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.
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Monday, July 31, 2006
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Easy
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.
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.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Don't Believe The Hype
"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.
"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
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.
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.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Grow Up
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.
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.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Job Opening
Job Opening
Job Category: RelationshipType: 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
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)
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Tell Me All Your Thoughts on God
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.
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.
Monday, July 10, 2006
You Started It
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."
"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."
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Selfish
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!
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!
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
His Shit
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.
"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.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Not Right Now
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.
Friday, June 23, 2006
I Don't Wanna Know
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Attempted Robbery
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.
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.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Metamorphosis
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!!!
Monday, June 12, 2006
21 Questions.....or Something Like That
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!
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!
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
A Very Special Blogisode
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!
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!
Monday, June 05, 2006
Welcome To Miami* (Part IV)
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
"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.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Welcome To Miami* (Part III)
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
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
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Welcome To Miami* (Part II)
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!!
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)
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
"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
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