Monday, May 29, 2006

What's with "Brazilian" Men?

Speaking of being bare down there…I gotta address dudes who are bare up there…as in, the face. [note: dudes who shave it all off down there are just down right nasty]

What is that about? I come from a family of men with beautifully thick and healthy goatees and beards…so this is truly beyond me. But brothas, pls help me understand.

What are you doing with no facial hair??

I can kinda see it on white guys…their hair isn’t as tame as ours is on the face. Their shit tends to look like this guy:

I love to see a brotha, relaxed, head resting back in the barber chair getting his face "lined up." Granted, I imagine there's pressure and even rules in corporate America, and of course the effects of aging that make brothas think they don't look every bit of retirement age without a nice 'stache. But it always strikes me as really odd when I see a dude with no hair on his face. Truth be told it bugs me.

Don Cheadle...brilliant actor. Love him in everything he's in. But I am constantly distracted by that upper lip!

Isnt this so much better?

Isaiah Washington... so handsome back in his Love Jones days...but what the hell is this?

I am convinced that somewhere out there is a memo that states that bare faces are less threatening. What else can explain this Grey's Anatomy nakedface?

Jay Z...I remember Nas making mention of the baldy in one of his diss records.

Couldnt agree more. Very camel-esque.

Vince Young has that half a goatee joint, that leaves the most important part exposed. Word up, cutie looks like a contender at the Preakness.

Honorable Mentions...

What's the deal, boys? Do tell...

Friday, May 26, 2006

Vernal Equinox

There is a smile on my coochie today.


Well, I hibernate during the winter. It annoys the shit out of me when I complain about bitter winter weather and seasonal depression, only to have someone point out that being from the arctic northeast, I “should be used to it.”

That’s like telling Sophia she shouldn't trip off Harpo blacking her eye since “all her life she had to fight…”

I digress...

So now that the earth below is thawed, and the sun is emerging and making way for tank tops and toes out, I too, am beginning to emerge from under the down duvet. So to commemorate Memorial Day...and some pending penis, I took a trip to a good friend who knows me more intimately than most.

She works in a nice part of town that takes me about 10 minutes to reach. But when I do I am nervous and antsy, yet constantly reminding myself that the visit is pointless unless I relax. The waterfall in the lobby of her building helps...until it coerces my bladder. Damn!

Thank God the elevator is empty, it allows me 35 whole seconds of breathing and pacing. I get off, toss my freshly wrapped hair...finally grown out from that severe winter butchering...and strut to the rhythm of my heels on hardwood.

Today, I walks like reggae.

"Hi, I'm to see Michelle."

Before I can even park in the overstuffed love seat, my home girl floats out and nods for me to follow her to her office. I shoot back up and press play, again walking and humming in my head, almost slow-windin' down the hall.

"I love that hat, Wise," Michelle says over her shoulder. "What is that, velvet? Can I touch it?" I lean in, satisfied at the attention.

I ponder the irony...that this is the very effect I'm going for...the EXACT reason I'm here to see Michelle in the first place.

"Nice!" she says, as we turn the corner, past several serene side rooms.

"How long has it been?"

I pause for a second, not sure what she's asking. How long since I straddled his face?? That's where MY head was...but why is SHE going there?

"I'm sorry?"

"Your last time here?" Oh.

I settle into her office, a compact cube with candles and an air of sterility. Within minutes Michelle's gone and my clothes are folded neatly on the table beside me. My back is resting on a bed of feathers, an immaculately clean and fluffy white towel covering my vitals.

"I hope you don't mind that I brought music this time. Helps me relax."

She smiles wide, winks. Then gets to work.

The hot wax is a cruel illusion. It feels divine as it's smeared on my skin, like warm peanut butter spread on a slice of whole wheat (or in my case pumpernickel). But then it is quickly covered and ripped away. The skin of my groin is Cinderella...the hair there is her plan for a booty call with the Prince...the wax and linen strips are the heartless stepmama and trifling sisters.

An agonizing baldface crime.

The effects of winter are brutally snatched from my snatch...yet I remain calm. Humming soft rock hits now.

I've always wanted to visit Brazil, but not if this is how they treat folks. Not that I expect impeccable hospitality from someone wearing rubber gloves, but I'm sayin. In case you have yet to go, ummm, international, a Brazilian wax is when they unceremoniously take off ALL your hair south of the equator, including where they say the sun don't shine. Butt... it's springtime, and the sun doth shine, and I want to soak it up.

I'm no virgin to waxing down there, but it still feels a lot like blunt trauma every damn time. Solicited trauma, mind you. I go to the spa under my own volition. Make a damn appointment even. I ASK for a woman who resembles the bitch I almost beat up after a softball game in 9th grade, to lift my legs, line my azz cheeks with hot molten lava/wax and wipe from back to front.

Then basically do the same thing DIRECTLY on my kisser, with the tenderness of an elephant applying, ummm, lipliner. Oh she's precise, but not very sensitive considering she got the same thing I got and should know better. Her fingers are all up in my underworld, and it's imperative to rationalize the fact that I'm not in the least bit aroused by this/her. She's a two-minute sister, and for that (for once) I am grateful.

I instruct Michelle to give me a "triangle". [think... dudes circa 1991 with a Nike swoosh cut in their fades.]

I don't do the "landing strip" cuz I just watched Elie Wiesel on Oprah for the last two days, I read his book "Night" in high school, and frankly, that landing strip shit resembles Hitler's mustache.

I don't like the "Kojak"...ya know, a full baldy. Because I'd be a tad remiss to arouse a man with privates that are a pre-pubescent throwback. I mean, I already look young for my age, I don't need to be some sick fcuk's kiddie porn fetish.

To me the triangle is more than the Phil Jackson (or Tex Winters for you anal purists) classic offense, it's a reliable defense. It takes Michelle no time at all to shape up my isosceles.

When it's all said and done, it's cute. Dammit, gorgeous even. Breathtaking. Silky. Ventilating. Laying on my back, at home in my bed looking down at it I see an upside down frown...kind of like my disposition this time of year. It signifies the beginning of spring, when I get hot in the pants. I get plenty aroused when my fresh fade is admired and caressed. Like a good tan, or a new tattoo, fly new pumps or new chrome rims...I wanna show it off.

"What is that velvet?" I can now lean in and bask in the attention. Front and back, nggas!


Wednesday, May 24, 2006

...Easy as 1, 2, 3... Tagged Again

Wooo! I feel like a chick in a band...been on the road since last week. Finally back in my warm bed tonight. Ahhh!

But alas, I've missed you all, and I've got lots to talk about, including the NBA playoffs, our nation's capital, black books, and best friends.

But mama is tired.

My main man, and blogger intelligencia David DP Parrish tagged my I'm gonna handle up. Who shall I tag...who shall I tag. Oh tag ya damn self if you wanna!

Wise...A to Z:

Accent: People constantly ask me where I'm from…meaning they think I'm a foreigner…and I am by extension of Jamaican parents. I don’t really get my full patois on, but I guess there’s some bumbuh in my vernacular. But I’m a NYer, so there’s prolly a lil of e’rrthing in therre.

Booze: The spice of life! Again...I'm Jamaican so Wray & Nephew is my birthright.
BTW, speaking of booze...this is one of my new fav blogs.

Chore I Hate: I ain't no dirty chick...but I could do without sweeping. I also don't like being subject to "boy work" like taking out the trash, raking leaves, shoveling snow, assembling furniture, and fixing wires and cables.

Dogs/Cats: Oh hell no. My college roommate Gay Bartender had a cat jr year and i was NOT feeling it. Then I got bit (more dramatic account)/ambushed and badly scratched (more accurate account) by a mingy mutt on my block a few years back. Don't ask.

Essential Electronics: My laptop for sure.

Favorite Perfume/Cologne: Ladies, fellas can't get enough of the scent of DKNY "Delicious" (green apple, and not that new red shit either). Great for spring. But my current fav is D&G's Light Blue. I sniff myself all day long.

Gold/Silver: The rings and watch are silver. Gold is for pimps...and I aint that yet.

Hometown: The crown jewel (hot mess) of NY.

Insomnia: Always! But that's just stress related.

Job Title(s): Check writer (and occasional check bouncer)

Kids: Happy Thanksgiving!....but I do want like 5. Hopefully by the time I'm ready they'll be on the clearance rack.

Living Arrangements: The Harlem Estate, where I am free to blog in my panties.

Most Admired Trait: Saturday my best friend of over 20 years told me that she admired my temporarily moving in with my mom after my dad died. But generally it's my sense of humor. Laugh!

Number of Sexual Partners: A nice even number, which when averaged out over the number of years I been fcuking, is quite respectable.

Overnight Hospital Stays: This past August, with my good friend Curly as she gave birth to her first baby!

Phobia: Choking. I be asking my doctor for liquid prescriptions like I'm 5.

Quote: "When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time." ~Maya Angelou

Quote: "Wise, I found somebody for you. He has a job, he works at the mall selling cell phones, and I saw him reading. Sprint...books, you guys have a lot in common. ~My 8 yr old nephew, who always looks out for his unmarried auntie. Yes, he calls me by my name. I'm too young to be called 'Aunt Wise.'

Religion: Born again. Grew up in a mostly white non-denominational church...went to sleep away church camp, which my brother now as an adult, insists was a cult. Shout out to my current church home...Abyssinian Baptist.

Siblings: 1 older sister. 2 older brothers (twins). Wise is the baby!

Time I usually wake up: Am I still drunk from the night before?

Unusual Talent: Don't you wanna know.

Vegetable I refuse to eat: ever seen that shit?! WTF IS that??

Worst Habit: That drunk dialing thing

X-Rays: Teeth mostly. Why they always ask if you're knocked up before they put that bullet proof X-ray vest on you?

Yummy Foods I Make: Baked ziti, cake/cookies/brownies, grilled salmon, shrimp in garlic butter sauce with yellow rice, burritos

Zodiac Sign: Aries...but my friends say I'm not a typical one...not selfish, arrogant, violent, etc. [note from an Aries: read my blog exclusively, it's so much better than most...or I'll whup your punk azz.] lol

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Narcoleptic Nookie

So I recently got all up in ya biz, and you weren’t the least bit offended. You bunch of blabbers!

And among the comments was an interesting anonymous inquiry, which also requested my insight. It said:

You know I want to know if you watched "Grey's Anatomy" and if you did, what's your take on falling asleep while making love? I loved how Doc told his gf "But I wasn't done yet."I had a gf who claims after we broke up that she fell asleep one time while I was giving her head. Her ass was wincing and moaning all the other times, but claims that one time she was tired her ass fell asleep.Then there's my friend who had a bf tell her she couldn't go to sleep till he got his.I know you gots sumthin to say. Bring it. ~Anon

First to answer your question, Anon, I’m a fan of Grey, albeit a sporadic viewer at best. I personally am an L-Word fanatic, so since I don’t have Tivo there was always a schedule conflict. But when the L-Word season ended (to hell with cable series that try to pass 5 sorry episodes off as a complete season…then have the NERVE to sell it at full price on DVD), I did try to catch Grey, cause the writing and acting are great and I love that the creator is a sista.

I say all that to say that I missed this particular episode ::frown:: (but the 2-part finale was off tha chain…Izzie is a nut…McDreamy is a dick…is there something a bit, dare I say, neo-Ally McBeal (in a good way, like seasons 1&2 Ally...before Taye Diggs), about Meredith...and the azzhole doc is sexy!).

But that does not preclude me from having an opinion on falling asleep while you fuckin’.

First off, you must be just “ucking” if you fall asleep before the “season finale” if you know what I mean.

I’m not much of a self pleaser, but I have been known to wake up with “Henry” still in my hands, and my panties at my knees. Does that count?

I’m also an advocate of drunk sex [disclaimer: not to be confused with drunk anonymous sex. That’s for hoes.], so I imagine this may have happened before but I prolly passed out before I could commit the ep to memory.

But that is one damn good reason that I could think of that would sincerely justify hitting the snooze button. Drunk people fall asleep at the wheel so why not on all fours??

But surely there are other good reasons…

You ever have a really nice evening out with your lover? You do the whole ‘come home from work on a Thursday, get dressed up, go somewhere and show off, maybe a film screening or Broadway, then hit a great restaurant and laugh and chair-dance the night away’. Then you decide to walk a few blocks to work off the coffee and dessert you shared.

Then you get back to the crib and you are just so aligned, so in tune, so horny…yet so sleepy from the thought of tomorrow morning’s staff meetings.

You jump in the shower together (bec you KNOW that if he goes first you’ll be knocked out by the time he's done and vice versa), get out and lotion each other, wrap your hair, turn on the TV and catch the tail end of the news, and lay up holding each other, so high from the night out with your boo.

So you start the rubbing, his skin starts to radiate heat, and you kind of regret writing a check your azz might have problems cashing. His deep moans commingle with yawns, but he loves the way your manicured fingertips scrape his chest, and like you, he tries desperately to fight the sleep and enjoy it.

The boxers start to tent, and you’re intoxicated by the scent of Dial soap on his freshly hydrated skin. You mount him, all the while giggling about the theater usher who bust his azz showing ya’ll to the mezzanine. The kisses are intense, and Colgate flavored. His warm hands on your azz contrast lovely with the cool air drifting in from the window.

You wanna go there but your body has other ideas. That morning’s cardio is sinking in; shit, that cappuccino was decaf.

He feels an obligation to your satisfaction when he reaches between your hot thighs and wades in the water.

So he takes a deep breath and submerges in it.

And it’s good, cuz it’s always good. He’s trying to take his time and you’re trying to maneuver him to your spot. His tongue has that certain swagger and settles into a relaxing rhythm. Your body gives in to the goodness, your chest heaving, your hips exaggerating cuz you wanna cum quick.

But it’s exhausting and good all at once. Your mind wanders to a lovely place, where you’re riding a wave of relaxation. A cloud of stillness. A house of dreams...

No, you’re literally dreaming…about your man giving you the business down there.

Your azz is asleep.

So to answer the question, Anonymous: Yes, I gots something to say.

I need a nap.

Monday, May 15, 2006

“Why I Skipped My College Graduation”: A Very Special Anniversary Episode

On this date, May 15th…some moons ago…

I slept through the hours leading up to my college graduation, and had fully intended to Van Winkle my way through the entire day.

Graduation morning...

The world appeared blurry. A mess of blinking colors and blubbering images. My eyelids stretched to skinny slits, and I decided that if I were to simply close them again, I could instantly collapse back into sleep’s awaiting arms.

More importantly, I hoped that sleep would make the day vanish like a shadow at sunrise.

Still drunk. I squeezed my eyes tight, and the spinning in my head slowed just enough for my memory to catch up.

Last night…

I remembered my night of lawless insentience like a list of regrets, all futile efforts to consume my sadness and fit in. Everyone was doing it. I had skillfully masked my misery with glass after glass of sparkling charades, successive shots of emotional disguises. A veil of potent liquors. It was a bittersweet celebration that concluded with my arms draped across the face of the toilet for most of the night, reversing the deep swallows and long swigs, emptying the poison from my shallow stomach. ‘Damn, Bacardi is the boss of me,’ I thought as I balled up like a fetus to strangle the intense ache in my gut.

Exhausted at the mere memory of it all, I began to snore.

My brief nap was stained with dreams of a dramatic screenplay, each second, every frame a flash of what-ifs. The dream was cast with my best friends dressed in replicas of my cap and gown, bathed in smiles and laughter. My parents holding diplomas, skinning their teeth with pride. Extended family and acquaintances living the life that I had lived for the last four years, looking more natural in the roles than I ever did. The only thing missing was the leading lady…

My subconscious spoke in layman’s terms, hiding no secret codes: I lost all pride in the four years I spent in college. It all seemed worthless and irrelevant.

I believed that everyone but me deserved my college degree.

My mother should be the one to throw on the lopsided cap as compensation for all of the encouraging phone calls to her collegiate daughter. For the good luck cards with the $20 she’d sent during exam weeks. Every dollar she sent meant something she would go without.

Daddy wasn’t to be outdone either. I thought my father deserved to button up that goddamn graduation gown, not me; after all, he was the one that had to deal with the banks, the PLUS-loans and all the other financial let downs. And sadly, he was the one person who worked as hard as I did to keep me in school, and yet his recovery from prostate cancer treatment (surgery was literally like a week prior) would prevent him from attending my graduation. The fuck?!

My big brothers and sister deserved it for just loving me.

Add to that my friends, the real ones, who would never leave me, and I felt thoroughly unworthy of walking that graduation stage. My accomplishments felt like they were just as much my family’s.

My body shook suddenly, and frightened, I opened my eyes wide.

“I’m not going to my fucking graduation.”

There were two ceremonies actually and I had been more than proud and happy to walk in the more meaningful of the two, which was held the day before. It was the ceremony for my J-school, where I walked onstage and pointed my disposable camera up at my waving family sitting high in the Dome's cheap seats, then pointed them out to the Dean of my school and asked her to shout my name clearly so they could hear it. [In case you were wondering, yes of course I was mildly shit faced…there was wine at the reception…or was that my crib?]

“Yesterday was enough. Today, me and 6,999 other seniors, not even walking a stage to physically grab a degree is an irrelevant waste of time. I’m not going.”

There was no one else awake to hear my proclamation, nor to confront me, so I hit the pillow again.

I lay hung over in my South Campus apartment in a houseful of my closest friends from home who traveled to celebrate the occassion. They would not be awake until I woke them because I was the responsible one of the crew. The one who made sure we didn’t sleep through shit like commencement. ‘Not today,’ I thought, pulling the sheets high above my head. Today I am staying in bed and I am going to let our fate rest on the shoulders of someone else for a change.

My friends were family, really. Throughout college they were lifelines of sorts, like veins and arteries rushing blood and nutrients to my heart.

But crammed onto a bed in between two of my oldest friends, I lay stiff instead of relaxed and spread out. Touching their bare legs didn’t feel as comfortable as it had for most of our lives. My best friends made me feel old. We talked grandiose tales of being grown, but my graduation weekend reeked of middle school. I was leaving school and moving to New York City for a very grown up job, one I had dreamed about for years. Meanwhile most of them were signed on for a 5th year of undergrad. I was feeing less like “the same old Wise” and more like someone else. Someone I didn’t yet recognize.

And someone else will just have to answer the phone, because, I am still asleep. By the third ring I was annoyed. Shit. I rolled over and put the ringing phone out of its misery.


“Wise, it’s Shelly! Is everyone dressed?”

I abandoned my rebellion and peeked over at the clock radio. 9:15 am.

“Yes, we’re getting there. Stay Hype is in the shower right now. Gay Bartender (before her days tending bar) is doing her make up, and I, of course, am ready and waiting.” The lies came effortlessly, as did the pressure from my roommate Gay Bartender’s mom, Shelly.

“In the shower? So...Wise...Graduate, don’t you guys have to be at the stadium to line up in less than 30 minutes? I’m coming to pick up those of you who are ready. I’m at the stadium. I’ll be there in 7 minutes.”

“No, no, no! We’ll all leave together, on time. If you don’t get a parking space now, you’ll never find one later, so you better stay there. Have you seen my family yet?”

“No, not yet. Well, we were all going to drive here together but no one answered the phone when I called your parents’ house. They’re here I’m sure.”

“I’m sure they are. Keep an eye out for them. Okay, we’ll see you.”

Wise, get them moving, please.”

“I will. See you after the ceremony.”

Shit, shit. I sat up in bed and finally allowed my eyes to see exactly what I had to contend with. My left arm was buried under a spine that shared my slim twin-sized bed. It was Wiz, a Cornell grad whose pale feet flanked another sleeping head like headphones. The head belonged to a loose guy that I barely knew. A friend of a friend. He was sprawled across the foot of the bed, fully clothed, only his swollen upper body, stuffed into a ripped, dingy-white wifebeater, actually on the bed. His legs, swallowed by sagging dark blue jeans rested limp on the floor. His feet were planted in gleaming white ankle socks just inches from the head of another friend of a friend whom I had gotten to know pretty well over the last four years.

He was what we called a Replacement Friend. See, my friends have this inside joke. When we all went off to our respective colleges, we found it was customary to befriend a guy or girl who was a cheap knock-off of your original best friends from high school. And depending on how flattering the impersonation, the replacement, when introduced to the crew, could expect to face a barrage of resentment, or in the best instances, acceptance in the elite original high school family fold. This particular replacement looked rather comfortable in my bedroom... He and I had hooked up freshman year.

I stretched out of bed, pulling the sheets off with me. I nearly broke my damn neck stepping down onto a humongous sandy brown Timberland boot laying sideways right beside the bed. I had to execute a nimble little hop to get to the window, lifting it slightly to neutralize the odor of breath, beer and butt. I then twirled back toward the door, jumping hopscotch over and around the musty bodies sprawled across my bedroom floor.

“Rough night, huh buddy?” I snickered as I stepped over a stiff body asleep in the middle of the hallway just outside of my bedroom.

As I made my way down to the living room where the rest of my friends were passed out, I realized that every thing I did in my apartment from that point on would be one of the last times I’d do it. One of the last mornings I’d wake up hung-over there. One of the last times I would ever make my way down this staircase. One of the last times I would ever wet my socks on spilled fruit juice.

Before I even reached the living room, the nostalgia was drowned out by the smell of ruin.

The apartment looked (and smelled) like animal house. Not the movie, but an actual cage of primates. Our parents were planning to come back to the apartment after the ceremony and not even my good azz could explain my way out of that mess.

The night before…

My friends had arrived at my apartment from their own college campuses the day before to help celebrate the first graduation among us. As was customary, everyone brought a bottle, covering all the bases: cases of beer, dark and light liquors, champagne, wine and bags of weed for those who indulged (Wise excluded).

The crew had it’s own pre-graduation party. Curly (one of my best friends, a Temple grad, who reminds me so much of her) sat by the stereo and stacked CDs and played a mix of 'best of' jams from college, high school and even grade school. We danced and laughed and retold inside jokes that sent us to the floor holding our sides in hysterical pain, and amused the outsiders. The open front and back doors attracted people who lived around our area, and soon there were close to fifty people in and around the apartment. When the liquor was done and the weed hung in the air above their heads like most of our inside jokes, we hit the road.

Our drunken procession walked the streets howling and singing into the dark night. The campus bars were packed and we celebrated with the rest of the university, something that felt so right. Facing the world with my friends. Partying side by side with the best friends in the history of friends, I owned the night.

And soon the liquor owned me. After-hours at my apartment eluded me, as I spent most of it in the bathroom with my girls slumped around me as I threw up my intended therapy.


Back to reality…

“Rise and shine!! Get up!" I yell. "Y’all got a graduation to go to. It’s 9:20. Game time is 10. Hurry the hell up. GB, you go shower first ‘cuz you take the longest. And hurry up please. Your mother just called.”

My voice was dry and the smell my own drunk breath kicked me in the nose. The mess of the living room overwhelmed me, but slowly my small army of friends was coming alive.

“You showered already, Wise?” asked Phatz, my closest guy friend since 7th grade.

“I don’t need to shower,” I answered casually. “I’m not going.”

“Shut up. You showered?”

“You must didn’t hear me.” I searched the fridge for orange juice, but knew it would taste just like the gin and juice that made me hurl just hours before.

“Wise was inspired by that movie where they skip their own graduations and go on a road trip,” piped in Stay Hype, another grade school buddy, who was smothered on the couch next to an unidentifiable body. He pulled back the cover enough to reveal his chiseled bare chest. This girl Celeste from the neighborhood wiggled under his arm, squinting against the light coming in from the back door.

“Fandango?” Phatz asked.

“Yeah, that one. You saw that movie?” Stay Hype gently lifted Celeste’s head from his arm and reached for his Newports.

“With Kevin Costner? We saw it in Mr. Geraci’s class didn’t we, Wise?”

“No you didn’t. Whatever, it’s a Saturday afternoon movie on TBS like, every week, that’s why you’ve seen it,” answered Multi-Lingual Lawyer, who is hands down the most valuable asset I earned in college, and who to this day still (thinks she) knows me better than any other friend.

“Fuck the movie," she continued. "Wise has been talking shit since last night. She passed out talking about how she wasn’t going to her own graduation because her fam would never be able to find her in the crowded stadium anyways. They’d never know. Yadda yadda yadda.

"But Wise,” MLM shifted her attention straight at me and continued the lashing, “I told you, you simple, selfish little girl, that just because you think you have nothing to show for your four years here, you can’t skip it. A lot of people made it possible for you to be here. So go eat some Nilla wafers, wash your vomitty ass and let’s go.”

I stood and applauded. Then turned back to the fridge, unfazed by the campaign speech.

"Anyone need me to roll a blunt while they shower?” I joked, hoping the prospect of a few good wake & bake bong hits would speed the progress.

“Non-smoking azz. What the hell did we come up here for if you’re not gonna walk?”

I hadn’t exactly expected this outpouring of disappointment from my friends. But I forged on in an effort to be defiant and to clean up all traces of last night’s debauchery. And in the process I found a surprise amidst the rubble.

Entourage, what in the hell are you still doing here?” I asked.

His eyes were rolled back, and a steady stream of spit hung from his lips to the carpet, as he was laid out under the kitchen table with a red plastic cup still in his hand.

“En, where is your family?” He smelled so bad that the only contact I could muster was a light tap of my bare foot to his rippled arm. His eyes opened slowly like a blossoming tulip. Then he sat up abruptly almost knocking his head on the underside of the table.

“Oh my gosh! What time is it?”

“It’s 9:30, sweetie. Wh--...”

“Damn! Ma Dukes is gonna get up in my azz! I’m out y’all. If I don’t see you at the ceremony, I’ll be here for dinner later on.”

Entourage, who was Phatz's Replacement as my best guy friend in college, was gone like a thief in the night. I was tempted to leave with him...

Instead I made sure that in record time all 14 people in my apartment erased all evidence of the spirit world we created the night before, AND were fresh and clean and on time to watch me and Gay Bartender fall asleep in the Dome among our fellow graduates. [not drunk]

Yeah, I went. I dragged my heels, pouted, insisted and fought with my crew... but surrounded by family love, I walked tall, even smiling, to my college graduation.

Truth be told, I was just scared. Scared of the unknown. Scared of the transition. Scared of not being able to stop time and prolong the last moments of that chapter of my memoir. Scared that I might not be able to shake off the mold of sadness that sometimes managed to find me there. Scared that cancer might revisit my family [and it did].

Oddly, I was not scared to begin my professional career. I had so many expectations and goals and dreams, and I was on a high just basking in my accomplishments to that point. I had completed some great internships along the way, managed to land my dream job months before graduation, made some great friends among my classmates, did good work, and was finally going to live in the greatest city on earth.

The world was mine. Still is.

I think my fear was a divine foresight into the future. The universe was giving me a scoop, letting me know that as much as you work hard and dream big, God finds it absolutely hilarious when we say, “I have a plan.”

His plan ALWAYS wins out, and I somehow knew that I had to grow up fast and await HIS plans for me.

A lot of you reading this are who I was many moons ago… empowered by an expensive (and as yet unpaid) college degree. Unapologetically ambitious. Fiercely focused. Defining your worth by your work instead of the other way around. Considering entry level piss work your “livelihood.”

But try to remember to honor the life and ambition fueled by good family and friends. Claim personal achievements in life and love the way you would a raise or promotion. Identify and love your true selves. Then, and only then, acknowledge your 'career selves'.

It's one of the wisest things I've done. And that’s just another of many of life's little graduations I will never contemplate skipping.
[Eeeeeeend scene.]

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Happy Thanksgiving!

Shout out to all the women who dodged a bullet this year. (Wise excluded. No close calls 'round here).

And a special acknowledgement goes to Dollar Stores in hoods nationwide, like the one on 145th St. btwn Lenox and 7th, that sell bootleg EPTs.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Thugs or Nerds...You Decide

Sunday was book club day…and it was a beautiful day to grill some burgers, blend some whiskey sours and Pink Panties (frozen pink lemonade concentrate, one part Bacardi Limon, one part Bacardi Razz, and ice), and discuss some fine literature.

The group consists of about 20 young professionals, guys and girls, started by one of my good friends “Stay Hype” and one of his co-workers. Most of the members work with them at Chase, with a few strays like me thrown in for good measure.

We meet once a month at a member’s house, cook and chill. Everyone puts $5 in the pot and every month a member wins the dough and then chooses the next book to be read and discussed. This is repeated until everyone wins.

So this month “Shawn the Boy” (cuz there’s also a girl named Shawn) picked Dutch I & II. Most of the young Bankers, Home Equity Counselors and Mortgage Consultants in the group had already read them, so I was a few steps behind. I was still getting over last month’s pick: Sheisty and Still Sheisty. That discussion was great fun, because I know the author and got her on the phone to discuss the books with the group. I was the book club hero.

Everyone was pissed that Teri Woods wasn’t calling in this month. Sue me. I don’t like her.

So let me get to the point…because there is a point. One of the things we discussed was Dutch’s character. If you haven’t had the pleasure of reading this national treasure here’s the official book synopsis:

DUTCH: The First of a Trilogy tells the story of Bernard James a.k.a. Dutch the most dangerous and feared gangster to come up in Jersey in the last thirty years. From his experience and skill as a young car thief, Dutch recognized the opportunity to ruthlessly become the ruler of the streets and grabbed it. After serving 18 months in prison for a botched auto theft, Dutch promised himself, he’d never return to prison. Once out, he never looked back.

And here’s one reader’s review posted on Amazon:


So we go around to every woman in attendance and answer the question:

Would you get involved with a guy like Dutch if he approached you?

I watched in wonder (horror) as the answers ranged from resounding YESses, to less emphatic, but still decidedly affirmative Sho Nuffs.

Wise, what about you? Would you mess with Dutch?

At this point I feel like how the only Jewish kid in elementary school must feel the first day back from Christmas break: “And what did you get for C-Mas Joshua Steinberg?”

Silence. Looks down.

“Well, I like nerds,” I say…wait for a laugh track that never comes…”Plus I would feel way out of my element dealing with Dutch, since I’m just not familiar with that lifestyle.”


The only other even remotely similar response was from this girl who said she prefers her man to be at home with her, so she wouldn’t be able to handle Dutch being out of town, and out in the streets.

Here were some other rationalizations…

“He was just so smooth, and respectful in how her approached her. I would definitely take notice. What woman doesn’t want to be treated well, wined and dined and treated like a queen?”

“Shit, would I fuck with a nigga who pays my bills ON TIME and treats me right? Hell muhfuckin yeah! If I didn’t have bills that would mean I’m white, and he wouldn’t fuck with me. So hell yeah! You just make sure you set your own shit aside. Open up your accounts. Have him sign off on some good insurance. Make sure that shit stays current. Be straight. What!”

“I wouldn’t get serious with him, because I wouldn’t feel safe being his woman, but I would mess with him and play him.”

“When I was young yes, I would. But now that I’m older and have kids, I would have to really think twice about it.”

“As long as he has me living waaaaay out where nobody knew where I was, I would.”

“I would but, I just don’t think I could walk around town and really feel safe. I would feel like I always gotta look over my shoulder.”

“I have dated men like Dutch, and there is too much drama. But there are a lot of benefits too, so I wouldn’t just brush him off.”

“His charm was just so intoxicating. How could I not be curious?”

“Now y’all know I’m a thug to the core. So you KNOW!”

“I like nerds.” And I was only half kidding.

But I realize that there's a certain image that pops up when you say nerd. Or thug. Or stripper.
And that's not necessarily a universal image. When I say nerd I'm not thinking Urkel. So were they really thinking/wanting Dutch??

And was it wrong of me to look at these women in a whole new light because of this disclosure? I mean, I’m certain they’re like, “What the fuck kinda answer was that? Wise is a dummy. A nerd?”

The assumption that almost everyone cosigned was that every woman likes a little bit of thug in her man. I kind of understand the undertone…no one wants a punk. And y’all know how I feel about bitches. But in my world, there’s a difference between wanting a little thug and wanting a man who can defend you. Who says a nerd can’t do that?

And who says a thug can’t be attentive, compassionate, loyal, and emotionally available?

But I couldn’t help but think that this kind of rationalizing character expectations is what gets us (women and men) into trouble sometimes. Do women REALLY prefer bad guys, or do they just want a man who will protect and take control? Do thugs have a monopoly on these traits?

Not any more than women who wear their Cleveland like padded accessories hold the patent on sex appeal and nipple rings.

I mean, I just cant imagine ANY woman, from the streets or otherwise, would WANT to live with a target on her back, in constant fear of prison or death, not knowing if her man will come home at night…Even if her man keeps her laced in the illest snakes, bank rolls and shit, back rubs in the French tub.

[I really don’t put it past dudes to really want to wife the chick with her azz out 24/7]

Are we all just confused? Obsessed with labels?

I think so…until I find my perfect nerd.

Monday, May 08, 2006

Do Tell

I’m on deadline, which is really cramping my blogger style. :(

But I’d love to live vicariously through all of you…

Anyone get laid this weekend?

Friday, May 05, 2006

Akeelah and the Hustle

You know how anytime a Black movie comes out you hear accounts from across the country about ticket buyers getting home and realizing that they got played at the box office and actually got ticketed and paid for a white movie?

Would it be amoral to suggest that when you go out this weekend to check out Mission Impossible 3, that you actually purchase a ticket for Akeelah and the Bee?

I'm just sayin.

"Sorry Excuse": College Tag

A fun collegiate tag courtesy of M-Easy, followed by a "4 Things" questionnaire from E-Singles.

Since I'm sharing more about me then you'd ever care to know, this time I'm calling folks out...I'm tagging The Rev, CNelly, "My" Neil and Nikki to answer either of the two. too if you've lifted the ban on tags.

Shout out to DP who recently did an amazing "105 Things About Me" post.

YOUR FIRST YEAR OF COLLEGE......What do ya'll remember?

School: Syracuse University...aka..."Sorry Excuse" Univ.

Where did you live?
Lawrinson Hall. The tower next to the Dome. 12th, then 9th floor.

Who was/were your roommate(s)?
"Gay Bartender".

Do you still talk to them?
She just asked me to write a bullshit article for her (she's an editor at a top urban mag). I don't wanna do it, but I will bec we've been friends since 4th grade.

Ever get in trouble in the dorms?
Got kicked out for repeatedly violating quiet hours. Terrorized the RA after we got kicked out. Commissioned several lackies to pull fire alarms to punish the crew girls who had to wake up early and always snitched on us when we were loud.

Something you remember about when you first lived on campus?
Most of the blacks lived in the dorm that was up the block from the projects. There was 24 hour security and you needed ID to get in. Most of the rich kids lived up on "The Mount"...a set of dorms literally situated up on a hill looking down on the poor folk..

Your campus phone number or other number:

First party attended?
The ice cream social sponsored by the dorm. Good music, dancing. Met this boy we still call "Ice Cream." He grew up to be an extra on Chappell's Show.

First Bar you got wasted at?
Believe it or not, I was a late bloomer to the bars (maybe second semester sophomore year). Usually drank in the brother used to bring us Seagrams gin any time he'd visit. But the name of the first bar escapes me, maybe Harry's, but whatever it was I remember they had Dollar Shots Night.

Favorite Pizza Place?
I've blocked out so many college details, but my fav spot was this place on M Street where one of my friends worked. I just called another friend, who informs me the spot was called Cosmo's.

Favorite place to go out to eat?
The Faculty Center. Best panninis and pasta.

Did you go to the library?
There was a library right behind my dorm and I was SO focused! I'd go there every evening to do my work.

What was your Favorite Floor you'd always be on?
Either the second or basement. Depended on my mood. lol

Club, Athletics, Frat or Sororities, you joined?
I played on the intramural basketball team. Hit a game winning free throw...and I'm normally like Shaq at the line. Also produced a music video program, and wrote features for the black student magazine.

Where did you buy your books?
From the used section of the bookstore...or from the cash register of my hookup.

Who made the best wings?
My mom! She'd always send me back to campus after home visits with a bucket of wings and we used to hide them shits in the clothes hamper so fiends wouldn't know we had any when they came to our room.

Ever attend a sporting event?
Saw Iverson play.

Ever attend a concert or comedic performance?
I think freshman year we missed the Greek freak concert. Not sure why.

Have you ever spent the night on campus not in your dorm hall?
Freshman year? Naw, I was a good girl...all my jump-offs were in-house. lol

Favorite night to go out on, and where did you go?
Friday nights...usually to a frat party at the student center.

Where did you get coffee?
Wasn't a big consumer then (more of a Mountain Dew chick), but Dunkin Donuts when I needed it, or this little cafe hidden in a loft on M Street.

Favorite part of Halloween?
I have absolutely no recollection of it.

Go see a play or been in one?
I did see a RA was a theater major. Glass Menagerie, I think. A Soldier's Play.

Did you ever have a job at school?
Freshman year I worked in the grad school admissions office. It was considered off-campus and had a pretty good hourly wage. Wait a minute, I don't think I worked until sophomore. I musta been hella broke freshman year.

What do you hate about your college?
The list is way too long....horrible race relations, they could give a shit about broke kids, politics like corporate America, cold as hell, shitty administration, no social life, kids are dumb, student paper sucks, etc, etc. Not the best 4 years of my life to say the least. ;)

What did you love most about it?
Best Broadcast Journalism program in the country. Hands down.

Ever leave to go on a road trip, where?
Best road trips were always to home for the weekend!

Where would you believe is the best location to live in?
South Campus apts on Winding Ridge Road. Among the best apts I've ever had, including as a "grown up".

Graduated or still attending?
Funny you should ask...I've been out of school and out in the real world for years now, yet I JUST got my degree certification like 2 weeks ago. I requested my transcripts in September and there was a 'no grade' on a course I took in '99, because the professor said she never got my final paper and my attendance sucked. Granted, I stopped going bec SHE stopped going (she was sick I think and there were all these guest lecturers), and I went to work instead. But I DID do the final.

So I had to find my old college disks (Mac, no less), find my final paper (an ethnography about black athletes), print it out on a Mac at Kinkos (I have a PC), track down the professor (who no longer works there), send her the essay and the change of grade forms and have her send it back to the school. She changed my grade to a B+. I also had to make up a course I had dropped Jr year. So I took Public Speaking for 5 Saturdays 9-5pm last October at a community college. Got an A. I completed all that before Christmas '05. THEN the registrar bullshitted and took 4 months to process my paperwork.

See what I mean about crappy administration! But I am done!

Will you go back?
For school? Hell no.

Been asked back for some career workshops and panels...also went back to visit "Gay Bartender," who did her grad there.

How many parking tickets have you gotten there?
Never had a whip there. :(

Finally, ever gotten arrested?
Thankfully, no brushes with the long arm of the law.


And now for the "4 Things" questions...

>Four nicknames I've been given: Gum, Bob, Babe, Harlem

>Four movies I would watch over and over: Love Jones, Willy Wonka (not that Johnny Depp mess) Sound of Music, Selena

>Four jobs that I have had in my life:
1. Nursing Home waitress (my 1st job in high school)
2. Office Assistant (work study)
3. Hostess for a company called TV Preview. They'd invite people to watch old azz TV pilots and ask their opinions...but it was really a front to get consumers in front of some TV test ads and get their opinions about the products. I'd walk them to their seats and pass out pencils. (Summer btwn soph and jr years college)
4. Associate Producer (1st grown up job out of school)

>Four places I have lived: Brooklyn, Harlem, TX, Upstate NY

>Four TV shows I like to watch: Sopranos, SportsCenter, The L Word, Girlfriends, (honorable mention: reality and classic TV)

>Four places I have been on vacation: Jamaica, Ottawa, Senegal, New Orleans

>Four things I could NOT live without: My fam, laptop, cable TV, white wine

>Four of my favorite foods: Macaroni & Cheese, bufallo wings, pizza, salad

>Four places I would rather be right now: a Roots concert, in bed with a (good) lover, a great restaurant, asleep

So you know these things tend to inspire me to make up a tag of my own in the vein of "Would you rather be a midget or crackhead?" and "If you could only listen to 3 songs for the rest of your life what would they be?" Stay tuned...

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Drunk Dialing

“I got some good news and some bad news.”

“What’s the bad news?” I ask, walking toward the corner where he’s standing.

“The bad news is, I forgot my wallet at home this morning,” he says with a straight azz face.

Then what the hell is the good news?

I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“The good news is, I’m here,” …again uttered deadpan.

This time my response isn’t audible, I kiss my teeth and roll my eyes on the inside, and outwardly reach up for a half-azzed hug, and walk inside for lunch.

I have this horrible habit. Usually done when flat drunk, and I did it the other night.

About a year and a half ago I meet this cat. He aight…tall, smooth brown complexion, kinda thick. College educated, athletic, early 30s, on the prowl for a wife.

We talk on the phone and it’s apparent right away that there’s not much chemistry. But I give it a shot and agree to meet him out for a drink. I can’t remember where we meet, somewhere on the far eastside, maybe…near the old Jimmy’s Downtown ... but I do recall that he was already at the bar when I got there…and since we hadn’t really known each other that long, this was our first time out, I assumed he’d be waiting for me near the door so that we could go back there together. I don’t know why I thought this was proper protocol, but I did.

So I sit and wait for him near the door, talking on the phone to pass the time. 20 minutes later I get a beep…he calls and for some reason it goes straight to voice mail.

“Hey Wise…I guess you decided you didn’t want to meet up after all…breaking my heart already. At least you can give me a call and let me know you’re not coming.”

I walk inside and see him throwing back a Labatts or some shit, cavorting with the white folks.

Ok, that was my fault. I sit down and apologize. We talk, have a nice time and that’s about it. Nothing more or less to report. I gave it the old college try, and confirm that just like in college, chemistry's a no-go. No spark to speak of.

Yet, I still found myself engaged in a wet and wild lip lock with dude at the goodbye.

And not the good kind.

He’s big and won’t stop hugging me. And he says something to the effect of my lips being enticing and fantasizing all night about touching them.

Mercy kiss? Starved for attention?? I don’t know. But I kissed him and immediately regretted it.

I avoid having to see or even speak to him much after that, traveling a lot, focused on making paper. Hustling. And ignoring I guess. I thought it was understood that this was a wrap. A bore. A lost cause.

So fast fwd to this past weekend and I see this guy and can’t figure out why I know him. He’s a bouncer and he’s kind of staring at me too, long after I’ve ID’d him and decided not to have a reunion.

But somehow, probably three Grey Gooses into the night, I find my way over to the block that he’s standing on, and motion for him to lean down.

“Has it been that long that you don’t know me no more?”

“Don’t play me. Of course I know who you are.” But he’s kind of distant so I figure he’s really still trying to figure it out. “You’re the one who up and forgot about me.”

“Me?” I pull out my cell phone and scroll through…not really sure if he ever made it into the bat phone (ie - cellie #2. #1 is mostly used for biz, bills and bastards I don’t wanna talk to. I thought for SURE he was only in that phone.)

But I find his name and number and show it to him.

“Okay, okay,” he says, smiling. “But you ran off and took my heart with you.”

“Stop.” I’m serious. I HATE when dudes play that ‘whoa is me’, self-deprecating nonsense.

“I’m serious. Wait lemme show you.” With that, dude, let’s call him Dominicarlos (looks Dominican, has a kind of Latino name, but I never cared enough to ask his ethnicity), pulls out his cell phone and retrieves a throw-away text message I sent him, literally a year and a half ago. I gasp. Genuinely appalled. It wasn’t even a “When you get here I want you to meet me out on the fire escape wearing only a hard-on…” type of text. It was like, “lol” or something like that. No more than 7 characters.

But alas, 3 Grey Gooses. I smile, and hit dial on my phone, calling his number.

“Well, here’s my number again, just in case,” I say, and lean up to give him a kiss on the cheek.

And this fool calls me less than 6 hours later... at 8:35AM the next morning .

And again that night. And again Monday. Tuesday. Wants to meet for lunch. I’m busy, and I tell him I’m home the next day. Tell him I’ll call him.

He calls me before I get the chance and he says he’s near me and can come by to “fix me lunch or something.” Let’s meet in the middle, I suggest.

So there we were, standing on the corner today, with bad news and more bad news, as far as I’m concerned.

No wonder he wanted to come over. He was fcuking broke.

That’s what I get for drunk dialing. I do it way too often. Put your number in my phone, then call it so that you’ll have my number in your phone too.

It’s become a habit ever since I met this cute azz Jamaican guy (I NEVER meet cool Jamaicans) at The Turtle in White Plains (there are NEVER cute brothas up in there)… he asked to give me his number, but instead I decided to be coy and put my number in his phone. Then when I didn’t hear from him in the first four days after we met I was beside myself! [note: he did finally call]

Hence the compulsive call back. To boring azz Dominicarlos of all personas non grata.

And what do I get? To pick up the tab.


Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Chick Magnet

I am a Chick Magnet. And not by choice.

I was out this weekend with my boys Phoenix and Rock. I grew up with these kids...we played Hingo Get It, rode the bike trails, and dispersed at the flickering of the streetlights together.

They’re great drinking buddies. They push me hard like I’m 7 years old again when I pull out cash for a round of Coronas. And they’re very protective. I love men who make me feel safe…even though it’s well documented that I ain’t no punk.

Anywho, Rock [pictured left] is married and Phoenix [pictured right] is young and broke. He’s in transition, just moving back to NY from Arizona and recently dis-engaged, trying to regroup and make some paper before moving on again.

I’ve taken it upon myself to get him some play, because it’s just not right to have this good man single and unattached when there are so many hungry chicks out there. Good chicks. So we traipse around town and get drunk often. And often, he comes up short.

He’s very attractive…tall, athletic build, dresses well. Nice smile. Smells great. I’m perplexed as to why he isn’t consistently the most sweated guy everywhere we go. But I’m beginning to believe it’s because of me.

So Saturday we’re out on the street, the boys smoking a black before we go into this lounge. Out of nowhere, this celebutante blond girl walks out of the lounge, wades through the crowd outside and makes a beeline for me.

“How can I hide this?” She shows me a large wine bottle and her tiny purse. She has on a short jacket but not enough to hide her prize. So we strategize, and I help her fit it beneath her blouse, up over her small tits, and show her how to hold her arms down over the sides. I feel like I’m dressing a mannequin, and the mannequin is kind of twisting her torso so that my hands touch her bare skin. I'm doing my best not to make contact, like handling a lye relaxer with no gloves. She’s looking me in the eye the entire time, like she’s about to do a quick leaner, and plant one on me. Like she’s about to at once fulfill her DeGeneres and Mandinga fantasies in one fell, drunken swoop.

Either that or she’s just happy she was right in pegging me for a clever pretty thief.

I give her the last of the instructions and send her packing. She pushes out a cheek and I oblige and do the NY thing [I swear I was never in the habit of casual cheek kissing before I moved to NYC…or maybe before I collided with NYers in college]. She again pierces me with these intense baby blue eyes (no homo) and says, “You are so beautiful.”

Thanks Paris. That’s hot.

Fast fwd to this other club and I’m good and drunk now. I pull Phoenix to the dance floor and explain to him, as I do every time we go out, that when women see him attached, they will swarm.

“Besides, you’re the flyest guy in here.”

“I’m always the flyest guy wherever I am, and it never matters.” Well, the boy is not lacking in confidence. He’s also not really exaggerating.

So indeed we attract some attention, and we settle back at our table on the sidelines. These young chicks congregate and my boys entertain them. I’m drunk, dancing by myself in the corner and soon the attention of our new female friends in on me.

It’s not long before I’m sitting among them, talking and laughing, their eyes glazed over, giving me the glossy-lipped pouts and flirty smiles that should be directed at my boys. One girl, who I suspect is somebody’s mama, rests her hands on my thighs as she tells me her seeds are 8, 5 and 3. I deduce, as I'm simultaneously removing her hands, that she first got knocked up at 17.

My boys sip their brews silently, ready to go.

There are other little subtle hints I get from these girls…things I can identify as things I also do to get guys’ attention. I can’t call it, really. I mean, I was not outfitted in cornrows, Iversons, and a backwards Yankee fitted. Nor do I rock the old school Eve blond dyke* 'fro. Nor did I sing along to any of the lesbian anthems: “Don’tcha (wish your girlfriend),” “I’m in Love Wit a Stripper” and “Is That Your Chick.”

It’s bizarre really because I’m an attractive girl, but more of an acquired taste. I’m not sure if chocolatey cute is currently in. I do know for sure that azz and tits are in season year round, and sadly, I’m not particularly packing in either dept. ::sigh:: I typically rope ‘em in with the wit. Or the eyes. Occasionally the lips. Definitely with a laugh and an attentive ear.

Eureka, I’m a woman’s dream!

So I figure since the ladies love cool Wise, I should try to figure out what I do and pass the jewels to you young boys…

  1. I think women really like tank tops…(and tight jeans for that matter). Mine was black, and modestly form-fitting, and had the NY skyline emblazoned on the front. Women LOVE a good skyline. That shit’s romantic.
  2. Hats. They create the illusion of intrigue and sexocity. Mine was a black and white checkered newsboy, with a mean lean to the left side. Bent brim. Stopped just above the sculpted eyebrows.
  3. Women like when you ask them questions about themselves. Now this one is obvious. We like to talk, and when we’re drunk that shit is so hilarious. So I ask questions. And I also ask follow-up questions. Several. And don’t think it’s a strength garnered from my journalism background. The inquiries are based purely on whatever I think will provide the most comic relief.
  4. I look them in the eye when they speak. And I smile. Because I’m trying not to laugh. And I’m watching to make sure they don’t look at my chest during the entire convo. Guys do that.
  5. I think they like clear lip gloss. Cuz that’s what I rock.
  6. They don’t like to dance. I NEVER ask.
  7. Offer to go with her to the bathroom. You can’t actually go in or anything like I can, but the gesture shows that you care about her bladder, and encourage her to freshen up her weave.
  8. I don’t think they like their personal space invaded. I typically maintain a few drinks’ lengths away when chatting.
  9. You should ask her what she’s drinking. Granted when you do it, the implication (and therefore expectation) is that you will then buy it…but when I do it, it sparks a lively discussion about the last time she was so drunk that she fucked her baby daddy. And it always ends with her touching me inappropriately while laughing herself almost out of her chair.
  10. And finally, compliment her shoes. Then tell her you got the hook up down at the Payless. BOGO, bitches!

*My best friend is a dyke. I have diplomatic immunity with the term. :)

Disqus for She's Just Not Feeling You...

  • So...Wise??

    My photo
    Our Nation's (HIV) way of Harlem, NY and Upsteezy NY
    I'm older than I look, and stupider than you think. But I'm quite proud of my sharp eye for The Ridiculous, and by Ridiculous, of course I mean Me.