Thursday, December 29, 2005

This Too Shall Pass

Okay, so I know I've been slacking on the entries. According to Michelle in Michigan it's starting to "smell like old folks in here," so I think it's about that time for me to get back on my job. I've gotta keep all 10 of my fans happy.
Well the holidays were cool. I got a week long break from the shrieking harpee that is my boss and made my way back to civilization (i.e. New York City), where I promptly indulged in all of the things that I've been missing living out here in hell, sorry, I mean Michigan. Of course, one of those things that I just had to partake in was The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. Now before you get your shorts in a knot, there was no quality time spent with him and his current flavor of the month. I learned my lesson on that after the last time (if you don't know what I'm talking about, please catch up). So anyways, we happened (well it wasn't totally accidental, but that's not the point) to be at the same party on New Years Eve. I'm not gonna lie and say that I didn't feel a mild pang seeing him pressed up against some cutsie little munchkin chick who stopped growing in sixth grade. However, when midnight rolled around, the only person on my mind was The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry, who was nowhere around. So this is what I've figured out: I'm pretty much over The Idiot and not nearly over The Guy.
The interesting thing about guys who shouldn't make a girl cry, is that in being human they often do that exact thing. I don't think The Guy meant to make me cry, actually I know he didn't, but it still happened. So we decided to take some time apart almost two months ago, so he wouldn't have to hear my craziness (read this for clarification) and I wouldn't be perpetually disappointed. Well two months have gone by and the feelings are still with me and I miss him like crazy. Let me tell you, it truly sucks! We still talk, but now it's just as friends. Right now I'm at the point where I'd rather have him in my life in that capacity than in no capacity at all. But here's what I've noticed, while I seem to be struggling with this whole situation, he seems oddly at ease and has seemed so for a while, which makes me wonder, is he already over everything? And if he is, how in the hellin did he do it so quickly.
In a case of serious liking and deep caring, it's difficult to shut those emotions off when things don't turn out as initially intended. When it's all over the only thing that's really left are those feelings, and with nowhere to put them, they can eat you up inside. All the could've beens, would've beens, and should've beens could drive a girl to drink (and the strongest thing I order from the bar is a cranberry and sprite). The only thing to do is get over it. But damn it, that's a lot easier said than done. Getting over someone is like having a big ball of shit weighing you down and trying to get out but being stuck by forces beyond your control. I guess what I'm saying is that it's sort of like constipation. You know you gotta get the shit out, but when you try, it hurts like a mutha!! The more you push the more it hurts. After an hour of breathing, grunting, straining, and pushing only the tip of the iceberg has been moved and you're left a sweaty, frustrated mess. It seems the more you try to purge someone from your system using all sorts of different methods (avoidance, immersion, distraction), the harder it is to get past them. After a while it just seems easier to just keep the shit inside (no pun intended) and live with carrying it around with you. But the problem with keeping it inside is that it's toxic and infects everything in you it touches. That's no good. While riding the 2 train from Harlem to the North Bronx I had an epiphany. Just like passing that pesky turd, in order to get over someone, you've gotta push past the pain. Basically like my boy Ursher said, "Gotta let it burn." And somewhere during all that hurt, progress is made and finally when you can't hurt anymore it all comes out in one big dump (no pun intended again). Looking at the process in that light, I now know why it took me three long, excrutiating years to get over the Idiot. He was backing up my system and most of the time it hurt too much to do the hard work of expelling him. So I just kept it inside and basically was infected for a very long time. But now that I've dropped that 200+ lb load I feel a million times lighter.
Now thinking about the whole process, I'm trying to figure out how someone who felt the exact same way I did, can be handling the demise of "us" so well, when I'm a freakin mess. It ain't fair, and it ain't right, and honestly I don't appreciate it. If I'm going to be miserable, he should at least have the courtesy to be a despondent wreck as well. I was perplexed about this, and then I had a conversation with my dear friend Chesty LaRue. Now let me say that Chesty is even more adept at finding Broke Ass Niggas than I am. I mean this woman is a Broke Ass Nigga magnet, and can pick them out in a crowd of a thousand men. Anyways, she had recently ended things with Broke Ass Nigga #1569203983865738 and couldn't get him to stop calling her. Broke Ass Nigga #1569203983865738 kept wondering how she could be so cold and be totally over everything with him so quickly. So she was venting about his incessant phone calls when she said, "He's not over me yet, but I got over him while we were still together." Hmmm, that's interesting. So later on I got to thinking about the idea of getting over someone while still in the relationship. On closer inspection, this is probably the reason why people get dumped. Their significant other was already past all their feelings when they ended the relationship.
Thinking isn't a good thing for me to do, but I couldn't stop myself. I got to thinking that maybe The Guy is okay with everything now, cause by the time we crashed and burned he was already over me. In my head, I can't wrap my brain around that. He vehemently denied that his actions (or rather inaction) was the result of a change of heart. Maybe I'm stupid, but I know him and I know he wasn't lying to me, or just trying to make me feel better (he's not the type to just tell someone what they want to hear). It's not a very nice feeling to think that at the end of everything you were the only person who cared. Jon B said it best when he sang, "Ain't no fun in lovin' if you're lovin alone/ How does it feel to be useless?" Not cool, not cool at all. If I could just get a glimmer that I'm not alone now (at least in what I'm feeling) and haven't been alone for the last three months, then I'd feel better. But then again, maybe it doesn't really matter how he feels or doesn't feel or when he started or stopped feeling that way. Maybe it's time for me to just let this one pass. The very idea is a pain in my ass.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

48 Hours

I know it's the season to talk about family and giving and crap like that, but I'm not in the mood, so I won't. My family left me to go halfway around the world, so for me Christmas doesn't count this year. But then again, I get to skip the motherly disapproval of my hairstyle, wardrobe, and life choices, so it's not a total wash. Love you Mommy!!

Anyways, the other day a friend of mine, let's call her Flatty Girl (no ass, just a back with a crack), calls me up in a panic because this guy with whom she's been parlaying hasn't called her in 48 hours. Obvious state of emergency there. We start racking our brains as to what she possibly could've said or done to make him stop speaking to her and come up with nada. Of course she can't call him because if he's not speaking to her for whatever reason, she mustn't show any desire to want to talk to him. That's how the game is played. So the only thing Flatty is left to do is simply go to bed and wonder why.
Fast forward 18 hours later. I call her up to see how she's doing and she can't talk to me cause she's on the phone with old boy. He called, she's happy, all is well. When I asked her if he'd given an explanation for the disappearing act she told me he said, "I was really busy and didn't get the chance to call. Besides, it was only 2 days." This got me thinking, "only 2 days." "Only 2 days"? In the grand scheme of things, 2 days doesn't seem very long. Maybe Flatty Girl had overreacted.
Two is a small number. 1, 2. See that, it doesn't take too much time to get to the number 2. So why was Flatty Girl so stressed? Why didn't I tell her to relax, it had only been 2 days? Why have I bugged out in similar situations? And why do guys look at chicks like they're crazy when they trip cause contact hasn't been made for 2 days? I think I've got an answer. Women don't see 2 days, we see 48 hours. 48 is a whole lot more than 2. Actually it's 24 times more than 2. It takes a lot longer to count to 48 than it does to count to 2. 48 hours is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much longer than 2 days.
In all honesty, the fact that Mr. Way Too Into Himself flirted with another chick right in front of me on Valentine's Day two years ago wasn't the only reason I cursed him out in front of a club that evening. He had also committed the egregious sin of not calling me for 48 hours. He couldn't figure out why I would be so upset about that, since, it was "only two days." But that's the thing, for me it wasn't only two, it was 48 long hours. 8 hours at work, 6 hours of sleep, 3 hours of television, 2 hours of step practice, another 8 hours of work, 5 more hours asleep, and more lost hours that I can't remember. All those hours added up and in all 48 60 minute increments my phone didn't ring once. Well, at least not by him. Each hour that passed was another hour for me to think. Every guy who has ever dated me has always said that's something I shouldn't be allowed to do. When given 48 hours of unregulated time, it's truly amazing what my brain can come up with. I can drive myself into a state of rampant paranoia in 48 hours and imagine all type of problems where none exist. And I'm not the only cause Flatty Girl did it too.
I don't know where the perception difference comes from. Personally I don't care. All I want is for a guy to see things my way. I could try to look at 2 days as "only 2 days," but I can't. I've been waiting by my phone for 48 hours and this bastard still ain't called me back.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Tag, I'm It

Honestly, I probably wouldn't have updated my blog today if it hadn't been for the Cranky Prof. I got tagged, so I've gotta be it now. Here goes.

Four jobs you have had in your life: Newspaper delivery girl - papers were at everybody's door bright and early at 10 a.m. every morning; McDonald's - I got fired; "research assistant" - work study is wonderful; Cheerio Pusher - I deal Cheerios by the gram to school aged children

Four movies you could watch over and over: 10 Things I Hate About You - indulges my inner white girl; Coming To America - Sexual Chocolate!! SEXUAL CHOCOLATE!!!; Sixteen Candles - I love Molly Ringwald; Pretty Woman - made me wanna be a hooker

Four places you've lived: Latham, NY - nothing to do but watch the grass grow; Bronx, NY - for a summer; Minnetonka, MN - bullshit; Grand Rapids, MI - even more bullshit

Four TV shows you love to watch: All My Children; One Life To Live; General Hospital; Sex and The City; Desperate Housewives, Grey's Anatomy; Making the Band; Real World/Road Rules Challenge; The Bachelor; The Apprentice.... that was four right?

Four places you've been on vacation: New Orleans - Mardi Gras 2002; Cameroon; I don't really go on vacation, I'm broke

Four websites you visit daily: Nappturality; Facebook (it's like crack); The Brain Dump (if I don't visit myself, who will?); GMFCU - gotta see how my funds stack

Four of your favorite foods: Chicken - I'm black so that's a no brainer; French Toast - but just from Real Food Cafe; Pizza Hut Pan Pizza with Exkra Cheese; Chocolate Chip this why my skinny jeans don't fit?

Four places you'd rather be right now: NYC; NYC; NYC; The bed belonging to the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry

Four bloggers you are tagging: Da Corner Bruhz; Random Ramblings; WTF; Frank Leigh Speeking

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Do You See What I See

I know, I know, I know. I've been lackadaisical with the blog thus far this month. I can't even claim to have been incredibly busy, cause I'm not. I've had time. And I won't lie and say that I couldn't think of anything to blog about, cause I've had a lot of crap festering in my brain. Honestly, the reason why I haven't posted a damn thing this month, is cause I ain't feel like it. Point blank. Now, I've had several requests in the last two weeks to update this thing and I do appreciate that people actually want to read what I've got to say. But then I got to thinking about it and besides my "fanbase" from the Friendster days (does 5 people constitute a fanbase?), most of my readers are just plain greedy. Why do I say that? Because there are over 30 entries in this blog. There are 20 some odd posts in the archive that folks have never read, but they clamor for new entries. My momma always told me that I couldn't get seconds until I finished what's on my plate. Same thing applies to my blog. If you haven't read my letter to Star Jones, the rules for befriending an ex, and my neverending issues with the Idiot Who Made Me Cry, then you haven't earned the right to ask for anything more. And you know how I know those archives aren't getting read. Big Brother is watching, readers. I got Sitemeter. That beautiful tool tells me who visits, how often, how long, and how many pages they view. If you only view one page, and I see you entered on the main page, then I know your ass is greedy. I feel as though I just give and give and give, and people just take and take and take. Well I refuse to be your Patsy any longer!!! This blog is officially shut down, until I see at least one comment (well thought out and intelligent) in each and every post on this blog. Don't ask me to write if you won't do your part and read. Or maybe not. I forgot, I blog for me, not for you. But I still want those comment.

Now, on to the actual point of this blog. I've been watching a lot of TV lately. Well I guess you could consider 25 years to be lately. I've noticed a really disturbing trend. On the Making The Band 3 season finale, Diddy sent the girls home for 3 months and when they came back, how come three of these chicks came back with something resembling a drowned beaver glued to their heads? That wasn't the most disturbing part though. These girls had a photo shoot, and the hair stylists actually let them get in front of the camera like that!!! The next day, I decided to feed my intellect so I turned to 106 and Park. Remy "please don't ever touch a mic again" ma was on there introducing her new video. There was some sort of lopsided blonde in front, jet black in the back, back length hair that obviously once belonged to a Korean on.....

We interrupt this post to bring you this special report. After three months, one week, and three days of silence from the Idiot Who Made Me Cry, contact has been made. It wasn't me. I just picked up the phone. And the only reason I did that was because I didn't recognize the number on the caller ID. I erased him about a month ago. What did the Idiot want? NOTHING!! But the interesting thing is, I don't want anything either. Aahhh, progress! Now if the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry would follow suit, life would be a dream. Now back to your irregularly scheduled post.

.....her cranium. The worst part was when she had the nerve to give her hairdresser a shoutout for hooking up her do. Obviously, vengence belonged to the stylist. Beyonce (man stealing tramp) is the worst offender. That dried up mess she sports looked so much better on the horse she stole it from. Now I have no problem with weave. It's an effective styling tool and keeps the hair from being damaged. But damn it, couldn't they at least get something that looks believable instead of beweavable. Visible tracks with an invisible hairline is NOT cute. Nor are matted roots with straight ends. Are decent weaves that hard to come by? It's not as though they can't afford it, especially Beyonce's multiplatinum ass. If Ashanti could find a weave to fool the masses, then surely B could do the same.
The part that's funny to me is that these women are surrounded by handlers who actually tell them that shit is "fiyah." People actually encourage them to present themselves to the public looking like they spent the day at Hair Magic Beauty Supply's wig station. Ironically, on America's Next Top Model, Bree had to do a photo shoot without being able to see herself in a mirror, and her hair was fierce. If that's the best B, Remy, and company could come up with after spending hours in the mirror, I'm seriously questioning their sanity, judgement, taste, and intelligence. Shit, even Stevie Wonder could see they look a hot ass mess.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005


I wasn't going to blog today. After yesterday's rant, I didn't have much on my mind. Plus, I've grown tired of writing about The Idiot Who Made Me Cry, The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry, Broke Ass Niggas and men in general. And I'm sure you, my faithful readers, have gotten sick of reading about my issues with men. Shit, who am I kidding, no you haven't. The only reason you all read my blog is because you're sick, voyeuristic mofos who get off on knowing that there is at least one person in this world who is just as fucked up as you if not more so. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, I felt as though the well had run dry. Oh, but silly me forgot that as long as I'm alive the well will never run dry, because as the bumper sticker said, "Shit happens."
Today I was reading through the comments people have left in my blog (thank you thank you for agreeing with me, and if you didn't then bite me). While perusing through them, I found one from someone who knows me informing me that I've inspired them to start their own blog. I was so moved. To think that lil ol' me could be someone's inspiration is just more than I could have ever hoped for. The fact that I managed to strike a cord in someone who I'm friends with just really lets me know why I'm here on this earth. And reading their first blog entry damn near brought a tear to mine eye. The only thing that could've made this joyous event even more perfect is knowing who the hell this person is.
I have an idea of who could've left the message. Actually it's down to two people, but I shouldn't have to rack my brain to figure this out. They should've left their name. And not a screenname either (unless it's the same screenname they use for IM, email, and all online message boards). How in the world would anyone expect me to figure out who they are based on a screenname I've never seen and a blog title that doesn't match the screenname. Honestly, that's just a bit presumptuous in my opinion. Do people assume that they are my only friend in the entire world so I should automatically assume that the message came from them? This reminds me of those guys that call and say, "Hey, it's me." Like "me" is enough information to figure out who is dialing my number at 2 a.m. Is it the "me" who spends all day looking in mirror, or the "me" or hasn't called in 3 weeks, or could it be the "me" who's obsessed with those loser NY Knicks, or possibly the "me" with several gunshot wounds? I just can't tell. And it's a bit egotistical to think that you'd be the only "me" with a baritone that calls me up at ungodly hours. So then I've gotta play the guessing game and God forbid I guess wrong. Cause that always leads to "who else calls you at this hour?" And that's a conversation neither one of us wants to have. Equally annoying are those folks who decide to forgoe the screenname they've chatted with for the past 5 years and IM you with one you've never seen before and assume you'll accept a message from 10inchstud05. Then they want to IM you from their old screenname all mad that you rejected the first message. Well Dipshit, how was I supposed to know it's you. There was nothing in that screenname that even remotely described you so I'd rather reject the message than take my chances at getting a web invite to see Stud Man having all sorts of inapporpriate fun with farm animals. I may be a freak, but I ain't that freaky.
Oh, but I digress! I thought it was common knowledge that if you leave someone a message, you should let them know from whom the message came. Why do you think every answering machine across the country asks for your name in addition to whatever message you want to leave? Let me give you a hint, because most people are not anti social freaks and have more than one person in their lives. Same principle applies to my blog. If you're leaving me a message don't expect me to know who you are. Everyone sounds the same when printed in Times New Roman. So get over yourself and realize that you are not THAT special and leave a freaking name next time. Thanks much.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Crazy is as Crazy Does

More than anything in this world, I hate being called crazy. It's annoying when my friends say it and particularly grating when my family says it. But NOTHING pisses me off more than when a man says, "You're crazy." Damn it, I am NOT crazy. I'm perfectly sane. I swear it! Alright, fine, maybe I'm half crazy. But it's not my fault.
Here's what I've come to realize, at some point in time, every man thinks that his girlfriend is crazy. And to be honest, he's probably right. But in defense of females worldwide, I've gotta say, we didn't start out crazy. We were driven to insanity by the men we care about. Don't believe me? Watch General Hospital. Carly wound up in a sanitarium because of Sonny. Maybe by getting this issue out in the open we can prevent another previously stable woman from losing her marbles over a set of cute dimples and a nice ass.
Now Men, when you first met us, we were in our right minds. In fact we were that cool, fun, laid back chick that you've waited for your entire life. We'd sit on the couch all day on Sunday watching football with you. We'd get all dolled up and make you a nice dinner for two. We'd laugh at your crude jokes and match them with even cruder ones of our own. We made no demands and were completely lucid and rational at all times. Hell, we were just like you and your boys except with longer hair and boobs. Then seemingly out of the blue, ying to your yang morphs into the nagging psycho girlfriend from hell. What happened?
Well Men, I'll tell you what happened. But before I do, let's take a closer look at what was going on when your girl was "normal." I'd bet the negative balance in my checking account that you were probably calling her all the time and talking for hours; leaving her cute text messages, emails, and notes about how much you like her/miss her/want her; spending every moment of your free time with her; keeping your fridge stocked with Yoplait and granola bars just for me; watching soap operas with me; letting me keep your sweatpants...wait, I mean HER...yes her...sorry it got personal for a second. Anyways, basically she was happy, laidback, and content because you gave her every reason to be. So it stands to reason that maybe the reason that she's whiny, uptight, and crazy is because you're no longer giving her a reason to be cool, calm, and collected. HHMMMMMM, there's a thought.
What you men don't seem to realize is that women are creatures of habit and women notice EVERYTHING. I've said it before and I'll say it again, if you get us used to things, the moment anything changes we're gonna think something is wrong. For some reason you guys have a tendency to get complacent. You don't say and do the things you initially did to get us. Well when that stuff stops, the crazy begins. But to us women, it's not crazy. We're simply trying to be mature adults and communicate our issues. The problem is, men don't see the issue. For some strange reason men think that as long as they're still with us, we're to assume that the feelings are still there and you still like us just as much as you did before. You always say, "I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be." But that's not really believeable when after a while your contribution to the relationship is just "being there." Taking up space on the couch next to us does not constitute showing interest. Having the same "Hey how ya doing?" conversation on the phone every night does not make us feel desired. Basically, Karen White said it best when she sang, "You're just going through the motions and you're not being fair." Going through the motions does not make a woman feel loved, wanted, appreciated, and all the other things she needs to feel in order to be laidback, cool, and carefree.
Playing games is for children and we're grown women now with jobs, bank accounts, and fuzzy pajamas with the feet. We're beyond the games. So we sit our men down and say, "We need to talk. I'm sensing that there's something wrong and I want to fix it," or something along those lines. So we pour our hearts out to you. We explain how we're feeling and why. And after we get it all out we look deep into your eyes and all we see is a blank stare of confusion. So we try to say it again. More blank stares. Then we try to use different words and different examples and analogies and you still stare blankly. After a while it seems like all we're doing is saying the same thing over and over and over again. All of a sudden we've gone from cool chick to crazy chick faster than it took Tom to knock up Katie.
Just so you know, we know we sound like a broken record, and we hate it. But all we want is to be understood. All we want is to just see the faint glimmer of comprehension in your vacant, childlike eyes. Well, that's not all we want. We also want you to do the things you used to do before you got in our pants. But that's secondary. When we feel like we're not being heard or understood we keep on harping on the same issues ad nauseum. We really don't want to do this. In fact, we can sense when we're about to do it and we're helpless to stop ourselves. It's like an out of body experience. We can hear how we sound and we know it's annoying you and we can sense the craziness, but it's out of our hands and beyond our control. We just have to keep at it until you get it. So please, do us and yourselves a favor....either never stop acting the way you did when we first met you or try to meet us halfway and say, "Baby, I understand." It'll go over so much better than saying, "Bitch, you crazy!"

Monday, November 28, 2005

Lessons Learned

I've been doing this blogging thing for about four months now; first on Friendster and now here at blogspot. When I first started doing this, I figured my blog would be a way for me to avoid work for a few hours each day. In all my writing, never did I imagine that blogging would do more than just give me an outlet for my random musings. This blog has actually taught me valuable life lessons.

Lesson 1: Be very careful about who gets the URL to your blog
From the jump I was always concerned about The Idiot Who Made Me Cry getting his hands on the link to my blog and reading everything I've said about him. Turns out, he wasn't the one I should've been worried about. When the blog used to be at Friendster I got in the sharing mood. I passed the link along to my friends and associates and let them get a good look at life as I know it. Well I must've been feeling really, really open because for reasons that escape me now, I even gave the link to my parents. I guess I had temporary amnesia and forgot about all the things I've written. They were all over my blog like flies on shit. Not a week would go by without a phone call or an email questioning me about my lost wallet (Priorities - 10/9 post), my belief in God (Not So Midlife Crisis - 10/30 post), and my love life (The Sixth Sense - 11/11 post). I don't know why I believed that they were mature enough to read my blog for literary enjoyment and not as a means to pry into my private life. Needless to say they did NOT get the memo that I've now moved to blogspot. It's a good thing because "Immaculate Conception" might have sent them to their graves.

Lesson 2: Blogging is a lot like high school
Everyone knows that in high school you had your popular kids and you had the kids who wanted to be popular. Same thing can be said about blogging. You've got the popular blogs like the Angry Black Bitch ( and you've got the blogs that really want to be popular like The Brain Dump (that's the one you're currently reading). So what's a blog to do when it's on the outside looking in, longing to be one of the cool blogs that everyone reads and talks about? You've got it! That blog gets as close to the popular ones as possible so that a little bit of their coolness can rub off. It's your basic principle of transferance (sp?). If you hang out at the popular blogspots long enough and let others folks know you're hanging out there, somehow you get popular by default. The strategy is working. In the last week, I've seen my hits skyrocket!! Thank you ABB and Cranky Professor (
*Disclaimer: These blogs really are great and deserve to be popular. If you haven't already go check them out.

Lesson 3: Wit, Sarcasm, and Humor are lost on most folks
If everything written has to be prefaced with "I'm just kidding" it ruins the joke. However, a lot of blog readers don't get jokes. I'm noticing it more and more whenever I read the comments they post. I'm not going to say which posts shouldn't be taken literally, cause that would ruin all my fun. I sure do get a kick out of laughing at dim bulbs.

Lesson 4: Blogging saves money
I've just saved a ton of money on therapy bills by blogging. Who needs a therapist when you've got an open forum to air dirty laundry and countless strangers/voyeurs willing to play amateur shrinks and doctors. Thus far I've taken 2 pregnancy tests even though I'm riding the crimson tide, all at the behest of my concerned therapists. I would've shelled out a bundle of money just for a professional to tell me what an Anonymous commenter let me know for free: I'm crazy!

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Immaculate Conception

People said it couldn't happen. They said it was completely impossible. The laws of nature don't allow for it. Well I'm here to proclaim that not only can it happen, it did happen. It's a miracle! I'm pregnant, yet I haven't done a damn thing that would lead to procreation. The last time this happened was roughly 2000 years ago somewhere in Galilee or was it Nazareth or maybe it was Jerusalem. Who knows, that's not the point.
So you're probably wondering why I believe that a child has been conceived without the help of a man. Well, I don't know how it happened, but I've got all the classic symptoms of being with child. Here's the evidence. Draw your own conclusion.

Exhibit A: I've got cravings.
For the past few weeks I haven't been able to get enough of baked Tostitos with extra spicy salsa and yogurt. I know it sounds gross. But I love it. I can't stop eating it. Who would like a concoction like that unless they were preggers?

Exhibit B: My bladder has shrunk
I pee every hour on the hour and sometimes twice in the same hour. Ingesting one drop of liquid will send me to the bathroom within 5 minutes to relieve myself. I'm going through toilet paper like J Lo goes through husbands. I'm going to attribute these frequent sudden urges to my pregnancy instead of a possible case of overactive bladder.

Exhibit C: The skinny jeans no longer fit
Okay, fine. My skinny jeans haven't fit in over a year. But being pregnant is a much better reason for not fitting into my clothes than acknowledging the fact that late night trips to Fridays for the Brownie Obsession have made me a fat cow.

Exhibit D: Gas
Don't nobody got gas like a pregnant woman. And I must say I've been blowing my house up as of late. It could be the oat bran, whole grain bread, whole grain cereal, whole grain pasta, and brown rice that I feast on everyday, but it's much more plausible that pregnancy is the reason why the faint scent of sulfuric acid follows me wherever I go.

Exhibit E: I'm already starting to show
I'm not quite sure of the date of conception, however I know I'm pregnant cause I'm showing. My tummy pokes out and it's not squishy when I poke it. If that ain't pregnant I don't know what is? I highly doubt that the two eggs, home fried potatoes, buttered toast, and soup that I had for lunch have anything to do with my present condition.

See! When you add up all the symptoms, I'm most definitely gonna be having a little squirmy, screaming, shitting bundle of joy within the next 6 to 8 months. I'm sure of it. I could take a pregnancy test and know for sure, but I never did trust those home tests (remember the folks in the commercial get paid to say that test is error proof) and I don't want to see the incredulous stares at the doctor's office when I explain the story of my miracle baby. So nope, I'll keep this to myself until it's time for someone to knock me the hell out and deliever my kid for me. In the meantime, I'm off to go feed the growing embryo.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Cosmic Joke

I have the most wonderful man in my life right now. He's smart, he's hilarious, he dresses well, loves God, loves his family, listens, gives great advice, and best of all puts up with me no matter what. Honestly, I really don't know what I would do without him. Our bond is amazing and I truly value it. Now you're probably wondering where this is coming from, since just last week I was blogging about male stupidity. Well obviously I'm not talking about the same person. And no I haven't met anyone new within the last 7 days. Nope! Mr. Wonderful has been in my life for years. And no, I haven't been doing any kind of extracurricular relationship activities either. I'm not that kind of person. Nothing would ever come between Mr. Wonderful and I, not even the man I marry. You know why? Because Mr. Wonderful is just my friend. Actually, I have several Mr. Wonderfuls in my life.
Now I'm sitting here all by myself blogging on a Friday night, instead of being curled up with something tall and scrum..scrump...scrumpteou, scrumptiou, scrumptous (?, aww screw the spelling). Yep I am unabashedly single. Whenever anyone asks me why I'm single, I always say it's because I don't know any good men to date. However, that's just not true. I know a ton of great guys who are eligible bachelors. The irony is, they just aren't available to me. It's the equivalent of having a PHAT tax return burning a hole in your pocket while sitting in the middle of a showroom filled with 80% off Mahnolo Blahniks that are all about two sizes too small. Right style, wrong fit.
Somehow, I have managed to meet the perfect guy about 10 to 15 times in my life. Well let me clarify, I've met the perfect guy for a woman who is NOT me. I seem to be skilled at developing relationships with everyone else's soulmate but my own. I'm not complaining due to secretly harbored feelings for my male friends. Actually the idea of touching them in any romantic way feels just downright dirty and incestuous. Since I didn't descend from a European monarchy and I'm not from Appalachia I've never found incest to be acceptable.
After deeper thought, I'm not even upset over the fact that I can't find the right guy for myself. I'm more upset with my female friends for not having their own supplies of Mr. Wonderfuls. How hard is it for these chicks to befriend Jay-Z so that me and him can hook up. And if they can't befriend Jigga Man, then Chris Webber, Clinton Portis, or that cute white boy from Coach Carter should be a bit more attainable. I'm bringing an investment banker, a rapper, a mama's boy, a former high school football star, and much more to the table. What have they got? A bunch of vertically challenged broke ass niggas who are going through some shit right now. Ain't that about a bitch!!
I think God has a twisted sense of humor. I will readily admit that I am blessed to have each and every one of my Mr. Wonderfuls in my life. But putting the goods in front of me when I can't and don't want to buy is a sick cosmic joke. I ain't laughing.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

I miss junior high. It was so great. School dances, high school football games, cute boys, house parties, it was all great. You know what else was great about junior high school? Breaking up. True, at the time breaking up sucked, but looking back on it, break ups back then were easy! The break up rules were so easy to follow all those years ago. "Relationships" ended when one person stopped liking the other or when some egregious wrong was inflicted upon someone (i.e. dancing too close too another person at the last dance). Somewhere between then and now the rules changed. Sure, we still break up because somebody did us dirty or because we're just not feeling it anymore. But for some reason somewhere down the line we started breaking up even when no one has done anything really wrong and the feelings are just as strong as they've always been. Junior high never prepared me for this.
It's truly amazing how one day everything can be going so great that happy doesn't begin to describe it and then one day you wake up and that euphoria is a distant memory. Now I don't believe that any relationship can sustain the initial high indefinitely. After a while things settle into a comfortable rhythm in which both parties feel secure and content. But sometimes that high can gradually deflate like a balloon that's slowly loosing helium. It crashes to the ground in silence without that loud bang that lets you know that something is even missing. No matter how much you try to get that balloon to fly as high as it used to it just won't. It doesn't matter that you still want that balloon and never had any intention of letting it go. Also doesn't matter that you're still attached to that balloon completely. It just won't work.
Somewhere along the line I realized that certain relationships just don't work. There used to be a time when all two people needed was to just like each other a whole lot and that would be enough to keep them together. It's a really sad day when you realize that feelings alone won't resusicitate a dead union. Sometimes you can't love a person enough to make up for what it is they can't give you. The same conversation can only be had but so many times without anything changing.
Strange part of it all is that there isn't the fireworks that junior high breakups used to have as a weeklong courtship went down in a blaze of glory between 5th and 6th period. No yelling, no begging and pleading, no plots of revenge. Just a quiet resignation that it isn't working. I swear hating the ex is a whole lot easier than missing him like crazy and knowing there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.

Friday, November 11, 2005

The Sixth Sense

Elementary schools across the country have failed our children. Introductory science classes are acclimating youth to the physical world around them. One of the first lessons these kids are taught is about how humans sense the world around them. Every year kids file into classrooms and learn that there are five senses: sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell. However, what they forget to teach these young impressionable minds is that boys have a sixth sense that develops with age. It's the uncanny sense to know when the woman he is involved with is just about done with his trifling ass so he better act right.
I have no idea how men do this, but I'm starting to believe that it's innate. Without a woman saying a word, they just KNOW when we are A) about to dump them B) almost over them or C) about to get serious with someone else. Amazingly sometimes depending on which stage you are in with different men, two of them will activate this sixth sense at once.
So, earlier this summer I started seeing this guy who while very cute (in a dopey sort of way) and an amazing kisser decided to start going through some shit about a month and a half into our courtship. Yes, he was another broke ass nigga going through some shit right now. Anyways, about a month after I started seeing him, I met the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry. Now keep up with me, cause it starts to get complicated. So the weekend after I met the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry, I spent a few days with Dopey Taylor. Everything was going fine with him and we were all nice and boo'd up (well us and all 20 of his closest friends who wouldn't leave the apartment). I was talking to The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry but only on a just friends tip cause I was all about Dopey. Well a few weeks later Dopey starts going through some shit and whaddya know the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry is there to pick up the slack. Within a month, Dopey's fallen by the wayside and I'm snug as a bug in a rug with the Guy.
Over the next month or so as we're coming into fall, things with the Guy are progressing very nicely. He's doing everything he should be to not only get me interested, but to keep me interested as well. I'm feeling him, and feeling him hard. In all this time, Dopey is nowhere to be found, so I'm pretty focused on the Guy. Well, as we all know when dealing with the Y chromosome, good behavior only lasts but so long before stupidity sets in. All of the tactics and measures that were employed to get me, are no longer being employed to keep me, and needless to say I am quite disgruntled. Now in the name of fairness, I've told the Guy over and over again that things are fizzling and we need to fix it. I've also played the obligatory "Nigga You Betta Act Right" games, up to and including the silent treatment and starting unnecessary fights and considering the Fallback Boy. NOTHING is working. That is nothing except considering letting the whole thing go. Somehow, everytime I'm about to pick up that phone and say, "I changed my mind," he picks up the phone first and says and does everything I've been needing him to say and do for weeks. WTF!! It's hard enough to make the decision to let someone go that you still really care about. You've gotta check with at least 5 of your girlfriends to figure out what majority opinion is. Then you have to go over and over in your head all of the things he's done wrong and document when the last time he actually did something right was. Next, you must listen to every sad/angry love song you can get your hands on in order to see how much of the lyrics relate to your current situation. After that, countless hours need to be spent agonizing over whether it's really time to throw in the towel. You then put it into a mental and emotional computer formula which spits out a decision whether or not to stay or let that dude go. To go through all of that, just for him to get his act together at the last minute is unfair and completely inconsiderate on his part.
If the Guy weren't bad enough, Dopey Taylor all of a sudden remembers I exist. Why is that? Could it be because that stupid sixth sense told him that I might like someone else enough to completely forget about his broke dysfunctional ass? And of course he would know to make his move right when I'm trying to work through issues with the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry. This is by no means a coincidence. He knew where my head was and just couldn't pass up an opportunity to screw with my already messed up head. Manipulative bastard!
Maybe if this were the first time I'd gone through this I wouldn't be so annoyed. But it seems to be a pattern with the male species. Mr. Way Too Into Himself had this unnerving habit of popping back into my life whenever I was just about to write him off completely (this was after the Valentine's Day betrayal). There was also Mr. Only Good For One Thing. He was great at returning my calls just in time to keep from getting permanently deleted. But the one who mastered that sixth sense the most has to be The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. Now that nigga had radar like a mofo! Every single time I had just about purged him from my system a siren went off in that little brain of his and he was back like the freakin Terminator.
I don't enjoy operating at a disadvantage. It makes it a lot harder to win and sometimes I'll even take winning over being happy. The way I see it, it took me years to learn about this sixth sense that men have and leverage at every turn. And I had to do it the hard way, by painful experience. So in order to even out the playing field I say we add this sixth sense to elementary school science curriculums so that little girls everywhere will grow up to be women with a fighting chance against it. All in favor, say "Aye!"

Monday, November 07, 2005

You Need An Alignment

There are certain concepts in this world that aren't very difficult to understand. What comes up, must come down. A closed mouth don't get fed. $13.95 + tax is NOT too much to spend on lip glass. If you break it, you buy it. Simple right? That is unless you were born with that defective Y chromosome. It seems as though basic rules of human interaction float right over their heads without them ever noticing. One in particular really stumps them. They just can't seem to master the concept of actions speaking louder than words.
If you've ever been in a room full of women there are always one or two who seem to be involved with a guy who just doesn't want a relationship. You'll hear them complaining about how the man won't commit. Of course these women won't break up with the men who don't give them what they need. They stick around hoping the man will one day change his mind and decide to give a full fledged relationship a shot. I used to look at these women and think that they were dumber than rocks. Common sense would tell you that if a man repeatedly says, "I don't want a relationship," then that's exactly what he means. If these women were being strung along, it was their own faults. That was my opinion and I was sticking to it.
Then something interesting happened. I befriended some guys. Any woman who has been friends with the male species soon realizes that as a friend, men don't find any reason to censor themselves around us. As a result, we become privy to all their dirty little secrets. After befriending several Purple People Eaters, all of whom were involved but didn't want to be in a relationship, something dawned on me. Maybe it wasn't the women who were being stupid. Perhaps they were sticking around because although these men said one thing, their actions didn't match up.
Let me break it down for you. Dude says, "I don't want a relationship." Same dude spends majority of his free time with one lady. Same dude attends family, work, and social functions with said lady. Same dude does the holiday thing with the lady (and not just Veteran's Day, Christmas and Valentine's Day included). Same dude is sleeping with this lady damn near every night for almost a year. Now it might just be me, but this seems like relationship behavior. Excuse me Dude, you might not want to admit this, but you're ass is in a relationship. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a can fill in the rest. A man can't say he doesn't want a relationship, fill the boyfriend role, and then wonder why a woman is constantly saying, "we need to talk." If you don't want to be with the woman don't act like it! Let me show you what that looks like. Don't hang out more than once a week. Don't have her meeting your folks, and don't meet hers. Don't discuss having feelings for her. Don't do the holiday thing. Basically don't do jack! Because anything you do can and will be used against you in relationship court.
The only thing that irks me more than a man who says he doesn't want to be in a relationship with a woman who he's been relationing with for ages, is a man who won't let go of a woman he says he doesn't want to be with. It seems to me that if you don't want us, you should be happy to see us go. But for some reason it never works like that. It's not fun to have to get over someone who's just not that into you. So imagine doing all the hard work of exorcising some man from your system, only to have him pop back up the second he senses you might be getting over him. He never actually wants to be together, he just doesn't want you over him. Now this is just purely selfish bullshit. Listen guys, after the age of 5 playing the "I don't want it, but I'm not going to share it" game is unacceptable. You know maybe if you're having that hard a time letting her walk away, you just might want her a little more than you thought you did. MESSAGE!!!
Now this can also be turned around to apply to those guys who claim to want to be with a chick but should have the words "disappearing acts" spray painted across their forehead. If you don't call, don't spend time, and aren't there when she needs you, then don't bother telling her you like her and want to be with her. It just causes unnecessary confusion. And no it's NOT all in her head. Trust me when I say that women keep track of how much you call (and I don't mean call back, I mean call first), when you ask to see us, everything you do and don't do for us, and every little word you say. We tabulate it all up into a does he really like me chart! When the stuff that comes out of your mouth doesn't match up with things you do, the only calculation we get is a big fat ?
So do us and yourselves a really big favor. Say what you mean and mean what you say and then back that bitch up with whatever you do. This has been a PSA from women everywhere to you!

Fallback Boy

My mind is doing evil things to me right now. It's going places it shouldn't and thinking things it has no business thinking. Sentimentality is wreaking havoc. Happy memories are leading to wistfulness and nostalgia and this eerie feeling of missing The Idiot Who Made Me Cry.
Don't say it, I already know what you're gonna say, cause I'm saying it to myself. I'm supposed to be done with all of that. Hell, I read the 5 Simple Rules. In fact I wrote that bitch myself. And I know that there is to be no reminiscing, good or bad. But right now I can't help it. I'm annoyed. My state of annoyance has absolutely nothing to do with him. We haven't communicated or seen each other since September, so there has been no opportunity for him to do what he does best (i.e. piss me off). This time the responsible party is the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry. I'm now beginning to think that no such guy exists. Sooner or later they all make us cry (or at least want to cry).
It always amazes me how a fledgling relationship can go from promising to problematic in 0 seconds flat. The same guy that made you smile from ear to ear one day is the same one who makes you shed tears the next. So what's a girl to do when the one person who's supposed to make her happy isn't doing a very good job? Well of course, she thinks of the last person that made her really happy. The Fallback Boy, so to speak. The one you keep going back to literally and figuratively when your current love life more or less sucks. He smoothes out the rough spots. Need someone to have a crush on, never fear, Fallback Boy is here! Need someone to think about when the man you should be thinking about is being a certified dickhead, Fallback Boy to the rescue! Need someone to hook up with cause it’s been a really long time, Mighty Morphin’ Fallback Boy! I hate to say it, but for me, the last guy that made me so happy I could spit was the Idiot Who Made Me Cry, before he made me cry of course.
I’m not deranged enough to want to rekindle anything, well at least not at the moment. But I feel better thinking about The Idiot than I do thinking about everything that’s wrong with the current Guy. He’s like my favorite pair of jeans: used up and busted, yet comfortable. Even though he’s a mess, at least I know what I’m getting.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

License to Drive

The Midwest has been my "home" for the past three years, three months, three weeks, and five days. Let me tell you it's nothing like NY. Places close early, you can't catch a cab whenever you want, the radio stations suck, there's nothing to do, and there's no place to shop. But even worse than all that, worse than the fact that there are no men within a 500 mile radius, is the fact that these mofos can't drive to save their lives. It was bad in Minnesota, but it's even more horrendous in Michigan. I sincerely believe that anyone born in the Midwest is completely incapable of operating a motor vehicle.
I decided to test my theory and do a little unscientific research for the last few weeks. My observations shocked me. I knew it was bad, but this is ridiculous.
Exhibit A: When the light turned green at an intersection, it took the car in front of 45 seconds to realize that he was supposed to go. Only 3 cars in a long line of vehicles made it through the light.
Exhibit B: 10 out of every 5 drivers in this state go under the speed limit while driving in the left lane on highways. Big fat MACK truck drivers are the worst offenders. FYI Bubba, the 18 wheelers are supposed to stay in the right lane!
Exhibit 3: Midwestern drivers will wait behind one stalled vehicle instead of switching into the perfectly empty lane right next to them, thus holding up traffic for miles.
Exhibit X: Each and every one of these idiots out here slows down to under 5 MPH to make a simple right hand turn.
Exhibit 3: One drop of percipitation in any form will lead to traffic jams and 12 car pile ups.
Exhibit WTF: I saw someone who was NOT Amish driving a horse and buggy just last week
All of this evidence, witnessed with my own two eyes, has led me to the conclusion that in order to get your license out here one must show complete and total vehicular ineptitude. The ironic part is, you have to take driver's ed in order to get your license in the State of MI. What the hell are they teaching people? How to improperly operate a motor vehicle? Other states take driving very seriously and want to ensure that every licensed driver knows what they are doing behind the wheel. In NY most drivers have to take their road tests 6 times before they pass (well at least I did), in order to ensure they have the necessary skills.
The thing is, I would expect bad driving south of the Mason Dixon line and in the Great Plains states. But come on, this is freaking Michigan!! The auto capitol of America. Someone born in this state has got to realize that green means go! It's really sad when the driving in Atlanta, GA is better than the driving here. And I've been there so I've seen it myself. Folks in the ATL actually know how to get from Point A to Point B ASAP. That's surprising for a state where you can get married at 14 and first cousins aren't considered close relatives.
I'm going to leave Michigan drivers with a few words of advice. First, when the light turns green, that means drive through the intersection. Do not just sit there and marvel at how the pretty colors changed. Secondly, the speed limit is NOT really a limit. It's just the starting off point for how fast you can really go. Driving 35 MPH in a 45 zone is NOT acceptable. You can go 55 and it'll be okay. Additionally, learn to whip your vehicle. Right hand turns aren't that hard. Just ease off the gas and turn the wheel. It's simple. Lastly, stay the hell off the road when I'm driving!

Sunday, October 30, 2005

Not So Midlife Crisis

I just realized something. Midlife crises are not the exclusive domain of 50 year old men who are dependent upon Rogaine and Viagra. In fact perfectly well adjusted single 25 year old black women who live in Grand Rapids Michigan can go through this debilitating phase too.
When you wake up one day and you realize that your life isn't how you thought it would be and isn't what you want it to be, it's a sad feeling. Even when you have the job, the home, the car, and the shoes the world says you should want, you're still not happy. Feelings of guilt and ungratefulness just sweep over you, because you should be satisfied with all that you have, but you're not. It's not even that you want more money or a nicer car or more shoes (well maybe you do want those bronze BCBG pumps at Marshall Fields). It's moreso a feeling that there has to be more to life, that time is passing you by and you're not doing something vitally more important than what you're doing now.
So what do you do when you're feeling like this? Some folks buy a new car. Others get depressed and stay in bed all day. Me. I decided to consult God on this one. Oftentimes I feel as though my life is out of control, with absolutely no direction. The more I try to get things under control myself, the more out of control I feel. I figured, I might as well stop making a mess of things and figure out where God wants me to go in life. I may not listen to Him some of the time (alright fine, I spend most of my time either ignoring Him or fighting Him), but I really wanted to give His guidance a chance. So I opened up my Bible and started reading. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the book of "Liz." Nor did I find any passages in any of the canon dedicated to what I should do with my life. I did find out some pretty useful stuff in the Book of James about learning to control my temper. I filed that in mental rolodex for future reference. I was on a mission to find MY mission. Next, I got down on my knees and had a lengthy conversation with God. Unfortunately, I did all the talking. Maybe He tried to get a word or two in, but I must've missed it.
Not hearing anything directly from the Source, I decided that patience was a virtue I didn't have, so I'd ask folks at church for some Godly advice. I mean if He spoke through man to write the Bible, why couldn't He speak through folks at church to give me a bit of direction. I talked to one woman at my church, we'll call her Church Lady. I pour out my heart to her about my issues and wait anxiously for her words of wisdom. For some reason all I got was, "Have you prayed about it?" Daggone it!!! How come whenever you got an issue or a dilemma, the first thing someone wants to say is, "You should pray." I know they are trying to be helpful, but I'll give em a hint. That ain't helping. In fact, that's the last thing I want to hear. Nor do I want to hear someone tell me to go read the Bible. While I love that book to my core, there are certain things that it just doesn't cover. Sometimes folks are so quick to minister, they forget how to just listen and empathize.
Then a funny thing happened. I went to church one Sunday and the pastors are starting a series on the most important questions we'll ask in life. Questions about who God is, who we are, what we're supposed to do, how important time is. And I'm not talking about those sermons that quote one line of scripture and without fail end in the typical, "When I think about all that God has brought me through, I just wanna praise Him!! Who wants to praise Him? Has God been good to you?!! He's been good to me!!" Complete with organ accents, jumping in the pulpit, and a brisk jog down the center aisle before one final scream and then passing out in the big pastor's chair. No folks, these sermons actually practically applied scripture to my everyday life. And then suddenly, the light went off in my head. I'm not saying that I've gotten it all figured out, cause I don't by any means. But I'm clear on a few things now. God created me with a purpose. And He gave me gifts and talents and abilities that He wants me to use. If I'm not content with where I am right now, it's probably because I'm trying to fit into a box that's not designed for my SHAPE. Now I can try and twist myself into someone I'm not to try and fit where I am at this moment. But I'm no contortionist and don't have any desire to be. Thankfully, He doesn't deire that either.

Saturday, October 29, 2005

Cruel To Be Kind

I whole heartedly believe that no woman can change a man, unless he is in diapers. There is no way to make him do anything he ultimately does not want to do. No amount of begging, pleading, reasoning, bargaining, cajoling, whining, nagging, and harassing is going to produce the desired effect. All a man will do is grunt, scratch, and nod his head in agreement before going right back to doing the same damn thing he was doing prior to the ranting and raving: NOTHING! This is extremely frustrating even for the most laid back woman. The more we try, the less they change. It's worse than beating your head against the proverbial brick wall. However, there is a strategy that concussion prone women world wide have begun to employ to stop the madness. So I'm gonna let the rest of you women who are not so quick in on a little secret. Are you alone? Come closer, we don't want the opposite species in on our secret. Okay, here it is. The most effective way to get what you want out of a man is to do nothing.
Yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but I swear it works. It seems to be a rule of inverse relationships. There is a direct equal and opposite correlation between the amount of attention a woman gives a man and the amount of attention she gets in return. The more we call, IM, email, write, and try to spend time with them, the busier and more neglectful they are. And usually this causes us to to increase our efforts 100 fold just to get a 1% increase from the man. I dare you to try something new. Don't call him. Don't go see him. Don't do anything. All of a sudden something amazing will happen. He'll remember you exist, the second you pretend that he doesn't.
It's sad but true, in order to make a man do something he wasn't doing, he basically needs to be treated like shit. When we act like we don't want them or at least act indifferent they are in full on pursuit mode. The moment we acquiesce and return the attention and interest a man goes colder than a shower after someone flushes the toilet. Now, logically, it would seem that when someone returns our affection it would cause us to like them more. Not so with the dingaling species. They actually like it when a woman doesn't want them. So in order for women to succeed under these circumstances we must never like him too much.
I've got a real world example for you. The other day I was talking to my best friend, let's call her Chesty LaRue. So Chesty and I were chatting and she mentions that she's having a lengthy IM conversation with a country bumpkin with whom she used to have relations. For a period of time in their friendship, the country bumpkin wasn't acting right and she was upset that he was devaluing their friendship. When she finally got tired of his bullshit she decided to give him a BDR and his walking papers. Well that did the trick. There's nothing like being told that he sucks in bed to straighten a man out real quick.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

House of Representatives

Have you ever looked at your significant other and asked yourself, "Who are you?" What happened to the person you met 3, 6, 12 months ago? Where is the guy who called all the time and wanted to spend every free second in your company? Where is the girl that dressed to kill and shaved her legs on a regular basis? It looks like the person you initially started dating. It even smells like them. But unfortunately, it's just not that person. I hate to be the one to break this to you, folks. But that person never existed. They were just a phantom. You didn't fall for the person that stands before you right now. You fell for their representative.
The first time I heard about this representative concept was about 2 years ago when I started dealing with Mr. Way Too Into Himself. He made it a point to tell me that he was not sending out his representative to meet me. What I see is what I get. What I saw was a guy who spent a bit too much time trying to figure out which tie matched his salmon pink shirt, and what I got was a guy who flirted with another chick right in front of my face on Valentine's Day. I don't know how the two correlate, so I'm not sure if I should've seen that debacle coming. But that's neither here nor there. Ever since then I've given a whole lot more thought to the idea that when two people first begin dealing with each other they aren't really dealing with each other. The representatives are sent out in place of the actual person.
It looks something like this. A man and woman meet. They find each other attractive and decide they want to get to know each other better. The man calls all the time. He is attentive, sensitive, giving, all the things a woman needs him to be in order to for her to fall butt crazy in love with him. In turn the woman is always gorgeous, in training to be the iron chef, and the coolest most non clinging chick a guy has ever met. After both parties are past the point of no return, something happens. Dude stops calling 3 times a day. All of a sudden weekends are for football and you don't exist. All of the cute things he used to do when he first met you don't get done anymore. In the blink of an eye old girl has traded in skirts and dress and heels for sweats, t-shirts, and flip flops. She gives the leg stubble some time to really sprout before she shaves it, if she shaves it at all. And almost overnight, she forgets where the kitchen is. Both parties are suddenly aware that the person they are involved with is NOT the person they met. The end result is incessant fighting, whining, and nagging.
People send out their representative because they know that no one in their right mind would willingly date them if they knew what they were really like. The representative is there to do the dirty work. They're the one that gets Mr. or Ms. Wonderful to fall and fall hard. They're the one who hammers out the relationship contract. And once the unsuspecting party has signed on the dotted line with their heart, the old bait and switch happens. The representative is gone and the real person takes their place. So basically you're stuck with a relationship that isn't even worth the experiences it was built on. Yes my friend, you've been hoodwinked, bamboozled, led astray, and run amock. Sucks to be you.
But don't feel bad. I've been there. More times than I care to count. Hell, now that I think about it, I've sent out my representative on numerous occassions. Anyone who knows me is well aware that shaving my legs rarely makes it onto the priority list. However, if I've got a date with a nice tall piece of man candy you better believe my legs will be as smooth as a baby's butt. I do realize the unfairness that the representative brings, so I've made it a point to never shave again, so that no man can say that I've misled him.
On my end, I've become so familiar with the representatives that men send up to bat for them, I can spot them a mile away. I've now adopted a warning that I give to all men I deal with. If you cannot or will not keep up a certain positive behavior for more than several weeks, don't start doing it in the first place. If you don't like the phone, don't call me every night and talk to me for hours on end. Women are creatures of habit and once you get us used to something, we're gonna come to expect it. The second you stop doing that thing, we're going to think that something is wrong and nag you without rest until that behavior resumes. Men don't want to hear it and we don't want to do it, but we're forced to. If you don't like spending all your free time with me, don't even start doing it in the first place. The second you're unavailable, we're gonna go into clingy mode. Once again, neither party wants that, so don't set it up so it will occur.
How about we make a pact. Guys you promise not to make us think you're prince charming and ladies, let's promise not to make them think we're June Clever and Heather Hunter all rolled in one. Now, let the dating commence.

Saturday, October 08, 2005


I'm currently on the phone with Erica, Operator WS413 with Visa. Why am I on the phone with Erica? Oohh, cause I lost my Visa check card. I also lost my Capital One Visa, my Macy's card, my health insurance card, my Bank One Visa Check card (that don't matter cause there's only .26 cents on that one), my Circuit City credit card, and my Limited credit card. How did I manage to lose all of these tiny rectangular pieces of plastic with random numbers on them? I left my wallet in a NYC yellow cab. I think Homer Simpson said it best when he said, "DOH!!!"
Considering the fact that my entire life has basically vanished in the back of some nameless, faceless cab, I must say I'm rather calm. Hell, I'm blogging about it, so I must not be too bothered about this current state of affairs. Financially, I'm screwed. I have no cash, and no way to get cash. Not only that but I have no means to use credit either. I'm not really lamenting their loss all that much though. The one thing in my wallet that I am missing most right now is that 3.5" X 1.5" card that has my date of birth prominently displayed right alongside my bright, smiling face. Yes, folks, I am missing my driver's license!! Now why would I be missing my driver's license so much when I don't even have my car around me to drive. Could it be because I have a plane to catch tomorrow and without government issued ID I can't board any flights? Nope, I could really care less about that little detail right now. I'm missing my driver's license so damn much right now because I've got on the cutest dress, with the hottest pair of hooker boots, banging accessories, and a matching clutch. I am all dressed up with somewhere to go, and I'm shit out of luck.
You would think that in light of my current situation my focus would be elsewhere, but alas, it's not. The only reason I'm talking to Erica and not hunting down a spare ID from all of the 5'11, 21+ black females I know is because my friend with the cool Brooklyn apartment won't let me. Friend with the cool Brooklyn apartment, if you're reading this, YOU SUCK!!! I spent 30 bucks on a cab from midtown Manhattan to Flatbush Brooklyn just so I could shower, shit, and shave in enough time to get into the club free 'fo midnight. It's now 37 minutes after the midnight hour and I am sitting here in a state of dejection that not even the 1st runner up to Miss America could understand. I was so ready for tonight damn it!! I had brought all my cute clothes that I never get to wear in West Bumblefuck. I made sure my hair was clean and perfectly fro'd. I bought new jewelry. I shaved my legs. I waxed my armpits. Everything was set. And now, NOTHING. This is like getting amazing head and not having an orgasm. Frustration at its peak.
I don't think I can fully make anyone understand just how badly I needed to go out tonight. It's been roughly 5 weeks since the last time I set foot in a bar/lounge/club type place. And it's been about 12 weeks since I had a kick ass time surrounded by grown folks of the Negro persuasion while listening to misogynistic rap music and drinking a cranberry and sprite as I bent over to the floor and touched my toes. Withdrawal symptons were a bitch and tonight was supposed to be my cure. Now some Eastern European cabbie is cruising around the city with my access to all NYC nightlife. Who the hell cares if Habib finds my wallet and charges $2500 worth of porn to my cards? That is such a little thing in comparison to being forced to stay home on a Saturday night.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Glory Days

The days are shorter, the evenings are getting chilly, and the leaves are beginning to turn. It's that time of year again. Summer is basically over and fall has arrived. And with fall comes the return of those extracurricular activities that have been on hiatus since June. Not only do the little kiddies get to spend 7 hours of the day in school, off the streets away from good tax paying citizens such as myself, they're also occupied until nightfall with a wide range of lessons, sports, and clubs. That means no more visits from the 6 year old camaflouged would-be assassin who lives next door to me. It also means I have a life again! Tap dancing and tae kwon do started again last week, YIPPEE!!!
When I moved to this place of boredom and brats I knew the only way to survive my indefinite stay would be to get out of town once a month and to find something or someone to keep me distracted while time sailed by. Getting out of town once a month was the easy part. Chicago is just a 3 hour drive away and credit cards cover plane tickets to NYC. That just left finding a suitable distraction. Initially I tried distracting myself with the men of Grand Rapids but quickly realized that I needed a distraction to keep my mind off the fact that Grand Rapids has no men. So I said to myself, "Self, we won't be getting any loving for a while, we need to find a hobby to keep ourself busy." I sat back and I pondered. A hobby. Well a hobby should be something I like to do. I like to shop! But I don't consider T-J Max and JC Penny suitable outlets for that pasttime. So I'd have to find something else. I enjoy a good club or lounge on the weekend. Unfortunately, all Grand Rapids had to offer was the Howlin Moon Saloon. The name alone says it all. With my options rapidly running out, I decided to think outside the box. I started looking back on my life to all the things that I've enjoyed over the years. Turns out I had to think all the way back to elementary school in order to find something that Grand Rapids couldn't totally fuck up for me. So I decided to relive the 4th grade and rekindle my passion for tap dancing and martial arts.
Hobbies were the perfect solution to my problem. Think about it. Not only do I live in West Bumblefuck, not knowing a soul out here, I also work from home. If I found hobbies, I'd find people and possibly even a social life, plus I'd get out of the house as well. So I went around the corner to the local dance studio and signed up for Monday night adult tap class. After that I signed up for Thursday night tae kwon do through the City Parks and Recreation Department. And you know something, the plan worked. Well sort of. Tapping and tae kwon do definitely filled up some time. But I didn't count on dancing with a bunch of retirement aged ladies with bladder issues. Nor did I expect tae kwon do class to be like this*:

But hey what can you do?
I may not have gained a single friend (well in a round about way tap classes brought the Curly Haired Stick Figure into my circle of friends) out of all this activity, but at least I have a reason to shower and leave the house two nights a week.
*Click on fuzzy picture

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

5 Simple Rules

Whoever said that it's possible to be friends with an ex obviously never tried being friends with an idiot who made them cry. I wouldn't say it's impossible, but it damn sure isn't easy. When there is an ocean of bullshit so wide and so deep you can't build a bridge over it, friendship doesn't really seem like an option. However, after a few faulty attempts at being friends with The Idiot Who Made Me Cry, I think I have finally found a way to make it work. All we have to do is a follow a few simple rules and friends we are.
Rule #1: Steamroll his cell phone/blackberry/two way before you go anywhere.
All his cell phone does is give you insights into his personal life that you really do not need nor want to know. There are few things that are more annoying than watching your ex calling every chick in his phone book looking for a date for later on that evening. Almost as annoying is hearing the voice of the last chick he boned blaring through the receiver because that woman never learned how to use her "indoor voice."
Rule #2: Do NOT reminisce!
The relationship is over. Keep it that way. There is no need to talk about what once was, because it is no longer. There are only two things you can reminisce about. The good times and the bad ones. Taking a stroll down good time memory lane will bring back warm fuzzy feelings and makes all of the bullshit he put you through seem minimal. Inevitably, you'll want to relive the past and that's just something that can't be done. On the other hand, flashing back on the cess pool that your relationship turned into isn't a good idea either. Within minutes you'll want to make sure that steamroller runs over him as well as his cell phone. Not the makings of a healthy friendship.
Rule #3: Do NOT discuss any lingering issues.
What's the point? Will it really change anything? Trust me when I say NOPE! Knowing that you could've spent the night at his place instead of driving home in the middle of a winter storm 4 months ago changes nothing about the current situation. What he would've done, meant to say, and used to feel is irrelevant. Don't torture yourself with useless information.
Rule #4: Only spend time together one on one.
Whenever you hang out with the ex turned friend be sure that it's always just you and him. This is not to say that you can't go out in public, it just means that you won't be hanging out with his other friends and he won't be hanging out with yours (which is probably a good thing since most of them would probably like to burn is ass at the stake). Hanging out in groups of friends invites too much room for invasion into personal lives. Dangerous territory you must stay away from. Besides you two need to be alone because privacy is needed when practicing a policy of issue avoidance.
Rule #5: Do NOT spend more than 2 hours together.
Anything worth doing can be done in 2 hours. A movie takes 2 hours. Dinner takes an hour and a half. A game of bowling takes 2 hours. There is no reason to spend more than 2 hours together. After the 2 hour mark something interesting happens. You run out of things to say and do. Then you realize that there is something you could do and normally would be doing but can't do because you are no longer supposed to be doing it.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Lies, Lies and More Lies

Ambition sucks. Ambition is highly overrated. Whoever said ambition is noble or some other crap like that needs to be shot. Ambition is the reason I'm chained to the house this beautiful Saturday evening (well that and I'm looking like Buckwheat's cousin). Ambition made me think I could handle two aerobics classes back to back. Ambition has rendered me an invalid.
I know I said that I'm perfectly content to be a fat cow, but after careful consideration I've determined that I'm just too shallow to start shopping for plus sizes. The fact that I live with The Curly Haired Stick Figure doesn't help my body image issues, either. I tried losing weight by adopting her diet of fruit snacks and Faygo Root Beer, but it left me feeling a little less than satiated. As a mere mortal I've got to do it the old fashioned way: sweat and junk food deprivation. Goodbye Haggen Daaz, hello Stair Master!
With a recovered body (read the previous post) and renewed motivation I woke up this morning at 8 a.m. to go to a 9 a.m. cardio kickboxing class. I spent an hour throwing jabs, right hooks, and left uppercuts at exercise induced mirages of my boss and The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. I especially enjoyed kicking out their knee caps and throwing an elbow to their skulls. By the end of class I was sufficiently sweaty and out of breath and ready to go home. As I gathered my keys, membership card, and empty water bottle the instructor mentioned something about staying for the next class, Body Step. Of course I completely ignored her since I had burned the obligatory 450 calories for the day. I walked out of the group fitness studio and what happened next is sort of a blur. What I do remember is seeing a poster advertising the newest craze in fitness, Body Step. It's step aerobics without all the stupid dance moves that have people looking like rejects from a Richard Simmons' video. Hmmm, doesn't sound totally heinous. I don't know how or why it happened, but I asked the instructor for more details. She proceeds to tell me that the class is a lot of fun and how it's designed for strength and conditioning training. So far it sounds good. I ask her, "Does it hurt?" She says, "Hurt? No!! It's just a really good good workout. Plus it really tones the hips and thighs." Tones hips and thighs? Ding ding ding ding ding!!! She just said the magic words to get me to refill my water bottle, set up my step and get ready for another class. I was feeling a bit worn out from kickboxing class, but desperation to fit into the skinny jeans trumps muscle fatigue any day. Besides, she said it doesn't hurt.
The beginning strains of Brittany Spear's "Toxic" filled the room signifying the start of class. I should've known I had bitten off more than I could chew when the step together step combination in the warm-up proved to be a bit too complex for me. Still, I persevered, spurred on by the allure of smaller thighs. We get through the warm-up and stretching and into the strengthening and conditioning. That lying heffer was so full of shit! It hurt and it hurt badly. She's having us squat and lunge and fly across the step to the extended version of "Yeah" sped up on meth amphetamines. To add insult to injury she keeps telling us to kick up the intensity by power jumping off the step after every move. The best I could muster was a feeble stumble that might have resembled a bunny hop. Yet still I press on. As the hell continues that fibbing tramp starts adding dance moves into routine. I distinctly remember being told there would be no dancing. Shit, I may be Black, but I can't do this shit. Step, kick, cha cha cha...WTF!! The white chicks in class had more rhythm and coordination than I did. I was looking like a crackhead doing the Harlem shake. Why in the hell am I doing this crap? Oh that's right, those infernal skinny jeans. Class finally ended and after all that pain and suffering my thighs were no smaller than they were before class. I'd been hoodwinked.
Things went from bad to worse when I got home. All of that exercise rendered my limbs useless. I've since lost all feeling (except for pain) in both arms. My abs are so worn out that it hurts to breathe. I get a charlie horse in my inner thighs every time I attempt to cross my legs. It seems as though I have to keep inflicting this shit upon myself before I see even minimal results. If exercise is supposedly so damn good for us, then why has it left me in need of a full body cast and traction? Somebody has made a lot of money feeding that propaganda to the masses, but now I know what fat people everywhere know. Physical fitness is BULLSHIT!

Friday, August 26, 2005


I am currently walking around looking like I had an encounter with an erratic vibrator. But don't worry, I haven't seen any action from B.O.B. in a while. The reason why I have an imaginary pole up my ass is because I made the mistake of trying to lose weight.
This all started 9 months ago when my favorite jeans started chanting "HELL NO! WE WON'T GO!" once they reached my hips. I knew this was a problem, but I let it go. All I needed to do was lose a few pounds and they would fit again. Fast forward 4 months later and those pants still don't fit, aren't close to fitting, and I'm starting to wonder if they ever will fit again. The final straw came this past weekend while trying on crop pants in the fitting room at BCBG. Now BCBG does ego sizing better than any brand out there, but even they couldn't make a size 10 that gets over my ever expanding rump. Right then and there I decided I needed to get back into shape. And I needed to do it by any means necessary. That's it! I'm getting a personal trainer.
I'm all fired up and motivated now. So Monday morning I march right into the gym, go up to the front desk and tell them, "I want a trainer!!" When I sit down with one of the Personal Training Coordinators I let her know that I want results and I want them fast. I need a trainer who's insane. I want someone who I'm gonna hate. I want someone that's gonna kick my lazy butt into shape. Oh yeah, and I want to start immediately. So the lady writes all this down and tells me she'll review the list of trainers to see who is available and have one of them call me that evening. Around 7 p.m I get a call from one of the trainers. We chat about my goals and time availability and then decide to meet at 6 a.m. the next morning. So far so good.
The next day I'm up before the butt crack of dawn and arrive 10 minutes before my scheduled appointment. I warm up by jogging a couple of laps on the track and stretching out. I'm ready to go! At 6 a.m. sharp I meet my trainer. He looked cool. Tall guy with an athletic build and a friendly smile. Little did I know that I had been paired with Satan's Henchman In Charge of Torture. That Fascist dictator took extreme pleasure from my extreme pain. I have the feeling that he was taking out all of the frustrations from his childhood on me. I could just see it in eyes. Mommy wouldn't give me a cookie...5 more reps for Liz. Santa didn't bring me a bike...add another 20 pound weight plate for Liz. Prom date wouldn't give me a hand job...15 more crunches for Liz. He wouldn't even stop when halfway through the workout I told him he was about 2 seconds away from seeing my breakfast on his Nikes. He just looked at me and said, "That's nice, keep lifting, you've got 8 more to go." At 7:10 I limped back to my car, drove home, and put myself to bed.
The next day I wake up to pain coursing through every fiber of my body. Everything from my back to my abs to my thighs was aching. I couldn't even stand, let alone walk. Stairs were completely out of the question. The worst pain was in my ass. Every time I attempted to sit it felt as though I was getting kicked in each cheek with a steel toe boot. The lean and plop method of sitting often used by pregnant women had to be employed just to get on the toilet seat. I didn't ask for this!! I said I wanted a trainer who was insane, not criminally psychotic. I said I wanted a trainer who will kick my butt into shape, not try to kill me. I said I wanted a trainer who will make me hate them, not make me want to hire a hitman. The most bullshit part of this is that I'm actually paying Satan's Minion to do this to me. I'm beginning to think that getting back into my skinny jeans isn't worth it. Screw it, I'll just be a fat cow. MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Wednesday, August 24, 2005


The male species seems to have a bone to pick with women. Lately it seems I can't go anywhere without some guy saying, "Yo, why do chicks go to the club, if they don't want a man to holla?" Men just do NOT get it. It doesn't seem to matter how many times it is explained or how slowly a woman speaks when explaining, they just can't wrap their little brains around the idea. We go to the club to kick it with our girls, get our drink on, and dance our little behinds off to songs that degrade us. It has NOTHING to do with you! Since it seems as though this a really difficult concept for men to comprehend, I'm going to answer several frequently asked questions. Hopefully this will once and for all end the incessant whining.
Question #1: If you don't want men to try and holla why do you dress that way?
The way a woman dresses when she leaves the house has nothing to do with trying to attract a man, and everything to do with how she wants to feel about herself. Yes, I put on my tightest jeans, my lowest cut top, the come fuck me heels, and sexify my hair just for me and me alone. It is not an invitation for any man to palm my ass, talk to my chest, or breathe their hot breath on the back of my neck. Sorry guys, but the sexy is for me, not for you. I'm not trying to attract some guy that probably only looks good under minimal lighting.
Question #2: Why you gonna let a guy buy you a drink if you ain't interested?
Now this is just a dumb question. Why would I pay $10 or more for a drink when someone else is willing to do that for me? I didn't ask him to buy me that beverage, he offered. It's his fault for thinking that drink somehow bought him a friend for the night. Here's a suggestion, if you don't want to spend money to get nothing in return, stop offering to buy us drinks. Wait, scratch that. Don't stop offering, just stop complaining.
Question #3: Why don't ya'll dance when you're in the club?
Actually, we do dance. We dance in a circle with each other. It's fun, we like it, don't question it. To be honest the circle dancing eases us into dancing with men. First we dance in the circle, then we move on to the testosterone. Stop trying to rush the process.
Question #4: If you want to dance, why turn guys down when they ask you to dance?
Let's get something straight. Most men do not ask a woman to dance. Pointing to your crotch while wiggling your hips and telling me to come shake it right there is NOT an invitation to dance. Nor is sneaking up on me from behind and poking me in the rear with Mr. Weasel. Oftentimes it's all about the approach, and oftentimes your approach sucks. Plus, just because we want to back it up on someone, doesn't mean that just anyone will do. Even though I'm not looking for a relationship on the dance floor, giving Quasimodo's twin the same treatment the driver's seat of my car gets whenever "Some Cut" comes on the radio isn't gonna happen. Although a dance is just a dance, part of the fun is pretending it's something more. For the 3 minutes and 50 seconds that I'm grinding my little money maker on his nether regions, we're together. He holds my waist, I throw naughty glances over my shoulder, we act like we actually know and like each other. When the song is over, so is the fantasy. He goes back into the sea of nameless faceless men and I adjust my top and go back to the circle from whence I came. It's like playing make believe for a few minutes. I don't know too many women that like to pretend with dudes that got hit with an ugly brick. Plus, the ugly ones never know you're just pretending.
I hope this list of FAQs clears up any and all questions any male has regarding women in the club. And to be honest, even if it doesn't, who cares!! We're women, and our rationale doesn't have to seem rational to men. So Black girls, you dress like a Hunt's Point professional whenever you go to the club! White girls, you make out with each other on the dance floor while your boyfriends watch! Hispanic girls, you do the merengue with one another instead of that short greasy Mexican. And Asian girls, hhhmmmm....well I don't really know what the hell ya'll are doing, but just keep on doing it. We're women, and if it makes sense to us, that's all that really matters anyways.

Friday, August 19, 2005

Sister to Sister

Dear Star,
I think there is something you should know. I don't quite know how to tell you this. Alright, I'm gonna let you in a little secret. Are you alone? Okay, here it is. Star, you're husband is GAY! Aww, whatever! This ain't a secret. In fact, Star, you seem to be the ONLY person who doesn't know that he's gay. Star, look at him. Go on, really look at him. There is not a straight man alive who sits up that straight while showing everyone his crotch. No straight man's jeans would fit that tightly either. Let's examine some more evidence. I mean, do I really have to point out the obvious?! Just look at him. He just screams, "I'm HERE, I'M QUEER!!" Oh Honey, why can't you see what we see.
I realize that you have been deluding yourself for a while, so this may come as a shock to you. But I think that deep down, you know that EVERYONE is right. If you were wondering why you've never actually had sex with your husband, it's because he thinks your vagina is icky. Oh there, there, Star. Don't take it personally, he thinks ALL vaginas are icky, not just yours. This explains so much! The excessive toiletries, the hair styling, the time he spends with that guy 'Twan, everything!!
Girl, don't feel bad. You are NOT the first desperate woman over 35 to be turned into a fag hag. You're in great company. Let's see, there's Diana Ross and Liza Minelli. You're in the company of legends! A Supreme and an Oscar winner. Look at it like this. Knowledge is power. Now you can go warn others before they turn into you. In fact, you could help out poor Katie Holmes. She's about 2 words away from becoming Tom Cruise's 3rd official beard. Help the poor girl. Help her.
Star, the reason I'm telling you all of this is because I care. It hurts to me to see you gushing about your ring, your wedding, and "your" man on The View everyday. It especially hurts whenever the camera pans to your co-hosts looking at you with eyes that are saying, "Riiiiiiiiiiight." Actually, everyone on the set is looking at you that way. Someone needed to tell you the truth, instead of just laughing at you behind your back. Now I know it's going to be difficult being all alone again, but you can do it. Dry your eyes, put on that wig, and cake on that make-up and you go out there and find you a man (preferably one who's NOT into other men).
In Sisterly Love,

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Cuckoo Cuckoo

I'm listening to the Emancipation of Mimi ad nauseam. It has suddenly dawned on me that Mariah Carey has issues. Really deep seeded, personal issues. And I'm not just talking about that stint she did in the looney bin a couple years ago. Wait, excuse me I mean her 6 month "hospitalization for exhaustion." Honestly, I don't even know why people were surprised about the whole situation. Just listen to her music, the signs were there the whole time. That bitch is crazy.
Have you ever really paid attention to what she's saying? I mean really, really paid attention. Alright, take that song "Always Be My Baby." Yeah, I know you've heard it a thousand times, but I bet you totally missed the fact that Mariah is a freakin psycho ass broad. Don't let the dulcet tones of her voice fool you into thinking that it's just an ordinary love song. Hell no it ain't! Mariah Carey is a stalker. Check out these lyrics: "You'll always be a part of me/I'm part of you indefinitely/oh Boy, you know you can't escape me/oooohh Darling, cause you'll always be my baby/It'll linger on/time can't erase a feeling this strong/there's no way you're ever gonna shake me/oooohh Darling, cause you'll always be my baby." Looks kind of scary when you see it in print now doesn't it. Personally, it conjures images of Mariah being carried away from the object of her affection in a straight jacket, with those light brown locks flying everywhere, as she's kicking and screaming, "NO WAY YOU'RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME!!!!!! NO WAY YOU'RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME!!! YOOOOOOUUUUUUU AND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII WILL AAAALLLLLLLWAYS BEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
Don't get me wrong, a little bit of stalking is normal. There's not a single red-blooded woman alive who hasn't stalked a man to some extent (remember Denial is not just a river in Egypt). I'll be the first to admit to it. Back in high school I was butt crazy in love with this boy who had a lazy eye and a receding hairline. Oh, he was so fine!! I used to make my older brother drive by his home really slowly so I could maybe catch a glimpse of him coming out the house. I don't do stuff like that anymore. Nowadays what I'll do is come into town without telling a guy. Then I'll call up one of his friends (but not good enough friends to call him and tell him we spoke). In the course of conversation, I'll ask what's going on for the evening, weekend, or whatever. When I get the goods on where stuff is gonna pop off, I casually ask who's expected to be where. Nine times out of ten, the friend will tell me where old boy will more than likely be. After that all I have to do is call one of my girls to come along as a buffer, put on something that shows plenty of cleavage or thigh (not both, cause that looks so desperate), show up at the designated location, and "accidentally" bump into the object of my affection. This is perfectly NORMAL and ACCEPTABLE behavior. It can't even be considered stalking because the person doesn't feel stalked. What Mariah is raving about, on the other hand, is definite cause for a restraining order. If someone said that stuff to me, I wouldn't want them within 500 feet of me. I'm telling you, the chick is just CRAZY!!

Wednesday, August 17, 2005


Beeeeeeeeeeeeep Beeeeeeeep Beeeeeeep This is a test of the Recently Updated Blog System. If this were a real update to my blog my pithy rantings about the thoughts in my demented head would follow. However, this is only a test. Thank you.


Don't judge me. I want to be a video girl. Yep, that's right, I want to be one of those chicks that everyone sees on BET shaking their ass in music videos. I too want to climb on top of a red Caddy and jiggle my ass on it's roof. Wait, I hear the ice cream man. I'll be right back. Mmmmkay, remind me to never again run barefoot down a half paved street in pursuit of a rinky dink ice cream van (yeah I said van, not truck) that doesn't even have the decency to stock 10 cent rainbow gumballs and blowpops. Trifling bastards.
Now, back to the lecture at hand: my upcoming video girl career. After watching the making of Sean Paul's new clip for "We Be Burnin" on BET's Access Granted I'm so positive that I'm more than qualified. I can gyrate with the best of them. I'm especially adept at running my hands across my writhing body while giving sultry stares to anyone who glances in my direction. I can also pop it, drop it, pick it back up, then bend it over and shake it (I follow Lil' John's instructions well). The wardrobe isn't a problem either. My underwear only half covers my ass anyways, and a t-shirt and panties is my favorite outfit.
Some might say that I'd be wasting my Ivy League education if I left my job counting Cheerios to be the newest addition to 50 Cent's next video shoot, but I disagree. I honestly think I'm wasting my talents now. My butt ain't always gonna look this good so I might as well get paid for it now. Plus, I spend countless hours watching the current video hoes (oops I mean entertainers) doing their thing and then practicing in the mirror. Besides Candice from Lloyd Bank's "On Fire" video has a law degree from Northwestern* and that cost way more than my piddling Bachelor of Science in Policy Analysis and Management (whatever that is). That chick is a lawyer, and if she's not too good to walk out of a hot tub dripping wet in 2 scraps of cloth resembling a bikini, well then damn it, neither am I!!!
Just so that there is no confusion, I have no intention of being just anybody's video chick. You won't catch me doing low budget videos for the likes of Webbie, Mike Jones, and Won G. Oh no, I'm high class with mine. Only the top selling rappers like 50, Ludacris, and Jigga can pour Cristal all over my chest. Cause I respect myself, damn it!

*King Magazine - March 2005 Issue