Thanks

I'd like to send a firm thanks to the people at Dancing with the Stars for allowing my man, Mario Lopez, to dance again. I'd like to send an even further thanks to the people over at Nip Tuck for allowing him to appear on the show this season and showing his booty. As someone who has long loved A.C. Slater, I have to say thank you thank you thank you!!!!!

I'm in Love with a Stripper

This weekend I went to a workout class that I’ve been putting off for various reasons. Now that I went, I’ve gotta keep going back. See, this was strip aerobics. And thanks to our leader, Cinderella, I had a great workout.

It was a free intro class and I went with a friend. It started out with her leading us through a series of moves. She would ask us how we felt and we would yell out 'Sexy!' Then things started getting more serious with us repeating a series of moves to the beat of the music. We had to rotate our legs a certain way, but keep them together as if we were squeezing a hundred dollar bill. We also had to do a kitty cat pose which is an erotic version of yoga’s downward dog. And there was a whole lot of booty shaking going on. By the time it was over, I had the trademark Whitney Houston sweat on the top of my lip and my legs and abs felt tight. But the mission was accomplished, b/c I did feel sexy.

Later, Cinderella demonstrated her moves on the pole and I was seriously impressed. She climbed it, spun around it and hung upside down on it. And she was just an ordinary looking woman. Actually she wasn’t that cute at all. But by the time the class was over, I wanted her number! (that’s a joke… I’m not a lesbian, no I’m not)

Now I have newfound respect for strippers/exotic dancers. It’s not all take it off, grind, shake, take the money. There’s an art form to this. I’ve got to go back there and buy a bulk of classes so I can learn some moves. Then I want to go to strip club and see if I can pick up any new moves. I've got to buy some classes and a pair of trampy shoes soon. ‘Cause I’m bringing sexy back. Woo-hooooo!!

Flavor Flaaaaaav!!!!!

About a week ago, I was visiting my mother. We were sitting back, drinking lemonade and shooting the breeze. Suddenly, she told me that she had an important question for me. I cringed. Did she find out about the 10-year-old twins I put up for adoption? How I spent my senior year in college stripping to help pay for my portion of the tuition? My affair with my high school gym teacher?**

“What’s the point of ‘Flavor of Love?’”

Whew. A television question. That I can handle. Thanks to Juicy, I was able to catch a marathon of that show over the weekend. Here’s a quick recap. The show revolves around Flavor Flav, who was a member of conscious rap group Public Enemy. The group, led by Chuck D, was known for giving the finger to all things authority (hence one of their song titles, “Fight the Power”). Flavor Flav was more like the mascot of the group, chiming in every once in a while to say “Yeah, Boy”, bug out his eyes and twitch like an epileptic. He’s so famous that VH1 chose him for The Surreal Life (a show for Z-list celebrities) and it was there that he hooked up with Max-Headroom look alike Brigitte Nielsen. They broke up and he decided he wanted real love. Hence his show, Flavor of Love.

This is the second season of this trainwreck, er, I mean, show. The first season he chose a girl nicknamed Hoopz over another known as New York. Hoopz later broke up with him and they called for another season. New York came back to unleash her fury on the other contestants and keep them in line. By the end of the show, Flav decided he wanted her in the running again. When he gave her the gigantic clock (the show's version of giving the rose on The Bachelor) she bawled like a baby.

I don't know why any of these women want to be put through Flav's house of horrors for the world to see. But at least I can understand New York's motives. Up until now, she's known as the chick who was dissed by the unattractive Flavor Flav. Can't go out like that. Even if it means putting herself through an endless amount of booty-shaking contests. Poor girl.

Days like this make me glad I got rid of cable. Because I would surely be television watching.

(**All lies, btw. Or are they? Heh heh)

96

I reflected about the high school years the other day with one of my oldest friends, April. (that's the republican, for my regular readers) We spent alot of time together because we had similar circumstances -- only child, single mother and one of the few black students in a predominantly white classroom. We were also the girls with the answers. We were the students in class that teachers love, but students hate. We knew the answers, but it's not that we tried to draw attention to that fact. We weren't the kid in the front row who raised his hand for every question and pouted if the teacher picked someone else. We were undercover nerds. We tried to hide our brains, but the teachers would know better and call on us constantly to demonstrate that fact. Then they'd praise us and the other kids would roll their eyes.

April's talent is math, mine is English. Here is April's story, as told to me:
(My high school, 1993. Ms. Massaquoi's pre-calculus class)
Ms. M: Now who can look at this problem and apply the I Love Math Theorem?
April: (face buried behind textbook)
Ms. M: Anyone? Anyone?
April: (shrinks lower in her seat)
Ms. M: April! Do you know the answer?
April: Ummmm...not really.
Ms. M: Sure you do. Come up here and show everyone.
April: Ok.
(she writes a series of numbers and gibberish on the blackboard as slow as she can, so her classmates will assume she's working the problem out as she goes along) Is that it?
Ms M: Class, look at this!! Do you see the answer? The answer is e=mc2. And April is the only one who knew it. How do you all feel about that?
(A few yawns from the other students)
April: It really wasn't a big deal.
Ms. M: Oh yes it was. You all need to start studying, like April. Do you know why she knows the answers? Because she stays afteschool everyday to practice math! That's right. Everyday. Ask her if you need help.
(April walks slowly to her desk and contemplates slitting her wrists and bleeding over the blackboard. But since that would ruin her wonderful problem solving, she decides against it)

For the record, April stayed afterschool only a few times to tutor a friend. Ms. M. saw them together and jumped to her own conclusions.

Anyway, here's my story. I'm taking a writing class for graduate school. Our assignment was to write our autobiography.
(Present day, Strength Univ.)
Professor: I apologize to you all, but I've been sick this weekend. That means I did two things I never do. One, I marked up everything and two, I used a red pen. So my apologies in advance.
Male student: Oh great. You can keep mine then.
Professor: Some of you are very strong writers and I was impressed. I think the highest score in the class was a 96. Anyway, after you see your papers, you can leave.
(She passes them out and I get my paper. I got ... drumroll please ... a 96!! I could leave now, but everyone else is reviewing their papers. I fear that if I leave, everyone will know that I got the highest grade. So I sit back and try to look pensive)
Professor: (approaches my desk with a questioning look) Something wrong, Ms. Wisdom?
Me: No. Just looking over some of these errors I made.
Professor: Yes, only a few grammatical errors. (she points to my score) But you did very well. You write like a journalist.
Me: I think that's my problem (I chuckle with another student)
Professor: Oh no, you did very well. Very well. Again class, 96 was the highest score. So if you have a 96, I wouldn't even think about resubmitting. I mean, any score in the 90s isn't worth revising, but I'll leave it up to you. But you can't really improve from a 96.
(I stare at my paper for a little while longer, hoping that no one picked up on the fact that I earned the 96. Then I slip out quietly)

Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of my grade. It just made me feel like I was in high school again, trying to fit in with the cool kids. It's not easy having this beauty and brains too. =) In the words of Eva Perrone, or Madonna, "I'm only a simple woman!"

My Reality

I had just completed an episode of A Different World on dvd when I wondered which character I was most like in college. Then I wondered why that wasn’t a blog meme and who I could write to in order to get one established. Then the harsh reality hit me: I have no life.

Sure, I have this fabulous job that I love (yeah, right), I’m pursuing a master’s degree and I spend my free time either working out or hanging with a close-knit group of friends. Yet there are too many days when I come home from work, eat my dinner and count the number of times I blink. I can’t remember the last time I had a date. Actually, I can remember, but I’d rather not go into it here. I wonder how much my life would change if I had a boyfriend. So I started down a path I’ve treaded before – online dating.

The first site I tried was pretty extensive. I don’t want mention its real name, so I’ll just call it eNarmony. I saw the commercials of all the happy married couples and the guy with the glasses that claims to be an expert in love. The site seems easy enough. I’m required to answer a series of statements about my personal characteristics and rate them on a scale of 1 to 7, which translates into not at all, somewhat and very. I went through statements like – I’m ambitious, I like to look at people of the opposite sex, my beliefs make me a better person, etc. Whew! It was a lot of work. Finally, when I got done all that, the web site people told me I was only 15 percent through the questionnaire. Interesting. Was I willing to go any further with this? Hell no!

Then I stumbled on another site, Hatch. I’ve been there before. It’s so easy to keep my profile the same and grab my credit card. But some things have changed from my previous profile. For starters, my picture. I have short hair now and in the picture I have long hair. I have to find someone with a digital camera to take a new picture of me. That sounds a lot easier than it actually is. I can’t really go up to random people and ask them to take my picture and then email it to me. I have considered asking my coworker to do it, since she’s taken up photography as a hobby. But then she’ll wonder why I insist on looking perfect in the photo and I don’t have time for her endless questions. So I’m back to square one.

Things shouldn’t be this hard. Why can’t it just be easy to meet someone? I mean, Mom and Dad were childhood sweethearts. Mom met my stepdad through work. My aunt met my uncle at a club. My cousin met her man through rehab. Nice, simple scenarios! At this rate, I’ll tell my kids that I met their father after he left a comment on my myspace page or winked at me on Hatch. Sigh. It’s hard out here for a chick.

Friends -- How Many of Us Have Them?

Now that I've been roughin' it (that's what I call this period in my life where I've been surviving without cable), I've learned to discover the wonderful world of educational television. I watch PBS often, mainly because that's one of the few channels that doesn't turn all fuzzy on me. It's also enabled me to discover other television shows that I refused to watch in the past. There is this one show called "Friends". Ever heard of it?

Yeah, I know it was popular when it was on. But I refused to watch a bunch of idiotic white kids prance around New York as if they had never seen a minority before. It was the preppy version of 'Living Single' (which I loved) and I refused to support it. Yes, I've watched a few episodes in the past and I know how it ends (Ross and Rachel, blah), but I was never overly impressed.

Thursday nights used to be the best night for television. Back in college, we'd pile into the TV lounge and prepare for a night of New York Undercover, Living Single and whatever else that was black and on the air. We dared anyone to touch the channel:

(Freshman year, Urban U. Two white girls approach the TV)
Girl #1: I'm sooo loving Rachel's hair! I can't wait to see what she does next.
Girl #2: Me either! Let's change the channel.
(Alarm sounds and a group of black students crowd the TV set)
Black student #1: Halt! There will be no watching of the 'Friends' here.
Girl #1: Why not? Everybody watches Friends.
Black student #2: We're watching New York Undercover.
Girl #2: What's that?
Black student #3: It's a black-a** show for black-a** people. So get outta here before we start a revolution.
Crowd: REVOLUTION!!!!!!
Girl #1&2: (huddled close together) Er... let's get outta here.

Maybe I've mellowed a little sense then. Here, 'Friends' comes on at 7 and 7:30 on weeknights. At first, I just kept the show on for a little background noise, then I found myself cracking up. I hate Ross -- he's sooo friggin' pitiful -- but I love him just the same. Chandler gets on my nerves with all his antics, but he cracks me up. I'd say my favorite character is Monica, who is a much more neurotic version of myself. Joey's just dirty, but he makes me laugh. Good times.

So there you have it, my secret is out of the bag. I watch 'Friends' and <*gasp*> I like it. I'll have to keep this a secret from my revolutionary homies.

The Shingles Bond

I didn't do much for my day off. I spent it working out and then recovering from my workout. I watched a bit of tennis which enabled me to see James Blake, who is my kindred spirit. (He won, btw)

Much has been said about Blake's struggles in recent years -- a serious car accident, injuries in training, his father's death from stomach cancer and his own battle against shingles, which nearly paralyzed him. Somehow, he perservered and is back to winning tennis matches again.

Blake and I are the only two people I know of who are under the age of 60 and have dealt with shingles. I got it when I was 17 and I didn't know anything about this virus. All I knew was that I wanted these blisters to go away. The rash was on the side of my stomach and stretched around to the side of my back. It didn't itch, but it hurt. It hurt to the point that I often held my shirt away from my skin because the mere touch of the fabric ached. I was also cold all the time and spent much of the spring bundled under covers with my teeth chattering. I finally went to the doctor and I learned that this is a disease that usually affects the elderly. To this day, I have no clue how I got it. It left a few tiny scars.

My case wasn't as bad as Blake's. He had shingles so bad that it nearly paralyzed the left side of his face and almost caused permanent nerve damage. That virus is no joke. I still get goosebumps when I think about it. So if I ever happen to meet James Blake, maybe we can compare cases. Then I'll show him my scars and he can show me his. Then we'll ride off in the sunset together ... 'cause the man is foooine.
(Photo courtesy of http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/41502000/jpg/_41502354_blake_getty_200x300.jpg)