Not Right Now

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

I Don't Wanna Know

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

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

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

Attempted Robbery

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

Metamorphosis

February 21, 2001

Dear Diary,

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

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

HELLO FERGIE!!!

21 Questions.....or Something Like That

You had questions, and I have the answers.

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

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

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

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

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









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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Very Special Blogisode

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

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

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

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


Lord help me!

Welcome To Miami* (Part IV)

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

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

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

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

*The Heat are diseased rhinocerous pizzle

Welcome To Miami* (Part III)

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

* The Miami Heat eat fly spattered donkey shit