The Brain Dump

Off to the Races

2012-01-25T23:53:00.000-05:00

Let the speculation cease. Since January 4 at 5:00 PM CST applicants to U of Chicago's Booth School of Business have been wondering when interview invitations would start. An email sent to a limited number of applicants announced that invites would start on February 25, 2012. The only problem with that info is that the mid decision deadline by which ALL interview invites (and outright rejections) would be announced is February 15, 2012. Obviously, Feb. 25 is a typo. But what's the real date? Let the GMAT Club forums be set ablaze with theories.

I figured Feb. 25 was really supposed to be January 25. Others tried to determine the Round 2 invite window based upon the Round 1 window. In Round 1 invites went out for 1 week so many thought that Round 2 would have a similar time frame, making January 25 too soon. Some said Feb. 5, but I highly doubted the admissions committee would take a break from watching the Super Bowl (GO GIANTS) to send off invites to a bunch of eager beaver applicants. Because key dates tend to land on a Wednesday some speculated that Feb. 8 would be the day. And of course questions about the day invites would start eventually delved into the minutia of what TIME the invites would go out. Of course there was someone who had actually compiled the email time stamps that R1 applicants had shared from their invites. Some people thought all of the questioning was a bit neurotic and crazy.

Since all of the theories had merit I didn't know which one would prove accurate. When Booth sent me a "You're Invited:" email at 10:09 AM I briefly thought that my initial conclusions were correct. Upon realizing that I was only invited to have lunch with Booth's student affinity groups, I figured that my assumption was wrong (and also wanted to curse out Booth's email marketing guru for the horrible timing). Alas, at 2:09 PM EST the proof of my deductions showed up in my inbox.

Dear Cheetarah1980,

Congratulations! We have evaluated your application and are extending an invitation for you to interview with us in the next phase of our admissions process.

So we are off to the races! Announcing that the invites have started to my fellow applicants on GMAT Club set off the inevitable shit storm of paranoia and premature pronouncements of defeat. I will say here what I said there:

WHEN YOU GET THE INVITE DOES NOT MATTER!

I am 99.99999999% sure that Booth releases invites in random order. They do this to not overwhelm interviewers with a ton of requests at one time. Considering that interviews must be complete by Feb. 24 it is reasonable that they would release invites in waves. I am positive that the admissions committee has not finished reviewing even half of the apps yet. People who got invites today were simply beneficiaries of the luck of the draw (i.e. our apps have already been reviewed).

Since interview invites started today that means there is 3 weeks of invitations. There is no reason for anyone to feel rejected and defeated at this point. There is no way to know or even guess the percentage of total invites that went out today. But remember, your invite isn't dependent upon anyone else's. Even if there's only 1 left to go out, if it's yours it's yours. But we're nowhere near that point.

So for the sake of everyone on this thread please pace yourselves on the paranoia and crazy. Let it out gradually when there's more reason to start freaking out and over analyzing things. If you start at a level 10 now you won't make it to Feb. 15 (because I might kill you). It will make this a much more pleasant 3 weeks for everyone.

Congratulations to everyone who was put out of their misery today with an invite. To those who are still waiting, best of luck! I hope your invite comes in the next wave, but if not I'm hoping that it comes, period.

ODE TO THE HATERS

2012-01-22T23:09:00.000-05:00

To my sorority sister who told me that the Cowboys would beat the Giants in the regular season finale, I say, "SUCK IT!!'

To that Cowboys fan on facebook who said, "Good luck. U get the honor of losing in the first round," I say to you, "KISS KEVIN BOOTHE'S GIANT ASS!"

To falcondevil on GMATClub.com I say, "Two points? Really?! I'd respect your Falcons more if they'd simply goose egged."

To any and everyone who said the Packers would beat the Giants I say, "Your defense and O-Line are TRASH!! You Roger those SACKS Aaron?"

To my 2010, 2008, and 2003 neos who were talking all that shit about the 9ers knocking out my Giants I say, "The Giants shoved that candlestick up your ass!"

To Pats fans I say, "Ya'll don't want NONE of the GIANTS! 18-1, BITCHES!"

G-MEN

Am I Invited Too?

2012-01-21T15:17:00.003-05:00

I have not worked on a b-school application in over a week. Although I am finished with applications I am a long way from through with the application process. I now await my fate with three schools: Wharton, Booth, and Stanford (California, you must be dreaming!). Waiting on these schools is different than waiting on Kellogg because Kellogg allows applicants to initiate their interviews, but this second crop of schools handles this part much differently. They have a don't call us, we'll call you policy. So now I get to experience the b-school ritual of stressing over interview invites. Yay for me! (?)

The Fall 2012 Booth Applicant thread on GMAT Club is abuzz with anticipation. Upon receipt of the application Booth sent some (apparently not all) applicants a confirmation email acknowledging receipt of their app along with a decision timeline. According to this email interview invitations will be sent on February 25 and continue through the mid decision date February 15. I highly doubt that Booth will be sending interview invites for nearly a year so this has led to speculation that invites will either start on January 25 (because it's a Wednesday and all other important dates such as app deadlines and final decision notifications are on a Wednesday) or February 5 (because R1 invites were extended over a 10 day period). Since February 5 is a Sunday I'm thinking that January 25 is the right date. If I am correct then we are less than a week away from the epic meltdowns sure to be posted all over GMAT club when folks aren't invited by the end of the first day.

"Well it's 11 a.m. CST on the 25th. Ten people have already reported being invited to interview. Surely Booth will send no more invitations between now and February 15. It's all over for us now. Just prepare to be dinged."

Thankfully, Wharton's message was much clearer. Interview invitations will start coming out on January 26 and will continue until February 28. For both Booth and Wharton I will have an inkling of where I stand with them no matter what by February 15 and February 28, as both schools outright reject applicants they do not intend to interview on their respective mid decision dates. Stanford on the other hand is not so kind. According to their application confirmation email interview invitations can go out at any time up until a week before the final decision (March 28 for R2). Even at that point you won't get the official "thank you, but no thank you" until the notification day. Yep, Stanford lets applicants twist in the wind for 2 months, 2 weeks, and 3 days if they are not being interviewed.

At the moment I'm not dwelling on getting an invite. While having the Kellogg admit secured definitely gives me a bit less to worry about, that's not the reason for my current state of Zen. I'm calm because there is nothing for me to be freaked out about right now. I'm soaking up the calm before the storm. I'm reveling in the no news territory. I am not watching other applicants get their invites while my inbox remains conspicuously empty. Check me out again in February if I haven't received an invitation to see if this steady state remains. I highly doubt it.

Round 2 feels like the true test of my candidacy. My Kellogg application already had interviewer comments when the admissions committee cracked it open for the first read. While I cannot be sure that my interviewer's feedback glowed with praise, I have a feeling it was pretty darn good given my perception of how the interview went. I won't have that benefit with Wharton, Booth, or Stanford. With these schools I will see if my essays, recommendations, resume, GMAT (damn sure NOT my GPA), and application can work on their own to compel an admissions committee to want to know more about me. What if what I'm offering only appeals to Kellogg. While I would be satisfied with that, I can't say that I would be happy. So I join the masses en wait. And if the days pass sans invitation I will wonder if leaving my part-time work experience as a 9 West sales associate in 2004 (I had a shoe habit) off my Stanford application was the right move. I will fret over the small mistake on my Booth application where I forgot to give the basis for 2 of the awards I earned at work. But for right now I will enjoy the safety zone and will luxuriate here until I actually have something to worry about.

Consultation

2012-01-19T01:07:00.004-05:00

I have a confession. Two years ago I don't think that I was aware that the consulting industry existed. MBB could have stood for Making Butts Bounce for all I knew. I remember classmates in undergrad who recruited for Deloitte but for some reason I always thought they were going to do something related to finance or accounting. I did not know that there were companies devoted to giving other companies advice (and pretty power point decks). I learned about this wonderful world of frequent flyer miles, black suits, and power point prowess when I embarked upon the b-school path. I briefly considered it as a potential post MBA career but immediately let the idea go upon hearing about the hours consultants worked. I'm not built for 70-90 hour work weeks. Once introduced to consulting I soon learned that there's a consultant for everything. And when talking MBA there is none more prevalent than the admissions consultant.

I am often asked whether I used a consultant to prepare my applications. Although my initial answer used to be, "no," I am gradually coming to the realization that I most certainly did use a consultant. In fact, I used several. I just didn't pay them (well not all of them).

I am sure that at some point in the application process most people consider employing a consultant's services. This process is overwhelming and the idea of having someone to keep you on track and help assemble all the moving application parts into a coherent "story" can be very comforting. Personally, the comfort of having this assistance did not outweigh the cost. I'm not going to say that I could not afford a consultant, but I did choose not to afford it (if that makes sense). While I used to be staunchly anti consultant because I felt that they provided an unfair advantage to people who could afford them (and also packaged applicants to within an inch of their lives), I have softened my stance in recent months. I am not a fan of all consultants, but there are several who I do think are worth their weight in gold (check out Essay Snark!).

Although I chose not to hire a consultant (well, mostly), that did not mean I was opposed to using their services. When it came time to write essays I was all over sites like Clear Admit, Amerasia Consulting, and Adam Markus trying to find tips on how to begin to answer seemingly impossible questions like, "What matters most to you, and why?" All of them provided an analysis of this year's essays by school and shed insight into what each program was looking for through each question. I spent months trying to figure out how to write Kellogg's career goals essay. "Briefly assess your career progress to date. Elaborate on your future career plans and your motivation for pursuing an MBA. (600 words)" Sounds simple enough. My first attempt resulted in 1400 words detailing my penchant for selling friendship bracelets from my front lawn in elementary school and the first three years of my career. When I hit 1450 words and was nowhere near discussing what I actually wanted to do with the MBA I got the distinct feeling I was doing something wrong. It was the Essay Analyses on Precision Essay's website that showed me how to structure my answer. It was really difficult wrangling 9 years of career into approximately 225 words (the suggested target for the "briefly assess your career progress" portion of the question), but it gave me a great framework within which to work. I wound up using their guidelines for all of my Kellogg essays.

While Precision Essay helped me write my drafts, Essay Snark was instrumental in creating the finished product. Essay Snark flies under the radar of MBA admissions consultants. Everyone applying to b-school knows about Sandy Kreisberg(HBS Guru), Stacy Blackman, and Alex Chu (MBA Apply). Essay Snark is like the hidden gem of consultants. You may not be looking for Essay Snark, but once you find him/her (ES is anonymous) it's like finding buried treasure. I found out about the Snark from another GMATClub member who mentioned him in a thread about essay editing. I followed the link provided to Essay Snark's blog and I have been hooked ever since. ES's blog (or blahg as it is affectionately dubbed) is teeming with advice on everything from essays to the GMAT to resumes and more, all delivered with heaping doses of SNARK. It was love at first read. However, the best thing about ES's blog, beyond all the advice, was the essay critiques. Yep. Public critiques of real b-school essays for all your favorite schools. Everything from CBS's career goals essay to Kellogg's "People would be surprised to know that I..." essay. The essays were stripped of identifying details and then ripped to shreds. Essay Snark pointed out each and every flaw in the essays and then doled out ways to make improvements. Harsh? Maybe. Helpful? Hell to the yeah! So much so that I sent off my Kellogg drafts for critique. One essay was deemed "too good for the blahg," meaning it was in such good shape that posting it would pose a temptation to other Brave Supplicants (BSers as ES likes to call applicants) to potentially pilfer my work. However, not all of my essays received that seal of approval.

One day in early December I logged on to the blog to find my 2 months in the making career goals essay torn to shreds. All the things I loved about that essay, ES hated or just didn't get. However, his feedback was invaluable because he pointed out inconsistencies, red flags, and issues that I never noticed. I took several shots at revising the essay for clarity before I finally broke down and hired the Snark to do a formal critique. The service for that one essay was insanely cheap (way under a Benjamin). That bought me three pages of detailed feedback on everything from my intro, to the content, to the writing style. Those pages of critique left me feeling so frustrated because ES just wasn't getting my point. He (maybe she) was commenting on ideas that I wasn't even trying to convey. I wound up writing ES a lengthy email to explain myself. Something interesting happened in that email. I actually wrote all of the things I THOUGHT I was saying in my essay in my response to Essay Snark. When ES responded that none of what was in my email was actually in my essay I finally realized that I was being unclear. Essay Snark did not write my essay for me, tell me what I should write, or try to package me. Instead, the Snark helped me get at the heart of what I want to do with my MBA and why. Two days before Kellogg's R1 deadline I scrapped the draft I'd sent to ES and started from scratch. However, this time a question that once took me two months to answer only took 24 hours. Because I finally had clarity the essay practically wrote itself. When I finished the last revision I knew I had written a winner. Nearly two months later that was confirmed when the Kellogg adcom who called to admit me said, "You wrote a very compelling application."

While Essay Snark and Precision Essay played a large role in helping me apply to business school, I found most of the services that consultants offer through my friends. I worked with two friends to get my resume ready. I kept sending it to them and asking if they thought it made me stand out. I incorporated their feedback, changing certain action verbs to convey greater impact and clarifying my achievements without industry jargon. When my best friend, who I spend the majority of my days emailing, said, "Wow! This actually makes me think you do work!" I knew that my resume was ready. Essay Snark wasn't the only person reading my essays. I had a team of friends, those who know me well and others who don't, reading my essays. I asked those who do not know me as well to read my essays without the benefit of the question. I then requested that they identify the question they think I am answering based on the content. This let me know if I was actually answering the question. For the people who do know me I asked them to evaluate whether or not the essays sounded like me. Both of these perspectives were invaluable. I do think I went a bit overboard when it came to readers. 3-4 is fine, 8-9 is too damn many. Some of the feedback started to conflict so I had to make a judgement call on what to leave and what to take. Two of the best resources I had were two friends who both graduated from top MBA programs, one from HBS and the other from Sloan. They were able to see the full picture my essays presented and identify the gaps. They read with an eye that went beyond style and made sure that my essays covered the main aspects adcoms are looking for (fit, clear goals, and desire to go to their program). Honestly, I had an army supporting me.

Although I did not anticipate the help from Essay Snark or finding Precision Essay's website when I first started my applications, I was very sure that I would have all the help I needed when applying. I guess I never saw the need for a consultant because I have friends who would do what a consultant does for free. I would not dissuade anyone from using a consultant, but I will say that a lot of the benefits they offer can be obtained for free or at minimal cost (an Essay Snark critique is well worth the price). Applying to business school is expensive. Between app fees, travel to schools, GMAT prep and test fees, and more you're likely to shell out anywhere from $2500-$5000. Adding an additional $1500-$5000 for consultant fees isn't feasible for many applicants and even those who can afford it shy away from spending that kind of money. The resources are out there for everyone to use. You just have to decide if you want to put in the legwork to find them. For folks with limited time, shelling out the dough for the convenience of having everything you need come from one person makes a lot of sense. If that isn't you then I strongly recommend getting all of the advice/tips you can from the internet (http://www.gmatclub.com, http://www.precisionessay.com, http://essaysnark.blogspot.com). Then assemble your team. Be strategic which friends you seek help from. If you have friends who are either in top schools or are recent alums (within the last 5 years) ask them to join your team. Fellow applicants are also great resources. Bounce essay ideas off of people and don't be afraid when people push you to dig deeper. "Why?" is the best question anyone can ask you. This will help you craft workable drafts (at the very least). If at that point you want to bring in a pro then purchase services from a reputable consultant a la carte (not all consultants are created equal so do NOT just hire anyone who claims to be an expert). With or without a professional consultant just be sure that you have someone (or multiple someones) who can and will help you create a compelling package. They will be the first to celebrate with you when you get the long awaited admit.

Back to Life

2012-01-18T00:47:00.001-05:00

On Wednesday January 11, 2012 at 7:42 PM EST I submitted the last business school application I will ever complete! Cue the "Hallelujah" music and release the doves! As God is my witness, I will never apply to b-school again!

Dramatic? Yes. Justified? Hell freaking yeah! As I come out of the fog that was application season, I realize that I have been at this MBA game in some way, shape, or form since January 2011 (actually August 2010, but not in earnest). Hmm...let's see. It's January 2012 now, so that would be one full year of my life dedicated to getting my arse into school. One year of GMAT studying, school research, essay writing, recommender prep, school visits, avoiding essays with hours of Bejeweled, and countless hours of worrying about NOT getting in. Damn, that's a shitty way to spend an entire year. Don't get me wrong, I am so glad that it all resulted in an admit (and hopefully a couple more), but on the real, I miss my life! Like, my actual life. I know this may be hard to believe because all I've talked about for the last year is applying to business school, but there is so much more to me than the pursuit of an MBA. Not for nothing, but I am a kick ass chick and I really haven't kicked ass the way I like to kick ass all year.

So what wasn't I doing while I was devoting my life to the application process? Well, I was NOT running marathons (which is probably the reason why these 20lbs seem stuck to my ass and thighs). I was NOT taking tae kwon do classes. I was NOT exploring my no longer new city. I was NOT making new friends (unless they were on GMAT Club, and that's a damn shame). I barely dated and even that received a half hearted effort on my part. I barely shopped. All in all I just wasn't me. And I miss me.

Well that's all over now. I am resurrecting my life for the next 7-8 months before an MBA takes it over again for two years. I am signed up for the Bayshore Marathon in Traverse City, MI on May 26. In fact, I'm signing up for a crap load of races this spring. I will find a weekend tae kwon do class and get my back roundhouse back to being the lethal weapon it once was. I am going country line dancing. I taught myself the "Fake ID" line dance from the updated Footloose movie and I'm test driving it on someone's dance floor ASAP. I am accepting all invitations for social events. I'm talking fundraisers, parties, live music, poetry nights, happy hours, and more. I will find new friends in this city and stop insulating myself with the same folks I've known since college. No longer will I feel guilty for not working on essays 24/7. No longer will I forgo an evening run to revise an essay about the time my coworker was a stubborn fucktard and the ways I navigated through his tomfoolery. No longer shall I send unrelenting emails to my recommenders "nicely" reminding them that the application is due in 5 hours and they need to get their shit together and submit their recs. Nope, never again. All of that is in the past. I've got tiiiiiiime on my haaaaands since you've been away, boy! I ain't got no plans, no no no! But unlike Mary J. I'm not going down. I'M GOING OUT!!

One Down...

2011-12-22T07:15:00.001-05:00

It's been 8 days, 12 hours and 22 minutes since I got the admit call from Kellogg. I'm still walking on sunshine, but I've started to come down a bit from my euphoric high. There are still Round 2 applications to complete (too many of them since I procrastinated through most of November and December). What's that you say? Why am I applying in Round 2 if I'm already in at Kellogg? Aren't I set on going to Kellogg? Isn't Kellogg my first choice?

The simple answer to the last two questions is, no. I'm not set on going to Kellogg and it's not my first choice. However, I don't have a first choice. When settling upon my final school list after extensive research, I chose schools to which I'd be happy to go, no matter what. I chose different schools for different reasons. Some schools offered classes that directly related to my career goals, others had student groups that appealed to my interests. A couple of schools offered unique experiential learning opportunities, while others had cool fellowships that warmed the cockles of my CSR driven heart. And maybe I might could have been drawn to a certain school's ski trip.

None of my reasons for choosing one school superseded my reasons for choosing another so I never ranked them in my mind. If I liked a school less after visiting I simply took it off my list (RIP NYU). So while I have grown to love Kellogg, I'm also quite fond of several other schools. My application strategy was to apply to Kellogg in Round 1, four Consortium schools in R1 (deadline 1 month after Kellogg), another school by Dec. 15, and 3 for January R2. Didn't quite work out like that (too many schools). I lost interest in one Consortium school and also realized that I didn't like the December school enough to pay full tuition if it was the only school I got into and they offered no money. For me, the biggest factor in deciding whether or not to apply to a school is, "will I go?" If this is the only school I get into and they didn't offer me a red cent, would I happily sign my life away in loans and go spend two years there on a running tab? If the answer was yes, then that was that. I really didn't differentiate between schools once they met that criteria.

I only applied to one school in Round 1 (missed the first Consortium deadline and wouldn't have heard back from those schools til March anyways). I got in. YAY!! (that was a totally sincere YAY, I swear). Getting into Kellogg did not eliminate my interest in other schools. However, now I am only applying to schools that I would realistically choose over Kellogg. Mind you, if I was to gain admission to one of these schools that doesn't mean I would say bye-bye Kellogg. However, these schools could at least make me consider turning down Kellogg. Basically, if after attending some admitted students weekends I still love all schools equally I can and will go to the highest bidder. No matter what happens I know I'll be going to an amazing school where I'll be happy. My gut simply tells me that if I take the Kellogg admit and run with it I will always regret not at least trying to get into a couple of others. I realize that I can only go to one, but it would be nice to have some options to weigh.

Ultimately, all any applicant needs is just one school. My philosophy is if you only get into one, make damn sure it's a place you want to go. I have no interest in ever applying to b-school again. Once I got my Kellogg admit I knew I'd never have to. I've seen too many people get into several schools one year and reapply the next year to get into the schools they really wanted. This process sucks so much why apply to schools that you don't want to go to. Getting an admittance should elicit celebration, not indifference. I think this is why I never designated a first choice. I know myself and I wouldn't have been satisfied with any school other than my #1. I would either begrudgingly attend my second or third choice or scrap all other admits and reapply next year. Neither option is appealing.

I got my one and I'm definitely celebrating. Congratulations to my fellow applicants who also got their one (or two or three). Mazel Tov! And for those of you who caught an acceptance but would rather throw it back for something "better," good luck in Round 2.

Along the Yellow Brick Road.

2011-12-19T01:27:00.003-05:00

When Dorothy got caught in a twister, hit her head, and woke up in Oz, she couldn't have fathomed the characters that she would meet along the way. There was Glenda, the Good Witch of the North who gave her ruby slippers and gave her the simple instructions to, "follow the yellow brick road." There were the Munchkins who welcomed her to Munchkin land. And we must not forget the friends Dorothy made on her way to the Emerald City: Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Cowardly Lion. All of these characters (including the Wicked Witch of the West) are instantly recognizable and I'm sure we could all identify them with either pieces of ourselves or people we know.

So along my personal yellow brick road to b-school, I too have come across a colorful cast of characters. See if you recognize any of these people.

Paranoid Over Achiever - The annoying person who worries over every aspect of the application process even though they are the one person with NOTHING to worry about. You can spot this person asking questions like, "I have a 3.8 GPA. Should I address the B- I got in freshman writer's workshop in the optional essay. I know it's a total red flag." This person also wants to submit their application 8 weeks before the round deadline because, "every advantage matters," (even when there isn't one). When in this person's presence you suppress the urge to shout, "SHUT THE FUCK UP AND CALM DOWN!" while shoving a Xanax down their throat.

The Prestige Whore - This person wants an MBA and only a top school will do. In fact only one (possibly two) top schools will do. Their motivation to get into the world's most selective MBA programs would be commendable if they weren't such a condescending douchebag to everyone who isn't aiming for those schools. The smug arrogance they exude when saying, "It's okay to go to a bottom tier school like Ross" makes it all the more satisfying when they get dinged by the only top school there is and wind up justifying how they can still get to MBB from Ross.

The Justifier - Separated at birth, fraternal twin to the Prestige Whore, the Justifier is not applying to any top programs and feels the need to justify this decision to anyone who will listen. You will often hear this person proclaiming that unranked MBA is just as good as any prestigious MBA and that what matters most is how well you perform in interviews and on the job. This person likes to throw in anecdotes about the HBS grad who's working as a bank teller or University of Phoenix MBA who now runs their company's finance department. They tend to project general trends off of these isolated cases, calling into question their critical reasoning skills and ability to get into ANY MBA program anywhere. The Justifier feels the need to justify their choice of business school even though they are never asked to do so because honestly, no one else cares.

The Over Eager College Senior - Although this person has no intention of applying to business school for at least 4-5 years they find it necessary to sit in the front of every admissions event and ask inappropriate questions such as, "What do I have to score on my GMAT to get in?" and "Where should I work after graduation in order to get in?" and "What type of volunteer work should I do in order to get in?" At MBA fairs they hog admissions officers' time trying to get an on the spot acceptance while blatantly ignoring the 30 person line forming behind them. They do all of this dressed in either khaki shorts and a polo or their favorite Saturday night party dress (with a blazer over it, natch!).

The Woe is Me Over Represented Applicant - Not to be confused with their distant cousin, The Over Represented Applicant, the Woe is Me branch of this family feels the need to constantly seek pity from other applicants because they are part of a competitive pool. These applicants are constantly working the, "Woe is me, I wish I were a woman/poet/URM then I'd get in easily," spiel. Not only is it disrespectful to these candidates, it also screams "pathetic whiner." Particularly grating are the complaints that women and URMs get so much help when applying to b-school while they are left to twist in the wind. Newsflash! Women and URMs are under represented at b-schools because an MBA isn't even in many of our orbits. We aren't groomed since Pampers for the MBA. Many of us stumble upon the business school option much later, putting us behind the 8 ball in terms of networks, preparation, information, and more. So programs like Forte, MLT, Toigo, etc are around to get us up to speed quickly and get us within spitting distance of where many over represented applicants already are. The Woe is Me Over Represented Applicant can usually be found railing against the "less qualified" women and URMs who supposedly took their spot at ____________ (insert name of top business school).

The Entitled Under Represented Minority - Just as high on the OBNOXIOUS meter as their arch nemesis, the Woe Is Me Over Represented Applicant, the Entitled URM believes that simply being a URM is enough to get them into business school. And not just any business school at that. We're talking top tier all the way. Never mind their abysmal GPA and low GMAT or the fact that they've been in the same job for 5 years without a promotion. They're a minority and top schools should be checking for them (not the other way around). This applicant feels no need to retake the GMAT, enroll in supplemental courses, or do anything to enhance their profile. They believe they will get into school on the wings of affirmative action and exorbitant adcom schmoozing. The Entitled Under Represented Minority often overshadows their more prevalent cousin The Under Represented Minority, giving the entire family a bad name. Heavy doses of reality are usually delivered to EURM in the form of rejection letters.

The Posturer - The Posturer likes to intimidate the competition by proclaiming their greatness. Although you didn't ask, the Posturer feels the need to tell you that they're the top ranked employee in their division. They name drop constantly and tend to go on and on about how they're so tight with so-and-so in admissions. Every school wants them and they're just trying to decide who to bless with their application. The Posturer starts every conversation by asking, "So who do you work for and what school did you go to?" in a transparent attempt to see where they stack up against you.

The Slightly Paranoid, Sometimes Confident, Very Supportive Comiserator - This applicant has been thinking about getting an MBA for a couple of years and is finally ready to pull the trigger. They hit the admissions events, join the online forums, and study hard for the GMAT. Once they clear one hurdle along the road to b-school they're more than happy to help the applicants who are a few steps behind them navigate the course. They sit next to you during admissions events and ask if you're just as nervous as they are (which you totally are). They celebrate their interview invites and freak out in the days leading up to admissions decisions. They vacillate between self confidence in their candidacy and abject terror that they won't get in anywhere. They handle dings in stride (and with a few drinks) and are totally stoked when the next school on their list says, "YES!" These are the people you encounter along the way that make you say, "I totally want to go to school with you!"

Walking on Sunshine

2011-12-15T17:11:00.001-05:00

"I used to think maybe you loved me..."

I'll be honest. This summer when I was reseraching schools, Kellogg didn't really do it for me. Maybe it was the staid website or possibly the "K is only good for marketing" chatter on the MBA forums. Whatever it was I didn't have the stars in my eyes for Kellogg that I did for Booth (SKI TRIP!), Wharton, Stanford, and other schools. Still, one of my recommenders is a Kellogg alum and I thought it would be stupid to not try to take some small advantage in that.

Something funny happens when you take the time to get to know a school in order to write three to four sentences to answer the all important question, "Why Kellogg." You find out exactly why. I spent hours poring over Kellogg's website, reading professors' blogs, checking out student clubs, and learning about the curriculum. I spoke to current students too. Somewhere in the middle of writing the second essay it hit me: I would love to do all of the wonderful things I'm writing about. I want to enter the Net Impact case competition. I want to do a Global Immersion. I want to be a Board Fellow. Oh CRAP! I want to go to Kellogg.

This feeling was confirmed when I visited campus in November. Anyone who knows me will say that the best way to make a great first impression is to feed me and feed me well. There's a freakin cheesebar in the Allen Center! Havarti, gouda, brie, and so much more. There's a stirfry grill, soup buffet, and if I'm not mistaken I saw a sandwich station too.

Not only does Kellogg pass the food test, it passes the all important, "Can I see myself being here" test. When I was at dinner with current students and other prospectives at Prarie Moon, I could see myself leading a similar event next year. When I went for a morning run around Evanston I could see myself pulling on my Asics DS Trainers and hitting the roads for the next two years. During a marketing class, I could see myself contributing my thoughts on what a brand means to the discussion. And most importantly, as I looked around at all of the other prospective students, I could see them as my classmates. I wanted to spend two years hanging out with them at Buffalo Wild Wings, or organizing a conference, or studying for finals. I wanted to learn from them and be friends with them. The two days I spent at Kellogg made me feel like it was where I belong. I felt like I could be me and that would be more than alright.

And, I kind of got the feeling that they liked me too. When I sat down for my interview with a first year student all of the nerves that had overwhelmed me the night before just dissipated. All of a sudden the incoherent answers that I had practiced the night before became concise and clear. I knew exactly where to lead my interviewer and he seemed happy to follow. In fact after one of my answers about leadership he even said, "That's very mature." After the interview we even comiserated about having difficult to pronounce names (he just has everyone call him by his last name, while I simply let people butcher mine at will). Flying home I just knew that I'd get in.

But time and distance can often make us question that of which we are sure. With over a month between my interview and the decision release I slowly began to question if I had read things right. What if it was a case of me projecting my feelings about Kellogg onto their feelings for me. As November drew to a close and December began the dread set in. I'd say that 90% of applicants have a great feeling about their essays, resume, recs, and interview, but only 17% get in. Although I loveded Kellogg and saw the perfect fit that didn't mean that they had to feel the same way. Trolling GMATClub forums only added to the sense of impending doom. I read last year's Kellogg Applicants thread. Maybe I was looking for an indication of when notifications would go out, or possibly I was trying to live vicariously through last year's admitted applicants. I don't know. What I do know is that as many times as I envisioned writing the "I got the call! Im IN!!" post, I had just as many thoughts of opening an email that leads straight to a Deny or Waitlist decision. Each day that decisions weren't released brought an ironic mix of relief and increased anticipation. Relief that a bomb would not be dropped on my email account that day and greater anticipation of the, "Welcome to Kellogg" phone call admitted students were supposed to get. The chat rooms were abuzz with speculation that the decisions would be released the week of Dec. 5, then Dec. 12, then not til Dec. 14. And as each day ticked by without a peep from Kellogg my paranoia mounted. It hit me when I went to get pizza and left just as quickly as I wrote R2 essays for another school. But then the first admit report came and paranoia took up residence in me and refused to leave. Minute by minute the Kellogg applicant thread ballooned with more admissions news.
"I got the call!!"
"In, with money too!!"
"Just got off the phone with Kellogg. I made it"

I read these and listened to the silence of my phone not ringing. My heart pounded, my stomach tightened, and my knee shook. I kept telling myself it was only the first day. I had nothing to be nervous about. However, the more my phone didn't ring the more I wanted to puke. The feeling that I had while in Evanston was gone, replaced by fear and a sense of impending doom. I used to think maybe they loved me....

Now baby I'm sure!
Monday came and went without a phone call making Tuesday morning torturous. I knew that Kellogg released admits as well as dings and WL decisions at the same time. I checked my email incessently, praying not to see the notification star over my inbox. I tried to distract myself with work and I avoided GMATClub like the plague. My neurosis was bad enough without adding other people's crazy to it. And then it happened. A fire drill not unlike other fire drills popped up at work and I had to take care of it. I was so busy taking care of it that I forgot to listen for my phone. And just when I stopped listening for the traditional ring tone, I heard it. On the second ring I looked at the screen and saw the area code I'd wanted to see all day flashing. And when I picked up my phone and Yhana Chavis asked if I knew why she's calling, I knew for sure that the feelings were mutual. They liked me as much as I liked them. So, in honor of reciprocated feelings I'd like to sing a little ditty to all of you...

I used to think maybe you loved me, now baby I'm sure
And I just can't wait til the day that you knock on my door
Now every time I go for the mailbox, gotta hold myself down
Cause I just can't wait til you write me you're coming around

I'm walking on sunshine! (Whoa ooh oohh)
I'm walking on sunshine! (Whoa ooh oohh)
I'm walking on sunshine! (Whoa ooh oohh)
And don't it feel good! (Hey!)
Alright now!
And don't it feel good! (Hey!)

I feel the love, I feel the love, I feel a love that's really real
I feel the love, I feel the love, I feel a love that's really real
I'm on sunshine baby yeah!
Walking on sunshine...

Sitting by the Phone

2011-11-14T09:04:00.000-05:00

I know, I know, I know. I've been remiss with updating the blog. It's not that I haven't wanted to write an update; it's just that I can't quite justify writing a blog update when I should be using the time to write essays. Yep, that's right folks, I am now smack in the middle of applications. In fact I submitted my first application last month. That feeling of relief that supposedly comes with finally completing an application has yet to settle upon me. Instead, all I can feel is obsessive paranoia. See, it's out of my hands now. There's nothing more I can do to convince the admissions committee to let me in. The only thing left to do is wait. Wait and see if they like my GMAT score, optional essay, and recommendations enough to overlook the fact that my undergraduate academic performance was, how shall I say this....eclectic. I just have to wait and see if they actually get my off the beaten path career goals and understand why I need an MBA now (and not 4 years ago). I can only wait and see if they get me and if they do get me if they like me.

You know applying to b-school is like meeting a guy in a bar. You meet (MBA fair), exchange basic yet benign information about each other (info session or campus visit), he gives you encouraging signals (invitation to diversity weekend) and asks for your number (Apply Yourself). So you think, oh yeah! He totally wants me, and you totally give him your number ($250 app fee). Now from everything that's happened thus far you think to yourself, this is a sure thing. But as the minutes turn to hours turn to days and he still hasn't called the doubts start to creep in. Was there something in my teeth? (low GPA/GMAT). Did he hear something bad about me? (negative recommendations). Did my breath smell? (what the hell did I write in my essays?). Was I fatter than the girl sitting next to me? (comparison to total applicant pool). All of these doubts just spin around in your head. With each second the phone doesn't ring they spin faster and faster. You can't call him because you don't have his number (and contacting the admissions office to ask them if they really like you is taboo...so I heard). So now the fate of this wonderful relationship that could totally exist if he would just freakin call is entirely out of your hands. It's up to him and you've just gotta hope that your flirty banter and that hint of cleavage (essays, recs, interview, etc.) were enough to make him pick up the phone and call.

So basically, that's what I'm going through right now. I promised myself that I would never sit by the phone, waiting for it ring. Like I've said before, promises are meant to be broken. So wonderful school that I've applied to in Round 1, please like me as much as I like you and CALL ME. I'll be waiting.

Charge It to the Game

2011-10-10T18:27:00.002-05:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, the Brain Dump has gone viral. I logged into my Sitemeter account today and saw an astronomical upswing in my traffic, courtesy of some blog by a person named Roosh. Seems as though someone found this older post and put it on his site and the name calling commenced. At first I ignored it, but when people feel the need to call me nasty names ON MY BLOG then all bets are off.

1) READING COMPREHENSION IS FUNDAMENTAL
“Besides, in my experience instant sparks have a tendency to spontaneously combust. As I’ve gotten older I’ve stopped making snap judgments about my interest level based solely on first impressions.”
These sentences clearly state that I went out with a guy in order to see if my initial impression was correct. I went out with him, NOT to get a free meal, but to simply see if there might be more to him than I initially thought. The free meal was simply a bonus. We all find ourselves in situations where we know that in getting A we will also get B and C as well. Doesn't mean we were only after B and C.

2) BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK FOR
On countless occasions I have heard men say,”Why won’t a woman even give me a chance before she decides to reject me.” I know many women who will not even go on one date with a man if they don’t feel earth shattering chemistry from the get go. I tend to take a wait and see approach if I’m feeling indifferent. Now, I gave this man a chance and during the course of our lunch date he made a bad impression in many different ways from his personal presentation to his lack of listening skills. This turned my indifference to complete disinterest. Was I to walk out on him in the middle of the outing? That would be rude (and I’m sure people would call me names for that as well). Which brings me to my next point...

3) OBLIGATIONS
Just because a man takes a woman out, she has no obligation to enjoy the outing. Sometimes she will, sometimes she won’t. That’s what dating is. You win some, you lose some and you deal with it. One date does not equate to using a man, just like one date does not equate to being in a relationship (there are women who need to learn this). No one’s pimping off a $20 (if that) meal. Bad dates happen. And obviously he shared my feelings about the lunch because I never heard from him again. So no harm no foul. It seems like the guys who get most offended by a woman who says, “thanks, but no thanks” are the ones who seem to think they are owed something. I find this quite amusing since many of these same guys will have much deeper interactions with a woman for months without feeling like he owes her anything. Which segues nicely into this lesson....

4) AT YOUR OWN RISK
If you offer to take a woman out, then you’re taking on the risk that it might not be a good match (for her, for you, or both parties). If you’re not comfortable with that then simply spend time with her in ways that are either inexpensive (which a $20 meal is) or free. Host a potluck at your house and invite her to come. Ask her to join you at your friend’s fight party. Go for a run in the park. Get to know her informally and gauge if there’s a romantic spark that way. If you choose to use a date as a means to get to know a woman then you take on the risk of possibly spending money on someone who may not be in your life very long. That’s on you.

5) LESSON ON DATING
There are two types of dates: 1) The getting to know you date, and 2) the I really like you date. If you want to completely avoid feeling used (notice I said, "feeling," not "being") then only go out on formal dates with women you know you like and who you know like you too.

Real talk, we have all been rejected. We have all thought that a date went great only to realize that the other person didn't feel the same way. Most adults understand this and don't take personal offense to it. Honestly, I don't even need people to see things my way. Some will. Some won't. However, if you want to disagree with me, then do so respectfully. Cursing, name calling, and ranting and raving about something that has NOTHING to do with you personally is unproductive. So if you read this post and Could've Had a V8 and felt some kind of way about it feel free to "tell em why you mad son" in the comments. I'm all for lively discussions. Just do so respectfully.

Forethought

2011-09-12T16:45:00.000-05:00

I started to consider getting my MBA late last summer. I knew that I needed to take the GMAT and write a ton of essays in order to apply. I thought that I could study for my GMAT, take the test, and apply to 6-8 schools between September and January. Oh, how naive I was! Thank God my promotion last fall kept me from trying to exercise that delusion.
Thanks to a 10% pay increase, better title, and cross country move to the East coast, I got a whole year to prepare for the Fall 2012 admissions cycle. It is quickly becoming apparent that I underestimated how short a year really is. As Round 1 deadlines quickly approach and the weekends on my calendar get reserved I am wishing I had used the extra time to prepare better.
I think I was so concerned with the GMAT that I let it dominate all of that extra time I had this spring. I told myself that my GMAT score would determine where I would apply so it didn't make sense to research schools until I had the test out of the way. That rationale was bull. I knew from the second I decided to even consider busines school that I would only be looking at Top 25 schools. I could've gotten a 400 and it wouldn't have had any bearing on the schools I WANTED to go to. I simply would've taken it again to bring it into the range for a top program. I know myself well enough to know that I would rather forego the degree altogether than get it from a 2nd or 3rd tier school. Yeah, yeah, yeah...I know that sounds snobbish and elitist. It is what it is.
I think I spent so much time studying for the GMAT to get that 700+ score that I didn't pay attention to everything else that goes into this process. There's so much more to this than the GMAT, a few essays, and $1000-$2000 in app fees. I understood the cost (time and $$) of those components. What I neglected to consider were all of the other essential pieces of the puzzle: school visits, recommender prep, vacation days, and mo' money, mo' money, mo money!!
Between now and January I have to find enough money and vacation days to do the following:

Attend Explore Wharton diversity event (Thursday-Friday) - 2 vacation/personal days
Attend Discover Stern diversity weekend (Thursday-Sat) - 2 vacation/personal days
Attend Johnson Means Business diversity weekend (Thursday - Sat) - 2 vacation/personal days
Attend Kellogg diversity weekend (Friday) - 1 vacation/personal day
Booth campus visit - 1 vacation/personal day
Stanford campus visit - 1 vacation/personal day
Haas campus visit - 1 vacation/personal day
Columbia campus visit (already went to Spotlight On: Diversity so this is a toss up. Would like to do a class visit) - 1 vacation/personal day
Ross campus visit - 1 vacation/personal day

Add it all up and I'd need to take 12 vacation days to do all of this. My company was kind enough to give me 24 vacation days this year, but somehow I managed to use 14.5 of them already. So now I have 9.5 days for the rest of the year. Guess who's coming to the office the week between Christmas and New Year! FML :-(

But finding the necessary days off will be a moot point if I can't find the money to buy plane tickets to Chicago, California, and Michigan (I can wear out my E-Z Pass to get to the NY schools). I'm looking at about $700 just for flights. That's not even considering hotels, rental cars, and food. Hmmm...looks like I might be digging into those Skymiles I spent all last year earning.

The easy thing to do would be to cut down the list of schools to which I plan to apply. The thing is I like all of these schools and can't decide which ones to cut. I'm hoping that visiting will help weed some out. I know this sounds bad but I'm hoping to get to one (or two or three) of these campuses and think to myself, There is no way in HELL I can spend two years here! Thus far I haven't gotten off to a great start toward that goal. I was practically salivating at Columbia this weekend. I can DEFINITELY see myself as a CBS student. If this keeps happening this going to be one long, expensive, stressful, dreadful fall.

I wish I would have thought of the time and expense involved in putting forth 100% effort for this process. I may not have taken that vacation day in February to go back to Grand Rapids. I might have cut my overseas trip short by a few days. I would have definitely budgeted better to cover all of the travel expenses. I would have anticipated the struggles I'm having writing a simple career goals essay (2+ months and I still haven't finished the 1st draft) and started writing immediately after taking the GMAT.

Looking back it's funny that I once thought I could do all of this in 4 months. When all of this is over and my deposit is in (because I will be making a deposit somewhere come hell or highwater) I will tell any starry eyed prospective applicant that I encounter to give themselves at least 12-18 months to do everything. I will tell them to get the school visits out of the way even before taking the GMAT. It will definitely help to focus their efforts.

Alright I must be on my way. I'm off to yet another information session. Let's hope I hate it!

Don't Call Me

2011-09-05T21:50:00.001-05:00

I would like to take a break from all of the b-school talk to discuss something that's been on my mind lately...

About a month ago I was driving home from New York when a voice came through my car radio speakers. It was a woman over a telephone line, but I couldn't make out her words. The strains of a synthesizer phased onto the track, followed shortly by a pulsing bass line. A spark of recognition flashed in my mind. I knew this song. I turned up the volume ready to enjoy a song that I didn't know at all but knew that I liked.

I recognized Drake's slightly nasal tenor from the first note he sang. "Cups of the Rose/_____ in my old phone" he sings. Aahh, Drizzy doing his annual vulnerable thug posturing. Unlike previous listens I made a point to pay attention to his sensitive lyrics this time. I reclined in my seat, swayed to the syncopated drum beat, and vibed to his words. Then I heard it.

"The woman that I would try/is happy with a good guy/but I've been drinking so much/that I'mma call her anyways and say/_*__ that _**__ that you love so bad/I know you still think about the times we had/I said _*__ that _**__ that you think you found/And since you picked up I know he's not around"

Hold up...what did he just say?!

"I'm just saying you could do better/tell me have you heard that lately?"

Oh hell NO!! Sensitive my ass. What type of fuckery is that? There are so many things wrong with this scenario that I don't even know where to begin (but I'm gonna try). So dude is drunk and feeling lonely in the club, but even in his drunken haze he has the wherewithal to remember that she is HAPPY with someone else. That is reason enough to scroll to the next number and call chick #2, but nooooo...he decides that the peace she's found is irrelevant. He's gonna call her anyways and rain his shit show all over her new relationship. That's some bullshit right there (I don't care how pretty you try to make it sound in song). There is NOTHING romantic about that situation. She's moved on...in a RELATIONSHIP with a good guy. Yet, he somehow feels entitled to call her at God knows what hour and tell HER that she's still thinking about what they used to have. Okay, let me take a minute to breathe...

Alright, I've collected myself. No, screw that. That is the most selfish, arrogant, entitled HOT ASS MESSINESS! And it just gets worse as the song goes on.

"I see all of her friends here/Guess she don't have the time to kick it no more/Flight's in the morning/What you doing that's so important"

And let's not forget this piece de resistance

"I don't think I'm conscious of making monsters outta the women that I sponsor til it all goes bad."

That little tidbit is followed up by some woe is me bullshit about the tribulations of being famous. There's a tiny violin playing somewhere. Can you hear it?

Honestly, I shouldn't be surprised that this crap is coming from Drake. I mean this is the same man who previously rapped, "Do I ever come up in discussion over double pump lattes and low-fat muffins? Do I? Or is missing what we had out of the question?" Then his very next line admits that he's probably the reason why she learned her lesson. Newsflash: If dating a guy was a "teachable moment" then it's not something to be missed.

That brings me to my biggest issue with Drake (and dudes like him). It's over. More than likely it's over because you either screwed up, strung her along for ages, or let her go. Not only do you think that you have the right to question her whereabouts and give your opinion about her relationship, but you then think that she should miss you! Why should she miss you? The fact that a guy would even think it's a possibility has to be the most self-involved delusion known to man. It doesn't matter what you did or how much time has passed. For some reason you feel that she still belongs to you. In your mind she could be married with her own starting five and you still think you could have her if you wanted. Because that's all this is really about, your need to feel like you still have something over her.

Ironically, these dudes NEVER actually want anything. Sure, they'll call or text to tell you that "you could do better" than your current relationship. Funny that they're not offering themselves up to be that better man. It's like a preschooler who doesn't want to play with his toy but doesn't want anyone else to own the toy either. It's maddening.

Songs like Marvin's Room remind me of the calls I would get from the Idiot (and other dudes); calls to "check-in" and see how I'm doing (more like who I'm doing). My ringing phone would wake me from sleep only for me to answer and hear, "Whatchu doing? You miss me?" According to Drake the fact that a woman picks up the call makes it okay.

"And since you picked up I know he's not around"

"I'm lucky that you picked up, lucky that you stayed on/I need someone to put this weight on"

I'm not going to lie and say that I never knew who was on the other end when I picked up my own Marvin's Room calls. Sometimes I did. The one thing that the guys who pull Marvin's Rooms know how to do is choose women who care. I cared for months. Knowing that you can't be with someone isn't an emotional shut off valve. So I answer because it might be important or because I can't bring myself to ignore it. But that doesn't mean I wanted to get that call.

At the end of 5 minutes and 27 seconds I'm disgusted by everything Marvin's Room represents. It conjures memories that I forget to remember to forget. Still...I turn up the volume and sing along the next time I hear it on the radio.

Too Through

2011-08-31T18:36:00.002-05:00

I have yet to apply to any schools, but I'm so done with b-school. I'm done with MBA Fairs, school information sessions, diversity weekends, resumes, essays, recommendations, EVERYTHING. Every MBA panel I've heard always says the same thing: "Enjoy this journey."
Well, if you want my opinion, this journey is nucking futs and there's really nothing enjoyable about it. There's nothing enjoyable about having to give my "Why MBA" pitch whenever I just want some information about what a current student likes about their school. There's nothing fun about wild swings from self assurance that you just might get in everywhere to paranoia that you won't get in anywhere. There's not a damn thing enjoyable about standing on line in 3-4 inch heels waiting for the freakin college senior in front of you to run out of ways to ask an admissions officer, "So what are my chances of getting in?" And most of all, writing essays sucks!! Screw the platitudes about being grateful for all the introspection. Introspection can kiss my ass when it won't fit in 600 words. Why an MBA? Why now? You want the truth? Here it is! I've been sick of my job for years and I wanna do something new. But I've been doing my job for so damn long no one thinks I can do anything else. So now I need three letters to prove to employers that I can basically do what I've been doing for 9 years for their really special company. Oh and that they should pay me (very) well for it. And I wanna do it now, because I need a freaking break from working and reverting back to my collegiate years is looking better by the day. There you have it!
As I look at the upcoming months I don't know how I'm even going to find the time to even breathe. There will be school visits, diversity weekends, applications, recommender prep, information sessions (most of them in NYC in the middle of the work week...FML), and maybe a GMAT retake (yeah, I'm still on that). Oh and on top of all of that I still need to find the time to do my job so I can stay employed (and keep my boss happy to get that glowing reco), because for some reason it's best to not get fired during the application process.
Applying to business school has taken over my life and I'm not okay with this coup. So enough I say! Enough with the barrage of emails informing me that the MBA Tour is coming to town. Enough with the mailings from schools I'm NOT going to apply to. Enough racking my brain to remember a time I was innovative. Enough of the ridiculous cast of characters I've encountered on the Road to MBA (that's another post for another day). I'm too through with all of this.
Now please excuse me. I have to finish writing a career goals essay.

(Shit, damn piss, shit, damn, piss, shit, damn, piss...)

It Ain't My Fault

2011-07-26T15:59:00.006-05:00

I spent this past weekend in New York City. Although my all consuming need to live in NYC has subsided in recent years, it's still my happy place. A certain calm envelops me as soon as the crackles of static give way to the clear sound of Hot 97 DJ Funkmaster Flex's voice over my car radio speakers. Even without concrete plans for a Friday night the promise of possibilities always hovers in the air. I get excited knowing not that something exciting will happen but that at any moment it could. Mostly, I just like being in the same place where most of the characters from the collegiate chapter of my life reside.

I ran into one of those characters at brunch last Sunday. She was a class behind me at college and I really didn't know her well while I was in school. Actually, I don't remember even crossing her path once during my four year tenure, which says a lot since all of the black students at school could fit in three long tables at the dining hall. While we didn't socialize in the same circle (within an already tiny bubble), we both had the good sense to pledge the greater than great, grander than grand, best of the best sorority in the land. I did it in Spring 2001 so thus I had the pleasure of getting to know her when she followed in Spring 2003.

Over the years we've never had the "call just to talk" or "make it a point to hang out" type of relationship. Of course we're always happy to see one another at whatever social event we may be attending, but we'd never built much of a relationship beyond associates connected by sorority chapter. This recently changed when she announced that she had been admitted to a top 15 business schools class of 2013. Now we have something to talk about.

And talk we do! A congratulatory text from me turned into a 2 hour long back and forth chat. This was followed by a 90 minute telephone conversation on every topic from coaching recommenders to writing compelling career goals essays. When I ran into her this past Sunday at an afternoon brunch/social we talked some more. "When do you leave for school?" "How was your financial aid package?" "You know your school is over 70% male. You're so gonna have a boyfriend before Thanksgiving." The hours passed and we just kept on talking. Somewhere in the midst of all this conversation something dawned on me. We were saying a ton and 99.9% of what we said revolved around business school.

It's not that we didn't attempt to change the subject. We spent some time reminiscing about sorority life and catching each other up on the latest happenings with mutual friends and acquaintances. However, we always seemed to circle back to business school. If we weren't talking about my irrational fears of asking my boss for a recommendation we were giving her friend (who had the misfortune of sitting with us) advice on how to study for the GMAT. Some how we had both succumbed to a severe case of MBA diarrhea.

Striking thousands of new victims every year, MBA diarrhea causes potential b-school applicants, recently accepted applicants and current students to uncontrollably let loose all of their MBA aspirations on anyone who makes the mistake of speaking to them. Ask someone afflicted with this disease how their day is going and this is what you will most likely hear.
"I'm alright. I just can't seem to stop incorporating the information from Statement 1 into my analysis of Statement 2 to determine whether or not it's sufficient by itself. The GMAT is in 3 weeks and I can't get an 80/80 split if I don't figure this out. I'm at my wits end!"
If someone is a little further along in the process the answer might be more like this.
"Do you know how short 600 words is? That's like NOTHING! How am I supposed to evaluate my career progression, talk about my career goals, and explain why I not only need an MBA but I need a Kellogg/Wharton/Ross/Marshall/Booth (pick one or add your own) MBA specifically in only 600 words. Hell! Explaining why I think I can switch from pole dancing to investment banking takes up 550 words alone! I'll never get everything done in time to submit everything 4 weeks before the deadline!"

This journey quickly becomes all consuming. Every thought is occupied by the GMAT (studying for it, obsessing over the score, pondering a retake, etc.), developing your "story," researching schools, nagging doubts about whether you'll get in anywhere, and delusional hope that you can get in everywhere. The questions and constant introspection wake up with you in the morning and lull you to sleep each night. At work you toggle back and forth between Excel and MBA forums, wondering what new project you can execute between now and October that will take your application to the next level. Guilt tugs at you when you do anything unrelated to getting into business school. When at happy hour with coworkers and friends you feel that you should be at home memorizing idioms. Between bites of your lunch time salad (or burger) you think you should be writing another paragraph of your goals essay. I find myself bringing my SanDisk drive with me everywhere I go, lest I waste an opportunity to write.

When something becomes such a large part of your life, it's impossible not to talk about it. But for some reason when you have MBA diarrhea, business school is ALL you want to talk about. Unfortunately, the only people who want to hear the minutia of your every b-school thought are others with the same affliction. Everyone else, while supportive, really just doesn't give a shit. Sure they're interested to hear about your plans in the beginning. Hell, maybe even a one sentence update from time to time is welcome. MBA diarrhea doesn't allow for this. Once the subject is on the table, the verbal release can't be stopped.

I've heard myself and even I get annoyed. The problem is I can't help myself. I have to tell anyone and everyone that I believe that businesses cannot exist separately from the communities in which they operate and that it is imperative to align and integrate their common interests into business strategy. For this reason I want to transition into a non-profit development or CSR role with a focus in developing public-private partnerships. My career in sales has given me the analytical and negotiating skills needed to identify and facilitate mutually beneficial partnerships between the public/non-profit sector and private industry that will foster continued development. I now need my MBA to build the cross-functional business knowledge necessary to lead......SHIT! There I go again!

I have come to the realization that the only cure for MBA diarrhea is actually earning an MBA. Until that glorious day comes (and it better come in 2014), I am issuing a blanket apology to all of my family, friends, acquaintances, dates, and anyone else who crosses my path. I am truly sorry, but everything that comes out of my mouth will in some way relate to business school. I have become THAT PERSON.

What do you Recommend?

2011-07-22T09:31:00.002-05:00

It's hot. The Weather Channel says that it's 97 degrees right now and that temperatures will reach 102 by the afternoon. People are being warned to avoid outdoor activities between the hours of 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., lest they want to die. Still, I'm sitting in my air conditioned office thinking to myself that I'd rather go for a 10 mile run at noon than confront what faces me next week.

July is coming to an end and August is drawing near. August brings the release of the LIVE APPLICATION. Although essay questions are released between May and July, business schools don't open the floodgates for thousands of applications to pour through until early August. Round 1 applications won't be due until October, but now is the time to start assembling the pieces. While it's up to each individual applicant to get the the online app filled in, the essays written, the GMAT taken, and the transcripts uploaded there is one critical component that is out of our hands. The recommendations, the part of the application where one to three people corroborate that you are in fact the innovative, collaborative, genius business leader of the future that you've said you are. Recommendations, the one section of the application where someone else can sink your battleship (and sink it hard). Recommendations, the reason for fifty-leven rounds of the always fun "Did you submit it yet?" game. Next week I ask my current manager to be one of my business school recommenders.

"Good luck," my co-worker told me yesterday when I mentioned that I would be asking my boss for a recommendation. From his tone I could tell that his words were more warning than well wish. It's not that going back to business school is taboo at my company. In fact a good number of employees leave every year to attend Top 25 schools. Some do it on the low, but most people let their plans be known from the get go, receiving the support of their direct manager and business unit. I can already envision the conversation with my manager.

Pick up the telephone and dial. Ring, ring, ring...
Manager: Hey Cheetarah, what's up!
Me: Hi Manager. Umm...as you know I took the GMAT in May and want to get my MBA. I need a LOR from my current manager and was wondering if you would be willing to give me a strong recommendation.
Manager: Sure! I'd be willing to give you a recommendation to St. Joe's or Temple.
Me: Ummm...yeah, about that...I'm thinking more along the lines of University of Chicago, Columbia, Kellogg, Stanford, etc.
Manager: Cheetarah, those don't sound like part-time programs in Philadelphia.
Me: Hmm...that might be because they are full-time programs that would require me to leave the company.
Sound of manager's head exploding over the receive blows out Cheetarah's eardrum. End scene.

Okay, maybe I'm being a bit over dramatic. However, like my co-worker, I just don't think it's going to be a "Rah-Rah, Go Cheetarah!" conversation. She's going to ask questions, lots of questions. Why do I want to go full-time? What do I think I can get from a FT program that I won't get from a PT one? What will this mean for my future with the company? Do I want a future with the company?

I'm trying to be savvy about this. In spite of what my friends say (and I know they mean well), there is no guarantee that I will get accepted into a program. Applicants are high, but admit rates are low. While I am confident that I will get in somewhere, I just can't 100% bank on it. With that in mind, I'm positioning this to my manager as a longshot that I want to take to avoid one day regretting not taking it (does that make sense). Even if I do get into school (please, please, please God let me get in), I still want to make the most of my employment while I'm here. There is a job that I've had my eye on for 3 years. It will give me the opportunity to manage a large team and I'm positioning myself to move into one of these coveted positions in the area when it opens up. I don't want the fact that I'm applying to business school to negatively impact my chances. It would suck to stay in a holding pattern for months because there's a (hopefully good) chance that I won't be here by this time next year. I've played the "pass-on-a-good-thing-now-in-anticipation-something-better-later-on" game and it's left me empty handed more often than not. While I don't want to stay here forever, I would be a fool to not gather all of the transferrable skills I can get while I'm here and leading a large team is definitely transferrable.

My worries extend beyond the explanations of why I want to apply to full-time programs and the progression of my career. I checked out Stanford's Leadership Behavior Grid and immediately curled into the fetal position and began tremble.
Evaluate the candidate across the following leadership behaviors. Strategic Orientation:
1) Understands the immediate issues of work or analysis
2) Identifies opportunities for improvement within area of responsibility
3) Develops insights or recommendations that have improved business performance
4) Develops insights or recommendations that have shaped team or department strategy
5) Implements a successful strategy that challenges other parts of the company or other players in the industry

Really Stanford?! 22-30 year old industry changers? Why don't you just go recruit Mark Zuckerberg now? I work with and am friends with some very smart, motivated, results-driven people and I don't know anyone who's working on the upper end of that spectrum. My manager if nothing else is honest. If she's honestly evaluating me according to that type of criteria I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of getting in anywhere. I do realize that schools don't expect us to be fully formed. If we already exhibited every leadership quality they ask for to the highest degree we probably don't need to go to business school. At the same time, how can a person highly recommend someone that they've just said falls in the middle of the spectrum on most measures? It seems like an oxymoron to me.

I've trolled GMATClub, Poets & Quants, and consultant blogs enough to know that recommenders need to be managed. I have every intention of guiding my recommenders in the direction I need them to go. I've designated key themes that I want each recommender to discuss in regard to my candidacy. In mid-August I will provide them with a binder that includes due dates (2-3 weeks prior to the real due dates) for each school to which I'm applying, key themes I need their letters to focus on, a leadership behavior guide that includes specific examples of how I've demonstrated traits like leadership, innovation, teamwork, etc. and the results, and a resume. I will also review the Leadership Grids (like Stanford's) with them to discuss where my actions and results align. However, my direction can only go so far. Ultimately they will be the ones filling out the grids and writing the letters and I'm waiving my right to see any of it. All I can do is lead them to the river and hope they take a big old sip of the Kool-aide.

But before we get to all that I've gotta ask her first. Ugh, I'd rather go for that 10 mile run right now.

There's No Place Like Home

2011-07-13T14:15:00.002-05:00

I hate mornings. Let me clarify. I hate weekday mornings. Mornings suck from Monday through Friday. Why? Because weekday mornings mean going to work. Going to work requires taking a shower, wearing pants (or an appropriate length skirt or dress), and making my hair presentable. Going to work requires enduring 40-60 minutes of traffic just to be there. Being there requires staying awake for at least 8 hours, reflexively looking over my shoulder to see if a senior manager is about to catch me on facebook or GMAT Club, and refraining from inappropriate scratching. I have absolutely no desire to be at work.
I have a pretty cool job. I represent great brands, work with (mostly) cool people, and manage to get a free lunch a couple of times a week. The job isn't the problem; going to work is. For five years I had a job that rarely required me to go to work. Nearly everyday I rolled out of bed between 8:30 and 9 a.m., bypassed the shower, staggered downstairs, plopped myself in front of the TV with my laptop perched on my knees, and got to working. I would go for a mid-morning run, take an afternoon nap, and polish off my project list in enough time to take a shower and head to the gym or tae kwon do class. It's been two years since I left that position and I have yet to acclimate.
When animals are left in the wild too long it is impossible to domesticate them. I think the same principle applies to people who have worked from home for longer than three years. At three years people reach a point of no return. Just like that wild animal can't be domesticated, the home based employee can't be office broken. We've been free to roam for too long to be caged by the rules of office etiquette. Why is it necessary to wear shoes? Do my feet really need to stay under my desk? What's wrong with putting my head down for an hour long nap? Why can't I release into the atmosphere the gas that bubbles in my stomach? Is it really a big deal to eat the food in the refrigerator that doesn't have my name on it? For some reason that I can't quite grasp all of the behaviors that were perfectly acceptable at my house are not only frowned upon, but prohibited in the office.
What puts the cherry on top of this shit drenched sundae is having to willingly take myself to this place each morning. Regardless of whether or not I have meetings to attend or assignments to complete I have to be here every MORNING. For some reason it's necessary for me to be in the office by 8:30 a.m. No one talks to me. Hardly anyone calls. Still, it's imperative for me to be sitting here. I force myself to wake up by 7 a.m. (even in the dead of winter when mother nature hasn't bothered to awaken the sun), rack my brain to remember if I've worn that particular sweater vest in the last 7 days, refrain from throwing objects at the car in front of me that insists on going 20 in a 45 along a ten mile single lane road, and spend a small fortune on Wawa coffee just to sit here. Ironically, sitting here is NOT necessary for me to do my job. Because of the wunderkinds in the IT department I could stay in bed and still do my job. What's the sense of having remote capabilities if they're not going to let me work remotely?
Like I said, I have no problem actually doing my job. I just don't want to do it in an office. I can do this job just as well in a t-shirt and underoos from the comfort of my queen size bed while watching One Life to Live. Somebody, anybody please...JUST GIVE ME FREE!!

Above Average

2011-07-11T07:05:00.003-05:00

Last Thursday I received my 9th annual, "Congratulations on getting through another year without getting fired!" e-mail from the company HR bot. This Thursday I turn 31. The average full-time MBA student at top-tier US business schools is between 26-28 and has five years of work experience at matriculation. Am I too late to the party?

While there are many people my age who choose to pursue an MBA a higher majority go the part-time, executive, or 1 year European MBA route. When I mention that I want to get an MBA many people's initial assumption is that I will pick from one of those options. They scratch their heads when I say I'm aiming for the FT programs. Yes, I'm older. However, that doesn't preclude a FT MBA from being a good fit with my goals.

First, an average is simply a blend of all data points. Will I be older than a lot of my classmates? Yes. Will I be the only one who's older than the average? No. People go back to school well into their 30s and much earlier than 26. Each situation is unique. So why now for me?

I've known for a while that I wanted to go back to school. Heck, I knew when I entered the workforce after graduation that at some point in time I would find myself back in a classroom again. However, my plans did not include an MBA. Since 2006 my goal has been to make a career change. While I had a natural ability for sales, I wasn't crazy about my job. Living through a miserable year with the manager from hell made it very clear to me that I didn't like what I was doing enough to ever deal with someone like her again. There was nothing this career could give me that would make enduring someone like her again worthwhile. I wanted to feel a sense of excitement about the work I was doing. While I always get a sense of satisfaction from closing a deal, the process of getting there was always a drag. I realized that business in and of itself just didn't resonate with me. Since I didn't want to stay in a traditional corporate setting I saw no point in pursuing an MBA.

Keeping this blog reminded me of how much I had always loved to write and for a while it seemed writing seemed like the perfect career path for me. I didn't know how I would make it work but I reasoned that I could go to school for two years to figure it out. At 26 I applied to MFA programs, positive that my writing would get me into a renowned program. It didn't. Even though I was crushed after all of the rejection letters, in hindsight it was the best thing that could've happened to me. Back then I was applying to graduate school more to escape my current work situation than to really pursue a new career path. I hadn't thought about what life would look like for me after graduation. Where would I like to work? What was my ultimate goal? I had no idea and in the end I think that was very clear in my applications.

As I regrouped from the disappointment of not getting into school I started to give more thought to what I really wanted to do with my life. I knew that I liked to write, but I began to realize that I'm not cut out to be a starving artist. While my current job offered me security and fed my competitive spirit it did nothing to engage my creative leanings. Volunteer experiences that involved fundraising, grant writing, and event coordination got me to start considering a move into the non-profit industry. I loved writing grant proposals and solicitation letters, negotiating partnerships between businesses and community organizations, and coordinating the logistics of pulling off large scale events like galas and award ceremonies. Idealist.org became a fixture in my browser. I tailored my resume to feature my growing list of volunteer experiences and applied to many development and fundraising positions. However, I was missing the glue that tied my current career field to the experience needed to be a non-profit development manager.

I wanted to go back to school but I needed to find a program that made good use of my transferrable skills while teaching subject matter that I enjoyed. Having a reasonable level of self awareness I knew that I would put forth more effort and do considerably better in a program that sparked my interest. I looked into Public Administration and Communications programs. These programs offered classes that I found interesting, had a concentrated focus on writing, and directly applied to the field in which I wanted to work. Although a part-time program would have given me the necessary classroom instruction I knew I needed more to make a strong case for switching careers. Full-time programs offered deeper immersion, more access to recruitment events, greater involvement in activities related to my chosen industry, and most importantly the opportunity for a summer internship to gain valuable real world work experience.

I planned to apply three years ago. However, I was a Michigan homeowner at the time. The value of my home had dropped considerably and I was in no position to take a 5 figure loss on sale as well as take on over $100,000 of debt for school. When my company offered me a position that required a relocation I accepted it. The corresponding 12 month relocation contract meant that I had to push my applications back a year, but it was worth it to me because it meant I could sell my home and not have to take a loss (loss on sale reimbursement is God's gift).

I was set to apply to M.S. Communications programs in 2009 until a very wise friend told me to consider the MBA. She's going to make an excellent marketer when she makes her career change. Unlike everyone before her who had suggested an MBA, she positioned it as a degree that would allow me to change careers. She stressed the flexibility of the degree across industries and the qualification it gives to more than work in a specific function but to lead it. I tried to argue that a Communications degree would be better suited to the type of roles that I wanted. I reasoned that an M.S. Comm was the equivalent of an MBA for the industries favored by the majority of Comm grads. I will never forget her response. "There is no equivalent to an MBA." With those words I finally did something that I was unwilling to do for the past three years. I researched MBA programs. To my surprise many had concentrations specifically devoted to the non-profit sector. Additionally, the programs had a distinct international bent that very few Communications programs could rival. At my friend's urging I decided to take the GMAT just to see where that could land me. Alas, in the middle of my GMAT prep I was offered another job transfer, this time a promotion back to the East Coast. Even though I wanted to go back to school so badly I could taste, personal issues with my family made it imperative for me to get closer to home. The needs of my family took precedence over my personal desire to be in school the next fall.

So why is now finally the right time? First, I'm finally done moving. My current relocation contract expires in November and I will not be entering another one. There are no overwhelming financial obligations over my head either. The situation with my family has also improved. Most importantly, I am finally crystal clear on what I want to do with my life and how I will get there. I'm in a really good place with my current career and could continue to progress through management roles. However, I know that no matter how far I go in my current company I will never be excited to get up, get dressed, and go to work in the morning. I'm not running away from a bad situation, simply running toward something that suits me better.

Not everyone operates on a strict 5 year plan. When I graduated from college I assumed I would work for two years then go back to school to get an MBA to pursue marketing. I had no idea that I would rediscover how much I loved to write. I didn't know that the sweetest deal I would close would be between a local pizza parlor and my neighborhood association. I didn't always know what I wanted to do and I wasn't always clear on how to get there once I did know. When I did know life happened. However, I didn't sit still waiting for the stars to align. I progressed my career, taking advantage of all that working for a Fortune 500 company has to offer. I got involved in amazing organizations and solidified my interest in my future career. Subconciously and intentionally I built my candidacy. Yes, my window of opportunity for pursuing this particular degree is definitely short, but at this point in my life I am a better applicant now than I would have been at the average age.

Ready, Set, GO!

2011-07-06T19:07:00.004-05:00

Round 1 has officially started for me. Kellogg School of Management released their application essays last week, three required 600 word essays and one 400 word essay on one of four topics. That gives me 2200 words to show an admissions committee that I belong in Kellogg's class of 2014. No, that I more than belong...that they need me and my 9 years of sales management experience, colorful writing skills, and lofty ideas about building communities through public-private partnerships. I have 2200 words to tell them where I've been, where I am, where I want to go and most importantly why. I have to tell them my story. 2200 words isn't nearly enough to capture 30 years.

So this is where the proverbial rubber meets the road. There aren't enough words to bring forth every detail, every next step, every falter, and every recovery. So which ones do I tell? "Choose the ones that tell your story," people say. My story. I have so many. Do I tell the story about latent potential finally being realized? Do I tell the story of self discovery? Am I the comeback kid or simply plotting a very careful move to the place I really belong? I've tried but I still can't decide on the packaging. Can I make it all make sense without crafting a novella?

Maybe if I sit down and just write then the story will weave itself. Answering the questions asked without regard to the packaging just might show the admissions committee everything they want to see in a Kellogg student. Maybe if I just write I won't have to try; I can just be. And maybe, just maybe, I can show my intellectual capacity, leadership potential, career vision, collaborative nature, and creativity in 2200 words.

Psyche Out

2011-07-01T22:35:00.005-05:00

I wasn't getting it. I'd gone through the entire quantitative section of the Kaplan 2011 GMAT Premier study guide. I'd read through every review topic from fractions to geometry to rate/distance/work. The concepts were pretty familiar. I was getting it. "When two or more people/objects are working together add their rates together to determine how long it takes to finish one job." Simple enough, I got it. Bring on the problem sets. "In the economy mode, a printer prints twice as fast as in the optimal quality mode. If after working for 20 minutes in the optimal quality mode and 40 minutes in the economy mode the printer printed 120 pages, how long would it take the printer to print 120 pages in the optimal quality mode?" (C) 2008 GMAT Club. On second thought, maybe I don't get it.

I was about 3 weeks into my GMAT studies when I realized that Kaplan's review book would not be enough to get me to 650, nevermind 700+. The overview of each quantitative topic wasn't really connecting with the practice questions. Looking at the majority of the problems, I didn't even know where to begin to try to solve them. In dire need of help I turned to the only place I could go to for answers: Google. I typed GMAT into the search engine and Google opened the floodgates and rained down upon my results page website after website dedicated to GMAT preparation. I chose http://www.gmatclub.com/ and never looked back.

GMAT Club is an amazing resource for anyone preparing for the GMAT. The site offers reviews of test prep companies and study materials. Members post detailed debriefs of exactly how they got that 770 that's listed in their profiles. Over two dozen Quantitative and Verbal tests are available for a nominal fee in addition to problem sets of the most difficult questions. The forums are full of encouraging words for Club members who feel defeated by a 550 and high praise for members sharing their triumph in clearing the 700 hurdle. People share test taking strategies and help explain difficult problems to one another. GMAT Club was a lifeline for me while studying. I owe my Q48 to that website, so even though I wasn't thrilled with my score I shared it and my study methods in the GMAT Experience forum. Having closed (but not locked) the door on the GMAT, I turned to the MBA Forum section of the site to seek direction about the application process.

If GMAT forums are the kumbaya part of the MBA journey, then b-school application forums are their passive aggressive, kill or be killed cousin. Let's be real for a minute. Top-tier business school applicants are an insecure bunch. We are on the outside of a very exclusive party with our noses pressed against the window pane, praying that someone notices something special about us and lets us in. We worry that our work experience isn't enough, our GMAT scores are too low, our undergrad alma maters are too pedestrian, or that our 4 year involvement tutoring at-risk children can't possibly compare to the person who started a non-profit that saved thousands of poverty stricken children from landmines. Basically, we spend endless amounts of brainpower wondering if we're good enough to get in. When people are insecure they look for reassurance. They just want someone to tell them that they aren't deluding themselves by adding Wharton to the school list. However, the kind of reassurance they need is rarely found on the online playground populated with other potential applicants.

Before I'd even taken the GMAT a good friend, who recently graduated from MIT-Sloan, told me to stay away from the MBA forums. "They will only bring you down," he said. Never being one to take someone's word for it, I dove in head first. He was right. An aspiring applicant can easily drown in the sea of naysayers. Checking any, "What are my chances of getting into ______" thread, forum members put up their stats (age, GPA, GMAT, Work Experienc, ECs) just to have them shot down. "You're too young. Get more work experience." "You're too old. Schools are going younger." "You're the right age but you work for the wrong company." "Your GPA is too low." "You're an Indian male. There's too much competition." "You're too different." "You're not different enough." There's always reason why someone doesn't have a shot in hell and shouldn't even bother applying. Ocassionally, someone passes the litmus test and gets the peer/consultant approved stamp of approval, "You're a shoo-in for H/S/W," only to come back in the spring with zero admits and scant hope of making it in off the summer waitlist. Meanwhile the poster who was too young/old/ordinary/Indian to even apply gets accepted in the second round.

So why bother evaluating anyone's chances, especially when you've never received an acceptance letter yourself? While MBA admissions isn't a total black box, there's enough uncertainty that no one can say for sure who will get in to a particular school and who won't. It makes me think that the "honest advice" is less about helping other applicants and more about helping oneself. It's easier to compete against someone who isn't even on the playing field. If you can make sure your opponent doesn't even show up then you've already won. To be honest, I've even found myself doing it a few times. "You can apply without work experience, but you'll need a super high GPA and GMAT along with high profile internships in order to have a chance." I parrot what I've heard others say, effectively placing doubt in the mind of that college senior who sees himself at Stanford's class of 2014 instead of 2017. I honestly don't think most of us intend to crush one another's dreams. But spend enough time reading about all of the reasons a school can say no and you become a naysayer yourself.

This is just the application process. What happens after we all get the long awaited admit call? Do we take this win at all cost mentality to school with us? While I'm competitive, I'm not a fan of competing with people who are supposed to be my teammates. Will the same people who told me I have no shot at my dream schools be the ones to tell me I have no shot at a job with my dream company when fall recruiting starts? Will they tell me not to bother to apply for that awesome fellowship because I'm not one of the elite few who can play Mozart while standing on their head? One of the aspects of my current job that I've always hated is being stacked up for evaluation against my peers across different jobs with different customers. Ultimately it creates an air of competition between people who are supposed to be working together. I know it's necessary at times and I'm not a fan of the "we're all winners" mantra. I'd just like to not deal with that for 2 years. I want classmates who are invested in my success, not my success relative to their own. This is one of the reasons why I was always wary of b-school. More than making me doubt my chances of getting in, MBA forums sometimes make me doubt my desire to even go.

Memories

2011-06-29T12:51:00.002-05:00

My old roommate called me the other day. He wanted to share his latest running accomplishment: 4 miles in one hour and ten minutes, an average of roughly 17 minutes per mile. Psshhh! I let him know that I could totally beat that. I can easily clock an 18+ minute mile pace. Ahh, the race to the bottom is cutthroat.

However, our conversation soon shifted to our own respective races to the top. He's looking to find the sports apparel product manager job that has eluded him for so long, and I am seeking entrance into a top-tier b-school. "You know I applied to Columbia when I was applying to b-school," he told me. My ears perked up at this piece of previously unknown information because Columbia is so on my list. "Yeah, that application was harder than I thought. I figured I could get it done in a couple of hours but it took me more like 4 or 5 to complete it." Needless to say, he's not a Columbia alum.

The idea that anyone can complete an application to any graduate program in a matter of hours is mind boggling. More than just filling in your name, address, birthdate, and employer, applications require detailed job descriptions, lists of activities, honors, awards, and more. Most importantly, applications call for ESSAYS. True, I used to write 5 page papers in a matter of hours when I was in high school and undergrad. However, flipping through a textbook and summarizing the author's main point while adding in my personal commentary is a far cry from what graduate applications require. Although it should be easy to throw together 1000-1500 words on the subject I know best (i.e. me), it's NOT. Business schools in particular seem to like to ask questions about me that I don't readily have the answers to. For weeks, I've been thinking of answers to questions about my greatest passion, what matters most to me and why, and my greatest accomplishment and have yet to come up with very much. How in the world anyone could answer these questions in a few hours is beyond me.

Trust me when I say that I know myself very well. I know what I like to eat. I know where I like to go. I know what I don't like to do in my spare time. I know what makes me smile and what makes me want to punch someone in the throat. But when I look at recently released essay questions for my target schools I just don't have the answers. The issue isn't lack of experience. Nine years across 5 different jobs has given me tons of that. The problem is I just can't seem to remember much of it. Situations that used to follow me to sleep at night have silently slipped away from my memories. Triumphs that I touted on past performance appraisals now just read as words on a page rather than a lived through experience. I can see the what, but struggle to recall the how and why. As one job gives way to another, the people, issues, and solutions that were so important twelve months ago become irrelevant. I know that they are there, they just don't occupy my present thoughts. If I wasn't applying to business school I'd probably never even care to remember them.

Ultimately, the essays are supposed to get to the heart of what drives a person. How often does anyone really think about this? Unless we are faced with a situation that challenges our values we simply mindlessly navigate our lives according to them. While I know that I'm doing more than just existing in my life, I haven't really pieced together everything that has brought me to this point. It goes beyond the job skills I've picked up along the way and how I want to leverage them. The decision to pursue a graduate degree, specifically an MBA, was shaped by events that I didn't even know would lead me here at the time. A lot of these experiences have been shoved to the back of my mind, especially those that are related to my current career. If it didn't happen within the last year, I more than likely don't remember it.

Maybe that's why I feel the need to make this career change. Ask me about the charity date auction I organized for my sorority's chapter while I was an undergraduate and I can tell you everything from how I came up with the idea to how I found participants to how I secured sponsors. Ask me how I exceeded my volume target two years ago and I'd be hard pressed to provide any details off the top of my head. The work I do here just isn't memorable for me. It doesn't stay with me over the years as something that I look back on with a great sense of pride or accomplishment. Maybe that's why it's difficult for me to conjure up meaningful examples from my work history. The material is there, but it just doesn't mean all that much to me personally.

Current applicants, students, and admissions consultants all say that b-school essays require a great deal of introspection. I've learned that it takes more than a few hours to even fill in a simple outline of strengths, weaknesses, values, and goals with the examples from life to substantiate them. When faced with a blank Word document I grasp for something tangible. My past experiences tend to come to mind when I'm not trying to remember them. The friendship bracelet business that I started the summer before 3rd grade enters my thoughts when I'm out for a run. I remember raiding the fabric store for black, red, hot pink, and green string against the backdrop of my labored breaths. At these times I start to piece together the moments, people, and experiences that have shaped me and just pray that they stick around long enough for me to get back to my computer and record them for future use.

Could've Had a V8

2011-06-27T20:41:00.004-05:00

"I think you should have lunch with him."
I stared at Chesty LaRue through squinted eyes, surprised by her declaration. I gave her the rundown on the man who just extended me an invitation via email to lunch the next afternoon. I'd met him on OKCupid. He seemed nice enough and wasn't bad looking. However, he was on the short side and wasn't particularly vibrant or interesting. However, this was his second request to meet and I really had no reason to turn him down.
"At the very least, you get a free meal," she reasoned.
Free meal. That sealed it. I emailed him back and agreed to meet him at a restaurant about 15 minutes from my home. The menu looked decent. I could eat well and still stick to my "don't eat (too much) crap" diet. I wasn't excited to meet him, but what could it hurt to give him a chance. Besides, in my experience instant sparks have a tendency to spontaneously combust. As I've gotten older I've stopped making snap judgments about my interest level based solely on first impressions. However, when I pulled into the parking lot and saw a man with a familiar face dressed in denim shorts, an oversized t-shirt, and dusty sneakers paired with high white socks I got the sinking feeling that my first impression radar was right on.

I found him at the bar ordering a beer. When he opened his mouth to say hello a slight discoloration on his front tooth caught my eye. As the conversation meandered from the jobs he'd lost over the years to the progress of the relationship advice book he's writing I kept staring at that tooth. It had a slight inward slant. The dimly lit bar area prevented me from determining whether the tooth was tinted gray or simply clouded by tartar.

The ring of his phone distracted me from the tooth analysis. He glanced at the number flashing across the screen, turned back to me and said, "Bill collectors, hmph," with a smirk that seemed to invite me to commiserate. I guess I was supposed to view the bill collectors as the culprits since it's totally unreasonable to expect bills to be paid on time, if at all. How dare they pester him for money he owes them! I offered up a tight lipped smile and nearly burst a blood vessel to suppress my eye roll reflex.

At that moment I was ready for the check. However, since I'd only gotten a water with lemon I still needed to actually make a check. I suggested we get a table. The sooner we ate the sooner I could make my escape. "So tell me something new," he asked, his mouth full of cheesy crab dip. The interview portion is always my favorite portion of any date. It's especially enjoyable when the questions are completely vague with no context. When I asked him what he meant by new he relayed the details of my life I'd divulged earlier but somehow managed to get them wrong. He said, "Well I know you really enjoy your job. Tell me something about you that I don't know." Umm, dude you don't even know what I just told you 40 minutes ago! I told you that I'm okay with my job but that I can't say that I truly enjoy it.

My eyes scanned the room for the waitress, willing our entrees to arrive. If I heard one more word about his broken down car I was liable to thrust my fork into my left temple. When my grilled tilapia and mashed potatoes arrived I dove into my plate. He ate his salad and continued to talk while I continued to pray that our waitress would just drop off the check. When my prayers were answered the waitress placed the check between us.
"So what do you have planned for the rest of the day?" he asked. I quickly rattled off a long list of errands and hoped he'd accept my "busy day" at face value. After several more minutes he reached for the check, effectively pulling the plug on the date and obliging my silent request. I'd known for over an hour that there would not be a date #2. However, my decision was sealed when I glanced at the credit card receipt and saw that he left a $5 tip on a $42 bill. Unemployment and bill collectors are one thing, but bad tipping is unexcusable.

On my drive home I called Chesty LaRue and berated her for convincing me to take a chance on that man. I know that I'm supposed to be more open to men to whom I might not initially be drawn. However, struggling to stay polite and semi-engaged through awkward conversation as evidence of incompatibility is heaped upon my head is draining. True, I wouldn't know for sure whether or not he's a dud unless we went out. Plus at the very least I get fed just for taking that chance. While I am a huge proponent of dating for food, I'm realizing that there's a point of diminishing returns. Yeah, I got fed but I also lost over 2 hours of my Sunday afternoon. That's 2 hours I could have been napping, researching schools, catching up on General Hospital, tweezing my underarm hair or dozens of more productive activities. Shit, I could've had a V8.

Build That Bridge

2011-06-26T08:03:00.002-05:00

I get easily annoyed with people who won't let things go. People make mountains out of molehills and obsess incessantly over things that ultimately are NOT THAT DEEP. They repaint the same wall over and over again because the color just isn't right. They play the same video game ad nauseum to best their already ridiculously high score. They can't move on to other things because they have yet to build a bridge and get the hell over it.

Such is the case with my relationship with the GMAT. The GMAT, that necessary evil that nearly every MBA applicant must endure (although for some it's the GRE). The exam that claims to only test what you learned in high school but somehow never actually serves up a problem any high school student would see. The GMAT, nearly 4 hours of mind numbing, nerve wracking, vomit inducing hell. After suffering through the GRE back in 2006 I promised myself that I would never take another standardized test again. Promises are meant to be broken.

In August 2010 I found myself at Borders purchasing the Kaplan GMAT 2011 Premier study guide (w/ CD-Rom). Over the next 2 months I also purchased the Official Guide for GMAT Review 12 edition, five Manhattan GMAT math strategy guides, and $79 worth of practice tests from www.gmatclub.com. I pored over fractions, prime numbers, and probability. I spent hours trying to comprehend the intricacies of data sufficiency. "Is x greater than 0?" Who the hell knows?

I would come home from work and attack practice problems until after midnight. My Saturdays consisted of practice exams followed by a detailed review of all of the questions I missed. There were a lot of them. I was consumed by the GMAT for well into the fall until one phone call rendered a November test date irrelevant. I got a new job...a job on the East Coast. After more than 8 years in the Midwest, I was finally coming home. Well close to home. Philadelphia is NOT New York City, but it's closer than Grand Rapids, MI and Minneapolis, MN could ever be. I packed up my GMAT study books along with my living room, bedrooms, dining room, bathrooms, and kitchen. I didn't look at anything GMAT related for months.

GMAT studying resumed with the new year. I planned to take the test in the spring so that I would have plenty of time to work on my applications. While I knew taking it early gave me time to retake it if necessary my plan was to make sure it would not be necessary. The GMAT is a $250 investment and I only wanted to invest once. With that in mind I was aiming high. When I first started started studying back in August I would have been happy with a 650 and elated with hitting 700. But trolling GMAT and MBA forums has a way of raising the bar. A 700 was no longer good enough. I wanted the holy grail: the 99th percentile. I wanted to go where only 1% of test takers go. I wanted to enter the exclusive club dominated by Indian engineers and Chinese finance jocks. I wanted to be more than great. I wanted to be exceptional. Plus, I realized I needed that kind of score. In full disclosure, my undergrad GPA left much to be desired (that F, second semester senior year was the nail in my GPA's coffin). I knew that I'd need a nosebleed score to truly offset it.

Studying became my life from February through May. I even enrolled in a prep class through Veritas Prep. On May 21, 2011 I headed to the testing center ready to annihilate the GMAT. After 2 essays, 37 quantitative problems, and 41 verbal questions I'd say it was a draw. 710. Q48, V40. 92nd percentile overall. Womp, womp. It's a decent score. Hell, it's a really good score. But I wanted more than really good. I wanted jaw-dropping. What I got was plenty good enough.

That's the dilemma. Do I take good enough and run with it? Or do I cough up another $250 (that my employer will NOT reimburse) and go for the score I really wanted? Now that I've seen the live test I'm pretty sure that I can improve my score with some more focused studying and lots more practice tests. My Verbal score can definitely go up. For the first time in my life I didn't reach the 90th percentile in the verbal section of a standardized test. It hurts my pride because Verbal is my thing. It's what I do. Ironically, I performed surprisingly well on the quantitative portion of the exam. While I usually hover between the 60th and 65th percentile in quant, all of my studying moved me into the 82nd percentile on the GMAT. Ahh, there's the rub. There is a very distinct chance that I could retake the test and raise my verbal score but lose ground in the quant. Plus, retaking the test doesn't really do me any good unless I can raise my score by 50+ points. Getting another 50 points out of the GMAT is much easier to do at a 650 than a 710.

I also know that there are many people who would kill for my score and can't catch a whiff of it no matter how much they study. However, every time I see someone with a higher score, especially a 760+ I know that that could be my score too. Yes, I worked my butt off for that 710. The amount of work I put in should tell me that I performed to my ability level. Yet something keeps nagging at me, telling me that 710 is just a baseline. Something keeps telling me that I didn't take as many practice tests as I could have, that there are other study guides I could review. However, people (very knowledgeable people) tell me to focus on my application essays and let the score ride. Maybe they are right. But there's something about the GMAT that just wont let me build that bridge and get over it.

The Prodigal Daughter

2011-06-25T17:37:00.003-05:00

I'm embarking on a journey. Five years ago, if someone told me that I'd be taking this journey I would have punched them in the face. Well, a lot can change in 5 years. Some how the girl who wanted to get an MFA in Creative Writing is applying to MBA programs. Was that the sound of a record scratch? I think it was.
How in the hell did this happen? Have I turned to the dark side, lured away from the beauty of words by the seductive call of cash? Have I finally resigned myself to stop fighting the inevitability of becoming a company woman after nearly a decade with my employer? Have I finally realized that I can't beat them so I might as well join them? Yes and no. Is this about money? You bet your ass it is. But it's also about breaking out of the monotony that has become my professional life. You ask how can I break the monotony of my professional life by pursuing a degree that entrenches me further into it? I asked myself the same question for a long time. In fact, I often viewed an MBA as an additional shackle, chaining me to spreadsheets, bottom lines, and cost-benefit analyses. Ironic that it was my pursuit of an MFA that ultimately led me to change my mind about an MBA.

In the fall of 2006 I applied to 5 MFA programs. In the spring of 2007 I was rejected by all five. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth. What haunted me more than my bruised ego was the suffocating feeling of entrapment. I felt trapped in a job that I hated in a "city" in which I didn't belong. I had to get out of there and resolved to apply again next year and nearly bit my mother's head off when she suggested that I apply to MBA programs instead. While mother's reasoning for obtaining an MBA was way off, ultimately the idea was right.

After the rejection my writing tapered off considerably. I stopped updating this blog and only journaled once in a blue moon. I stopped writing for me and started writing for others. I volunteered at a non-profit and wrote several grant applications for them. When my good friend launched his record label I wrote his biography. Instead of writing to entertain I wrote to persuade, to convince people to invest in the dreams of others. Lo and behold, I liked it. I started to like something else around this time: my job and Grand Rapids, MI.

When the last rejection letter arrived in the mail and I realized I would not be leaving MI in the fall I subconsciously adopted the "if you can't be with the one you love, then love the one you're with" mantra. I'd spent nearly 3 years just existing in my job and in Grand Rapids and knew that it would be about a year before I would have a shot at leaving. What was I going to do? Wallow? While wallowing is definitely one of my talents I decided to try something different. I decided to stop existing and start living. I picked up running, started exploring the city, and devoted some energy to my job. I realized that while I may not be passionate about what I did, I am actually pretty damn good at it. Maybe I didn't need to throw the baby out with the bath water. Like it or not, I have a head for business. I'm an excellent salesperson and I know how to make numbers talk. In fact, I get a kick out of it. For the first time I started to think that an MFA may not be the right degree for me. While I still wasn't sold on an MBA, I was open to other options. It was a conversation with a very logical and blunt friend that helped me see the MBA in a new light. She was a student at NYU's Stern School of Business and opened my eyes to the MBA's most attractive quality: FLEXIBILITY. An MBA is simply a leadership degree. What kind of leader I want to be is up to me. MBAs are not just financiers, marketers, accountants, and consultants. They are entrepreneurs, innovators, dancers, writers, soldiers, and more. I can make the degree work for me in whatever way I see fit. I can take persuasive writing classes along with my finance and marketing classes. I can even take a creative writing class as an elective if I want. Now here's where the economies of scale come into play. If an MFA costs the same amount as an MBA, but the earning power of an MBA is 2-5 times higher and gives me a broader range of career options, why would I NOT go for the MBA? I may be a dreamer at heart but I'm also a realist who likes to keep the rent paid and (cute) shoes on my feet.

So why am I back to blogging? Well, this MBA application process is a lot more involved than I ever imagined. I need an outlet to keep from driving myself and those around me crazy. I want to air out my frustrations, my insecurities about maybe not getting in, and my a-ha moments along the way. Plus, while most programs simply ask for a statement of purpose, MBA applications require ESSAYS. Yep, plural. They want to know everything from what matters most to me to what I want to do with my life. My writing is best when I'm honest. The thing is these questions aren't easy to answer because I've never really thought about them (well I've thought about what I want to do professionally) in any depth. I struggle to pick out the 5 most memorable moments in my life. I'm stretching to think of the 5 people who have influenced me most. So I've decided to start blogging again to get to my honest place. Keeping this blog made me remember so many life experiences I'd long since forgotten about and I'm hoping that keeping it again will help me remember more. I'm looking for more than the what, I'm searching for the why. Here's to finding it here.

Get On My Level

2007-08-03T19:32:00.000-05:00

"You scare me."
My eyebrow shot up and I adjusted the phone against my ear. "I scare you?" I repeated, wanting to be sure I heard him correctly.
"Yeah, you scare me."
Laughter erupted from my gut, loud and uncontrollable. In my 27 years I have elicited quite a few reactions from quite a few men. However this was the first time I'd scared one of them, at least within the first conversation.
I had met him two days earlier at the car dealership where I got my key fab replaced.
"You know your tail light is busted," he had said as he handed me my keys.
"A basketball pole hit my car," I informed him. A smirk played at the corners of my mouth. "I'll get around to getting it fixed."
"Um, okay."
He disappeared around a corner, and I headed to my car. As I pulled out of the service garage I saw him wiping down an SUV in the parking lot. He held up his hand to get me to stop for a second.
"What's up?" I asked, rolling down my window. I was hoping he hadn't noticed anything else wrong with my car.
"I just wanted to tell you that you are a very attractive woman."
I took a second to look at him. His skin was a smooth mahagony and he had a shy smile accented by a slighly crooked bottom tooth. He was tall and slim, yet not skinny.
"Thank you. You're cute too," I replied.
We exchanged phone numbers and agreed that we'd speak whenever either one of us called. When my phone rang 48 hours later this wasn't how I expected our first conversation to go. Small talk, yes. Abject terror not so much
"How exactly do I scare you?" I asked.
"I've never met anyone like you before. You're intimidating."
"How so?"
"You're on a whole nother level than me." He explained that it was shocking to meet a woman who was educated, had her own place, could put together three sentences without cursing, and displayed absolutely no signs of ghettoness.
I got the feeling that he thought of me as some mythical beast he'd only heard about during story time at sleep away camp, never imagining that this rare creature existed.
"Trust me, I'm really very nice. Not scary at all. You'll see tomorrow when we have lunch," I said in an effort to allay his fears.
"Actually, I don't think I'm ready to hang out with you yet."
Once again my eyebrow shot up. "What do you mean not ready? How ready to do you have to be to eat lunch?"
"I can just tell that I'm not on your level and if I hang out with you, you would run right over me."
I twirled my index finger through my twisted hair, mulling his words over in my head. He was definitely right. I could steamroll him easily. It hadn't taken long for me to assess that it wouldn't be difficult for me to confuse and manipulate him. His conversation skills were basic, going no further than simple question and answer. He lacked a sharp wit and wasn't too quick on the uptake. Still, he was sweet and mildly amusing. Plus he was respectful, so I had no intentions of taking advantage, not even designs on a free meal.
"But you were the one who asked me to chill tomorrow, remember?" I reminded him.
"I know, but now I don't think I can do it. I mean don't get me wrong, I want to hang out with you. I just have to prepare myself first." He offered to reschedule for later in the month.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The man was breaking a "date" (and I use that term VERY loosely) within an hour of making it, not because he had a prior engagement that initially slipped his mind, but because he was scared of a woman who could function as an adult. Something was very wrong with that picture.
"Oh come on, it's not that big a deal. It's just lunch. It'll be fun." I spent the next half hour trying to convince him to change his mind. It wasn't that I was dying to go out with him. Far from it. Although he was a cutie, he wasn't my type at all. He lacked the charisma, charm, and borderline arrogance that I find attractive in a man. Still, it would've been cool to go to a restaurant with someone other than myself for once. Besides I should've been the one skipping out on him, not the other way around.
He held firm and eventually, I gave up. I could take the L because I wasn't really losing anything. Any guy who admits up front that you're too good for him isn't worth the wasted breath. Since he made such a big deal about a simple lunch, I'm not too keen on the idea of being friends. There's too much expectation attached. It's too bad we won't be homies. He could've detailed my car.

Now What

2007-04-05T14:45:00.000-05:00

It's official. I won't be spending the latter half of 2007 the way I envisioned. No classes, no workshops, no papers. I held out hope until the last rejection arrived this afternoon. At least now I don't have to be scared of what's in the mailbox. But then again, there's nothing to look forward to when I check the mail either.
If I said I wasn't disappointed, that would be a lie. It hurts, badly. I wanted this. And not just because it was a way out of a life that closes in on me a bit more each day. But moreso because if I got this it would be confirmation that I really do have a talent and that my words could take me places I can't even imagine. Right now I feel deluded, like I fooled myself into thinking I'm better than I am. I can already hear my parents false comfort when I tell them. "Oh I'm sorry....so how about business school?"
The worst part is now I have to make other plans. I can't continue where I'm at. I've been trying to move on for more than a year, yet I'm still in the same place doing the same thing. Yes, I can keep writing and apply again next year. But in the meantime, I need a change. I'm so desperate for something new I practically bang my head against walls in frustration. There are no job prospects, query letters are unanswered, and grad school isn't going to happen this fall. With no options, what's a girl to do?

Comfort Food

2007-03-30T21:39:00.000-05:00

It's past 9 p.m., closer to 10, and I have yet to shower today. The smells emanating from my crevices occassional waft past my unsuspecting nostrils. My bed sheets stink. I should do something. Hours ago, I contemplated working out, popping in the DVD featuring sleek women with taut abs and a visible line between shoulders and biceps. "Squat, round your back, flatten, and stand," the leader always instructs. I told myself I'd follow her cues after an afternoon nap, then after a snack, then after one more page read. With those tasks complete, all I want to do is eat a brownie sundae. My tongue can taste the warm sweet chocolate cooled by even sweeter vanilla ice cream. I can feel the thick fudge coating the back of my throat. I want it, badly. But I want to look like the women on the DVD even more. Besides Pizza Hut at breakfast time did enough damage for today.
If I sit here long enough the need to fill myself should pass. I'll think of my full stomach, protruding against my too large sweatshirt and remind myself of the guilt that will stay with me long after the sugar, fat, and calories have passed from my system. That should tide me over, knowing that I won't like myself after I enjoy myself. Worse, I'll still have this craving that decadence can't satisfy. I'll still need to know that my life will head where I want it to go, while door after door shuts in my face. What I want most in life can't be served on a plate, and if I can't have it, then I'll settle for the body a brownie sundae won't let me have.

Por Favor

2007-03-26T22:38:00.000-05:00

Dear ABC:

YouTube has compelled me to ask you for a huge, ginormous, astronomical favor. I could possibly be asking for too much, but what the hell. I'll never know unless I put it out there. After way too many nights spent staying up until 4 a.m. to watch just one more episode on my computer, I beseech you to bring back My So Called Life. Yes, I realize that it's been about twelve years since the show aired and you assume that everyone has long since forgotten that Angela got into Jordan's car immediately after Brian Krakow admitted that he was the one who wrote the letter that made Angela forgive Jordan in the first place. Well, I haven't forgotten and after more than a decade of wondering what happens next, I don't think that I ever will.

Now I know it seems a little far fetched to bring back a show that has been off the air since the Clinton administration and pick up right where you left off, but I guarantee that there is still an audience that has been waiting with baited breath for this series to continue. In fact, I went to high school with a girl who looked just like Angela, from the red shoulder length bob to the Doc Martins and tight lipped smile. She even had a crush on this boy with chin length air, stubble, and an unbelievable ability to wear the hell out of a mechanic's shirt - totally hot. I know in my heart of hearts that she still pines for more MSCL. Don't worry about a time slot. Just cancel that melodramatic, horribly acted, ill conceived joke of a show, October Road and it's all set.

Of course you'll have to get the same actors and use the same sets. I've already googled the entire cast and they're all still alive. Now you should hurry and get the relaunch together because I don't know how much longer Jordan Cat- err I mean Jared Leto is going to exist in the land of the living. Besides, anything could happen (car accident, earthquake, freak lipo accident) and any member of MSCL could be gone before this undertaking even begins. Yes, I do realize that Angela, well Claire is no longer 16 years old, and Jord- damn it I mean Jared may not even be male anymore, but that completely doesn't matter. I'm totally willing to ignore the fact that Danielle will be the most adult looking 10 year old EVER just to know what happens after Angela gets in the car with Jordan. Plus I need to know if Graham sleeps with Halley Lowenthal. Thought I forgot about that little subplot? Nope, I didn't!!

Just to clarify, I'm not asking for a reunion to find out what Angela, Jordan, Rayanne, Sharon, and company are up to now. No, I want the next episode to pick up where the last one left off. Additionally, I'd also like the remainder of Season 1 to air. Wrap up the story nice and pretty so that I can finally sleep at night.

Granted, it may be a little bit difficult to successfully pull off this production, but whatever difficulties you may experience are really of your own making. You dumb asses never should've cancelled the show in the first place. And for what? So you could bring us real winners like Brothers Keeper, Two of a Kind, and Vengeance Unlimited. At least people remember and miss My So Called Life. Prematurely pulling the plug was one of the biggest travesties in all of television history and honestly, it's up to you to rectify this egregious mistake. Do it for me, do it for the flannel and Doc Martins generation, do it for Brian Krakow!

Sincerely,

MSCL's #1 Fan

Ready and Willing

2007-03-25T18:39:00.000-05:00

I have a laundry list of wants: a thin body, huge hair, admission to grad school, a life in New York, a new BCBG dress, and a littany of other things. He isn't on the list. Yes, I want a man, but not him. When something good happens to me, I don't feel the urge to share it with him. On a horrible day, he's not the person I call to vent to. Thoughts of him do not fill my idle time. My visions for the future do not include him.
Then he called, and I ran straight to him, 140 miles down the highway just because he asked me to hang out. Within two hours I was running from him, livid after yet another retread of the same argument we've been having for the past six months. Friends tell me I never should have gone to see him, remind me that I had said I was done with him. They're right. I am done. I'm done with arguing with him, missing him, and yearning for us to be like we were before the insanity set in. I don't want to go back to him.
But if he asked, I would. And he has asked. Each time he does I enter the ring for another round and get knocked out harder than the last time. Even though I don't want to work things out, I'm willing to try if he is. With him, I'm sixteen years old again, making decisions based on what others will or won't do. If he's not talking to me, then I'm not talking to him. If he wants to spend time with me, then I'm willing to drive to the ends of the earth to spend some time with him.
Is he worth it? Probably not. It's just that I can't seem to bring myself to give up on us. He's a hot mess, but Team Us is amazing. I can definitely live without us if us isn't a possibility. However, each time he comes back around it's as though he's saying we are definitely possible. And my gut never fails to tell me that passing up an opportunity to get us back is plain wrong.
I can't keep doing this. The fight gets a little worse each time we have it and the damage that much more evident. I'm done, for the third time (or maybe it's the fourth or fifth). I am not speaking to him. I am not missing him. I don't want a damn thing from him. But what I want to do has never been as big a problem as what I'm willing to do.

Talk To Me

2007-03-07T22:44:00.000-05:00

In the five years since we met I had never seen him as anything more than a short (5'9"), obnoxious, constantly inebriated Jamaican who made an unsuccessful attempt to woo my best friend. All characteristics I try to avoid in men. Then one night, as the hours mounted on my cell phone screen, I found myself drawn to him and thinking to myself, "Maybe..." He wasn't saying anything special, but I didn't want to get off the phone. One topic flowed smoothly into the next with nary an akward silence. We finished each other's sentences and traded sarcastic one liners, claiming, "You left yourself open for that one." Even when my bladder was about to burst I couldn't bear to put him on hold for a moment and break the steady rhythm of conversation and laughter. After four hours and countless "I should go to bed"s that turned into another half hour of chatter we managed to hang up. Pressing END, I no longer thought about all that was wrong with him and considered the possibility that he could just be Mr. Right.
More than five months of melodramatic bullshit proved that he was all wrong for me. Still, as I sat across the restaurant table from my date with The White Boy two weeks ago I found myself missing that Alcoholic West Indian. The date wasn't bad. In fact it could actually be considered good. Yummy food, lots of compliments, funny jokes, no embarassing mishaps. However, something imperceptible was askew. Actually, that something was so indiscernable that I don't think he noticed anything was kind of off. Although the only time we weren't talking was when our mouths were full of pasta or steak, for me the conversation was still lacking. Sure, he asked questions and I answered in detail. He told me all about combat in Iraq, bootcamp, and his many military maneuvers. We got to know each other.
And that was the problem. It wasn't a conversation. It was an info dump. While most of what I learned about The Whiteboy was definitely interesting, it was nothing I wanted to know right away. I understand that the purpose of a first date is for two people to get to know each other and I'm fine with that. But for me, getting to know someone should be like a mining for diamonds. The thrill lies in the unexpected discoveries that are buried underneath the superficial sand. Where's the fun if everything is presented up front?
As he told me how attractive he thought I was I couldn't help but think to myself, The Alcoholic West Indian wouldn't say that. And when he recounted tales from his misguided youth I thought, The Alcoholic West Indian would save that story for a later date. Then I racked my brain to figure out what The Alcoholic West Indian actually would talk about and it finally hit me. NOTHING!
The entire reason why I fell for The Alcoholic West Indian's short, obnoxious, constantly inebriated ass in the first place was the exact same reason I fell for The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. We could spend hours talking about absolutely nothing. From the physics behind deoderant chunks on armpit hair to the unending quotables uttered by my future husband Jay-Z we could talk about anything without ever having tell each other about ourselves. Who we are came through loud and clear so there was no reason to ask or answer any questions. And if a certain topic led to the telling of a personal story that was great, but nothing was ever told just to have something to say.
Don't get me wrong, I did have fun on my date with The Whiteboy. We even hung out the very next day and I'll probably spend more time with him in the future. But it won't go anywhere. Chemistry is created in conversation and he just doesn't know how to talk to me.

Trial and Error

2007-03-06T22:13:00.000-05:00

If anyone asks me why I did it, I can give them a lot of reasons. It was 3 a.m. and delirium had set in hours ago. Boredom led me to it. My friend was laughing and I wanted to laugh too. Hello, it was a joke. I had nothing better to do. Morbid curiosity is a bitch. Everyone else was doing it. I was in an emotional downward spiral. Or I could just blame Beyonce for making me keenly aware that I couldn't say he wasn't irreplaceable if I didn't have a replacement for him. Ummm, it was free.

Under normal circumstances I never would have typed my full name along with other personal information, chosen a screenname, and joined ChristianCafe.com, an online dating site. But with all those reasons working together to conspire against me I couldn't help myself. All of the girls at church were doing it. And although their searches yielded less than stellar results, I figured, "why the hell not?" Did I mention it was three in the morning.

Within seconds of registering I received a confirmation email.

Step 1: Complete Your Profile

Q:"What are you looking for in a mate?"

A: I'll know it when I see it

Q: "What role does your faith play in your life?"

A: God's my homie!

Q: "What are some of your hobbies and interests?"

A: Boys and shopping

Step 2: Add a picture - picture must be approved by site before it becomes visible to members.

I'm thinking this picture might not pass inspection . So I'll go with this one. Nothing says wholesome Christian chick like Sesame Street.

Step 3: Sit back and wait for the men to flock.

Easy peasy. Or maybe not. The first two days of the two week trial were uneventful. My profile received several views, but no winks, instant messages, or "hey baby, will you marry me" emails. I'm not into the online dating thing (it's too structured for me. I hate knowing a man's intentions up front), but I was kind of disappointed. I get hit on all the time on non dating websites (social networking is NOT dating so myspace doesn't count), so I was expecting guys to see the fro and the smile then fall in love. Not that I was looking for love or anything of the sort. But somewhere in the back of my mind I kept thinking that maybe, just maybe someone great would sort of find me and we'd sort of hit it off and just when I least expected it I'd be in a sort of quasi relationship with the man of my dreams.

I wanted to make the most of my two week trial. So I went back and edited my profile. I lengethened my answers and tried to temper my wry, sarcastic wit (which Christian guys apparently aren't into) with some straightforwardness (is that a word?). I quoted my favorite scripture (Deuteronomy 6:4), gave a brief description of why my last "relationship" didn't work (he's an asshole), and delved into my love of tap dance and tae kwon do. Satisfied that I had given an accurate, slightly humorous, and detailed account of myself I sat back and waited for the magic to happen.

Well not quite sat back. More like checked my account every 10 minutes to see if I got any hits. Sure enough my profile views increased. And several hours later I received my first message. It was from an overweight 60 something female in my area looking for pen pals. Not quite what I was looking for, but possibly a springboard to better possibilities, no? Better came in the form of an emaciated 40 year old from Sweden who saw my profile and immediately wanted to explore a serious relationship. That little thing called the Atlantic Ocean didn't deter him at all.

When I first signed up for ChristianCafe I promised myself that I would NOT utilize the site's search function to find attractive, eligible men in my area to stalk...umm, I mean contact. I was only using the free trial for experimental purposes and I have a very firm "no trolling for men" policy. Promises are meant to be broken. Looking through the profiles of every 24-34 year old man in the Great Lakes region over 5'10 with a picture, I quickly realized that not searching would've yielded the same results.

By Day 5 I was completely baffled as to why anyone would pay to be a member of that site. I'd received numerous messages from men with bad teeth and no command of the English language.

"Hi. You look nice womn. I very much like too meet yu. I from Nigeria and now life in France. Call so we get married. Love you, Jasper."

The rare men who actually could get his subject and verbs to agree were still a hot ass mess.

"Hi. My name is John. I'm 34 and work for the Department of Corrections in Macon, GA. I enjoy long walks, candlelit dinners, and reading poetry by the fire. I like your profile. If you'd like to email me we can get to know each other via email for exactly 2 weeks. If at the end of two weeks things go smoothly, we shall proceed to talking on the phone. Then we will spend quality time together as just friends to see if we are compatible. Within six months we should be engaged. The wedding will be six months later. Can't wait to hear from you."

Like I said, I have issues with clearly stated intentions.

By day 10 I'd pretty much lost any hope of success. Then something interesting happened. Late one evening while I was surfing the net to get my mind off the fact that the Alcoholic West Indian wasn't speaking to me, I received an instant message.

"Hi! I like your profile. Write back if you want to chat."

It wasn't clever nor witty, but it was in readable English and didn't contain a marriage proposal so it was good enough for me. I wrote back. Something short, polite, and marginally flirtatious. During four days of correspondence I found out that he worked in the Navy and was currently at sea, enjoyed cooking, and was looking forward to hitting dry land. Unfortunately he didn't look enough like Denzel for me to ignore the fact that he was in his mid forties. His time was up when my free trial ended.

ChristianCafe didn't want me to go. They plied me with emails of special discounts and notifications that my profile was still being viewed by wonderful men who could only contact me if I paid CC $90.95 for a three month membership. And for a second, the wheels in my head turned and a little voice said I could be missing an opportunity with a man who really wanted to get to know me but couldn't because I'm not a ChristianCafe member. Then I remembered that that man was probably 5'6" with less than stellar oral hygeine who rode a moped to his job herding goats in the hills of Norway. There's not a good enough reason in the world to make me sign up for that.

Not That Kind of Girl

2007-02-21T00:15:00.000-05:00

I have a date. I don't know where or what time. Just a vague agreement to get together on Friday night. I should probably shave my legs, do some laundry, get a bikini wax, stay away from food for the next 72 hours, tweeze my eyebrows, and get my nails done; but I won't. I'm not compelled. There are no butterflies in my stomach, no daydreams of candlelit dinners in my head. I'm not nervous, nor am I excited. My reaction is no reflection on him. He seems nice, amusing, and generally cool. It's not him, it's me.
I hate dating. Actually, I loathe it with every fiber of my being. The idea of spending two hours or more with a practical stranger playing "getting to know you" while pretending to have fun makes me want to throw up in my mouth. Conversations about what I look for in a man peppered with compliments on how great I am make my head hurt. Getting picked up at the beginning of the night and trying to determine whether or not to kiss at the end of it does nothing but raise my blood pressure.
So then why did I agree to go out with this guy? No. It's not for a free meal (although I will not turn one down if offered). I'm bored and I need something to do. For the past six months my Friday nights have consisted of grad school applications, television, fast food, and web surfing. I can go days without seeing another person and figured human interaction would do me some good. Now I'm not so sure. My couch is much more appealing than a date.
Don't get me wrong, I definitely desire male companionship. It's just that I prefer to get that companionship without going on a date. To me dates are stifling and forced. You're obviously out with that person to see if there is "something there." It's like the entire night has an objective and meeting that objective is a huge cloud over everything that's said and done. No thank you!
Obviously, I've gotten close (very close) to a few men here and there in my 26 years. Interestingly, the men I've been closest to never asked me on a date. We wound up together accidentally. I fell for the Idiot Who Made Me Cry when I went over to his place to watch a movie. I knew the Alcoholic West Indian for years before I even considered him a viable member of the opposite sex. The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry....well I don't even know how the hell that started, but I know it wasn't with a date. All of these "relationships" developed unconsciously. We were hanging out, talking, and chilling when all of a sudden something clicked. There was no pressure to like one another because that was never the original intention. None of them asked to get to know me better, they just did it. No one stated any intentions, made any overtures, or set anything up. It all just happened. I guess they spoiled me. When everything starts so easily the idea of trying to put something in motion is exhausting. True, none of those situations ended very well (although I'm not sure that two of the three have actually ended). Hmmmm....maybe that approach doesn't work too well over the long haul. And while it is true that doing the same thing over and over with the same result is the definition of insanity, I think I'd prefer to drive myself crazy for a little while longer. It beats the hell out staring across from a perfect stranger as he asks,"So what are you looking for in a man?"

Same Old Story

2007-02-16T20:03:00.000-05:00

I have an irrational fear of relationships. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy being snuggled up on a couch with a 6'0 piece of man candy as he gets his fingers tangled in my wooly fro. Whispering words of endearment over the phone gives me butterflies. I love being in serious like. My problem is the actual idea of a full fledged relationship. The responsibility of having to consider someone else besides myself, the commitment, the labels. It makes my skin crawl. No matter how much I like a guy the idea of him being my boyfriend scares the shit out of me.
And yet whenever something "new" starts, I always envision it lasting for a long while. In those daydreams I see the gift exchange at Christmas, me giving him something personal with tons of sentimental value that shows that I've been paying attention for the last three months. I envision the soft, lingering kiss at the stroke of midnight on Jan 1. And of course I see the most romantic movie night, complete with 80s blockbusters and extra cheese pan pizza on Valentines Day (hey, I'm a cheap date). Mind you all of this will of course occur without an actual relationship.
Oh, the best laid plans. I have a great habit of getting into something new during the summer and falling out of it right in time keep those visions of winter holiday snuggling bliss as strictly visions.
And this year is of course no different. Valentines day came and went with not a phone call, card, or gift from any man expressing his undying devotion (at least for the day) for me. I don't know if I'm disappointed or not. See, I don't really know if I was supposed to expect anything this year. The possibility of the Alcoholic West Indian making a reappearance for Cupid's day was a longshot. He's still got another two months of not speaking to me before he shows back up. But The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry (and lately is NOT) is definitely back in the picture. The thing is this time, everything is a lot more casual. And not because I'm playing casual just so he won't think I'm a clingy chick and maybe stick around for a while, but because honestly I don't want to be that serious and neither does he. Yet, it still would've been nice to get more than a chain text message to the effect that if I get this rose @>------- from 10 people then I'm really loved. One out of ten, what does that say?

Gross Negligence

2007-01-10T13:11:00.000-05:00

I know, I know, I've been neglecting the blog. Grossly neglecting it. I'm in the midst of applying to graduate school. Three apps are finished and I have three more to go. I have a million and one blog entries in my head but no time to really get into everything that's been going on with me in the last month or so. I swear I'll get to it as soon as I'm finished with the last application. In the meantime, I'll post some more of the short story I've been working on recently. Hope you like it. And if you have any feedback, that's even better..............

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I wish...”
“I know you do, Jaelyn.” She smoothed a hand over her hair, securing several stray tendrils behind her ear. “But anyways, how’s school?”
Goose bumps rose on my skin. I ran a hand up and down my arm with vigorous strokes in a vain attempt to create the heat the room lacked. “It’s cool. Just a bunch of exams, papers, and group projects that I don’t have any interest in doing.”
“Hey, don’t slack off now. I don’t care what anyone tells you, senior year grades are important so you’ve got to stay focused if you want to get into med school.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me! I’m serious. Look, I’ve been there so I know.”
“Yeah, I get it. You’re an expert on everything. Can you spare me the lecture?”
“What’s your problem?”
I chewed the inside of my lip and shook my head. “Nothing. I just don’t feel like talking about school, that’s all.”
“Alright,” she said slowly, “what do you want to talk about then?”
“I don’t know. Don’t really have much to say.”
“Then why are you here?”
“What do you mean, why am I here? Obviously, I’m here to see you.”
“So you can take up space then tell yourself you’ve done your good deed for the day? Don’t do me any favors, Jaelyn.”
“You are so ungrateful!” I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts. “I got a question for you. Who else has been up here to see you? Christine? Nope. How about your best friend, Devin? Not so much. Oh, and all your fellow attorneys at the firm? That’s right, you haven’t seen them either.”
“Thanks for the reminder. I really needed that,” her voice dripped with sarcasm.
I leaned my elbows on the tiny table top in front of me and stifled a yawn. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. But I woke up at the butt crack of dawn, suffered through a two hour bus ride with the world’s grossest scumbags, and damn near had a body cavity search just to come and spend some time with you. The least you could do is appreciate that.”
“Do you want a medal? I’m your sister, that’s what you’re supposed to do.”
I opened my mouth to fight back, but thought better of it. Changing the subject was easier.
“What have you been up to since the last time I was here? Started dealing cigarettes yet?”
She cocked her head to the side and furrowed her brows. “Where would you get an idiotic idea like that?”
“Lifetime Movie of the Week, of course.”
A smile teased the corner of her lips until it exploded into a full grin. “You’re a damn fool.”
Laughter erupted from the pit of my stomach, a pleasant distraction from our concrete and steel surroundings.
“On the real, if there’s one thing I miss since I’ve been in here it’s Lifetime. Brendan used to make fun of me all the time for watching it, but that man just didn’t know. Those movies are good as hell!”
I stared at my sister in shocked disbelief. She had said his name.
“Has anyone from his family…?” Her voice trailed off as I shook my head.
“Give them some time,” I reassured. “It hasn’t been that long. They could still come around.”
“No. I killed him. Ain’t enough time in the world to get over that.”

Just a taste

2006-12-16T01:29:00.000-05:00

Since I've barely been posting for the last couple of months, I figured I'd do something different. I'm not going to lie and say that none of the blog neglect was due to laziness. About 50% of it was. But, the other 50% was more noble. Grad school apps are due this month and next and they all require a writing sample. I've never posted my fiction on my blog for many reasons (paranoia about plagarism and idea theft being high on the list), but I figured it can't hurt too much to post a smidge of what I've been working on. I really do appreciate everyone who reads my blog, especially now that I'm so disengaged from the blogosphere.
So here's a bit of my short story entitled "Captive." Hope you enjoy it.

*Special thanks to my editors: Chesty LaRue, Jailbait, and BP. You guys brought out the best in me.
_____________________________________________________________
The combined stench of stale cigarettes, urine, and body odor assaulted me as I stepped through the thick steel door. The long, narrow room stretched more than 50 feet ahead of me, dead ending into a gray brick wall. There were no windows to offer any proof that the outside world existed. Noticing the dirt caked into the linoleum floor, I immediately bent over and fashioned a large cuff at the hem of the jeans that billowed over my sneakers. The steel door slamming shut behind me jarred me upright and I could feel the goose bumps rise on my skin. I ran my hands up and down my arms with vigorous strokes in a vain attempt to create the heat the room lacked.

Under the hazy fluorescent light, I studied the slip of paper they had given me. Window fifteen – at the far end. Careful not to look at anyone, I trudged to where the number 15 was stenciled on the floor in faded black paint. Pulling a wad of tissue from my purse, I wiped down the seat to remove any remnants of the previous occupant and sat down hesitantly.

A series of short buzzes pierced the air, and a heavy metal door swung open. I watched through bullet proof glass as an officer escorted her toward the chair across from me. Her steps were deliberate and she kept her eyes trained on the floor. She was losing weight. The drab blue uniform swallowed her once curvaceous 5’7” frame.

In the narrow walkway she passed another inmate, their shoulders colliding. She gave the woman a hard shove that sent her staggering backward. Before the confrontation could escalate, the officer stepped between them, saying something inaudible. He positioned his face inches from hers and jabbed his finger against her chest as she stared at the ceiling, her chin up and face turned from his lecture. Seconds later she gave him a perfunctory nod then sauntered to her chair.

I pulled the sleeve of my sweater over my hand and picked up the receiver.

“Samara, what the hell was that about?” I asked.

“What was what about?”

“Don’t play dumb. I saw what happened.”

She flashed an innocent smile, but offered no explanation.

“Forget it. Anyways, how are you?”

“How do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. You look good.”

She shot me a weary glance and sighed.

I wasn’t lying. Her butterscotch skin was clear, and she still managed to maintain her perfectly arched eyebrows. The dark brown eyes that illuminated her face were wide and alert. She obviously wasn’t spending her commissary on cigarettes because her teeth gleamed white. Only the dark circles under her eyes marred her appearance.

She studied me for a few seconds then said, “Have you been to the gym lately?”

“Why?” I gave her a quizzical look.

“You look like you might be gaining a few pounds. I’d hate to see you put the weight back on.”

Looking down at the pooch that hung over my belt, I wrapped my arm around my body and hugged myself close. “It’s not enough that I have to hear this stuff from Mommy? Now you’ve gotta start with me, too?”

“How is Mom?”

“Not bad. She’s hanging in there.”

“And Auntie?” She ran down the list of family and friends and I assured her that everyone was okay.

“Do you need anything? How’s your commissary?” It didn’t matter how much she asked for, I was ready to give it to her.

She laughed, short and bitter. “Fuck the commissary. I want my life back.”

Unfortunately that was the one thing I couldn’t give; not since the judge sentenced her to 25 years to life.

The Miracle of Hanukkah 2006

2006-12-15T23:57:00.000-05:00

I just experienced my first Hanukkah miracle! NYU extended the application deadline by two days! Praise God!!

The Final Countdown

2006-12-14T02:47:00.000-05:00

My first grad school application is due in less than 2 days. The writing sample is only 3/4 finished, the personal essay is 0% to target, and one of my recommenders is nowhere to be found. Sweet!

Questioning

2006-11-30T23:31:00.000-05:00

Ever since I was a little girl, I've always liked boys. I can still remember the crush my four-year-old self had on my next door neighbor with the mop of brown hair and a penchant for shirtless yard work. My heterosexuality was confirmed young. But lately, I've been having these thoughts. Not really thoughts, but moreso flashbacks. A couple months ago I met a girl and I don't quite know how it happened, but we kissed.
We met in front of my grandmother's house in the north Bronx. She was walking up the block with a friend of mine I hadn't seen in over two years and I was standing on the stoop. We locked eyes and she immediately entered the slightly ajar gate leading to the front walk. I introduced myself with a handshake and invited them both inside. Her energy was amazing. She ran around the house, exploring the new environment.
"Would you like some water," I offered.
She eagerly accepted the tap water I placed before her and within minutes it was gone. In her excitement to have a drink she even spilled half of it on the kitchen floor. No bother, I just wiped up the mess with some paper towels and headed back to the living room so we could get to know each other.
For the next half hour she wouldn't leave my side. I tried to engage our mutual friend in conversation but she kept interrupting. Usually I'm bothered when someone doesn't let me get a word in, but her interruptions were so endearing I didn't even notice. What I did notice is that she kept laying her head in my lap. Now, I'm a pretty affectionate person. I have no problem putting an arm around a female friend or cuddling close to one of my guy friends, but this situation was weird. True, we were hitting it off great, but we'd just met. That type of closeness made me uncomfortable.
"Stop doing that!" our friend would tell her.
She'd do what he said for a minute or two and then come right back into my personal space. While I didn't want her hanging all over me, I also didn't want her to feel uncomfortable. Whenever she came close to me, I ran my hand up and down her back. She was extremely fit and I could feel her muscles through her coat.
I think I might've rubbed her back a bit too long because before I knew it she pinned me to my chair and started kissing me. Her tongue was EVERYWHERE. My lips, my cheeks, my chin were covered in saliva. I tried to push her off of me but she was too strong.
"No! Stop!" I screamed. In the midst of my protests she slipped her tongue in my mouth. Immediately, I closed my mouth and turned my head to the side so she couldn't try that move again.
Meanwhile our friend looked on, consumed by a fit of giggles, guffaws, and gasps. In all the commotion he was still able to snap a couple of pictures of the girl on girl action with his camera phone.
After what felt like an eternity, she finally let me go then casually walked to the other side of the room as though nothing happened. The second I was free, I ran to the bathroom and scrubbed my face with St. Ives Apricot Scrub and brushed my teeth with Colgate Total. Unfortunately I didn't have any bleach. When I felt sufficiently clean I rejoined my guests in the living room.
The moment I reentered the room she rushed back to my side. When she stood on her hind legs and started humping my right leg I knew that she wanted more than the kiss we just shared. I disengaged myself from her paws and kept my distance for the rest of the day. She was way too aggressive for my liking. I mean, can't a girl at least get a few hours to process the fact that she just had her first same sex kiss?
Days later as the events of that day replayed in my head one moment stuck out in my mind. The kiss. Yes, it was sloppy. Yes, it was against my will. No, I didn't kiss her back. But when I thought about it some more, I realized that she had given me the most passionate kiss I'd had in a long time. And she made it a total sensory experience. Not only was I lavished with her tongue, she also got her paws and fur into the action. Maybe she was just trying to hold me when I was fighting her off? In hindsight making out with her wasn't bad at all. In fact, it might've even been enjoyable.
So now I sit here with something of a conundrum on my hands. Since she is a girl and I'm a girl and we kissed and I think I liked it, does that make me a lesbian? Or just bi?

I Promise

2006-11-27T23:52:00.000-05:00

When is a promise no longer valid? If you swear up and down about ANYTHING are you held to it no matter what? Are the promises you make to a person contigent upon who that person is to you when you made the promise.

This summer, I made a promise. Actually it was more of an assertion. I swore that a male friend was just that, a friend. I promised that nothing physical or romantic would ever occur between us because we just "aren't like that." When asked if anything physical or romantic had already occurred I was honest. Yes, but that was a long time ago and things are different now. Not only would it not happen again, it simply couldn't. I was firm.

I said those things because I truly believed them. Plus, I was trying to prove a point. I have been told by several men that I have too many male friends and that there is absolutely no way in hell that all of those inter-sex friendships could possibly be 100% platonic. And I have always argued that men and women can totally be just friends. MY friends are NOT trying to get in my pants nor am I trying to get them to lay on top of me so I can feel a warm body.

So when I told a man who was definitely not just my friend that nothing would ever happen between myself and The Friend, I meant it. I didn't just say it to appease him or to give him a reason stop whining about why The Friend always seemed to call at ungodly hours of the night. I wasn't saying, "Because of you, I won't do that." No guy wants to hear that anyways.
"You're the only thing stopping me from tappin' dat ass" is not exactly reassuring. If there's a possibility then there is definite reason to be concered. But I was saying something totally different. I was saying I wouldn't do it, period.

Last weekend I did it. I had every right to. Things with the man who was definitely not just my friend fell apart weeks ago. I am perfectly free to do whatever I please without worrying about anyone else's feelings. And I'm not necessarily worried about feelings being hurt per say. The problem lies with me. I feel like a liar. I made a promise and I broke it. I didn't make the promise with a built in contingency plan and out clauses. And I'm not that girl that lies to a man just to make him feel better about a situation. Actually I'm honest to a fault divulging more information than what is really needed all in the spirit of full disclosure. Granted, I owe nothing to that man and he has a tendency to be a veritable asshole....yet I still feel bad. Like I've done something to him or was deceptive or something. I can't explain it. Or maybe it's not about him and more about me. I have no problem lying to my parents, boss, IRS (just kidding), etc. but when it comes to who I say I am I prefer to be truthful. And I feel like a hypocrite. I might say I am just friends with each and every one of my male friends but am I really? How much would it take for me to fall into a similar situation with another guy I claim is "just my friend." Maybe I should just NEVER say never again.

Chicken

2006-11-07T00:11:00.000-05:00

The screen is mocking me, daring me to write something impressive. "Type. Do it. Say something remarkable," it says to me. I put my hands to the keys, but nothing happens. Firefox saves me from the sting of defeat. I promise myself I'll face the Word document again in a few minutes - just a quick browse through My Space, Facebook, Nappturality, my email, back to My Space, check in on Facebook, then back to Nappturality. And before I know it sleep calls and words go unwritten.

It shouldn't be this hard. There was a time when I could turn out twenty five pages in two weeks. I would just sit and stories would pour out of me, filling up page after page with the people, places, and events that existed in my mind. This story only trickles in sporadic spurts leaving more to be desired with every line. I take solace in the dialogue, which is the only part that works. The setting is bland, exposition abrupt, and action non existent. I can do so much better, but for some reason I can't.

Twenty five pages. The equivalent of two ten-page papers and a five-page essay. I have a 165 pages sitting on a jump drive. I did that in five months. 165 pages that are of no use to me now. None of it is good enough. For friends to read, sure it's great. But to hang my future on, to compete with hundreds maybe thousands of other writers. Not so much. So scrap it and write another 25 pages. What's 25 pages? Everything to admissions panels. And right now, nothing I have in me.

Jiminy Cricket

2006-10-25T02:33:00.000-05:00

At the moment my conscience is not allowing me to blog. I have to take the GRE at the end of next month. According to Baron's diagnostic test I won't break 1000 (for those of you who don't know...that's NOT a good look). I must relearn the formulas for area of a circle, area of a triangle, and basic 7th grade math. I must also learn random vocabulary words I will NEVER use.
I have a shitload to write about, unfortunately the graduate admissions offices don't want to hear about my obsession with You Tube and a certain alcoholic West Indian. Nope, they want to hear all about my latest reading material, my condensed life story, and the great works of literature I'm conjuring at the moment. Add to that a 30 page sample of my brilliance. For some reason sending them a link to my blog isn't acceptable.
None of this includes the actual applications that I have to submit between mid December and early January in order to be thrust back into a state of brokosity with little to no health insurance (forget about dental) for the next two years while I pursue an MFA in Creative Writing, which by the way will do nothing to make me employable!
So basically what I'm trying to say is that every time I attempt to participate in a blog related activity (reading, writing, etc.) I am quickly reminded that I am on a strict deadline and I gotta get all the aforementioned shit done, and done well in the next six weeks. If I'm blogging, I'm not studying, writing, or applying and Jiminy says we can't have that.

Used To

2006-10-10T05:14:00.000-05:00

My hair used to be straight, all the way from the roots until the ends curved under my chin. I parted it down the middle and leaned forward so it would swish in front of my face. Then I would sweep my right fingertips across my forehead and tuck the wayward locks behind my left ear.
I used to wear black combat boots. I'd trudge through crowded hallways barely lifting my feet because they weighed ten extra pounds. I always wore flannel with my boots. I liked dark green patterns mixed with gray and cream.
I used to listen to Guns N Roses, not because I really liked them or anything but because everyone else did. Same with Nirvana. I didn't get them. I never knew "aqua sea foam shame." I liked Bush and I got them. I got Buffalo Tom, Oasis, and the Goo Goo Dolls too. They spoke to me. So did Mary. Not from experience because I had none. But their words sounded how I thought they should for when I went through the same thing.
I used to like boys with chin length hair that grazed the tops of their shoulders. Straight or wavy, it didn't matter. I liked their corduroy pants, Chuck Taylors, and auto mechanic shirts. I stared at them all the time.
I used to think I was just like the girls on TV. I was going to be just like them. Weird, smart, misunderstood, awkward, yet adorable enough for a boy with chin length hair and corduroy pants to like me. I used to be able to make Angela Chase's sad face, nose wrinkled, eyes wide, mouth drawn. I used to talk to like Julia Sallinger, complete with hand wringing and head scratching. I used to close my eyes because it was supposed to hurt to look at the world. I don't think it did. But I could emote.
I don't straighten my hair anymore. My combat boots are long gone. I like men with fresh cut Caesars who wear Timbs, Uptowns, or Cole Haans. I think most girls on TV are stupid and have no interest in going through what they do. I can no longer make Angela's sad face. One of my very own replaced it. I get Guns N Roses now. I know what November rain is. The Goo Goo Dolls and Oasis aren't nearly as sad as I thought they were. I don't have to imagine what Mary was experiencing. I'm there and doing my own version of it. I think I prefer emoting. And I wish I still had my flannel shirts.

The Flip Side

2006-09-26T14:16:00.000-05:00

The change was subtle, but unmistakeable. She folded her arms across her chest, shielding herself from me. The gregarious energy that had drawn us together a few hours ago was replaced with a weary countenance. She was still friendly and engaging but she was no longer open. I had trespassed and was no longer wanted.
When he grabbed my waist and pulled me close I saw her staring at us.
"You see that guy right there," she had said a half hour after our initial introduction. "He's so cute. I want him tonight."
We had both arrived alone, but she didn't plan to leave that way. Dancing was her angle. She sashayed toward him and swung her hips to get his attention. Much to her dismay it wasn't enough to keep him entertained. He found his way to me and kept finding me the entire night. I didn't beckon, but I didn't turn him away either. She was the one who wanted him, but I knew I was the one who would get him.
As I watched her over his shoulder, I recognized the look in her eyes. I had been her on so many other nights. I had stared, danced, and flirted to the best of my ability only to watch my target use the same moves on another woman. I had gone home empty handed on more than one occassion, wondering what the other girl had that I didn't. And I had felt the irrational feeling of loss over something that was never mine.
I felt bad being the cause of her disappointment. And I felt worse because I had participated knowingly. But feeling bad didn't stop me from walking over to him at the end of the night and getting his phone number as she looked on.

Pits

2006-09-24T20:01:00.000-05:00

She emerged from the murky lake water, dark hair dripping and water glistening on her olive skin. Her smile was triumphant and proud. She had not backed down, refused to hesitate, and met the challenge.
"Umm, that's not Lake Minnetonka," The Kid informed her.
Triumph dissolved into mortification as she realized her mistake. She had been duped into disrobing in front of a man she had known mere hours.
"You! I'll kill you!" she screamed, trying to wrest leather pants over her wet thighs.
At five years old I couldn't quite grasp the subtleties of what had transpired between Prince and Appolonia as the VHS tape played. What I did know was that I wanted boobs just like hers. Round, ample, perky boobs that bounced when I ran. Even without a lesson on puberty I knew that although my chest looked no different from my older brother's, one day fleshy orbs would grow where none existed.
Then it happened. My best friend KP got her first training bra. She was eleven, I was nine and completely jealous. Although it made sense for her to develop first, I was desperate to play catch up. I spent the entire summer staring at the buds that pressed against her bathing suit's nylon fabric while lamenting the way my pink polka dot bikini top sagged against my body.
The next summer was the same. She kept blooming and I remained dormant. By the time I turned evelen a year later my patience was wearing thin. Fifth grade sex education had taught me about more than just the boobs I desired. I learned that a monthly period, body odor, and pubic hair were going to accompany them. So when I noticed a faint dusting of curly ques sprinkled underneath my arms, I was pretty excited. I was positive that my long coveted breasts were sure to follow. And sure enough they did. That summer two definitive bumps materalized on my chest.
"Do you want to come over and go swimming?" KP stood on my front porch with a beach towel in her hand.
"Yeah, let me go ask my mom."
Within seconds I had permission to play in the new underground, heated pool her grandparents had put in at their home across the street. Immediately I changed into my new black and green two piece. Eager to show off my new figure to the neighborhood kids, I left the T-shirt I normally wore over my bathing suit inside before I sprinted out the door to join the fun.
"Hey! Watch this," I screamed.
I took a running start and jumped off the diving board, tucking my knees to my chest to form the perfect cannon ball. Water flew in all directions. I surfaced and swam toward the shallow end. My next door neighbor, Puny Gonzalez, created a similar splash seconds later, followed by KP's younger brother BP. We dunked each other under the water and sent gallons of water flying onto the surrounding patio. It was sunset when we finally tired of the swimming pool.
I grabbed my towel off a lounge chair and stetched it behind me like a cape.
"Eww, what's that?" KP asked, pointing towards my raised arms.
"What?" I looked around me for a slimy creature of sorts.
"No! Under your arms."
I looked at my armpits to see the the straggly hairs that had been there for the last several weeks. I had no clue what was grossing her out.
"You have hairy pits!" she shouted. "Hey everyone, look at Liz's pits."
Immediately, I clamped my arms to my sides. Puny and BP rushed to where we stood, curious to see the cause of the commotion. KP grabbed my right hand and thrust it into the air.
"Pits!" she yelled. Puny and BP stared at my underarms as she doubled over in laughter.
"Ah, gross. You got bith under your arms," BP said.
I struggled to wrest my hand from her grasp. They were laughing, but I found none of it funny.
"Stop!" I commanded. I jerked away from her and wrapped my towel around my body, wishing I hadn't left my trusty T-shirt at home.
Children have short attention spans, so they left me alone to focus on other endeavors.
"Who wants to play Bloody Murder?" BP asked. The last strains of daylight were fading and the time had come to play our favorite game.
"Yeah, I'll get the other kids," Puny offered. Without waiting for a response he ran off to find The 6 Grade Heartthrob and his younger brother The Verbally Challenged Youth. I ran home to lure my older brother out of his bedroom.
Minutes later we reconvened on my front lawn, KP, BP, Puny, The Heartthrob, TVCY, my brother, and me.
"Who's gonna hide first?" The Heartthrob asked.
Wanting to be the first one to scare the pants off everyone else, I shot my hand into the air.
"Me! I'll hide first."
"Pits!" KP screamed, once again pointing and laughing.
My body tensed and I quickly lowered my hand. I had forgotten to put on a T-shirt while I was in the house. Everyone seized upon me at the same time. For the second time that day, KP lifted my arm in the air to expose my burgeoning pubes.
"Pits!" BP and Puny joined the chorus.
"That's gross," The Heartthrob said.
I tried to wriggle away from KP, but this time she was too strong. She waved my arm in the air and giggled. Under the glare of their ridicule, the hair that I had once been so proud of became toxic.
"Why do you let it grow like that?" BP asked.
I didn't know that I wasn't supposed to "let it grow like that." When the teacher taught us about body hair, she neglected to mention anything about hair removal. Desperate to stop their teasing I rushed inside my house. I ran up the front stairs two by two and headed straight to my parents bathroom. Opening the drawers on my mother's side of the vanity, I searched for the tool to end my problems. I found it in the bottom drawer.
Within seconds, the electric razor was against my armpit removing all evidence that I was in the throes of puberty. There wasn't much hair so the mission was completed within minutes. I cleaned up the hairs that had fallen in the sink and placed the razor back where I found it. I examined my armpits once more to make sure every last hair was gone. Satisfied, I returned to the front yard where everyone was waiting for me.
"What did you go inside for?" KP asked.
I said nothing. The few minutes I spent inside did nothing to curb her desire to tease me. This time when she reached for my arm, I didn't fight her.
"Pits!" she yelled as she hoisted my arm over my head.
A smirk tugged at the corners of my mouth. There was no way they could make fun of me if there was no hair to poke fun at. Their laughs turned to whimpers soon enough.
"Oh, she shaved," BP said. Disappointment tinged his voice.
"It doesn't matter," KP declared. "You're still Pits."
Everyone laughed at her assertion. Although I had rid myself of all evidence, there had been witnesses. It wouldn't matter if I shaved my underarms everyday for the rest of my life because to them, I would always be the girl with the hairy armpits. The humiliation followed me through junior high and most of high school. And to my ultimate dismay, while the armpit hairs grew steadily, my boobs did not.

Drowning

2006-09-22T00:06:00.000-05:00

Everything was beautiful. Incandescent lights reflected off the freshly polished hard wood floors. Unknown flowers with long tubular stems that explode into white canopy petals sat in tall vases at the center of all twenty three tables. Fine china, wine glasses, champagne flutes, and flatware were perfectly arranged on the unadorned linen table cloths. The moon, the Hudson, and the Jersey City lights created a surreal backdrop in the ceiling high picture windows. The scene was exquisite, elegant.
They stood in the middle of the floor wrapped in each other's arms. Him in a black tuxedo. Her in a shimmering white gown. Music filled the air, slow and melodic with words no one understood. It didn't matter. The meaning was clear. They were in love and now it was official. They were enchanted by one another and everyone was enchanted by them. I couldn't watch. I didn't want their joy to taint my sadness.
It was too perfect and even though I felt beautiful in my new dress that wrapped around my body, traced my curves and revealed my bust, I knew that I didn't belong. The night was about love, and all I knew was loss. I escaped to the patio. The open bar called.
"I want a screwdriver."
The bartender poured a steady stream of Kettle One into a glass, followed by a splash of orange juice.
"Thank you," I said, taking the glass into my hand. I took a deep breath. It was my fourth visit to the bar that night, but the first to yield more than a chaser. I prepared my throat for the cool burn it hadn't felt in over six years, and took a gulp. The vodka met my lips like a kiss from an old friend. I shuddered at the aftertaste and walked back to my table. I wondered how fast the drink could make me forget.
Being there reminded me that I was alone. I was surrounded by familiar faces that I had known for years, but never really knew. There was nothing to say in college, and even less to say that evening. The seating arrangement was strategic. All of the people who couldn't quite figure out how to find and keep someone were seated together at a table in the back corner, lest we curse the happy couples around us. Or maybe it was a set up so we could find each other. The only person I wanted to find wasn't present.
Two more sips and I was still empty. Red wine, then white wine, a swig of champagne. Nothing worked. I took my phone outside to try and fill the void.
"I'm drinking."
"You're not!" Chesty LaRue was incredulous.
"I want to call him so badly. He would so understand what this is like for me right now. I mean c'mon. A singles table? Please shoot me."
"I know. Just give it some time," she soothed.
Too much time had already passed. He needed space and I needed him. I broke down and sent him a text.
"I'm drinking vodka and it's all your fault," I wrote.
He should've been there with me. It was difficult to remember that even if we were speaking he wouldn't have been by my side. My invitation was for one. I missed him anyways.
My unfinished drinks beckoned. Before I could touch them I was led to the dancefloor. I allowed the man to twirl me around and move in a figure eight. Then I moved to his friend.
"What you want, baby I got it!" I pointed at my partner as I sang along with Aretha. Faking it wasn't a problem. And when the song changed, I nursed more alcohol and hoped an empty stomach and a low tolerance would push me past drunk before I finished the glass. It didn't work.
So I flirted with the guy next to me over baked cod bathed in peanut sauce, with aspargus and potatoes. Then I danced with the best man's father, shaking my hips as fast as I could. I shared a dance with the groom, and moved on to a groomsman. I laughed with a bridesmaid and drank some more with a new "friend." And for a moment the fun was real and I enjoyed myself. When the groomsman took my hand and asked me for another dance, I obliged over and over again until the strains of the last song faded in the air.
I would've gone home happy if my text was returned. But it wasn't. Nothing could feel right because we were all wrong. I was hollow. And leaving with the groomsman's phone number safely stored in my Treo 650 didn't make me feel any better.

In The Morning

2006-09-10T11:06:00.000-05:00

The air is tense, thick with anger, hurt, regret, and longing. It suffocates me. I pick at the untouched breakfast sandwich beside me. Made out of obligation with a splash of contempt, I'm nauseated by the sight of it. My stomach turns and my diaphragm tightens. I double over and rest my head against my knees. Another dry heave.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
The sensation passes and I nod my head. I'll be fine, physically at least. I raise my head and look at him through the screen door. He's bathed in the porch light's glow. Steady rain falls behind him in the morning darkness.
"Now you can tell all your friends I literally made you sick." His laugh is joyless.
I want him to shut up. I wrecked us, but he's determined to destroy anything that's left. This isn't the way we should be, but I seem to be the only one who knows that.
"It's not you," I say. It's the truth. I'm sick of the situation and sick of myself, unfortunately I know I'll never be sick of him. I just want to go back in time and get a do over. I'd retrace my steps and change the last 48 hours. Then I would be munching on the wheat toast, fake eggs, and turkey bacon. He wouldn't be mad.
I rest my head on the kitchen table. I broke it, but I want him to fix it.
"See what you're making me do," he says.
He brings the cigarette to his lips and pulls hard. His bare chest expands. I can sense the heat rushing down his throat, the physical pain matching the inner turmoil. He exhales a cloud of carbon monoxide and toxins, then brings the silver thermos to his mouth. I have nothing to say. I hate cigarettes. He knows that. Without a word he takes another drag. In the moment of silence, with a smoky haze surrounding him, he's beautiful. I could sit there forever watching him smoke and drink coffee.

Oops I Did It Again

2006-09-06T13:37:00.000-05:00

When I go to New York City, I spend money, lots of it. Between dining at the finest chicken spots on the corner of E 219 St and White Plains Road, the small boutique on 135th Street between 7th and 8th, and cover charges and drinks (that I don't partake in) at the club on 54th between 2nd and 3rd, my money drains from my account faster than I can keep track of. Knowing this, I prepare for the spending spree. I make sure all of my bills are paid, then I designate a few hundred to my weekend excursion and hope there's just enough left over to get me to my next check without dipping into my savings account. I'm all about fiscal responsibility. Yes, I will spend and then spend some more, however I will not spend money that I do not have. At least not so far from my next check.
After the last time I threw my bank account into chaos, I promised myself that I would be more diligent about tracking my finances. I balanced my checkbook regularly, paid off all of my credit card debt, cancelled unused accounts, and budgeted my money. I even increased my investment capital, hiding a large percent of my liquid assets in untouchable savings vehicles. I was being responsible with my money and felt perfectly fine with my financial situation when I embarked on my Labor Day journey to the happiest place on Earth. I had a good amount of money to spend on my usual pursuits and felt perfectly capable of staying within my budget.
Five days later, I am once again wondering how my bank account will recover. Oh why did I hide my money from myself? Maybe because I knew I would spend it if I didn't. It started with "necessary" cell phone equipment that I still can't figure out how to use and probably doesn't work anyways. Then there was the unexpected five hour hotel stay (I was by myself so get your mind out the gutter), which really wasn't that expensive, but still cost money I didn't have. Now, most people would make adjustments when emergency expenses happen. Cut back here and there to make up for it. Not, I. I go shopping and purchase a $250 shirt and justify it by passing it off as a dress ($250 for a dress is definitely reasonable). Spending $250 on one item was more than I could handle, so I decided to spend $400 in total on three items to make myself feel like a saavy shopper. I knew I was going over the edge when I stood at the check out counter at my favorite store trying to convince Capital One to give me the account number for the credit card I cut up so I could purchase a $350 snakeskin purse that perfectly matched a reasonably priced wrap dress that was only worth purchasing if the purse was part of the transaction. Thank God, Capital One told me no. The weekend could've gotten very ugly.
I'm back home now and my account is obliterated. Decisions I made several weeks ago are making it difficult to cover my ass while each transaction materializes and gets deducted. I don't get paid for over a week and I have nada to get me through to the next cycle. At least I'm not in debt. That's the only good thing I can hold on to. I could live with no dinners, movies, and shopping trips. And I do have some amazing clothes in my possession (which I will wear everyday and twice on Sunday to get my money's worth). But my stomach is grumbling and I have no groceries and no money to buy them. Too bad I can't eat my new shirt/not quite dress.

Don't Speak

2006-09-05T08:20:00.000-05:00

Women talk. It's a fact of life like taxes, underpaying jobs, and the freshman fifteen. We talk when we're happy, when we're bored, when we're sad, when we're angy, when we're confused. We talk all the damn time. We even talk when we're not supposed to.

It's difficult for me to keep my life to myself. I like confirmations and validations regarding what I think, feel, and do. Advice. That's what it's called. What should I do? What does this mean? Advice isn't free, though. I have to give the story to get the answers I seek. Usually there's no harm in telling a story. It's my business and if I choose to let someone in on my world the only person it affects is me. But sometimes it's not just my story. When it's our story, it's not mine to tell.

I couldn't help myself. I was happy, confused, giddy, and in desperate need of an outlet. I called Chesty LaRue and told her everything. She listened as I recounted the details. How it started, where it was going, the potential pitfalls, and why I was out of my blasted mind for even putting myself in the situation. Chesty is awesome. She's objective and tells me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. She made me think, and the thoughts weren't pretty. Talking to Chesty wasn't a mistake. Telling him I talked to Chesty was.

Normally, I'm an excellent liar. Spinning believable stories is an artform I've mastered. But there are some people I can't lie to. They ask, I answer. Hell, sometimes I even offer information. Certain situations require full disclosure. When it's all said and done, they can't say I lied to them. When I brought my doubts to him, he asked where they came from. I told him the truth.
"Why did you say something to her?"
Because women talk. It's a fact of life.

Saying something to Chesty wasn't a big deal. Saying something to my other friends was. Friends call and ask about my life and I tell them. It's not a big deal to me, but it is to him. In my mind he was overreacting. What could possibly go wrong. Yes, my friends ask questions, make comments, and give suggestions. But in the end, I always do what I want regardless. Their views may plant seeds, but they never sway me. He said it would only lead to trouble. I didn't believe him. He was right.

Sharing isn't caring when all parties are gathered at the same location and large amounts of alcohol are being consumed. Sharing turns into melee. He said this, she said that. "Listen to me. I'm your friend." "No, listen to me, I won't lie to you." All of a sudden, we're no longer in our mid twenties with good careers. We're 16 years old arguing in the middle of the cafeteria. Scenes are memorable in high school, not so much at 3 a.m. outside a packed club.

I have no clue how it all snowballed out of control. Maybe we were in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. Maybe talking is okay when the parties talked to never meet the parties talked about. Maybe I should just keep my damn mouth shut for once. Maybe I haven't learned my lesson because all I really want to do is call a friend and spill my guts.

Doing Too Much

2006-08-29T16:18:00.000-05:00

I push send and wait for the confirmation. That's five texts in less than five hours, with no response in sight. Each message is more desperate than the one before it. "Hey! What's up," turns into "Are you there?" which turns into "I need to talk to you," which runs headfirst into "I miss you." Nothing works, and I am starting to wonder what I have to do to get a reply.

It wasn't like this before. I never had to wait to hear from him or have my calls returned. I didn't have to walk on eggshells, avoiding the landmines of desperation and the pitfalls of too much pressure. I had access whenever and wherever I wanted. But it's no longer like that. I'm shut out now, banging my head against a bolted door hoping that it will open. I can wait it out.

Then I start to think. What if I wait and what if he opens up again. Then what? Is he mine? Not necessarily. And what does having him really represent. Will he communicate, tell me how he feels, be there when I need him? Probably not. Five texts, two voicemails, countless calls. What the hell for? Why am I begging him to want me again. So we can be us for a second time? We were issues oriented at our best. I'm putting myself through hell waiting on him to tell me yes. I'm doing way too much for what I might get in return. Fuck it. I'm done.

Persistance Overcomes Resistance

2006-08-25T09:01:00.000-05:00

Two months before my 20th birthday, I made a decision. I was going to get married before my 30th birthday. Although ten years is plenty of time to make it happen, I had the feeling that I didn't have any time to spare. My prospects were bleak, and if past performance is a good indicator of the future, they would remain bleak for a while. Not wanting to make my mission any harder than it already seemed, I decided I would not press my luck. Thinking about all of my friends, I realized that if they got married before me I'd probably be a bridesmaid more times than I could stomach. Everyone says, "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride," and I didn't want that to apply to me. Yet, I still wanted to be a part of my friends' wedding days (whenever they would be). Then it hit me, I could still play a major part in any friends' nuptials. They may say, "always a bridesmaid, never a bride," but they don't say anything about being a flower girl.

At first it seemed like a radical idea. Who ever heard of an adult flower girl? Especially an adult flower girl who's taller than many grooms. But one day while discussing weekend plans with a classmate, I learned that adult flower girls were not a mythical species.
"Yeah, so I'm going to my cousin's wedding this weekend," she said.
"Oh, that's cool. Are you in the wedding?" I replied.
"Nope, but my twin is gonna be the flower girl."
And with that sentence hope was born.

I presented the idea to all my close friends, who immediately laughed in my face.
"Umm, isn't the flower girl supposed to be a little girl? Don't you think you're too old? Yeah, you're too tall to be a flower girl."
I had expected some resistance to my plan, but the outright opposition surprised me. I'm absolutely adorable! How could anyone not want me as their flower girl. Obviously, they would need more in order to see the vision.

A campaign was born, complete with flower throwing demonstration and visualization exercises.
"Aren't flower girls supposed to be little girls?"
"Little girls have temper tantrums and can ruin the wedding."
"You're too tall!"
"I'll wear flats."
Whatever the objection, I had an answer. I even considered having head shots made so people could get a better idea of just how cute I can be. Even with my full fledged "Liz For Flower Girl" campaign, my friends still refused to support. Refusing to be thwarted, I offered my services elsewhere. Whenever anyone mentioned an engagement the first thing I said was, "I'm available if you need a flower girl." It didn't matter if it was an acquaintance, coworker, perfect stranger, I put it out there. I figured, I wouldn't know for sure unless I asked. I got five consecutive years of "No!"

In December 2005 when my good friend and sorority sister announced her engagement, I went through the routine.
"Can I be your flower girl?"
"No."
"But a little girl can ruin the wedding."
"I don't even think I'm gonna have a flower girl. I don't want kids in the wedding."
I didn't realize it then, but that would be the silver lining in the dark cloud of rejection. Normally when I put in my application to be a flower girl, I'm competing with several four year olds with cherubic cheeks and wide eyes. This time I had no competition, I only had to overcome her hesitations.

Several months later in a bridal shop in Brooklyn, I got the assistance I needed. While my friend was in the fitting room trying on a gown, I flipped through a magazine.
"If only they made these flower girl dresses in my size. I would be so adorable."
"Liz, you're too big to be a flower girl!" she admonished as she stepped out of the fitting room.
"Actually, I've heard of older women being the flower girl," the shop owner chimed in.
Finally a voice reason.
"Yeah," she continued, "Of course they don't wear white like a little girl would, but I've definitely heard of it. They're called flower maids or something like that."
I shot my friend a hopeful glance and I could tell she was mulling over the idea. The seed was planted.

Two months later I got a phone call.
"So, I wanted to ask if you'd like to be in my wedding. I don't really know the exact capacity. But would you like to be the flower maiden or something like that?"
"I'd love to!" I was beaming. After years of trying, I would finally get my chance. We decided I would wear a pink A-line halter dress with ballet flats. I'd also have a basket with flowers to throw down the aisle. There would be no little girls, just me. I was estatic!

On June 10th, 2006 I woke early to prepare for my big day. I washed and detangled the fro, shaved my legs and got a pedicure. The next few hours I practiced looking as innocent as possible. I kept the makeup and jewelry to a minimum in order to help the effort. Then at 6 p.m. I lined up outside the Grammercy mansion in Baltimore, MD. The processional music started and the wedding planner cued the bridesmaids. One by one they walked down the aisle towards the awaiting pastor.
"Now go!" the wedding planner pointed at me.
Clutching my white basket filled with pink and orange rose petals, I walked to the threshold. I took a step, then threw a handful of flowers in front of me. The guests stared, initially confused. The giggles started when they finally comprehended what I was doing. I looked to my left and saw my sorority sisters shaking their heads at me in disbelief. Step by step I made my way down the aisle, leaving a trail of rose petals in my wake. My basket was empty just as I reached my destination. I had done it! I had proven all of my detractors wrong. Grown women who are nearly six feet tall make exceptional flower girls!

Resume Dating

2006-08-22T10:39:00.000-05:00

She was on the verge of tears for the second time in one night. He'd done it again and she couldn't understand why he treated her as though she didn't matter.
"Why do you still want him?" I asked.
"I don't know," she answered between sobs. "He's a really good guy, and I know that I'm not going to find someone that has all his qualities."
"Ummm, what's so great about him?"
"Well, he's college educated, got a good job, his own place, no kids. Plus he's really good looking, goal oriented and all that stuff."
And there it was. Like so many women before her, including me, she had mistaken qualifications for qualities.

Everyone has standards. Whether they write it on stationary and tuck it under their pillow at night, or keep it stored in a corner of their mind, everyone has a list of everything they want in a mate. Honest, kind, loyal, smart, funny, musical, artistic, educated, driven, spiritual, logical, sane, and the list goes on and on. And as much as people are loathe to admit it, the packaging those qualities come in is pretty darn important as well. Personally, I prefer honest, kind, loyal, smart, funny, etc. to come in a very tall, very cute, gainfully employed package.

It seems the older and more accomplished my friends and I become, the more emphasis we put on the packaging rather than the contents. Whenever we brag about the men in our lives (they brag, I listen) it usually sounds like, "He's 2_, an engineer, has his own house, and is working on his masters degree." Then we all agree that our friend really has found a wonderful man. Fast forward two weeks when he's stood her up for the fourth time in five dates and won't return her calls and we're calling him the scum of the Earth. But the worst part of it all, is that no matter who this happens to, we still want to hang on to him, cause we're sure that he really is a great guy. I mean, he's an engineer with his own house whose working on his masters degree. That says it all.

In the last few months, I've learned a valuable lesson from Chesty LaRue. Since the turn of the century, Chesty has had the misfortune of dating several successful men (in addition to the Broke Ass Niggas she also attracts.) She's dated a Wall Street trader, an engineer, and something else that I can't remember right now. All of them were supposedly a good catch, except for the fact that they lied, cheated, and basically treated her like shit. After the last "great guy" acted a damn fool, Chesty decided she was taking a break from men. And the moment she stopped looking, someone found her. She met a man who is attentive, kind, funny, and best of all adores the ground she walks on. And she got all these things in an unemployed, ex-con, multiple babies' daddy who's an aspiring rapper. He's by no means a perfect man, as he does have a tendency to stupid shit on occassion. However, he makes her happy which is more than I can say for the others.

Dating is a lot like job searching. You present your qualifications, go on a few interviews, hope for a call back, go on some more interviews, and hope someone picks you for the job. I think a lot of women wind up falling for a guy's resume before he ever has an interview. But it's important to remember that just because a guy looks good on paper, it doesn't mean he's a good guy.

Join the Club

2006-08-07T23:28:00.000-05:00

I spent almost two hours of my evening plastered to You Tube. It's Nick at Nite's fault. Ashley was singing on Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire. She was on a stage, dressed in Cross Colors, a bra top, and Doc Martins. Suddenly I'm back in 1993 sitting cross legged on the living room floor enraptured by different teens on a different screen. I saw Rhona and Ricky and Britney and Justin and Christina. I saw flannel and velvet body suits. I saw the Mickey Mouse Club and in that moment I had to see it again for real.

Seek and ye will find. And find I did. The Season 6 opener, the Season 1 ending credits, Dale/Justin/JC/and Ryan singing "Cry For You," Christina singing "I'm Not Over You," and so much more. I watched it all. And once the laughter dissipated, the longing set in. Thirteen years later, I still want to be a Mousketeer.

I never watched, I studied. Every song, every dance, every skit. I would stand up in front of the television and copy their choreography, just to make sure I could keep up. Thanks to six years of dance lessons I could. And I sang a mean rendition of that song that goes, "Too many walls have been built in between us. Too many dreams have been shattered around us. If I choose to give up, I still never win. Deep in my heart I know that truth is within." All I had to do is wait for the auditions to roll into my town and I could join the Club.

Unfortunately I'm still waiting. The show got cancelled, and even with the renewed interest due to the success of several alums, I doubt they'll bring it back. But if by some miracle The Disney Channel recognized the error of its ways and resurrected the Mickey Mouse Club, then what? According to a friend, I'm too old and too tall to audition. Plus, my voice isn't what it used to be and could possibly be mistaken for a dying hyenna.

Even though I know time has passed me by, I'm still preparing for my shot. I still study, except now BET and MTV are my teachers. Not one video can play without me getting up just to make sure I can do it too. My latest inspiration is Danity Kane (courtesy of Diddy!). Today, I felt an inexplicable compulsion to stay in front of the mirror in only a bra and panties, practicing the dance in their Show Stopper video until I could smell myself. I was gyrating, popping, and winding my heart out. And when I fell on my ass for the fifth time because my knees just can't handle dropping it like it's hot, I had to wonder why the hell I can't just let it go?

A Real Boy

2006-07-31T08:37:00.000-05:00

I need someone to talk to and just anyone won't do. I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts. Name after name rolls by, but none makes me want to dial. Not that one or this one. They're girls. No girls allowed. Hmmmm, him? No, too boring. How about him? Too much trouble. I'm related to him, so that's a no. Him? Nah, we're just friends. Damn it, the list is exhausted and I can't find even one.

Sometimes when it's late I'd rather talk than sleep. I want to speak in hushed tones and say one thing but mean another. I want to giggle and blush. Some butterflies in my tummy would be nice too. I want to hear a well placed "what if" that I'll forget about in the morning. Nothing serious, just a hit to get me through the night. What I wouldn't give to know a real boy.

Easy

2006-07-29T20:29:00.000-05:00

It doesn't take much. A single word usually does the trick. "Hello." It's enough for me. One hello, and all is forgiven. Every slight, all negligence, each missed opportunity, erased. Our slate is clean, except for the stains the disappointment left behind. But that doesn't matter, because he's here saying, "hello." Availability. He's available now, and that's what's important. So what if he doesn't offer an explanation and an apology never falls from his lips. Hello means "I want you." And "I want you" is better than "I'm sorry."

And there are times when no words are needed. Memories work everything out. That time when we sat on the couch. My head in his lap, his hand in my hair. I see it playing before my eyes, with different people on a different couch in a make believe place. They're not real, but we were. So what if he doesn't call. Who cares if he doesn't write. I'll let it slide, just to sit on the couch again.

What can I say? I'm easy.

Don't Believe The Hype

2006-07-24T00:51:00.000-05:00

"I don't really connect with this story."
"You're telling the reader what happened, instead of showing."
"It doesn't feel personal. It has a slick journalistic quality to it."

I nod my head as the feedback flows. It's not quite what I expected. Where is the worship, accolades, and adoration? I wait for someone to say, "Amazing! Truly inspiring work!" or something along those lines. Instead all I hear is criticism eventually tempered with, "But, it's well written."

When I decided to attend the Writer's Studio sponsored by the Urban Institute of Contemporary Arts, it was a strategic move. I'd been writing for nearly a year, and my work was running headlong into a wall called "BRILLIANCE!" Each piece was revealing new depth, creativity, and wit. I was better than good. I was that good! I was the undiscovered wunderkind, capable of crafting a masterpiece on the first draft. At least that's what nearly every comment on my blog told me. The only logical step was to share my genius with the world through a reputable print medium. Problem was, I had no idea where to start. I figured a group of my peers would confirm my greatness and point me in the write direction (damn, I'm clever).

The afternoon of my first workshop, I printed a couple of pieces to share. An excerpt from the novel I'm perpetually pushing aside and some personal essays. My friends had already told me that the pieces were superb, so I didn't bother with too much editing. I figured we'd break off into pairs, read each other's work then offer constructive feedback. Of course the feedback for me was to consist of excessive gushing and some punctuation tips.

I was a bit disappointed to arrive in the tiny meeting room and discover that one by one we would read our excerpts aloud for the entire class and receive their critiques. I sat through tales of murder and intrigue in the Roman Empire, Dutch Reformed Christian adolescence, and elderly adventure seeking. Some stories were interesting, others dull. I offered my opinion as I saw fit. "You should describe the facial features your character has in common with his father. Makes it more visual." I feigned patience and sometimes interest as I waited for my turn. It didn't arrive that evening. Class ended with a promise to put me near the top of the reading order at next week's studio. I felt bad. They would all have to wait an excrutiating seven days to be graced with my genius.

A week later I printed sixteen copies of O-R-E-O and brought them to studio, ready to be revered as the second coming. Several blog commentors had already told me that the essay should be published, if it hadn't been already. I just needed the final go ahead from my new audience, and maybe a suggestion or two on decreasing the word count before I shipped it off for an editor's critical eyes.

Their less than enthusiastic response shocked the hell out of me. What did they mean they "didn't really connect"? That's not what my blog readers said. They were totally affected. And what was wrong with sounding journalistic? Aren't magazine essays supposed to be that way? Above all, did their criticism mean my writing wasn't print ready on the first try?

I thought back on the one or two essays I'd e-mailed to a couple of magazines on a whim. Never did get a response. Could it be that the writer's studio participants had picked up on something my readers hadn't yet noticed? Sure, I could write and make words sound pretty. But maybe, just maybe I could benefit from a good editor. Perish the thought. If my writing needed editing, that had to mean it wasn't very good to begin with. I didn't want to fathom that idea. For the past 10 months my aspirations hinged on being the best thing to hit Barnes & Noble since, well since ever. How could I be great, if I couldn't get it right on the first try?

Really, what did these pseudo writers know anyways? I hadn't even heard of a single one of them. If they were such writing gurus why didn't they have a byline attached to their work. Oh, but they did. From books available for purchase at the local bookstore to short stories inside the pages of a recent anthology. Okay, so maybe they did know a thing or two about what it takes to get published. But how could all my blog readers be so wrong about me. How could they see polished and professional when the studio saw rough potential? Is beauty truly in the eye of the beholder.

Or maybe the original audience wasn't as discerning as I initially thought. It's not difficult to find "Superb writing" and "You're such a great writer" on even the most mediocre blogs. The blogosphere might not be the best judge of "great writing." For every reputable writer and savvy reader there are a hundred more hacks who think People magazine sets a literary standard.

Perhaps my writing needs a few rounds of revisions. I probably won't see my writing on glossy pages based solely on talent. I just might have to work at this. Yes, I am definitely good. But honestly, I'm not that good. Yet. Oh, it's so much easier to fill my head with the praise and believe the hype.

These Dreams

2006-07-24T00:08:00.000-05:00

It's late. The time has come to bury myself beneath low thread count cotton and billows of soft down. I'll sleep. But before conciousness fades, I hope that I can get through the night in peace. I'm scared of the visions I might see when I close my eyes.

The possibility of nightmares doesn't make me anxious. They only scare me until they pass away into the night. But the beautiful dreams, they haunt me even when I'm awake. They're what I remember, what I wish I could forget.

I fall asleep alone, but when I awake he's with me. There is no shouting, no silence, only security. We're okay. For a second, I think about our problems and wonder if we can really work. He folds me into his arms and my questions are gone. I run my fingertips along his forearm. He's solid, flesh and blood man in my midst. It can't be real, but it is. I can see him, hear him, feel him. I don't know how we got here, but I'll stay a while.

Then a sound in the distance pulls me away from him. And when I come back, he's fading from my sight. I try to reach him again, but something in me knows I won't. I blink, and he's gone for good. Suddenly, I'm aware of waking up. Sweet memories dance in my head and I want to relive them. My heart sinks with the realization it was just a dream, and I can't.

Grow Up

2006-07-14T00:48:00.000-05:00

I turn 26 today. I'm officially closer to 30 than to 20. Yesterday, my employer gave me an early birthday present....my annual review. It was my party and I definitely had reason to cry if I wanted to.

For the past 10 months, I've been acting like a petulant child. I don't like my job. It doesn't stir any of my passions and I'd rather be doing something else. And something else is exactly what I've been doing. Actually, anything else but work. I'm not going to get into the laundry list of activities I engage in from 8 to 5 that aren't technically part of the job description. But the list is extensive. I kept telling myself that my passive aggressive behavior wouldn't exist if I was doing the job I was meant to do (writing and/or non profit fundraising). The slacking has caught up with me, because I know for sure that they notice my lack of motivation.

It's difficult to hear about your shortcomings from a group of people you feel no need to impress. I was defensive, recalcitrant, and a tad confrontational. But while some of the evaluation was absolute bullshit, most of it was true. I do have great potential, and I'm not realizing it in my current role. I really don't show a "bias for action," because honestly that requires caring. I stopped doing that a while ago.

I've been subsisting in this role under the assumption that I would land the job I really love and then blow this popsicle stand. Aaahhhh, the best laid plans. Eight months into the search and I got zilch, except this pesky little job that keeps demanding my attention. I'm starting to think I'm not deserving of much more. Yes, I know I have the skills to do whatever it is that makes my heart go pitter pat. But I haven't been a good steward over what I already have. No one can say, "well done good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things."

Yes, I have accomplished a great deal this year, and I made sure to put each achievement on my resume. But I neglected to cover the basics because I just didn't feel like taking the time to do it. Why bother, if I don't like it and it's not the right job for me anyways? Well, part of being a responsible adult is following through on commitments whether I want to or not. My company kept up their end of the bargain, they pay me. If they are doing their part, not liking this gig is not a good reason to not do mine. Just because I am actively looking for a new job, that does not mean I don't have to give my all in this one. I can't pretend that I love this stuff when I don't. But I can at least give my company what they're paying for.

Today, I took another step towards growing older, but yesterday I took an even bigger step towards growing up.

Job Opening

2006-07-13T00:57:00.000-05:00

Job Opening

Job Category: Relationship
Type: Full time, plus overtime
Salary: It's gonna cost ya
Languages: Anything that sounds sexy
Last day to apply: My wedding day
Compensation: Me
Job Title: Boyfriend

Responsibilities:
Responsibilities will include, but are not limited to:

Saying and doing the right things to properly convey your undying adoration, admiration, and lust for me.

Managing all shopping bags while touring Westchester Mall/SoHo/Madison Ave/any similar location
Arguing when necessary, but ultimately realizing the error of your ways
Footrubs, backrubs, assrubs on request
Researching and evaluating what is really meant when hearing the words, "I'm fine."
Maintaining daily communication via telephone, email, text messages, and telepathic senses
Coordinating dinner dates, movie nights, surprise parties, and other special events
Watching All My Children, One Life To Live, and General Hospital

Qualifications:
All candidates must have the following qualifications,

A J.O.B. (Doctors, lawyers, bankers, engineers, professional athletes, high level managers, music industry execs, Hollywood producers, and other ballers only)
6'0 and above
size 13 shoe and above (hint, hint)
College Degree (advanced degree preferred); a shit load of money is good enough if no degree has been earned.
Solo residential accomodations
No criminal record
No kids
No pending kids, or possibles either
Never married
No restraining orders
Non smoker, ocassional drinker (non drinking is cool too)
hella sex appeal
Possess all teeth in some semblance of order
Must be practicing _____________________ (Christian/Jew/Muslim/Buddhist/Hindu/Agnostic/Atheist/whatever floats your boat)

New York Knicks fans need not apply.

Tell Me All Your Thoughts on God

2006-07-11T09:27:00.000-05:00

During the question and answer session I conducted last month, one reader sent me a very interesting question via email. I didn't answer it along with the others because I felt it deserved its own post. When I sat down to try and write it, I couldn't. Nothing sounded honest. So this time I'm not going to think about it. I'm just going to write and whatever answer comes out is the answer that's in my heart. Lord help me.

Q: Religion...what's your take on God? Do you believe in Jesus?

A: I'm not a fan of religion. Religion is the rituals, traditions, and practices of a faith. It's often the manifestation of faith, but in no way is religion synonymous with faith. Going to church every Sunday, lighting candles, pouring out oil. None of it (in and of itself) is faith. Faith can manifest itself in the form of religion, but religion is not a substitute for true faith.

When I was deciding on a spiritual path, I came to two conclusions. First, I can't decide what I want God to be. Crafting an image of God that conforms to my wants, desires, and needs would be backwards. If I was creating the "creator" where exactly would I be putting my faith? Any god that would bend to my whims couldn't possibly be God.

Second, I had to choose what to believe, because I couldn't believe everything. Logically speaking there can't be one god, yet multiple gods. God can't have a son, but yet not have a son. The son of God can't be the only means to salvation, yet not be the means to salvation (or even worse a heretic). Salvation can't be based on grace and sacrifice, yet based on good works alone. While the differing paths definitely have similarities, the differences require a decision.

I choose Jesus Christ. I do believe that Jesus is God in the flesh. I do believe that he died on the cross for the sins of mankind. I do believe that he rose on the third day (the Jewish day begins at sunset so he actually died on a Thursday, not a Friday). I went through a period of intense exploration, trying to find the facts behind the faith. Fortunately there was lots to find. There's evidence of a great flood, the Hittite civilization, the walls of Jericho. It makes it easier to believe that which I can't see.

I'm not a perfect person. And no matter how much I try, I never will be. I do believe that God set a standard for all humans and that standard does not change. I know that I fall far short of it. Paul said it best, "For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God." I place my faith in Christ because he bridges the gap between me and God. I have no fear that I'm not good enough, because being in Christ I am. It makes sense that salvation can't be based on works alone. If we all fall short, then what ratio of good deeds to bad can get us into the pearly gates? Grace is a beautiful thing.

Still faith without works is dead. Jesus said you can recognize a person by the fruit they bear. Just saying I believe isn't enough. If I do, it will come across in my actions. I know the Lord's commands, but I do tend to ignore them when they don't suit my personal purposes. That's my nature and it's a constant struggle for me. I don't believe that grace is a free pass to do as I please, and I pray constantly that God will change me into the person He wants me to be. The biggest thing for me to remember is that it's a journey and not a destination.

Lately that journey has taken me down an interesting path. About a year ago, I started wondering if contemporary Christianity was really the faith Jesus and the Apostles had left us with. I began to think about what man might've changed over the last two thousand years. That led me into studying Christian apologetics and the Hebraic roots of the Christian faith. I can't say that I believe what many other Christians do. I don't believe in the doctrine of the Trinity, nor do I believe that Jesus nullified Mosaic law, nor do I recognize Sunday as the Sabbath. I believe that many of the differences between Judaism and Christianity were created long after the apostles died. I've come to think that the only true difference between Judaism and Christianity is Jesus. Christians believe that He's the promised Messiah, Jews do not. They're still waiting.

I love being a Christian, however there are many times when I really don't like identifying as one. A lot of believers have given the entire faith a bad name. Jesus called tax collectors, terrorists, liars, and other sinners to be his disciples. He never lowered his standards in regard to sin, yet he didn't make them change who they were in order to love them. I think many Christians forget this whenever they are "lovingly" rebuking the "unsaved." For some reason, I just don't hear "I love you" in "You're going to hell!" Jesus' love and example changed Peter, Thomas, Matthew, and company. If people could see Jesus in today's followers I'm sure more people would be open to letting Him in their lives.

I hope that one day others can see Christ in me.

You Started It

2006-07-10T01:43:00.000-05:00

I didn't ask for this. My life was fine. I wasn't checking for, concerned about, or conscious of you. You came at me. You called my phone asking where I was, what I was doing.
"When can I see you?" That's what you asked.
Boredom is a bitch, and you were something to do, nothing more. I wasn't interested. You weren't even my type. But the attention was nice, and being with you passed the time.
You wormed your way into my head saying "us," "we," "ours." I was featured in your future. But I resisted, keeping you at a distance.
"What are you scared of?" you asked. You dismantled my defenses bit by bit. You did the little things, the basics no one else bothered to do.
"I'll call you at 9." My phone rang at 8:55.
"I'm coming over to see you." I buzzed you in before we hung up.
You did this, not me. It wasn't my idea, definitely not a part of my plans. You wanted us. You worked your magic and now I'm convinced. The only problem is now you're not so sure.
"Let's be together." Your words, not mine. I'm trying to be with you and you want to tell me, "I ain't ready for all that."
All of a sudden, I'm asking too much. It was nothing for you to call me when you didn't know my last name. Now when I say I want to talk, you avoid me like the plague. "Not now." or "I can't." Or some other lame excuse. I used to see you everyday, but lately I can't even get five minutes of your time. You say I'm too needy, that I'm asking for too much. Damn, I'm just asking for what you offered in the first place.
You're asking me why I can't let go. Shit, you were the one who told me, "Hold on."

Selfish

2006-07-08T00:15:00.000-05:00

Dear Short Bitch,

I'm going to need you to do me a favor. You know that guy you're dating. The one whose navel you barely graze because you're 4'11 and he's 6'5. The cute one with the fresh Ceasar and sexy goatee. Yeah him. I'm gonna need you to break up with him. Now!
You don't need all that height. It's wasted on you. Yeah that's what I said, WASTED! It's not cute to see man who damn near has to break his back just to give his woman the sexy, yet subtle forehead kiss. Not cute at all. You don't look like his girlfriend, you look like his child. And together, you both look stupid.
I am by no means saying that you shouldn't date men who are taller than you. But be reasonable. Is a 12 inch height difference really necessary? Wouldn't 6 inches suffice? If you're 5'2 and your man is 5'8, he still towers over you! You can wear your 4 inch heels and still rest your head on his chest. What more do you need? Yeah, I've heard all your reasons before. "I like a man who's tall because he makes me feel safe/secure/dwarfed." Because of your inability to grow, that's not difficult to accomplish. A man does not have to qualify for the NBA in order to be significantly taller than you. Anything more than a 6" to 7" height difference is just overkill.
Contrary to whatever is going on in your little head, there is not a plethora of tall men available for any woman who wants one. Height is relative and your perception of what is tall is greatly skewed due to your close proximity to the ground. Just because a man looks tall in comparison to you, does not mean that he is.
Resources are scarce, and basic human decency teaches that resources should be left for the people who need them most. In this case, those people would be women like me. Women over 5'10 who are constantly attacked by little men who love tall women. When you take the tall men, there is no one to save your longer limbed sisters from the pint size Lotharios who place themselves in our paths. Do you not think of anyone but yourself?!
So how about we make a deal. You stay away from the 6' and over crowd and I won't kick your vertically challenged ass. Sound like a plan? Great! Hopefully we won't have this problem again.

Thanks!

His Shit

2006-07-05T08:18:00.001-05:00

They're sitting in my suitcase, stained with hot sauce and soiled with sweat. I know they'll go in the next load of laundry, but after that their fate is uncertain. They could go back in the dresser drawer that has been their home since last September. Or I could put them in a UPS box and ship them back to their original owner. Technically, they belong to him.

"Do you have a pair of sweats I can sleep in?"
He rummaged through his closet and handed me his favorite pair. I slept in the soft gray cotton, then wore them home the next morning. Day after day I wore them until my scent replaced his and finally Tide erased both of us.
"What are you wearing?" he would ask periodically.
"Your sweatpants."
"When am I going to get those back?"
"You're not."

I'm not so sure about that anymore. I kept them as a reminder, and now I don't want to remember. Memories are the reason I put the past aside and decided to try again. A conversation here, a text message there. Little by little we started to act like us again. And us feels so good, until we get to the part of us that doesn't work. The part where I need him and he lets me down.

Disappointment reared its ugly head again. My first instinct is to pack up his shit and send it to him. No note needed for him to get the message loud and clear. "I'm done!" But I haven't followed through. Instead I'm sitting on my bed weighing my options while this song fucks with my head. "Part of me says to think it through, part of me says I'm over you, part of me wants to say goodbye..."It plays over and over in mind on a continuous loop. Giving back the sweats means I'm giving up on us. He won't give me what I need, so I should just let him go. Find someone else to meet my needs. That's common sense. The problem is, I don't want someone else, I want him to do it. Making a return would say, "don't bother." Why do it, if I don't mean it.

Skeletons fill my closet. This man's t-shirt, that man's pants, another's hat. I could dress myself from head to toe in their remnants and not even think about it. But his remains, they don't just go on me, they get in me. Sleeping in his sweats is like sleeping near him. I can almost feel his arms and the rise and fall of his chest when he breathes. It doesn't help me move on. But I doubt giving them back will help either. And when it's all said and done, I don't want to move on. I want us to work. Until that happens, the sweatpants are mine.

Not Right Now

2006-06-27T22:45:00.000-05:00

Okay I know I haven't been updating as often as I used to and I feel really bad when days go by and there's nothing new for folks to read. I've been travelling a lot this month (Nashville, Albany, Bumblefuck, MI), plus my job is making me work whenever I am in town. All of my spare time is focused on finding a new job, pursuing professional writing endeavors, and maintaining basic hygiene. I still distract myself periodically from 9 to 5 by reading several blogs a day, but I just don't have the time to really take the ideas in my head and make them sound remotely engrossing in print. I'll be back to my regular routine as soon as everything calms down. In the meantime enjoy the archives if you haven't done so already. If you already have, do it again damn it.

I Don't Wanna Know

2006-06-23T08:39:00.000-05:00

He shouldn't have told me. Yes, I begged him for the details. "Tell me exactly what was said,"I pleaded. He was vague, talking around the issue. If he was a woman it wouldn't be so difficult. If he was a woman he could give me dates, times, locations, and a detailed rundown of who said what first complete with commentary on facial expressions and body language. But he's a man, so he couldn't do that. I pressed and needled and whined until he told me everything he could remember about the conversation that took place over a year ago. They say that knowledge is power. Why do I feel so powerless now that I know?

I thought knowing that I wasn't the only one who remembered what we used to be would make me feel better, a little less alone and a lot less pathetic. But when the grapevine brought the good news, the relief wasn't attached. Okay, so he gave an FYI, a brief heads up to let someone else know that he had first dibs once upon a time. On some level he still cares what I do (becauese he wouldn't have opened his mouth if he didnt). Why don't I feel vindicated?

The information is useless. One big so the fuck what. It doesn't warrant a "we need to talk" or "how do you feel about me?" It's just a bug that planted itself in my brain and triggers things that don't need to be triggered. A couple of errant what ifs are not what I need right now. There's no moral victory in hearing that I'm not the only one who talks about it (yeah, I'm at a one million to one advantage, but once is better than not at all). More than anything it pisses me off. On 90210 Dylan once told Brenda, "You gave up any right to ask about my sex life when you decided you didn't want to be a part of it." And I must say that I agree. The day he dumped me he gave up any right to care about who I see or what I'm doing. If he wanted to care he should've done so 2 years ago when that was what I needed. Right now, it would be easier to continue thinking that I don't cross his radar. Stirring up old shit just brings flies.

Attempted Robbery

2006-06-20T10:00:00.000-05:00

I was dancing by myself in a satiny red party dress, while couples danced around me. They were 16 going on 17, I was 15. The prom was for juniors and seniors, but I got grandfathered in via the planning committee. I looked at the faces around me, some familiar others strange. Were they looking at me? Could they tell I didn't belong there? Leaving the dancefloor could draw more attention to myself, so I stayed put and pretended to have fun.
Then suddenly, I wasn't alone. Tall and confident, he came towards me. Two feet away, I couldn't tell if he was dancing with me. When he took my hand, I knew he was. I stared at my feet and concentrated on matching his every move. It was imperative that I danced well. No mistakes. I caught his rhythm then took a chance. I looked up at him, and studied his face. Round, yet mature with a well grown goatee. He was beautiful and I was in love.
Several songs later, I was alone again. But he came back to me periodically. When the last song of the night was played I looked for him. He was on the dancefloor again, but he wasn't alone. His girlfriend got the last dance.
I walked into the warm spring night with a new determination. My mission was clear. I was going to make him mine. I wanted what I wanted and a girlfriend wasn't going to stop me from getting it.
My first move was to find a way into his life. Although we went to different schools, it was easy. Before that prom we didn't know each other, but we knew the same people.
"Oh yeah, he's cool peeps." I'd work his name into conversations, pretending we were the best of friends. I doubted he knew my name.
I went to college fairs, football games, parties, anywhere I knew he'd probably be.
"Hey you! What's up?" I'd say when we "accidentally" bumped into each other. He always gave me a hug and talked to me for a few before heading off with his friends.
In the fall, I took my scheme to the next level.
"Hey, so this party we're planning for Jack and Jill. Who should we invite?" I asked my friend.
Of course she mentioned his name.
"Maybe, we should call him on three way to see if he knows anyone else who wants to go," I suggested. "Do you have his number?"
She did. We called. He answered. We talked, and not just about the party. Jokes were made, gossip was shared. It went perfectly. So did the next three way call a week later.
After a month, I no longer needed a buffer. We talked every night, because I called every night. He never asked for my phone number, but he always took my calls. We were friends. Phase 1 was complete.
Phase 2 was simple. Stay close and wait. Wait for him to break up with her. Wait for him to fall for me. She was clingy, jealous, insecure and annoying. I was cool, laidback, fun, and quite adorable. It was only a matter of time before he moved on to someone better, and I was going to welcome him with open arms.
They were always on the precipice of a breakup.
"Damn, she's always starting drama," he'd complain. I listened and sympathized, but never suggested they break up. I refused to be a homewrecker. If he broke up with her, it had to be of his own volition, preferably because he realized he was in love with me.
She knew about my friendship with him, and I knew she didn't like it. But I didn't care. If she really made him happy, he wouldn't need to talk to me all the time. Besides, it's not like he was cheating on her. We just talked and hung out. Nothing wrong with that. So what if he occasionally said things like, "With legs like yours, you should wear miniskirts all the time." That didn't mean anything. Well, it didn't mean everything. I took every flirtatious comment as a sign. He wouldn't flirt if he wasn't attracted to me and being attracted to me was just one step away from being in love with me. Or so I thought.
Then one day it happened. He did what I never thought he would, what I never wanted him to do. He cheated on her. The problem was, he didn't cheat on her with me.
"I kissed him," Diesel Girl told me on the phone one night. We were friends, but so were they. I never told her how I felt about him, but she had to know. His name was always coming out of my mouth.
How could he do that to me? I was supposed to have him next, not her. How did she even get in the picture. I never saw it coming, but it couldn't happen again.
"Liz, why are so dressed up today?" Stumpy asked after last period gym class.
"I'm not."
"Liz, why are you fixing your hair?"
"What?" I stared at my light blue skirt and white tank top in the mirror as I brushed the sides of my hair into a twist.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere."
"Why are you lying to me?"
"I'm not."
"You're going to see him today aren't you!"
"Yeah, I am! So what." I was defiant. I had every right to put on a miniskirt and go to his house to hang out. We were friends and friendship was about to have its privileges.
We sat on his couch and listened to music and eventually I was laying in his arms. I held him tight and enhaled his aftershave. His face was inches from mine. I looked up at him and our eyes met. His dark brown eyes were intense. So intense I couldn't take it. I closed my eyes and buried my head in his neck. Several cheap feels later, I took the bus home.
"Why did you go there?" my friends asked me the next day at lunch.
"Because, we're friends and he wanted to hang out."
"He's got a girlfriend. He's an asshole, who's just leading you on. Why do you let him?"
"Whatever. First off, she's a bitch and he can't stand her anyways. Second, he's not an asshole. We get each other. I really love him."
"You don't know him to love him," they argued.
They were wrong. I didn't have to be his girlfriend to love him. 90210 and My So Called Life had proven to me over and over again that it's possible to fall for your best male friend. The person didn't have to love you back in order for you to love them.
I tried on several occasions to recreate that moment on his couch. It never happened. He stayed with his girlfriend and kept cheating on her with the other girl. And I kept waiting, waiting for him to be done with both of them and finally see me for what I was. The one he was supposed to be with. The one who understood him and loved him unconditionally. I wouldn't let him go. I had held on too long and I was entitled. There were too many tears, too much longing, and too many opportunities for me to walk away with nothing. I had earned the right to be liked by him. To be the girl everyone knew was his. I deserved that.
I stopped talking about him all the time. Not because he wasn't always on my mind, but because no one would listen to me anymore. They were sick of my one sided love affair and refused to indulge my whimsical fancy any longer. I listened to Jewel and distorted her lyrics to fit my life. I wallowed in the depths of heartache and reveled in the delicious pain. Oh this was love. It was so big and all consuming I was sure it would conquer all, his apathy, his mistress, his girlfriend. EVERYTHING! Love would prevail.
But it never did. And "Near You Always" started sounding redundant. So did "I Miss You," "Glycerine," and "Wonderwall." The thought of him stopped making me cry on cue and I was having a hard time remembering exactly why I loved him so much. He went away to college the next summer and I went to a summer program. I played my sad songs, but forgot what they meant to me. Trying to remember it all was tiring and by the 2nd week of summer college I didn't feel like expending the energy. It had all grown old and very sickening. For goodness sake, he had a girlfriend and was an unrepentant cheater.
Several months ago I was on the phone with the Angry Black Man.
"My girlfriend doesn't like the fact that we talk so much," he said.
"Why?"
"I don't know. She knows we're friends, but it just makes her uncomfortable."
"Why?" I rolled my eyes at the absurdity of the situation.
"Well she thinks that you might try to turn the friendship into something more."
"What! Please. We're just friends. I don't even see you like that. Besides, I would never try to take another woman's boyfriend. I'm not trifling like that."
Thank God for convenient amnesia.

Metamorphosis

2006-06-19T08:09:00.000-05:00

February 21, 2001

Dear Diary,

I just don't get it. It's Grammy night and I'm at home. I wasn't even asked to go. This is just like that time when I was the only member of Kids Inc who didn't get an invite to the new rich kid's birthday party cause I was too young. Except, well, this time I'm totally old enough and it's like, for real. This is so freaking unfair. I mean really! What's the big deal about J Lo anyways? Hello! I'm the original triple threat. She doesn't even sing and act at the same time, like I did. And I'd bet all of Wild Orchid's album sales that she can't play the tambourine like I did. Oh, there's Britney and ughh, Christina too. Copy cat bitches! I'm the Disney channel's original cute blonde girl! And excuse me Brit, but you totally stole my singing style. Nasal whining?!! That's all me, you lyrca wearing Lolita!
OH MY GOD!! Is that...? It is! Jennifer Love Hewitt?!! What's she doing there? Wasn't Party of Five cancelled? How in the world is she more famous than me? Does anyone even remember her character's name on Kids Inc? I don't think so! It's gotta be the boobs. That's it. Who cares if she has an album coming out. She could never sing like me, anyways.
You know something, diary. I was so sure that leaving the band when I was 14 was the right decision. Well, that and the producers said I was too old to do another season, which was total bullshit cause Ryan stayed til he was like 18 or something. But I was way confident. If Martika could make it all the way to #1 with a depressing ditty like Toy Soldiers, then I was definitely going to be a star. So what the fuck happened?!! Renee promised me that Wild Orchid would be huge. Lying tramp. No one even remembers our hit "Talk to Me." Do I remember it?
This is depressing. I've gotta find a way to get back on top, where I belong. Oh wait...who are those guys. Hmm, some rap group with a Philipino and two black guys. Hey, are they wearing Jordache? I totally rocked Jordache back in '84. I could show them a thing or two. That would be so funny. A white chick leading a rap group. Well, we did sing "Can't Touch This" on Kids Inc that one time. And I did learn the running man. What if...nah, that's crazy. But maybe, just maybe....hmmmm. BRB, diary......

All it took was some self tanner, hair dye, collagen, heavy black eye liner (you know, to make my eyes all slanty), and some new threads (Latin logo T was totally brilliant), but I did it! Who says you can't go from white to ethnically ambiguous? Watch out world, here comes Stacy Fergu.....oh no, that's too vanilla. Gotta be exotic. Think, think, think. Yes, that's it! Bye bye Stacy Ferguson

HELLO FERGIE!!!

21 Questions.....or Something Like That

2006-06-12T08:24:00.000-05:00

You had questions, and I have the answers.

Q. If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?
A. Who thinks about stuff like that? Honestly! Can you name one person who sits around and ponders what life would be like as a tree? No? I didn't think so. But if I have to answer I guess I would be an apple tree. I like the idea of having a self made supply of food.

Q. How do you know how many readers you have?
A. I check sitemeter every 80 seconds to track visits. It tells me how many people are on, where they are located (or the location of the IP), how many pages they view, where they linked from (or if they linked to my site at all....some of you have the url memorized. good shit!). It's free and mildly addicting. www.sitemeter.com

Q. If you could have a dinner party and invite 5 people dead or alive who would it be?
A. First, I probably will never have a dinner party. That requires cleaning the house. I've tried it before and it never really works. Plus that's a lot of cooking and I'm too cheap for catering. But just for shits and giggles, let's say I did have a dinner party. I'd invite Jesus Christ (cause I want to hear exactly what he expects right from the horses mouth); Jay-Z (can't have a dinner party and not invite my husband); my paternal grandfather (he died before I was born, so I want to say wassup and ask him why he had 5 baby's mamas); my childhood friend Aimee (so we could catch up again); Notorious B.I.G. (I'll always love Big Poppa).

Q. Did you study writing? What are your inspirations? When do you write? And what kind of writing do you most enjoy?
A. Umm, Sober, that's more than one question. But since you're my internet doppleganger, it's all good. Okay, so my college major was Policy Analysis and Management. I don't know what it is, or what it means, or what type of job it correlates to. I do know that the major only requires 1 basic math class and 2 remedial science classes. Perfect for me. I hated writing papers in college and pretty much thought writing was a drag. Usually, my best grades were on papers (even papers written 2 hours before the deadline). When I was a kid, I loved to write. I even founded a school newspaper in 4th grade (which turned into a political bloodbath by 5th grade...long story). I took creative writing classes in high school. But by college I completely forgot that I enjoyed this stuff. Decided I wanted to be a lawyer, then changed my mind and decided that business was my path in life. It took writing this blog to remind me of my 1st love. So that's the long and short of did I study writing. I guess I could've just said, "No!" As for my inspirations, well that comes from everywhere. Sometimes it's something someone says, other times it's a song, and there are times when it's something I read. Basically an idea pops into my head and plants itself as a seed. Sometimes it sprouts, sometimes it wilts. Inspiration strikes at the most inopportune time, which brings me to your next question. When do I write? All the damn time. Most of my writing occurs in my head. It sucks because I'll be writing brilliant paragraphs in my head, with no paper or pen in sight to preserve it. Then when I finally get a chance to write it out I remember the general idea, but not the specific words, and it irks the hell out of me. I started carrying a journal and pen with me a lot, so I can record my thoughts as soon as they come.
Personal essays are my favorite things to write. That's why I love to blog so much. I don't have anyone telling me what topics I have to cover. Since I'm my favorite subject, I get to speak at will. Running a close second to the personal essay would be satire. Fiction is cool, it just takes a lot of creativity and effort to write a compelling story. My attention span is really short, so it's difficult for me to complete an entire piece of fiction. But I'm working on it.

Q. Shorty, how'd you get so fly?
A. I was born this fly! Plus, I think the fro just adds to the flyness!

Q. Why Chesty Larue? Why not Busty Lebouffe or Betty Boobies...or just my Dominican Diva from the Bronx!? Why even reference my mammary glands? As if they don't get enough abuse from perverted men, jealous flat-chested females and random passers-by? But you???
A. Chesty, I have a question for you. Would you prefer that I use your government so your exploits can be known to the world. Or do you like the protection of anonymity your alias has given you? Hmmm, what was that? You don't want your cover blown? Then quit all your whining and suck it up! Chesty LaRue is a beautiful name. Makes you sound foreign and exotic (which you are). I don't hear Flatty Girl or Jailbait complaining about their names.

Q. What song best represents your life? (Your theme song or songs) Best memory? what do you hate / love in others? Whats your worst sex moment ever? What do you think would surprise people most about you and have you ever slobbed a stinky nob??
A. Damn you Cece! You OD'd on the questions too. But let's see what I can do. I basically think that damn near every song written speaks to me. I think it has something to do with my complete self absorption. If I had to pick a theme song that really describes my life it would have to Jay-Z's "Where I'm From" (Cough up a lung/Where I'm from/Marcy, son/Ain't nothing nice.) All jokes aside, I've gotta go with a classic. My theme song is "Like a Virgin."
Best memory. That would definitely have to be Minority Hosting Weekend at Vanderbilt University, April 1997. There was this party at "The Black House" and it was packed. I was sitting on the couch next to this fine ass dude. And I remember he looked at me and I looked back at him. Lord Tariq and Peter Gunz was blasting and that was my JAM!! I straddled dude and gave him a lap dance for the next 20 minutes. Damn, I miss high school.
Worst sex moment. You already read about it.
The thing that surprises people most about me is that I'm still a virgin (technically speaking). Chesty LaRue calls me a two bit virgin since I've done almost everything else. Jailbait thinks I'm the world's biggest dick tease. Both of them are entirely correct. About 6 years ago, one guy told me, "Don't take your clothes off if you're not going to have sex." I still haven't learned that lesson. And honestly, I can't remember if I've ever slobbed a stinky nob.

Q. I want to hear your craziest sex stories.
A. I don't have crazy sex stories, but plenty of crazy foreplay. I think the craziest one was the time I was in my basement messing with this guy I was dating while my parents were upstairs. My underwear was around one ankle and I was topless and I heard my mom open the basement door to do a load of laundry. I've never put my clothes on so quick.

Q. How did you get 65 readers??? will you tell me your secret?
A. Shameless pandering and self promotion. I leave my link in my email signature and IM away message. I put it on my myspace page. And I'm loathe to admit this, but I read a lot of other blogs and commented. Then I updated damn near everyday. I had delusions of blogging grandeur. They quickly subsided. Now I write whenever I feel like it (which is still pretty often) and only visit the blogs I truly enjoy (which is still an exorbitant number). I regained my senses and realized blogging is not the means to an end.

Q. Is string theory the ultimate theory of everything?
A. Does string theory have anything to do with tampons?

Q. What famous person (living or not) would you let smack you in the face and you woldn't be mad?
A. I'd let Martin Luther King slap me. I'm sure after all those days in jail and the fire hoses and the police dogs he wanted to slap someone. So I'd let him slap the taste out my mouth, just so he can release some frustration.

Q. Who's your favorite Piston and why?
A. Ben Wallace, because we have matching hair.

Q. I want to know what you makes you happy and what your favorite thing is to do to make someone else happy.
A. Shoes always make me happy. But if you're looking for something not so shallow, I'd say that quality time with loved ones makes me happy. I'd say that my favorite thing to do to make someone else happy is to do something for them that they wouldn't expect. I can be very selfish, so when I do something selfless it's a really big deal for people who know me.

Q. what would you get printed on 'the ultimate' tshirt?
A. Great question. "Don't touch the fro...grow your own"

Q. If there was one thing you could change about your self thats non-physical what would it be and why?
A. Procrastination is a bitch. I would change that for sure. Reasons are obvious.

Q. If you could have any job in the world, any job at all, what would it be and why?
A. MTV VJ. I'd get to live in New York and be paid to act like a damn fool. Plus, I'd have better access to Jay-Z.

Q. If you were a heffa (as in female cow) would you be better equipped to tolerate bullshit???
A. I don't think so.

Q. When you sell your first essay, what are you going to spend the money on?
A. 10% off top goes to my tithe. I'd put another 5% into savings. I might pay a bill or two, but more than likely, I'd buy shoes. Now if I sell my first piece for only 10 bucks, that would definitely limit my shoe choices.

Q. Who are your favorite authors? What are you reading right now? And what are you willing to recommend?
A. I'm a book slut, so I spread the love around to many authors. Hmmm, I went through an Eric Jerome Dickey phase, followed by an E. Lynn Harris moment. I used to love Francine Pascal when I was younger, but I doubt you'd be interested in the Sweet Valley High series. I'd say at the moment Curtis Sittenfeld is one of my faves. Right now I'm reading her 2nd novel, "Man of my Dreams." I recommend her first novel "Prep." EXCELLENT! I'm also working my way through Memoirs of a Geisha. Oh, and I like Dan Brown's books as well. He's an average writer, but he's a damn good storyteller. Ummm, that's about all I can think of at the moment.

In the words of the immortal Porky Pig....That's all folks!

A Very Special Blogisode

2006-06-07T09:50:00.000-05:00

It started as boredom relief. A place to dump the contents of my brain when I had nothing better to do. But with one simple look at male/female friendships it turned into so much more. One faithful reader in Atlanta, GA grew to 65 fans all over the world. And now 10 months, 2 weeks, and 2 days later, it has finally arrived, the 100th post to The Brain Dump.

In honor of this momentous occassion I could trace the progression of this blog from Random Thoughts up to now. Maybe examine how the writing has changed, how life has unfolded, and other shit like that. But I don't feel like it. Or, I could take this opportunity to thank everyone for reading, commenting, lurking, stumbling here on a google search for "pussy rope," and what not, but I already did that, and I don't like to repeat myself.

Then it hit me, how about a 100 Things About Me post. But then I tried to think of 100 Things and came up with two. So then I thought, how about a little Q&A. Readers question, I answer. But then several readers (i.e. Cece and Jailbait) came to mind and I realized that might not be the smartest move. Some people don't know how to question responsibly. Then I mulled it over some more and realized a Q&A would absolve me of thinking of a topic. Besides, how much harm could really come from a bit of reader participation? We shall soon find out.

It's your turn. Ready, aim, fire away....

Lord help me!

Welcome To Miami* (Part IV)

2006-06-05T11:58:00.000-05:00

I hustled down the street, my lungs burning from exertion. How many more blocks? My eyes strained against the dimming light to read the street sign 10 feet ahead. Damn, I should've worn my glasses.
"Excuse me," I called to a nearby pedestrian. "What street is this?"
"12th," he answered.
I jogged through the crosswalk. Four blocks to go. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse to check the time. 7:45. One hour. That was all the time I could afford to devote to searching for shoes to match my perfect purse that matched my ethereal dress. I scanned store windows for the perfect pair of flats. Several stores had vast inventories of "not my size." I pressed on.
Lincoln Road. That's what the lady at the clothing store had said a half hour ago. She promised I would find shoes there. 13th Street, 14th Street. How much further? She said it was about 8 short blocks. Unfortunately a half mile isn't short. I took solace in the fact that I was burning at least 300 calories and 1.5 lbs of water weight.
It appeared before me like an oasis in the dessert. People flooded the outdoor mall, milling about between the shops and restaurants. I darted across Washinton Avenue. My face fell. For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by too many stores. Too many options, with absolutely no guarantee of finding what I needed. I squinted to read the store signs to my left and right. Where should I start? 8:00. 45 minutes left.
I took off to my right and perused an entire shoe store in two minutes. Nothing. I speed walked 20 feet up the street and entered another establishment. 0 for 2. I struck out at store after store. It was 8:25 and hope was fading fast.
Then it appeared. If this place didn't carry the perfect flat, then no place did. I opened the heavy glass doors and entered Steve Madden. Immediately, a powerful force pulled me towards the sale table at the back of the store. Clouds parted and a ray of light beamed down. Angels sang. I found them. Dressy, yet casual. Flip flop, yet wedge. Low, but not flat. Perfect.
"What's the largest size you carry?" I asked the sales girl.
She stared off into space and contemplated the complexity of my question. "Ummm, I think a 10?"
Maybe, just maybe, by the grace of God a 10 would work. "Do you have this in a 10?" I held up the heavenly sandal for her inspection.
"Let me check."
I took a seat as she headed into the back. My knee bounced uncontrollably while I waited. They had to have this shoe in my size.
"Yep, we have a 10."
I sprung to my feet and clapped my hands. She placed the magic slipper on the carpet and I slid my toes towards the thong. My foot stopped halfway. Oh no! I sat on the cushioned bench and adjusted the straps around my foot, then pushed my toes forward. It was going to be close.
"What do you think?" I asked her, standing up so she could get a good view.
"Hmmmm, they just fit," she answered.
"Are you sure. My heel isn't hanging way off the back."
She scrunched her nose and bobbed her head from side to side. "Hmmm, it's really close. But yeah they'll work."
I didn't have time for further debate. I ripped the shoe from my foot and threw it in the box. "I'll take them!" I paid half the original price, then hightailed it out the store.
I made it back to the hotel by 9:00 on the dot. Oddly enough I didn't find Room 412 the way I left it. Someone was obviously working very hard for a tip.
"Do you see what they did?" the matron of honor asked.
"What the hellin!" I exclaimed.
"Yeah, and all of our stuff is mixed up too! They put some of your stuff in my bag," the usher informed me.
"Shit!" I didn't have time to sort through everyone's luggage to find my purse, accessories, makeup and dress.
"Did you find shoes?" the bride to be asked.
"Yes, I did." I pulled the box from its bag and opened the top to reveal my purchase.
"Those are so cute!" she gushed.
"I know!"
I rummaged through my belongings and retrieved a clean thong with a matching push up bra. My dress was still hanging in the closet where I left it. I plucked it from its hanger and laid it across the bed. Shower time. The water ran hot and I lathered in record time. Thankfully, the legs had been shaved that morning. I hopped out of the shower and dressed expeditiously. Our reservation was for 10 p.m. and we had been warned that late arrivals would not be honored. B.E.D. was my raison d'etre and there was no way I would miss it.
At 9:50 we were ready and out the door. Fortunately, our hotel was only one block from the popular Miami nightspot. The small crowd gathered around the non descript entrance was our only signal that we had reached our destination.
"Reservation for 4 at 10," the bride to be said to the lady at the door.
"What's your name?" she asked as she perused her list. For the first time all weekend the name was on the list and it granted us admission. We entered the darkened night spot and were greeted by a pulsing baseline and trendy clientele. Our bed wouldn't be available for a few minutes. Picture time!

(look at those shoes!) Several minutes later we were reclining on lush pillows and reviewing the menu.

We ordered appetizers and tried to decide on a main course. The music changed. My hips wiggled against the mattress.
"Relax yourself girl, please settle down," Tribe Called Quest rang out from the speakers.
"Oh shoot! That's my jam."
We munched on fried shrimp and listened to the DJ's mid 90s R&B soundtrack.
"Givin me the run around (run around). Thought our love was going down (going down). Baby don't you know that I'm, down until the day I diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeee," R Kelly sang.
The song had me in a trance. I looked up to catch a glimpse of the hypnotist. From more than 20 feet away, the only thing I could make out was his dark complexion.
"I'm gonna go talk to the DJ." I scooted to the end of the bed, slid my shoes on my bare feet, then marched towards the DJ booth.
His hair was short, his face was young, and he was deep in concentration.
"I like the music," I shouted! "Do you take requests?"
He smiled a perfect white toothed grin. "What do you want to hear?"
"You got any Jay-Z?" I asked.
He nodded his adorable head.
"Are you the DJ for tonight?" I lingered.
"Nah, I'm done in an hour."
"No!!" I gave him my best pout to convey my disappointed.
"Yep, sorry."
I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I went back to our bed. Dinner came and we ate in silence, relishing our entrees. The duck was suculent, the potatoes creamy. I looked forward to dessert. The usher ordered the tiramisu.
I inhaled the chocolate cake I ordered. Between mouthfuls, I stared across the room at the man on the 1 and 2s. I positioned myself to give him the best view in case he decided to look up from his record collection.
I looked to my right to see a group of girls dancing on their bed. Yes! Another place that encouraged furniture dancing.
The meal was cleared from our bed and we were told that after 11:30, the beds were for bottle service only.
"How much is bottle service?" I asked.
"Bottles start at $250 and it's a two bottle minimum," the manager answered.
It took all of two seconds to nix that idea. But the bed was ours until we signed the credit card slip and it took forever to run all of our cards. More dancing!!
I did my best impression of a video ho in the hopes of getting the DJ's attention. I turned around to shake my ass, then threw a sultry gaze over my shoulder. Unfortunately, he was no longer where I last left him. Damn it! I surveyed the entire club and spotted him with a group of denim clad males. Phew! He hadn't left.
Eventually, the manager brought us our credit card receipts and we grudgingly moved off the bed as they changed the sheets and prepared it for the stupid sap who would spend an entire paycheck just to appear like a baller.
People began to fill the open spaces and the new DJ tried to get the party goers to lean with it, rock with it. I did a lazy step together step and searched for the 1st DJ. I spotted him again, then decided to head to the bathroom. I took the long route that cut a path near where he stood. Unfortunately, eye contact was not made. Two and half minutes in the ladies room, then back to my friends. On the return trip I made sure to travel on the opposite side of the club from him, lest he think I was following him.
"I'm in love," I announced when I approached the group.
"With who?" the bride to be asked.
"My DJ!"
"Then go get him," they encouraged.
"I can't do that," I balked. At least not obviously. It had to be a stealth operation.
For the next hour, I didn't let the dark chocolate morsel out of my sight. He moved from the dance floor, to a bed, to the DJ booth, to the bar, back to the DJ booth, to the dance floor, to the bed again. I decided to do another pass by just as he was placing an arm through a hoodie. He couldn't leave! Lucky for me he shoved his hands in his pocket and stayed right where he was. I still had a chance.
Upon my 3rd bathroom exit, I noticed that he had positioned himself on a bed along the wall near the DJ booth. I decided to start a dance party for one less than 10 feet away.
"I like the way you dance!" I looked up to see an enthusiastic brunette.
"Thanks," I said, keeping one eye on my target.
"Hey, do you want to dance on our bed?"
The offer couldn't have come sooner. Positioned in the middle of the dancefloor, the bed would give me a perfect view. I hopped up on the mattress.
"Girl you look good, won't you back that ass up. You's a big fine woman, won't you back that ass up..." We followed Juvenile's directives.
Out the corner of my eye, I checked to see if he was watching me. What I saw shocked the hell out of me. She was about 5'5, with loose curls cascading around her shoulders. Her jeans hugged every curve and her top displayed her girls perfectly. She was stunning, classy, sexy, and didn't look like she was trying one damn bit. He stood close to her, whispering in her ear. Who was this girl? Was she a friend he already knew? I studied their body language. He wasn't touching her, exactly. And she wasn't leaning into him. Yeah, they were friends, I convinced myself. I danced harder, wishing I had straightened my hair and worn something sexier than the latest in flower girl chic.
"Hey, what's going on?" The bride to be approached the bed.
"She said I could dance on the bed with her."
The matron of honor and the usher joined the bride to be and they all danced on the floor below.
"Hey your friends can dance on the bed too!" the friendly brunette offered. Woohoo!! Good times!

Periodically, I followed the action on the bed 10 feet away. He reclined on the mattress, his legs dangled on the floor. She laid beside him in the nook between his chest and shoulder. NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! Why?! Why, why, why, why!!!! My heart crumbled. B.E.D. was no longer fun.
The usher and the matron of honor were sitting on the edge of the bed. They looked tired. If they were ready to head back to the hotel, so was I.
"Are you ready to go?" I asked as I knelt beside them.
They nodded. "Are you?"
"Yeah, the love of my life has decided to be with someone else, so it's time to go."
The four of us headed towards the exit.
"I be on that cryptonite, I be on that cryptonite," Big Boi rapped. The bride to be and I stopped for one last dance and I took one last good look at the man of my dreams. Then it hit me. He reminded me of someone. Someone a bit above average height, with dark skin, a low ceasar, and a baby face. Holy shit!! He reminded me of the The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry!!! No wonder I was so attached.
Back at the hotel, I lamented my misfortune. I didn't even get a dance or a cheap feel. We took quick naps and packed our belongings. Our flights all left before 8 a.m.
On the cab ride to the airport we reminisced over our weekend.
"I take you to strip club."
"We love Dref!"
"Fuck a list!"
The bride to be left us first. Her plane was leaving from another terminal. The rest of us unloaded our bags and checked in at American Airlines.
"I wouldn't be wearing that down here," the TSA agent said as I waited from my purse to come down the conveyor belt at the security checkpoint. He pointed towards by chest.
I looked down and smiled. "The Pistons will destroy the Heat," I told him. I rubbed the number 3 on the jersey. "And Ben Wallace will shut down Shaq! That big ugly ogre."
Aaaahhh, if only those words made it from my mouth to God's ears. Oh well, even with fecal matter for an NBA team, Miami is a pretty fly city.

*The Heat are diseased rhinocerous pizzle

Welcome To Miami* (Part III)

2006-06-01T15:57:00.000-05:00

My mission was clear and had to be accomplished before 9 p.m. Find accessories, a purse, and shoes to go with brand new dress and do it all for under $200. I awoke early (well before noon) to embark upon my task. Waking up at the crack of dawn wasn't nearly as difficult as it should have been considering I spent over an hour flirting with my favorite waiter Dref at my favorite diner down the street from the hotel until damn near 5 a.m. But sleep deprivation is no deterrent when a woman needs footwear and needs it now.
Rising on time didn't lead to leaving the hotel on time, but a day of shopping must be prepared for properly. Comfy yet cute flip flops, perfectly coifed hair, and cute underwear to ensure proper fitting room assessment. Two hours later we slipped on our shades and were all ready to go.
The sun was shining and we were feeling good, so we captured the moment.
Food is fuel, so we stopped by one of the numerous restaurants along Ocean Ave for the 1/2 off lunch specials. Gotta save those dollars for the clothes. After a mediocre lunch of dry chicken breast on bland bread, I sucked the remaining crumbs from my braces, and we headed to Collins Ave for some good, yet affordable shopping. Unlike the previous day, this time I hit the jackpot. We ducked into a store to find out that the entire inventory was at least 50% off, with some items being given away at more than a 70% discount. The sales woman knew an eager customer when she saw one.
"Do you like this?" she asked, dangling a halter with a dangerously low neckline over the dressing room door.
"Yeah, but I think I'd prefer a shirt that keeps my boobs in one place."
"Okay, tell me what you like, and I give you special price, okay." It was Cuban accented music to my ears.
I ducked back and forth behind the dressing room curtain.
"What do you guys think of this?" I asked my friends over and over.
"I don't know about that one," the usher offered.
"Oh, now that I like," said the bride to be.
I settled on a grayish blue halter with a key hole at the bust and a filmy cream number that I have yet to figure out how to wear. We left the boutique with half my shopping budget nestled in tissue paper and a handled bag. I told myself that those purchases needn't count towards my spending limit since they were separate from my shopping list and more than 60% off the original price.
United Colors of Benetton presented me with the most beautiful white leather purse for the bargain basement price of $63.13, giving me hope that shoes would be smiliarly affordable. We stopped at Urban Outfitters and I added a seafoam necklace and bracelet to my collection. By 5 p.m. I was loaded and my friends were famished.
We headed to Wet Willies, the mecca for all South Beach tourists.
"Can I see your ID," a man sitting on a stool asked as we approached the entrance.
"I left it at the hotel," the usher realized after perusing through her purse.
We stood on the corner of 8th and Ocean and contemplated our next move.
"I can just go back to the hotel and get it," she offered seeing the disappointment on the bride to be's face.
"Hey, ladies! Party tonight hosted by Vida Guerra!" A flyer flaunting long hair and perfectly bronzed ass cheeks was shoved under our noses.
"What party?" the matron of honor asked.
"Vida Guerra, you know the model?"an average height man with an above average belly said.
"You mean Vida Guerra the video ho," I corrected.
"Yeah, whatever. Well, she's hosting a party and everyone's going to be there. Diddy, Tigger. Gonna be off the chain."
"Yeah, off the chain!" echoed his young dumb sidekick.
"How much?" she asked.
"Look, I got these passes that'll get you and a guest in free."
Now where have we heard that before.
"Let me see the passes."
He pulled out a long glossy card. "Complimentary admission for cardholder and one guest," was written in small print along the bottom.
"What time do we have to be there in order to get in free?" I asked.
"There's no set time, but you'll want to get there early. Once it's at capacity, they won't let nobody in," he explained.
"Yeah, ain't nobody gettin in," the sidekick parroted.
"But we have reservations at B.E.D. tonight," the bride to be explained.
"Man, ain't nobody going to B.E.D tonight. Everybody's gonna be at this party I'm telling you."
"Yo, I'm going to the hotel to get my ID," the usher interrupted. The bride to be followed, leaving me and the matron of honor on the corner to figure out the details of this new option.
We discussed the caliber of the expected crowd and finagled two free passes.
"Now don't take these passes if you ain't gonna use them," he warned.
"We'll come through," we promised.
We stood on the corner engaging in idle chit chat with the party promoters and waited for our friends to return. Tigger of BET fame coasted by us flanked by small waisted, breast implanted, cinnamon colored beauties. Heads turned and watched as the VJ and his entourage headed into Wet Willies.
A few minutes later the bride to be and the usher rejoined us and we walked into the popular watering hole. Shopping had used up all the sustenance I had for the day and my stomach grumbled.
"Are we going to eat here?" I asked.
We looked around bar and took in the spring break caliber scene. It was crowded and loud. Not the place to sit down and enjoy a leisurely meal.
"Well we just want to get a frozen drink, so we can go some place else for food."
That was fine with me. I left the bar and waited outside for them to meet me. It was nearly 7 p.m. and I had yet to find shoes. The three women emerged from Wet Willies with glasses of color frost in hand. We headed back to Washington Ave to check out the stores near the hotel. After several stops, I grew tired of the excess baggage.
"Look guys, I need to find shoes. If you guys want to go back to the hotel, that's cool. Just take my bags back and I'll meet you there in time to get ready for our reservation."
They agreed, grateful for the respite. I handed them three shopping bags, flung my purse over my shoulder and marched down the road. It was after 7 p.m. I had less than two hours to find shoes, shower, do my hair, make up, and toes and get to B.E.D. I quickened my pace. I was on a mission.

* The Miami Heat eat fly spattered donkey shit

AND WHAT!!!

2006-05-31T23:19:00.000-05:00

NUFF SAID

Welcome To Miami* (Part II)

2006-05-31T09:54:00.000-05:00

The first attempt to open my eyes was thwarted by a heavy does of fatigue. The second by a wave of laziness. But on the third try, my eyes opened to sunlight filtering through the curtains. The bride to be was buzzing around the room and the matron of honor had left to run an errand. The usher was still asleep next to me in an alcohol induced coma.
"So what's the plan for today?" I asked.
"We're going to the beach today, then Opium Garden tonight," the bride to be answered.
"I'm hungry. I need to find food." It was after noon and the pancakes, cheese eggs, and turkey bacon I'd devoured 8 hours earlier were long gone from my system. Food would need to be administered soon before my stomach began eating itself. The situation was urgent, so I sat down at my laptop and checked my email for the next hour. Ooooohhh, look! 12 new comments on the blog. Woohoo!!

Showers, outfit selection, hair and makeup for four women took over two hours. But by 3:30 we were suited up

and ready to go
The heat blanketed us the moment we stepped outside. Desperate for relief we hauled ass into a nearby drugstore and picked up some essentials. Towels, shades, sun screen, soap opera mags. Two blocks and 5 minutes later we were at 8th and Ocean.
Teddy and the twins were nowhere to be found, but we did happen upon 1/2 off lunch specials. French toast and eggs quieted my rumbling stomach and gave me a touch of gas, which I promptly released into my chair's cushion. I felt a thousand times better. Beach time!! A brisk walk across the street and there it was in all it's glory. South Beach!
I raced towards the Atlantic, the bride to be several feet behind me. The other two stayed by our umbrellas, lest a drop of water touch their hair. The bride to be and I frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called....wait, wrong reference...we frolicked in the surf. The waves pounded against us, moving us further out to see before bringing us back towards the shore
It was all good clean fun until a tidal wave crashed against my back, denting my perfectly rounded, coily fro. I admitted defeat and exited the ocean.

(Halle Berry ain't got nothing on me)

I needed a breather, so I found a chaise and lounged.

A few minutes later we were South Beached out. We gathered our belongings, rinsed off our feet and headed back to Ocean Ave. I wanted to shop. Unfortunately every store I entered only specialized in stripper couture. $500 for butt floss? I don't think so. After unfruitful stops at several stores along the strip, my body begged for a break.
"Hey guys, I'm gonna head back to the hotel. I'm tired."
I retired to room 412 and passed out, but not before downing 2 slices of extra cheese pizza and a lipton iced tea.
I awoke to a headache and a mean case of the sniffles. Wet hair, plus artic air conditioning equals post nasal drip. The others arrived back in the room to find me buried underneath the covers.
"I'm not going out tonight," I announced.
"What's wrong?" the bride to be inquired.
"I'm sick. And my head is pounding."
"Oh, it's probably from being in the water this afternoon."
Really? Why didn't I think of that? They plied me with Tyelonol and fluids in the hopes I would feel well enough to go to Opium Garden. We were on the list (for real this time) and would be sure to get in free without waiting on line. That is, as long as we arrived before 1 a.m.
By 5 minutes to midnight, I was feeling no better, so they headed out without me. At 12:15, my fog cleared. I raced to the shower, hoping I could get ready in a fraction of the time it normally takes me. I rubbed some Dove on the essential areas, rinsed, then toweled off. Lotion was applied to the parts visible to others. I wrangled myself into a pair of too tight jeans and put on a wife beater that read "He didn't forget your number. He's just not that into you." I slipped on a pair of low heeled sandals and dashed out the door just as the bride to be was calling to tell me to get my ass to the club in the next five minutes or don't bother coming at all.
I dashed down Washington, made a left onto Collins, and damn near sprinted the 8 long blocks to Opium Garden. I found my party immediately.
"Why are you still waiting outside? I thought we were on the list."
"We are. Along with everyone else out here," the matron of honor replied.
I looked around at 200 hundred plus bodies standing on the sidewalk waiting to gain admittance. FUCK!
Then a drop of water hit my left arm, followed by another on my right, trailed by a torrential downpour.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!" everyone screamed.
The bouncer, opened the velvet rope and we rushed inside. Leaving the other party goers drenched outside.
"20 dollars," the lady in the front vestibule stated.
"We're on the list," said the bride to be.
"Nope, the list just gets you in, it's $20."
Conference time. The four of us huddled in a corner to determine our next move.
"Should we stay?" I asked.
"I'm not paying that just to get in," the usher chimed in.
"I'll figure this out." The matron of honor walked towards a burly dark skinned man with a clipboard. He bent down and she whispered in his ear. 30 seconds later, she waved for us to come through. We were in!
We walked across the threshold into a rainy mist. There was no ceiling. Palm trees and exotic plants were planted throughout and techno rang out in the air.
"Umm, I thought it was hip-hop night," I said to no one in particular.
"I think that's in the upstairs section at Prive`."
"Well how do we get up there?"
We approached a bouncer, 6'4 250 with flowing locs.
"We want to get into Prive`," the matron of honor announced.
"You need a wrist band to get up there."
"Well how do we get wristbands."
He looked to his left, then his right and lowered his voice.
"Look, I can get you up there for $20 each."
"WHAT!!! But we're on the list," she said.
"That list don't mean shit. $20 a piece and you're in there."
Time for another conference.
"How much do you have on you?" the bride to be asked.
"Okay I can cover you," the matron of honor offered.
We scrounged together $80.
"We got the money."
"Shhhhhhhh, not here," the bouncer whispered. "Wait 10 minutes then meet me near the bathrooms."
What the hell type of stealth operation was this? The exchange went down exactly 10 minutes later.
"Now don't put these on out here. Go into the bathroom and do it," he instructed.
The four of us crammed into one stall and affixed the bands to each others wrists. Then we hustled towards the steps that led up to Prive`. We got in without a problem.
It was packed inside the roofed in structure. Girls danced on the bars and men watched from below, cheering them on. 50 Cent blared from the speakers. So this was the hip-hop section. Only one thing was missing.
"Yo, where are the black folks?" the bride to be wondered.
I was thinking the same thing. An hour later we found them in VIP. The bouncer let us in because we're cute. We found a spot on the dance floor and dipped it low. When my feet began to hurt, I removed my shoes, hopped up on a platform and grinded my body against the wall for several hours. One bouncer even got me a free bottle of water just for dropping it like it's hot. Thankfully there is no photographic evidence of my behavior that evening.

*The Miami Heat suck sweaty goat ass

It's My Blog and I'll Bitch if I Want To

2006-05-30T10:23:00.000-05:00

I am in a foul ass mood today. It's been building for days and now it's simmering beneath my pores wanting to boil over in an all out temper tantrum. Verunca Salt has nothing on me. If there was actually someone here to listen to me, I would stomp my feet, throw blunt objects, and scream "Why ME!?!" until my lungs ache.

I'm getting fat again. I feel it. In the last two months I have worked out once. Is it because I'm too busy? Nope, it's cause I'm a lazy fucktard who doesn't feel like popping in a workout video for a half hour. Lucky for me, my inactivity hasn't kept me away from extra cheese pizzas, chocolate chip cookies, french fries and fried chicken.

I'm broke. A $250 doctor bill here, a $1000 water mitigation invoice there. Oh look, I'm overdrawn again. Payday isn't even exciting anymore. The money is gone before it hits my account. And oh yay!! I gotta find another $400 bucks to head home for my brother's high school graduation. Can I just send a card?

Todd just got executed via lethal injection for killing Margaret and her unborn child. Too bad both Margaret and child are very much alive. That vapid bitch Paige knew for months that her ex husband, Spencer, set up Todd so that he could have a clear shot at Todd's fiancee Blair. But did Paige tell her boyfriend Bo, Llanview's police commissioner. NO!! She's pussied out because she didn't want Bo to be implicated in the frame up (even though he had nothing to do with it). She did nothing! She just stuttered and stammered and lied whenever Bo asked what she knew about Spencer and Todd. Hello bitch! A man's life is at stake. That's whole lot more important than trying to hold to Bo. Besides he dumped your lying ass anyways, so what was the point in keeping quiet? And now an innocent man is dead and his kids are left without a father because Paige decides 20 minutes before Time of Death that she's going to tell the truth. Too bad she got in a car accident on her way to the prison. I hope she dies. STUPID BITCH!!

I want to move home. I want to move home YESTERDAY! Fuck that, I want to move home 3 years ago. Damn it. Am I doing anything to get me closer to that goal. Nope. Haven't submitted one resume, written one cover letter. NOTHING. Maybe a job will fall out of the sky. I doubt it. I'm pissed off with my lacadaisacal ass.

I want to be a writer. Yeah yeah, I already write. I wanna get paid for it. Yeah, I said it. I don't care if it's not proper etiquette to announce on a blog that you want to be more than a blogger. Fuck it. Half the blogosphere does and if they say they don't, they're lying. No one would tell Judith Regan, "thanks but no thanks" if she came a knocking with a six figure 2 book deal. And no one would say, "I'll pass" if The New Yorker offered to run a six part series of their fantabulous blog entries. So do I put together pitch letters for agents? Do I write eye catching query letters to magazine editors? Do I try and finish a manuscript or article of any kind? Yes, but then I give up after five minutes and start patrolling the famous blogs. Ugghh, why does she get 20,000 hits a day? Booo, hisss. How come he has over 100 comments for everything he posts? Blech!! Why not me?! Why! Why! Why!! Self pity has driven me to the depths of hateration. I hate being a covetous bitch.

And then there's the shit filled cherry on top. The Pistons are trailing the Heat 3 games to 1 in the Eastern Conference Finals. Pat Riley and that band of ogres can lick my unwaxed ass crack.

Welcome to Miami* (Part I)

2006-05-29T22:52:00.000-05:00

The idea was brilliant. Four days and three nights on South Beach for one final hurrah before saying, "I do." I didn't think of it, but I was more than happy to participate. Miami was a different world I couldn't wait to explore. Beautiful people, high end stores, outrageous nightlife. Preparation began months in advance. I saved, I shopped (it is possible to do both), and even adopted the South Beach diet. I didn't want to feel inadequate in the midst of greatness.
The day I left, I was 11 pounds lighter with a chic new wardrobe. After four hours of traveling, I arrived at Miami International Airport at 2:30 p.m. I met up with the weekend's masterminds near carousel 2. My luggage wasn't forthcoming, so we found another way to pass the time.

(the bride to be and me)

(the matron of honor and me again)

My overstuffed suitcase arrived 25 minutes later and we hustled outside to catch a cab. The day was young and we didn't want to wait another second to experience the city. Our driver was sure to point out the celebrity mansions and other points of interest on the way to the hotel.

"You are very beautiful women," he told us in heavily accented English. He had emigrated to the U.S. from Pakistan 9 years ago. He was also married with a 4 year old son. "So can I have some fun with you ladies?" he asked. After failed attempts to hit on the two committed women in the car, he threw some attention my way. "You're single? Yes, I will take you to the strip club." 5 minutes later he offered to help me convert to Islam. What a guy!
When he dropped us off at the hotel, I stayed behind to pay, while the other two ladies checked in.
"You really should be Muslim. It's good religion from black woman."
"No thanks. I'm cool with Christ." I sign the receipt and watch him head off to proselytize some more unsuspecting tourists.
When I walked inside The Clinton Hotel, I soon forgot the cabbie from hell. It surpassed my expectations.

We chose our beds, half unpacked our bags, then headed out for food and exploration. A fourth friend would be arriving later in the evening. We ate, found an ATM, and then I went back to the hotel for a nap before the night's festivities. They spent the afternoon walking along Ocean Ave and finding a good club for later.
"We're going to Mansion," the matron of honor said when I awoke.
"Cool, how much?"
"The concierge got us on the list, so it should be free."
Free is my favorite word. For the next three hours we showered, fixed our hair, and got sexified. We wanted to live up to Miami standards. The final member of our team arrived and was club ready within minutes. We were good to go.
When we got to mansion, the line was ridiculous and stagnant. There was no way in hell we were going to wait on that line. We were on the list and going to use it to our advantage.
"Excuse me, excuse me," the matron of honor called to the bouncer. "We're on the list, so can we get through the rope."
"What's the name?"
The matron of honor told her.
"Nah, it's not on here."
Huh? The bride-to-be saw the concierge type the names into his computer. Unfortunately, he didn't send those names to the club's promoters. The line was looking longer and longer. While waiting for the others to concoct a plan B, I noticed the crowd. To my surprise, all the women looked extremely ordinary. I didn't see amazing outfits, flat stomachs, and perky boobs. I saw clunky platforms, love handles, and thick bra straps. I felt like quite the supermodel in my black dress and stilettos.
We finally managed to gain entrance into Mansion, but since we weren't on the list, it was $20 more than free. Three rooms, featured three different DJs. We stuck to the hip hop room. I was a bit taken aback when the DJ started playing Mariah's greatest hits, but overall he made me shake my ass. In fact, when my feet started to hurt, I just took off my shoes and danced on top of a large speaker. So what if the whole club could see up my dress.
Three hours of dancing and drinking (them, not me) made us famished and on the way back to the hotel we stopped at a diner for some 4 a.m. breakfast. God smiled on us and blessed us with the best waiter ever: a cute Nicouraguan named Dref. We loved Dref!! He took our picture.

(the effects of too many Long Islands)

(wasted)
(sobriety at its best)
(yes, that's your ass)
(alright, enough with the picture taking, and get us our damn food)

We gorged on pancakes, eggs, turkey bacon, orange juice, and french toast. Satiated, we staggered back to the hotel and took our asses to bed. The fun was just beginning....

*The Heat suck big hairy moose balls!

It's Not You, It's Me

2006-05-26T11:14:00.000-05:00

I changed my mind. I don't want this. It's not right for me and it's not fair to either of us for me to continue to pretend. This shouldn't be a surprise. I've been noncomittal for months, nonchalant and lacadaisical too. If my heart isn't in it, there's no reason to do this.

My reasons for wanting to leave have nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. You're great, really. Anyone would be lucky to have you. You have given me so much. You bought me my home, gave me a car, provided an extensive wardrobe, paid to get my hair and nails done, took me on trips to Vegas, Orlando, New York, and even Peoria, IL. You've been a more than excellent provider. Plus, you've taught me more than I could've ever imagined. Because of you, I know how to organize a grocery store shelf. How many people can say that? I am beyond grateful for everything you've done. But it doesn't matter, because we will never fit. I need to feel passionately about something that constitutes such a huge part of my life. In spite of everything, I just don't feel that passion for you.

When we first got involved almost four years ago, I really thought I would love you. You were offering so much, and it was all that I thought I wanted. The first year was difficult, but I stuck around because I knew there was so much to you that I had yet to discover. I was sure that it was just a matter of stumbling upon the part of you that I would want to hold onto forever. I thought I found that in my second year. I was happy for a while, but it didn't last. Even when you offered me more than you've ever given me before and moved me to another state, I couldn't truly get into this. For the past year or so, I've just been going through the motions. You deserve more and I know I can't give that to you.

I'm not saying this because I'm angry or bitter. Yes, you lied to me on occassion. You told me there were things you just couldn't do for me, then turned around and did it for others. You used material things to try and keep me happy. It worked for a little while. But now I know it doesn't matter what you give me, it won't give me the fulfillment I crave. It won't make me look forward to being with you from 8 to 5 every Monday through Friday.

I admit I haven't gone about this involvement the way I should have. I've kept my options open the entire time, even keeping a side piece for almost a year. You knew where I spent my weekends, and still kept me around. You even gave me what I'd been demanding for months. No, I haven't been involved with anything but you since then, but I've made myself available to others. They've called and I've travelled to see them, dined with them, gotten to know them. I even told them I wanted to leave you to be with them. I've kept it from you. When I said I was going home to see friends, I left out that finding someone new was also on the agenda.

This whole mess is my fault. I made a commitment to you without knowing who I am or what I really want. I know those things now and it's leading me in another direction. This is so hard for me because this doesn't seem rational. Everyone keeps telling me I'm crazy for wanting to leave you. They say they wish they had what I do. And there are so many things about you that I don't want to give up. But staying in a bad situation because it's convenient will be worse in the long run. So, I think we should break up. But not right this second. I need to be sure that I am leaving you for something concrete. So please do not fire me before I can quit.

Gone

2006-05-24T22:54:00.000-05:00

No. I hung up the office phone in disbelief. He had made a mistake, gotten the details confused once again. I pushed aside a file folder, envelopes, and committee report and unearthed the morning paper laying on my desk. I flipped to the page he indicated, breathless with anticipation. There it was in black and white. Crumpled metal, shattered glass, and the names. Her name. He had gotten the story right for once.

I reread the blurb over and over, hoping it would say someone different each time. I stared and breathed. Tears were on a five minute delay. No, not her, I repeated to myself. A drop of moisture slipped down my cheek, followed by another on the other side. Soon my eyes spilled down my face in a torrent and my chest heaved for air.

"What's wrong?" my supervisor asked as she entered the room.

I couldn't say it. If I said it, then it would be real and I was sure I was going to wake up at any second. I handed her the paper. Her eyes scanned the page until the reason for my sorrow registered.

"You know them?"

Not them. Her. I know her. Knew her. At one time I knew her like I knew myself. She was the new girl in my fourth grade class. Light brown waves, jumbled teeth, narrow nose, non existent lips. I liked her immediately, at least I wanted to. She had no history with us. There was no puking on the school bus incident that trailed her from first grade. No accidental bathroom break on the swings at recess the previous year. She could be whoever she wanted, create a brand new identity. Through her, I hoped I could as well.

By the fifth grade we were in seperable.

"You two are no longer allowed to sit near each other," our teacher would say after hearing too many whispers in the back of the classroom.

She was the recipient of the first note I ever passed.

"The gym teacher is a bitch! I bet she's a lesbo," I wrote. My parents were called for that one.

In the 8th grade she joined the Aqua Net addict and me when we tied a rope around the neck of a stuffed cat, dragged it through our junior high's halls and called it Pussy on a Rope.

"Would you like to pet my pussy," we asked the Technology teacher. My parents were once again summoned.

She flew under the radar, her mischief never detected. I admired and envied that about her.

In high school our assigned lockers put too much distance between us. We drifted silently into separate circles. I didn't notice when she no longer made my Best Friends list. We still spoke at lunch and shook it at school dances, but there were no more phone calls and plans to hang out at the mall. Graduation day was the last time we spoke. Reading the newspaper brought her to mind for the first time since the ceremony.

My supervisor wrapped her arms around me. I sobbed, but my shoulders were rigid.

"Do you want to go home?"

I shook my head no. It was a lie. I wanted to call my high school friends and cry into the phone while buried beneath my covers. But I couldn't ask for that. I didn't have the right. I knew her, but I didn't know her anymore. It would be fake to grieve for someone who had been lost to me for years.

"You're a mess. Call for a ride home," she insisted.

I had no energy to protest again. I dialed my father's work number.

"Can you come get me?" I sniffed.

Guilt consumed me. She was gone and I was getting a day off from work. I cried while I waited for Daddy and I cried some more as we rode home.

"Ah shah," he comforted in his native language. The words brought on a new onslaught.

I went back to work 48 hours later.

"I'm sorry for your loss," a coworker said.

What did I lose? I kept asking myself. That evening I walked through my elementary school while my younger brother sang in the 6th grade chorus recital. I passed her locker, then mine.

"Liz, wait up!" I could hear her voice echoing in the empty corridor. I heard laughter and rumors and everything we shared outside the classroom.

Over the next few days I spoke with many of my old classmates. She wasn't the first one we lost. I knew the other two as well. I even had a short lived crush on one of them in junior high. But this loss was different. When she died, possibilities died with her. There would be no chance meeting at the mall, no playing catch up at the 10 year reunion, no rediscovery of the friendship that faded. I felt bad when I found out about the deaths of the ones before her. But with her it was deeper. Her, I missed.

She was buried a couple days before her 2oth birthday. In the six years that have passed, I have thought about her so many times. I think about her on Flatty Girl's birthday, because it was her birthday too. I think about her when I'm driving. And I think about her when I see her in the face of a stranger. And for the split second that I want to run and say hi, I forget that she's gone and I'll never say anything to her again.

Cheers

2006-05-23T13:55:00.000-05:00

"Can I buy you a drink?" That's a rehtorical question.
"Sure," I agreed.
"What would you like?"
Without hesitation, I answered, "An orange juice, please."
He motioned for the bartender and shouted, "Let me get a screwdriver."
I shook my head vehemently and cut in front of him. "No screwdriver, just an orange juice."
He looked at me quizzically as if I had made a mistake. Who goes to a bar and orders virgin OJ?
"You don't want a real drink?"
"I don't drink."
"Why not?"
"I'm a recovering alcoholic."
His face went blank. The words would not come to him. The corners of my mouth twitched up in a sly grin. I'd had enough fun.
"I'm kidding," I assured him. "I just don't drink."
His eyes turned to saucers as if he had encountered a new species of woman.
"You've never drank? Ever?"
I laughed. I never said all that.

I had my first drink when I was four. My parents allowed my brother and I to partake in a wedding toast with half a sip of champagne. I guzzled my drop of bubbly and asked for more. The taste didn't please my pallette, but I wanted to be like the adults for a little while longer. So as not to bring me home intoxicated, my parents declined my request. Periodically, on special occassions my mother would pour a dollop of her Dom P into my glass and let me pretend to be all grown up. I was fascinated by alcohol. Maybe a bit too much. Mommy stopped sharing her wine cooler with me after my all too real reenactment of Marion's drinking competition in Raiders of the Lost Ark. I slammed back apple juice, mimicing Indy's love interest shot for shot. By seven years old, I was cut off.

I went to my first drinking party when I was 16 with the goal of getting plastered. After less than half a can of beer, I determined that I needed to find another way to accomplish the task. Someone suggested a screwdriver. Vodka is perfect for a beginner because it's tasteless yet potent. I poured a shot of Absolute into a cup of OJ. It burned going down and left an unpleasant after taste, but it was bearable. I drank the whole cup, then another. An empty stomach with a low tolerance made it easy for two drinks to push me past tipsy. Because of my manic tendencies when sober, very few people were willing to aid in my early attempts at experimentation. For this reason, my drinking days were few and far between. It wasn't until I started working at a local supermarket that I found a group of aiders and abetters. They introduced me to tequila shots, which immediately resulted in the contents of my stomach spilling onto the floor. Rum and coke got the job done without the digestive pyrotechnics, but choking down a glass was more than my throat wanted to handle. Eventually, I just stuck with my old faithful screwdriver.

A few weeks before leaving for college I discovered that alcohol wasn't the only gateway to an altered mind state. I traded in screwdrivers for the sticky green and was quite happy for a while. Then one night, during my sophomore year of college I needed a drink. In fact I needed a whole lot to drink. It all started when I went to a house party with Chesty LaRue to celebrate a friend's birthday. The house was packed with every black student enrolled at Cornell and about 50% of the Latino population too. There was no room to move, let alone breathe. Except for the room where the DJ was playing. Lucky for me, I knew the DJ. It was none other than my good friend (i.e. object of my obsession) Jock Boy. I went over to the closet like room and saw Jock Boy on the 1 and 2s while our friend KPB guarded the entrance. A group of sorority girls were also chilling in there as well. When I approached, KPB placed a hand across the doorway.
"This room is for VIP," he told me.
I balked. "You're kidding."
"Nah, sorry, but you can't come in."
"If it's VIP, why are they in there?" I asked pointing towards the girls in pink and green.
"Yo, c'mon Ma. Give me a break. You just can't come in."
My eyes burned a hole through him. How dare he! I was his friend, not those girls. I was the one who sat on his couch, ate his food, and refused to leave his apartment for hours on end. Not them! How in the hell would they be considered VIP over me? Popularity was a stock I wasn't trading and our frienship wasn't buying me a break.

I turned away from him and steeled my resolve. I was pissed. So I did what any rational person does when they want to teach someone a lesson. I went into self destructive mode. I headed to the kitchen, grabbed a 16 oz cup and dunked it in the punch bowl. I had no clue what I was drinking and I didn't care. I was getting drunk, pissy drunk. That would show him. I downed the first cup, then went back for another and another and another one after that. It was fruity and potent. Within a half hour I was stumbling around the house dancing with boys, girls, walls, and furniture. I loved everybody that night. After a while, I got so bad that I was placed in the VIP room to keep the other party goers safe from my love fest. Mission accomplished! I spent the remainder of the party babbling nonsense to myself in the coat corner.

When the music stopped and people began to leave, I decided it was time to take pictures. I must've taken over 20 shots that night, although my camera ran out of film after the third or fourth frame. Didn't matter a bit to me. When I got bored with the camera, I tried to climb out the window. That's when Chesty intervened and decided it was time to get me back to the dorms. She convinced two of our classmates to give us a ride back to campus and threw me in the backseat. I serenaded the girls the entire way home.
"12 a.m. on my way to the club. 1 a.m. D.J. made it a rub. 2 a.m. now I'm gettin with her. 3. a.m now I'm splittin with her. 4 a.m. at the waffle house. 5 a.m. now we at my house. 6.a.m I be diggin her out. 6:15 now I'm kickin her out. 7 a.m. Imma call my friend. 12 a.m. we gonna do it again!"
I would've made Jay-Z proud. The others didn't sing along. When Chesty and I got out of the car, I staggered back to the dorm. My bladder was ready to burst and it was taking Chesty forever to unlock the entrance. Since we were close to some trees, I unbuttoned my pants and pulled down my jeans and underwear. Just as I was about to squat, Chesty grabbed me.
"What the hell are you doing?" she yelled.
"I'm gonna peeeeeee," I slurred.
"Damn it, Liz. Pull up your pants and wait til we get inside."
Somehow I got my pants back up and she got the door open. I went straight to the communal bathroom and let it flow and flow and flow. Relief. I stumbled to Chesty's room and splayed myself across her bed. I was mumbling incoherent nothings, but I was comfortable. That is until my stomach started to protest the ethanol. Within seconds I was spewing into Chesty's garbage can. When my stomach was finally empty, I crawled out of her room and left her to clean up my mess. I couldn't be bothered. I had people to call. I went out to the phone booth and started dialing. My first call was to the Rapid Pimp.
"Heeeyyyyyy....." I said when he answered.
"Liz, you're drunk. Go to bed."
"I'm not drunk. I'm happy."
He didn't buy it and hung up on me. Undaunted, I dialed Jock Boy's number.
"Hello?"
"Hey! It's me," I sang.
"Yeah, umm, how are you doing?"
"I threw up," I bragged, "but I'm fine now."
"Damn."
"I love you."
"Liz, you're drunk. Go to bed."
I listened. I went back to Chesty's room and crashed.

The next morning I awoke to a floating stomach, pounding head, and horrendous morning breath. Toothpaste, water and tylenol offered modest relief. I tried to eat breakfast, but the dining hall selection was less than appetizing. To add insult to injury, everyone I encountered felt the need to remind me of my actions the previous night. Some things I remembered, others I wished I could forget, and some I still believe were made up. By the afternoon the pounding had dissipated into a dull thud, but my stomach was still in flux. I was hungry, but couldn't bring myself to eat. I'd been hungover before, but never like that. Desperate for relief, I made a pact with God. I promised to never drink again, if He would just make it all go away.

Eventually, it did. He kept his end of the bargain, so since then I've kept mine. It really wasn't a tough promise to keep. I've never liked the taste of alcohol. Even in mixed drinks I could always taste it. It doesn't matter what type of drink I've tried, it just doesn't go down well. Hard liquor burns, wine tastes gross, beer is rancid, and champagne doesn't do it for me. Forcing down a glass of chardonnay just to be social doesn't make sense in my mind. I've never had any sense of moderation and long since rationalized that the only reason to drink is to get drunk. After that night sophomore year I learned the valuable lesson that being drunk doesn't agree with me. So for me, there's no point in imbibing. I'm perfectly happy to go out and watch everyone else in the club getting tipsy. Besides, someone's gotta be the designated driver and with my road skills, I'm the perfect choice.

(A sample of the drunken photography. If you look closely, you'll notice some curly hair towards the bottom right of the pic. That's ME!!)

Be Careful What You Wish For

2006-05-22T08:25:00.000-05:00

We stood huddled in the bathroom. Our voices were low, barely a whisper lest a teacher heard us and ushered us back to the classroom.
"Did you get it yet?" one of us asked to no one specific.
A half dozen pairs of eyes darted back and forth in an effort to see everyone else's answer before determining their own.
When no one spoke up, it was safe to assume we all held the same status. That is until one of us raised a tentative hand, letting us know that she had taken the first step into a world we had only heard of. The rest of us gasped and congratulated her, but deep down we hoped she was lying. We were only 10 and a half. But now 10 and a half was different on her. In the midst of our celebration, we all wished the miracle would happen for us in the next 24 hours so we could be the next girl to raise her hand.

From the moment our teacher separated the girls and boys into two rooms in the 5th grade and taught us about the wonderful changes that were beginning to happen to our bodies, every girl longed for the same thing. The first spot of red to show up on her Minnie Mouse panties or pool in the toilet and signify that we were no longer girls, but young women. We checked for it when we changed our clothes, took a shower, sat on the can, or did anything else that facilitated a look down there. At recess, we hid behind the gym door and turned around to make our friends check for the non existent spotting we were positive existed. Cramps were imagined and bloating feigned in the hopes of willing that first period to fruition. Adults told us that there was no way to control when it happened. The best indicator was our mothers. I didn't want to hear that since my mom's didn't come until she was 14. I thought I would die if I had to wait that long.

In sixth grade, I watched as girl after girl was escorted to the nurse's office to pick up her first maxi pad after springing an unexpected leak during art class, music lessons, or phys ed. I hoped with everything in me, that periods would be contagious and I could catch mine too. My competitive nature wouldn't allow me to be patient while nature ran it's course. Age 14 was my albatross. The thought of graduating junior high school without a single menstruations was a Herculean tragedy in my eyes. Tragedy was averted a couple months after my 12th birthday. After waiting nearly two years to see the evidence of my womanhood, I didn't even recognize it when it arrived. When I saw freakish brown streaks in my Hanes for Her I assumed I hadn't wiped well enough after taking a dump. My mother had to inform me that I had in fact experienced my first period. I was absolutely estatic and called every friend I had to share my good news. While I wasn't the first girl to enter the Red Dot club, I wasn't the last! That was most important.

Thirteen years later, I want to kick my 12 year old self for being so damn happy about being on the rag. Five to seven days per month of cramping, bloating, bleeding, and mood swings for the next 35 to 40 years is not cool in the least bit. Unfortunately, women don't get menstrual days included in our sick time. Heating pads, Aleve, and chocolate have no place in a boardroom, so we suffer in silence. Tampons are expensive as hell and one box per period ain't enough. Plus, tracking its comings and goings is a bitch, since the tiniest thing can throw it off. Get a new roommate and it wants to come twice in the same month. Get stressed out at work and it decides to take a month off, which for most single women is NEVER a good sign. And for some women, it shows up when they desperately want it to go away for nine months. Then, when it finally does go away for good hot flashes and estrogen shots are left as replacements. If I would've known all this crap back in elementary school, I would've gladly held out until I was 14. Whoever gave me this scourge, take it back, PLEASE!!!!

GAME 7

2006-05-19T20:54:00.000-05:00

DEEEEEEEEE-TROIT BASKET-BAAAALLLLL!!!!!

A Novel Idea

2006-05-17T23:17:00.000-05:00

"You should write a novel."
I heard those words too many times last summer. My response never changed. It was an emphatic, "No!" I had recently started my blog. Week after week I regaled readers with tales of The Idiot Who Made Me Cry, Satan's Henchman, Chesty LaRue, and my personal musings on the perfect way to stalk a man, music video chicks, and Broke Ass Niggas. Writing a 1000 word essay two to three days a week was one thing, but a novel was a completely different beast. A beast I had no inclination to tame. Constructing characters, conflicts, plot twists, a climax, and more would require large amounts of effort. Effort has never agreed with me. The writing bug had definitely bit, but I was determined to be a columnist, not a novelist. I was thinking Carrie Bradshaw, not Charlotte Bronte.

In late August the itch to find a new career blossomed into an all out obsession. I took one of my cousins up on an offer to help with my resume. Immediately, we hit a snag when I had no idea what my new career objective should be. In wading through my interests, I brought up my renewed love of writing. In order to give him an idea of the type of writing I wanted to do in my next career incarnation, I sent my cousin the link to my blog. Several weeks later, we met in my grandmother's living room to discuss job objectives, qualifications, work history, and skills. However, before that process could begin my cousin had something to tell me.
"You have to write a novel," he commanded.
Just like every other time the suggestion had been made, I begged off, informing him that I don't do novel writing. Unfortunately for me, my cousin is pitbull. Once he latches onto something he won't let it go.
"Look, I'll give you the plot, you just have to write it," he assured me.
Hmmm, that would be one step out of the way. He kept talking, I listened. Maybe it was his enthusiasm, maybe it was peer pressure, maybe it was sheer madness, but suddenly crafting a novel didn't sound as daunting as it once did. That afternoon, I agreed to give it a shot.

I arrived back in Michigan motivated to write the first chapter. It took me a week and the moment I was done I emailed copies to my cousin, Chesty LaRue, Jailbait, and others. I needed feedback. How was the storytelling? Did the characters have life? Was it enough to make them keep reading? The response was overwhelmingly positive. I wrote Chapter 2 the next week and sent it off to them as well. They liked it, they really liked it.

Something in me clicked and the story and characters took on lives of their own inside my head. Even when I was nowhere near a computer I was writing. Between September and February I cranked out nine chapters in over 150 pages. In those sheets of paper, a woman named Renee came to life. Her issues with family, friends, career, and love played out before my eyes. Then one day in late February, her life stopped, not because there was nothing to tell, but because I had no idea how I wanted to tell it. I didn't know how the rest should sound, and at this moment I still don't.

In the last three months, I've thought about Renee, her family, friends, and men over and over again. But I can't seem to reach out and touch them, make them come alive again. The motivation that fueled me in the beginning is gone and the fumes haven't been enough to get me going again. I refuse to give up on telling the rest of this saga. I feel like I owe it to the people who have been reading along since Chapter 1. I owe it to my characters. But most of all, I owe it to myself.

Only in Theory

2006-05-16T18:52:00.000-05:00

The room was filled with women. Ranging from ages 3 to 3 plus five decades, we were gathered to celebrate. With Mother's Day less than 24 hours away, we bestowed gifts and well wishes on the first time mother to be. We ate, rolled out streamers in an attempt to estimate her pregnant circumference, and tried our best not to say, "baby" or "belly" nor cross our arms or legs, lest we lose our pipe cleaner bracelets. And we talked. Talked of baby names and the people babies become as they get older. Well, they talked. I listened, shaking my head vehemently when asked if I had any offspring of my own.

Some day, I want to be able to join in that conversation with my own stories and anecdotes. From as early as I can remember, I've wanted to be somebody's mommy. Actually, I wanted to be mulitple somebodies' mommy. In elementary school I wanted two, twins, just like the ones in the Sweet Valley novels I collected like stamps. The only thing I couldn't do was name them Elizabeth and Jessica, since I already owned one of those names. I decided upon Kelly. Kelly would be the good twin and following in the footsteps of her namesake, Jessica would be the mischevious one.

In the sixth grade I was barraged by an intense liking for several baby names. Determined not to let any of them go to waste, I decided that between the ages of 21 and 29 I would have 8 kids. In order to prevent a pregnancy per year, I had the extremely ambitious goal of having two sets of twins to get the first four kids out the way. Jefferey and Steven would be born shortly after my 21st birthday, followed 18 months later by Kelly and Jessica (couldn't let go of those two). At 24 another daughter, Cherish would be born. We'd call her Cherry for short, sort of like the girl on Punky Brewster. Baby Michael would be welcomed into our family when I turned 26, followed a year later by little Damian. Then at the end of my reproductive years (the ripe old age of 29), I would have one last daughter, Meagan (pronounced Mee-ghen), who would be affectionately referred to as Runt, being that she is the runt of my litter.

I kept the eight kid fantasy going for a while, until I determined that I would still be in college at 21 and it would probably be best to wait until after graduation to start the procreation. Not wanting to be pregnant in my 30s (perish the thought), I decided that pushing out three kids between the ages of 25 and 29 would be much more doable. I also relinquished my fantasy of recreating my own personal Sweet Valley Twins. Kelly and Jessica no longer existed in my psyche, replaced by my own mini me, Brooke Lyn. Visualizing myself as an eternal bad ass who could only be tamed by the love of a stable man, Brooke Lyn would be the best of both me and her imaginary father. Blessed with my height and looks, but moderated with her dad's temperament, Brooke Lyn was going to be the basketball star that I never was.

Shortly after I conceived Brooke Lyn in my mind, the Rug Rats reinvigorated my love for twins, but this time of the fraternal male/female variety. I wanted to have the Negro version of Phil and Lil (but with different names of course). My twins would look exactly alike, yet both look distinctly like members of their sex. I was going to dress them identically, except that the boy would wear pants and the girl would wear skirts. After March 9, 1997 a large part of me wanted to name my boy Christopher Wallace (I still do), but it didn't really fit with the Br___ trend I would've started if I named his other half Brianna. What to do, what to do. Maybe Brandon or Bradley would work. Oh, but Christopher Wallace beckons me to this day.

Even now, I'm still stuck on my three kids. But, I've run into a little snag, and not having a viable father for the brood is the least of my worries (just waiting on Jay-Z to dump Beyonce so the baby's daddy role will be filled). After mentoring a preteen and spending time around other people's children, younger cousins, and the bad ass spawn that roam America's malls, I've realized that I don't really like children very much. Actually, I really don't like them at all. They are needy, attention seeking, and money pits. It's bad enough I have to deal with these traits in myself. I really don't think I could deal with it in someone else for 18 years. Not to mention that children are loud and have more energy than a speeding bullet. I hate piggy back rides, playing on swings, and all that other crap the under 4 feet set is so fond of. For me, babysitting is the best form of birth control that ever existed.

But even worse than my overall distaste for children is my absolute self absorption. I am way too concerned with myself to be concerned about anyone else. At least not enough to continually put their needs ahead of my own. Give me a choice between feeding a child and feeding my shoe addiction and the shoes would win hands down. And even if they didn't, every time I shoveled strained peas into the kid's mouth, I'd think of the shiny red pumps with my name on them still sitting on a department store shelf. Responsibility just doesn't work for me. I even have dreams about misplacing my own child in the mall or my house and forgetting to feed my baby for weeks on end. Even as a child, I could only pretend to be my Cabbage Patch doll's mommy for about 2 days before she was once again tossed on the bed and left to starve. I'm starting to think this was an early indicator of my parenting skills. There is a definite reason why there are no living things in my home. I am incapable of taking care of anything or anyone but myself. Even a cactus would wilt under my care.

On top of all of that, my maternal instinct has yet to kick in. When I was 12, I thought I'd have it by 21, and when I was 21 I thought I'd have it by 25. I'm 25 and it still ain't here. I have no patience and absolutely no ability to nurture. So if I'm not ready now, when? I see people my age and younger preparing to start families all the time (oftentimes accidentally). When I say congratulations, I really want to shout, "but you're too young to be a parent!!" Or maybe I'm really just saying that to myself. People tell me all the time that before they had their own, they never liked kids either. They keep reassuring me that even though I don't like kids, I will like my own. And I do. I really do love little Brooke Lyn and company (Christopher Wallace will more than likely win out over the other names). But I'm starting to wonder if I only like the idea of these children so I can live out my adolescent fantasies through them. If Brooke Lyn is going to be like her dad, then younger sister Brianna (tentative) will be just like me. Or rather who I wish I was, the black version of the vixen Alicia Silverstone created in three early 90s Aerosmith videos. Bad ass indeed! The day to day child rearing never comes into the fantasy. If I can't picture all that being a mommy entails, do I really want to be their mommy? What if they don't turn out the way I envision them, then what? Could it be I only want these children in theory, not in practice. I don't want to wait until the bun is in the oven to find out.

All By Myself

2006-05-15T22:36:00.000-05:00

I can smell the incense burning in her bedroom. The bedroom that used to be my office. Her boyfriend is in the bathroom brushing his teeth. Not her, the other her. There are two of them, here in my home, watching Bobby Brown sing Every Little Step on The Tyra Banks Show. Actually, as of April 20 it's our home. All three of us, one big happy family.

When I graduated college and moved out of my parents home into my very own apartment I loved it so much that I vowed I would never live with another soul again until I got married. I eventually bought a three bedroom house for me and me alone. I loved the privacy and autonomy of living alone. If there was a mess, it was my mess and I could clean it up or leave it there as I saw fit. Nudity in the living room was more than allowed, it was required. And my business was mine all mine. Even when the house felt too big for just me and I longed for company, it was always of the tall dark man variety, perfect for snuggling on the couch.

Then fate brought the Curly Haired Stick Figure into my life. Fast friends, we spent an exorbitant amount of time together, mostly at my house. Sleepovers were common and before long my couch doubled as her bedroom (the bed in the guest bedroom was broken...and no not from THAT. Get your minds out the gutter). When her lease was up and she moved in with a friend, all of her belongings that wouldn't fit in her new place were stored in my basement. Even with a change of address, she was a permanent fixture on my couch. And I can't complain. I enjoyed having her here. When she would leave for a few days at a time there was a definite void. I missed her presence, the jokes, laughter, food, and friendship.

One day it became more than obvious to both the Stick Figure and I, that for all intents and purposes we were roommates. While technically she still lived with her other friend, 90% of her belongings resided at my house and she slept here darn near every night. The only thing she didn't have was her own personal bedroom, since the guest room didn't have a viable bed. In order for her to feel at home, I knew she needed a place all her own. One where she could shut the door and relax. So to give her that peace, I fixed the guest bed, bought new sheets and turned the guest bedroom into Stick Figure's bedroom.

I liked to think of us as accidental roommates. It wasn't planned, it just happened, but it worked. Together we ravaged the living room, dining room and kitchen, and together we cleaned them up just to do it all over again. When one of us would get sick of the clutter, we cleaned up, making the other feel obligated to help out. I would tell people that the Curly Haired Stick Figure was the only person I could have as a roommate.

But then I spoke too soon. Our mutual friend the Curly Haired Munchkin, a recent college grad, needed a place to live when living with the parental units proved to not be the ideal situation. Technically, I was sitting on an extra bedroom. But I didn't look at it that way, since that bedroom was my office. But after careful consideration, I figured that giving up the room could be mutually beneficial to both of us. Munchkin could get out from under her parents' roof and I could get a bit of extra rent money. Sure, the walls in the "big" house seemed to close in, making the space a million times more cramped the moment I said yes, but I figured that was all in my head. The Munchkin agreed to move my office into the back den for me and also pay for installing all the phone and internet hookups I'd need to reestablish my work area.

I came home from vacation three weeks ago to find my office was no longer and her bedroom had been resurrected in its place. Walking past the dining room, my desk greeted me in the cubby hole that was once a dumping ground for errant furniture, junk mail, exercise equipment, and sundry other crap. I felt cramped, the couch placed too close to my desk, and the exercise balls I rarely use squeezed into a corner.

Today I came home to a clean house. The mail that usually littered the dining room table was now in a pile in my office. The shoes I left under the table were placed on the steps leading up to my bedroom. The message was loud and clear. "Put your shit away!" The kitchen was wiped clean and my beautiful quesadilla maker had a new home on top of the refrigerator, a Brita water filter having taken its place on the countertop. Then, I went to the bathroom. My beautiful duck decor was traded in for pink bath rugs and a matching shower curtain. I thought to myself, "Now wait just a damn minute. First ya'll clear off MY dining room table. Then you clean MY kitchen and move MY quesadilla maker. Now ya'll have the audacity to redecorate MY bathroom! Aww hell NO!!"

Then it hit me, when I agreed to let them move in, I made this our home. That bathroom is just as much theirs as it is mine, no matter who's name is on the property deed. Their Brita water filters have just as much right to counterspace as my quesadilla maker. Just because I bought the TV, doesn't mean I have the right to control what's on 24/7. And my shoes no longer have a home underneath our dining room table. I can't say that the changes have been easy for me to take. After almost three years of living with me, myself, and I, I'd gotten used to answering to no one else. There are definitely times when I get sick of the weary looks from the Stick Figure because I insist on spending hours in front of the computer, either blogging, bullshitting, or trying to write the next sentence in my great American novel. And I definitely can't stand when the Munchkin's morning routine wakes me up before my internal alarm. But despite all of my roommate reservations, I like having them here. The house feels full and warm. Yes, there are still days when I would love to enjoy all the perks of living alone. I haven't walked naked through this house in ages, nor have I brought anyone home because I have a house all to myself (but first I'd need someone to bring home, so that's a moot point). But it's an even trade to get to live with two fabulous women who complement me, always know where I left my keys or my glasses, eat the extra food in the basement, and help me keep the house semi neat. Well at least for the first two days of the week.