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

Watch Out Steven Spielberg

You Should Be a Film Writer

You don't just create compelling stories, you see them as clearly as a movie in your mind. You have a knack for details and dialogue. You can really make a character come to life. Chances are, you enjoy creating all types of stories. The joy is in the storytelling. And nothing would please you more than millions of people seeing your story on the big screen!

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

I Bet You Think This Song is About You ...

Your 2006 Summer Anthem Is

Dani California by the Red Hot Chili Peppers "She's a lover, baby, and a fighter Shoulda seen it comin' when it got a little brighter With a name like "Dani California" Day was gonna come when I was gonna mourn ya A little loaded she was stealin' another breath I love my baby to death"

What's Your 2006 Summer Anthem?

How I'm Livin'

Because I change my mind almost as often as Angelina Jolie adopts children, I decided to post a little sumthin' sumthin' about how I'm feeling about random things. Yes, this is a lazy way to put a post together. But whatever, I'm running the show. And besides, all these opinions change in a day or so.

Attitude: Confident. Now that I'm used to having short hair, I've got my swagger back.
Perfume: Body by Victoria's Secret
Songs: "Bossy" by Kelis, "Promiscuous" by Nelly Frutado, "Torn" by LeToya, "DeJa Vu" -- Beyonce' and Jay-Z, "Hustlin'" by Rick Ross
Most hated song: "Gettin' Some" by Shawna. Can somebody ban that from the airwaves please?
Lipstick: 'O' and 'Strength' (but of course) by M.A.C.
Artist: Rhianna
Actors/Actress: Meryl Streep. However, Angela Basset is still the G.O.A.T.* The Academy needs to recognize!
TV Show: King of Queens
Hated TV Show: That '70s Show. I mean, isn't it the 80s or 90s by now?
Current fear: That my blinds aren't all the way closed and someone across the street is watching my every move.
Current enemy: Netflix. Those punks owe me two movies!!



**Greatest Of All Times, for those who didn't know.**

I Am Not a <*whisper*> lesbian

Now that my hair is short, I feel like I need to wear a t-shirt that reads, "I like boys." Society views women with short hair as, er, <*whisper*> lesbians, and I’m not. To show that I’m not, I’ve been trying to be as feminine as possible by wearing lots of skirts and dresses, jewelry and more makeup than I’ve ever worn in my life. Ok, so what if that only means wearing lipstick AND mascara, I’m slowly trying to get a message across! I am NOT a .. er… you know….<*lesbian*>. I also retired my ‘Eve was framed’ bumper sticker. That was a bit drastic, I know. But that shows feminism. And to many people, feminism = not liking boys. (Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay .. some of my best friends are gay) So that had to go. I try not to care what other people think, but I have no desire to get solicited by a woman. Ever.

So that brings me to my latest story about my neighbor. The woman who lives next door to me is a… well, you know. I haven’t confirmed that she is that way, but let’s just say she looks more thuggish than the drug dealers in The Wire, dressed in do-rags, sweatpants and wife beaters. We have a polite relationship, meaning we say a simple ‘hello’ in the mornings and occasionally run into each other in the parking lot. I don’t know her name, so I’ll refer to her as The Neighbor. Real original, huh?

I just finished tossing some whites in the dryer when The Neighbor entered our cramped laundry room the other day. There’s two washers, two dryers, and a huge sink in there, but little room for anything else. So I was already struggling when The Neighbor had to walk behind me. Instead of our normal greeting she said, ‘Hey girl’ and I said ‘hello.’ I thought about her words later when I was upstairs folding my clothes. Isn’t ‘hey girl’ a bit familiar? And did she say ‘hey girl’ or was it ‘heeyyyyyyyy, girl’? I mean, the former is reserved for close friends and the latter is something that the fellas scream at women on the street. Did The Neighbor think that my new hairstyle met that I was on her team? Was that greeting her way of welcoming me into the club?

An hour later, I prepared to go downstairs to get my clothes from the dryer. Then I realized I didn’t look appropriate. I had changed from my work clothes into my after work rags. Ordinarily that wouldn’t be a problem, but I need to send a message that I’m not a er, … well, you get the picture. So I changed back into my work gear – a skirt and top – applied more lipstick and raced downstairs.

Apparently, I was too late. The laundry room was empty when I got there and my clean clothes were sitting on top of the washing machine. Apparently, someone had to use the dryer and evicted my clothes once the cycle was done. I was peeved because this load consisted largely of my underwear, but hey, these things happen. I tossed my clothes into my laundry basket and left. Then it occurred to me, was it The Neighbor who evicted my clothes? Was she the one who touched my panties? I flipped through my clothes quickly and couldn’t find anything missing. But I was still unsettled. Now The Neighbor knows what kind of drawls I wear and the color of my bras. Heck, she even knows my bra size! What’ll she say when she sees me now? She’ll go from ‘hey girl’ to ‘how you doin’?’ with a Joey Tribbiani wink. Sigh.

Subscribe to My Issues

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s/c/w

Life on the Blue Screen

Dear Netflix administrators:
Do you remember me? I'm Strength/Courage/Wisdom, from No Cable Avenue. Surely you remember me shrieking when I called your shipping office at midnight to report that the DVD for Chungking Express wasn't working. Or maybe you'll recall a few of my more infamous phone calls when I was angered to see that there wasn't a new DVD awaiting me in the mailbox? Ah, good. I thought you'd remember me.

I'm writing to address a problem that I have with your service. Overall, I'm happy with my account. I'm on the three DVD plan, which gives me an unlimited number of movies for a month. That comes in handy for people like myself, who, er, have no cable. But I have one major problem that is getting in the way of my viewing schedule -- your staff only delivers movies five days a week.

A break on Sundays, I can understand, since no mail is being delivered then anyway. But no shipments on Saturday? I mean, why come?!!! I do my part -- I watch the flicks and I mail them back, just like you tell me. But there is nothing more frustrating than to return a movie on a Thursday, possibly risking not getting another one mailed to me until the following Monday (meaning it may not get to me until Wednesday). That leaves me with two movies for the weekend. TWO!! I only get about four channels clearly, enabling me to watch endless repeats of "King of Queens" and "Friends". And even those channels fade to the blue screen at the most critical moments, like punchlines. I need your people to work with me here!

I have 37 movies in my netflix queue, not including the three I'll get this week -- "The Princess Diaries," "The Princess Diaries II" and "Hannah and Her Sisters" (forgive me, it's Woody Allen). I'm also wondering if your people would consider getting more things on DVD that's only accessible to cable viewers -- things like the BET Awards, the MTV Music Awards. Or maybe even something from the Style Network? Oh, yes. That would be great! I can't take another day camped out at my parents' place pretending I love them, when I really just want to watch "How Do I Look" and "The Look for Less." You gotta help me!!

I know what you're thinking and the answer is no. I will not go back to cable. I refuse to pay to watch television. My life is so much better now that I've eliminated that factor from my life. But it would be even better if you all made the changes I've suggested. Thank you for your time.


Yours in movie love,
s/c/w

T-shirts & Titties

Boy, I love my family. Sometimes, conversations with my relatives will take the strangest turn. This is what happened when I visited my aunt wearing a t-shirt that said 'highly toxic' on the front. I bought it from this website, which sells a bunch of t-shirts with humorous slogans. Anyway, here's what happened:

Aunt: Nice T shirt.
Me: Thanks. I also have a red one that says 'brat.'
Aunt: Hah! Both describe you perfectly.
Me: Whatever. I was gonna get you a shirt that says 'I shop to fill the void from within.'
Aunt: Right. And I'd get you one that says, 'I write words on my titties just so people will look at them.'

Heavy sigh. Gotta love 'em!

I Am Not My Hair

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m feeling grateful for dirty old men right about now.

Let me back up. I should first say, I apologize for being gone so long. I went on vacation and I couldn’t bear to get on my computer, even if it was to blog. Now that my hiatus is over it’s time to spill the beans on what I’ve been up to. Ready? Here goes …




I CUT MY HAIR



And I mean, SHORT. For those of you who have been following along, I decided to lock my hair in January. I’ve been getting my hair cut and gradually growing the relaxer out. Most recently I was sporting micro braids, which gave my hair a curly appearance. I planned to keep the braids until my hair grew to a reasonable length for locking. But braiding takes all day, so this week I went to my hairdresser (who is also my aunt) and told her to cut off the chemically treated hair that remained and do something with my natural hair. She did and tied my remaining hair up into tiny, gel twists shown here.


I like my new ‘do, but I’ve been feeling a bit insecure because I’ve never had short hair before. And what do I do when I’m feeling insecure? I go see Mom, who has not been supportive of my natural hair journey. Here are some of the comments I got:

“Wow. I mean … wow.”
“Well, do you like it?”
“Wear bright lipstick so people won’t think you’re a boy.”
“Come back when your hair is straight.”
“Yep, you’re really African.”

That’s Moms for you. It’s a good thing I have a sense humor. So far, I’m getting the reaction that I expected from everybody. My mom and stepdad hate it, a few of my friends and my hairdresser say they love it.

While I was on vacation, I was able to see LeftBehind. I learned that he, like most brothas, has a hair issue. He doesn’t know about my natural plans and told me how much he loved the braids. His exact words were, “I’m a big fan of curly hair.” Then I met his mother later, who now has short hair. She says LB was mad at her because she cut her hair. Sigh. If he only knew what was going on with my head.

So I was wondering what kind of reaction I would get from the fellas the first day I went outside practically sporting my scalp. I did a little walk/run around my apartment complex. Now that I have less hair, I wear lipstick and earrings when I work out so I’m not confused for a boy. (Hey, there may be something to Mom’s advice!) I’m running down the street when I see an older man across the street staring at me. I’m wondering if he has me confused with somebody else, because I just know he can’t have lust in his eyes as he stares at lil’ old baldheaded me. But our eyes meet and he looks me up and down and smiles. That was a serious ego boost. It took everything in me not to run across the street and hug him. Sigh. You gotta love the dirty old men. You can be baldheaded, sweaty and downright funky but they’ll still think you’re a queen.

The true test of the hair will come tomorrow, when I’m sure it will scare the White People at work. Like LeftBehind, they liked my hair in the micro braids. Actually, their knowledge of Black Hair is so limited that they’re amazed even when I do simple things, like part my hair on a different side.

It’ll take some adjustment for everyone, me included, to get used to my new ‘do. But it’ll grow faster this way and then I’ll move onto the next phase of my journey, which is the actual locking process. Until then, I won’t leave the house without wearing a dress, earrings or lipstick. Then I’ll stand in my full-length mirror for forever, reciting the chorus to India.Arie’s “I Am Not My Hair.” Yet I know that if I find out that I’m going to see LeftBehind again, I might have to run and get a hot comb or something. I’m not that strong … yet.

(Photo courtesy of http://www.eftal.com/ezimagecatalogue/catalogue/variations/31-400x500.jpg)

For Daddy ...

D.E.J.
JULY 29, 1957 to JUNE 26, 1999


Miss ya

I'm Beautiful

Say what you will, but I love this song. I saw James Blunt on an interview talking about how he saw an ex girlfriend on the subway once and it inspired him to write these lyrics. I've loved it ever since.

BEAUTIFUL (James Blunt)

Video Code provided by VideoCodeZone.Com

MySpace introduces me to MyPast

My coworkers introduced me to the world of MySpace and I've been hooked. Not hooked in that I'm on there posting all the time. But I've been going on there and looking up people from my past and seeing where they are. I found a few college friends, an ex boyfriend and some high school acquaintancesces. I also looked up Gary, whom I had a crush on throughout much of my high school career. He also had a long time girlfriend, but I had no interest in looking her whereabouts. With some people, you just don't care about where they wind up.

So, guess who I ran into while eating my lunch in the park the very next day? Here's a hint: it wasn't Gary.

The girlfriend, I'll call her Keisha, was strolling through the park talking to a few other women. I knew it was her as soon as I heard that loud, raspy voice. I considered saying hello, but I decided against it. She may or may not remember me and if she did, I couldn't remember if we last spoke on good terms. And I get so tired of these random conversations with people from the past, particularly high school. They give you the once over to see if you've gained any weight, then they want to ask you about marriage and kids. Because I'm not married and wasn't looking my best, I looked away and she did the same. She looked good, though. I heard through the grapevine awhile back that she married her other high school flame, a real loser named Jeff. But he wound up getting his act together. They now have about three kids.

I remember practically everything about Keisha. She was the girl everybody pretended to like, but secretly hated her because she "thought she was cute." She did have a massive ego and a flair for the dramatic. I remember the first day she strolled into my 9th grade English class, concerned because the teacher couldn't find her name on the attendance sheet. And when Mrs. C. was finally able to find her information, Keisha grabbed her arm and said, "Oh, God bless you!" I new then that she was going to be a piece of work. And I was right. She was one of those light-complexioned sistas who was confused about her heritage and didn't like to say she was simply black. She traced her ancestry back five generations and liked to tell people she was part Irish, French, Italian, Native American, etc etc etc. She showed up to prom wearing a geisha-themed outfit because she said everyone thought she looked Asian. That statement came as a surprise to the rest of us.

I was disappointed when she started dating Gary, but I kept my feelings to myself. Keisha and I became friends, but I secretly wished that she would fall down the steps and become incapacitated so Gary would realize his true love for me. No matter how many times I hoped, prayed and poked my voodoo doll, this scenario never became true. When they did finally break up in our junior year, it was explosive. They had a loud argument in the hallway, she slapped him and he said something like, "if you hit me again, i'll shoot you." She performed in our school talent show shortly after and sang Ce Ce Peniston's "Keep On Walkin'", which everyone knew was dedicated to Gary.

Tthe demise of their relationship didn't bring Gary any closer to me. He moved onto another chick, a freshman this time, and Keisha hooked up with Jeff, her future husband. I never thought I'd see either one of them again, but I was wrong.
(photo courtesy of http://dts.ystoretools.com/1092/images/250x1000/delgeisgir.gif)

Thursdays with Mom

Mom and I have started this thng where we spend one night a week, usually Thursdays, eating out together. It's sparked some interesting comments on her part.
(While dining at Mongolian BBQ)
Mom: Whoa, there's a bunch of Asian guys standing outside. Just hanging around.
Me: Yeah. I noticed our whole area is getting a larger Asian population.
Mom: Interesting. I wonder if this restaurant would give them a discount.

(Over burgers at Ruby Tuesday's)
Mom: You remember your cousin Kelly's grandmother?
Me: No.
Mom: Sure you do. She was real thin and gay. I'm talking gaaaaaaay. She was gay back before there even was gay.
Me: No, I don't remember her. Why do you ask?
Mom: Oh. Well, she died.

(At Applebee's)
Mom: Please get a relaxer! I'm tired of you doing this natural thing.
Me: I want locks. This is the only way to do it.
Mom: Fine. I guess I'll be the only white girl in the family.
Me: I guess so.
Mom (as she tosses her hair): So are you happy? Are you happy and nappy?

(Over the phone)
Mom: I'm sorry I gave you a ghetto name.
Me: What?
Mom: I was listening to this radio program and --
Me: Mom! Stop listening to Michael Baisden!
Mom: They were saying that employers see certain names on a resume and eliminate the ones with ghetto names. Your name is at the top of the list.
Me: My name isn't ghetto. It's certain people who make the name ghetto --
Mom: But still. From now on, you should go by your middle name.

(At her house)
Me: Be happy with the step grandchild you have now. That'll probably be the only grandchild you'll ever have.
Mom: Oh, you'll give me a grandchild. Husband or not, but I'm sure you'll give me a grandbaby.

Go, GHANA!!!

I'm sure there's a rule out there that says as an American, I am entitled to root for the U.S. team in the World Cup. I am officially bucking the system. The U.S. plays Ghana June 22 and all I can say is, GO GHANA!!!

I couldn't have cared less about the World Cup until this past Saturday, when I spent like five hours waiting to get my car serviced. I finished a good book, read the newspaper and tried unsuccessfully to do a sudoku puzzle. The only thing left to do was to watch television, which the service guys turned up once the match between Ghana and the Czech Republic came on.

The game was amazing. Ghana came out swinging, scoring the first goal in the second minute. The end score was 2-0, Ghana won. This was Ghana's first time beating an European country since the 1960s and Africa's first victory in the World Cup. Czech Republic, which had already beat the U.S., was ranked second in the world before that upset. Everyone in the waiting room was cheering for Ghana -- black folks, white folks and Latinos. My car was ready before the next match, which was between U.S. and Italy, but I didn't have any interest on that one. I went online today and saw when the U.S. and Ghana will play and I can't wait. Go Ghana!!
(photos courtesy of http://chinadaily.com.cn/sports/2006-06/18/xin_06060318082863421081.jpg and http://www.cbc.ca/gfx/images/sports/photos/2006/06/17/gyan-asamoah060617getty.jpg)

Phlegmatic? Me?

You Have a Phlegmatic Temperament

Mild mannered and laid back, you take life at a slow pace. You are very consistent - both in emotions and actions. You tend to absorb set backs easily. You are cool and collected. It is difficult to offend you. You can remain composed and unemotional. You are a great friend and lover. You don't demand much of others. While you are quiet, you have a subtle wit that your friends know well. At your worst, you are lazy and unwilling to work at anything. You often get stuck in a rut, without aspirations or dreams. You can get too dependent on others, setting yourself up for abandonment.

What Temperment Are You?

I ♥ NY

Sorry I’ve been MIA, but I spent the last four days hanging out with some buddies from undergrad in New York. My friend Naomi and I traveled up there to visit Bianca, my former roomie who now lives in the Bronx. We had a blast.

It’s always fun hanging with Bianca, who is a sexual health educator. She explains things in ways that I never thought of. When demonstrating how to get around on the subway system, she explained that the map of New York is shaped like a penis. Manhattan is the actual penis, Brooklyn is the testes, the Bronx and Queens are the pubic hair and Staten Island is an ejaculant. She explained this while drawing a diagram for a couple of male friends who were planning to go to Yankee Stadium Sunday afternoon.

Bianca (while drawing her own map on a napkin): See, I live here and you want to get here.
The Boys: (staring wide eyed) Ummmm, your drawing is very interesting.
Bianca: Yes. I live in the pubic hair. You need to get out of the penis and come to the pubic hair. Pun intended.

So we had laughs like that the entire time we were there. We got to explore Manhattan, Harlem and Greenwich Village, where I was able to buy some great souvenirs from the art studio of James De La Vega. It was mission to get a one of a kind souvenir, something other than those awful "I ♥ NY" t-shirts that everyone and their cousin's uncle seems to own. I bought a few cards with his artwork, one that says ‘You are your best investment’ and a mug that says ‘Become your Dream.’ The mug has a drawing of a fish, that has become too big for its tank, jumping out of the tank and aiming for a glass of water. We even took some pictures with the artist.

I hear so much about New Yorkers being mean .. so untrue! We were standing up on the subway and an old Indian man offered to give me his seat. I declined, but he was persistent:
Him: I call you, 'Your Highness’.
Me: Okay.
Him: You are Queen of Sheba.
Hey, who was I to argue with him? He must’ve heard about the blog! =) Until next time …..
(included is a map of Manhattan, courtesy of http://www.antiquemapsandprints.com/SCANSB/B-1554.jpg)

My Golden Anniversary

According to the Blogger people, this is my 50th post. When I started this site a few months ago, I worried that I wouldn't have anything to say. Now I can't shut up. I appreciate my readers (all five or six of them) for sticking with me as I dealt with hard-hitting subjects such as toilet manners, my hair issues and my ongoing relationship with Ned. This time, I thought I'd treat you with something special. I'm writing 50 random facts about me. Enjoy!

"I, Strength/Courage/Wisdom ...."

1. ... Love the color red
2. Hate the color green, particularly lime green
3. Know all the words to "Ice, Ice Baby"
4. Memorized the movie, "The Last Dragon"(one of my favorite movies). I also have the movie on VHS and DVD, as well as the soundtrack.
5. Had two imaginary friends, a girl named Rareress and Nana the horse.
6. Owned four parakeets -- Twootles, Samantha, BeeBee & GeeGee -- at separate times and I killed them all
7. Once ate a piece of soap. More about that in a later post.
8. Have a black belt in karate
9. Once had a boyfriend who is a a Little Person (we were 11)
10. Have a car I nicknamed Mimi
11. Have a pet cat named Simba
12. Have an acoustic guitar nicknamed Shug
13. Have a half-nude statue named Sheba
14. Have an obsession with naming things
15. Love the letter 'S'
16. Own a serious Archie Comic Book collection, with some issues going back to the 1960s
17. Am an Aries
18. Once thought Emmanuel Lewis wrote the dictionary. Ya know, he had that show called "Webster"
19. Was pointed at by Eric Benét during a concert in Orlando in 2001. (I'm not making this up, there were witnesses!)
20. Have a scrapbook
21. Have dated at least three guys named Steve (all at different times)
22. Have a autographed picture from New Edition, written by Ralph Tresvant. It says, 'To Strength, From New Edition -- We're with you all the way'
23. Learned about slavery through a very strange roleplaying exercise with my mother. We even got slave names -- hers was Belle and mine was Lou. (Don't ask, more about this in a later post)
24. Speculated that my father was the Incredible Hulk after seeing him without his shirt on
25. Can't swim
26. Am madly in love with both Bruce Lee and Langston Hughes, despite that whole dead thing.
27. Love "A Walk in the Clouds", despite the fact that Keanu Reeves can't act.
28. Am slue-footed
29. Once worked in a prison
30. Worked at a bagel shop where a manager nearly cut off my finger while trying to play a joke. 31. Met G. Money from New Jack City, aka Allen Payne
32. Accidentaly ripped off a boy's shirt while roller skating
33. Love "The Sound of Music", but I still refuse to watch the second half of the movie because it's way too sad
34. Told a teacher in nursery school to 'sit on it' and got sent home
35. Was once left handed, until my parents forced me to use my right hand. Now my handwriting is terrible.
36. Still don't know what I want to be when I grow up
37. Google every guy I go out with prior to date #1
38. Love thunderstorms, as long as I'm safely tucked away
39. I hate baseball, but love going to baseball games
40. Think Uma Thurman and Tyra Banks look alike, despite the obvious complexion differences.
41. Want the troops to come home
42. Want to love and be loved, preferably by someone who is not on the down-low, crazy or has crazy tendencies
43. Hate the taste of beer
44. Love to watch boxing matches. I like to pretend the men are fighting over me.
45. Want to visit Egypt
46. Dreamt that I woke up in my second grade classroom. I was a kid again and everything that happened since then in my life had been a dream. How I wish that were true.
47. Will almost always give my phone number to a man with dimples, unless he's missing teeth.
48. Keep a diary
49. Considered naming my cat, Sho'Nuff after the villan in "The Last Dragon", one of my favorite movies.
50. Am obsessed with sudoku puzzles.

The Miseducation of the Negro

Sometimes, I find myself making the same mistakes. For example, whenever I go to the African-American interest section of bookstores, I get disgusted by the abundance of 'street literature' -- books about gangstas, pimps and the drug trade. I visited this section again recently at Borders when I found a book in that genre called 'I Shot Ya, M***F***.'

That's not the name of the book, but the title was pretty offensive. I'm not printing the name of the book because I don't want to give it anymore attention than it deserves. On the back cover, the author wrote, ''this is about a fly n___, who had all the money, b____es and clothes that a n_____ could want. Then he tried to go against Big Tony. And that was the end of life for that n____.' I flipped through a couple of pages of the book and I stumbled upon a love scene. I use the word 'love' loosely. It went as follows: 'I liked to f*** and so did she. I stuck my d*** in her dripping p*** and she laughed.' (I'd like to say I'm exaggerating here, but I'm not)

Books like this are especially troubling for aspiring writers like me. I dread the day when I meet with some editor who criticizes my work for not being 'black' or 'street' enough, as if the words were interchangeable. I hate going to bookstores where I see a ton of Toni Morrison and Alice Walker's novels line the shelves, while novels like 'Pimp that Ho' and 'Shoot that B***' sell out almost as quickly as they are published. These days, street lit is saturating the black fiction market.

I shouldn't lump them all in the same category, since I have been a fan of some street lit. Sister Souljah's 'The Coldest Winter Ever' was a really good book and I did like some of Donald Goines work as well. But what sets their work apart from all the reformed thugs writing today's crop of street tales, is the overall message. Neither writer glorifies drugs and violence, nor shows it as the only way of life for black people. They show the reality of these poor choices and demonstrate how their characters suffer as a result. I beg the author of 'I Shot Ya, M***F***' to read something by Souljah or Goines before picking up his pen again.

Reasons to procreate

So I've decided the other day that I must have children. Actually, I decided this a long time ago, but this week made it more evident. I have to have at least three kids -- preferably three, strong boys. Actually, at least two boys. Do you know why? So they can carry my groceries.

There is nothing that screams single woman like lugging groceries out of the car and putting them inside your apartment. The sweat, the huffing and puffing and neighbors who pretend not to see you and don't hold open the door is enough to make me want go through 26 hours of arduous labor three times.

I'd give my sons strong names like Butch, Desiel and Bonebreaker. Butch and Desiel would do the heavy lifting, while Bonebreaker would escort me from the car and into the comfort of my living room, prepared to fight if any of the other neighborhood kids so much as snickered. Butch would unload the groceries, while Desiel would rub my feet and Bonebreaker would bring me a cool glass of lemonade. I guess I'd throw a husband in there.... but I'd have to find him an activity and a name. Hmmm.... Ah, here's one: The husband's name will be Bonebreaker Sr. and he'd cook dinner and do the cleaning. Ah.... what a life!