Having to explain what "pubes" were to my 9 year-old.
My 15 year high school reunion being around the corner.
My daughter telling me, "Diets don't work. You should try Weight Watchers."
Being one "D" past Victoria being able to tell me the Secret.
Having to explain to my grandmother what making it rain meant.
Seeing a picture of myself before I discovered eyebrow waxing.
Being the office hottie. (Who knew backfat was in?)
Choosing a crossword puzzle over other forms of, uh, visual entertainment.
Turn down a good looking guy's request for a date because he had the crazy eyes.
The realization that I am much closer to 35 than 18. . .or 21 for that matter.
Spanx.
Looking at an ad about bunion surgery and saying, "hmmmmmmm."
The irony of being infinitely more comfortable getting naked for a massage as a "big girl" than when I worked out four times a week.
My daughter's crush on a neighborhood boy.
The fact that Flavor Flav stays neck deep in dem hos.
80s music being considered "oldies."
Living long enough to watch a fad enter, depart, then return.
The realization that this blog kind of makes me sound like an old fart, yet you still can't convince me that I am not the shit.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
It's the Douchebag Commandments! WHA!
As I approach my third year as a resident of the Mid-Atlantic, I realize that I have learned much. Coming here, I met a LOT of good folks that really went out of their way to make me feel at home. (I rarely see them, but that's only because I'm also part hermit. Much love to them.) That being said, one of the things that I realized about this place is that it is the Mecca of The Douchebag (hereinafter sometimes referred to as "The Douche"). The amount of douchebaggery that takes place is so concentrated, I firmly believe that there is an association with dues, meetings and of course, a handbook. I believe this book's unofficial title is The Douchebag's Guide to the Galaxy. I offer to you a few rules that I am sure appear in said handbook, as well as my take on them:
1. Sunglasses are to be worn at all times.
Now, some normal folks feel that sunglasses are meant to shield your eyes from excessive glare, and protect them from the UV rays of the sun. Not so for The Douche. They wear their sunshades in the house. They wear their sunshades with a mouse. They wear their sunshades underground. They wear their sunshades at night on the town. They wear their sunshades here and there. They wear their sunshades EVERYWHERE. They wear them eating green eggs and ham. They look like dipshits Sam I Am!
2. The hairline should be given no consideration whatsoever when choosing a hair style.
I am elated that we live in a time where more black people embrace their natural hair by releasing themselves from relaxers or wearing locs. HOWEVER: a) if your hair requires a sign that says "next cornrow 7 miles"; or, b) if your hairline is so far back, you only have two rows of locs, you need to stop in your tracks, reevaluate the entire path of your life, from conception to this...very...moment...starting...now, as something has gone horribly awry. Granny always used to say, "Just because they made it, that doesn't mean they made it for you."
3. Wear designer clothing only if the designer's name is displayed - PROMINENTLY and OFTEN.
Baby Phat and Apple Bottom aficionados unite! Now, I know a lot of us have been eating the good chicken, and these people cater to the Reubenesque lady; that's fine and dandy. However, remember Peaches (Jada then-Pinkett-without-the-Smith) from "A Low Down Dirty Shame?" When she bought her "classy" designer outfit? Yeah. That's you. (Keep in mind, I am aware that not all of their designs look like this, but that shit is almost invariably mad gaudy. Plus, as an aside, I don't expect anyone to take me seriously when I have a pussy stitched on my ass.) Por ejemplo:
Notice the plethora of "BPs"? Not. Celebrated.
4. Failure to knock over at least one elderly individual renders you delinquent in your duties.
When a guy offers me a seat on the bus, typically, I almost shit myself from shock; however, I know about the cyclical reasoning behind the death of chivalry and such. I also know that some people will not accept seats on the bus, because they don't want to be thought of as/admit to being old. That being said, if I had a nickel for every time some overgrown clumsy ass male - BLACK AND WHITE - bowls over an elderly and/or infirm person to get on the damned metro, I'd be backstroking in brown and gold Baby Phat pumps. Were you raised in a barn? Locked in a closet as a young'n? What is your damned problem? I tell you what, regardless of my health, I'm going to start carrying a cane at 65 and consider myself licensed to correct a sucka. And if that don't work, I am not adverse to carrying a "peace keeper." Try me.
5. Disregard all traffic laws.
Red lights. Stop signs. Cross walks. Speed limits. Turning signals. None of this concerns The Douche. They will run you over, cut you off, ride your bumper because they can't be bothered with the speed limit. Personally, I stay within a 5-7 mph range. I can't afford what a moving violation will do to my insurance premium. If this annoys you, go fuck yourself and drive in another lane. On Twinbrook Parkway in Rockville, there are two major crosswalks without traffic signals. In an abundance of caution, there is actually a signal for a pedestrian to notify oncoming traffic that they need to cross. I have seen people sit there like they're waiting for Aragorn before they can cross the street. Whenever I stop, they give me this traumatized look trying to figure out if I'm for real. (Think Tina Turner on her first post-Ike date.)
6. Observe the Pilgrammage. Purchase a T-Shirt that says "FBI." Attempt to be robbed and assaulted at all costs.
Of course, not every Douche lives here. However, they are mandated by Decree of the Supreme Douche to visit DC. They get on the train - at a separate end from the rest of their party - and scream inappropriate shit. Things like, "I have no idea where we're going," and "Yes, I'm keeping all my money in my pocket!" or "Is this even the right train Jebediah!?" They stand very close to the door, because they are perpetually three seconds from being lost, and dangle their iPods from their fingertips. This is because every Douche has a secret longing to be robbed. They LOVE telling stories of their troubles, as they believe this validates their subsequent acts of douchebaggery. Like some sort of Douchebag PTSD.
7. Every story told within a 25 foot radius of your person directly relates to you. It is incumbent upon you to interject your thoughts in a boisterous and frequent manner.
It is one thing to be sympathetic, and when a friend is telling a story of some difficulty, offer words of wisdom to encourage and show that they can get through this. I'm not talking about this. That's a positive activity, and The Douche wants no part of anything positive. Any topic, from childbirth, to death in the family, to walking on the moon. The Douche will relate it to themselves. Not only that, but they will go on for such a long time, that they (AND YOU) will forget how the conversation started in teh first place. Because it's not about you. It's NEVER been about you. They are The Douche dammit, and THEY WILL NOT BE DENIED!
1. Sunglasses are to be worn at all times.
Now, some normal folks feel that sunglasses are meant to shield your eyes from excessive glare, and protect them from the UV rays of the sun. Not so for The Douche. They wear their sunshades in the house. They wear their sunshades with a mouse. They wear their sunshades underground. They wear their sunshades at night on the town. They wear their sunshades here and there. They wear their sunshades EVERYWHERE. They wear them eating green eggs and ham. They look like dipshits Sam I Am!
2. The hairline should be given no consideration whatsoever when choosing a hair style.
I am elated that we live in a time where more black people embrace their natural hair by releasing themselves from relaxers or wearing locs. HOWEVER: a) if your hair requires a sign that says "next cornrow 7 miles"; or, b) if your hairline is so far back, you only have two rows of locs, you need to stop in your tracks, reevaluate the entire path of your life, from conception to this...very...moment...starting...now, as something has gone horribly awry. Granny always used to say, "Just because they made it, that doesn't mean they made it for you."
3. Wear designer clothing only if the designer's name is displayed - PROMINENTLY and OFTEN.
Baby Phat and Apple Bottom aficionados unite! Now, I know a lot of us have been eating the good chicken, and these people cater to the Reubenesque lady; that's fine and dandy. However, remember Peaches (Jada then-Pinkett-without-the-Smith) from "A Low Down Dirty Shame?" When she bought her "classy" designer outfit? Yeah. That's you. (Keep in mind, I am aware that not all of their designs look like this, but that shit is almost invariably mad gaudy. Plus, as an aside, I don't expect anyone to take me seriously when I have a pussy stitched on my ass.) Por ejemplo:
Notice the plethora of "BPs"? Not. Celebrated.
4. Failure to knock over at least one elderly individual renders you delinquent in your duties.
When a guy offers me a seat on the bus, typically, I almost shit myself from shock; however, I know about the cyclical reasoning behind the death of chivalry and such. I also know that some people will not accept seats on the bus, because they don't want to be thought of as/admit to being old. That being said, if I had a nickel for every time some overgrown clumsy ass male - BLACK AND WHITE - bowls over an elderly and/or infirm person to get on the damned metro, I'd be backstroking in brown and gold Baby Phat pumps. Were you raised in a barn? Locked in a closet as a young'n? What is your damned problem? I tell you what, regardless of my health, I'm going to start carrying a cane at 65 and consider myself licensed to correct a sucka. And if that don't work, I am not adverse to carrying a "peace keeper." Try me.
5. Disregard all traffic laws.
Red lights. Stop signs. Cross walks. Speed limits. Turning signals. None of this concerns The Douche. They will run you over, cut you off, ride your bumper because they can't be bothered with the speed limit. Personally, I stay within a 5-7 mph range. I can't afford what a moving violation will do to my insurance premium. If this annoys you, go fuck yourself and drive in another lane. On Twinbrook Parkway in Rockville, there are two major crosswalks without traffic signals. In an abundance of caution, there is actually a signal for a pedestrian to notify oncoming traffic that they need to cross. I have seen people sit there like they're waiting for Aragorn before they can cross the street. Whenever I stop, they give me this traumatized look trying to figure out if I'm for real. (Think Tina Turner on her first post-Ike date.)
6. Observe the Pilgrammage. Purchase a T-Shirt that says "FBI." Attempt to be robbed and assaulted at all costs.
Of course, not every Douche lives here. However, they are mandated by Decree of the Supreme Douche to visit DC. They get on the train - at a separate end from the rest of their party - and scream inappropriate shit. Things like, "I have no idea where we're going," and "Yes, I'm keeping all my money in my pocket!" or "Is this even the right train Jebediah!?" They stand very close to the door, because they are perpetually three seconds from being lost, and dangle their iPods from their fingertips. This is because every Douche has a secret longing to be robbed. They LOVE telling stories of their troubles, as they believe this validates their subsequent acts of douchebaggery. Like some sort of Douchebag PTSD.
7. Every story told within a 25 foot radius of your person directly relates to you. It is incumbent upon you to interject your thoughts in a boisterous and frequent manner.
It is one thing to be sympathetic, and when a friend is telling a story of some difficulty, offer words of wisdom to encourage and show that they can get through this. I'm not talking about this. That's a positive activity, and The Douche wants no part of anything positive. Any topic, from childbirth, to death in the family, to walking on the moon. The Douche will relate it to themselves. Not only that, but they will go on for such a long time, that they (AND YOU) will forget how the conversation started in teh first place. Because it's not about you. It's NEVER been about you. They are The Douche dammit, and THEY WILL NOT BE DENIED!
Real Talk
I miss you guys. Have you missed me? I'll be back to blog soon, but until then, I'll post this vid, as well as repost a couple of items that are either old or posted elsewhere for your enjoyment.
Smooches,
Mamba
Monday, May 05, 2008
Friday, May 02, 2008
Yippie
You know what I love more than gifts? Compounded gifts! Among the spoils of Secretaries' Day was a gift card at Macy's. So, I bought a Clinique "Happy In Bloom" gift set for myself as a Mothers' Day present. That present was accompanied by a free gift from Clinque that included a mini color pallette, mascara, two lipsticks and moisturizer. THEN since the lady liked me so much, she also gave me a mini tote and a miniature spray of the original "Happy." YAAAAAAAY!
Anyone want to keep this gift giving chain a-movin?
Anyone want to keep this gift giving chain a-movin?
Thursday, May 01, 2008
The other side of strength
Once a week, I get on the train, put my earphones in my ear, and attempt to do my Sudoku puzzle when I feel it. It starts in the pit of my stomach, growls up to my esophagus, spreads throughout my chest, then collects in my throat. I hold it there. It must wait until I get home. Sometimes it does. Other times, it will not be denied, and it rushes to my head. I do my best to hold my head down. Who really wants to be the crazy crying lady on the bus? I vent my tears as quickly as possible, and I'm usually collected enough to walk to my car.
Some days, I can scarcely figure why I'm crying. Those are typically the days I can avoid the episode. Other days, I know the precise reason behind the tears, which is why I can't hold them back. I tried to relate this cycle to my brother from another mother, and it was he who diagnosed this as "the other side of strength."
Lately, I've questioned if my strength is really just the workings of an exceptional actress. I realize that my strength is born of necessity. People have it in their mind that I'm going to make it, simply because I have made it so far. I can't recall the last time someone asked me how I was doing and I felt as though they wanted a real answer. They expect to hear fine. They NEED to hear fine. They are not prepared to deal with the helplessness that comes with hearing their strong friend is in the dark, and they can't even throw up a flare. They have their own shit to deal with. And so, being the person I am, I tell them what they need to hear. And I tell them that I'm fine. And I crack jokes. And I talk about things that don't matter; because the things that do matter or either too painful to recount, or too difficult to verbalize.
The thing about being strong is that people expect you to be that way all the time. And if you falter, they by no means expect it to be a chronic condition. When we see Superman weakened by kryptonite, we do little more than wait until he regains his strength. Not if - when. When Peter Parker declared himself "Spiderman no more" we knew it was a matter of time that he abandoned such a silly idea. Not if - when. Ultimately, we see our hero back, and better than ever. The momentary lapse was but a memory. That shit is for the movies.
When people, real people, are weakened, or suffer crises of faith or conscience or whatever, they can be forever altered. I'm not so sure of who I am anymore. The people in my life that I once believed to be central either don't call me, I don't call them, or some combination of both. Outside of a call from one of my sisters, if my phone rings once a day, that's plenty. More often than not, the call is not for me. I haven't talked to my father in months. I have a sister to whom I don't speak at all. My cousin, to whom I used to speak every day, I maybe speak to once a week. I've even taken to going to lunch alone more often than not. The Chupacabra Hunter and I have repaired our friendship in a fashion, but we do little more than exchange superficial greeting emails. I can't remember the last time I spoke to him about anything of real consequence. That's a blog post in and of itself. I know where to begin, I'm just not sure there's any point to doing it.
And that's life. And the people in my life see this as normal, because I must be okay. And the reason I cry is because this has become okay. I have little to no desire to rage against it. Why am I not raging against this?
I'm not giving up. I am actually complete ignorant of how one goes about giving up on life. But I am resigned to the fact that there is no true glory in strength. All it seems to do is increase the number of people that walk away from you.
Talk about a blue ribbon for your ass.
Some days, I can scarcely figure why I'm crying. Those are typically the days I can avoid the episode. Other days, I know the precise reason behind the tears, which is why I can't hold them back. I tried to relate this cycle to my brother from another mother, and it was he who diagnosed this as "the other side of strength."
Lately, I've questioned if my strength is really just the workings of an exceptional actress. I realize that my strength is born of necessity. People have it in their mind that I'm going to make it, simply because I have made it so far. I can't recall the last time someone asked me how I was doing and I felt as though they wanted a real answer. They expect to hear fine. They NEED to hear fine. They are not prepared to deal with the helplessness that comes with hearing their strong friend is in the dark, and they can't even throw up a flare. They have their own shit to deal with. And so, being the person I am, I tell them what they need to hear. And I tell them that I'm fine. And I crack jokes. And I talk about things that don't matter; because the things that do matter or either too painful to recount, or too difficult to verbalize.
The thing about being strong is that people expect you to be that way all the time. And if you falter, they by no means expect it to be a chronic condition. When we see Superman weakened by kryptonite, we do little more than wait until he regains his strength. Not if - when. When Peter Parker declared himself "Spiderman no more" we knew it was a matter of time that he abandoned such a silly idea. Not if - when. Ultimately, we see our hero back, and better than ever. The momentary lapse was but a memory. That shit is for the movies.
When people, real people, are weakened, or suffer crises of faith or conscience or whatever, they can be forever altered. I'm not so sure of who I am anymore. The people in my life that I once believed to be central either don't call me, I don't call them, or some combination of both. Outside of a call from one of my sisters, if my phone rings once a day, that's plenty. More often than not, the call is not for me. I haven't talked to my father in months. I have a sister to whom I don't speak at all. My cousin, to whom I used to speak every day, I maybe speak to once a week. I've even taken to going to lunch alone more often than not. The Chupacabra Hunter and I have repaired our friendship in a fashion, but we do little more than exchange superficial greeting emails. I can't remember the last time I spoke to him about anything of real consequence. That's a blog post in and of itself. I know where to begin, I'm just not sure there's any point to doing it.
And that's life. And the people in my life see this as normal, because I must be okay. And the reason I cry is because this has become okay. I have little to no desire to rage against it. Why am I not raging against this?
I'm not giving up. I am actually complete ignorant of how one goes about giving up on life. But I am resigned to the fact that there is no true glory in strength. All it seems to do is increase the number of people that walk away from you.
Talk about a blue ribbon for your ass.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
