hadn’t just given him a compliment. So after a few more lines, I said, “You just conveniently ignored my hottie comment.”

He said, “I didn’t ignore it. I just smirked and then looked over at my missus.”

Damn…BeautifulTalker has a woman, ya’ll!

So, since The Missus was around, the rest of the chatting went on as G-Rated as it was in the beginning. I told him to give a “You Go Girl” to The Missus, and we ended it there.

Oh well, I gave it a try…at least as much of a try as I’m going to give it. Besides, I have a nice new man in my world, and he is diligently restoring my faith in the opposite sex.

But, if you haven’t checked out BeautifulTalker, go and see his many sites (I think he’s got about five). He’s a cool cat, and he’s apparently good to The Missus because he wouldn’t even betray her in cyberspace with someone who lives oceans away. He gives hope to single women everywhere!

BeautifulTalker, you betta do tha damn thang, boy! Smooches!

And While I'm At It...
Shouts out to Miss Saidy!
Shouts out to Miss Ang!
Shouts out to Da Geek Thug!

Peace!

Suddenly Homeless

2004-09-07T15:14:00.000-04:00

I found a lovely apartment a little over a year ago in a cute two-family on a quiet street. It met all of my criteria…plenty of space, hardwood floors, a screened-in porch, and a garage. I wasn’t planning on moving out of it until I left this Godforsaken town for good.

When my lease expired, my landlord asked me if I wanted to stay. Of course, I said yes, since I didn’t have my escape-from-Cincinnati plan mapped out yet. He seemed happy, and said he would get the new lease together as soon as possible.

Life progressed, and I didn’t even think about the significant time lapse that occurred since our resign-the-lease conversation. Then one Saturday about a month ago, my landlord dropped a big surprise in my lap.

“I just wanted to let you know that some people will be coming by to see the building on Monday, and I’ll need to give them access to your apartment.”

“Oh really,” I said. “Do we have some maintenance issues or something?”

“No, I’m having an appraiser come through.”

“So, you’re selling the place, then?”

“Yes, I’m going to have to sell.”

Damn! I knew this could get bad pretty quickly. With me in the month-to-month situation I had been in since the lease expired, I could have some big problems depending on who bought the place.

“Well, I’d really like to go forward with signing the lease again. If someone buys the place and wants to live in it, I could end up on the streets.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll get the lease ready.”

Or so he said. About a week later, he calls me back.

“Hey, I talked to my agent about your lease, and I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to renew it.”

“Why is that?” I asked, more than irritated at this point.

“Well, when I put the building on the market, I advertised it with one unit being on a month-to-month lease. So, I won’t be able to change that for you. I’m sorry.”

I would have described him a little more harshly than “sorry” at that point. But I had no choice but to wait and see what happened. After all, he may sell the place to someone who wants the household situation to remain the same. Optimism was my best option.

That was, until last week. I came home from work to find this note on my door…

I purchased the property located at... (ya’ll don’t need to know that part).

First let me start off by telling you that you have a beautiful apartment and have kept it in wonderful condition. But I purchased the property to live in, and need to have one of the units available by October 1.

Since your apartment is on a month-to-month lease and the downstairs apartment is still under a year lease, it may be necessary for you to vacate your apartment. As such, you should consider this your 30-day notice to vacate.

Please give me a call to discuss…

Sincerely,

Your Newest Pain In The Ass

Does that not suck so entirely that you cannot even fathom how much it sucks?! Damn! I actually have less than 30 days at this point!

And to top it all off, three days after the new landlord left that note, she came by the building to do some measuring or whatever the hell she was up to. I passed her on my way out for the day, and she decided to make small talk.

“It’s a beautiful day out, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I said with body language that suggested I was in a hurry.

“What do you think the place needs to make it more beautiful?”

Now, at this point, I realized the bitch had to be super crazy. Who in their right mind would leave a note on somebody’s door saying that their place was lovely and had been kept in such great condition, but they needed to get the hell out in 30 days…and then ask the about-to-be-living-on-the-street-person what should be done to make the place look better? Who does this? How incredibly stupid can one person be?

What I wanted to say was, Why don't you take this entire building and shove it up your big ass!

But instead, I just stood there looking at her like she had grown 24 additional heads right before my very eyes. She must not be good at reading expressions, because instead of walking away like a normal dumb ass, she starts rambling off all the decorating projects she wants to do first. Then she looks at me for approval.

“Well, it sounds like you’ll have a great time figuring it out for yourself. See ya!” And I left her standing in the middle of the driveway staring up at the building like she could make the improvements happen if she just looked at it hard enough.

Dumb heifer!

Anyway…so now, I’m on the prowl for a suitable place to live. Like I didn’t have 50 million other things to worry about!

Oh…and Heifer-Lady also asked me to send her my rent for the month. Now, that’s laughable. Truly laughable. Why would I hand her the rent money, when I’ve only got 30 days to come up with moving money. Hell, at least she has my deposit. And, knowing that she couldn’t evict me faster than she’s putting my ass out anyway, I guess she can expect to get her rent around the same time she gets my home improvement advice…and that will come when hell freezes over and the devil passes out cups of hot cocoa to the shivering!

I’m gonna stop being evil now. One of my mentors always used to say, “if not this, then something better.” So, I guess I’m on my way to a truly phat-ass crib!

Not Your Typical Bad Hair Day

2004-08-25T15:34:00.000-04:00

I cannot stand hair weaves. Don’t get me wrong…I couldn’t care less what the next woman does. But for me, my anti-weave policy stems from a more personal nature.

Once upon a time in Atlanta when I was still wearing a perm, I decided that my normal brown hair (which my hairdresser affectionately called “dishwater brown”) just simply wouldn’t do any longer. I opted instead for auburn tresses.

The half-wit hairdresser I was using at the time decided that, in order to get my hair to the auburn color she was going for, she had to remove the natural dishwater brown altogether with some bleaching solution. Once my hair had lost all of its natural color, she applied the actual auburn color I selected. Yes, I know…it was a two-step dye job. And while none of my other friends had gone through such a process to change their hair to lighter colors, I didn’t know enough to object.

My final hair color was beautiful, however, and it shined and shimmered for about six weeks. And then I went back to get my perm retouched.

I’m sitting in the chair just blabbering away like always when my normal “Chatty-Kathy” hairstylist got eerily quiet all of a sudden. It took me a couple more minutes of rambling to realize she was no longer responding to my antics.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Your hair is shedding,” was the otherwise Chatty Kathy’s reply.

“Well, isn’t that somewhat normal?” I asked. “Everybody’s hair sheds a little, right?”

“Not this much,” she says in a matter-of-fact manner like she’s not talking about the only hair I had on my head.

And with that, I immediately make puddles all over the shop floor as I whip my wet head around to reveal the sink full of the same hair that once topped my head. As a reflex, my hand reaches for my head as if to catch my eyes in a lie. Instead, I feel gaps where the hair used to be. This heifer had washed my hair down the sink along with the perm!

“I promise you that your hair will grow back thicker and fuller than it ever was,” was her pathetic reply to my screams of terror. At this point, everybody in the shop is looking at me. And I’m cussin’ and fussin’ like somebody stole my Mama when I needed her the most!

All I could think about was how long it would take before my hair reached the inch past my shoulders that it was before she got her hands in it. There was hardly anything left!

I was screaming and crying like a madwoman, as I tried to figure out how in the world I would maintain my diva status looking the way I did. I was a dead ringer for Woody Woodpecker if I’d ever seen one.

I don’t know how familiar you are with the process of “perming” a Black woman’s hair. You generally part it in four sections, and apply the perm to each one by one. You could tell that my hair had been quartered this way, because I had virtually no hair in quadrant 1, a few extra strands in quadrant 2, random locks of hair in quadrant 3, and damn near all the hair remained in quadrant 4. It was devastating.

Chatty Kathy somehow managed to create some kind of decent-looking style with my remaining hair by covering the bald spots with the spots that still had hair. But, every time I ran my hands through my hair, or even when my head was resting on a pillow, more strands would fall out. Hell…if the wind blew too hard, my shit was coming out. There was just no hope.

So, Chatty Kathy decides that, until my natural hair grows back, that she would install a series of hair weaves to replenish the fullness that once was. So, out she comes with these bags of horse hair that she wanted to “stitch” into my head. The only problem was that I didn’t have enough hair left to cover the tracks.

So, I ended up looking like Beyonce on her absolute worst hair day (and you know that’s bad considering the plethora of bad-hair-choice-options she’s sported)! The top of my head showed all the tracks, and I was truly disgusted. Here and there, you would find little pieces of thread that she just forgot to cut off after she stitched in the row of hair. I looked like one big giant MISTAKE!

And to top it all off, Chatty Kathy wanted me to give her $60 for the weave, saying she did extensive labor to get all my tracks in.

“Need I remind you that I wouldn’t need these tracks if your ass knew half as much about hair as that license on the wall suggests?” I asked, daring her to respond the wrong way. “I never asked you for a weave. I only asked you to perm my hair. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that you didn’t know what you were doing. I don’t have a license to do hair care…you do. Believe me, sistah, you won’t see a dime from me for anything. In fact, I should be charging your ass! And if you don’t continue to do my hair for free, I will sue you and take your shop!”

Needless to say, she accepted my proposal for free hair care. But after thinking about it for a while, I realized that this foolish-non-hair-dressing-heifer shouldn’t be touching my hair at all. I couldn’t trust her. But that left me with a tough dilemma. I could either continue to let her clean up her mess for free, or pay somebody else to do it.

I decided, instead, to just cut the shit off all the way and rock a short natural for a while. It was quite liberating not to have to get perms every six weeks, but it truly sucked to need a cut every other week instead.

So I decided that locks were the way to go.

My hair has grown back thicker and fuller than it ever was, but it has nothing to do with Chatty Kathy or her dying or weaving misdeeds. My hair is now at its best because I haven’t been altering it with modern-day conk concoctions that do nothing but thin it out and break it off.

Life with locks has been wonderful. It’s not as maintenance-free as I once thought it would be, but I’m not losing any strands because of over-processing or uneducated, wannabe hair stylists who don’t have a clue about hair care. I simply wash, palm roll and style as I please…and I’m always fly!

I must admit that I did make Miss Chatty Kathy pay for what she did to me. And I’m not exactly proud of it from a grown woman’s standpoint, but it sure did make me feel better at the time.

After the incident in the shop when she wanted me to pay $60 for that fake-ass weave, I decided to slip back under the cover of darkness to do my own damage. I had a nice, sharp knife with me, and used it to slash each of the tires on her car. Then, I used my key to produce some new-age hieroglyphics on her driver’s side door.

Yeah, I know it was petty…but I’ll be damned if I didn’t feel better after I was done. I have no idea whether she guessed it was me, because I never went back. But if she’s got two cents to rub together in that monster head of hers, she should’ve figured it out. My only regret at the time was that I couldn’t do more without earning a quick ticket to jail.

Good thing there won’t be a next time…

The Ultimate Cure for Smoking

2004-08-17T13:48:00.000-04:00

Work is more than stressful enough without crazy people, dontcha think? Well, if yours isn’t, mine is! In fact, it’s so stressful, that I’ve resorted to smoking cigarettes damn near every hour on the hour just to get a break.

The only down side to these much-needed smoke breaks is this crazy middle-aged woman who always manages to interrupt them with rhetoric I didn’t ask for and never needed to hear. Today, however, this woman pulled a story out of her hat that literally floored me and my coworkers…and the story offers a perfect testament as to how “touched” this woman really is. Here’s how it breaks down:

“Hey girls, how ya doin’?” she asks of my coworkers and I.

“We’re doing great…how have you been?” we reply almost in unison. None of us wanted to be bothered.

“I’ve been retro dating lately, so everything’s been great!”

“What’s retro dating?” my friend asks just before the light bulb illuminates in her head. “Oh! You mean you’ve been dating somebody from your past.”

“Yeah, I have,” says the crazy lady. “He’s a nice guy who lives out in Arizona. He never got married, and we recently caught up with each other, and now he’s coming to town next weekend to visit me.”

“Oh wow,” I say. “That’s great!” I’m really not the least bit interested, but what was I supposed to say?

“Yeah, I’m really excited. So, I’m doing everything I can to look my best. My mom told me about some cream that I could put on my face to get rid of my wrinkles. She told me to use a drop the size of a pea, but instead, I used one about the size of a quarter. Last night, it felt like my whole face was on fire!”

“Oh no,” I said, trying to hide the giggles that were coming forth with full force. What I really wanted to say was, Who gives a hot damn! But, I didn’t.

“Yeah, it was terrible. Look at my face!”

Her face was the color of a pale red apple, and the skin was peeling away from her nose and around her eyes. She looked like a clown, but I didn’t want to tell her.

“Wow, that’s too bad,” I say. “Next time, you had better listen to your mom.”

“Yeah, you’re right! But that’s not even the worst part. Now I have the Ronald McDonald Syndrome!”

Oh no, I’m thinking. What the hell is she talking about now? I took the bait anyway. “What’s Ronald McDonald Syndrome?” I ask, regretting the moment I did.

“Well, when my friend comes next weekend, he wants us to sit by the pool at his hotel. That means I have to wear a bathing suit. So, when I was dying my hair last weekend, I thought I could just color my pubic hair, too. That way, I wouldn’t have to worry about shaving as much, because I would have nice blond hair peeking out of the lines of my bathing suit. And that would look fine.”

In what world? Hair coming out of the sides of a bathing suit ain’t cute no matter what color it is! But I keep my mouth shut and let her continue.

“So, when I finished my hair, I had a little dye left over and decided to run it through the hair down there. I know the box says you shouldn’t, but I figured what was the big difference anyway…” Stupid…just stupid…that’s what I’m thinking.

“But after a few minutes, I looked down and all my hair was bright orange! It looked awful! My sister was there, so I ran downstairs and told her, ‘I’ve got Ronald McDonald Syndrome!’ She asked me what I was talking about considering she was a registered nurse and this was a new disease she wasn’t familiar with. So, I threw off my towel and showed her. See, I’ve got Ronald McDonald Syndrome!”

As she said this, she made these nauseating pelvic motions like she was imagining a steamy rodeo encounter with this retro friend of hers. My coworkers and I were disgusted.

Can you imagine some middle-aged, way-too-wrinkled, crazy woman at your job standing in front of your building moving like Elvis on his worst day while talking about her orange public hair? The inevitable vision you get is of nightmarish proportions. Damn lady…some shit you just need to keep to yourself!

So, for those of you who cannot quit smoking…holla at me, and I’ll hook you up with this crazy broad. One 10-minute session of her bullshit, and no smoking patch in the world could cure you faster.

So, on that note…I guess I had better start looking for a new job. I know my 9-5 isn’t going to get any better, but I don’t think I can stomach too many more run-ins with this deranged diva!

Maybe we should get her signed on to the Stand anti-smoking campaign…just a thought…

Affirmative Action for Hos...And Other News

2004-08-11T15:27:00.000-04:00

Snoop Makes a Stand for Affirmative Action

Well, it seems that rapper Snoop Dogg plans to distance himself from his “Girls Gone Wild Doggystyle” series and its distribution company, Mantra Films. Snoop’s public shunning of the surprisingly-popular, pathetic production of college spring break at its most ridiculous, comes not because of the recently-settled lawsuit against him by two “Gone Wild” girls who had no idea that if they posed for Snoop’s camera that their faces might end up on the video covers. And it wasn’t because Mantra Films is being investigated on charges that they knowingly videotaped underage naked girls, provided cocaine and promoted prostitution while filming the series. No, those aren’t the reasons at all. Snoop told the Associate Press that he had to make a break because…

“If you notice, there hasn’t been no girls of (color) at all on none of those tapes. No Black girls, no Spanish girls—all White girls, and that (stuff) ain’t cool, because White girls ain’t the only hos that get wild.”

And there you have it…affirmative action for hos. Snoop…on behalf of all the hos out there who have been denied the right to place their titties on your windshield, please accept these words of thanks…You tired-ass, no-class-having, trifling, wanna-be-pimp-of-the-universe, need-a-hot-meal-witcho-skinny-ass, worthless waste of good rap flow, beeyatch! Whew…that was a mouthful!

In other news:

Nelly Sends PIMPS to College

And just when you thought you’d had enough of mainstream rap fuckery…Rapper Nelly’s energy drink, Pimp Juice, is offering a P.I.M.P. Scholars Program, which provides financial assistance to college students who show leadership in extracurricular activities. Yes, that’s right…you don’t need good grades to cash in on this $5,000 prize, which explains the astounding lack of grammar used when naming the program. The geniuses in Nelly’s camp decided that P.I.M.P. should stand for Positive Intellectual Motivated Person. Now how’s that for the future of W.E.B. DuBois’ Talented Tenth!

And just think, everybody was up in arms over what Bill Cosby had to say about the challenges within the Black community. Focus people…focus!

The Drama Promoter

2004-08-10T11:25:00.000-04:00

During my former life as an independent public relations, marketing and event planning guru, I had the unique experience of promoting Reggae concerts. The first time I ever did this, I was helping out a promotion company from New York who partnered with a club owner in Atlanta.

The New York/Atlanta promoters were looking for somebody who specialized in publicity, and could attract some nice attention to the event. The deal was that I would handle all the PR work and street team promotion, and they would cover the entire cost of the event. I would get my normal fee. This sounded way cool to me, so I accepted.

And I worked my ass off, too! I got the artists on the local talk shows and radio programs, and set up a couple of album signing events at music stores around town. By the night of the concert, every Reggae lover in the A-T-L knew these artists were coming. It was great.

But meanwhile, me and one of the New York promoters started mixing a little too much pleasure with our business, and that was the beginning of the end.

It started off innocent enough. We were at another Reggae event passing out flyers for our show. The music was off the hook, and we started rocking separately along with the beat. Eventually, we weren’t rocking separately anymore, and got caught up in some serious Jamaican “winding” at its best. Now, I don’t know how many of ya’ll have been down to Jamaica to see what the “winding” thing is all about. But if you don’t know, check out Sean Paul’s video for "I'm Still in Love." There is a chick in that video who provides all the background data you’ll need.

Anyway, one thing led to another, and I got the bright idea that there was a future in this newfound business/personal relationship. And then the night of the concert came…

I had no more duties during event time, since everybody that was coming was already there or on their way. So, me and a friend of mine just proceeded to chill and enjoy the scene like everybody else. I kept checking for Mr. New York Promoter, but couldn’t find him for most of the night. I just figured he was handling concert business.

But after a while, I got a tad bit concerned about my feelings of neglect, so I decided to go and look for him among the thousands who came out to enjoy the concert. I spotted him in a corner dancing with some woman. I strategically positioned myself for him to see me. And when he noticed me, so did this woman. She shot me a look like she was about to start swinging if I came any closer.

I’m not into physical drama in public, so I just made my way to the other side of the room. Eventually, Mr. New York Promoter caught up with me, and we started that “winding” thing again. And then we got busted…

“Bitch, do you know this is my husband?!” Damn…I didn’t have a clue. I’m looking at Mr. New York Promoter like he had six heads. And I’m really pissed that this stranger has called me out in the middle the dance floor of a Reggae concert. I decide to keep it ladylike, and I walked away to let him handle his own drama.

I sure do know how to pick ‘em.

The woman eventually catches up with me and my friend in the bathroom. She was ready for battle.

“Why the fuck were you dancing with my husband like that?”

“Trust me; had I known he was yours or anybody else’s husband, you wouldn’t have seen me with him.”

“Well, he has a wife, bitch! And you had better stay the hell away from him!”

“Believe me, sister. You won’t have to worry about me any further. You can have him. I’m not into other people’s shit.”

And with that, I left her standing in the bathroom trying to determine what her next move should be.

Anyway, turns out this wasn’t even the major drama of the evening. Just before the headline act was supposed to take the stage, I notice this argument in the backstage area between Mr. New York Promoter, his Atlanta partners, the artist’s road manager and the artist. Apparently, the promoters didn’t have the money to pay the artist, and he was threatening to not go onstage. Somehow, the argument cooled, and the artist performed. But there was still some bickering going on behind the scenes between the New York and Atlanta teams.

The concert ended, and the backstage bickering evolved into a full-scale war. Now, all of a sudden, some other folks I didn’t even know were in the mix. It seems the Atlanta side paid all the concert expenses, and wanted to recoup their investment and split the concert profits. The New York and Atlanta teams couldn’t agree on what their severance packages ought to be.

In addition, the Atlanta team was accusing Mr. New York Promoter of bringing his wife down just so that she could steal the money. She apparently had been working the ticket booth for most of the night. And every time the Atlanta team went to check the proceeds, she wouldn’t divulge the information.

Next thing I know, guns are popping up in the face and back of Mr. New York Promoter and his wife, and the guns are in the hands of the Atlanta side. Needless to say, I slowly backed myself into the shadows along with my friend, and we made our way to our cars and left.

The next day, I called Mr. New York Promoter to get the scoop. Of course, he blamed everything on the Atlanta side. He said they basically robbed him of all the concert loot and left the building. He was left there with his wife and no money. All he could do was get on the first thing smokin’ back to New York.

I continued to promote concerts after this experience, although I obviously worked with new contacts. I haven’t talked to Mr. New York Promoter since getting his fabricated scoop. I say “fabricated” because I just know he was shady, especially since he conveniently forgot to mention his wife, and was bold enough to bring her to the concert and cause a near-drama experience for me.

I did learn a valuable lesson about why you shouldn’t mix business with pleasure. I can’t help but wonder what might have happened to me had I not kept myself in the background of these arguments. And I also wonder the extent to which I would have had to fight this woman had she decided to start swinging instead of just talking shit.

Some lessons are learned the hard way, and I’m just glad I got through this incident unscathed.

Am I Racist Because...?

2004-08-06T16:50:00.000-04:00

I get these thoughts, sometimes, that make me wonder if I’m racist. I grew up in an ultra conservative town just north of the Ohio River. Although it was the first free stop on its Underground Railroad route, I’ve always known the city to be heavily segregated and racially unfriendly.

You might recall my rant a couple of posts ago, where I detailed some of my dissatisfaction with this town. But now I wonder the degree to which the lifestyle of my hometown citizens has affected me in a negative way. Both my elementary and high school experiences were very segregated. And I cannot recall a single event that I went to as a teenager where there was a mixture of ethnicities. Funny thing is…I actually liked it that way.

Since coming home a few years ago, I’ve worked primarily in organizations that I call “lily White,” meaning Blacks and other minorities are few and far between, and nobody seems to see the value in changing the dynamics. When you work for these kinds of places, you can’t help feeling like a token. In my experience, assertiveness, confidence and other traits that would normally be assets in the business world don’t seem to work for Black folks. I’ve literally had Whites in upper management say things to me like, “You’re very assertive and you walk very proud. You might want to tone that down if you want to make it in corporate America.” I wonder if this person would have said this to me if I had been a young White woman. Does that make me racist?

And sometimes I wonder how a White person would feel having to entertain questions like, “Do you know of any minority vendors we can do business with? We made our quota last year, but we’re in danger of not hitting our target this year.” How would it make them feel if they were a minority, and knew the only reason their company wanted to do business with a minority vendor, or seek out a minority vendor in the first place, was to meet a quota to ensure some kind of financial incentive? And how would they feel having to refer a personal contact under that premise?

Am I racist if I’ve grown to expect White people to respond to me adversely, or if I expect them to have such a profound lack of understanding of Black culture that they lump me into unfair stereotypes that I’ve had nothing to do with?

Or am I racist because I’ve always said that I would never date a White man? I don’t really care what other people do, but I won’t date them because I cannot get over the fact that I see them as the sons of former slave masters who once enjoyed a sense of entitlement to Black women—raping them as if dignity and self-worth were attributes they didn’t have. Am I racist if I feel that way?

Am I racist because I don’t feel the ache in my heart around the issue of the Holocaust as profoundly as I feel the ache for former slaves? It’s not that I can’t understand the disgusting nature and horrific magnitude of what Jewish people had to face. But when I compare it to slavery, we’ve lost so many more lives and endured hundreds of years of suffering. And nobody really seems to give a damn. Slavery seems to be something White society just want us to “get over” and “move on” from. How would they feel if Blacks said the same about the Holocaust? Funny thing is, we never would because we know what it’s like to be the victims of ignorant treachery. We know what it’s like to suffer. And we still feel the fallout of slavery even today. At least Jewish people were able to maintain their history. We have none. Ours was lost, and can never be fully recovered.

Am I racist because I resent companies that don’t close for Martin Luther King Day, yet quote him endlessly during Black history month in the midst of marketing ploys?

Am I racist because I resent Britney Spears’ popularity considering all she is, is a shameless copycat of Janet Jackson. And I’m sick of White people biting our style?

Or am I racist for feeling that the main reason White people love Barak Obama so much is because his mom is White and he was raised by White grandparents? These seem to be the first facts that the media uses to describe his merits as a politician and presidential hopeful.

I’m sure that, at some point, I’ll either come to grips with my unanswered questions or gain the insight I need. Until then, your thoughts are always welcome.

Short Story Time: "Any Monkey"

2004-08-03T00:07:00.000-04:00

The following is a short story about a match made in hell. It’s kind of long to read entirely on the monitor, so you might want to click on the story link under “Recent Conversations” and print it out. I hope you enjoy it.

You would have thought Aunt Meryl was an Academy Award-winning actress the way she pranced around last Thanksgiving morning. She must have tried on 15 different outfits before settling on what she called her “high class lounging pajamas,” which consisted of a leopard-print, satin jumpsuit with bell-bottom pants and a black satin sash around the waist. Her in-laws were coming over for dinner, and I knew by the way she was “performing” her “wardrobing” session that we were in for some drama when everybody got there.

Let her tell it, and Aunt Meryl was a superstar. Let anybody with common sense tell it, and she did a few big-named commercials and some guest appearances on a couple of popular sit-coms. You would think she was a box office favorite by the way she carried on, but in reality, she hadn’t even been an extra in one of the previews. In other words, she was a Hollywood siren wannabe who wanted the fame, but didn’t want to put in the work. She just figured that everybody should treat her like she was famous. That’s why her career didn’t go any further.

However, she was, without a doubt, an extremely beautiful woman. Her skin was the color of butterscotch and her jet-black hair flowed almost as far as her waist. Her eyes were dark and captivating. And for a woman in her late 30s, she could probably make the average 20-year-old a bit jealous with her flawless physique. She walked like royalty, and dressed to the nines whether she was at a New York soiree or shopping at a grocery store. But her attitude was a tad funky…and that’s an extremely kind, undeserved understatement.

But acting was probably the best profession she could’ve chosen, since reality was not her forte. In her world, everybody answered to her. Everybody thought she was beautiful. Everybody wanted to talk to her, and her only, all the time. Everybody thought she walked on water. In her world, she was second only to Christ himself. It was sad…but that was Aunt Meryl.

My sister and I had been living with Aunt Meryl and Uncle Jarrod since our parents died at the beginning of last year. Uncle Jarrod, my father’s best friend, was our godfather. I always loved him more than life itself, but I could never figure out why he married Aunt Meryl…other than the fact that she was drop dead gorgeous.

The two of them couldn’t be more opposite. Uncle Jarrod was a moderately-handsome, mild-mannered, generous man whom everybody loved. He was the kind of person who never met a stranger, and always did his best to make everybody else happy. He was tall and bulky in a muscular way, and you always felt like nothing bad in the world could happen to you as long as he was around. The women loved him, and so did the men.

Aunt Meryl, on the other hand, was just downright mean. Her selfish nature ranked with that of Ebenezer Scrooge, and she rarely had anything nice to say about anybody other than herself. I hate to say it, but the world is a better place thanks to the fact that they didn’t have any children. I’d hate to have to deal with a cousin like Aunt Meryl.

In the 10+ months that we lived with them, Aunt Meryl acted like a tyrant and treated Uncle Jarrod horribly. She spent the balance of everyday trying to dramatically manipulate people. Case in point was the day during the fall when we were moving into a new house after Uncle Jarrod got his new job. During the days leading up to the move, she had outlined all of our duties on moving day—and she seemed willing to share in the load. However, on the morning of, she woke up about 5am with this dramatic song and dance about how she had cramps and just “could not move.” With her hand limply propped across her forehead, she laid across her bed like death was at her door. She ended up laying on her behind the entire day, barking orders about how we should move stuff and where we should put it. You would’ve thought she was the Queen of Sheba.

“Carla, you and your sister had better make sure you turn those glasses down. I don’t want to open up any cabinets and see them turned face up. If I find them that way, I’ll make the two of you wash out each one by hand!

“And Jarrod, you and your trifling friends better not drop any of those boxes. I told you I didn’t want those fools going through my things. You better make sure they don’t steal anything.” All this was said within earshot of his friends, too.

“Jarrod, why did you hire those stupid movers? I told them to put the couch against the East wall, not the West wall! Can you do anything right?”

But Uncle Jarrod never said a word. He just did everything he could to keep the move in progress while he catered to her every need.

But that was Uncle Jarrod. Always thinking about everybody else. Constantly catering to Aunt Meryl. He literally worshiped the woman. She was everything to him. It’s really sad considering all the crap she put him through.

One time, before my parents died, I remember hearing them talk to Uncle Jarrod about why he was with Aunt Meryl. I heard them say something about him coming home on a couple of occasions only to find her in their bed with other men. One time, there were two other men there!

Dad said something that makes me believe that she was using cocaine regularly, suggesting this to be the reason why their finances were so bad.

Uncle Jarrod just said that he loved her, and that there were things about her that my parents and his family just couldn’t see. He was right about that one!

***

Uncle Jarrod’s family arrived around 4p that Thanksgiving evening and Aunt Meryl already had an attitude because she told everybody to be there at 3:30p. The caterers (oh yes, she used caterers because she couldn’t cook) brought the side dishes and set everything up at 2:30p, and the jalapeno-smoked turkey she ordered from Bloomingdales came the day before. The plan was to get everybody there at 3:30p for appetizers and drinks, and dinner would be served at 5:30p. I guess the half hour setback was a bit much for her, because she seemed pissed.

And when Aunt Meryl was pissed, she had a way of making sure everybody was aware of it, and could be cut down by her anger at the drop of a dime. Her stares would be cold. Her voice disturbingly calm. Her words dangerously sharp. Their meaning always poisonous.

The best way to avoid this side of her, was to keep all eyes and attention focused her way.

The appetizers were all spread out in the living room, and everybody found their respective places on the couch and chairs throughout. Our guests included Aunt Millie and Uncle Paul, Uncle Jarrod’s parents; Aunt Katie and Uncle Spence, Uncle Jarrod’s sister and brother-in-law; and Kelly, Shawn and Shannon, Aunt Katie and Uncle Spence’s kids. My sister and I got along with them well, since we were all so close in age.

Aunt Katie and Uncle Spence started asking Uncle Jarrod about his new job at Filtered Solutions. He had just been hired as the new supervisor of one of the assembly lines. It was a good paying job, as far as I could tell. Because as soon as he got it, he bought me and my sister a whole new wardrobe (Aunt Meryl was pissed about that too) and he bought Aunt Meryl the house she wanted.

Uncle Jarrod took the floor, and we all marveled in his tales about the assembly line and the guys he supervised. He told us that, in his first few weeks on the job, his line had exceeded their production goals by more than 1,000 units. There was already talk about his “long and promising career with the company.” He had already had lunch with the president of the company.

You could tell that Uncle Jarrod was really proud of what he’d been up to. He got this job after several months of unemployment. He and Aunt Meryl made ends meet off of the acting jobs she had here and there, and the royalties she was getting from her commercials. But those times were rough for Uncle Jarrod, because Aunt Meryl never let him forget that she was the breadwinner. But he just accepted her insults and returned back a smile. That’s just how Uncle Jarrod was.

His family was extremely proud of him too. His parents just kept looking at him with a glow in their eyes the entire time he was talking. He spoke with so much enthusiasm. Everybody was having a great time. Uncle Jarrod continued with funny stories about his crew. Mike “Nephew” Gilligan—everybody called him “Nephew” because he was older than everybody, but he acted like a little kid. And there was “Rat Pockets.” The crew members swear he reached in his pocket to get quarter for a soda, and pulled out a rat instead. And I can’t forget “Crackhead Joe” who never could seem to find a pair of pants that could fully conceal the crack of his ass.

Not long into Uncle Jarrod’s tales, Aunt Meryl retreated to the kitchen. You could hear her in there being extra loud by slamming pots against the counter and moving about the kitchen like the world needed to know exactly where she was every single moment. My sister and I gave each other a look to see if either of us was going to get the bright idea to go in there, like dutiful adopted daughters, and help Mommy Dearest out. We were relieved to see that neither of us was intending to play Super Daughter that day, so we ignored her just like everybody else. A couple of times, you could see Uncle Jarrod glimpse at the kitchen with a look that showed how embarrassed he was. But he just kept on talking.

Aunt Meryl called us to the table at 5:30pm as scheduled. The dining room table sat all of us comfortably, and Aunt Meryl and Uncle Jarrod took their respective places at the head of each side. We each passed our plates around, with everybody filling each one with scoops from the dishes they were sitting closest to.

After saying the blessing, the conversation picked right back up where it left off, while we ate some surprisingly good, home-style catered food. Even the turkey, which I thought would be disgusting, was a delightful surprise. With mouths full, we continued our conversation. It was truly refreshing not having to talk about Aunt Meryl for once.

“So man, tell me about what you’re making on the line. What kind of high-powered stuff ya’ll got goin on over there?” Uncle Spence was from down south and had a funny way of talking slow, so it took him what seemed like a full minute to ask that question.

“Aw man, it ain’t that high tech,” Uncle Jarrod said, sitting up straight as he prepared to talk about the technical aspects of his job. “We make these air filter machines. You probably see them in restaurants and a lot of office buildings use them. They filter pollutants out of the air…”

I happened to glance down at Aunt Meryl who was obviously more than just a little perturbed that the guests had been seated in her house for more than two hours, seated at her table for more than 20 minutes, and not a single somebody had asked her about her Hollywood exploits yet. She mostly stared down at her plate, slowly eating the food and playing with it the rest of the time. Every now and then, she would look at Uncle Jarrod, giving him a look like she wanted to spill his blood and serve it for dessert.

After a while, she just stopped eating altogether, turning her full attention to the conversation at hand. When everybody laughed, she awkwardly tried to appear like she got the joke, but there was still an evil distance to her…like she was secretly plotting his death or something. A couple of times, she tried to redirect the conversation her way, but everybody was still focused on Uncle Jarrod. He was so captivating.

“Jarrod, tell me what your boss said, again, about you moving up,” Aunt Millie said, truly proud and happy for her son. She hated seeing him go through all the abuse Aunt Meryl put him through over the years. And her relationship with Aunt Meryl is more strained now than ever. My cousins told me the only reason they all came was because Aunt Millie knew that, without them, Uncle Jarrod would have a miserable Thanksgiving, and he would never leave Aunt Meryl to come to their place for dinner. This was the first Thanksgiving they had spent with Uncle Jarrod in six years because Aunt Meryl would always come up with a last minute reason not to go over to Aunt Millie’s.

“Well Mama, in about six months, you may be looking at the Floor Manager. I won’t have any problems making sure these girls get into college or…”

Just then, Aunt Meryl rose to her feet.

“Oh goddamit, Jarrod, shut the fuck up! I’m so tired of hearing you speak about that dammed job. Any monkey could do what you do! You don’t have any special skills and there’s nothing special about you. In my profession, I meet people with more class than you’ll ever have! So why don’t you just shut the fuck up! You’ve ruined everybody’s Thanksgiving with all your goddamned bragging, you son-of-a-bitch!”

As if on cue, the tears started rolling down her face, and she hurled herself away from the table, through the kitchen and up the stairs. We could hear her sobbing from upstairs in her bedroom.

The rest of us just sat there stunned, not sure what to do. I felt sorry for my uncle. He had to feel crazy that she acted this way in front of his family. She had just driven a blade right through his manhood, and he had done nothing to deserve it.

Aunt Millie and Uncle Paul looked like they wanted to strangle Aunt Meryl for speaking like that about their son. Uncle Jarrod just kept his head lowered with a look that was half embarrassment and half frustration. His jaw was twitching, and his fists were clinched. He looked defeated.

I realized the full extent of Aunt Meryl’s cruelty that day, and will never be able to forgive her for what she said to Uncle Jarrod. She was much more insane than I ever thought she was. Her mental state must have been entirely outside the boundaries of this universe for her to have turned an otherwise perfect holiday dinner into a disaster because nobody was talking about her. This grown-ass, 30-something-year-old woman.

Aunt Meryl never came back downstairs, and after a few minutes, Aunt Millie broke the silence with a bluntly comedic, “good riddance, heifer!” We all laughed and went right back on listening to Uncle Jarrod talk—thankful for the ice breaker. We finished our dinner without Aunt Meryl and then retreated back to the living room for more cool stories from Uncle Jarrod.

His family didn’t leave until sometime after midnight.

***

Aunt Meryl and Uncle Jarrod startled me and my sister out of our sleep with loud shouts and what sounded like them throwing things at each other and hitting the wall. We crept to the door of our room to see what was going on.

“Meryl I’m sick of your shit, do you hear me! I can’t take it anymore. I haven’t done anything except be good to you. What do you want from me, woman?”

Uncle Jarrod was packing a suitcase, while dodging items Aunt Meryl was throwing at him from around the room.

“You keep it up, woman, and I’m gonna call the police. Why are you acting like this with those girls across the hall? Are you crazy? You need to go to sleep!”

“Oh to hell with those girls,” Aunt Meryl screamed. She was pacing around the room like a mad woman, searching for things to throw at Uncle Jarrod. “You know I didn’t want them to come here in the first place. You wanted them, not me! Those girls are exactly like their mother was, and I hated that bitch! She was nothing but a trifling whore and she deserved to die…”

Smack! Uncle Jarrod slapped the crap out of Aunt Meryl, spinning her head around damn near 360 degrees. Her body went airborne before flopping down across the bed with a bounce. He stood over her, glaring down with a look I had never seen on his face before. His nostrils were flaring, his fists balled, and he reached down and grabbed her by her shoulders—lifting her back up until her bloody face was inches from his.

“Woman, I will kill you if you ever talk about my friend that way again. You could never be a fraction of the woman she was. She was my best friend’s wife! And you are a nothing more than a disgusting, miserable, ugly woman. Your face, the one that I used to love so much, is repulsive to me now. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to crush it under the weight of my fist. So, I’m warning you. Don’t let another word part from your lips. If you want to continue breathing, leave this room, and don’t speak to me again until I get back. I need some days to calm down and get these girls settled at my sister’s. Then I’m coming back to deal with you and us.”

Aunt Meryl must not have believed him, because instead of shutting up, she spat in his face, and then scratched claw marks across his cheek with her way-too-long Hollywood nails. Her arms started swirling like a windmill as she hit Uncle Jarrod with blow after blow. “You bastard! You faggot! You stupid nigger! Nobody in your family amounted to a goddamned thing and I never should have married you. Do you know how many men want to be with me? Tons! And I let them, sometimes, because I know they can handle me better than you ever could. You’re pathetic and I hate you. I hate your Mama and I hate those girls across the hall…”

She continued spewing the most horrible words at Uncle Jarrod. My sister and I expected to see him lunge at her like a madman, but instead, he was actually quite calm. He slowly walked across the room and opened the top drawer of his dresser. He reached inside and calmly pulled out his pistol. In the most eerie and nonchalant way possible, he cocked the gun, took two steps toward Aunt Meryl, aimed it at her face, and fired five times—spattering the white walls and bed linens with blood and brain fragments.

And just as coolly, he placed the gun beside her and walked over to our room. We had moved from peeking through the doorway to silently crying on our beds.

“Baby-girls, I’m sorry ya’ll had to see that. You know I love you both, and I’m sorry I couldn’t give you girls the home you deserved and the one I promised your daddy I would give you. I know you don’t understand this now, and maybe you never will. I just couldn’t live with your aunt anymore. Your Aunt Katie will be here soon to pick you up. I’m gonna pack up some clothes for you both. I promise you’ll understand more about this over time. And I hope you can forgive me one day. I’m so sorry this happened in front of you.”

Neither of us was sure about what was happening and what we had seen. We made our way downstairs and turned on the television and let it watch us.

Aunt Katie got there about 20 minutes later, and Uncle Jarrod brought our bags downstairs. Their interaction spooked my sister and I even more. But I guess they were just thinking about the fact that Uncle Jarrod was going to have to go to jail.

I’ll never forget the look in my uncle’s eyes as we pulled out of the driveway and he waved us goodbye…

The next day, Aunt Katie told us our uncle was gone. He had shot himself through the mouth with one hand while he held Aunt Meryl’s body with the other. He once said he couldn’t live without her, but I never realized this was what he meant.

We buried Uncle Jarrod on a Saturday next to his wife. We hated to see him eternally linked to the woman that had caused his demise, but we all knew that this was where he would want to be.

It’s been nearly a year since that happened, and as Thanksgiving approaches again, my sister and I are doing as well as we can considering the circumstances. We’re thankful that Aunt Katie and Uncle Spence chose to fulfill Uncle Jarrod’s promise to our father by taking us in, but we desperately want our uncle back.

We never speak about what Uncle Jarrod did to Aunt Meryl. We talk about Uncle Jarrod, but it’s only about the wonderful man we all remember and miss. No one ever talks about Aunt Meryl, and we’ll only say that Uncle Jarrod “died,” not that he killed himself.

I often wonder why God would have allowed the two of them to get together. What could have made Him sit by and watch a marriage occur between a man who was an angel and a woman who never understood what love was all about?

And what are my sister and I supposed to learn from all this? Perhaps one day, we’ll have the answers we need. But for right now, we just miss Uncle Jarrod.

On Relationships: The Dating Scene of 2004

2004-08-02T11:38:00.000-04:00

As a 30-something-year-old woman, I must say that the dating scene of 2004 is getting more and more dismal by the day. This past weekend offers two perfect examples, since I had dates scheduled that never came through for reasons that have literally blown my mind. Here’s the short and skinny on each of these fools:

Date #1 – Daddy Warbucks

Daddy Warbucks, as we’ll call him, is a very rich dude thanks to the fact that he once was an NBA player and has since assumed a healthy-paying corporate job for one of our nation’s top household goods manufacturers. So far, I’ve seen him driving a Hummer, a Corvette and a Lexus—all gadgets which appear to be status symbols for this otherwise unfulfilled ex-athlete.

This guy is in his late 30s, has no children and no prior marriages. He recently bought his mother a home, and has at least two of his own. He made a startling confession on our first date, however. He said that, in his family, he’s never seen any examples of a quality relationship, and his father was notorious for sleeping around on his mother. A true player, indeed. But, based on the fact that my own family is so sound, he thought he could learn a thing or two from me about what a real relationship was supposed to be like.

Woo-hoo! Finally, a dude that knows his faults and is willing to correct them. What a breath of fresh air, or so I thought. But I could never get over this nagging feeling he gave me that seemed like he felt some sense of entitlement to everything…especially the ladies! His request for a kiss goodnight seemed more like a demand. And instead of a second date, he made at least two requests to “come over and spend some time with me.” That might be cool during the relationship phase, but when it’s time for courting, he doesn’t have any business trying to move so quickly toward a night-cap during the booty call hours. It’s just simply unacceptable.

For one thing, he never earned the right to come inside my walls—household or otherwise. I thought he might have gotten the hint when he called one day to ask me out to lunch. I didn’t have any plans, so I accepted. We had a nice lunch that gave us a chance to talk about these things. I told him my concerns, and he did a good job of navigating me through them to a point where I felt comfortable enough to give him another shot. So, we made plans to go out this past Friday night.

He called me while I was at work on Friday.

“Did you decide what you wanted to do this evening,” he asks?

“No, but I promise to have the whole schedule worked out before I leave work this evening.”

“Well, what are you going to cook me?”

Now, this was a Friday. One thing I don’t do on ANY Friday is cook. The last thing I’m thinking about after a hard week at work is slaving over a hot stove for some man I hardly know. It just ain’t gonna happen!

So, I said, “I don’t cook on Fridays. What happened to us going out?”

“You know, you seem to have a lot of rules I don’t like,” he says with what sounds dangerously close to an attitude.

“Well, it sounds like you’ve got a lot of things you’re just going to have to get over,” I say with equal attitude just as we’re interrupted by a business call I have to take.

“Can I call you back?”

“Sure,” he says, “call me back when you get finished.”

I called him, and he never returned my call. I haven’t heard from him since.

Date #2 – The Surprise

I recently connected with someone I dated a few months ago, but just didn’t connect with at the time. This guy was also great on paper. He had his own real estate venture going, where he was buying up old properties, fixing them up and then either renting them out or selling them for profit. At present, he has at least twelve properties in his arsenal.

So, thanks to the fact that my prospects were drying up lately and because there was never any real reason behind the fact that we didn’t connect, I decided to give him a call. I live in a two-family house that he said he was interested in buying if it ever went on the market. It did…so that was my excuse to call.

We went out last Friday to dinner and a movie. The date was nice and uneventful. Nice conversation…good chemistry…the whole nine. We ended the date around 1am, and I said goodnight to him at my door.

This past Saturday, he called to see if we could go out again. He was in Knoxville at the time on what he said was business. He lives there part time, so I didn’t think anything of it. He was coming back Saturday afternoon, and wanted us to hook up that night. It sounded good to me especially since my date the night before bombed so pathetically.

His call came about 9am Saturday morning. That’s no problem for me, because I’m always up by 7am on Saturdays.

“What’s up, girl?”

“Nothing…what’s up with you?”

“Nothing. What are you doing today?”

“I actually don’t have anything scheduled.”

“I was hoping we could hook up tonight, if you’re not busy.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

We get off the phone, and I call my girlfriend, who is the person who introduced us in the first place.

“What-up, girl! You know I’m going out with your boy tonight.”

“What?! When did ya’ll start hooking up again? I thought you said you didn’t like him.”

“I know…I did say that. But there really wasn’t any particular reason why. We went out last week and had a good time, so I thought we should try it again. Girl, he said he was looking to start something serious, and you know that sounds good to me!”

Something in her voice sounded suspect. She seemed more concerned than happy, which was odd to me because she hooked us up.

“Oh…well there is something I think I should tell you about him that I just found out. Now girl, you cannot say a word, because I was sworn to secrecy. And I was told NOT to tell you in particular.”

“Okay…now you know you had better spit it out, Chickie! Is he in Knoxville visiting his wife or something?” I knew whatever it was had to be serious.

“No girl, it’s nothing like that. It doesn’t have anything to do with another woman.”

“Well, what is it. You have to tell me before I go out with him again. What if we come back here and do the do?”

“You had better slow your roll on that one, Sista. He just got sentenced to one year in prison yesterday. That’s what he was in Knoxville for.”

There must have been about two minutes of silence while I marinated on what she just told me.

“Damn. Are you for real? Prison? For what?”

“Girl, he’s going up on some Martha Stewart-type shit. He and his boy were involved in some white-collar bullshit and got nabbed by the FBI.”

“But I thought he was doing all his stuff legitimately! I thought you said this boy had his shit together! He’s going to jail!”

“I thought he had his stuff together, too. I can’t believe he even thought about pulling this. It’s really not like him, but he’s on his way to the joint nonetheless.”

Needless to say, I called Ole Boy right after I hung up from my girl to cancel our date. There just was no point to the whole thing. I can buy my own food, pay for my own movies and do whatever else I want on my own. But I wasn’t trying to hook up with somebody who was acting like he wanted to get close to me just so that he could have somebody write to his ass while he was locked away. I am not a prison groupie. I’m not down with the visits through the glass windows and phone receivers. I’m not trying to see him all dressed in orange or stripes or whatever they have to wear in the prison he’s on his way to.

It just ain’t me.

So, it’s Monday, and I face the week with no dates in site. Daddy Warbucks has officially been written off as an asshole who thinks every woman should sweat him. And The Surprise was just way too surprising for me. He’s looking at 365 days of pure testosterone! And no straight man would be happy about that.

So that, my friends, is dating in 2004 for those of you who didn’t know. It sucks. It sucks. It sucks. And that’s about the only way to sum it up.

A Bit of Commentary: Learn When to Pick Your Battles

2004-07-28T17:26:00.000-04:00

After living more than 30 years and being told this message a thousand times, it seems odd that my biggest Achilles heel in life is adhering to these words from my mother: You have to learn when to pick your battles, baby.

While this may seem easy and second nature for many, this practice represents my most daunting task. “High-spirited,” “snappy,” “feisty,” and “stone-cold bitch” are all words that have been used to describe me regardless of whether I’m at home, at work or at church. I simply cannot seem to turn down a good fight—even when my opponent is hardly worth the effort.

But I love the art of the diss, and get a rush every time I put some numbskull in their place. I like to hear people’s voices shake when I’m laying them out with my fierce tongue-lashing. I love feeling my neck roll, and relishing in the awful lines I spit. I can be downright brutal, and sometimes, it feels great.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I usually reserve my verbal fury for those who earn it according to my definition. The problem is, that definition changes depending on my mood. So, I may go off on somebody who cheated me out of money as fast as I’d go off on a Starbucks worker for forgetting to stir my whipped cream into my overpriced cup of coffee (no offense, Starbucks…It’s just that I should own significant shares of stock in your company after all the overpriced cups I drank).

I might also go off on the telephone company for not installing my services properly. And, before I go further, let me apologize to all the folks in India that I’ve cussed out about my mobile telephone service because they made me repeat what I was saying way too many times.

Of the examples I’ve given—even though cheating someone out of their money is a serious thing—none really call for the effort I take to develop creatively offensive lines that would make your hair stand on end. It’s just not worth it. Nine times out of ten, the receiving party just dismissed me as some crazy flake…and to be honest, many times they were right.

I have to learn to handle and avoid conflict better. Here’s a perfect case in point…a friend moved downstairs from me in my two family apartment building, and brought her boyfriend along for the ride. Since he didn’t have a job, we all agreed that certain duties around the building—like taking the trash to the curb and shoveling the snow—would be his responsibility. He was cool with it until we got the first heavy snowfall.

That morning, I was outside trying to shovel snow from our massive, uphill driveway, and I wasn’t doing a very good job. Instead of helping me when he came out to bid his girlfriend adieu, he simply said “hello” to me and walked right back upstairs (his girlfriend drives a truck and didn’t park in their garage, so getting out wasn’t an issue for her). I especially thought this was odd, since the two of them had just eaten my food the night before, and because we had all agreed to the terms of the household. So, I asked what the problem was. He said, “Why should I help you shovel snow so that you can get out of the driveway?” I said, “It’s not just my driveway, it’s all of our driveway. Why would you want your own girlfriend to have to park on the street?” And with as much venom as I could muster, I ended with, “It ain’t like you got anything to do since you don’t have a job!”

And with that, he slammed their door in my face. I had to use a sick day because I couldn’t get out of my garage.

Well, the next day, I hired a company to come and remove the snow. As I got them started, I realized that it might be easier for them if I moved my car out of the garage. This would allow them to back the plow into the driveway and push the snow up the hill. They had cleared a path for me so that this wouldn’t be a problem.

But, I needed my keys to move the car. So, I went back upstairs to get them. As I was coming back down, I reached the landing of the basement stairwell. Just then, my friend’s boyfriend was making his way up the stairs. In an instant, he pushed past me, knocking me into the wall.

Now, if I had been smart at this point, I would have called somebody to deal with the situation (like my father or best male friend). Instead, I just start yelling at him—blatantly chastising him for the error and ignorance of his ways. While I’m arguing, I’m also making my way back up the steps to my apartment. I made it as far as the first landing before I said something that made him pause before he shut his door.

“Say it again,” he challenged.

So, naturally, I did. And the next thing I knew, my head was being mashed into the wall and my body slammed against the stairs. I was seeing stars as I was dialing 911. He left, of course, and hasn’t been back since. But I had to go through weeks with a lump on my head and an extremely unsightly bruise on my hip.

He was wrong for what he did. But there were other ways that I could’ve shown him this. For one thing, I should have let my friend show him the error of his ways. He was her problem, not mine. I should have just called somebody when he pushed me the first time. But no. I had to insert my two cents into the mix…and it caused me some pain I wasn’t expecting. And the whole issue was about nothing more than some damn snow!

My Mama always said that when you put people on the defensive, you had better be ready to deal with some shit. And this is one case where she was right. Sometimes, having too much to say, whether you’re right or wrong, can get your head split. The rest of the time, you’re just wasting energy that’s best devoted elsewhere.

So Mom, I’m finally listening. I will heed your advice and learn when and when not to keep my mouth shut. After all, life is too short to spend it arguing with the endless array of fools this society has to offer. And I’m much too cute to get my head split!

Family Time: Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

2004-07-27T14:49:00.000-04:00

One day, my Dad called me with what seemed, at first, to be a disturbing revelation. “Hey Baby Girl, some dude in Atlanta called saying he was your Brother. I need you to check it out.”

My first reaction/response: “How old is he, Dad?” You see, my Sister and I were in our 20s and early 30s at the time, so his answer needed to indicate a time of birth that did not conflict with the timing of our family. Otherwise, I wasn’t about to have too much more to say to my Dad.

“He’s older than you and your Sister. He was born before your Mother and I even met.”

And with that, I had the strength to make the call.

***

I called my Brother on a Thursday while I was still at work. I had no idea what to tell him, so I started the drill about who his people were, who was still alive and stuff like that. We agreed to see each other that weekend. But, I flaked, and conveniently “forgot” to call. His wife called me the next week to see what happened. I can’t even remember at this point what I said, but somehow it proved adequate enough, and we made a date to hook up the following weekend.

We got into some normal chit chat about life in general, goals and such. I was at a point when I was ready to leave my job at the time. We were also at a point in the conversation when I realized that my Sister-in-Law’s name and voice started sounding way too familiar.

We go on and on about work, and finally I say something that makes her respond, “That’s exactly how I felt when I worked in the Mayor’s Office.” And then it hit me…I also worked in the Mayor’s Office…and I had known my Sister-in-Law by her maiden name for more than five years. This world is just too small.

In fact, during the time of our joint employment, I had commented on the wedding photo in her office (she had just gotten married then), saying how handsome her husband was. She had also passed by my area and noticed the picture of Dad on my desk. She said the same thing about him. Little did we know at the time that, one day, we’d be hooking up to meet as a family.

The two of them told me all about the process of finding Dad. My Brother’s stepfather, who had raised him, died about a year before they started looking for Dad. My Brother had always assumed that his real father was some bum living in his hometown that just dumped his mother after finding out that she was pregnant.

It turns out that she never actually told my Dad about my Brother in the first place. She just stopped communicating with him altogether because her great aunts, with whom she was living at the time, didn’t like my Dad. So, she never told him, and simply dropped out of his life.

His mother told him that, as far as she knew, my Dad was living up north with his family. She thought he had two girls. She told my Brother his name, and he and my Sister-in-Law did a national white pages search on the Internet. My Dad was the only person in the country to come up under his name. So, they gave him a call.

***

The weekend rolls around, and I make my way over to my Brother’s house for our initial visit. He wasn’t there at the time…he hadn’t gotten home from the gym yet, and we were going to meet him at The Cheesecake Factory for brunch. As I sat in their living room, I noticed all the pictures of the Brother I had not yet met lining the bookcases along the walls. One look at this man, and I knew immediately what Dad wanted me to confirm. This was, without a doubt, my Brother. He looked more like Dad than me or my sister ever thought about looking. This was wild…exciting…some TV shit as far as I was concerned. It was great!

I called my Dad, and left a voice mail about my discovery. Then I headed off to The Cheesecake Factory to meet my Brother.

We sat and talked for hours, and I watched my Brother and Sister-in-Law interact with one another. He made a couple of playful jabs at her, and always ended by calling her “Woogie.” I heard it the first time, and dismissed it as my imagination. I heard it again, and just had to ask.

“Are you calling her Woogie?”

“Yes,” my brother said. “It’s just a play name that I made up.”

“That’s funny,” I said, “because Dad has called me Woogie for as long as I can remember.”

Now you go figure. How do two people, who have never seen or even known of each other prior to this point, come up with the same goofy nickname for the people they love? Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I think it’s special.

My Brother, Sister-and-Law, and I continued to develop our relationship from that point. A couple of months later, and we have Father’s Day staring us in the face. We decided to surprise my Father by bringing my new Brother home.

Big Brother and I arrived in my hometown sometime around 6pm the day before Father’s Day. I called right when we were getting off the highway to give my Mom time to prepare my Dad. We had other relatives in town, so everybody needed a little prep time before the big, new addition rolled into the household.

We got out of the car to a welcome committee of about 20 relatives and friends. It seems that all motion in the world stopped the minute my Father and new Brother saw each other for the first time…both of them staring into their own faces. It was fantastic. A Hallmark greeting card couldn’t have captured the moment accurately enough. It was such a joyous occasion.

After endless kisses and hugs, we all went inside and watched my Father and Brother disappear into the basement to watch sports and get acquainted. We all took turns taking a peek into the basement, and we would come back up and report our findings.

“Did you see the way they both just stare into the television with the same blank expressions?”

“Did you see the way they both sit with their legs crossed? It’s exactly the same way!”

“You can’t even tell them apart if you close your eyes and just listen to them.”

People can say whatever they want to about environment and the like, but DNA is truly a powerful thing as far as I can tell. My Father and new Brother had never spent a moment together in life. And at that time, my Brother was 34 years old. But, trust me, these two were carbon copies if I’ve ever seen them. One was simply an older version of the other.

The years since then have just drawn us closer. Initially, we were all worried about Mom’s reaction to the whole thing since this was not her son, and we’d had the perfect nuclear family since forever. But, she was cool with it. She said it was a beautiful thing. She had not been violated in any way, so how could she see it as anything other than a miracle. My Father was united with his son, and it was nothing but a blessing.

With all the stories in the world that detail just how touchy such situations can be, I thank God that ours was different. We added love to the family. And now that my Brother has a daughter, I got the Niece I always wanted.

All I wish was that my brother had been around when I was growing up to keep some of the knuckle-headed dudes away from me…

Oh well…I guess it’s better late than never.

Short Story Time: Mister County Commissioner

2004-07-26T12:15:00.000-04:00

Since Angela hadn’t read the assigned chapters, she was glad to see the man standing at the front of her political science class that fall morning. It was the tail end of the campaign season, and all the politicians were making their rounds among the Atlanta University Center schools, trying to scrounge up sign holders and leaflet throwers. She would have to listen to a speech, but at least she wouldn’t be put on front street with a whole bunch of questions she didn’t know the answers to.

It didn’t seem like anybody in the classroom was anxious to hear whatever this man had to say. Most of the students were off in their own worlds, thinking about anything other than the political views he was about to share. “County Commissioner…,” she heard the professor say. For the next 50 minutes, it would be all rah-rah and yah-hoo about the homeless who would be housed, the jobs that would be created, the healthcare that would be available, and the family values that would be restored—all because she and her classmates carried his signs.

The speaker was a milk chocolate brown man with really pretty light brown eyes. He had a kind of Lionel Jefferson style to him with his mid-length afro all combed toward the front of his head. Angela thought he looked like a nerd. He certainly didn't look like anybody who could make any kind of difference for the people. He was ultra corporate-looking, and no brother in the 1990s is supposed to comb an afro to the front of his head. Some styles come back, but that one wasn't on anybody's radar screen.

And his voice. It had a Mr. Rogers vibe to it, Angela thought. She wasn't sure if this was going to be about politics of if they were about to have Story Time.

But what he said was a totally different matter altogether, and it seemed Angela wasn’t alone in her sudden tendency to hang on to his every word. This man didn’t seem like all the rest of the politicians she’d heard before. He actually sounded sincere. His words transformed his voice from Mr. Rodgers to Mike Tyson. Yes, it was still weird, but you just knew you’d be in for a rude awakening if you fucked with this man. Angela was impressed. And like almost all the rest of the students in her class, she signed up to do whatever she could do to help this man be the next County Commissioner.

She made countless phone calls, and put flyers on all the cars in her seven assigned church parking lots each week for three weeks. She stood in the rain to do last minute shouting and sign holding on election day, and was happy as she could be when they announced his victory that night at his campaign headquarters. It was the highlight of her sophomore year.

When Angela came back for her junior year, she got a job at a nonprofit agency that offered good experience but didn’t pay a single dime. After dozens of bounced checks and way too many close calls on eviction notices, she realized the experience thing was great, but she needed a paying job. So she called County Commissioner to see if he could offer any leads. After all, she didn’t get paid to work on his campaign, and helping with a job search was the least he could do. He promised all the students that his door was open and that he owed them one.

County Commissioner's day job was a lawyer, and his law office was jammed inside a residential house in the “hood” of southwest Atlanta. The house was small and cramped with books and too much old furniture. His office, converted from what would have been the dining room if somebody was actually living there, looked like the paper fairy had blessed it the night before with stacks for days on small tables and TV trays lining the walls. The built-in bookcases overflowed with every law book under the sun. But, oddly enough, his desk was quite clean. Just a few papers, some framed pictures, a pen, the phone and a single file folder.

Angela sat in the empty chair in front of his executive desk. He greeted her with a bright smile, looking larger than life in his high-back leather chair.

"It's good to see you again. How are your classes coming?"

"Great. I've started my investigative journalism class..." She proceeded with the usual rhetoric you might give to an uncle you hadn't seen in a while. All the highlights older people want to hear like, “school is great,” “I’m learning a lot,” “I’m meeting great people,” and stuff like that. She didn't exactly want to ask him for something right out of the starting gate, so she tried to drag out her "perfect student" speech until she felt like the timing was right.

"Well, you said you needed to talk to me, so tell me what really brings you here." Okay, Angela thought. This was obviously the time to tell him, but there was something weird about his vibe. It was too cat-daddy. She wasn't really expecting this from him.

"I've been working for the Women & Baby Health Advisory for the past six months. It's a great internship, and I'm getting a lot of great experience in media relations and public affairs. But, I'm not getting paid any money, and I really need a job. I was wondering if you knew of anybody I should talk to, or if there were any doors you could open for me personally?"

"I'd be more than happy to help you," he said, immediately filling Angela with a sense of comfort that her broke days were coming to an end. "Hold on for a second. Let me just make a phone call."

Angela heard him ask to speak to some man she knew had to be important. His tone went from cat-daddy to corporate too quick. She heard him tell the person about her, saying she was majoring in journalism and had some hands-on experience in public relations. He told the person that she was looking for a job she could do while she finished school. She heard a few okay's and saw him write something down, and then County Commissioner hung up the phone.

"That was the president of ComTech...you're familiar with the company, right?"

"Yes, definitely." Angela was getting really excited now. This could lead to a job after school. This company was a telecommunications giant.

"Well, he says you should report to their Dunwoody office on Monday and ask for Charlotte Brown. She will be familiar with your name. You'll fill out an application and take a test of some kind. They're going to place you in the corporate communications department as a part-time administrative assistant. But, I know you can network your way into a full-time job if you want to. And, I'll be more than happy to help you as long as we can be friends."

"Oh absolutely!" She practically screeched at County Commissioner, she was so happy. "I will certainly make the most of it and I really appreciate you recommending me. I wasn't expecting to literally walk out of here with a job. This is wonderful. Thank you!"

He stood up and walked around to the front of his desk and propped himself against the edge with his legs spread open.

"Why don't you come show me how thankful you are?" Cat-daddy was back in full force and then some, like his brief departure was so that he could recharge to super strength. The look in his eyes literally frightened Angela. He looked so foreign from the hero she'd come here to see. Gone was the champion, and now she was faced with some mid-life crisis pervert who actually thought she was going to give him some as payback for a job. He was acting like it was her obligation for the good deed he had done, rather than his obligation for her job well done during his campaign. Like he had been the one standing in the rain holding up signs for her election! Angela was totally confused.

"What do you mean?" She honestly couldn’t think of a better response to his preposterous request.

"Come on, you're a junior in college. You know exactly what I mean. Come over here and show me how much you appreciate the job I just got you. I promise, I won’t hurt you. Are you scared? You look like a woman to me. And a fine one. Come show me how happy you are about what I did. You can start with a kiss."

Angela was horrified. She was 19 years old and this man was at least her father's age. He was married, had a son her age and, up until five minutes ago, she thought he actually had her best interests at heart. What had she done to deserve this? She was dressed professionally in a dark pantsuit. Her hair was pulled back into a simple bun. Her earrings were studs. She tried purposely to look conservative so that he would know that she wasn't just some dumb college student who might tarnish his reputation by getting a job somewhere and dressing and acting like she didn't have any sense.

Why was he flipping like this? Her hands were literally trembling, she was so shaken. Never before now had she been faced with a situation that she had absolutely no clue as to what the best move was. "I don't think of you that way," she almost whispered, unable to mask her stunned feelings.

"You don't think of me what way?"

"I don't think of you in a way that would make me come over there and kiss you," she said, slowly but surely finding her confidence again.

"And how do you think of me?" He was still standing there with his legs propped open.

"More like a mentor,” Angela said. “If it were personal, I'd say something along the lines of an uncle. But nobody that I would kiss the way you're implying.”

“But I am not your uncle. And I thought you liked me.” He crossed both his legs and his arms now, but still stood against the edge of the desk.

“I do, but just not like a boyfriend.”

He was visibly frustrated, and his ego had obviously taken a blow. His entire attitude went from cat-daddy to outright indignant as he marched from the front of the desk back to his seat, sitting with a high-and-mighty air that even the Queen of England couldn’t master.

“I never said I was your boyfriend, and I damn sure ain’t your uncle! You walk into my office and ask me for something and then act like you don’t have to give something to get something. You obviously aren’t a woman yet, because you don’t know anything about relationships in the grown up world.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything to mess up the job I just got you, because I don’t want to have to explain why. But let me be real clear in telling you not to ever call me or come see me again until you change your mind. If you want to be friends, I’ll do anything in the world for you, and I can make your life easy. But you need to learn what friendship is all about first. Now get out of my office.”

Angela fought back tears while she gathered her purse and jacket and headed for the door. She halfway wanted to call her father and get him to come down to Atlanta and beat this man’s ass. But all she had the energy to do was go home and cry.

Her Midwestern upbringing had not prepared her for this kind of fuckery. A man who had been her real life political hero had turned out to be just an old-ass pervert. A disgusting asshole like the ones she had only heard about on television. He was the kind of man her parents warned her about—the faceless danger that could strike at any time and during the most unsuspecting of circumstances.

Angela started her job at ComTech just as planned, and never spoke to County Commissioner again until the end of her senior year. On a whim, she decided to see whether or not he had realized the error of his ways or if he was still the asshole she remembered.

She figured County Commissioner might be able to contact that same bureaucrat he called before, and secure a permanent job for her in ComTech’s corporate communications department. She had already worked her own angles to ensure that she was a strong candidate, but she was curious to see whether cat-daddy had retired or if he was still alive and well in the County Commissioner’s Office.

“Hi there. It’s Angela Meyers…Remember me?”

“Sure, I remember you, Angela. How’s everything going? I’ve heard great things about you at ComTech. They say you’re doing a great job.”

“I didn’t know you had been keeping up,” Angela said, surprised by the fact that he was even interested.

“Sure I’ve been keeping up. You don’t think I would send someone for a job on my say so, and not find out how they’re doing. This is my reputation, you know.”

“Well, I’m glad you know that I’ve been doing a good job. They have a job open in corporate communications that is full time. Would you be willing to do one last favor as one last ‘thank you’ for a job well done on your campaign?” Angela tried to sound as light-hearted as possible, considering the perceived demon she was talking to on the other end of the phone.

“That depends on you,” County Commissioner said. “Have you changed your mind about our friendship?”

“No, I haven’t. I still feel the same way about it as before.”

“Well then, I’ll tell you like I told you before. Don’t call me again until you change your mind.”

And with that, Angela hung up the phone—realizing that old demons never learn new tricks.

A Political Rant: I'm Leaving This Town!

2004-07-22T16:52:00.000-04:00

It’s official. After four years of being back in the hometown that I said I’d never come back to, I’ve decided to make a break before I become such a bitter chick that nobody—even my Mama—would want to deal with me. And believe me…I am dangerously close to reaching that point.

I live in a town where diversity is about as popular as a fart in church. During the four years that I’ve been back, we had a race riot, several brothers killed by police, national probes into racial profiling practices by the police, and a brief scare that Jerry Springer would once again become mayor. Damn! That’s enough right there.

But, then let’s look at the workforce. There ain’t nothing but lily-White companies everywhere you look. Of course, you can get a job as a Black person, but you had better be prepared to assume a backseat role. Your opinions…they don’t want to hear them. Your advice…they don’t think you have any worth hearing. Your brain…as long as you can demonstrate that you have one on your resume, yet avoid acting like you know anything on the job, you’ll be okay. Bottom line…help them reach their racial quotas, while sacrificing any attempts to better yourself. That’s the rule of the game.

In fact, the game got so out of hand during the past few years that we gained national headlines for a boycott, which was extremely misunderstood halfway because of the powers that be and halfway because the organizers were such a mess. Following the death of a young black man who was shot because he was running from police, got cornered, and reached to pull up his saggy jeans, the organizers called for a boycott of all downtown businesses. But there was no formal messaging behind the boycott. How did they expect people to get behind it when there was no understanding as to what needed to happen for the boycott to end? That’s Black folks in this town, for you. They obviously read the section of their history books about the boycotts in the South, but I guess they skipped over all the details about organization…having a mission that everybody is clear on…you know…stuff like that. But the powers that be are no better. All they did was constantly try to paint “we are the world” pictures of this town, while refusing to meet with boycott organizers because they didn’t get along with them. And all this was happening under a spotlight of national attention.

And how can you take a town seriously when its most popular, and celebrated, mayor was none other than Jerry Springer. And he was elected mayor even after getting caught writing a check to a prostitute while he was a City Councilman.

Mark Twain once said something to the effect that, if the world was about to end, he’d want to move to this town because the folks here wouldn’t find out about it for at least 20 years. That’s a shame, but it sure is the truth. They haven’t figured out much about anything in the way of progress. That’s why I have to get the hell out of dodge. I’m leaving this town, and I’m not coming back…except to see my mama, of course.

Question: Are we still in the midst of the boycott, or have we moved on to planning Jerry Springer’s run for President?

On Relationships: Why Do I Have to Wait?

2004-07-21T00:34:00.000-04:00

My Girl and I were out shopping, and she was telling me about this guy she wanted to hook me up with. He sounded good on paper, and she described his character to be quite decent. So, I’m calculating the potential secretly in my head. Lord knows I am overdue for a quality relationship with a strong Black man. What she was describing sounded good to me, and she made a pretty good reference based on what I knew about her standards. So, me and Dude hook up.

The date is lovely. Nice food, good conversation, lots of puppy-love eye contact, sexual tension…you know where I’m going here. He was single and not even dating a little bit. Social calendar clean as a whistle. Wanted all the same shit I wanted. So, when the date is over, we go back to my place supposedly to partake in some “herbalities.” Well, we actually do handle the herb, but we also handle our “business.” And it was great. We made plans for the remainder of that weekend.

So, I call Little Miss Matchmaker the next day to give her the low down. She just flat out asks me, “Did you give him some?” I’m grown, and she is my friend…so I said yes. She about flipped out with all this Scarlet O’Hara babbling about how I should wait to give up the pum-pum and not give Dude too much too fast. About how giving it up too quickly might make Dude get too comfortable. He might stop thinking he has to work to keep me. Basically, the whole relationship might just get shitty from this point.

And I got a problem with that. Now, I love my friend dearly, but I need to draw a line.

When I had sex with Dude, I did it because I wanted to. There was no ulterior motive behind it. I was feeling him and I went for it. I did it to satisfy me, not him. I don’t use the coochie as a tool of munipulation. I use it as an instrument to please me. Don’t get it twisted.

I understand what she was trying to say, and I know she was trying to look out for me. But I have a problem with this outdated thinking about what is sexually acceptable for men as opposed to women. In this situation, Dude is probably considered a player by most standards. He scored.

However, according to the traditional rules, I lowered myself. Now, he doesn’t have to treat me like a lady anymore.

So, I guess if I had waited a month to give him some, it just would have taken that long for things to go from sugar to shit. I would have had a great relationship for a little while and then it would be over. And I’d just be horny and upset.

Well, I say if he’s going to act like an ass, it’s better to find out sooner than later. And I also propose these new guidelines:

Men who declare women who sleep with them “too soon” as whores must also declare themselves the same, if not worse. They, unlike the women in the situation, are knowingly associating their bodies with someone they think is not worthy of their affection. To me, that makes them flat out trifling and immoral! It also implies that they must have low opinions of themselves.
People must open their minds to the possibility that women like me just might want to get some too, and don’t want to wait. Hell, I’m in my 30s. This is my prime…and I’m gonna get mine!
As grown folks, we must stop playing these silly dating games and abiding by these dumb ass rules. I say, do what you feel when you feel it. If you can look at yourself comfortably in the mirror the next morning, then who gives a yah-hoo what anybody else thinks?

I was able to explain a little of this to My Girl, and I think she understood my point. Me and Dude have another date this weekend, and as far as the pum-pum goes…all I can say is that he’s still loving it. And it’s been several months now.

A Bit of Commentary: Allow Me to Introduce Myself

2004-07-20T23:30:00.000-04:00

Hello and thank you for joining me. I’m Just Me, and this is my blog. It’s not journalism, literature, propaganda, poetry, or even a good diary entry after a drama-filled day. It’s just me saying what I want to say because I feel like saying it.

The topics I’m prepared to discuss reflect the shit that bothers me, intrigues me, concerns me, affects me or involves me in some way. I’ll talk about current events, relationships, politics, family and everything else in between. It would be nice if you dropped me a line from time to time to suggest topics of your own or add your two cents to the views expressed. I like open dialogue, but please keep all questions and comments free from rudeness. If you’re not feeling what I’m saying, there’s probably another blogger out there you can holler at.

I certainly won’t be trying to offend anybody. And I’m no expert by anybody’s standard. I’m Just Me: a black female, early 30s, born and raised in the Midwest but moved away for ten years, have no man, got a good job, and have one of the worst credit reports in history. But I have a good heart and far more than half a brain, so you should be able to gather some data that at least makes you think.

So join me on this journey toward answers and probably more questions. Together, we’ll talk about life and say the things that people know deep down, but generally don’t say, because it goes against the status quo. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the status quo. And while you’re here, you shouldn’t either. Just open your mind, lighten up or do whatever you need to do. ‘Cause I’m about to talk shit…and I ain’t scared to say it!