Signed, Sealed & Delivered

Well, I did it. I saw The Ex, just like I said I would. There was no cursing, no throwing things and no yelling, so I'd say it went pretty well.

We met up at Starbucks and I was late, as I tend to be no matter how hard I try. (Plus, I had to make sure I was wearing a pair of shoes that would make me tower over him) He looked good. He had just come from work and was all dressed up as he read the paper and waited for me. We gave each other compliments and chatted about the stuff that has happened to us over the years. He's single, but not happily so. He told me about how he wants to get married and have kids, but he can't find the right one. He said everyone he meets seems to have some kind of "agenda", whatever that means. It helped me realize that things are just as hard out here for the fellas as it is for us gals.

We were there for about two hours, just catching up. We didn't have the "I don't hate you anymore" conversation, but I think it's understood on both our ends. There are no hard feelings anymore.

So we ended the evening with a hug. Then he said, "Are you getting taller?" Heh heh. I guess I selected the right pair of boots.

Sunday Morning

Apparently, God is trying to tell me something. I haven't been to church in months and I've pretty much given up on looking for a church home. That means I either spend Sunday morning sleeping in or working out. Lately, it's been more of the former than the latter. Nowadays, even sleep has gone by the wayside because of my lovely neighbors. They are very different from the people I lived with in my previous apartment, but they have their own set of issues here.

I live on the second floor, sandwiched between 'Officer Jaheim' and Martin and Gina. Officer Jaheim got his monicker because he is a police officer and often plays Jaheim cd #1 constantly, particularly his song, "Anything." I once loved that song, until I heard it repeatedly come from his apartment. Martin and Gina are the young couple who live above me and I have the pleasure of listening to their trials and tribulations. The most interesting was when they had an argument about his cooking and he told her to "put some ketchup on it and shut the f*** up." There were shouts, slammed doors, and then the bed squeaking.

These days, the party gets started on Sundays... at 8 a.m. to be exact. Last week, I had a friend in town when Officer Jaheim and his entourage decided they wanted to blast their music at 7:45 a.m. I woke to a loud wordless song with a beat that sounded like 'boom diddity boom boom boom diddy boom.' was pissed, so I ripped off my red scarf and let my little locks flow. I knocked on their door looking my worse -- pj's, robe, glasses and morning breath. A boy answered the door and I politely asked him to turn the music down. You know what he said? "Oh, that's my mom. I'll tell her." His mom??!!!! Sheesh.

She turned it down and I went back to sleep, for a little while. An hour or so later, she decided she wanted to sing a lullaby to the baby. Do you know what lullaby she sang? "Lean wit it, Rock wit it." All I heard was a repeated chant of "lean wit it, rock wit it lean with it, rock wit it lean wit it rock wit it lean wit it rock wit it" over and over in her poor attempt at a whisper. This is going on at the same time that Martin and Gina decide they love each other and start making their own music on that broken down bed of theirs.

This morning it was more of the same, but I had to wake up early anyway. This time, Officer Jaheim's teenage daughter was playing what sounded like Kelis' new cd. I was torn between asking her to turn it down and asking her to burn me a copy. So I decided on nothing and went about my business.

Our walls are thin, so I can't easily escape the sounds of the neighbors. Since Sunday is such a happening day in our building, maybe I'll run to church next week. Then I need to run to a realtor and see about buying a house. This apartment living thing has run its course in my life.

Let it be said ....

... that I hate baseball.
... that I think it's the most boring sport on earth.
....that I've gone to several baseball games only for the hot dogs and atmosphere.
...that many have tried and failed to get me to love this sport.

But let it be said ....

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!GO TIGERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

New Year's Resolutions, Part Deux

Here I sit at work on a Friday night. (Oh yes, I'm blogging at work!) Basically, I volunteered to do the grunt shift because a coworker (that's the Plantation Wife, for those of you in the know) called in sick. I'll be here until 10, putting out fires, checking myspace, blogs and other reading material.

All this heavy work I have ahead of me caused me to do some deep thinking. In a few short months, 2006 will be history and 2007 will be present. A lot of stuff will happen in the upcoming year, with the changes to Daylight Savings Time, hopefully new representation in Congress and my 30th birthday. It made me think of my buddy, good ol' 2006, and all the promises I made to him in January.

My year was born pretty pitifully on my living room floor as I watched New Year's Rockin' Eve. I had to fight back tears everytime I heard Dick Clark's strained voice, trying to sound as excited as he did in all the previous celebrations. I realized I was getting old then, so I fell to my knees and .... made out my resolution list. Right then and there, I established a few goals for myself in 2006 -- get something published (short story or book), work out regularly and hopefully get Janet Jackson abs, and find a new church. I wrote these plans in my journal and couldn't wait to implement them.

In March, I had to tweak the list. I immediately eliminated the Janet Jackson abs, as I do every year. I mean, the chick has millions of dollars, she could've paid somebody to suck out her ribs and smooth out her belly. Plus, I hate sit ups. They make my neck hurt. Still working on getting published, new church and working out regularly.

Come June, I'm not moved by any of the churches I visited. None of them (there were only three, but still) were inspiring enough for me to want to join. That exercise thing has fallen by the way side a little bit. By this point, it's summer and it's time to show off the working out that was conducted in the winter months. I was lucky to go to the gym two days a week. Methinks I'll start running! Getting published was still my priority. I planned to wake up at 5 a.m. and write for an hour, then go to work and write on my lunch break. I'll write a short story a week and send them out, until someone picks up my stuff. (That grueling schedule went out the window the next day)

Now it's October and the slate is clear. I'm fishing for resolutions for 2007. Still trying to get published, although I'm getting sick of those friggin' rejection letters. Maybe I'll be better organized. I should probably put that at the top of my list. I should spend more time with my parents, apparently a once a month visit isn't good enough for Moms. I definitely should control my addictions, particularly one I have to that Egyptian game mentioned in a previous post. (More about that issue in a future post). That's all I can think of right now. Feel free to leave me some suggestions.

My wardrobe malfunction

I wasn't going to post anything today, because I was tired, irritable and had a raging case of PMS, mixed in with a twinge of my annual Seasonal Affective Disorder. But then I figured ... what better time to blog than when I'm feeling like dirt?

This morning, I overslept, which is pretty typical for me. But it was my own fault, since I was up until nearly 2 a.m. trying to save my little Egyptians from the Kushite invaders in this addicting computer game that I have. I was prepared for a late night because I had already laid out my clothes for the next day and packed my lunch. So things should go smoothly in the a.m., right? Right?

Naw, that would be too easy. I hop out of bed to slip into my skirt, only to find that I have no clean panty hose. Now I'm frantic because 80 percent of clothes are sitting in my hamper, waiting to be washed (I wasn't lying, Juicy!). So I start pulling things from my hanger until I find a top that doesn't need to be ironed. I slip it on and there's a hole in the center. Grrrr. I grab another shirt and I have to iron it five times until it's presentable. I hate what I'm wearing, but I'm late to work, so I have to go.

All day long, I sit at my computer screen hoping that no one will notice the inappropriateness of my outfit. I was dressed in practically all brown -- dark brown pants, light brown top and brown boots. I looked like a UPS worker or as some of my high school friends would say -- 'Earth Toned Ethel.' (This was a name we gave a female classmate who wore brown from head to toe every day). Plus, I needed to get my hair and eyebrows done, so I felt totally off kilter. Then I had this ongoing desire for chocolate. Yummy!

Well, somehow I got through it. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.

Operation 'Something New'

A high school friend of mine recently got married. They had a small ceremony outside of the state and are having a reception here, to which I am invited. So far, I'm dateless and I'm one of his few single friends. I imagine that there will be very few black women there since my friend 'Victor' is marrying a white woman and several of his friends also have white wives. That's fine for them, but it has helped me come up with a plan that I have devised as Operation: 'Something New.'

This move is based on a movie by the same name. My plan was simple. I was going to take one of my white male friends to the reception and have him pretend to be my man. I wanted to do this partly because I didn't want to go to the reception alone and also because I wanted to give the men there a taste of their own medicine. The black men I know who date white women would say they believe in a color blind society and all that nonsense, but as soon as they see a sista walk by with a white man, they get irate. Surely tongues would wag if I bought my own set of porcelain to the party. Hence, Operation: Something New.

I selected the perfect target -- Ezra. He was an easy choice, since he is the only single and good looking guy at my workplace. I thought he was cute when I first met him, but I was a bit turned off because his girlfriend was a slut. (Gosh, I hate that word. I'll just call her a 'woman of ill repute.' ) Anyway, we got to know each other and I let him into my minority wrecking crew at work, which consisted of myself, a Latino, Trevor (an ambigious looking white man) and Ezra, a Jew. Fun times.

Anywho, the date for this reception is frighteningly close and I've made no moves to implement my plan. Things are further complicated now because I think Ezra and a new female supervisor are embroiled in a secret romance, even though they both have denied the rumors. The way I see it, I have three choices: 1. Pull Ezra aside and say, "would you like to perform a social experiment with me? Maybe afterward we could conceive a little Halle Berry or Lenny Kravitz?"
2. Give my gay friend a straight makeover and have him accompany me to the wedding.
3. Go by myself and try to stay away from both the wine and Victor's freaky father. That could be a lethal combination.

Actually, any one of those options could make a humorous blog post sometime in the future. I'll get back later with my decision.

Mental Health Day

Somedays, other people will sum up my life much better than I can. I was leaving a social services building awhile back and two older black women got on the elevator with me. They worked in the building and were talking about work when they got on the elevator. I'm nosey, so I couldn't help but pick up bits of their conversation. "She had the nerve to ask me 'don't you get excited about your work and your assignments?'" One woman said. "I said, 'Hell no, I don't get excited. White people get excited about that shit." I couldn't help but crack up after I got off the elevator.

This scenario came to mind recently when a supervisor commented on my lack of enthusiasm for the job. Mind you, he just gave me an assignment that was the equivalent of counting the number of fire hydrants on our street. I told him I'd do it, 'cause Lord knows I love getting a paycheck every week, but I guess he expected some singing and dancing to go along with it. I don't know if its a cultural difference or what, but I do my work and take it for what it is .... WORK. I have a colleague (they're all white, except for me) who would've kissed my supervisor's feet if he was given the fire hydrant assignment. Loser.

Anyway, because of my on the job issues, I'm campaigning to get sent home for a Mental Health Day. I could easily call in sick, but I'd prefer that my colleagues see on their own what the working world has done to me. I've come up with a variety of ways to get me noticed and hopefully sent home:


1. The rape whistle. When the going gets rough at the office, I escape to my car and blow on my rape whistle as loud as I can. Now I’ve taken to blowing it in the office. Everytime someone does/says something to tick me off, I’ll blow the whistle in their face. When they ask what’s wrong, I’ll just blow again.

2. Music. Most days, I load my music on my computer and listen to it with headphones during lulls in the day. Now I’ve devised a series of songs with anger management themes and have bought them to work. I’m talking about Eminem, Jaguar Wright, NWA, Public Enemy. This time, I’ll let the music blast from my computer. “What are you listening to, Strength?” “'Dead N*** Boulevard,’ by Meshell Ndegeocello.” “Umm….okay.”

3. The Pound. Before I go to lunch, I will pound my head onto the computer five times quickly as I squeal ‘ow, ow, ow, ow.’ When anyone asks what’s wrong, I’ll look at them like they’re the crazy ones.

4. Talking in tongues. Every time I get off the phone with an agitated person, I’ll slam the phone down. Then I’ll jump to my feet and scream “King Kong Ain’t Got Nothin’ on Me” in a loud, booming voice. I’ll beat on my chest for a few seconds, then I’ll go back to work as if nothing happened.

5. Calling in sick. I will get to the office in the morning and check my email. Then I’ll pick up my phone and call my supervisor, who sits less than three feet away from me, and tell him that I’m sick and I won’t be able to make it into work today. He’ll think of it as a joke, but I will promptly log off my computer and walk out.

Hopefully, this will be enough to get me sent home on that special holiday. But with my luck, they'll view all of this as my newfound enthusiasm and give me a promotion. *Sigh*

(Photo courtesy of http://www.noise.net/featured-work.aspartist_id=3559&category_id=1&wid=14398)

Back in the Box

Sorry for the brief absence. I wish had an excuse for the hiatus, but I don't. I was just slacking. While I was 'away', I thought of a couple of things to blog about:
1. I'm campaigning to get sent home for a mental health day at work
2. Operation: Something New
3. I'm going out with coffee with The Ex next week.

I'll get back to the first two in later posts, but today I will focus on number 3. I've been communicating with said Ex and we've made temtative plans to hang out next week. There's no ulterior motives on my part; this is just my way of taking hold of my future. You see, I know there's going to be a day where I'm at the grocery store wearing curlers and pimple cream and who will I run into? Yep, the Ex. So I'm going to avoid that by seeing him on my terms, which means that I will look too good for words.

We did not have a good break up, if there is such a thing. And we only started talking amicably a few years ago. Now I realize I am completely over him. Previously, I was over him, but I didn't want anyone else to have him. Now I just want him to be happy. With someone else. Maybe I've matured.

So anywho, I'll see him, write about it and that'll be that. A good friend of mine once said that seeing an old boyfriend is like finding that old teddy bear in the garage. You're so happy to see it that you hug and squeeze it. Then you realize that it stinks and it just isn't you anymore. So you put it back in the box and keep on moving. That's what I'm going to do. Stay tuned.

Thicke

I'm so obsessed with this man. Come Tuesday, I'm running to get this cd!
(Okay, I can't get the stupid code to work. Go here and click on 'Lost Without You.' That's his wife in the video)

Music Video:LOST WITHOUT YOU (by Robin Thicke)

Music Video Code provided by VideoCodeZone.Com

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)