Nothing's certain except death, St. Patrick's Day and taxes

I'll start with the back story first, since that's where this issue began:

Fall, 1995. Somewhere on the East Coast ...
I began my freshman year at a large urban university. I was two hours away from home, but I was just a subway ride away from my dad's place and much of my extended family. That made it convenient for emergency money situations. Aside from missing my friends back home, I enjoyed this university. It was my first taste of true independence and I loved every minute of it. Other than the homeless problem in the city, there was only one other thing I could complain about.

The color green.

It seems that lime green became the latest fashion in that city around the time that I arrived. The first time I saw a pair of green Reebocks at the mall, I thought it was a cruel joke. Who in the world would wear green sneakers? Then a light bulb went off in my head. Everywhere I went, folks (mainly girls) were decked out in the latest lime green fashions. There was the sista with the bright green blouse, matching bag and headwrap. There was a girl on the subway wearing the green Reebocks, a green Polo top and a green bookbag. The biggest standout was the brotha in my math class. I thought he was cute until he strolled into class wearing a green hat, green cardigan and he carried a green notebook and pen. I wanted to scream.

All those images of green was enough to give me a headache. Actually, it did give me headaches. I could no longer eat green M&M's or the green clover in my Lucky Charms. Whenever I saw the color green, particularly lime green, I was taken back to my math class -- trying to ignore the Leprechaun sitting next to me. I began to eliminate all things green from my wardrobe.

St. Patrick's Day, 2007

Obviously, this is my least favorite time of the year. I dread it when it falls during the week, because I will be the one person in my office not wearing green. I'll wear some rebellious color -- like red, my favorite -- until some happy go lucky person will tell me how wrong I am. "Where's your green? Everyone's Irish today!" Then he or she will give me a tiny little pinch on my arm. Cute.

Luckily, the holiday fell on a Saturday this year. I slept in and rolled out of bed to go to the bank. I didn't think about St. Patrick's Day and simply threw on a black shirt and some jeans. When I get to the bank, the only available teller belonged to a women wearing a bright green "Kiss me, I'm Irish" shirt. Great. After I handed her my paperwork, she asked me if I was wearing any green. When I said no, she tsk tsked me. "Come on, hon! Everyone's Irish today!" Then she handed me a green lollipop and sent me on my way. I smiled with her, but waited until I got outside to toss the lollipop in the trash. Green, yuck! That color is my kryptonite.

I decided to spend the next couple of hours doing something where I wouldn't be persecuted for my color choices -- my taxes. After staring at IRS forms for hours, I've made a few other conclusions for the next tax season. I need to buy a house, have a baby or take someone else's so I can claim a dependent, since the IRS won't allow me to deduct for my cat. Heavy sigh.

In other news, I've got 7 days until the big 3-0. Current outlook: blah.

(Photo courtesy of http://images.allrecipes.com/global/features/1766.gif)

Dark and Twisty?

I visited the blog of the lovely and fascinating Motown Runner Girl the other day and was pleased to stumble across a quiz. The subject was "Which Grey's Anatomy character would you be?" Now I watch the show, but I'm not as enthralled with it as other people are, like Motown and my mother. Most days, I just watch it so I can communicate with my coworkers at the water cooler Friday morning. Without even taking the quiz, I knew that I would score as either tough Callie or maybe Addison, McDreamy's ex wife.

Imagine my surprise when the quiz said I'm most like Meredith. Meredith??!! The dizzy chick who gets drunk and brings home guys from the bar? The broad who not only had an affair with a married man (McDreamy), but begged him to stay with her? Naw, that's nothing like me. But then I watched the show this week and Meredith actually said a phrase that I've been known to say a time or twenty: "I hate people." Meredith might not be so bad after all.

My results say that "for being so 'dark and twisty' (I) have a surprisingly sunny outlook on life. (I'm) quick to jump into new relationships, but just as quick to jump out." Interesting. Too bad Meredith is probably my least favorite character on the show. Her voice grains on my nerves and she whines about every friggin single thing. Most Thursdays, I want to smack her. But that's probably my dark and twisty side getting out. Tee hee.

Anywho, the quiz is available at http://abc.go.com/primetime/greysanatomy/quiz/greysdiagnosis/index

Taking it Easy

When my alarm clock went off this morning, I was physically unable to respond. All I could think of was the long workday that loomed in front of me -- the assignments I would be forced to do, the bosses I would be forced to smile at and the headache that wold greet me by the end of the day. Just the thought of it gave me a headache, which made me realize that I needed to call in sick.

It's early afternoon now and I'm sitting around in a pajama top and jeans, trying to figure out who the hell all these new people are on All My Children and Young & the Restless. Then I watched a bit of Regis & Kelly earlier, only for them to say Robin Thicke will be on there tomorrow. Grrrr.

There are some responsible things that I want to do -- my homework, my taxes, and going to the gym. But there are also some irresponsible things I want to do as well -- go shopping, sleep, and watch mindless TV all day. I probably won't go to the gym or go shopping though. Whenever I call in sick (yes, I've done it before -- everyone needs a mental health day), I try not to go out in public. I have this fear that the mall or my gym would be subject to some kind of armed robbery and I'd be on the news as one of the victims, making it so obvious that I wasn't sick. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I can't have that happen.

Anyway, I did have a decent weekend. I went to a 3-hour intro to bellydancing class, which really wore my behind out. Trust, it ain't as easy as it looks. I went to see Pan's Labyrinth (two thumbs up, but pretty violent), bought my tix to see the Color Purple on Broadway for my b-day and caught up with my season 2 dvds of Battlestar Galactica. The last couple of episodes of have sucked, so my obsession with that show may be over sometime soon. It's doubtable, but possible.

Oh well, it's back to trying to find something to do. Have a good one!

Paper Towel Passion

Back in the day, Mom told me to keep all the love letters I received so I could have fond memories of the guys who sent them. When she told me this, I was a skinny bespectacled kid who never got valentines, let alone love letters.

Fast forward through the years and I did get a decent amount of correspondence from guys. The first one I remember came in fourth grade from my best friend, Franklin. He wore glasses too and the boys in our class called him a "fag" because of his mannerisms. One day in class, he slipped me a note that said: "Do you think we're falling in love? Check yes, no or I don't know." At 11 years old, love was a word I reserved for Mom, Dad, and my poster of Taimak. For whatever the reason, I checked yes.

That was Franklin. We had the typical, childish ‘I-go-with-you/I-quit-you’ kind of relationship. I didn't keep his note, even though, like Mom said, it would have been nice to revisit. I did keep a few letters that I received later in life -- one from a guy I met at the beach the summer I turned 17 and another from an inmate in prison writing workshop that I helped facilitate. (I didn't intend to keep these letters, I just found them piled in with some paperwork.) I never expected to receive another letter, but I was wrong.

A few weeks ago, I arrived at my desk and saw a strategically folded paper towel with the words 'Open Up' on the outside. Keep in mind, it's 8 a.m., I haven't had my tea and my brain isn't functioning properly. I stared at the words a few minutes, contemplating the meaning of 'open up.' I concluded that one of my colleagues left that there to remind me not to be so reserved, to let my hair down a little. Point taken, I thought, and I tossed it in the trash.

The next day, there was another paper towel. This time it had ‘For You’ on the front and I opened it. "This is someone that sees you all the time but really never had a chance to talk to you because sweetheart u move fast when u are in the hallways but at least I get to see that pretty smile. If you are ok with it I would like to get to know you if that's cool. Have a nice day. Are you taken?" The note was signed '_ _ _ Y.'

Now, I can play hangman with the best of them, but I had no idea who _ _ _ Y was. Could it be the quiet maintenance man for whom I've been harboring a secret crush? Or was it the other maintenance man who is always mopping the front area when I arrive? Maybe it's that married, older bigwig in another department who always stares at my ass.

Anyway, I grabbed my own paper towel and addressed my own note to Mr. _ _ _ Y. I basically said that I was flattered and I apologized for throwing out the first note, but I had no clue that it was a note. I also said that he could get to know me, but I wasn't interested in dating anyone these days, but I also wanted to know who he was. When I came to work the next day, the blanks were filled in as TONY. There was no note, nothing. I guess he felt like I played him, but I hope not. I thought the gesture was really sweet, but I just have a deep disdain for all things male at the moment.

To this day, I am not positive who Tony, a.k.a. the Paper Towel Bandit, is. I suspect it is the fella that's mopping the hallways when I arrive (he's the one of the few people I see everyday), but I'm not positive. And if it is him, what do I say? "Hey, are you the guy that's been hovering around my desk at all hours?" With my luck, it's probably the cute maintenance man (even though his nametag lists a name that's nowhere near Tony) and I've scared him away. Sigh. I can't win.

No matter who it is, I folded my little paper towel note up and placed it in my top drawer, right next to my Robin Thicke ticket stub. This might be one of the few notes that I keep.

**Update: I found out who Tony is. It is the dude that's always mopping the front areas when I arrive. I introduced myself to him the other day. Nice guy, but I'm not interested.***

It's Spring Again...

But not quite.

The weather was so beautiful on Friday that I wanted to hop and sing in a meadow like they used to do on those old Summer's Eve commercials. Instead, I did the next best thing. I took a long lunch break where I got sushi, then pranced to my local CVS and got the new Vogue with Jennifer Hudson on the cover. I wasn't going to buy it, since the magazine has such a poor record of putting women of color on the front, but I love J Hud and I wanted to support. It was the least I could do, since I missed her Oscar win because I was at a concert. (Quick recap: Loved the show! Our seats were so close we could have performed fellatio if we were so inclined, but we left our groupie hats at home. He touched me and sang to me on two songs. Ahhhhh!) Now all I have to do is read the article.

It was beautiful outside yesterday as well, but things took an ugly turn today. I was outside for a minute to take out my trash and the wind just whipped me around. Sigh. This is not good for my seasonal allergies. But at least daylight savings time ends next week. Pretty soon, I'll be able to leave my Seasonal Affective Disorder behind and just be downright depressed. Hah, just kidding. And 20 days till I turn to the big 3-0. Still trying to coordinate b-day plans, since I wasn't fiscally responsible enough to save for my dream trip to Egypt. Any suggestions?

Happy spring!

(Photo courtesy of http://www.echotrips.com/tuolumne/images/spring-lupen-full.jpg)

"Life Goes On"

I apologize for my absence, but it couldn't be helped. A good friend of mine had a death in the family, so I had to go out of town to attend the funeral. It was one of those tragic stories where her uncle was standing outside making a phone call when he became the victim of a drive-by shooting. I'll never know what causes a person to grab a gun and shoot a complete stranger multiple times. Maybe complete insanity.

Anyway, in the years that I've known my friend, I never met her uncle. He was someone I knew about in passing, since she would often mention him. She and I always lived about a four-hour drive away from each other, so most of the time we talked over the phone. Usually, she would tell me some hilarious story about her favorite uncle. Even though our paths never crossed, her uncle often told her to tell me, his 'girl,' hello.

Visiting my friend's hometown again helped me realize that it's been 12 years since we first met. We became friends after living on the same floor freshman year and became so tight that we went to each other's hometown each summer. The first time I went to her place, it was the summer before 2pac and Biggie were assassinated (yeah, I said assassinated). Her uncle loaned her his car and the only cd he had was 2pac's All Eyez on Me. There was one song we played repeatedly, "Life Goes On." The chorus was: 'how many brothas fell victim to the street/rest in peace, young nigga there's a heaven for a G/be a lie if a I told you I ain't never thought of death/my niggas we the last ones left.' I had the pleasure of meeting some of her friends who nicknamed me PochaButtus, because of my growing booty. She even earned the moniker 2Plop Shitmore for her miraculous ability to eat and then disappear into the bathroom five minutes later. Good times.

We had our fair share of issues over the years. Family drama, school woes and man trouble usually kept us on the phone all hours of the night. These days we probably talk once a month about nothing in particular, but it always feels like not much time has passed. It's cool to see this woman -- who once wanted nothing less than Shemar Moore -- gush over her boyfriend. I even helped her drop some hints about how she envisioned her future wedding. I'm not sure if he was took the bait though. We'll see.

Both her uncle's wake and funeral were standing room only. Once it was over, we drove back to her place in silence. Leave it to me to break it by starting off with 'how many brothas fell victim to the street.' She tearfully joined in. After all, life does goes on.

Love Style

Your Love Type: INFP

The Idealist In love, you crave a long term, harmonious relationship.For you, sex doesn't come quickly - it takes time for you to open up. Overall, you are supportive, nurturing, and expressive.However, you tend to be shy and protective of your personal space. Best matches: ENFJ and ESFJ

What's" Your Love Type?

Swingers

Occasionally, I like to stray away from the pack -- do something on my own without hooking up with my friends. Sometimes I just have to get away from doing the stuff that everyone else wants to do and do what I want to do. Maybe that makes me selfish or a loner, I don't know.

Anyway, last night the task was swing dancing lessons. A few weeks ago, I heard this club was hosting the lessons/party, so I bought a ticket. I figured it was something to do on V-Day other than sitting at home and twiddling my thumbs. And it's not like it was February 2004, when I celebrated 'Single Awareness Day' with a bunch of girlfriends getting massages and watching Sex and the City. (Remember that, Motown Runner Girl?)

Initially, I thought the lessons were a bad idea. The crowd was kind of sketchy. The male and female teachers seemed pretty nice, but everyone else was coupled off. I was the only person who arrived alone and I feared being paired off with the teacher the entire night. I was standing at the bar when I noticed a man -- whom I thought had special needs -- plop down on my coat as he searched through his pockets. I immediately wished I stayed home to watch Lost.

But things picked up. They arranged us so everyone had a partner and everyone danced with everyone. I learned a few moves with a couple of guys who seemed to be learning this for the first time, much like myself. I got the hang of it alright, but it got a little confusing when it came to the spins. I've been told before that my biggest problem with dancing is that I don't trust the man to lead. Hmmmm. That says alot, doesn't it? One guy, Bill, seemed to struggle to learn the initial steps, but he got them.

Then they broke out the band and it was a free for all. Bill asked me to dance and I accepted. I didn't expect much, especially since he seemed to be screwing up in the practice session. Well, Bill's a liar. To say he knew the moves is an understatement. He shook and swung and spun me into a dizzying frenzy. Then Special Ed -- dude that sat on my coat -- asked me to dance and the same thing happened. Special Ed was not special and was actually the best male dancer in the room. These dudes were perpetrating a fraud! They were undercover swingers. Pretending that they couldn't dance and then they raised the roof.

Overall, I had a great time. I checked out the flier for the swing dance teachers and I'm considering taking some additional classes. But we'll see.

(photo courtesy of http://salsadanza.tripod.com/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderpictures/swingoutphoto.gif)

I'm Working Today

All schools, buildings and government offices are closed. The roads are barely salted. A combination of snow and freezing rain is coming down. Anyone with any sense is in their bed, eating cocoa puffs and watching reruns of the Smurfs.

Today I'm not one of the smart ones. I was awoken by a combination of my cat and two alarm clocks. I groggily get dressed when I realize I'm ill prepared for the weather. The snow boots I bought from Payless for $3 don't help me much, especially when I realize that both shoes are for the right foot. My long johns are dirty, so I pull out some of my spandex/workout wear to do the job that the thermals can't do today. Why didn't I just call out, you may ask? Because I'm dedicated. And because I have no problem with going to work and doing nothing, yet I feel slightly guilty for calling out. Go figure.

I slip and slide my way down the empty roadways and stumble into our building. The lights are flickering on and off, a pipe burst near the sink and a water spot on the ceiling looks like the roof is going to explode. Lots of folks called out, including a guy who was hired six weeks ago and has called in sick for four of those weeks. My brave colleagues and I spend the morning plotting their demise.

Then the clock starts to tick. I make a few phone calls that I know will not be returned, listen to my iPod and watch a disgruntled delivery man hand over a bunch of bouquets to a female coworker who previously told her boyfriend she "didn't do Valentine's Day," wink wink.

I list all my canceled appointments and look forward to spending the evening inside and watching Lost. Yet the one thing that will not go away are the swing dancing lessons I signed up for previously. I email the organizers and call the club, but the bash is still on. These lessons will require me to travel 45 minutes up the road in an attempt to drop it like its hot. But I bought the $15 ticket in advance, so I will be there.

By the afternoon, the faucet is fixed and we have water. The maintenance crew has cracked out much of the ceiling and calls it progress. The snow stops and the sick workers are calling constantly asking for some way, anyway for an extra assignment to make up for their neglect.

Nevertheless, I am at work today.

Oh yeah. Happy Valentine's Day.

Happy Blogday to Me!!

Today marks the one year anniversary of the day this blog was born. I used to think the idea of having a blog was silly, so I deleted the previous one I had. Yet my buddy, Juicy, convinced me that I should try again.

So on February 9, 2006, I wrote this. Then I continued to write about various issues: my hair woes, troubles with Ned, and other issues. I even started my own club. What a productive year it's been!!

Anyway, I just wanted to take this time to celebrate my first blogday. I want to send a few shout outs to some of my readers -- Mlle. Smith, Tha L, Motown Runner Girl, Reese, and the aforementioned Juicy. Please check out their blogs -- they're really good!

Again, thanks for sticking with me for a year. I'm looking forward to another year of blogging and meeting new bloggers!

Grown Folks Music

For some reason, this song has been on my mind alot lately. This, and a Jody Watley song. I couldn't track down the Jody video (still trying!!) but I did find this. This song was the truth back in the day ....

Wanted: Asians -- For Good Times, Easy Conversation & to Settle 'Oriental' Debate

For the past couple of years, I’ve belonged to an online writing community. It’s pretty decent. It allows me to get my writing reviewed and I can also review the work of others. So it’s a mutually beneficial relationship.

Recently, I was annoyed when I read a woman’s short story where she described the people on the block: ‘Their faces were black, white, and Oriental.’ An alarm buzzed in my head. Isn’t the term, ‘Oriental,’ a no-no when referring to a human being? Isn’t it the equivalent of calling a black person ‘colored’ or ‘negro’? In my review, I told the writer that the word could be offensive: “All of my Asian friends prefer being called Asian, Asian American or identifying their country of origin,” I wrote.

That’s when I stopped. All my Asian friends? Hmmmm. In all honesty, I haven’t had an Asian friend since high school. That was my Cambodian buddy Seila, who hipped me to the Asian/Oriental issue. We drifted apart, as high school friends are prone to do. I’ve made many new friends since then – white, black, Middle Eastern, Latino, gay, straight, etc. But no Asians. I do have one Asian friend, but she’s Indian, so she doesn’t count. I’m looking for some southeast Asians. I'm on a hunt.

There is an Asian guy at my job – actually, there’s two (double the number of blacks, but that’s a different story). One of the men is pierced and tattooed. I see him outside smoking with the smokers all the time. Because I loathe the smell of smoke, I wasn’t able to introduce myself and tell him that I’m recruiting Asian friends. I didn't even display my t-shirt which is emblazoned with the image above.

The other Asian man is cool. His name is Dave. We had a nice long chat about a football game about a month ago. The problem is that Dave doesn’t work in my department. The few times I see him across the room, he’s gone as soon as I blink. I never see him in the break room, the conference room or with the other Asian guy (if I could catch two birds with one stone, that would be great!).

But I am determined to find this man again – this Dave Asian person. I’m going to introduce myself, turn on the charm and eventually ask him how he feels about that whole Asian – Oriental debate. If he doesn't cuss me out, I'll report his response to the writer who penned that sentence about the 'Orientals' in her neighborhood. For shame!

(Pix courtesy of http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a242/magarmor/lucketees/loveasianpeoplesm.jpg)

Blogging While Paranoid

Someone is trying to take my baby.

I’ve been told that all new mothers feel this way – that the minute they look away, a stranger will whisk their precious bambinos into the wilderness. And ever since I got my iPod for Christmas, I’ve been a bit overprotective.

At first, I would leave *Sasha at home, because I didn’t think she was ready to face the elements of this cold, cruel world. But I missed her during the workday. Yeah, I had my headphones and I could listen to my songs on my computer anytime I wanted, but it’s hard to do that when I see everyone else with their babies hooked up to their ears, bobbing their heads away. And even though Sasha was safely hidden in the top of my dresser drawer, I feared that somebody could easily break in and take her away. Each time I came home, I would search for her and then be happy again when I found her securely positioned beside my Robin Thicke tickets (23 days to go!!).

Then I began bringing her to work. Wonderful. I could escape into the world that was filled with my podcast of This American Life, along with the music of John Legend, Corinne Bailey Rae, Common, etc, and leave everyone else behind. Initially, there was that dilemma of my going to the restroom. Was Sasha old enough to sit at my desk by herself? Or do I need to escort her? Then I saw Franklin, our shifty security guard, stroll by my desk and I knew that Sasha wouldn’t be safe alone. I packed her into my purse and took her with me to the bathroom.

Now that it’s been a few months, I’ve loosened the strings slightly. Somedays, I completely forget to take Sasha with me and she spends the day either in my drawer or hooked up to my computer at home. I don’t always take her to the bathroom with me now either. Often, I’ll just slip her in my bag and put it under the desk or slide her into purse and put that in a drawer. And lock it. Word must’ve gotten out about how beautiful my baby is. Aside from Franklin, now I’ve got Isabella and Geraldine, the office cleaning crew, hovering around my desk. I might have to get a restraining order.

But at this minute, Sasha and I are in our own world. We’re sitting in Barnes & Noble flipping between John Legend and Erykah Badu. We're trying not to get too annoyed with the person who just sat down behind us -- this guy smells like a medley of Windex, feces, and Lysol -- and mind our own business. She’s helping me decide if I want to buy "Love is a Mix Tape" or "Off the Record." They're both on sale … but dang it! ... books are running me out of house and home at this point. Yet I always feel like I need something new to read. Hmmm ... I'll figure something out**.


*Ok, I have a bad habit for naming all the important things in my life. And yes, all the names start with S. Maybe one day I'll mention the names I have for my guitar and statue in the living room.

**In the end, I bought Off the Record. This writer's got some juicy stuff in there. She's the one who penned that quote where Angela Bassett explained why she didn't accept the role in 'Monster's Ball': "I wasn't going to be a prostitute on film ..." I may have to get 'Mix Tape' from the library.

(Photo from: http://www.radtech.us/Images/Products/SleevziPod/Nano/btyProduct1.jpg)

My Hands Up, My Hands Up, They Want Me With My Hands Up

I was at work early this morning, tea in one hand, pen in the other, as I started writing the beginnings of ramblings that would have eventually become a blog post. Then my coworker said six words that shocked my system: “Robin Thicke’ll be here in February.” Maybe I’ve mentioned my love, obsession, if you will, for this man in the past. I’ve googled him repeatedly, trying my damndest to get those old episodes of ‘The Wonder Years’ that he appeared in on DVD. I’ve saved him as a myspace friend and put his picture next to mine on my computer at work. It was only a matter of time before my colleagues learned that I had thing for Thicke.

The coworker -- Nicole -- said, ‘do you want to go to the show?’ To which I responded, ‘Are African babies the latest trend in hollywood? Hell yeah I want to go!!’

Luckily, dearest Thicke is playing at a venue just down the street from the office, so we bought our tix in person. The cashier and I bonded in our love for him. She volunteered to work that night, just so she could serve him. I asked if they were looking for anyone else to assist him backstage, but sadly, they weren’t. I handed her my credit card and was amazed to learn that I could get FRONT ROW tickets to him for only $22. FRONT ROW. My hands shook as I signed the receipt. Speechless, I was.

I was able to burn both of Thicke’s cds for Nicole, who will be joining me at the concert. I can’t let her get up there and not know a thing about my music. But I have warned her that if anytime during the show Thicke either winks at me, points at me, or sings to me, I am quitting my job and spending the rest of my life as a groupie. Eric Benét pointed at me at a concert in Orlando in 2001 and I ain’t been the same sense. (Some have suggested I caused the breakup of his marriage to Halle Berry, but I'll keep that on the low).There are about three weeks to the concert and I’ll be playing the cd nonstop.

Check him out:

Music Video:SHOOTER (FT. ROBIN THICKE) (by Lil' Wayne)

Music Video Code provided by Video Code Zone

Not Funny

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of joining my buddy, Kay, in celebrating her 30th birthday. People who meet Kay for the first time usually think she is quiet and introspective, but she is actually the most social out of all my friends. Each year, she finds a new way to celebrate her birthday, be it a party, a ski trip or a night clubbing. But because she rarely invites me to her bashes until the last minute or because they typically fall on nights where I hate people, this was my first time joining her soiree. And not surprisingly, I had an excellent time.

The plan for Kay's 30th birthday was to gather at her house and eat, drink and be merry for a few hours. Then at 8 pm, a stretch limo would take us into the city to a comedy club. The white limo was fabulous, complete with satellite radio, champagne and a television set. It was a true treat, especially since I haven't been inside a limo since prom.

When we got to the comedy show, several of my partygoers began to get disappointed. We come from an era where we view Def Comedy Jam and Kings of Comedy as things that make us laugh, so we were a bit surprised when the program featured three white comedians. Nevertheless, we kept an open mind. And during the three hours we were there, I couldn't stop laughing. This was not because the comedians were funny, but it was because Kay kept talking about how terrible each one was and that she wanted her money back. (she treated us to the show) I kept telling her to calm down because we didn't want a KKKramer experience, but she wouldn't listen. After each man spouted a terrible joke, we all just shook our heads and laughed.

The overriding theme of the night was sex. Each comedian got up there and started talking about boobs this and boobs that and who was getting 'laid' tonight and how often they masturbated. One comedian even asked a guy in the audience if he shaved his balls. It was pretty pathetic. When we talked about the performances later, I wondered if the men simply weren't funny or because we're now too old for that kind of humor. I don't know if the ritual of creeping downstairs late at night and watching Def Comedy Jam in secret was what made those comedians appeal to me so much or if it was because they were truly funny. They all cussed nonstop and sex was a frequent subject. I wonder how I'd feel watching some of those performances now.

Lately, I've been disappointed with the popular comic scene. Call me crazy, but I'm one of the few people who doesn't think the Dave Chappelle Show is funny. Don't get me wrong, I've liked a few individual skits like most of the ones on Rick James, but overall, he doesn't do it for me. I can't think of any comedian that really makes me laugh nowadays, but in recent years I have been treated to a few funny people. When I visited a friend in Atlanta a few years ago, we saw an overweight comic who recounted a conversation he had with a little boy who was amazed at how large he was. Another lady talked about how she became so frustrated on her job that she now only performs tasks that are in her job description. For example, if she was hired to make copies, that's all she's doing. She's not stapling the papers, not refilling the copier, not distributing the papers either. Nothing. It was hilarious and much funnier to hear her perform it than to read my words.

Once the clock struck midnight and it marked the true date of Kay's birth, we stopped this conversation only to console Kay as she progressed to have a breakdown on being 30. She was only half kidding when she listed the things she didn't have, but desperately wanted -- kids, a hubby, or even a fiancee'. Then she went on about the obstacles she had to face as a black woman, while the men sat silent. We lifted her up as best we could and then it was time for me to go. I went home and listened to Jay-Z's "30s the new twenty" on repeat. Only nine weeks to go until my own crisis, er, birthday. Can't wait!

(Photo courtesy of http://img.tesco.com/pi/entertainment/DVD/LB/565442_DV_L_B.jpg)

Winter Memories

Today I put the flannel sheets on my bed, finally acknowledging the existence of the winter weather. It was hard to be seasonally correct before, since the weather has been so crazy. But now I can break out my winter wear and safely tuck my other clothes into storage.

We haven't had any real snow yet, but the winter weather always makes me remember a blizzard years ago when I was trapped inside with my young cousin, who was a toddler. Cuz was/is my heart. I remember seeing his 2-pound body stretching and straining in the incubator when he was born two months early, saw his first steps and heard his first words. When I went off to college, he was one of the folks I missed most.

When I returned for my Christmas break, I offered to babysit Cuz and he spent the night over my place. They called for snow, but I didn't think it was going to be that big of a deal. Cuz and I always had a good time together. He had me playing the hell outta some peek-a-boo and he joined me in singing Goodie Mob's "Who's That Peepin' In My Window."

Then we got a foot of snow and things changed. Our little games got old and Cuz could only watch the Cartoon Network so many times. The kid was demanding too. He had a cold, which sent him into a sneezing frenzy. The one thing he hated was having snot hanging from his nose. In the middle of the night he woke me his sneezes, then cries of "wunny nose! wunny nose!" After dealing with this madness a few times, I did the only thing a responsible teenager would do. I sent him to my Mom's room.

Cuz will be 14 in a few short weeks. I've been home from the Midwest for two years now, but it's still hard to look at this handsome teenager who towers over me and try to picture the baby that melted this cold heart. His voice is cracking, he's got acne and the girls are constantly calling the house or knocking on the door.

I'm very proud of him, but I'm scared for him too. Everytime I see him wear those baggie pants and plain black or white t-shirts, I picture an overzealous cop slamming him against a wall. Each time he checks out a girl that's more consistent with the European standard of beauty than the one in his own family, I worry that he'll grow into one of those men that sistahs typecast.

For now, I'm content with enjoying this goofy manchild and hoping that the future doesn't bring him too much pain. It hurts a little that he doesn't remember the blizzard of 96 or the Goodie Mob lyrics, but I'll get over it. I've got four more years to influence him before he's sent out into the world. This time, I hope to give him something more useful.

(Photo courtesy of http://www.noaanews.noaa.gov/stories/images/snow-030501.jpg)

"I just want to go home ... and listen to some Sade," -- A heartbroken Marcus in 'Boomerang'

I read about celebrity birthdays everyday, but few are worthy of a shotout on this blog. However, when I learned that today is the 48th birthday of Helen Folasade Adu, I knew I had to do something. For me, Sade is truly special. Her singing can truly put me in a mood and either make me feel really good or really bad, typically the latter.

There's nothing like Sade on a rainy day.
Or Sade after a breakup.
Or Sade when he doesn't act right.
Or Sade when you love him, but you know it will never be.

I mentioned previously how hard it is to find good music nowadays, so it's refreshing to have an outlet. Anyway, here's my girl. Check her out:

I Have a Dream

Let me say first that I love the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Without him, I don't know where our people would be today. I've read about his life more times than I care to remember, wrote school reports about him and had to memorize some of his famous speeches.

So please forgive me when I say: I HATE MLK DAY.

I'm glad I got that off my chest. Every time January rolls around, my stomach fills with dread. In my community, they do up the MLK holiday in style. On Friday, there's an MLK dinner where the local NAACP branch gives out some awards. The day of the actual holiday, that Monday, the community college has a breakfast and gives out even more awards.

My company is pretty active in the community, particularly with these organizations that do the dinner and the breakfast. Each year it's always the same. All the top supervisors get in a huddle and talk about who should represent the company at these events. They look around the room and since my face is the only brown one they see, they choose me. Sigh.

This year, my task was to go to the Friday dinner, which was yesterday. It was no big deal, since I also attended last year. I was excited this time because I actually had work to do, instead of sitting around and just be black, like I had to do last time. Yay!

When I get there, I have to join these two other women at their table. Our seat in the catering hall is near two tables filled with Little Bastards, but that was my only seating option. Naturally, once the program got started, we couldn't hear the speaker. All we heard was: "Stop!" "Give it back," "It's mine!" "Bitch, I'll kick your ass." Yeah, it was that kind of night. When the emcee held a moment of silence for the good Rev. King, a woman at my table turned to the Little Bastards and screamed "I WANT ALL YA'LL TO SHUT UP. DON'T MAKE ME COME BACK THERE!"

The highlight of the evening came when the woman sitting next to me started talking about her new diet. Apparently, it had been working for her and she lost 65 pounds. All she did was eat five small meals a day, walked a lot and drank nothing but water. Everyone congratulated her, until another woman (the one who shouted at the kids) said she had a better dieting option. "Ya'll remember when you saw me that time years ago and I was all skinny? Everybody was asking, 'what's your secret?' 'how'd you lose that weight?' You know what I said?"

We all looked at her. "What?"

"Crack." She started laughing. "But that was back when I was out there. Thank God I ain't like that no more."

Oy vey. The things I do for my job. I'm so overdue for a raise.

(Photo courtesy of http://www.newsroom.ucr.edu/images/releases/942_0.jpg)

Rut

My Kelis cd is skipping something awful, forcing me to listen to the radio while I'm in my car. That pisses me off to the high heavens because there are few things on the airwaves that I want to listen to these days. The dj will play a song I like and then either follow it up with songs about sex acts and/or drug dealing or those by artists that I refuse to let into my psyche, i.e. R. Kelly, Diddy. So I've been in a musical rut.

I did get an iPod so that has helped me escape alot of my musical issues. I don't have all the things that I need for my new little device, particularly the radio player. But I've been happily downloading ever since I got it. So far, I've added Ciara, John Legend, the Pussycat Dolls (I only got two songs, I can't help it), Beyonce and Common to my listening pleasure.

Unfortunately, Kelis is one of those cds I've kept in my car to get me through my day. Yeah, she talks about sex too, quite a bit. But the way she talks about it is more of an empowerment for women instead of degradation, if that makes any sense. There is no greater joy than to have "Blindfold Me," "Awww, S***t" or my personal favorite, "F*** them B*****s", to keep me pressing on. I'll have to stop being lazy and add her to the iPod so the radio can stop brainwashing me.

Bashful

Sorry that I've been so neglectful to the blog, but I've been feeling a bit lazy in the new year. I'd start posts and then save them for later. What a way to start 2007, eh? Anywho, now I'm back in business.

What I want to talk about today is buying feminine products. Although I'm a GAW (Grown-A** Woman), I have trouble buying these products when I have to deal with a male cashier. I know I'm not the first person to come up to them with such a purpose, but the whole experience makes me feel about five inches tall. It's like I can almost hear them saying, "Having a heavy day, huh?" or "Did you want Motrin with that?" Of course, they never say that, but I've had something similar happen in past experiences.

A few years ago, I used to go to a medical center in a nearby city to pick up my birth control pills. The experience was always the same. There was an older Italian man at the front whose face looked like he was either about to kill someone or fall asleep. I could never tell which one, maybe both. He was always a bit grumpy toward me until he realized I was buying the pills. Then his face would brighten and he'd say, "So how are you?" or "What's going on?" Now I know good and well that I couldn't be the only woman buying pills from him, but he acted like I was. I got so tired of the way his eyebrows used to dance when I gave him my money that I started going somewhere else.

One thing I have yet to buy and I don't think I ever will is condoms. My other experiences have been embarrassing enough that I just avoid this area altogether. Back when I was with The Ex, I waited in the car while he went into this store to buy some. The male cashier who was ringing him up, kept turning around and looking into the car right at me. I thought I was imagining things until The Ex got into the car and started laughing. Apparently, the cashier gave him a thumbs up sign and told him to "tear it up". Because this was my hometown, I had to go to this store several times. Whenever I got said cashier, he'd give me the same look that the Italian man did and make slight conversation, even if I was buying something as simple as toilet paper. Dealing with him was enough to make this brown girl turn red.

This week, I went to my 24-hour pharmacy to buy some feminine products. As soon as I got in the door, I realized that there were only male cashiers available. Bummer. I tried not to be ashamed and loaded up on pads and feminine wash. Then I also bought a pack of gum, just to throw things off a bit.

The man barely made eye contact as he rung me up. One of his male coworkers came up behind me and said something like "getting kind of chunky." Now, being that I will be 30 in a few weeks and have been dealing with all kinds of insecurities, particularly weight, I whipped my head around and asked him what he was talking about. He held up a section of the newspaper where it showed a picture of Cal Ripken Jr. being inducted into the baseball hall of fame. "I said Cal's getting kind of Chunky." Oh. Thank goodness.