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)

Flawless

I think my mother is having a midlife crisis. She had me when she was young (18) and now that she's pushing 50, she seems to feel like we're in competition. Competition for what, I don't know.

Flashback seven years ago, shortly after my father died. Mom was trying to cheer me up, so we went to the mall and stopped at the M.A.C. Counter.
Mom: Excuse me? I'd like to buy a new foundation.
Saleswoman: Ok. Try this one. You might also want to follow up with this concealer and this as well.
Me: I want a foundation too.
Saleswoman: Okay. (tries a few different kinds on my face, then sighs) You know. You don't really need any foundation. You've got beautiful skin.
Saleswoman #2: Yeah, you don't need anything. You should see me when I take my makeup off.
Me: Thank you.
Mom: Aww, that's so sweet.

Fastforwarded to present day time. Now I'm with the pre-menopausal mother, on the cusp of the senior years. She's on her way to a baby shower and we stop at a kid's clothing store to find a gift.
Saleswoman: (grabbing my arm) I'm sorry, but I have to say this.
Me: Ummm, yes?
Saleswoman: You have really beautiful skin.
Mom: grrrr
Saleswoman: I mean, it's like, flawless.
Me: Thank you.
Saleswoman: I bet people stop you all the time!
Me: Um, not really ...
Mom: Yeah, they only do that when she's with me.
Saleswoman: Guys? Have you seen this woman's skin? Isn't it amazing?!
Mom: You know what? It's time to go. I'm not seeing anything I want in here.
Me: But ...
Mom: (grabbing my arm) Let's go!

So that's the latest example of her midlifery. I tried to tell her that she could also have beautiful skin if she just drank eight glasses of water a day and eased up on the salt, but she looked like she was going to beat me, so I shut up. I heard through one of my aunts that Mom actually likes my new hairstyle, despite all the grief she's given me about it. She told me recently that she bought India.Arie's new cd and that's helping her understand me better. Maybe I need to start watching Oprah. Maybe that would help me understand her and this whole midlife crisis thing.

Get on the Bus

There was something in the air today that told me it would be a good day. I didn't figure out what it was until I got all the way to work and saw a yellow school bus filled with children. Ah yes. It was the first day of school.

Ordinarily, days like this are insiginficant to me. That was back before I moved into my new neighborhood, which is swarming with kids, or as I affectionately call them -- Little Bastards. And I'm not talkng about the cute and cuddly kind of child. I'm talking about the most dreaded of all -- the teenagers.

Throughout the summer, I had to come home only to find a bunch of Little Bastards sitting on the front stoop of my apartment complex. They sit out there smoking and cursing, some of them without shirts on as if someone wants to look at their bird chests. Several times I wanted to toss grocery store applications at them or books or sudoku puzzles. Shoot, I even wanted to drive their behinds to the park. But I never did any of that. Why? Because I'm filled with apathy.

Thank goodness the public school system has picked up where I failed. There was no one sitting on my porch this evening and I didn't hear any loud arguments. I can't remember the last time I sat in my apartment and was able to hear myself think. But I'm sure this will only last a few days. Once the teachers start slacking off on the homework, the Little Bastards will be roaming free again. Until then, I'm dancing a jig.

Training Day

In my latest effort to get the training regimine of Motown Runner Girl, I have started running again. Myself and three (sometimes two) other people get together on the weekends and run around this park until we, or I, collaspe. Yesterday was one of those days.

Our fearless leader, Katie, took us for a run at a park that's different than the one we usually workout at. This new park had hills that felt like mountains. There were only three of us yesterday, which sucked for me. The other guy who usually comes is in worse shape than I am, so it's good to have at least one person in the back when we're trekking to the forest. Without him yesterday, I started out good than had to sputter in the back by myself. No fun!!

Unlike Motown Runner Girl, I'm not planning to do any marathons anytime soon. I'm just trying to find something that I enjoy that keeps the calories off. So far, this is working. Wish me luck!

Heather Headley Stadium

It may be hard to believe, but sometimes I make a bad decision. I'm ashamed to admit the number of poor choices I've made in my life. But this last blunder is at the top of my "If I could only go back" list. It was the day I chose a 70s party over Heather Headley, one of my favorite singers.

Here's how it went down: The lovely Ms. Heather was performing at an outdoor concert the same day when an acquaintance of mine, Rachel, was having a 70s party. Typically, this would've been a no brainer for me and I would've just went to see Heather. Yet there was a catch with this concert. There a bunch of other artists scheduled to perform that day and no one had a time that Heather would sing. One of the other artists set to perform was Chingy. I like Chingy, but I don't see how his crowd mixes with the Heather Headley crowd. I didn't feel like being lost in a crowd of 200,000 people that were mostly youngins, hoochies and hotheads. I figured Heather could wait.

So Rachel convinced me to come to her 70s costume party. She planned to dress up as roller girl from "Boogie Nights" and another guy wanted to dress up as Jack Tripper and bring two female dates looking like Janet and Chrissy. It started to sound like fun and an opportunity for me to flirt with a pair of brothers -- Cutie #1 and Cutie #2. (Note -- There were going to be few people of color at this party. Actually, myself and the cuties would account for the color component).

I convinced my friend Tracey to come with me to the party. We were looking fierce -- me with my jumbo Afro wig and dashiki, she with her dashiki, platforms and two ponytails. Just getting to Rachel's place was an adventure. The chick lives in an area that's not known for its racial harmony and we were walking around in our power to the people get ups. We even had to pass a bar that was overflowing with drunks and the sound of Garth Brooks. Sigh. Now I know how white people feel when they enter the hood and hear "gangsta" rap. A sista was scared! Still, we pressed on.

Finally, I get to Rachel's house. She greets me with open arms. And then I noticed something ....


Rachel wasn't wearing a costume!!


I looked around her backyard and no one else was dressed up either. Not even the Jack Tripper wanna be!!


By this point, Tracey's pretty pissed at me, but I try to play it off by mingling in the crowd and staying as far away from her as possible. I later find out that Cutie #1 and Cutie #2 were at the party earlier and already left. Grrrr. So after about 15 minutes of talking to people we didn't really want to talk to, we rolled out as well.


The next day, all the radio stations were talking about how amazing Heather Headley's performance was. I changed stations repeatedly, but each time I found someone raving about Heather's performance. "I can't even tell you how great she was," one caller to the station said. "Ya'll gonna have to start calling it Heather Headley Stadium from now on."

Grrr. So I learned my lesson. When it comes to choosing between Heather Headley and the 70s, always go with Heather.

(Photo courtesy of www.heatherheadley.com)

Back in Effect

Sorry I've been MIA for awhile, it's just that I've been so .... Oh forget it. I just haven't felt like writing anything. I'll start to post something, then I'll get sidetracked and promise to come back to it, yet I never do. I was beginning to feel like a slacker, but eff it, this is my house. And if I'm uninspired, I'm uninspired.

Somehow today, I'm inspired.

Apparently, Osama bin Laden should've been included in Rev. Michael Eric Dyson's book, "Why I Love Black Women." Osama apparently has a "thing" for Whitney Houston. Kola Boof -- she's Sudanese, also a sista -- is writing in her autobiography that bin Laden is obsessed with Whitney and wanted to take her as one of his wives, as well as have Bobby Brown killed. Kola Boof (pictured) has been described as Osama's mistress or sex slave, depending on who you ask .. but actually, is there really a difference between the two? She once worked as a writer for the soap "Days of Our Lives."

I wonder what Whitney has to say about this. The chick needs to run and hide.
(Pix courtesy of www.kolaboof.com)

Compassion

People Envy Your Compassion

You have a kind heart and an unusual empathy for all living creatures. You tend to absorb others' happiness and pain. People envy your compassion, and more importantly, the connections it helps you build. And compassionate as you are, you feel for them.

What Do People Envy About You?

Mixin' It Up

I had a wonderful weekend hanging with some women I met during my freshman year of college -- back when we were teenage brats. I only attended this college for a year before transferring, but I managed to stay in touch with all of them. We camped out at my one friend's house Friday - Sunday and laughed, ate, and laughed some more. It felt like we were in college again.

I realize how blessed I am to have so many close friends. I keep them compartmentalized into individual groups. There's the Freshman Friends, my Friends from my Other College, High School Friends, Neighborhood Friends and Work Friends. I abide by one simple rule -- never mix up the groups. These people had nothing in common, except for me. And if they did have anything in common, there was no need to bring them together at once. I mean, what if they liked each other? Or, God forbid, started getting together without me?

These days, I'm opening my circles a bit. I've invited a friend from the Other College Group into my weekly runs with my Work Friends. I'm hosting a book club meeting next month (we're reading Octavia Butler's wonderful book, "Kindred") where I'll have members of my Freshman, Neighborhood and Work groups. We'll see how this works out. If it does, I'll open my circle even wider. But if it doesn't, and my friends start cheating on me, it's back to the old ways.

Family Secrets

All my life, they tried to hide the truth from me. It took me 29 years, but now I know the truth.

For the first nine years of my life, I lived in a house with my Mom, aunt and my beloved grandmother, Vera. I knew Grandma wasn’t like the other grandmothers in our small town of Nowhere, U.S.A. For starters, she loved sports, but she didn’t watch them on television. She preferred to listen to them on an old radio and yell ‘get ‘em’ to players who couldn’t hear her. She also had a tendency to let people know exactly who they were. For example:
Grandmom: Raynell! Your white friend’s here.
Aunt Raynell: Mom, shhh! Don’t say that.
Grandmom: (in direct earshot of the person) Well, she is white. And she’s fat too.

So that was Grandma -- this beautiful, saintly woman who ate my vegetables when Mom wasn’t looking. She was also the only person able to show me how to tie my shoelaces. I thought I knew her intimately, but I was wrong. All that time, there was something she kept form me. And I learned the truth this week.


My beloved Grandma…… God rest her soul….



*sniff,sniff*



She was a …..


REPUBLICAN!!


Not just not any Republican, she was the kind that used to stand in the corner trying to make other people become Republicans too. I hear folks used to think she was crazy -- an old black woman standing on the corner proclaiming her love for Reagan. I went with her to the voting booth for years as a child and never knew who she was supporting. Now that I know, I wonder how she got that way. My family is the anti-conservative -- we've got atheists, gays, "broken" homes, welfare, criminals, tax evaders ... I could go on and on. So what on earth possessed Vera to become an elephant?

I shared my concerns with my friend, April.
Me: No wonder people treat me strangely when I visit Nowhere, U.S.A. They're thinking, she's the granddaughter of the Republican.
April: Wow. You'll really hate me then.
Me: Don't tell me! You can't be ...
April: (nodding) I just hated John Kerry. At least W. is scum, but he's out in the open with his scum.
Me: Don't give me that bulljive. You only changed because of Justin (her fiance).
April: Well, he had a little to do with it.
Me: Traitor!
April: Hey, it's the party of Lincoln.

So there you have it. Not only am I the descendant of an elephant, but I'm also friends with one. It's enough to make a grown woman cry.

Weary

This song sums up my mood these days. Check out my girl, Amel.
(Press Stop if you don't want to hear the music)



Music Video Codes

Back in the Day

I'm stealing this from Kelley. Feel free to use on your own blog.

Ten years ago today, it was August 5, 1996. what a difference a decade makes!
1) How old were you?
THEN: 19
NOW: 29

2) Where did you work?
THEN: Blockbuster
NOW: None Ya Business, Inc.

3) Where did you live?
THEN: The East Coast
NOW: The East Coast

4) How was your hairstyle?
THEN: It was long and relaxed, with some honey brown highlights
NOW: Short and twisted.

5) Did you wear contacts?
THEN: Hell yes
NOW: Hell yes

6) Did you wear glasses?
THEN: When I'm not wearing my contacts
NOW: The same

8) Which of your pets were still alive?
THEN: I didn't like animals
NOW: My cat -- Simba

9) Who was your boyfriend/girlfriend?
THEN: The First Love
NOW: Me, myself and I is all I got 'till the end

10) Who was your celebrity crush?
THEN: There were many. But I always had Taimak from The Last Dragon at the top of my list.
NOW: He's still my main man. Yeah, I know he's probably gay, but let me have my fantasy!

11) How many piercings did you have?
THEN: Two in each ear.
NOW: The same.

12) How many tattoos did you have?
THEN: None
NOW: None

13) What was your favorite band/singer?
THEN: 'Favorite' is such a hard word. I will say it was then that I started getting into Groove Theory, because I saw them perform and was blown away. Also the Fugees.
NOW: Amel Larrieux, who went solo from Groove Theory, and Lauryn Hill, who went solo from the Fugees. The Fugees reunited, but I'm not impressed with what I've heard.

14) Had you smoked a cigarette?
THEN: Yes, to see what it was like.
NOW: That first time I tried it was enough for me. That was disgusting.

15) Had you gotten drunk?
THEN: Maybe a little tipsy
NOW: Maybe a lot tipsy

16) What kind of car did you drive?
THEN: Chevy Corsica
NOW: Ford Escort ZX2

17) Looking back, are you where you thought you would be in 2006?
Not at all. By now I'm supposed to be a famous novelist who is happily married to Taimak with three kids, a mansion and a summer home in the Hamptons. Maybe I was being a bit unrealistic.

LOL

I declare war.

I started my own guerrilla squad awhile back, but now we're in full effect. See, I'm a founding member of my own group that I like to call S.I.S.S. (Sistas in the Single Struggle). Our members are all single women who for one reason or another, tired of the bullshit. I started this group after I got tired of the endless snotty comments I get from members of another group, the M.R.S. (Married, Raising Seeds). Chicks in this group like to flaunt their wedding rings in front of your face and frown upon anyone who doesn't have a husband. (I do have some wonderful, married female friends, but because they're so great, I'm excluding them from the M.R.S. group.) Now that I'm on the cusp of 30, it's like I run into the M.R.S. every place I go. (Still not married, Strength? Do you have any prospects, at least? You're not getting any younger.)

Imagine my surprise when I learned one of my closest friends was an M.R.S. My friend, I'll call her Denise, got pregnant and married when she was 18. She and the hubby have three boys and live on the West Coast. We don't email often, but when we do, I get the same message. What's new with you? Married? Kids? LOL! Hmmmmm. LOL, she said. Last time I checked, that means 'lots of laughs.' Is there something funny about the possibility of me being married with kids? Apparently so.

Anywho, Denise and her brood were in town a few days ago. Another friend had a party, so we were there talking. The conversation went a bit like this:

Denise: Have you gone anywhere this summer? Jamal! Put the ball down!

Me: Nope. New York to visit my friend. Some amusement parks, that's about it.

Denise: I haven't gone anywhere either. And summer's almost over.

Me: I know! It's been like two years since I went to the Dominican Republic.

Denise: (eyes bulging out of her head) Did you say ---? Tyree, chew with your mouth closed! Dominican Republic?! Are you serious? You said you hadn't been anywhere.

Me: I haven't. Not this year.

Denise: (rolling eyes) I meant any trips. Ever.

Me: Oh, well yeah. I went to D.R. and I was in Mexico before that. Both were alot of fun.

Denise: Oh, I bet it was so beautiful over there. TYREE, NO SPAGHETTI SANDWICHES! I MEAN IT!

Me: Yeah, both were really nice. I didn't want to come back.

Denise: I'll bet.

Me: My friend that I travel with is supposed to be coordinating another trip for her 30th birthday. That's in November.

Denise: Oh, I want to go! I'll be 30 this month. Where are ya'll going?

Me: She mentioned Brazil before.

Denise: Wow, I love Brazil. What I've read about it, I mean. Do you think ... Jamal Bebe Williams! Don't make me come over there! ... Anyway, do you think I can come along?

Me: We may not do anything that big, we're in the early stages of planning.

Denise: (grabbing my hand) It's okay! I just need to go somewhere, anywhere. I don't care!

Me: I can get you the information. It might be fun traveling with you.

Denise: Really?

Me: (smiling) LOL.


S.I.S.S. 1, M.R.S. 0.

I'm also looking to take on any new members of S.I.S.S. Anybody with me?

(Photo courtesy of http://www.exodusnews.com/Photos/chocolate-brides3.jpg)

Zzzzzzz

Someone please give me a good reason why I should go to work today?

I spent the entire night tossing and turning, cursing that cappuccino that I just had to have yesterday evening. I suspect the caffeine is what kept me awake all night. That and the 2 1/2 mosquito bites I received at my cousin's cookout. I have one on my left elbow, one on my right foot and one somewhere on my right arm that starts to itch sometime after I'm done scratching the other two. Grrr.

In my four-hour quest for sleep, my mind wandered lots of important places. I mentally wrote this blog post while I lay there staring at the ceiling. I even thought of all the productive things I would do today if I took the day off: wash clothes, vacuum, remove the mystery meat from the fridge, read and maybe even write. Yet truthfully I know all I would accomplish would be watching soap operas, reading and attempting to do some writing while getting distracted by a video game. *Sigh* It's hard out here for a chick.

I feel wide awake now, but it's 5:30 a.m. Something tells me I'll be exhausted by 8 a.m., which is when I have to be at work. Maybe by then I'll have a headache and my calling out would actually be a true thing instead of a lie. And I am really coming down with something -- Ned's slowly trying to make a comeback.

I think I know the real reason why I want to call out today. I watched "Clerks" for the first time last night and their slackerishness rubbed off on me. Watching Dante have such a horrible work day on what was supposed to be his day off made me feel like I should get some rest for him. So maybe that's what I'll do. I'll go back to bed in honor of Dante Hicks.

Until next time,
s/c/w

Life on the Blue Screen Pt. II

Dear Netflix administrators,
Perhaps you all misinterpreted my intentions in my last letter. I was only offering a suggestion as a customer, not criticizing your DVD service. But apparently, I've angered you people. You've gone through some guerilla tactics to make sure I don't get my movies and I won't stand for it anymore.

Let's start with The Princess Diaries, shall we? That movie was supposedly mailed to me on a Monday, but it didn't get to me until Friday. In the meantime, you were able to send me The Princess Diaries Pt. 2. How, pray tell, am I supposed to watch the sequel when I haven't seen the original?! So I have to hold onto the sequel until I get the original, thus screwing up my weekly movie schedule.

It doesn't end there. Apparently your shipment facility has some sort of bias against me and/or The Princess Diaries. According to your records, it took SEVEN whole days for the Post Office to deliver the DVD to you? I had to report the movie as lost so you guys would hurry up and send me another movie.

But my latest problem is with "The King of Queens." Because I don't have cable, my TV fades to blue at the most critical times when I'm trying to watch this show. So I figure that instead of putting myself through this nonsense, I should go ahead and order the episodes from Netflix. Big mistake. In the middle of episode three on disc 1 (the "Cello, Goodbye" episode, where Doug thinks Carrie's boss is hitting on her) the DVD decides to go back to the very beginning of the episode, giving me a dizzying case of deja vu. I sent the movie back as damaged and I await the replacement copy.

For obvious reasons, I'm beginning to detect a bias on your part. Do no tempt me to take my monthly $18 service fee somewhere else. That's right, I've had other offers ... I may even go to the big C. Mom told me she'd be willing to pay my cable bill for a year, but I'd have to get a relaxer and change my hair back the other way. Don't make me do it!

Yours in movie love,
s/c/w