I have to write a post about this every year. I’m sitting here relaxing, looking at television, comtemplating getting a cup of hot cocoa. I’ve finally finished two stories I had hanging over my head. I’ve washed all of clothes (though I have a load to fold) and I’ve finished my radio show appearance. For 15 minutes, I laid here feeling accomplished and ready for new week. Then I realized I have papers to grade from a month ago. Papers that I’ve been promising my students every week since then. The last day of class is Wednesday.
I’m doing too much.
Sometimes I spread myself way too thin. I’m all about having multiple talents, which will hopefully result in multiple streams of income, but sometimes it’s just too much. I want to be able to come straight home and just be. No paperwork, no extra stops after work, etc. It’s true; I chase the dollar, but I don’t have to. These days my time is much more valuable. I could get more writing done and even work for my full-time job.
I’ve decided not to renew my teaching contract next semester. It’s nothing new though. I often teach in alternate semesters. My plan was to teach for a full year to pay a dental bill this time around, but I’ve changed my mind. I just need a break.
I’ll be honest and tell you that I haven’t moved an inch to get my work bag. Those grades can wait one more day. Procrastination, get thee behind me. Le sigh.
I’m sitting up in my bed watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade, preparing to work on a story. It’s cold and gloomy outside, but warm and toasty in my house. I’m going to my mama’s house later on, so she can teach me how to make her dressing (again), and tomorrow, I’ll be traveling to New Orleans to enjoy yet another Bayou Classic with family and friends.
I am thankful.
I would be lying if I said I don’t complain about things every now and then. I’m not where I thought I would be, nor am I doing what I thought I’d be doing at this point in my ife. The crazy thing is, I don’t know if I ever really had a specific plan for my future, but I did have an idea. But what are ideas without implementation and follow through? Yeah.
However, when I really take time to think about it, I can’t help but be thankful. For years, I sat in church watching people hoop and holler, shout and nod their heads about thankfulness to God for little things. As I’ve gotten older, I get it. I can sleep peacefully in a warm bed in my own home. I have sufficient income to take care of my needs and wants. My job is not fulfilling, but doors in other areas keep opening. Though few in number, I have an awesome family and great friends.
So, though my granny isn’t here with me physically, I thank God because He sends her to me in my dreams. Three years ago to date, I was in the hospital with my Daddy after suffering a heart attack and stroke. Today’s he’s alright. I am blessed, and I don’t take that for granted. Sure, I could wish to saunter up and down the brightly-lit streets of New York City, be a well-known writer or travel across the globe, but the things that really matter, I already have, I already do. I must be thankful for what I have before I can be taken to the next level.
Today, I will bask in the blessings God has bestowed. He’s greater than great.
There’s always fun and the unexpected when my girls and I get together. We decided to visit DC again. The last time we were there it was President Obama’s inauguration. We did everything, from joyriding with strangers near Club Love to defending my southern twang from the back of a police car–all while managing to visit the historic Fortitude on Howard’s campus, saunter down U Street, attend a party and get a pretty close look at the Prez taking his oath. Little did we know while visiting, one of us would be moving there just a few months later.
That brings me to now. Homegirl became apart of the Homeowner’s Club in Maryland, so a visit was in order. Consider this Part I of my Labor Day getaway to DC.
Our entire weekend was planned from the time we stepped off the plane to the time we boarded. The first night would include dinner at The Park, clubbing at the K Lounge, followed by the Go-Go, as suggested by her cousin, a DC native. I’m all about the Go-Go. Walk down any crowded street in the district and you’ll find guys beating the bottoms of paint buckets. It’s a go-go beat that you can’t help but dance to. If you’re not familiar, here’s an example of the crossover go-go song:
Who doesn’t like “Da Butt”? I was all in. Leaving The Park, we engaged in random conversation with the doormen/valet guys, who were all dressed in Lifeguard shirts and khaki shorts (still trying to figure that out). “So, where are you ladies going now?”
“We’re supposed to go to a go-go tonight, somewhere in Maryland.”
The guys looked us over, then back at each other. “Wait, you are going to a go-go? Who’s doing it? You said it’s in Maryland? What part?”
What’s the big deal?
“You ladies don’t look like the go-go type. Look at how you’re dressed! You have on dresses and heels, when you really need jeans and sneakers. Ya’ll are not prepared.”
The tall guy jumps in. “—-Unless you’re going to a Chuck Brown go-go. That’s for the grown folks. You can two-step all night. You’ll enjoy it.”
Cool. We took our chances and drove to Maryland.
The closer we got to the venue, we saw it was packed. Cars were everywhere, but we didn’t see anyone….until we pulled into an alternate parking lot. Have you examined your surroundings and instantly knew you weren’t supposed to be there?
It became crystal clear that we were out of our element. Rather than get in the mile-long line for admission, we stood back and people watched for a while. I saw people young and old(er), mostly women, dressed in boots (it was 80 degrees atleast. Maybe it’s a regional thing), cigarettes in hand, mangled weave and yes, even a few pairs of “church shoes”. Nothing but obscenities flew from their mouths about having to pay $40 for the “fake-a** VIP line,” as one girl described it. I failed to mention the suspect number of police cars already parked in the lot. The go-go didn’t start until 11:30 p.m. It was 11 p.m.
My girls and I looked down at our stilettos, cutesy dresses and handbags and decided to sit this one out. But before we left, I just had to know what the go-go was really like. The self-proclaimed spokesperson of the group (I’ll talk to anyone.), I approached the group of policemen. They looked so excited about their night ahead. One was leaning on the car, while another was popping sunflower seeds in his mouth.
“Excuse me, officer. We were about to go in, but things don’t look too favorable….We’re from out-of-town. What’s goes on here exactly?”
“You and them wanna go in there?” He laughed. “Why? Look around. It’s obvious this isn’t where you need to be.”
We scanned the crowd. He was undeniably right. So were the guys at The Park.
“First off, you all speak King’s English. You’re dressed nice. You’re not, you know, ghetto.”
He went on, “You see, by the time 2 a.m. comes around, we will have broken up atleast five fights. These people over in the “$20 line” don’t know it, but they’ll never get in. This entire lot will be filled with police cars. It’s all typical at a go-go. I wouldn’t advise it.”
His sunflower seed-popping partner gave us a “that sucks for you” look and nodded in agreement.
“You might be right, ” I said. “But I really wanted to go. It would’ve been fun.”
Suddenly, there’s commotion at the door. A tall, slender girl wearing a half-top, whom I’d just spotted in line runs out of the club, adjusting her bra because apparently it’d almost been yanked off of her. She says, “F*** that b***! She knows where I stay. Come see me!”
Following her a short chick comes out pulling her dress down. It was obvious she was Tall Girl’s opponent, and even more obvious that she lost. Tall Girl beat that ass. We’d just seen this chick. She went in the club looking like Beyonce and came out looking like Sonic the Hedgehog. Tall Girl clearly pulled every track (except three, no lie) out of her head. Bleeding and barefoot on the glass-filled pavement, she was a certified mess. Her friend, however, dressed in a long-sleeved black liquid leather dress, was flawless. I guess she didn’t jump in.
Mr. Officer heaved a deep sigh, “See what I’m sayin’? I’ll be back.” He slow bopped over to the girls. To support his argument, after about 10 minutes, he returned to report that the girl wanted to go back into the go-go after she cleaned up her bloody wounds. Really? It’s that popping in there?
No. Ma’am. We couldn’t take anymore. We said our goodbyes to the DMV’s finest and chunked the deuces. It was definitely a no-go at the go-go.
This weekend, I went to my nephew’s 7th birthday party. He’s become quite intersted in bowling, even though the bowling ball is bigger than his entire body. Obviously the party was at a bowling alley. What seemed like a million little people zoomed around the lanes, jumping for joy when the bumpers that were up (for kids only, I discovered. I’m too old to bowl with bumpers. Damn) pushed the ball into a few pins. They screamed and ate Transformers birthday cake and pizza.
I started to think about my own birthday parties as a child. I didn’t have a big blowout every year, but the ones I had were memorable. I think one–maybe my 6th–was at Pizza Hut. Today that would be a lame location, but then, in the 80s? It was heaven. Nothing like pizza, the ultimate kid food and endless friends running around. I eventually had one at Showbiz, now known to kids as Chuck E. Cheese. It was the best, even though I was terrified of the Gorilla that played the piano. That was real fun.
What do kids have now–period. Nothing but computers, cell phones and a few visits to Incredible Pizza. Confession: I went to Incredible Pizza for the first time this month and had as much fun as the children. Shame.
Reading Danyel Smith’s Tumblr, The Smithian, I came across a quote taken from a recent story in The Independent, “The internet comes of age: Meet the tweeny bloggers’.” According to the story, “Children as young as three are firing up their laptops and connecting,” says Susie Mesure.
There’s nothing–absolutely nothing wrong with developing bright minds early on. The world and everything in it is driven by technology, but is it really good organic fun? I’ll tell you what I enjoyed in my childhood and why it’s better than what these kids have now.
We had better cartoons. Better yet, we had Saturday morning cartoons. I remember being as young as six or seven, getting up early at 7:30 a.m., fixing a bowl of cereal and wrapping up in covers on the couch to watch cartoons for two straight hours—until wrestling came on at 10 a.m. From Gummi Bears to Kid N’ Play and Alvin and the Chipmunks, we had the best. I can’t forget about He-Man, Transformers, She-Ra, Ducktales, ThunderCats and anything from Warner Brothers and Disney.
We had better toys. What do kids play with these days besides PS3’s and iPhones? I know I’m not the only one who remembers the Sears Wishbook distributed for the holiday season. I wanted everything in that book (except boys’ toys). The EZ Bake Oven? Barbie California Dunebuggy? Legos?
We had better music. Let it be known that 80s/early 90s music crushes music today. Sure, we have beats and sounds we never could have imagined then thanks to Timbaland, Swizzy and Kanye, but there’s so special about the generic sound of Bobby Brown’s “Every Little Step” (shout out to Babyface) or “If Your Heart Isn’t In It” by Atlantic Starr. It beats the hell out of listening to Wacka Flocka scream his name out over and over again. And if you need any more proof that 80s music was better, grab a Purple Rain soundtrack. Cased closed.
Our electronics sucked, so we had to interact with each other. Even I, an only child, had my fair share of “playing outside,” running through the sprinklers and playing “Red Light/Green Light” in the middle of the street. I didn’t have cell phone that can do anything imaginable to entertain me for hours on end like kids today. It pains me to see a group of children sitting together, but glued to their phones. The closest thing we had then was the Atari and Nintendo. True, the Nintendo went hard–really hard–but after a while, even it got old. I couldn’t imagine sitting in front of a computer web-surfing. Do you remember the first Apple computer? The print-outs had perforated edges. No color. Straight analog.
We had real television shows. As opposed to “reality shows.” Kids today don’t know the fun of singing your favorite television sitcom’s opening song. If you didn’t know the words to “Married with Children,” “Cheers,” or “A Different World,” something was wrong. Then we had family oriented shows that allowed everyone to watch television together without covering eyes or ears. Thursday and Friday night television lineups were major events in my house. Umm, what comes on now? Don’t worry, I’ll wait….
Our fashion was better. Really, I didn’t have much of a choice of what I wore as I child, but thank God my mama knew what was “in” then. I say our fashion was better because it’s being repeated right now, but we rocked it first. I’ve already seen kids with high-top fades and Gumby cuts, so I’m waiting to see a Coca-Cola shirt any day now. I’ll never forget the day I got a pair of British Knights and L.A. Gear “Brats.” They came with five different sets of colored shoestrings. Yeah, it took me like, an hour, to tie my shoes, but it was worth it. We could have fun with our clothes and wear anything without the pressure of “fashion bloggers” and critics.
Now, tell me. Do you really think you can top that? What do you think was the best growing up?
Sometimes I wish I could press the refresh button on life. Not every aspect. Just some. Today I am not 100 percent. I’m probably at 60 percent—mentally and physically. I need a day off just to get myself together. Last night I found out I’m not alone. One of my besties and I made yet another pact (this is becoming quite common for us…weird) to organize our lives starting….next month (give us some time!).
My life has very little structure or order. My days have no routine. That’s a good thing, right? The Aries in me detests doing the same things repeatedly. I’m okay with change because I become bored with things, tasks and people fast. It’s not the best character trait to have, but it’s all me. What I need are better time management skills. Most times I’m great in that area, especially when work-related, but otherwise I suck at it.
I want to make some small, yet beneficial changes in my life to make it less hectic.
Going to bed at a decent time–consistently. Yeah, I know this sounds super old of me. One of my BFFs always tells me “You can sleep when you’re dead! Shake back (That’s Houston talk)!” That’s great and all, but a chick gets tired! Atleast, I let one of my jobs go for the summer. Maybe that’ll make a difference, too.
Set aside time daily for prayer and writing. How many times a day do I say, ‘Lord, I need You right now.’? That’s a request, not a prayer. Rarely do I take time out to commune and think. I usually pray when I wake up and talk with God while I’m driving to work. I don’t think that’s sufficient anymore.
Cut back on television. Yeah, I have to do this. While I’m burning my brain cells watching VH1’s Sunday night lineup, I could do something else more valuable with my time, like reading a book (I’ve got one in mind, too! The Carrie Diaries!). I can watch all these shows on On Demand or online anyway.
Oh yeah, I purposely left EXERCISE off the list for those who are thinking I need to get off my arse. That goes without saying so I won’t even mention it until I actually do it. I’m well aware of how fitness positively impacts mental and physical health.
I’ve got to try these things, and I will..in June. Please, tell me I’m not the one who feels like this.
In about 26 days or so, I’ll be 2010. 2000-damn-10! I remember celebrating 2009 in Atlanta like yesterday. This year has flown by at warp speed. Maybe that’s a testament to my getting older. Earlier this year, I wrote a list of goals. I don’t call them resolutions because that’s a sure fire way to blow them. I’ve hardly checked anything off of the list, but just because it’s December, doesn’t mean I have to stop trying to achieve those goals.
Last night, my male BFF made a comment about my personality that I think about often. I (and he) find it quite odd about myself. He says, “You’re like, soft. But not soft, ya know. You’re a pansy. You cry over commercials, but when it comes to your principals and relationships, you’re super hard.”
Yep, that’s me. I cry over everything–songs, movies, children, whatever. Just last week, I laid in my bed and cried a river watching Bride Wars. I’m very sentimental, but I never show to other people. F’d up, indeed, but I’m trying to change that. So far, I’m doing well.
A guy I met a while back broke a date over some foolishness. After hearing his lame excuse of why he couldn’t make it, I immediately wanted to tell him that I thought he was full of shit and had been thinking such for a while. (Don’t ask why I continued to entertain him.) In true fashion, I just let it ride. Two weeks later, he calls to ask if I was “mad” at him. The old me would have said, “Me? Mad? Nah, I’m good.” Instead, I went in on him. I didn’t do it to make him feel like an ass. Clearly, he was already there or he wouldn’t have called. I simply told him my take on the situation in a calm voice and that was it. He got the point. It’s over.
That, even though I’m not emotionally or physically invested in him, was liberating. It could be because I have no attachments to him, I was able to express myself so freely. In any case, I did, and it felt great. I’m hoping to keep the ball rolling with someone who I actually care about this time. Progress has no expiration date.
I’ve never been an emotional person. If someone does something to hurt me, I don’t break down or cry. Conversely, I will cry over St. Jude infomercials or while singing my favorite Mary Mary song in the car on the way to work. I cry when small children sing their first solos or recite their Easter speeches at church. Or at the end of Imitation of Life and Malcolm X. Even then, I try to catch my tears before they fall.
Outside of tears of joy, I can count on one hand the number of people who have seen me cry. That includes crying while intoxicated. (I’m an emotional drinker, hence why I don’t drink much). There’s something psychologically engrained in my head that makes me refuse to show physical signs of sadness, hurt or anger to anyone. Think of it as that stigma that says “Real men don’t cry.” I think that’s a handful of malarkey, but I do understand. Tears equal weakness. Sometimes. Depending on the situation.
So I don’t cry in front of people.
On Black Friday 2008, I sat at the table with four of my closest friends I’ve had since high school for lunch to “catch up.” “Catch up,” meaning a mini-interrogration about who’s dating who, why one of us isn’t dating and random stuff about work and how we wish we could go back to high school days. Atleast college days.
As an annual tradition, I was supposed to be with my family in New Orleans, enjoying daiquiris on Bourbon Street, preparing myself for the thrill of Bayou Classic. But I was there, sitting with three other women chattering away about love, life and 50 percent off sales.
On the other side of town, my daddy was in the hospital after suffering a massive stroke, a complication of a triple bypass after having a second heart attack. For three days, he was half-out of his mind, and so were we. He could barely talk and he didn’t seem to be making any progress. His neurologists said his condition was permanent.
I’d walked up and down the halls of that hospital a million and one times, praying for a recovery, yet still not believing that any of it had happened. I sat with him, as family who’d travelled near and far, talked to him, hoping to get a coherent response from him–a hand wave, atleast. I waited for physician updates, tried to console my mother and ate in the hospital cafeteria with my sister day in and day out, only going home to shower and change clothes.
I was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted.
Yet, I was sitting at that table trying to be a part of the conversation, and I didn’t even want to be there.
When I left the hospital, Daddy was doing better. He could understand us, sign his name and walk at a slow pace. I knew that things would never be the same though. As my friends laughed and griped about Black Friday traffic, I played along, but I was thinking, too. I thought about the pain I saw in my Mama’s eyes when the doctors said he’d be “like that forever.” The gut feeling I had that something was terribly wrong after Daddy didn’t laugh at the musical Mahogany card I brought him for his bypass recovery. Or the possibility that I would never hear his voice, calling me “Wook”, his favorite nickname for me again.
I became nauseated. My eyes started to fill with tears. I wanted to scream out and ask God why this was happening to my Daddy and to my family right there in the restaurant. Instead, I looked down at my hands under the table, reached in my bag for my cell phone and pretended I had to take a phone call. I kept my head down as I walked out so they wouldn’t see the tears rolling down my face. I ran in the bathroom, locked myself in a stall and cried uncontrollably. Even then, I still muffled my sobs and covered my eyes with a ton of tissue, hoping no one would come in and hear me. I didn’t leave out of the bathroom until I had completely dried my eyes and they were visible signs of my tears.
What’s crazy is even though I hid my tears, I wanted someone, even if it was just the server outside the stall washing her hands, to ask me if I was okay. She didn’t. When I returned to the table, business went on as usual. No one said a word about anything but the leftovers from Thanksgiving meals.
Almost two years later, I ask myself why I even agreed to meet them knowing how I was feeling. Somehow I thought it would serve as a distraction (and my mom made me go). Instead, it brought everything to the forefront. I remember one of my girls telling me I could sit this one out because I had so much going on. I said, “No, it’s cool. I want to see ya’ll.” And I did. But I shouldn’t have.
Almost two years later, Daddy’s well and life is about as normal as it will be. Days pass and I no longer think about being trapped in that hospital for weeks, but I still think about that stall and the tears behind my eyes.
Last month, I bought a few dresses online. For no particular reason. I just like pretty dresses. I find myself obsessing over the length of the dresses. They seem to be a decent length on the models, but let’s face it: Stores aren’t using tall women to model their clothing. I’m always worried that I will get the dress and it will be too short.
This was the case for not one, but two dresses I ordered. I tried the first one on–the one I liked more. Knit, sleeveless, striped and fitted. I faced the mirror and realized that not only was it short, it was hella tight. On the website, it was a nice evening dress, but on me it was a certified freakum dress. After toiling over the idea of sending it back, I decided to file it away for later use (my trip to Vegas).
I had a moment of self-discovery. I’m a fairly conservative dresser.
Not in a “I only wear skirts past my knees” or “I don’t wear sleeveless shirts.” You’ll find nothing but tank tops, tubes and halters in my closet. I believe in showing skin, but within reason.
One of my BFFs noticed it, too. Just the other night, she asked why that is. My answer:
“Weird things happen to me when I wear short dresses, skirts or shorts.”
It’s so true. Let’s take a trip down memory lane, shall we?
Fall 2004, I returned to Baton Rouge for a new semester of school. I’d bought these red (Get-It Girl) shorts atleast a year ago that I’d yet to wear. Again, I guess I thought they were too short. The first party of the semester was at the end of the week–you know, the one you CAN’T miss. As luck would have it, I became ill a few days before the party. I self-diagnosed myself with a slight cold and immediately began medicating myself. I was going to be at that party.
Saturday arrived and I felt better. I took the plunge and put on the red shorts, a tank top and heels. Just before we left, I took a Tylenol Sinus for reinforcement. We got to the venue and walked around. This was my first time wearing short shorts (with stilettos). In a way, I felt liberated. The party was great: flashing lights, old friends and good ole’ ratchet jig and bounce music.
Standing there with the girls, a friend’s cousin, who’s like family, offered me a drink. I was a bit parched. Why not? I took one sip, savored it and continued my two-step. In an instant, I started to feel dizzy. Nausea had set in. I grabbed him, then the closest rail to maintain my balance. I regained my composure for a brief moment and decided to go to the ladies room.
I took a step….and it happened. I could feel myself falling, and there was nothing I could do about it. I passed the hell out. I hit the floor probably in some dramatic way, as I only I can do–sprawled out across the floor in those damn shorts. I only saw darkness. I vaguely remember being carried across the club, like a waiter does a server platter, by some random frat brothers (shout out to the Bruhz!). When I came to, I was in the club’s office sitting next to a nursing major named Ursula, who wanted to use me as a practice patient. She asked me if I’d had Xstacy lately. WTF?
All I could do was wonder where my clutch was and how terrible it would be if I had to wait in the DMV for another license. As I dispatched friends to various parts of the club to look for my bag, I walked back to the scene of the crime. This is what I heard:
“Damn, she fell hard as hell!
“You had one too many drinks, huh.”
Or my favorite:
“Damn, slim, I saw you pass out. You alright? I like your shorts, yea.” FML
As I continued my walk of shame, I was even more embarrassed because I passed out due to me going out and not being fully well, but it looked as if I passed out drunk (which I’ve never done before). What a bummer.
It could have been worse though. I could have had on a dress.
“Huh?” I asked. I blinked my eyes for clarity. “Am I supposed to be giving something up? Clearly, I was puzzled.
“Uh, yeah! It’s Lent, girl!” she shouted. “Mardi Gras is over, so now everybody has to give up something.” She looked at me as if I was the dumbest being on Planet Earth.
That was my freshman year of college in Louisiana. My family is from the Pelican State and since I was 11 or so, I’d gone to New Orleans for Bayou Classic every year. I’d spent summers in my cousin, Brandon’s, room while he tried to explain what Master P meant when he said he was “Bout it Bout it.” I walked the country roads of my Daddy’s hometown to the Chicken Shack for dinner because the nearest McDonald’s was two towns away. I’d even been to Mardi Gras. But I ain’t never heard of giving up something for Lent.
A few weeks into the semester, I figured out that most black folks there were Catholic, instead of Baptist like me. I didn’t understand it, growing up in Memphis, the birthplace of the Church of God in Christ denomination. I’d gone to church with my Catholic roommates so much, I knew what a rosary was, exactly when to kneel for prayer during Mass and to pass on the wine during communion (they drink from the same cup.). I was a pro in the game, but still, I didn’t know you had to give something up. Why?
No one told me what Lent was really about. Why it started after Mardi Gras. Why you had to do without something you really thought you couldn’t go without for 40 days. All I knew was every year, someone would give up sex, drinking or profanity and fail miserably. Fish was served every Friday in the cafeteria, and I thought that sucked. Hell, I wasn’t Catholic! Where’s the meat?
It wasn’t until I moved back home that I understood what it meant to sacrifice during the Lenten season. Unlike my old (and deceased) pastor, the new pastor focused on Lent to build up to Easter. He began to challenge us to sacrifice something we consider a habit or craving, in hopes that we can get closer to God and hear His voice, if and when He speaks to us. Can we really have intimate time with Him if we’re always on Blackberrys and iPhones, the Internet, eating, drinking, having sex and clubbing?
It all started to make sense to me. I wanted to commit to the sacrifice, but every year, I let the opportunity pass me by. So that brings me to my point: I have to figure out what I’m giving up.
I’m already three days in, so I need to make a decision…like today, maybe. Let’s go over my options:
The Internet:
I spend way too much time on here….See, I’m on now! It’s a distraction, but I need it for work. Next…
The Phone:
I talk. A lot. Probably more than I write, unfortunately. There’s plenty to discuss, but mostly, I’m joking around and bs’ing. Venting sessions with my friends are must, but then again, that’s what I have God and my journal for. Possibly, I could cut that out. Between the hours of 6-10?
Television:
I heart the Idiot Box. Anyone who knows me knows I live to watch Martin reruns and reality television. I love movies that come on Encore and shows like True Blood and Nip/Tuck, but I swear with every episode, my brain cells are burning out. I need to get a grip.
Which will it be? What days and hours will I do? I’m too much of a rookie to go cold turkey on anything immediately. It’s all about the baby steps. What are you giving up, if anything and why?
I know I’m supposed to do this on Fridays, but I don’t think I was anywhere near a computer then, so here are a few random things from the weekend.
1. WHO DAT!!!! Yeah, the Saints won. Thank God. That’s not the random part though. What’s random is the pizza delivery boy looking at me with the WTF face as I did a jig for a touchdown when he came to the door. Nevermind the fact that I had a head full of rollers and robe on. Instead of giving me my pizza, he just stood there and said, “Oh…I see you’re watching the game..(blank stare).”
2. If you watched the game, you missed MY alma mater, Southern University’s “Human Jukebox” Marching Band during halftime. Yes, they are THE Best Band in the Land and no one can tell us different. Don’t make me pull out a Youtube video on ya’ll!
3. I’m glad the Saints won, but I still like Favre. He’s played the game for 19 years! He took some major hits–like about 14 of em. I felt like his wife, sitting there silently praying that her husband isn’t beaten to a pulp. His love for the game won’t let him sit his ass down though. For some reason, I think he’s okay with not winning. Upset about losing (he wasnt available for an interview after the game), but okay with not winning.
4. As a favor for a friend (and trying to step outside the box), I served as a hostess for a birthday party with VIP guests. For the record:
Tela (Sho’Nuff/Sex Faces) is quite handsome in person. Jazzy Pha is just as big as in he seems to be on television (but he’s so nice!). Lame’ leggings should be banned for women of ALL ages. Women ages 25-60 had them on and they all looked like they were wrapped in aluminum foil or Reese’s peanut butter cups. Not classy, ladies.
5. Beware of events with the tagline: Grown & Sexy. Usually, how it should really read is Hood & Gangsta or Ancient & Decrepit. I may have experienced both last weekend. I’ve never seen so many sweater vests pulled over overlapping stomachs, women 50+ dropping it, fly-collar-wearing men and young girls poppin it on Paw Paw barefoot in one place in my life.
6. Damn you, CB and Omarion! It is because of you (and Usher, too, I guess) that men think they are dancing machines and would much rather dance with themselves and each other than a woman. Case and point: Guy asks me to dance. He’s dressed like Usher circa “Yeah” video. I oblige. We start off with a two-step. I turn around and this fool is getting it IN with himself on the dance floor. Wiping himself down, jiggin, preppin..the whole nine. I’m convinced I was only used a prop so he wouldn’t look suspect.
7. I finally watched Changeling, starring Angelina Jolie, without knowing it. It kept me on pins and needles the entire time. Clearly, this country was built on slavery and the degradation of anything/anyone thought to be against or who as not a white male. Disgusting. If it were up to the forefathers, I guess we’d still be in the slave quarters, itching to the get to the Big House. Womenfolk would still be considered high-strung, crazy-in-the-head, irrational idiots only fit to birth children and keep house. I wish they could see Oprah and the First Family. They’ve got to turning in their graves. **Doing my Diddy “Take that, take that!” Dance.
8. I’m too geeked about the Michael Jackson performance in 3-D for the Grammy’s. I officially could give a damn about Bey this time. We know who’s really the main attraction. Dead or alive. I guess I’ll head to Target for the 3-D glasses.
9. I checked my subscriber stats this weekend. I saw my mother’s email address. **Crickets** I guess I shouldn’t be surprised though. Hey Mama!
10. I reported a fire. Driving home Saturday night, I notice smoke coming from a building off of the expressway. I dismissed it until I saw the flames behind the building. I found the address and called the fire department. Supposedly, they sent someone out. I felt accomplished in a weird way. **Kanye shrug**
Because I Said So 
