12:10 pm

Any minute now my phone will ring. I won't bother investigating the identity of the caller nor will I contemplate an appropriate method of ignoring it. I'll simply pick up.

Or no, maybe I shouldn't watch the time, in the event that there might be a new angle this year. Sometimes things get changed up.

What is constant though is the fact that the caller will make me giddy. My lips will chafe from stretching, my teeth in full display. I'll feel like a kid again -- and Lord knows I need that -- and my mind will race like young me, wild and free through the backyard on a cool spring day.

At 12:10 pm in 5th grade I convinced my teacher to let the class sing happy bday to me. The exact time of my birth.

I am nothing if not motivated by acceptance and love, so birthdays suit me quite well. I make grand gestures of the dates of birth of those close to me, mostly because the joy of celebrating ones life is an emotion I hold dear. But part of me is probably calling in a favor.

Remember me on March 24.

There was one year there was no call. Well, no, there was a call, but I was the one who made it. I had to dial in to get my own birthday wishes.

As time inches toward noon, I'm overwhelmed and overwrought with the pride of a woman much simpler than I. My arrival in this world 30-something years ago, my family squatting like Major League catchers, ready to field me at home plate. Future friends in bassinets sprinkled across our town, across the world even, settled in, preparing to round the bases where our paths will inevitably cross someday. Others still simmering in the gut like last night's lasagna, ready for release. Others still not even a thought or misstep in their parents' daily walk.

At 12:10 pm my mother might call me. To tell me I wasn't a mistake. That missteps I've made are a part of life, and that she's proud to claim me. That my father was a mess when I arrived and that he's proud of me too. That it's ok to miss him.

Or she may wait until the kids are home or siblings pass through so that one call can be made. Kind of like all those calls placed during holiday meals that I missed over the years.

That God has seen fit to deliver me to this world, in this way, at this moment in time, is why birthdays are the best gifts. Ever. Like Easy Bake Oven* or Snoopy Snow Cone Machine* best.

The days and months leading up to today have been a This is Your Life exercise set to dim lights and dark harmonies. But today, even for this one moment at 12:10 pm, I am sure that this is in fact my life, whether I'm pleased with the rough cuts or not.

I trust that the moment is yet to arrive. But it's coming...

(*my parents, anti-dumb American shit Jamaicans that they are, did not believe in either toy and therefore would neither field nor dignify inquiries or requests for them or any other dumb shit that American kids cried for.)

***Updated: The call came in at 12:28pm...and I was notified that it is "Officially my bday," because I was in fact born on a Thurs. She was waiting all morning to call and will call me again when the kids get home so they can tell me how great I am. :) ***

Please Excuse the Boxes

If I was in my youngest nephew’s 1^st grade class, and the assignment was to compose a self-portrait, mine would look a little something like this...

That’s me (quit looking at my privates!!), sprawled out naked inside a restrictive box (ok, make it fast!). A more morbid me would suggest perhaps it’s a coffin; but in essence, it is an illustration of my journey traversing the world as the proverbial circle in a square peg. Quite frankly, the more I continue to grow and stretch, the deeper my fingers seem to press against the boundaries of what yall muhfuckas call reality.

Welcome! Take off your shoes, admire the photos on the wall, giggle at my baby pics, sift through my DVR, admire my porn collection and multi-cultural art, rummage through my drawers, laugh if you must but we've come so far so no tears, get nosy and thumb through my journal…if you can find it.

I won’t go all ‘80s-sitcom-jump-the-shark on you and pretend like I wasn’t an infant last season and now I’m in kindergarten [see: “Growing Pains,” “Family Ties,” et al. didn’t pull a fast one and up and disappear for a year. Like folks didn’t try to step beyond the blog/reality line and contact me to make sure I was still alive (shout out to Epsi and CNel). I won’t pretend that during my absence I wasn’t engulfed in a fulfilling yet challenging relationship that consumed me and my desire to write here. That I didn’t become completely bored by most of what I was reading from you. That said boredom didn’t reflect in my own written observations, and lack thereof. I will admit that I’m adverse to change, and that the influx of new jacks and new jack intentions altered the game and therefore my desire to be a part of it. In summary, I miss the old neighborhood (Blah, we're so *here*).

But the world out there, beyond my laptop’s screen, it stretches far beyond the power chord. The world doesn’t shut down, doesn’t standby or depend on my keystroke to function. It is fueled by interactions that I cannot control, rules that no longer require my engagement, rampant idiocy. Foolishness, to which I am particularly hostile.

Simply put, I have no place else to go. I am playing prodigal, running up the blogspot stoop at top speed, slamming the door shut behind me as god awful status and locale updates, reprehensible ring tone rap, loathsome politics, trending topics and technological advances pound on the other side, hunting me down.

So here I am, in fuzzy socks, nursing a jack and ginger, chuckling at all the memories, blowing away the dust from this blog that conceals the words "Dear Diary." Let's see if I remember how to work this thing, cuz I'm feeling real square out there in the world, and this blog here is my circle.

So if you're new here... Welcome! and all that, but please go fix yourself a plate and put your feet up. This is a strict no-coddle zone. Otherwise, you know the deal. Loosen your belt so we can catch up. But please excuse the boxes...I have some unpacking to do.

CONVENTIONAL INDEPENDENCE

Independ*nce Day…a time to declare freedom from whatever bullshit you got going on in your life.

I hereby declare Independence from conventions. No, not the cleverly marketed annual gatherings of likeminded professionals… though I’m bout sick of them shits impeding on my time to enjoy the host citieswith these essential ass workshops…I mean, the things that are universally accepted, and expected, without reason or provocation.

I’m standing in the conventional meeting place, where many a family meeting and announcement has gone down…the kitchen. I’m standing amidst the conventional gathering of generations…my mom and her sister run behind my nephews, while my sister in law mans the stove and I sit, drink in hand, in the center of it all.

“Wise, you’re a waste of a vagina.”

Based on the lead-in, I’m actually in fact, a waste of a womb. My vagina functions at an optimal level, thank you very much. I’d rank it up there with the best of ‘em. That’s not the point. Fine.

My sister in law, who declared my womanparts DOA, has two fantastic children. The oldest is my favorite, and the baby is pretty much the embodiment of what I’m sure my biological child would be. And therefore, though he’s beautiful and hilarious, he’s also absolutely and inexplicable insane. Unabashedly out of control. And I love it. For THEM.

I, on the other hand have absolutely no attachment nor desire to be knocked up. None. The irony, I suppose, or perhaps the logic is that I want 4 or 5 kids. My family finds this hilarious. Partly because they know personally how psycho you get when you have kids, but I think partly because, bless their conventional old school hearts, they still don’t see how I could have kids without the belly.

So I’m a waste of a uterus, fine. I can accept that, though I’d argue the uterus is the waste, not me. Either or. But it’s the conventional labels I can’t co-sign. I’m much too contradictory for them.

Because I’m probably the only girl in the world who (on most days) doesn’t want a ring (or wedding for that matter).

Because you will never see my black ass eating a watermelon, neither publicly nor in the privacy of my own home (did you ever see the episode of the Jeff*rsons where George said he refuses to carry a watermelon in public. So if you ever see him with a bowling bag that’s what’s inside?!!)

Because I’m a backpacker who thinks Tal*b is mediocre.

Because I’m an African American alcoholic who hates Hennessey.

So… *cue balloons and confetti and band*…conventions be damned!

I’s free now!!

From what, or whom will YOU claim independence?
Happy 4th!

GOODBYE CALL

[READ THIS FIRST]

DATELINE…Upstate NY. Couple days after Thanksgiving ‘07

“Gum. Where you at?”
“Marshalls. What up.”

I shift my phone from one hand to the other, juggling it with my bag and small handful of things. Despite the Black Friday pillage a few days before, I manage to find a generous offering of my beloved CK panties.

“What time you leave?”

“Flight’s at 5 or 6 or something. You know I don’t know,” I laugh. I’d only seen my brother on Thanksgiving Day, and this is his goodbye call. He had called me the night before, teasing me because I was downtown at my favorite coffee shop, where he insisted “No Coloreds Allowed.”

With a flight to catch, and my nephew needing a ride from school within the hour, I’m in a rush. But I browse leisurely as I chit chat with The Boss of Me, as I affectionately refer to my big brother.

“I gotta tell you something.”

Though the phrase is preceded by what I imagine was a deep breath, there is no pause between sentences. But when you hear these words uttered, your brain switches to autosurvival mode, and stops time on your behalf. Allows you to catch a deep breath of your own. So as he speaks on, my feet stop moving at precisely the moment my racing heart refuses to.

“I gotta tell you something so I’m just gonna say it. I have cancer,” is how he actually says it in real time.

“Okay,” is my response, rendered in my own time.

“I started playing ball again, and I just started feeling funny. So I went to my doctor and she was like, 'it’s probably just your body telling you you’re getting older. Take some aspirin.' But I was like, no, I know how my body is supposed to feel. So I switched doctors and new patients are required to do blood work. So they saw something they didn’t like…”

Now I’m pacing.

“So they ran the tests and told me.”

“Where is it?” I ask, now rummaging through the Kenneth Cole computer bags.

“It’s in my blood and it's called...”

I can’t see the price tags. I don’t have on my glasses, but I don’t think they were prescribed to correct the blur from sudden tears anyway.

“I found out on my birthday of all damn days. Basically, I have to take medication for the rest of my life and obviously get regular check ups…”

“37 years ago, you came into the world on the wrong foot. Life’s a breach!! Happy Birthday!”

I sent him that text on his birthday, just a week earlier, and he never responded. Didn’t pick up when I called either.

“And I can’t play ball anymore. Can’t whup Miles’ ass on the court like I do his brother. And no, the kids don’t know.”

I suddenly remember my nephew who will soon be outside his school looking for my car to pull up. I shift my phone to the other hand, now piled high with things I didn’t realize I had picked up within the past four minutes. And I remember that my brother is a dad.

“If there’s one lesson I learned from Daddy it’s to always get a second opinion.”

Our dad took his last deep breath just three years and two months prior. Or I should say the venerable villain, cancer, took it without our permission.

“I need you not to do that.” He can hear me crying. I wonder suddenly if the security cameras have me in focus, racing mindlessly through narrow aisles not intended for shoppers, dumping miscellaneous items in random bins and racks.

“It’s gonna be fine. I’ve been wanting to tell you since you got home, but Ant picked you up from the airport…”

It occurs to me just now that when I walked into my parents’ house on Thanksgiving Day with two big bottles, my brother took the glass I poured only after I had mocked him relentlessly for refusing. Said he had a doctor’s appointment the next morning, to which I said, “All the more reason to drink.”

“And that’s why I called you last night. But now that I’ve told you, Mommy can stop worrying and she can talk to you about it.”

My poor mother. Having to hear this shit again. This time from the son who always took after his father.

“Quit crying. It’s gonna be fine. I need all positives, aight?”

“Yup.”

“You gonna be ok?”

“Uh huh.” Whatever. We’ve made a living lying to each other. I’m hoping I’m the only one with no regard for truth this time.

“Ok. Don’t miss your flight, loser.”

“Yup. Love you,” I say, wandering around the houseware section. I've seen this movie before. I know the ending. The villain leaves, but always comes back.

“Love you, too. Peace.”

But of course what I heard was the hello of a Goodbye Call.

BODY OF WORK

If I'm to be judged by my body of work, I can live with that. I've shared lots of things with you all, mostly complete strangers from across the world. Nosy sons of bitches that you are. We exchange stories... some inane, others intimate or hilarious or tragic. We're kinda on it like that.

Looking through said body of work today, I tried to get a glimpse of what you see, the Wise you've gotten to know over the past two years. Some of you a lot more recent. Judging from the contents of my crates, I'm pretty consumed by family, love, boy bashing, TV, and the pursuit of premium liquor.

You know that I'm a NY girl, with island roots, the baby of my family. I have a dead dad, and issues thereof. I went to undergrad at Syracuse and hated it, so don't take offense when I hate on your schools too, Jam or La or Jonzee, et al. I have a love/hate relationship with NYC, my home for most of my adult life. Oh yeah, in March I turned 30 for the second time.

I'm terribly random. I admit. But also pretty direct and sincere. Particularly when it comes to the opposite sex. I started the blog because back in '06 I had had a succession of run-ins with young guys who were desperately confused about the women in their lives. And I mean simple, basic shit. This was my public service. But after a while you find your ego in the shadows, looking to shine, and the focus turns away from ridiculous dudes who lie on their dicks, to more personal relevant discourse. I've seen this exact shift in the bloggers I continue to loyally follow.

There's always that epic heart break. The thing you need to share in stunning detail and with jarring vulnerability in order for it to make sense in real life away from the blog. Judging from this body of work, heart break is an important fabric of Wise. Not only mine though. I acknowledge the shit you all share. The shit that fate brings to my doorstep.

Judging by my body of work, I've changed, as many of you have noticed. I'm chilling. Traveling. Boo'd up. Grad schooling it. Life is good.

And it is mostly. But it's also been dramatic. Lots of it not so good.

Lemme catch you up on who I am today, and you tell me what you see...

GOODBYE CALL...

SEPARATE BUT EQUAL

“I understand that he needs to get his shit together," I say. "I’m proud of you for not wavering on that cuz you, pre-Mommy days wouldn’t give a fcuk. But I also think that it’s a mistake to try to front like you don’t have real feelings for him. On a very personal, important level.”

Curly scratches her scalp hard, as she tends to do when someone is talking sense into her.

“But do you really think he would fit in here?” She nods her head over to the center of my living room. “Could you see him chilling with us??”

This time I turn. My body hangs halfway off the couch, an errant beer bottle cap imprinting my back. An ice tray filled with green specks, remnants of our jello shots, a mere memory. One overturned Rasheed Wallace sneaker with a gleaming white sock still in it. A pack of Newports that won’t see the light of day inside my crib. Three dudes huddled, tossing dice against a wall of my school books.

“Drink the CARD-eye (Bacardi…they have a nickname for every fcuking thing), son.”

“Yo B. Ali.cia Keys…you’d eat the box straight no chase?”

“Yessir. Roota AND toota, kid. No question.”

I turn back to Curly, my contemplation complete.

“Does ANYONE fit in with us besides us??”

We’ve all done it before and it just doesn’t work. I mean, I LOVE these kids. Couldn’t get rid of them if I tried. And at one time or another we’ve all figured that this MUST mean that EVERYONE will love us.

So we bring the occasion signif other around. Introduce them in the flesh to the names they’ve heard in countless stories. They already know the faces bec they’ve stared back from photos that dot all of our cribs. Not to mention our distinct differences and personalities make it impossible not to know who’s who.

And it usually looks the same. We’re all together, cooking, eating, drinking, smoking, laughing. If we’re feeling particularly nostalgic the yearbooks come out, or better yet the video from Greekfreak ’96, or a yellowing invitation from the party at Club Baja in ’99, or the cups stolen from the dining hall, or the orange traffic cones copped that one night after…"wait, when WAS that??”

And the signif other, sitting dutifully beside their respective mate, does just that. They sit. And listen. And probably yawn a million bored yawns. But we never notice.

Every once in a while someone will engage them. But 9 times out of 10, and not even out of spite or rudeness, just out of sheer urgent hilarity, someone will interrupt with another inane inquiry. Even my ex, who went to high school with us, and knows these kids well, was overwhelmed every time.

So without discussion or consensus, we all just one day stopped bringing outsiders around. For no other reason than that it’s painfully obvious that without having lived our history it’s just not nearly as comical or heartwarming or entertaining to hear us recall it, no matter how animated and Oscar-worthy the re-enactment.

“I think the days of rating a potential mate based on compatibility with our friends are long gone. I mean, it’s one thing to get your friends’ opinions of the person, but that’s about it.”

“You guys told me not to fcuk with Peter.”

“Unanimously.”

“I shoulda listened.”

“Should have. But I’m sure every one of us would tell you the same thing about 8 Mile. He just doesn’t necessarily need to be dragged kicking and screaming to hang with us when we all get together.”

“Weazy, feel this beat! You aint freestyle all night, ngga!” My attention, again, pulled to the center.

“You beg me to get with it/to spit it/I stay committed/and get more head than Coop’s fitted”

“Ayyyyy! Wise, remember that time I walked in on you and…”

*

Is this a universal misconception? That your friends and your mate must be compatible or all bets are off?

Some people have Mate-Friendly friendships. You know, the kind of friends who are multipurpose. You can effortlessly bring around a mate, a boss, whoever.

Others, like me, have a core group of friends who are perfectly suitable and welcoming one on one, but impossibly (but never intentionally) exclusive in a group.

Or maybe no friends at all.

What say you? Do you bring your SO around your friends? Is it a litmus test of sorts?

What about when around theirs? Do you feel alienated?

Does it even matter??

THANKS, BUT NO...

As so many of you have so eloquently pointed out, we oughta be giving thanks every day, not just on another fraudulent government mandated holiday. I totally agree. And every day I give thanks profusely for all things big and small, good and even not so good.

But I don’t know about yall…I’m all about the balance. I’m allotting some time tomorrow to all of the things I’m not thankful for. I mean, maybe speaking them out loud will make them go away or something. Damn, I aint seen Oprah in a minute but I know she’d say it some kinda way to that effect.

10 Things For Which I’m Not Particularly Thankful…

1. Gas prices. Are you kidding me, Hess? Didn’t it cost me like HALF of this to fill up just a month ago?? And am I really paying the same each month for gas as I am for car insurance??

2. The Programming/Scheduling down at Viacom. I don’t know who figured the demographic that is obsessed with The Hills (as I am), wasn’t also the same folks who grew up with ‘Push It’ and ‘What a Man.’ I’ma need you people to do some retooling so that I don’t have to choose btwn LC vs. Heidi or Salt vs. Pep. Thanks! (Monday night TV is however among my many give thankses!)

3. Punk ass Sprint. Been their bitch since ’99, and I’m STILL battling their asses on the regular. But I draw the line at the egregious call drops. My sweetie can’t be driving home (kinda drunk) without being able to reach me!

4. Pneumonia weather. Need I look like the asshole when it’s damn near 60 degrees outside in November no less, but I’m wearing a wool coat, scarf and gloves. But I KNOW it’s pneumonia weather, so I aint chancing it…but I still get sick!!

5. Rakim for his no show on Saturday. I mean, maybe he did show up sometime after 1:30 when I bounced. But damn, God, the show started at 8!!

6. Safeway, for discontinuing the pink chip breast cancer cookies. Don’t you KNOW I’m emotional eating right now?!! Where are they…I neeeeeed them!

7. Baltimore, for so many reasons, but particularly for not sharing in my lifelong tradition of autumn apple cider. I miss Upstate!

8. I’m not exactly thrilled with airport security either. Instead of packing a light carryon I gotta check my shit in if I plan to wear any perfume or lip gloss while I’m at home. And do you mean to tell me I can’t bring a flask??

9. Notsomuch thankful for the random post-30 moles, pimples, hairs, and light spots that pop up in unnecessary and unexpected places.

10. Living in a city close to almost 300 murders this year…but oddly enough not one of the Top 10 most dangerous cities in the country?? (ok it's #12, but still)

Enjoy the holiday everyone!

TEXTSTYLES

You Know You Text Too Effing Much When…


You can go days without ever actually putting the phone to your ear.

You have two phones, and one’s JUST for texting.

You sit down at a computer and are baffled when there’s no T9 word recognizer popping up (bonus if your thumbs rest on the home keys).

Instead of going over to say to hello to a friend you see at a bar/party/restaurant, etc…you text them and compliment their shoes.

In real life convos you forget that not everyone speaks (texts) in song lyrics and patois.

You have the ringer off but you instinctively know when a text is coming (and look at your phone at the precise second it arrives).

You begin to speak in 160 character sentences.

You text someone who's in front of you just for fun...OR...whoever is in front of you when you text, sends you a text that is the equivalent of 'Call me on 3-way.'

You send intervention texts on someone's behalf.

Driving doesn’t stop your conversation. Nor class. Nor business meetings. Nor being on another call. Nor grocery shopping. Nor sleeping.

You get pissed when someone says, “Here’s my home phone number.”

When Text Sex is sufficient.

You convince yourself that sending a Happy BDay text is akin to an ecard.

Friends add unlimited texts to their cellie plans just because of you.

Your stylus is like a fashion accessory...and when you lose it *gasp* it's like losing your car keys.

You accidentally hit CALL while texting and when it reverts to calling the person you were texting you PANIC and damn near power it off just so that you DON'T call them instead of texting.

You carry your phone charger in your bag cuz you KNOW all that texting eats the hell out of your battery.

Your fingers are crossed that you can use it to cast your vote for President by 2008.

You hear the phone call ringtone and it takes a second to register what the hell it is.

You input certain names in your phones as DO NOT TEXT.

You let the voice mail pick up and respond to the call with a text.

Some friends only require one-word responses.

There are people you text at specific designated times every day...like you're taking the pill or some shit.

You get a series of texts Saturday morning “lol’ing” about whatever the hell you texted the night before.

You fcuk up and send the wrong person the wrong text, but shrug it off, as if it’s normal to mix up conversations in any other communicative medium. (except maybe call waiting)

Instead of carrying a wallet, you just tuck cash into your phone case.

You can type in the dark of night.

You’re fluent and literate in not only drunk text, but also text sarcasm.

You wish you could text your professor or boss to tell them you’re gonna be late.

You consider getting your young relatives cells phones just cuz it would be easier to help with their homework that way.

People text you first to ask permission to call.

Got Sex?

Fairly tame.
Maybe we should all make up new questions and answer those. :)


Copy this entire list to your blog/journal. BOLD everything that is true about you. Leave plain anything that is not true about you. Put an asterisk next to anything you would like to be true.*


1. I have had sex while wearing a blindfold.

2. I have blindfolded someone else during sex.

3. I have had sex while watching porn.

4. I have had sex while surfing porn on the Internet.

5. I sleep better after sex.

6. There are some nights I cannot sleep without sex or masturbating.

7. The bed is NOT my most favorite place to have sex.

8. I am turned on knowing someone is watching me masturbate.

9. I have had sex knowing someone else was watching.

10. I have watched a couple have sex.

11. I have masturbated for someone over a web cam. *

12. I have had sex over a web cam. *

13. I have had a one night stand.

14. I have been tied up during sex.

15. I have had sex with someone who was tied up.

16. I have dripped wax onto a lover's body.

17. I have had a lover drip wax onto my body.

18. I have a foot fetish.

19. I have a leather fetish.

20. I have a tickle fetish.

21. I like being choked during sex.*

22. I have had phone sex.

23. I have erotic art on display somewhere in my residence.

24. I enjoy nudie magazines.*

25. Erotic toys are a regular part of my budget.

26. I think PLAYBOY is tame, maybe even boring.

27. I have clicked on porn links in my email.

28. I have watched more than one gay/lesbian porn video.

29. Much of what I know about sex comes from porn.

30. I have given/received a facial.

31. I think we should do more to understand the cultures of sex.

32. I would participate in sex research given the opportunity.

33. My current lover does not sufficiently meet my sexual needs.

34. I currently have a "crush" on someone of the same sex.

35. I want to have sex with someone on my blogroll.

36. I have had sex at my place of employment. *

37. I am often disappointed in my sexual relationships.

38. Some people might describe me as a nymphomaniac.

39. I am difficult to live with if I'm not having sex on a regular basis.

40. I sleep better with someone snuggled up next to me.*

41. I have had sex under water.

42. I have had sex in the snow.

43. I am in a polyamorous relationship.

44. I have to have music playing while having sex.

45. I have had more than ten orgasms in one night. *

46. I have flashed strangers.

47. I have given sex as a gift.

48. I have set-up a three-way for my lover. *

49. I have made a video having sex.*

50. I have taken nude pictures

51. I have had more than one partner in a 24 hour period

52. I am a member of the Mile-High Club.

53. I have taken a trip longer than an hour just for a booty call

54. I stopped during this list to have sex.***

AS IF THERE ARE 8 THINGS I HAVENT ALREADY SHARED WITH YOU...

Nobody tagged me...and I aint tagging nobody.

But you don't need my permission.

By the way, who made up these crack azz rules anyway??

Rules:
1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

====

1. The first time I remember having a psychic inclination was a couple years back. I had a very vivid dream about my childhood sweetheart. The next day I emailed him and his brother. The one to him bounced back, undeliverable. Within 2 weeks I got a call saying his body was just found in a river.

Today, it’s getting stronger. I will have a thought, and then soon thereafter it will manifest in some way. 2 days ago I had a random thought about a previous convo I'd had about how I'd manage my money with my husband. NO LIE, when I got to work, the topic on the radio was Spouses Having Separate Bank Accounts. It’s freaking me out more and more because obviously when I get bad thoughts it’s accompanied by intense anxiety. I want to talk to someone about it, but if I talk to a pastor I don’t think they’ll take it seriously, and if I talk to a psychic I’m scared they’ll have me doing all types of devil shit.

2. Turns out a good friend of mine from high school is a woman beater and has been since high school. I’m shocked, but also particularly pissed at our mutual guy friends who don’t check him on it. I’ve dealt with this before when my brother hit his girl many years ago. Even then his friends actually chastised me for “taking her side.” I took the RIGHT side. Because of that, I’ve been hesitant about confronting my friend. But the whole issue makes me feel like if God forbid something ever went down, I could end up like her.

3. I played varsity basketball all 4 years in high school. Was an All City point guard. And I pretty much singlehandedly lost a big game to our rivals senior year. (And no, I don’t still wear long mesh gym shorts and cut off tees)

4. I lost my virginity to a high school boyfriend…sophomore year of college. I just knew I wasn’t ready until that exact moment that it happened…After several botched attempts we sealed the deal at his sister's boyfriend's house. He couldnt WAIT to run his mouth and I was pissed. But consequently, I developed a bit of an exhibitionist's spirit. Folo'd it up with a stint in front of a window with a crowd watching, a side street off 6th Ave in the Village, and a park, among others.

5. I finally saw his show last night, so here goes my infamous Shaq story…in college I interned at the T0day Show. My intern buddy gave me a tour of 30 Rock, and was sure to show me the SNL stage. One night after work when I didn’t have to go to my paying job (of course I was the poor lil black girl who had to get a job during the semester while the others worked at T0day full time), I wandered over to the set, looked down and saw that they were rehearsing. Kelsey Grammer was the host that week, and out comes Shaq to rehearse a special sketch. So he’s enormous and Im in awe, standing up on the balcony. Im looking down and he’s eating a similarly enormous slice of pizza. The writers are rewriting around him and he looks up at me and I wave. His hands full, he waves back…with half a “snake”…ya know the neck dance. I raise an eyebrow, then answer back with a Wop. Without hesitation, his big azz does the running man. With my work bag still on my shoulder, I cabbage patch my azz off. Im pretty sure by then he Roger Rabbits and back and forth we go. Then it suddenly occurs to me that I'm not out at the Paladium, not an extra on Beat Street, and that he is not exactly inconspicuous. So ONLY out of embarrassment, did I concede victory to Shaq. Whatev, that big muhfcuka aired me out.


6. I’m no longer a credible commentarian on gay issues. Why, because EVERYTHING seems gay to me these days. So if ever I assign the homo label on this blog, just treat me like your grandma who is out of her mind. Ignore me.

Like, I saw a guy at the Y last week jumping rope. Not on no deh neh nehhhhhhhhhh Rocky jump rope training. But on some, school girl…one.foot.at.a.time skipping rope.

And my first thought was, How Gay.

Or when a guy at the ‘buck ordered a white chocolate mocha misto with soy milk.

Gay.

Or the guy who starts his statements with, ‘Girl.’

Gay.

Bluetooth as fashion accessory?

SO gay.

Female performers who grab their “nuts” on stage. (ok, that REALLY IS gay tho!)

A group of nggas doing the snap dance...

Bonus points for if one of em got on capris.

R0bin.Thicke dancing the rumba in tight chinos on the BET Aw@ards.

Or real big ridiculous muscles.

Or a guy walking around sipping from a bitch azz martini glass. Or better yet, a skinny straw.

I know, irrational.

7. When I was little, the old people down the street had grandkids that would come visit during the summer. The girl was my ace. Libby. Somehow that friendship led to me having an imaginary friend who I called Black Libby. My brother reminds of this on pretty much every holiday, usually after I laugh about him being a breach baby.

8. I’m very sociable, but intensely anti-social. Feel me? In other words, I love hanging out, but I absolutely hate PEOPLE.

*Bonus. I have a new crush (My Neil, has no bearing on my devotion to our ongoing cyberfantasy, ok babes)...Hot, young, cooks, plays in my hair, tatted, sharp (tongue and mind), great writer, hardcore yet a big ole teddy bear. Reminds me A LOT of me. :) Problem is, my crush has no cojones. :(

AAAAAAND SCENE.

On The Couch

Jameil has been getting her Barb Walters on this week. And I am officially on the couch…

1) what is the stupidest thing you did in your 20s?


The stupidest thing I did in my 20s was not purchasing the co-op I rented when I first moved to NYC.

::squiggly lines, squiggly lines::

I got off the D train at a stop in Brooklyn that I never heard of and stepped into a neighborhood I had no idea existed. Flatbush. Except this wasn’t rowdy yardies in mesh tanks and open toed sandals, Flatbush, this was residential, upper middle class Flatbush, complete with large homes and lush green lawns (ok, it wasn’t the Hamptons or nothing, but you feel me).

E. 19th St btwn Foster and Newkirk. Beautiful 1 bedroom co-op (which was a pain in the ass to get into. We had to o thru a review board in order to rent from the owners, this really nice Caribbean couple who was cool with my soon to be crazy roommate’s family).

It’s beaaaaauuuuutiful! Hardwood floors and granite countertops and a really large bedroom (the roomie held down the large living room with a Chinese divider thingy).

And I recall my roomie’s dad mentions that maybe one day I’ll buy the place...

It’s $40,000.

Need I even go on? *sigh*

Maybe this isn’t really a mistake, because at 21 years old I didn’t know the first thing about investing, and didn’t know the second thing about how I could ever afford it.

[Honorable Mention: Leaving a job with no plan at age 24. I bounced back and all, but lost a lot in the process, including eventually a true love.]

2) what are the best and worst lines you've ever heard?


I wouldn’t say it was a line, per se, but Memorial Day weekend I was walking down the block after a night out and there was a bunch of people out, just chillin. I walk by a group of guys sitting on a stoop and some muhfcuka GRABS MY ARM. Dudes still do that shit???? And that’s exactly what I said to him, and of course he tried to dismiss me and joke to his boys. But in my imagination, I envision him thinking that I would stop, gaze into his eyes, and bend over right there on the block.

Funny thing is, if I had, I bet his bitch azz wouldn’t know what to do.

The best line I’ve heard in a while was from that sexy ass Mc.Nulty on the Wire. He looks me up and down and asked me if I was married. I said, ‘Wow, did you just propose to me? I think we’re engaged.’ And he said, ‘Let’s do it, man!’ in that drunk/dirty brit accent (which by the way I normally abhor (sorry My Neil))

3) if you could do any job in the world without having to worry about money, what would it be?


I would be my own boss.

Oh, I’m already that?

Um, I would own and operate a media conglomerate.

Oh yeah, and a writer.

Oh, I'm already that?

I'd be a productive one.

4) say your house is on fire and all your pictures and birth certificate, etc are safe, then what's the one thing you take?


I’m practical if nothing else. Sentimental things like a photo of my dad, or my Bible, or journals mean a lot to me, but they’re things I don’t even think about or use on a daily basis.

So I say all that to say I’d take this...


5) what is your favorite thing to buy and that you know you should stop but you just can't?


What should I stop buying but just can’t? Gas! How bout that.

Well, I’m fairly thrifty, but I must say that I spend a bit much on shit for the house. Like, get me in T@rget and it’s a wrap. Ditto with food. If you have a Wegman’s grocery store in your town, then you know what I’m sayin.

I also tend to go spend well beyond my means when traveling. Speaking of traveling…

bonus: tell us one thing that should've stayed in vegas but you're going to tell us anyway! :)

Um…I’ll keep it brief…

Me, at the spa, after a sauna and hot stone massage, naked in the hot tub, much to the delight of a group of Midwesterners.

Sorry, no photos. :(

PS...If you wanna be intvw'd I'll try:)

March 24, 2007...12:15pm

The next time I blog, it will be on the other side of my 4th decade.

I will have had passed out somewhere on the Las Vegas S+rip, gotten a teary phone call from my mother, and eaten too much butter cream.

Yessss…ya girl So Easy Weazy’s got a born day coming up, and it’s a biggie.

But ya know, muhfcukas be taking this whole 30’s +he new 20 nonsense too damn far. Maybe it’s just me, but my 20s weren’t all that to be wantin to do a repeat and shit. I mean, like 5th grade was fun as hell, but if I had gotten a note on my last report card that gave me the option to forgo 6th and do it again, I wouldn’t.

Or, you ever make a bomb azz sandwich, and it’s so good you go make another one? And you guessed it…you didn’t quite recreate the whole wheat, light mayo magic.

Even great sex is often better left for that one time only.

Frankly, as I look towards the prospect of God blessing me with another 10 years of life, I am hoping, no… praying for newness. New adventures, new friends, new loves, new insight, new opportunities, new ideas, new blessings.

Because the OLD adventures, friends, loves, insight, opportunities, ideas and blessings are already a part of me. I won’t grow without savoring a new set of tastes.

So here’s my list of 30 Things I’ma Do Now That I’m 3o…

1. Read Invisible Man
...Go to Europe
...Learn the diff btwn a straight and curved mascara brush (then buy the right one (currently using straight))
...See Les Mis
5. Make friends with a famous person
...Start telling young boys to pull up their damn pants (and that chain wallets and glitter belts are 'so 5 years ago' white and gay, respectively)
...Stick with spinning and belly dancing
...BUY good music instead of downloading
...Finish a manuscript
10. Outline my thesis
...Join church
...Invest more aggressively in mutual funds
...Enter the word 'gregarious' into my conversational lingo
...Make a Puerto Rican friend
15. Begin a letter campaign to put pressure on studios to release Webs+er, 15, and Benson on DVD
...Contribute to a political campaign (who am I fooling? Something will happen and I'm gonna get pissed and say eff it and not give a eff until I go vote)
...Get tested for ADD (not to be confused with A1DS, which is what this looks like if you read it fast. PS...I been tested)
...Publish at least 5 articles
...Volunteer at something
20. Make and market a porn flick (starring someone other than me)
...Start the travel group
...Curse in front of my nephews
...Learn to cook curry goat
...Get into a good fist fight
25. Pitch the Pilot
...No more perms (I'm already 3 months in!)
...Make Amends with the Ex Con
...Fcuk him and get it out of my system
...Spend a lot of money on a handbag
30. Wear slutty clothes and kiss random boys in front of my big brothers:)

Honorable Mention:

1. Stop drinking on an empty stomach (I vowed this when I turned 21, too)

...Get a 30 & Over Club card and hit up the Ashford and Simpson show with Amadeo.

Shout out to all my fellow Aries!