Wednesday, December 06, 2006
In related Christmas nonsense, while my kids were in New Orleans, the daddy told my son he was going to get him one of those mini-motorbikes for Xmas. *insert blank stare, sound of crickets and uncomfortable throat clearing, here* I could go on a rampage. Really, I could. But I was always taught not to berate the retarded, so I'll just keep it moving. In situations like this, all I can do is wonder: "What would Ashy Larry do?"
Recently, my girl Lala requested a cease on all the scattered ass pics floating around on Yahoo. I, too, am joining her crusade. I, too, would like to take a deep breath one day, knowing that my air is not marred with the scent of someone's nipple sweat as they heave their bosom in front of their web cam hoping to get some of the cyber love that evidently eludes them in the real world. Recently, while randomly searching the net, I came across some things that I just couldn't understand. Let me say that though I WILL crack on folks, it's all in good fun. Not out to hurt nobody's feelings. But I will question judgement.
For example (not for the faint of heart...cover your eyes Siren), when I encountered a profile with a view of a lady's posterior that was, let's use positive language and say ample and accommodating, I must question why she didn't review said pic with an objective eye. There was a "ring" around her ass that was curiously the same diameter of a toilet. I'll go so far as to bet my check that it WAS the damn imprint of a toilet. I'm all for confidence, but +4 edema is not sexy...it's a medical condition. Prioritize...work that out. Most of us ain't no stranger to dimples, dents and hell, even creases, so please understand, I'm just dessiminating helpful information. Thank you for your time.
Now that I have been sucked into the monster that is Myspace (which will soon make the class reunion OBSOLETE), there are several things that amuse me. First, what the hell do fifteen year old boys want to talk to me about on Myspace? My child is eight years old. My sister who I virtually raised, is 21. Is Dateline trying to get some women caught up in the game? What's really going on? Second, is there anything gayer than the Myspace profile set to private? Particularly if you like to just add strangers at random? Don't be inviting me like I know you. I have no issue with denying, or if I'm feeling particularly ornery, replying with "Who are you, do I know you and what do you want?" I further maintain that if you have some odd picture on your blank profile, you are up to no good. NO GOOD I SAY!!
There's a new show on Adult Swim, called "Assy McGee". Assy McGee? I'm a fan of all things offbeat, but, well, dude's an ass. Literally. Didn't Jim Carrey do the talking ass thing in Ace Ventura? Did we laugh then? I mean, I did chuckle when his being dressed up simply involved putting a bowtie on the crack, but still, can this carry a show? It may win me over, but for now, the jury's out. To his credit, there was no bowl ring around his ass. I guess that counts for something.
Am I the only one that's going to see "Blood Diamond", not only for the story line, but also in hopes of seeing a gratuitous shots of Djimon's chest (or ass, whatever)? Yeah, I know this is random and unrelated.
Unfortunately, since my computer has been attacked with "the gay", I am unable to load the luscious picture of Reggie Bush. How does this picture relate you ask? C'mere. *smack* You've seen that man...don't need no damn reason. Stop asking stupid questions.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Can anyone think of an Asian-themed movie that does not have a "Ling" in it? Can we get a Phanavong or a Phomvihane?
Will someone please pinpoint when sexy left, requiring the need to bring it back? The ugly and unappealing was fashionable at some point? Why wasn't I notified of this? I'll just deduce that I was too busy being unfashionably sexy to notice. And Justin Timberlake was put in charge of this, why? He couldn't even handle a titty. One titty. You a grown ass man and you are unable to control a titty? Once he pulled it out, he had an obligation to the titty. Since he didn't immediately cover it up, can Janet charge him for titty support?
If I'm at the copy machine, why does a hooverer inevitably show up? They just kind of stare at you for a minute, shift from foot to foot, then ask, "Uh, you gonna be long?" When you tell them yes, what follows is a "look" and an expectant silence. Like you're supposed to stop your work, then let them cut in so they can do theirs. Fuck THAT son. Find another machine sucka!
My homeboy brought to my attention that some banks require that you remove your hat and shades when transacting business. I understand the theory behind this. I do. But really, are those with ill intentions going to follow this rule? "I can't rob that bank bruh. They're gonna make me take off my hat and shades." I also wonder if this rule ever got a bank robbed on principle? "Sir, will you please remove your hat and shades?" "You know what, I was just coming in here to buy a roll of quarters. But since you wanna play the smarty-art role, EMPTY THE DRAWER MUTHA*****!" Just a thought.
Where are Chubb Rock and MC Brains? What y'all think they're doing? Is Chubb Rock on Atkins? I heard Redhead Kingpin is working a toll both on the NJ Turnpike or something like that. Think the hotties are still pumpin' it for him? Me neither.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
3) The Saints losing crucial football games
Number 3, quite frankly, doesn't really bother your average Saints fan. (Upon examining the average Saints fan's diet, one may opine that they're not too concerned about Number 1 either.) The Saints go to the playoffs - and lose. Then they go to the playoffs again - and lose. Then they go to the playoffs and win - then lose. This has been since the dawn of time.
However, with that being said, it has NEVER occurred to me to like anyone else. The entire concept is as foreign to me as a red beans and rice-less Monday. Sure we bitch and moan about them. This year they've got a great defense but no offense. The next they've got a killer offense but no defense. Whatcha gonna do? Say what you will about the Louisiana (*cough* Tom Benson *cough), no one can accuse us of being fair weather fans. Mostly because we haven't really had any substantial fair weather. Like everything else in New Orleans, we loved them because they were ours. Think I'm kidding? Talk to a fan about relocating the Saints.
ANYONE can love the winning team. They're winning. What's not to love? Only a fan, however, can look at a game where the final score was, say. . .iono 23 - 3 (IN YO' FACE FALCONS) and rave about that one field goal. Only a fan can be content to watch the game highlights, when ALL of the highs belonged to the other team. Such has been the existence of the Saints fan.
But not last night. *contented sigh* Last night was the game that every Saints fan dreamed of. Last night was the game that every Saints fan NEEDED! Last night the Saints set up a branch office in that ass! (Though I'm still kind of pissed at Deloatch's act of stupidity. What the hell?!) It was spectacular to witness my team relentlessly defending the house.
The thing is, the Saints don't have to win another game this season (though they will) and we'll still love them. But today, I got bragging rights. Today my team is #1 in the NFC South. And, just in case you forgot:
MY TEAM IS 3 - 0!!!
Friday, September 22, 2006
I don't know how many of you were keeping up with that Debra Lafave nonsense, but if you've been under a rock, or did like me and saw some blonde bimbo bumping her gums and switched stations, I'll enlighten you: this is the teacher who molested an 8th grader and got off with house arrest. (The fact that the boy seemed black, or at least biracial, is an entirely different blog for another day.) This bold bitch went so far Men - and particularly black men, since it is you who are near and dear to my heart - if an older man or woman used you for their sexual experimentation, listen to me and listen good: YOU WERE MOLESTED. You're not lucky, it didn't help you be "a better freak," you are a fractured individual. Quiet as it is kept, if you are pre-pubescent and another pre-pubescent individual initiated sexual experimentation, chances are, that encounter was a by-product of their own abuse (again, another blog post for another day).
Here's what's sad: our young black men are taught that, even if they do feel victimized, they must view this encounter as some sort of conquest. Do you have any idea how detrimental this is? I have several male friends who were molested by teenaged girls/young women over the years, and never reported it. All of them brushed it off as though it was nothing. NONE of them have healthy attitudes toward women. Not a one. Couldn't hold a relationship if you gave them a bucket. Women who are raped or molested as children tend to be wary of men. *taps temple* Think about it.
Yo: kids are fat. And no, I don't mean there's a random chubby kid here and there. I mean FAT! Your eight year old should not weigh 125 pounds, unless that eight year old is 5'3. I have someone very near and dear to my heart, and her daughter is obese. The doctor put her on a diet, and I asked her a couple of weeks ago how she was doing? The response I received was, "Eating everything in sight." Uh, why are you giving it to her/allowing her to have it. A child will eat junk all day if you let him. This is why a child is given parents/guardians. Put away the cookies, chill out on the Kool Aid, turn off the T.V. and send their behinds outside.
However, the flip side to that is this: the cost of eating healthy is ridiculous; often, to the point of being prohibitive. If a chicken leg is $0.99 a pound, why in the HELL is a chicken breast $4.99 a pound. They came off the same damned chicken! When you show me a chicken that has nothing but legs or nothing but breasts, then you can rationalize that shit to me. White rice has to go through a EXTRA process to be stripped of all it's nutritional value, but you can get two pounds for a buck 99. Brown rice on the other hand, costs roughly twice as much, sometimes for half the amount. They're making brownies bigger and more accessible, yet making apples smaller and more expensive. That is some sick shit.
You white folks with chocolate fetishes: *sigh*. I take very little issue when two people can see past whatever, overcome obstacles and find love. However, you folks that like to say things like, "I have a taste for chocolate," etc. work my last fucking nerve. It is 2006 and white folks STILL see black folks as little more than mobile masses of sexuality. Imma be right next to the Housewife setting off revolution in this bitch if I hear it again. It's insulting, it's demeaning and whether you want to hear/believe it or not, THAT SHIT IS RACIST AS ALL HELL. Yes, you, with all your "nigger lovin'" are perpetuating racist ideology. When you ask a white woman why she likes black men so much, almost the first thing out of her mouth is something dick related. For white men, they almost immediately go to ass. For real black folks? Are we really that cool with being broken down into sexual parts for the amusement of white folks? *tsk tsk*
More often than not, an individual of this sort RESORTS to black folks. Because "white men/women just aren't into me." Make no mistake black people: the MOMENT an eligible Caucasian presents him/herself and you (if they are not merely using you as a jump off) cut out of line, your black ass is out of the picture. I have seen it happen more than a few times with my own eyes. These folks are not far removed from the people that had brothers swinging from trees and sisters raising mulatto babies solo when their "fetish" wasn't so cool. *taps tample again*
Think about that too.
. . .aaaaaaand I'm SPENT!
Sunday, September 17, 2006
What's poppin' 360?! How y'all been? Me? Ahhh, I just been "bein' me, T-hug, cuz if you take out the dash, IMMA THUUUG!!" (If you don't get that, you don't need to.) I've just been popping up periodically watching folks run their mouths, occasionally giving thanks for that little red 'x' in the upper right. Of course in the time that I've been away, stuff has been building up in my mind, so sit back and enjoy my mental regurgitation.
So, am I the only person in the world that gives not a shit about Britney, Whitney or Suri? Why was the world wondering if that child really existed? Do you know where your fucking kids are? Can they spell? Do they know their alphabets? Are they cussing out grown folks?? Focus on THESE things people. Do like the rest of us : wait for Bobbi Kristina's porn flick to come out and shut the hell up.
Bringing sexy back. Yes. This is the new catch phrase. I'm presuming this has replaced "grown and sexy", (read: "obese with attitude"). Give it a fucking rest people. Remember how we looked at our parents when they used to use the popular catch phrases and run them into the ground? Shut your simple ass up.
Remember how stupid that show "Full House" was? Yeah. It's even stupider in the '06. And I don't care what anybody says, those twins were some of the ugliest children I had ever laid eyes on. Show of hands? Who's with me on this? C'mon. . .who's with me?
Yo! Who knew Meth dropped an album? Again. . .show of hands? Yeah, me neevah, until I went to order my Roots CD and was like, "Hmmm...4:21? This is unfamiliar." Dude got ZERO promo. I guess badmouthing the boss isn't all that wise, even in the music biz. Meth, brother, you got fam to take care of. You HAD to know Jay-Z would act like a lil bitch if you pissed him off. At least you'll have stories to tell when you go to your next label.
So the fro is coming along lovely, but I gotta find different stuff to do to it.
So, Lil Kim got released from prison and nobody cared. Yall heard that girl. She's bringing reconstituted, surgically altered, ex-con sexy BACK! Iono...she still looks like that hippie muppet to me.
And in other news, I have discovered that I LOVE "Best Week Ever". But uh, is Diddy really pissing on his myspace page? And are jackasses REALLY going to his page to see that shit? He is the epicenter of all that ails the world. You know how there's that "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" game? Look at all the shitty stuff that's going in the world, I can virtually guarantee you that it is but six degrees (or less) separating it from Diddy. Think about it? Coincidence, I think not.
Ok, though I don't CARE about Whitney and Bobby per se, I have always found it amusing that people always like to blame Bobby for Whitney's issues. Like she was this angel and he was a part of a bad phase. She's been married to that man since 1992. That's a "phase "for that ass.
White folks and latinos: strollers are not for five year olds. If you have to keep stopping because your child's feet keep dragging under the stroller, his ass needs to be walking. What the hell is wrong with you? Feet should not cause sparks. Work that out.
And in closing, for your enjoyment:
Monday, August 14, 2006
You know what grinds my gears? People who dial the wrong number. The act of mistakenly dialing a wrong number is not a big deal. However, once I've told you that the number was wrong, other than a brief apology, that should be the end of the conversation right? Repeating the wrong number that you dialed, as though I'M the idiot when I tell you there's a mistake does NOT help your cause. Calling it back immediately after hanging up with me makes you even more of a panty waste. Cut that shit out.
You know what grinds my gears? That snide guy on the "For Eyes" commercial. Yes, I know this man is an actor, and he was hired for his ability to mock the snotty shop-person demeanor, but I get this perverse satisfaction when the customer sticks it to him. My favorite is the one where the old lady is creeping toward him with her cane and he's obviously annoyed by her snail's pace. Once she is within reach, she belts him in the cajones with her can and says, "That's for overcharging me for my glasses," leaving him writing on the floor groaning. THAT ladies and gentlemen, is Must See TV.
You know what grinds my gears? Must See TV. Remember that trash? What was "must see" about it? Were there ANY black folks there? I remember they threw in Aisha Tyler and Gabrielle Union as tokens, but other than that. . .? So, we must see the world without negroes, other than the ones white men would "do"? Riiiiiight.
You know what grinds my gears? Type A running-everywhere white people. I believe I've addressed this before, but I'm still confused. WHERE are they going? Twice last week, I was actively bypassed (not a full knock down, but a bypass) by white folks, running to get into the building. When I got inside of said building, you know where they were? Waiting at the elevator, both times. Should I have thanked them for being my elevator bitches? (Next time you SMILE when you press that button BEEEYOTCH!!)
You know what grinds my gears? Being broke. All the good concerts come around when it's not in your budget. All the good restaurants have these special promotions when it's not in your budget. All the good movies come out when it's not in your budget. All your friends want to hang out and/or go on vacations when it's not in your budget. What the hell is up with that?
You know what grinds my gears? Polka dots. All my life, I have viewed polka dots to be the most useless "design" ever. What inspired this? Some odd dalmation fixation? A dalmation fixation, I say! Everything about the sight of polka dots disturbs me. I remember when Kwame had y'all thinking that was cool. Uh, yeah, freaked me the hell out. The only thing that comes close to disturbing me as much as polka dots is houndstooth. *shudder*
You know what grinds my gears? Bra shopping. I maintain that everybody loves a big titty girl, but damn, I think bra shopping for the full busted woman is the most ridiculous thing EVER. Besides sending you to that "industrial bra" section when you're bigger than a 34C, unless you're ready to turn tricks, your sole color choices are black, white and taupe. For those of you who don't know what taupe is, it's basically what happens when the bra monster eats all the white bras, then regurgitates them. I will say that VS has gotten better about accommodating the "full coverage" crew, I'm still not happy about the fact that the bras are more expensive. Should we be penalized for our gifts?
You know what grinds my gears? Winos. No, I don't mean people who overestimate their tolerance and get drunk. I mean people that are constantly drunk. If you get on the bus at 5:30, and beer is seeping through your pores, my friend, you need an intervention. In furtherance of this gear grinding, I get annoyed by the presumption that only poor black folks fit into this category. I've been around a WHOLE LOT of Biffs and Becky's that were smelling like the sauce at 8:00 a.m. Ya need deliverance.
And that's what grinds my gears.
Monday, July 24, 2006
There is a scene in The Incredibles where, after witnessing Mr. Incredible pick up a car the day before, the neighborhood kid is sitting in the driveway, gawking at at Mr. I. Incredible looks at him and says, "What are you waiting for?" The kid replies, "I don't know. Something amazing I guess." To that, Mr. I replies, "Me too."
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Who set earth's thermostat to "slavery" today? What's disturbing to me is that not as hot in the N.O. I'm trying really hard not to take these weather issues personally, but I dunno yall. Isn't this heat just a little too oppressive to not somehow be racist?
So now that the kids are home, I'm back up on all the cartoons. Yo, Shaolin Showdown is my JOINT! This weekend they were watching Toon Disney and I certainly pulled rank so I could watch SS on the big television.
Coming soon to the LOGO Network: the First Annual Gay-Off. The participants: P. Diddy and Kanye West. By show of hands, who else believes that these two negroes are trying to out-gay one another? In the "Number One" video, Kanye's shirt and jacket are so tight, I saw his last heartbreak. (I could also say that Pharrell's pants are so tight, I saw his firstborn child, but I digress.) Diddy often comes off (to me of course) as the flaming queen who is trying to keep this young fish from usurping the throne. The hosts will be Omarosa and Carson from "Queer Eye." (Please keep in mind, I have no firsthand knowledge, nor do I care, about what these men do with their anuses. I'm just furnishing my opinion. I don't want Auntie Combs or Second Cousin West or the bathroom attendant that they were REALLY nice to at some random social event to act a fool because of some chatter.)
And while we're talking about Beyonce. . .what the HELL was she doing at, what my homeboy refered to as, "the circle jerk known as an awards show"? (The fact that I agree with his assessment notwithstanding, the opportunity to use the term "circle jerk" doesn't arise often for me, so I pretty much just seized the opportunity.) Who hit that brawd with a can of Black Flag? Quiet as it's kept, I generally like her, but I was not feeling the wanna-be-Tina-catching-the-holy-ghost thing she had going on. And did she actually let Jay-Z touch her booty? GUH-ROSS!!
Okay, I'm by no means a Bush supporter, but why is it in the news that he cussed? Because he was on the job? I said "shit" three times yesterday evening when I couldn't print out a document. Where's MY story? I'm sure there are other things to care about people. He's a freakin Texan for crying out loud. I'm willing to wager that he says, "Dude, I f****n' swear," three times a week.
On a more serious note, another tsunami struck Indonesia. According to the last report I read, 368 people are dead and over 200 missing. They received a warning, but did not pass it on because they had no way of notifying everyone. No siren, no radio announcement, no Harpo Marx look-alike with a bicycle horn. Nothing. I'm kind of speechless on this.
It's fairly well known that I'm not an Oprah fan, so I'm not always in tune with what goes on in her world. However, when did people start caring whether or not she is straight or gay? She and Gayle Whats-Her-Face have promised that they would tell us if they were lovers. I'll be waiting with baited breath. *steps out of the path of the lightening*
Thursday, July 13, 2006
- Clarke "Mo' Better Blues"
This movie was released in 1990, when I was every bit of 14 years old. I remember being in the room while it was on, but not quite "getting it". In my adolescent mind, I could not comprehend how such a scenario could exist. Yes, I "knew" (as much as a 14 year old virgin with no interest in losing said viriginity any time soon) that "all boys/men were dogs," so Bleek Gilliam's actions, though abhorrent, were unsurprising. However, what I could not comprehend, was the women's passive acceptance of this canine behavior. That's where I pretty much lost interest and explains why I never really "saw" the movie. You dump dogs. I would NEVER tolerate such behavior when I became an adult.
Fast-forward 16 years.
In an effort to create a new, and improved movie stash, I added "Mo'" to the cinematic repertoire. I had it for months, before I got around to cracking it open. Suffice it to say, I have a completely different frame of reference. I fully recognize that this is by no means a woman's story. (It is also NOT as simple as the imdb plot summary would lead you to believe.) Yet, I must say, the above referenced statement uttered by Clarke did sink me deeply into thought.
If we were to get down to brass tacks, the average woman has sex with some type of future in mind. At the very least, that woman is entertaining the possibility of what could be. Women's (d?)evolution into the being that systematically separates sex from emotion is a rather recent phenomenon. (And it is my personal belief that at least 75% of those women aren't really being honest with themselves. I've seen my fair share of "hoes" take off their clear heels and HAPPILY jump into the slippers of "housewife" when the opportunity presented itself.) Most women that settle for the mo' better do so in anticipation of the payoff. They assume that, someday, they will be rewarded with a relationship for sheer strength of will. Which hardly, if ever, happens. I personally know of three such situations where, when the "relationship" dissolved, the man was either married or engaged within the year. (Though I found the movie's ending to be sweet and even somewhat considerate, it is by no means the norm.)
Most women, by their mid-twenties, have 'settled for summa that mo' better' at least once. Some women settle for that mo' better every other weekend and all bank holidays. I could bullshit you and say that statement made me think, "Have I ever done that," but I think we're beyond all that here. So I'll be real and say that it made me count how many times I've done that. The honest answer? ALOT! I found myself in my fair share of situations (you know, because relationships are sooo 90s) where I bought into the okey doke that was being sold to me. Frankly, if there's any fault to be apportioned, it's mine. It is incumbent upon me to protect my own interests and adhere to my own standards.
A virtually seamless metamorphosis took place. From the idealogical, "I'll lose my virginity only when I find my true love, and we'll climb mountains, slay dragons and have lots and lots of babies" (nymph); to the cynical, "Men are good for dick and dinner, so I might as well get what I can" (pupa); and, up until very recently, to the resigned, "If it weren't for these kids, holing myself off in a cabin in the mountains with a lifetime supply of AA batteries would really be the move."
Adult? A school of thought that would cause halt to the perpetuation of the species can not be the completion of my mental evolution. It's admittedly not a very "adult" decision, either. So I nixed the idea to disappear into the Adirondacks once the kids go to college. But the lingering question is, "now what?"
I don't "want" a relationship. Let me clarify. I have no desire to actively search for a relationship. I can't think of one soul that looked for a relationship and did not find one. However, the caveat on this method is that one can look so hard for something, they find it; even when it's not really there. Think of cloud gazing. Has someone ever suggested to you, "That cloud looks just like a man riding a horse," and you finally saw it, but only after squinting and contorting your own vision? That's what a relationship hunt is like to me. We can sometimes squint to craft a "hardworking, intelligent brother who loves his mother" out of the brother that always puts his work before his relationships, relentlessly corrects your grammar and has a hopeless case of mama's boy-itis. We turn the brother that sexes you, never calls and always lets you pay for dinner, into an "free spirited guy that respects my space and isn't intimidated by my earning power." That, ladies and gentlemen, is quintessential "settling for that mo' better." (Let's also keep in mind that this exercise of often done with the help, or for the approval, of friends.) So no, I'm not looking for a relationship.
At the same time, I'm not looking to be single. Though there are situations that have angered me, I'm not angry with all men. First and foremost, being a mother (to a super CUTIE), a daughter (to the greatest father on the globe), a sister (who still think the sun rises and sets on her big brother's ass) and having male cousins and friends whom I love dearly, I can ill afford such anger. Second, I can honestly say that there were times where I was at fault, in whole or in part, to the demise of a relationship. Third and finally, it's just flat out unhealthy to harbor hatred for an entire species of anything. Well, except roaches (nasty buggers).
The idea of spending my life with some dude does appeal to me. Quiet as it's kept, it appeals to the most evil of sisters (often their evil nature is related to the denial of such companionship). Envisioning myself side by side on a walker with some old geezer who likes Seinfeld and Wu Tang, wearing a fresh pair of shell toes that the grandkids bought us is actually kind of flyy. Appealing, but I'm not hurtling myself headlong into the task of finding that person. I also have no desire to make a career out of investing in the mo' better and crossing my fingers for some mythical distribution.
Friday, June 23, 2006
I was in a room. With this HUGE bitch. With a gun. I didn't know her exact plan for me, but I had a sneaking suspicion things wouldn't end well for yours truly. So I broke out. I kept running until I found this house. I told the owner that someone was chasing me and trying to kill me. Well, evidently she knew the broad, pulled out a meat cleaver, then SHE started chasing me. So I broke again. Upon coming across another safe house, I explained my situation again. This brings the lunatics in hot pursit of the kid count up to 3. Again and again, I keep coming upon these "safe houses", with each situation being either equally or more perilous than the last.
Finally I run into a house and find an attic where a bunch of children are playing. They ask for permission to brush my hair and want to play tea party. Just when I feel comfortable enough to say yes, I hear Psycho Number 1 coming up the stairs, talking to the kids - their relatives. So I dive over this countertop and hide, hoping that she won't see me. Of course, she does and calls out to her cohorts. I see a wrought iron door, so I decide to run for it again. Unfortunately for me, it's locked from the outside, so I start reaching through the door to unlock it, and I hear her scream, "This dumb bitch is gonna to run again. Doesn't she know there's nowhere to go?" I realize that she's right. I don't know what's on the other side of that door. I can either run the risk of adding another person to the chase, or I can go downstairs and face the 6 bitches waiting for me. I started thinking to myself, "I can knock at least one of them hoes out. Two if I hit them with the Mighty Mamba Rabbit Punch Power Mix."
While she's screaming to her folks about how bad they're going to mess over me, I walk past her and go downstairs, with her behind me, still yelling. They're standing in a semi-circile, and I get in front of them, pull off my earrings (because I'm a LAAAADY), throw my set up and say, "Alright bitches, let's rock, because I'm not running another step." And they all just stand there and look at each other, as though they have no idea of what to do. So I just stand there, waiting for one of them to make a move, but it seems like now that I won't back down, their heart is gone.
Then I hear "Juicy" (my cell phone alarm) and wake up.
Now, this dream was significant to me in so many different facets of my life, once I woke up, all I could do was sit down and ponder it's meaning, and determine whether or not I would take it seriously. I think a lot of us have leftover demons that we try to escape, whether it's a jobs, false friends, bad relationships, or finances. What often happens is that we "escape" to a situation that is potentially worse, because we haven't overcome the first hurdle. More times than not, if we take care of and close an issue right off the bat, it's not as bad as we feared.
Just some mental grub for ya.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
If I may loosely quote the unforgettable Raekwon, "I DON'T WANT NOBODY SOUNDIN' LIKE ME, OR MY CREW, ON NO BLOG!" Okay, maybe that's going a little far, but I think I made my point. There's room enough in the blogosphere for everybody. Doling out a little respect really won't hurt nuffin.
*This has been a public service announcement by Gityoshytryte Productions
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
So, uh, STO wanted me to blog about hossenfeffer. I said I'd do it so. . .hossenfeffer is essentially rabbit meat. I have discovered that it is also spelled hasenfeffer, which is a sour rabbit. Mmm-mm. Now, since i don't eat anything that could feasibly run across my porch, I really can't blog much about this topic. However, my concern about STO's interest in it could produce and ENDLESS blog. STO? Need a lil therapy hon? Traumatized by a rabbit? Just messing. I don't want him to stab me. He IS violent ya know.
Love and whatnot
Ladies, ladies! The men folk really have ya'll pondering if the grass is greener eh? Well, lean in close, and I'll give you my assessment on Northern men vs. Southern men (though technically, we are still below the M.D. line, I feel where you're coming from). Southern men lie to you. Northern men lie after they've gone to work. As you can see, the end result is the same, ergo, there's really no difference. A little to jaded for the fellas? *sigh* Okay. Not ALL of y'all lie *cough much*. (Yeah, I know we lie too. But yall didn't ask about that, lol. Closed mouths don't get fed.) However, my point, and I do have one, is that for better or worse, men are men. So hold off on buying that plane ticket because "you heard the brothers in *insert random metropolitan area* are the BOMB" because, honey, they're not. As my blogs of late would indicate though, I'm not very optimistic in the romance department, so maybe I'm not the one to ask. I'd be lying if I said I didn't half hope for a little "pick up" in the love department. But fam'ly, can I be honest with you? This has SUCKED.
There are a few differences. The economy is a little better, and there are more college graduates up here, so employed brothers are more common. I can also say that the brothers up around these parts are fairly impressed with themselves. For instance: recently, a brother was eyeballing me, HARD. Understandable, because I had on the spring work finery and whatnot. He was actually a handsome brother, well put together, etc. On a normal day, he would have gotten some play. However, the brother started basically posing and profiling. My people, I shit you not. Dude all but did the Capitan Morgan. I couldn't have talked to him if I wanted to because I was so busy biting the inside of my mouth to keep from laughing. Then there is the plethora of males who talk about what they drive, how much they make, how much they're gonna make, blah, blah, blah, (yes they do talk as much as women when the topic is themselves lol) and never discuss things that actually matter: do you have explosive gas? Will a bitch be waiting to stab me if we walk out the door together? Do you have a hossenfeffer fixation? So though things are different, they're the same, because the brothers down south can be full of some caca as well.
In reference to the BANs (or BABs for the fellas) that calls when they are in some form of "need". We all, at one point or another, have been in a situation where realized that we have been 'bootycalled', 'car repair called', 'i need a ride called' or 'i want to go out and not spend my money called'. Hey, shit happens. However, you're faced with a decision of whether or not you're going to be used, and/or is this person even worth being in your life in ANY capacity. Once you make that determination, all you can do is stick with it. Ain't nothing wrong with call block. Or hell, ain't nothing wrong with answering the phone "don't f*****g call me!" Hell, they ain't paying the bill.
Being both a dumper and a dumpee, my assessment on that is really simple. People dump or get dumped, for one of two reasons: either they don't like each other anymore, or they never really liked one another to begin with. More often than not, either one or both parties are damaged. People that are well adjusted and happy with one another don't dump each other. Yeah, it hurts like hell (BELEEEE me I know it) but more often than not better in the long run. Who wants to be with someone that feels stuck?
Black/white love. I can't say that there's anything wrong with it, but that actually depends on what motivates the involved parties. If two people look beyond the opinions of others for love and happiness, who am I to deny that. There is barely enough time for me to keep tabs on my own happiness. If it floats their boat, sail on. However, I think I do get annoyed with "trophy whitey/trophy darkie." Self hatred is never a good look.
I must say that my job is different here. However, though the South is characterized by it's "country pace", they were working a sisters ass off there. I worked in a litigation small firm, so everything was needed yesterday. I don't have to put in anywhere near the OT that I did at my old firm, and the deadlines that I am given are usually far beyond what I need. I do have one boss that has decided that I am the "fix-it ho" and only is aware of my existence when she needs something. I won't elaborate on this thing, but I will say that everything has it's price. That includes disregarding those that you need most. Other than that, I LOVE my job. A 7 hour workday is a beautiful thing ladies and gentlemen.
The two cutest negroes in Los Estados Unidos are coming home in one week and I couldn't be more excited. When I talk to Lil Bit, she always tells me how many days are left before she comes home. Lil Man has decided (and I use that term loose as a hookers Saturday night drawers) that he doesn't want to live in Maryland. Lil Man also has a lil girl that comes to his house every day to play video games. I don't NEEEEED these problems. I'm sure he'll adjust.
Nigga technology and other forms of ignance
Ok, first of all Senor, you know you be sending all of your bitches smiley faces. Bitches love smiley faces. I'm thinking some people don't want to use up all their cell phone minutes and send texts. Some of those same people *cough foxxy cough* caused Mamba to have to up the number of text messages on her plan. I don't have too much issue with texting folks, but you chirpin muthafuckas gotta stop. No, you know what? Imma say it: YOU CHIRPIN NIGGAS (this includes those of the burrito variety) GOTTA STOP. Every time I hear a damn chirp, I can bet my check that it's some ignant colored soul, talking loudly about shit no one else on earth, other than the ignant chirping summamabitch on the other end, wants to hear. What's worse is that they don't HAVE to have that shit on speaker. Newsflash: this does not make you look important. It makes you stupid. Important people have been doing important things all day, therefore, they don't have time to talk about their brother's baby mama. Find something else to occupy your time. I don't care what you do: read a book, work on your citizenship, fall off the face of the planet, whatever! Just wrap that shit UP B!
The Katrina relief funds. Allow me a moment of digression please. Whenever I think about Katrina, it forces me to say "FUCK TEXAS". These fucking Texans make me sick acting like people from N.O. moved into THEIR houses after Katrina. If one more idiot posts that job fair urban legend I'm gonna choke. A few years back, when Houston flooded, my father was among a group of 250 who traveled out there to help people rebuild their homes, etc. Some of those same people are now getting treated like crap in Texas. As Texas is part of the United States of America, that would mean it is a recipient of federal tax dollars; some of which come from Louisiana. Therefore, if you are a Texan that has a problem with the relocated New Orleanians, please slowly fuck yourself with a rusty spur.
Sorry about that. Anyway, regarding the relief funds. Frankly, in my opinion, it was a plan to buy the nigras out of New Orleans. However, as my boy Honeycutt says, "niggaz is a beautiful thing", and where there's money, somebody's gonna smell a hustle. Therefore, the grand plan backfired on them. If they were really concerned with the money being spent wisely, etc. why did they not also offer financial counseling of some sort? They were offering contracting kickbacks to everyone else, they couldn't have hooked up T.D. Waterhouse? A large chunk of those people had never seen that much money in a YEAR, much less in one check. I'm sure there are people that did ignant shit with the money they received. But what are ya gonna do? For every one of them, someone else has gone elsewhere and completely rebuilt their lives with the money they received. Including yours truly. The media keeps bringing that up to reference "the ignant niggas that spent relief money on strippers and spinning rims". Meanwhile, all the other big time kickbacks are ignored. There are hundreds (possibly thousands) of trailers that are, even still, unused, yet contractors have been paid. New Orleans' East and 9th Ward communities are still all but desolate (my old neighborhood REMAINS in utter darkness), cars still litter the streets, yet contractors have been paid. We are 21 days into a new hurricane season, these things are still incomplete, yet contractors have been paid. Let's keep in mind that I haven't even mentioned this waste of a war that the U.S. is involved in. They found two young soldiers tortured and killed just a day or so ago. But they're going to endlessly run the same story about some ignant, probably never had money before, soul that wanted some MOMOs and titties in his face? Get the hell out of here.
Hopefully, my responses have been to your liking. If there is anything you would like me to elaborate on. . .sike, I'm done man. Go to google or something.
. . .and I'm SPENT!
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
I also think that men who wear big white framed sunglasses are evil. Those things REALLY look like the type of $3.00 shades my mother would buy for me at the TG&Y (southerners know what I'm talking about) to shut me the hell up. Sorry. They just look dumb to me.
Did yall know that D4L and Dem Franchize Boyz were beefing about who invented "snap" music? Did yall even know that "snap" was a type of music? Maybe the better question is, did yall care? Yeah, didn't think so. I believe that mankind at large can settle this dispute. You both suck badly and equally. And you're both clocked in at 14:30 of your 15 minutes of fame. Hurry up and work on that last "hit" so you can pay the balance on your spinning rims.
I find the number of sisters working out regularly in my gym very encouraging. (I must admit though, I was a little grossed out by the sister that was on the treadmill barefoot. Yuck?) I plan to take pictures of them and paste their faces over the multitude of Caucasian images that are plastered all over the walls. WE WORK OUT TO MUTHAF****!
I'm reading a book by Patricia Hill Collins (Black Sexual Politics: African Americans, Gender, and the New Racism), and it is fairly interesting. I find that she makes valid points, and though her overall message is good, there is something in the tone of her writing (at least up to the point that I have read) that makes her seem a tad bit out of touch with my age group. However, despite that, I still think the book is worth a perusal.
I brought vengeance upon the mosquito that assaulted me. It HAD to be the same one because it was all fat and whatnot. So, though I could have just slapped it, I chose to bludgeon it with the written word of Ms. Collins.
Jay-Z is headlining a (sold out) concert at RCHM and the tickets START at $135. Word? I mean, dude is aight, but he damn sure ain't $135 aight. That joint betta be coming with a happy ending at those prices. Personally, I appreciate that he is good enough by radio standards, however, he really overdoes it with the boasting. His professing to be the greatest is tantamount to me standing in a room full of midgets and saying I'm the tallest. Sure, I'm the tallest. . .in the ROOM. I'm not hating on dude, but I'm really hesitant to throw the "greatest" title around with that great one's entire catalog is like a neverending episode of deja vu.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Last night, I was watching one of my Chappelle standup DVDs ("For What it's Worth" - not as funny as "Killin' Them Softly," but worth a look see), and he delved into the trouble black celebrities have been facing (usually by their own doing). In that, he discussed R. Kelly. Here's my perspective on the situation in general. The prevailing joke is that it is only those possessing a "niggerish" mentality (see "ghetto ass black folks") would support R. Kelly and listen to his music. Y'all remember when Rob Lowe got caught on videotape fucking the 16 year old? He helped with (conservative) Arnold Schwarzenegger's campaign for governor. Or better yet, Roman Polanski fled CONVICTION (not prosecution) related to the statutory rape of a 13 year-old girl. They gave old dude an Oscar. My point? Well, I don't know if I have one. I'm not absolving R. Kelly (I personally think he's on the top 10 list of "Nastiest Mofos in the World"). Just thought I'd drop that as something to think about.
About a week ago, VH1 had a show related to hip hop video vixens. First folks, let's discuss this word "vixen". Vixen is defined as: (1)A female fox. (2) A woman regarded as quarrelsome, shrewish, or malicious. Am I the only one that misses the words "ass out rump shaker"? Didn't think so. Now, does shaking your rump in a video make you a ho? Not at all. You could well be a vixen. However, if you subsequently compete in the pussy decathalon, then you have successfully graduated from vixen to ho. Chronicling those adventures, making a profit off said chronicles, then considering yourself "redeemed" because some middle aged white man is willing to be seen in public with you does not make you a reformed "vixen". If anything, you could arguably be considered a 360 degree, documented ho. (Am I the only one that found her having a picture of her son in the same publication as her dick sucking resume a little disturbing?)
Y'all going to see "The Omen"? Good luck with that cousin. There are things in this world I just don't fool with. Not even at the box office.
It's been said time and again, but this war is Vietnam's sequel. I find it puzzling that the voices so adamantly opposed to "wasting" money on social/welfare programs, have no issue with this war. Somehow, I think that Marines killing 24 people (in ONE incident) that they were sent over to "free" is somehow counterproductive, and therefore, wasteful.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
I'm not sure if i pissed off Oshun, Venus or Aphrodite, but onna dem brawds is MAAAAAD at me. I'm not one for playing out my love life (or lack thereof) on the net in any significant way, and I promise you, today, I'm not gonna start (well, not too much). However, I will say this: being told "oh yeah, I'm dating somebody else" (I could swear I JUST gave to this fund!) as casually as I would tell MCI that I switched to AT&T is a real shitty way to start a rainy Saturday. That's just not what's hot in the streets. What drives me insane, is that I saw it coming. I ALWAYS see it coming. Sooo, maybe I'm supposed to be used to it?
The same old has become too much for me. Particularly when someone goes out of their way to "prove" otherwise. Blah. When do I get my license to just be fed up, tired, and maybe a little angry? Because being nice obviously isn't cutting it.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
". . .because when I remove the blade that I keep in my boot from its sheath I cannot return it until it has split blooood."
- Mooj "40 Year-Old Virgin"
Lately, I just haven't been feeling it. I am perfectly content going to work, going home and not peeking out until it's time to go to work again. My life has been in snow-globe mode, and the only remedy for that is to sit very quietly and still until I can get things under control. I take this tact because I KNOW myself. I know that when I'm in "le funque" I can be a 240 (not the whole 360) degree beyotch and when you pluck that reserve nerve, things will get uglier than Goldie Hawn in those Enquirer pictures (I SAY GOT-DAYUM!).
What I hate most about being in the funk (also known as a case of the cruds) is that folks don't want to leave you alone. I don't mean that they call you, because it's nice when friends call. But I just want to be left the hell alone, because I don't want to say anything ugly to anyone. OnceI get started (removing the blade from it's sheath), that's a wrap -- and I mean the things I say, so though I may apologize that someone's feelings were hurt, I do NOT apologize for what was said. So, rather than cussing out folks and losing friends, I'm going to do what I do best: vent.
Is it just me, or are people becoming more and more self-absorbed? If I had a nickel for every time I was in conversation with someone, and they all but said "fuck that shit, look at meeeeee", I would be a rich bitch. One thing I do know about myself is that I am a very good listener. Therefore, nothing gets my goat like expressing something that I deem important, only to be cut off by someone that thinks that my shit is irrelevant. Grrrrr!
Don't some of these American Idol followers make you want to walk up to them and tap on their shoulder with the butt of your gun? A little part of me dies inside when someone calls me, I break my neck and get to the phone, and it's a friend or family member on the other end saying, "Girl, hurry up and turn on Idol!!!" I don't watch that rubbish!!! The more I protest, the more they say "but you've GOTTA see this one!!" Why? Am I going to spontaneously combust? There is nothing about that show that appeals to me. Deal with it people!
Metrorail Mackin' is just way more than I'm prepared to deal with at 9:00 a.m. I'm in the middle of a last minute move (vent alert) and I have been absolutely exhausted. Yesterday morning I didn't even hear my alarm go off, so I was rushing, found a seat on the train and closed my eyes. Then I heard, "You look tired." How observant. Did my being half asleep give it away? Despite myself, I smiled and said, "Yes. Very." Which SHOULD have ended the conversation. He went on and on about things that I REALLY had no interest in hearing and then asked if I'd take his number, to which I replied thanks, but no thanks. I initially was above board and told him that I really wasn't interested, but his persistence forced me to play the "I've got a man" card. He seemed to momentarily respect that and ask what I did for a living. I told him and he responded, "Well hell! You can talk to me while you're at work!" Evidently I've got the look of the hood-rat-esque, gum-popping, finger-filing secretary that makes personal calls all damn day. What the HELL do we have to talk about? OOOOOOOOOOH!
So a couple of weeks ago, my landlord called me and said, "Uh, yeah, I gotta sell my shit and you've gotta move." (Unless any of you have $355k you can let a sister hold onto for a minute. Nah. Ah well.) My lease was not due to be up until October, but I figured, that battling that was an exercise in futility, so I started with the apartment search. I found an apartment in the same general area, so no harm. I even told him that I didn't mind making myself available for agents to bring potential buyers. HOWEVER, I did say I would require sufficient notice, at least the day before during the week, 3 hours on the weekend. That way, I would know how to schedule my day. Why would these people call me at 5:00 on a Wednesday afternoon (while I'm still at work), "Yeah, hi, I have a client and we'll be around at 6:00 okay?" I'm pissed because these bastards act like they're going to Jedi mind-trick me into changing my whole day/evening because they can't follow simple instructions.
Why are we some folks so afraid to admit to an otherwise creative person that they effed up? For example, am I the only individual that found the Alicia Keys Unplugged album somewhat unnecessary. I normally enjoy her music, but I was just not digging it. And that "Unbreakable" song? TRIPE!!!! Utter and unadulterated TRIPE!!! That break down at the end? What the hell?! They sound like Charlie Brown's teacher. Plus there is a GLARING omission. If you can sing about Bill, Camille, Oprah, Steadman, Kimora and Russell with THEIR dysfunctional asses, how in the HELL you gon' leave out Whitney and Bobby? I won't even discuss that DMC song ("Cats in the Cradle" or something like that). Tragic! JUST TRAGIC!!
Did you know that the words "child care" and "summer camp" are derivatives from the latin word for "ass rape"? I love my children dearly and I can't WAIT for them to come home, but these so-and-sos need some jobs. . .QUICKLY!
This isn't so much a vent, as it is an observation. Did Good Times have a contract with the creators of the colors orange and gold (or their subsidiaries)? I can't remember who I had this discussion with, but we talked about how EVERYTHING in Florida's wardrobe was orange. And it just wasn't a real episode unless James had on a gold shirt or pulled out that mustard-y colored suit. Can anyone explain this? I need answers!
*sigh* I guess that's about all I've got today.
This house is clear.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Dude was half asleep when I sat next to him. A few minutes into the ride, his phone goes off. Though he's speaking within reasonable levels, the volume on the phone is quite loud, so I hear the young lady on the other end. Basically, America, they went out the night before, and she wanted to go out with him again last night. The story essentially unfolds as follows:
I don't know Becky [I can't remember the real name, but we'll use Becky for the purposes of the tale], we stayed out late last night, I had a long day today, let me go home, grab something to eat, get some rest, and I'll see how I feel then and we can make plans from there.
Well, I'm in the mood to make my plans now, so I need an answer NOW.
I'd rather not make a commitment now, because even though I don't feel good now, I may feel a little better later and want to go out.
I just think you're being nasty about the whole thing. If you don't want to see me, just say that. I could make other plans you know!
I mean, if you have other plans, I don't want to hold you up. I can call you later, after you get out of your yoga class? Though I may not want to go out again tonight, if you want to hang out, you're welcome to come over.
No! NO! If you don't want to be with me, just SAY that! Just have the balls to tell me! You don't have to be nasty about it. God! I just don't see why YOU'RE turning this into such a big deal!!!
This went on for about 15 minutes. Needless to say I was ready to slap him, take his phone, and tell her to shut the fuck up. How did dude's, "I need some rest," translate, "I don't want to be with your bitch ass"? I mean, I don't know the whole story, and maybe dude is running hoes and whatnot. But, SHIT! She got in dude's issue almost from the jump.
It looks like the new crop of white girls got something else to accompany the ass...
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
I ain't even DO nothin'. Ok, like, what had happened was, all I had did was said that Matthew Knowles looks like he wouldn't be out of place on the offender website (AND HE DOES!) and a brawd got her nose all out of joint. But you don't have to take my word for it:
Do you actually know him? If not all this is mere rumor and speculation. He went to school with my father and I got a chance to meet him and he is a great guy. I was reading some of your past blogs and you are a contradiction. On one hand you ask why dont people speak positively about themselves and on the other hand you spend quite a bit of time tearing people down. Here is my take. I dont know you but on casual observation from intensive reading of your blogs, you seem to be straight tripping. how are you going to clown females when you a bald headed, fat ass freak show. I took the time to view your pictures and the ones of you in your friends albums. The ones on your profile are OLD. You got about 20 pounds more and 20 ounces more hideousness on you since then. Must have been the stress from Katrina. And what was with the synthetic fiber 2 strand twists you had and the sagging breasts? You were Talking about bras in one of your blogs. How about get you one with some straps to hold yours up OK? And where is your hair sweetie? Had a recent problem with chemicals? They say a woman who loves talking about what other females should not wear really do that because they hate themselves and they are trying to appease their own insecurity. If I looked like you, I would hate myself too. Return to New Orleans darling. you and that wrecked city are a dead on match.
Say WORD? Beyonce? Is that you girl? Or is that Tina? Let me first say that a total stranger doing research on/about me is just a little icky. Katrina barbs. And, uh, did this brawd study my mammaries? Can you casually observe and intensely read at the same time? And does passing him a hot dog at the Essence Fest automatically mean that dude shouldn't give me the heebie jeebies? I knew that singers had groupies, as do sports stars, actors, musicians, but their creepy fathers? Daaaaaamn. What part of the game is that?
Needless to say, this has been my joke of the week. I have been called a lot of things in my life and time, but a fat, bald freak show. Wasn't that the dude on Harold and Kumar? I mean, I'm no cover girl, but WOW. I swear to you America, I did not have sexual relations with her man.
I don't want a resolution, I don't want an amen corner and I certainly don't want sympathy (even though when my homegirl called her a chuck wagon stew serving bitch, I damn near busted one of my fat freakish guts). This was really just too funny NOT to share. Folks will take up a cause and fight to the death for damn near ANYTHING.
But then again, that's what I get for fucking around on Yahoo.
And all this time I thought Mary J. banned hateration in the dancerie.
The Lil Boy - Age 3: "I don't feel like going to their house." "Why not, T?" "It always smells like a whole lot of farts." (I could not argue with his logic. We went to the movies that day.)
The Lil Girl - Age 2: "Us daddy is gonna take us to the park." "Pumpkin, 'OUR daddy is gonna take us to the park.' " *shakes head* "No Mama, not YOUR daddy, US daddy." "No baby, it's not 'us daddy,' it's 'our daddy.' " *explosive giggles* "You silly Mama. We don't have the same daddy."
The Lil Boy - Age 4: "Where are we going?" "To Paw Paw's house." "My black Paw Paw or my white Paw Paw." *blank stare from me*
The Lil Girl - Age 3: (Overheard conversation with my good friend) "Where is Christian?" "He's punished." "You forgot I was coming or something?"
The Lil Boy - Age 2: "Lil Man, we're gonna have a new baby." "Where?? Where is it!!" "Oh it's not here yet, it's in my stomach." *starts crying* "What's wrong son?" "You ATE IT!! YOU ATE OUR BABY!!"
The Lil Girl - Age 4 - "He makes me SICK!" "Who?" "My brother! He thinks he is the boss. Will you please go tell him that I am the boss! Not him!"
The Lil Boy - Age 7: (Background story - When they were 1 and 3, the lil girl decided that she wanted his meatball, went to his plate, grabbed it and took a bite. He subsequently started screaming and crying. The following is his reaction four years later.) "I can't believe that little bitty girl took my meatball off my plate, and ALL I did was cried. . . I just can't believe it. [trailing off] All I did was cried. . ." (I'm wondering if this will come up in a therapy session.)
The Lil Girl - Age 5: (Looking at a rainbow boa constrictor at the zoo.) *sigh* "That's all I've wanted all my life."
The Lil Boy - Age 5: "Son, why the hell were you swinging a belt at school? Didn't I tell you that could really hurt somebody?" "This boy pushed me, then his big cousin pushed me. So I told them that I was gonna tell the teacher and they wouldn't let me go. So I took off my belt and got to swingin'." (Who can argue with logic like that?)
The Lil Girl - Age 4: "Mama, I heard you laughing when Dave Chappelle said a curse word. You say curse words too. When can I say a curse word?!" "When I was watching Chappelle, you were supposed to be upstairs. How do you know what I was laughing at?" "We gotta go upstairs everytime people say a curse word? [mumbles to herself] We can't NEVER be downstairs." (Yes, I have subsequently made efforts to clean up my language. Freakin responsibilities.)
The Lil Boy - Age 7: "So where are you about to go?" "To the airport." "What are you going to do with the rental car?" "Oh, I'm going to bring it to the rental car office?" "Well, how are you gonna get to the airport if you're gonna leave the car?" "They have a shuttle that brings me from the rental office to the airport." *thinks a minute* "You gonna put some gas in your car right?" "Yeah." "Don't do that when you talk on your cell phone. Paw Paw said that's dangerous." "Okay son. Anything else?" *thinks another minute, then gives me a hug* "Nah, you're cool."
The Lil Girl - Age 4: (Overheard conversation with my aunt.) "That dress is so pretty. Are you gonna let me borrow it?" *with a WTF look* "Oh no! You are too big for MY dress. You are way way way too big for my dress." *Aunt chuckes* "Alright you! I get it." "You are too too big for this dress. What you wanna do? Break it?" (Okay, I HAD to punish her, because that was borderline disrespect, but I'll be damned if my cousins and I didn't collapse laughing once the aunt and the girl were out of earshot.)
Conversation between the two: "Girl, shut up." "Don't tell me shut up boy! Shut don't go up, crisis do!"
The Lil Boy - Age 6: "Mama, this boy called me the 'n' word today and you told me black people shouldn't never never call other black people that. So I punched him in the mouth." (Somehow, I think there still was a lesson lost somewhere in there.)
The Lil Girl - Age 5: (Pointing at my left ring finger) "Where is your ring?" "I don't have a ring ma, because I don't have a husband." "My daddy has a ring." "That's right, because he has a wife. I don't have a ring there because I don't have a husband." *thinks a minute* "Well, you don't need need no husband, but you need to get a ring on your finger." (Budding feminist?)
I could write all day about the stuff they say that I deem hilarious (I won't even touch the things they actually DO), however, I will spare you good people. Feel free to drop some of your own kids' (or nieces/nephews', godchirren's) pearls of wisdom in the comments.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Don't be discouraged
Oh I realize
It's hard to take courage
In a world full of people
You can lose sight of it all
And the darkness inside you
Can make you feel so small"
- Cyndi Lauper
The other day (maybe yesterday) I got one of those circulating email quizzes. For lack of something better to do, not only did I reply to it, but I read the replies of others as well. Invariably, I saw the same thing over and over. When asked whether or not they viewed themselves as attractive, almost all of the people replied either, "no", "I'm just okay" or something to that effect? I almost felt vain answering yes. Almost.
What world is it that we live in, that not only will society judge us harshly, but we judge ourselves even MORE harshly? When did it become taboo to find yourself attractive? To see the beauty in yourself? I mean, no, I'm not Halle Berry, or Gabrielle Union or whoever the kids are into these days, but who says I have to be? Chocolate cake and fried chicken don't taste the same, but I'll be damned if they ain't both delicious.
Now I'm sure that some folks gave the "aw shucks" response out of some sense of modesty, but, the question remains, why can't you express a positive sentiment about your looks just because you don't fit into some imaginary mold?
I can guarantee that there are at least 40 things that a person can pick on me about in the looks department and you know what? So what. I'm going to get thousands of messages via the media that points out one deficiency or another. Therefore, opinons on the aesthetics of Mamba are little more than lips flapping in the breeze. Yes, I DO like to be thought of as pretty. Yes, I AM flattered and get giddy when I receive a compliment. But when all is said and done, that doesn't validate me anymore than an individual telling me that I'm ugly makes me void. I would like to think that my looks convey my spirit, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is a beautiful thing.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Sunglasses indoors: you look STEWPID. I don't mean slightly tinted frames. I mean the 1985 "I Wear My Sunglasses at Night" shades. Particularly if they are white. That is the most ridiculous looking thing ever. Is there some obscure law that says that you must look like dog vomit to wear those things? *shudder*
I had a long discussion yesterday regarding the Nuva-ring. This handy dandy contraption is a ring that you vaginally insert and keep for a month. I'm going to repeat this, because I don't think you heard me: you insert and leave a foreign object in your vagina for a MONTH. What kind of funky crap is that? In the ads, there's this greenish aura-type ring that encircles the woman's midsection. I don't know how it is where y'all are from, but green auras never meant anything positive as far as I remember. That's just GROSS. *double shudder*
This is the year of the geriatric white woman. It's not enough that Sharon Stone, on the cusp of 50, is getting naked again; Kim Catrall is continuously perpetrating as though she is sexy (doesn't she look like she belongs in an ad for some type of disease? Herpes or melanoma or something. Plus that Family Guy spoof where the guy tried to have sex with her and she shattered? Priceless!); and when I go to re-up my MAC stash, I've got to gaze upon Catherine Denueve's Crypt Keeper-like visage when I'm paying. Ew. Does Sharon Stone look great for her age? Yes, however, when you have to start using that term, "for her age", that means it's time to stop flashing the old cooch on the big screen. Besides, we all know that it's the Erector Set and Crayola people keeping her together when all is said and done.
Once in a blue moon, I'll catch this show called "The Soup." (Didn't it used to be "Talk Soup" or something? Ah well.) I always manage to find a little snippet of entertainment when I happen upon this show. One in particular was when Tyra Banks was playing stripper for a day or whatever, then punked out because parading her scantily clad body around was too humiliating. She got all worked up, crying, blah, blah, blah. They immediately cut to a clip of her in her underwear on the VS catwalk. Tyra, I love you to pieces, but they got you hon!
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
I decided that though I didn't feel like being bothered with relaxers, spending almost $200 every few weeks for braids was too much of a hassle as well. So, I have no hair. Well, I'm not smack bald, all the extra is gone. I am really digging this 7 minute hair care thing. Now of course, I've had to start wearing earrings and I wear makeup more often. However, I can't really complain. It only adds about 5 more minutes to the ritual (providing I haven't lost my lipliner for the 1000th time). The added plus is that other people dig it too. My boss went on about it so much, I thought she was having a private summer.
This weekend I brought myself to Philly with two of my homegirls. We had a ball. On the real though, my homie...my ghetto soul twin...SHE TOOK ME TO GENO'S MAN!!! Not only do those bitches serve steak-ums, but they serve steak-ums with ATTITUDE. FUCK YOU GENOS!! FUCK YOUR STEAK-UMS, FUCK YOUR CHEEZ WHIZ, FUCK YOUR FUNKY LITTLE KETCHUP DISPENSER. On top of that, they had a sign in their window that said, "This is America, when ordering SPEAK ENGLISH." You greasy backed motherfucker, please do not misinterpret your loud garbled speech as english. I can look at you and tell that you're 2nd generation American at BEST, so don't try and pull that American bullshit. However, food debacle aside, we had a ball. My friend showed us around her alma mater and I bought a couple of books for the collection.
Saturday night, I went to a club and the music was BANGING. Who was the DJ? None other than ?uestlove. From what I understand, that's pretty common for that spot, but it ain't common for me. My cuz and I were elated. I was so busy dancing, I didn't finish my second drink. I came out of my shoes in that joint man.
Sunday afternoon, the soul twin had to depart, leaving my cuz and I to decide what to do next. We found out that there was a concert that night. Yes, ya girl saw Little Brother, AGAIN. This time I was the one having a private summer. The concert was electric. I had even more fun than the last time I saw them because venue was SO much better than Nation. They're music is so hot and their stage presence so magnetic, I don't see how more people aren't up on them. Their energy totally eclipsed that of the main event. . .
. . .Dilated Peoples. To call them lackluster would be a compliment. The phrase that keeps jumping to mind is "wiggety wiggety wack". I sort of remember they did some song or another with Kanye and so I listened to their CD. They are so devoid of soul it is ridiculous. (I did not buy the aforementioned CD, and if I had, I would have been at the concert with my receipt demanding my money back.) Not only did the opening act get more love than them, but their DJ (Baboon) seemed to generate more crowd attention as well. Even the people that were there to see them seemed disappointed. However, LB was more than worth it, and we inevitably left the concert early.
I had a small dinner party at my home a couple of weeks ago and among my guests not one, but two love connections were made. I'm not knocking anybody's love hustle, but damn. Can a sister get a brother to take her out for a two piece at Popeye's or SOMETHING?
So I guess you guys are officially caught up with the little tid bits of my life. Other than that, nothing else has reall changed. I'm still waging my battle against idiocy, plucking off one dumbass at a time and searching for the perfect pair of sneakers. Live long and prosper.
Monday, March 06, 2006
I think I may very well be the ONLY person that was not destroyed when I heard the song from "Hustle and Flow" was picked as best song or whatever they call it at the Oscars. White folks LOVE to see us engaged in coonery, so I knew that as sure as the sun shone, this would be picked. So putting our feelings aside, let's say it is hard out here for a pimp. I'm willing to wager there are things in this world that are equally as hard, if not harder. So I present you with my "It's hard out here for a. . ." list of 2006.
1. It's hard out here for Aretha Franklin's foundation garment architect. I think Aretha wears a 78 ZZ. I will not even hazard a guess at what her girdle is made of, but I'm willing to wager that they also use it at NASA. The fact that she always wants to wear something spaghetti strappy, shiny and tight defies all things reasonable and holy. She is the goddess, queen and high priestess of soul. However, when all is said and done, as the extra in Deuce Bigelow so eloquently put it, "that's a HUUUUUUGE bitch!"
2. It's hard out here for Tracey Morgan. Is he ever going to play a character that is not ambiguously gay or borderline retarded? I mean really. He seems to incapable of doing anything other than toggling between lipgloss and lunacy. He has put himself in line for being the recipient of my pillowcase full of bricks award along with. . .
3. It's hard out here for the Wayans family's Minister of Negrocity. Everytime we THINK they've outcooned themselves, they manage to serve society at large up with another heaping helping of negroliciousness. Their latest is a movie called "Little Man". I'm convinced that one of their family members does nothing but brainstorm ignant shit. (I'm taking bets that he was consulted for "Hustle & Flow".) It's kind of sad. They coulda been contenders.
4. It's hard out here for Essence magazine readers. I bought a recent issue to see what Lauryn Hill's crazy ass had to say (save your money) and I made the mistake of reading further. This magazine that is meant to tap into the mind of black women had a full page of "recommended" clothes, none of which were less than $200.00. WTF. Then, an article that gave dating "tips" included a woman's story of how her teenage daughter almost caught her giving her internet "boyfriend" a naked show and another woman's story about going for a ride with a man she met at a gas station because he had a nice car. Are you fucking kidding me?
5. It's hard out here for whoever gets in my way at DSW. I have a well documented shoe addiction. You've been warned. If you get in my way, that's your ass. I'll give you a seat on the bus, but if you get your old ass between me and a pair of discount wedge sandals, that's your ass. It's cruel, but we all have our flaws.
6. It's hard out here for an old school ho. What with all the "regular" girls giving it up like it's gonna spontaneously combust, I would have to imagine that the old ho stroll ain't like it used to be. If it has cut into their profits, I think they should form a coalition like the RIAA has done to protest downloading.
7. It's hard out here for a female porn star. Whenever people discuss about how female porn stars make more than male porn stars, I really feel NO sympathy. You guys have Midori, Crystal Knight, Cherokee, Jenna Jameson (if you like white chicks), and a host of other attractive women. Women have who? Mr. Marcus and Ron Jeremy. Ron Fucking Jeremy. There are maybe 2 attractive guys in porn. The rest look like prison/trailer park rejects. Stop the madness.
8. It's hard out here for a single chick. A week ago, a dude asked me for $5.00. After I told him no, he asked me for my phone number. I shit you NOT. It took all my strength not to scream, "How da HELL you gon' call me fool?" I don't know what would have pissed me off more: if he would have asked me for the 50 cents to call me from a pay phone, or if he would have pulled out a cellie. What makes this sad? It was the first time I'd been asked out in over a week. A lot of the single women that I know in the area haven't had much better luck than I. Scary.
Monday, February 27, 2006
YES! I know we're all tired of the "Let My Baby Daddy Find His Way To Jesus 'Stead of the Corna Sto'" plays brought to us courtesy of Watermelon and Fish Productions. I'd rather eat glass than watch that lil cock deisel dude from Silkk dons another tight polyester shirt. However, though I don't particularly care for those plays, they do have an audience. A ghetto audience? Maybe, but still, there's an audience. Who says ghetto people don't need to be entertained? Rather than seeing those plays as an affront to all things related to African-American progress, I see them as a symbol that black folks are not the monolith that we were once thought to be.
I will be the first to say that Hollywood likes nothing better than to de-dick successful black actors, however, I do not find that to necessarily be the case with Tyler Perry. I know that a lot of folks have a problem with his portrayal of Madea. I'm not necessarily in that number. As a black, southern woman (and a fellow New Orleanian), I not only have several Madeas in my life, but I have a few of them in my family. Initially, I refused to go see the movie. Then, while visiting some friends, I was "forced" to see it at the insistence of others. It was a very enjoyable movie. I saw his portrayal of her as a tribute to that type of woman over anything else. I was BLESSED to have women (my aunt and my older cousin) like that in my corner when my mother passed away and I'm proud to say that I'm a stronger person for it.
Besides showing a caring black family environment, the black people in the story are doing well for themselves. The overall tone related to black men is not one of negativity. (Even the "villan" gets his mind right.) One of Perry's other characters that he plays is an attorney that is responsibly taking care of his two children while his wife battles her own demons. (And it's always a good day when Cicely Tyson is not playing a slave/servant, lol.) I'm not saying that as black folks, we are obligated to see this movie. I'm just giving a bigger picture to what he's doing.
My frustration with the "new and improved negro" is not new. Nothing goes through me like when I hear a black person say, after witnessing what Huey Freeman would call "a nigga moment", ". . .I was ashamed to be black." Why? Were you the one acting the fool? I rarely, if ever, hear, "I was glad that I show myself to be a responsible, hardworking black individual." We complain about being stereotyped, but when a black person misbehaves, we automatically make ourselves a part of their nonsense.
Hampton University has banned cornrows, braids and dreds for participants in their business administration program. Before you self hating coloreds get on the whiny "well if they want to fit into corporate America" jive, let's think about this: Has Harvard taken such a tact? No? How about Princeton? U Penn? No? Has it occurred to Hampton that the big wigs that would be put off by locs would not be equally put off by seeing an HBCU on a resume? I didn't see silky blonde weaves on the no-no list. Isn't that interesting? We complain about being separated from our history and culture, but we are the first to cut the few strands we can hold on to. I wonder if Hampton would do the same to someone from India wearing their cultural garb? I'm willing to wager that they wouldn't.
*sigh* I guess maybe we'll love ourselves. . .one day.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Driving over the miles of new road on the I-10 twin span are when the tears finally started to flow. The closer I got to New Orleans, the sparser the trees became. In the bayou areas there are NO tall trees anymore. Not one. Typically, driving through all that swamp area thoroughly offended the nose. This time I smelled nothing.
I don't have the key, so I didn't go into my old apartment, but I did decide to drive by the home where I grew up. Something in my heart wanted to believe that our trees, and particularly my mother's crepe myrtle tree, the one I would drive my children to see every day, had somehow survived this catastrophe. That's when I completely broke down.
My mother had a love affair with gardening. Unfortunately, she wasn't particularly good at it. When we moved into our home, she got 3 pine trees. They were the oddest looking things you've ever seen and for YEARS they only looked like little bushes. Finally, almost overnight, only about a year or so before her death, they began to look tall and stately. The story behind the crepe myrtle tree is that my mother begged her mother, for a piece of that tree. It grew on the side of her house and produced these beautiful flowers in the spring. For some reason or another, my grandmother always put her off about it. Finally, when my grandmother became really ill, the tree started dying, so my mother broke off a piece of it and planted it in the middle of the garden. And for years, I described my home to visiting friends as "the one with the stick in the middle of the grass." Then one year, we saw a flower. Then the next year we saw more. Before long, again, shortly before my mother's passing, we had ourselves four full blown trees. At the end of her life she spent time reconnecting with her father and taking care of my garden since he did, in fact, have a green thumb.
My father and I had begun discussing my taking over the house and mortgage payments. My kids would ask to drive by the old house, see the tree and want me to tell them the story behind it over and over. I had visions of raising them in the house where I grew up, and telling them the story of my mother's tree as many times as they would listen. I would do the same for my grandchildren, and they would tell their children and so forth. Now, you barely tell where it grew. The same can be said for two of the pines. One of them, the biggest, is nothing more than a stump.
I think this trip confirmed what I've been saying for a while now: New Orleans isn't home for me anymore. The fact that I have to drive through it again to leave breaks my heart. I know I'll go back to visit, but there is no longer a great host of friends to visit. NONE of my biological family is there. Not one person. All I can do for now is keep trying to make Maryland my new home. I think I can do that for now.
However, that pales in comparison to what I encountered on my flight down south. I don't know if I've ever shared this, but I fucking HATE all things Texas, including Texans en masse. (For the purposes of this post, they will be referred to as "the Texans. I know there are great individual Texans in this world.) No, I have not had a traumatic experience with anyone from Texas. My father wasn't some Texan who ultimately abandoned me. I just think of Texas as an unnecessary place. If you look at a map of the U.S., the southern most part of Texas looks like excrement from the bowels of the nation. It could be said that would make Louisiana one of the ass cheeks, but let's not focus on that part of the story. My experience with Texans has shown them to be loud, dumb and imposing. People that visit Texas on purpose seem to have the same personality traits.
I suppose the fact that I made it to the airport and through the checkpoint without incident dictated that I would have a shitty flight. As soon as I got to my gate, I could hear a very loud conversation that had all the sounds and symptoms of a transaction that I like to call "nigga business." For those of you that don't know, nigga business is a miscellaneous business transaction that involves a wild negrolian (escapees from the mental plane of Negrolia) usually taking place outside of legitimate business hours, the word nigga is used heavily and it usually accomplishes nothing other than letting the normal folks in the area know that ignorance, like Bebe's kids, will not die. You can be assured that this person is not talking to TD Waterhouse, a mortgage company or even his/her spouse. In 99% of the cases, this person is talking to another wild negrolian. It was further confirmed as nigga business when he proceeded to comment to his listner about my ass. I can assure you, I ws not in the mood to hear this nonsense at 6:30 a.m. On top of that, he was accompanied by a negrolian caravan. A little part of me died inside as I knew what I was in for.
So, we get on the plane. Let me say this first: unless you are an anorexic midget, do NOT fly Continental. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a big girl. Yes, I use all of my seat in the bus, but ONLY my seat. Therefore, the fact that I had to pull a Sherman Klump just to side down was positively ridiculous. Seated next to me was a brother (coincidentally with the wild negrolians) of average height and looked like he was trying to fit into a kindergardener's chair. Thank god for the sister that grabbed the window seat, which was actually kind of a ballsy move since that was nowhere near her seat assignment. Then again, she was a Texan, albeit a friendly one. Plus, the brother was all to happy to be seated between "two lovely ladies". He was somewhat flirtatious, but harmlessly so and polite enough, so we all made the best of the situation. If the 6'2, 250 brother that was actually assigned to the seat hadn't agreed to sit elsewhere, I'm sure a fight would have broken out. (Note: Disregard for assigned seating is borderline negrolian, however, since the situation was settled amicably, I wouldn't classify it as wild.)
As luck would have it, the negrolians had me surrounded on all sides. They kept opening and slamming the overhead compartments, shouting over my head, loudly greeting each other as each one got on the plane. It goes without saying that four of them were late and barely made it onto the plane. I think that it's equally unnecessary to say that the "nigga technology" was rampant in that joint. If you looked up at any given moment, you could see someone typing with their thumbs, presumably sending a bitch a smiley face. ("'Cause bitches love smiley faces." -Ed Wunsler - The Boondocks)
In addition to them, there was a New York negrolian that had obviously strayed from his herd. How did I know he was from New York? Because it was on his jacket, his jeans, his t-shirt and his hat. Something about that was just wrong to me. I guess in case he lost his memory, somebody could have dropped him from the sky onto Flatbush. Then he kept rolling his tongue around in and outside of his mouth in a very odd, wanna be sexy type way and I would swear that he had on his sister's earrings. Just all sorts of stuff was wrong there. He was loud when he got on the plane, but for the most part, the only sense he aggravated was sight. I feel confident in saying that were he in his element, he would be mentioned in this post extensively as well.
Negrolians as a rule, are non-compliant as a matter of course. Negrolians in flight do NOT turn off their electronic devices. Not ever. What is stupid about this? The fact that there is no service at 37,000 feet. What would it hurt to do what the professionals ask you to do?
After the plane took off, the feast began. They had enough food to look like dinner at the Klumps: ham, croissants, cinnamon rolls, juice, thermoses, chips. Is that a negrolian trait? Not really, I'm just hating. That stuff was looking SCRUMPTIOUS.
They were loud and obnoxious the entire flight. These guys had all the signs and symptoms of a low budget successful rap entourage to DJ Whoop Whoop and MC Thus and So of Ya Mama 'Nem Productions. The fact that they were in the sardine section with me let me know that whoever it was, they weren't really big shit. Ultimately my suspicion was confirmed as I left the plane when some miscellaneous hood rat on the passenger waited for everybody to pass so she could ask one of the guys a question similar to "Ain't you Brandy's brother?" or some shit like that. He confirmed their suspicion and she replied, cheesed out, "Ooooooh, I thought you was hiiiiim." Shoot me.
Of course, no rap entourage is complete without the old dudes. They're not necessarily "old" in the literal sense. But too old to be roadies for the shit they were doing. What is it about old round guys that want to be cool wearing smedium shirts then insisting on tucking them into their jeans. (Jeans that are almost invariably heavily starched and some variation of black.) I would almost swear that a couple of them had loc extensions. That pisses me off immeasurably, negrolian or not.
I had the aisle seat, so I kept having to get up for my seatmates to go to the bathroom. One of the negrolians kept "accidentally" bumping my ass with his head. I never in my life wished so hard for a public fart. That was the longest, most uncomfortable flight I've ever been on.
Mercifully, it ended, but during the landing, when you are supposed to have NO electronic devices on, what happens? A cell phone rings. What does the owner do? Ignore and turn it off? Quickly tell the caller that he'll call him back and close the phone? Noooo. This ignant bastard proceeds to hold an entire conversation while we're landing. We landed safely, but it's the principle.
Once we did land, I immediately got on the horn to tell all my people I landed safely and proclaim my hatred for Texas and the Texans. Let's say that Houston Hobby airport is big as FUCK. No nice way to put that. You need to get from concourse to concourse via train or bus. My plane arrived late. We were supposed to land at 9:44. We landed at 9:50, and I couldn't get off the plane until 10:03. I landed at gate C24. My flight departed from B85. . .at 10:30. So I'm bustling to get to the tram to take me to Concourse B. What I am greeted with is a crowd of people that have been waiting forever and a train that made my flight look spacious. There was only one track operating, which caused the trains to be delayed. So I had to run to catch a bus.
I made it to my plane at 10:28. I was afriad I was going to miss my plane entirely, so I was elated to see all those Mississippi rednecks waiting to fly to Gulfport. Were rotten teeth and Dale Ernhart, Jr. jackets in full effect, you betcha, but I was almost home. There was one guy on the flight who had a mustache that, were it trained, would make Rollie Fingers bow down and say "I'm not worthy!!"
The airport isn't even at half speed yet. All the rental car places are in trailers, there are only a few gates and airlines. It's a mess. And even with all that, it was far more efficient that most fully operational airlines I've frequented. It was tumultuous, but so began my journey home