Throwback: WARNING: Chocolates, Flowers & Balloons are Gifts for Girls Under 18

(First published Feb 12, 2006)
Oh dear…I fear I may be too late. VD (not to be confused with what you got from Random Club Chick back in '01) is in 2 days and I had no idea that there were still guys out there with no idea. In the last 24 hours I’ve had 5 guy friends call sounding anxious and uneasy and frustrated. Lemme make this quick…

I don’t know who the hell came up with the shit, my guess is Mr. Hallmark and Mr. Godiva joined forces…but it’s wack. The same way that Black History Month is wack…like, we need a day to focus on love, of course…but we also need to be in love every day…if that’s our journey, of course.

But really, fellas, no sense in trying to fight the power, bec like with every other cultural phenom, there is intense peer pressure…more importantly, P Pressure…and P Power of sorts.

I think that the idea of Black History Month is indeed absurd. A month? But how else can we force feed white folks a good Jeffersons marathon on TV Land…AND make them laugh when George calls Tom a honky (RIP)? How else do we justify a documentary about The Middle Passage for Christ sake?? We need the month to force the world to recognize, to dialogue, to honor.

VD is the same. We, women esp, need this day to make brothers validate the relationship. We need a day to evaluate how much he values us. We use the day to make brothas pay back all the times we endured wack sex, lent you dough for rent, and let slide those ambiguous text msgs from the Puerto Rican chick on your job.

Be real, VD is for women and Bitch Dudes, typically the more insecure in the relationship. Some take it waaaaay too seriously, expecting a recent grad on a recent grad’s salary to somehow afford an evening straight out of Diddy’s diary. They expect the dude who has yet to proclaim “THIS IS MY GIRLFRIEND” to stand toe to toe with Luther and Shakespeare in expressing that a crib is not a casa.

Ladies, if the most romantic thing dude has ever done was lick crumbs from your cleavie, then don’t expect no rose petals leading to a candlelit lavender bath for two.

Be realistic. There is a definite grey area during the dating stages, but what is NOT done or said is just as important as what is.

Women are analyzing you fellas. Be on point.

But with that said, fellas, step it up! Do something original and out of the ordinary, but don’t send any mixed messages. If she is just your jump off, the LEAST you can do is engage in some foreplay...but do not under any circumstances refer to it as "making love."

I do not believe in overindulgence. I don’t advocate breaking the bank to make an impression. If shorty is expecting more than you have to offer, then either she is delusional or you are misleading.

If she says she doesn’t want anything, give her something anyway. Something sincere. She will give it up, and more importantly, she’ll appreciate it. Yes, sometimes it IS a test. Even if she really don’t want shit, she would be thrilled to know that it came from your heart, unsolicited.

You cannot avoid the drama. If you try, you will fail. It’s a bullshit holiday, I agree. But if you’re dealing with someone when February rolls around, then you have to play the game. You have to understand that this is the one day that she can get away with forcing you to recognize, to dialogue, and to honor HER. Cuz you know any other day you would blast her:

“Yo, why you trippin, yo?”
“Stop pressuring me!”
“I told you when we met I wasn’t trying to get into nothing serious.”
“I’m too focused on my career right now to give that question much thought.”

Bottomline... chances are, in the dating phase, you’ve been getting over without much accountability. She’s having sex with you without knowing that you have an eye out for something better. She is settling for being the “Right for Right Now Girl.” And hell, maybe that’s how she wants it, too.

But VD is the day she is in control.

Surrender.

And she might relinquish the power of the P on ya. And you'll LOVE IT!

Thu.gs and The Women Who Invite Them

This...I imagine, is how muhfuckas get slashed up in their own home...

Jeffery has a unique perspective of the world. At 6'7", he encounters few people who can look beyond him, and his demure charisma captures what little attention his daunting physical stature doesn't.

His easy smile is misleading. He's neither happy nor lucky. By 8 years old he had a nicotine addiction. By 16 it was weed...that was around the time Jeffery Sr, his pops, passed away. A graphic headstone inscribed with "RIP" adorns the inside of his forearm.

His easy smile is distracting. The Black btwn those Africanesque lips hangs at an impossible angle, and unfortunately hides a smile worthy of private-practice pride.

Those lips kiss his girl every morning when he arrives at their job. They pucker again when he leaves for his GED courses. A few weeks shy of 23 years old, he is just now accomplishing the task of a young man five years his junior. But that paper will validate a life of education that has stretched well beyond any school yard.

At 18 he was with a woman with 5 kids...because he loved her, and them.

He was a decent defensive end on the high school football team. Had a bitter out of school rivalry with Carmelo Anthony back in those days.

While Melo shot 3s, Jeffery was shooting .38s.

He doesn't throw the word 'thug' around loosely. He will, however, flash a few Blood signs.

Today smoking is his last hurdle to climb. He allows himself maybe 4 Newports a day, or a Black, like today. No weed. No liquor. He understands the power and lure of addiction.

"I've done every drug known to man."

Weed. Coke. Her'oin. PCP. Acid. Got caught up with the shit he was dealing. Got caught up in the pain of losing his father. Of the gutter he called home in West Baltimore ("Bawduh'more").

Went on his last drug binge when he was eluding the jakes. Cuz his girl was so shook that he would get 20 years that she aborted their unborn child.

Fcuked him up.

Got caught. Locked up. Got put in a halfway house. Has to be home by 9. Curfew. That was only a year ago.

Went to a job interview today. More dough. More in line with the law enforcement career he seeks. It went well, except he only managed to type exactly half the required wpm. He did 20. Never took a typing course.

But he'll be out of the halfway house on Oct 3, after 6 months there. That day he goes back to court, hopefully for the last time. Coincidentally, it's also the day he was born. He's looking fwd to going back to his family, to spending more time with his girl. To starting over.

He's a contemplative thug. A polite, smiley gentleman. A giant who swears by telling a woman's age by examining the depth of lines in her palm. A man with the curiosity of a child sneaking a Newport at 8, and the insight of a war-torn veteran. Honest to a fault. Introspective, determined, and confident.

Jeffery is my neighbor. We met a few weeks ago as I was on my way to my whip, and then again the next morning as he was on his way to work. That was when he showed me the gang signs...and the smile.

I saw him again today for the first time in a while. He was smoking and drinking water out on his stoop. We chatted for a while, him asking how my day at school was, me asking him the same. He told me most of his personal details sitting on a crate in my kitchen (I aint got no chairs yet).

Um, Wise...that IS your name right? You appear to be of at least average, um...wise-dumb...so I it is with all due respect that I ask... WHAT IN THE HELL WAS A REFORMED GANGBANGING, SLANGER DOING INSIDE YOUR CRIB!?

Well.....[back outside on the stoop, as my legs were growing weary from standing]

"You good with a screwdriver, Jeffery?"

"Yes, I'm pretty good, why?"

"Cuz I went to I.kea on Saturday and got this big dresser, and to hell if I can't put that shit together by myself.""You wanna take care of it right now?"

The answer... I need someplace to put my shit. Tired of living out of suitcases! [back story...I just relocated to Bawduh'more to pursue my Masters. For those concerned readers, I do not live near The Wire nor The Corner. I live on a quiet block a few blocks from JHU, ie - amongst white folk...and apparently, a halfway house.]

So Jeffery came over right quick, about an hour before curfew, and put my shit together. I have friends I could have asked, but I'm the 'I can do it myself' type who knows even your best friends dont really wanna do the shit you dont even wanna do for yourself.

He was on his best behavior...tho an Amber alert did flash thru my mind when he asked if I knew Prince and 'Preme...some ole drug nggas from NY. I let him taste this Rachel Ray shit I made last night...chicken breast and pesto and green beans (Jameil, you gotta try it!). He politely finished it and said it tasted "different." So I made him some turkey cheeseburgers (sans the bread...I'm low-carb, yo).

And I gave him my copies of B-More Careful, and The AutoBio of Malcolm X. Turns out he's Muslim. He's partial to books about war and ancient leaders like Hannibal.

Who do I think I am, a fake azz social worker??

Naw, just an independent girl and marginal carpenter. A girl who wants a place for her panties.

A girl, who could have very easily ended up cut in half.

Idiot.

You're All I NEED: Wise Hits The Tittie Bar

A convo with this dude I know...

Dude I Know: ".....yadda, yadda, yadda...some bullshit about wo/men...followed by some obvious/valid points, then some ole bullshit...women are the needy gender anyway."

Wise: "That's a fact?"

Dude I Know: "Come on, don't gimme a hard time. That's understood. That's common knowledge. Conventional wisdom."

Wise: "Guess it's time to re-analyze the convention."

I wasn't yet drunk enough to not wonder how my azz looked in my jeans. It was mild for July, humid for after midnight. Oddly loose at the waist. Snug in the thighs.

Shoulders out. Signature newsboy cap. Slightly incognegro, mostly quarantined.

Usually when there are this many dudes standing outside a spot it's either a night out for free drinks at Gay Bartender's job, some exclusive 'you-need-to-be-accompanied-by-pussy' party, or worse. Tonight was shapinig up to be the latter. The worst.

My blackhand side is cattle stamped and I proceed inside, the only chick in my crew. Stepping across the threshold, under the scope of tacky purple strobes, into the rhythm of nursery rhyme "skip hop," I quickly assess that I am one of a few chicks in the whole joint.

I grab my fictional dick, nod at the topless hostess who welcomes us to the establishment, and walk straight to the bar as if I got the fattest azz there. That's how you gotta be when you're in the House of Azz, when that's the money shot, if you will. I felt hella out of place, yet never one to be outshined, I'm determined to fit the hell in somehow.

This is not my first time at a titty bar. It's just never as good a time as advertised.

See, I had this convo recently with some dudes I know, dudes my age and older, and I was intrigued/appalled/amused by the fact that it seems the older guys get, the more obsessed with strippers they become. For some obviously uninformed reason, I thought this was something dudes grew out of, you know, like skid marks.

Not so, I'm told. In fact, as I'm walking thru I see with my own two Guccified eyes that this may indeed be a fact.

"I'm hooked, Wise. The nastier the better. I went with my boy from work and he's like a VIP and he put me on. So we come and they show us mad love at the door..."

"I'm in love with like, the laziest stripper there. She dances maybe once a week. Some of those bitches be on it full time. Not mine. She a temp or some shit. But I love her."

"No, they're pretty broke down. The cutest one is bout two cupcakes away from dragging down the damn pole."

So I'm alert, in as analytical a mode as can be expected after a few Goose and pineapples (at home, of course. Only vodka I seen behind the stripper bar is Popov [read: cheeeeeap].) I first scan the crowd for ex-bosses, ex-classmates, suspected lesbos, celebs, white people, and dudes I would normally bone...in that order. I see a few ComicView regulars and some DJs, but that's about it. Coast is clear for me to explore openly.

There's an empty stool near the stage and I plop down, looking around, tapping my rings on my glass. In my mind this is a clear show of interest in the music and disinterest in the performer. She was largely unremarkable, as is her audience. I'm saying, she was swinging and swaying and twirling accordingly, but dudes acted like she was the opening act or something. Like she was Little Brother at a SummerJam show. Crickets. But as the night wears on I notice that this is how it always is. A few bucks thrown here and there...but mostly the stage dudes are broke.

I ease up so as not to be typecast. My boys are huddled near the rear of the place, and when I approach it's as if I'm the only kid on the block with a kick ball and I finally came outside to play.

"Showtime, Weezy." I'm whisked to the back, and I say out loud, "Oh okay, this is where the real nggas be at."

And the real hoes. Big, small, light, dark, Asian-inspired, bilingual, bilateral, everything. Just a rainbow of blue collar cooch. Hard workers, too. Straight up Mexican work ethic in this muhfucka. These back room chicks ain't playing. They keep it moving, they pay attention, show love, make eye contact, remember first names, dispense pet names like Pez, and they carry an air of control. A false air, but convincing nonetheless.

These are the earners no doubt. And before I knew it they were about to earn my respect.

I'm led to a stiff couchy chair, slightly reclined. Relaxed.

My drink is replenished. My boys are watching, fists full of cash. Calling the shots.

I smelled her hair first. Pears. And it wasn't the stringy kinda hair that I compulsively pick off me after a packed train ride. Or the kind that clogs public restroom sinks. It was the black/mixed kind... thick and healthy. Real, I think.

"You're really beautiful. Your jeans fit you so well." Her raspy whisper is a loud bellow to my ego. Before I could thank her, her head slides down the side of my neck, down the front of my shirt, along the length of my waist band and back up to my neck.

I pull my head back, in genuine 'you go girl' deference. My boys egg her on, and watch intently, begging me to finish my drink and play along. Little did they know I had no intentions of cutting the show short. I was about to get schooled. Plus she looked a lot like my girl crush Al!cia Ke.ys. Sue me.

What followed was an impeccable and impressive display of a master of human nature. She said all the right things, wisely catering to my feminine desires for attention and approval. She was aggressive and showy, conquering women's natural competitive spirit. And she hit all the erogenous zones like a metal detector in a piggy bank...

Winding her smooth azz on my lap with varying speeds and pressure.

Rubbing her face in my chest in slow, methodical circles.

Suggestive girl talk that made me giggle like we were pointing out the dudes we'd let hit.

Placing her hands over mine then on her hips as she put on a show for my boys.

Left not a drop of sweat or stuff anywhere near me.

She had me at "beautiful."

I lifted my glass and let her sip the last bit of my drink. She needed it more than me.

When it was all said and done I was thoroughly aroused, impressed and entertained. My boys on the other hand, like most of the men in the boom boom room appeared thoroughly hustled. There was a hint of 'they don't get it' in their eyes. A sense of fantastical unreality in the way they reached out to touch the oasis. Their fingers lingered, longing, looking for a sign that this might be real.

It's the same glazed out look they get around hour 3 in front of a video game.

They strike up conversations. They ask about the chicks' school, sons, shit that have nothing to do with them. Shit that says they're inappropriately invested.

They are rendered absolute azzes around these women. They feel no reservation at the fact that they are not only ruled by an illusion, but that said illusion is community property. They overlook the stench of other nggas' giz and nut sweat. Turn a blind eye to the fingerprints around the brawd's bikini top and bottom. Where other muhfuckas already paid their respect.

This is a transaction...conducted in a trance.

"I'm saying, sometimes you just want a chick to show you some love, no strings attached."

"I love my wife, but the attention is mad necessary. And after that I go home to her."

"I know she do this for a living, and I don't mind funding her shoe fetish cuz she fulfills my azz fetish."

Dudes talk all day about how they just want to have sex with different women, without any commitments, they want it all the time, they go to drastic measures for a mere dick suck.

Men want intimate contact, want to be fulfilled, want to feel sexually accomplished, constantly.

And we're the needy ones??

Like a Fat Kid Loves Cake*

While I would normally find no greater joy than to rip this guy a new one, he's cool, and his dilemma's really not that bad at all. :)

Why then the venom? Cuz I'm back, nggaz.

Now. So a very charming, overwhelmingly self confident young man...let's call him "Cake"... sent me the following email:


"So I really ...really ....really like this girl. She has everything that any man would want in a wife, but settling down isn't for me right now but in like a few months...after I cut some things off (u know what I mean... [editor's note... he means he's got other pussy on his radar] ) I think i'll probably ask her to be my girlfriend... am I a bad person?"

At first I couldn't understand why Cake would feel like a bad person for coming to this admission. So I probed and got to the bottom of his issue...

1. He isnt sure that the whole one-woman-man role is for him.
2. He's made it very clear to this girl that he's single and mingling.
3. He wants to buy some time in order to chase cat before he commits to this particular girl

Where to begin...

First let me shout out the honorable Epsilonicus (and I hope he's not shy), who captured my attention and my genuine sympathy when he stated on his blog...

"I found a person I would like to spend the rest of my life with, I just dont want the rest of my life to start now." [ps...he's not "Cake"]

That's some real shit right there. He's young, but he's wise. But young. :(

Despite the youthful glean in my eyes and my overall annoying underage appeal, I'm not feeling so young these days. 30 is a stone's throw away. And I've been the girl in Cake's situation.

Yup that's me...Wise, The Dream Girl. The woman that any man...yadda yadda yadda. That's what My Dream Boy told me the day we met. That's what he told me the day he killed it...and then the day we reconnected and then the day I put a knife in it for good.

Thing is, he was that guy for me too...the guy I could see myself riding out with. Yadda, yadda, yadda...

So to me, when he came with that, "I still love you," shit, it is was just shit...bec it was followed by a "BUT."

Basically, Cake is saying, 'I want her...BUT I want her to wait while my dick simmers in a steamy stew of other brawds.'

I told Cake that this was actually one of the more sophisticated hustles you dudes have going. Any old muhfucker can't pull this one off. And to be sure, the Wonder Woman you sell it to must be of a particular breed as well.

Dude has to at least appear sincere. Perhaps it's bec he's not trying to bone me, but as talented and down to earth as he is, Cake has never appeared to me like anything more than in proud and constant pursuit of panties. A normal guy. So it took me a second to validate his claims.

However, the woman in question was far less perplexing. It is well documented that she is the proverbial "Fat Kid" in this scenario...she loves her some Cake.

Is Cake a bad guy? Hell naw, I don't think so.

But when he asked me what's so wrong with having his cake and eating it too, he became suspect.

This is the hustle. And it's almost foolproof...except I'm Wise, ngga! Can't fool me.

This goes quite well with the whole nice guy tactic, you know the one, offer the allusion of honesty (is it really honest if it's only 1/2 the truth?) and you will be exempt from any further explanation, responsibility and accountability.

If you tell her you're single, she has no choice but to allow you to plow thru piles of puss.

Tell her you really like her, but aren't ready to settle down...and you can stroke conscience-free, while she's somewhere emotionally distraught, mad that this is the consequence of having half of you. Never on her terms. Yours always.

Cake knows that he's leading her on, but he's got an alibi. The kicker though, is that he "really ...really ....really likes this girl."

So I'm not sure what to make of this. I'm not naive enough to believe that my own personal rationalization is sufficient. If I really ...really ....really like someone, I'm not concerned with the cock crosstown. That's just me.

Don't know what to tell him...cuz I know that too much cake sends me to the crapper.

*shoot me dead if I quote a gorilla with a speech impediment ever again.

Prodigal Penis

Chitown showed me no love this weekend. None at all, at all, Joe.

Not the weather.

Not the testosterone.

Not even the retail.

I love visiting Chicago, but this time the city seemed to be on a sabbatical. Not even the hood showed me love. (ok granted I was mostly in the 'burbs. )

Love was actually the reason for my extended jaunt to ChiGritty.

My Uncle Judd, one of my mom's 4 lil bruhs (8 a dem in all), got hitched. He's one of my fav uncles... the cool azz rasta who rocks Dickies shorts, a crispy white tee and matching immaculate white Ups with a swagger meaner than any young knucklehead.

He lives outside Philly, and I don't see that jawn very often at all. Matter of fact, he was at my sister's wedding two years ago, and before that I don't think I had seen him since I was a kid visiting Spanish Town in Jamaica.

So it came as a bit of a shock when a couple months back my cousin called and asked if I would be a bridesmaid in the wedding.

Uh, yeah, sure. Take one for the fam, right?

Lawd Gawd.

Things you will hear at a Jamaican wedding...

..."...take you to be my awfully weddin 'usban."

..."Cohn-Gradu-LA-Shan!"

..."Jessas Chrys, mi cyan find di dyam ring dem!"

..."Is wha time church a keep?"

..."Yuh auntie mek some manish watah. Gwan oatside an get a cup bring fi mi and di baby."

..."Ah op'n, di bar op'n?"

..."No woman no cry!"

...Ladies and genkleman...Daddy him woulda so proud fi see all him pick'ni dem gather togeddah here..."

I was born here, and frankly lots of their back home inside jokes are always way over my head. But you don't need to be fluent in Jamaican patois to translate the love that permeated the weekend.

My Uncle and his wife had their first baby 28 years ago. My Uncle has a couple of other kids from another relationship, the youngest of which is 5 years old.

So basically there was a lot of on again, off again going down in their relationship. 30 years worth, to be exact.

One thing I kept hearing over and over was a saying from back home, "Nobody cyan tek what ah already yours."

While I can't say that I totally co-sign that one, because I think the underlying implication is that women should shut the fcuk up and twiddle their thumbs while their men go out, do their dirt, then grow the hell up...I am definitely feeling the boomerang theme...

"They say if you love something, you've got to let it go.
And if it comes back, then it means so much more.
But if it never does, at least you will know,
That it was something you had to go through to grow."
~"In My Mind" (aka the Millenium Stalker Anthem) by Heather Headley

I'm of the belief that there is always one that got away...could be bad timing, youth, a stupid indiscretion, pure immaturity or just denial that keeps you away from one another. But as they say, if it's meant to be it will be...even if it's 30 years later.

Not exactly encouraging words for me, as I approach 30 years old. I'm impatient, and curious...with a very healthy dose of obsession with marriage. I'm fascinated by people who are divorced and under 40. I got some stories to tell. Got some folks who I wanna have tell their own stories.

What I hear a lot from married folk is that love is only a small part of the equation.

But after being in coldhearted Chitown, warmed by intense family love all weekend, I wonder if love shouldn't count for so much more.

PS...I'm still feeling nostalgic and idealistic after the wedding...It will soon wear off and your regularly scheduled reality-based, cynical/sarcasm-laden programming will return by week's end. I promise.

Shout Outs...Paternal Edition

Ya girl So Weazy (or "So Easy" after I've had a few) is packed and ready to hit the road again. Biz and pleasure.

But before I go I wanna leave you with a few vignettes to commemorate the upcoming holiday. As much as I probably don't want to give it much thought, I'd feel terribly left out if I didn't put my two cents in about my daddy...esp since he is on my mind constantly, almost 2 years now after his passing.

Plus, I would be terribly remiss to have created this here 'Keep it Real' zone, and conveniently left out my reality.

So I'm not gonna give it much thought beyond a copy and paste, and whatever else is on my mind, for fear of self-sensoring or emotional cold feet. Not even gonna proofread...ok you know I won't go that far!

Here goes nothing...if only it were.

***

Special shouts go out to:

Guys who secretly wonder if they should be celebrating this Sunday.

Fellas who wrote off that $250 clinic bill as a "medical visit."

All the "Direct Deposit" Dads.

All the single, seedless cats in the market for new friends with weekends off, bec all their boys either have visitation rights, second jobs...or both.

And before you blast me for making light of the state of black fatherhood, let me remind you that last month I also bigged up all my sistas who narrowly missed a gestation period this year.

Daddy's Read, Too

Ahhh...my first book recommendation also commemorates the holiday. It's a really dope book edited by a sista in Chicago; a collection of pieces written by Black daughters about their fathers. It's broken into several sections...some about daddy' lil girls, absentee dads, deceased ones.

It's really well done, really deep personal accounts that are so relatable and touch the heart. Also great for all you education types...there's a new readers guide available for teen girls.

Oh, and I'd definitely give it props even if I wasn't one of the contributors. Great Daddy's Day gift.

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...

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.

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:

FIRST OF ALL I WANT TO TAKE THE TIME TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW THAT SHE DID HER THUG THIZZEL W/ THIS BOOK. IT WAS BY FAR THE BEST BOOK THAT I HAVE EVER READ, AND I READ ALOT. DESPITE THE FACT THAT DUTCH WAS A COLD HEARTED KILLER THIS MAN HAD ME MEZMERIZIED.THROUGH ALL THE BAD I SAW PAST INTO THE GOODNESS AND SENCERITY OF HIS HEART. LONGING TO BE GRACED WITH HIS BEAUTIFUL SMILE.TO FIND A BOOK WRITTEN SO REALISTICLY, IT WAS LIKE THE ENTIRE TIME I WAS JUST STANDING SOME WHERE IN THE MIDDLE OF JERSEY WATCHING EVERY THING THAT TERI WROTE GO DOWN FRONT AND CENTER. TO ALL OF THOSE WHO HAVE NOT READ THIS BOOK. YOU ARE MISSING OUT: PLEASE, I ASK YOU NOT TO DEPRIVE YOURSELF OF THE TRUE ENTERTAINMENT THAT THIS BOOK HAS TO OFFER.BUT THE QUESTION THAT I WANT ANSWERED. WAS THIS OR WAS THIS NOT A TRUE STORY? B/C IF NOT AND THERE IS A REAL DUTCH SOME WHERE IN THIS WORLD I NEED TO FIND HIM. BECAUSE WITH OUT A SHADOW OF A DOUBT DUTCH AND I COULD OVER COME ALL OF LIFES OBSTICALS, TRIALS, AND TRIBULATIONS. I NEED A MAN LIKE DUTCH IN MY LIFE.

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.”

Crickets.

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.

“Why Sistas Stare At You and Julie When You’re Walking Hand in Hand Through the Mall….It’s Not Cuz We’re Hating…It’ s Cuz…..”

Welcome back to our in-depth look at White Girls. If you missed Pt. I, never fear…the sale ends when all red-tagged items are gone. Let's call it The White Sale.

So insecure interracial minds wanna know:

Q: Why DO black bitches, I mean, sistas stare at me and Julie when we’re walking hand in hand through the mall?

A: It’s not cuz we’re hating…It’ s cuz…..we’re nosy. Plain and simple. At least THIS sista is.

What had happened was...

He and I interned at the Today Show together back in the day. Mad cool, Chris started a week before I did, so he was assigned to show me the ropes…ya know, the important details like the tape room, the research library… the Rosie O’Donnell and SNL studios (where I would later have my infamous dance-off with Shaq…another story for another day).

It was an intense semester and Chris and I bonded and kept in touch long after. So when he called me one night a few years back to tell me he would be in town from Nevada I was happy to make plans.

So we meet at a midtown Manhattan pub near Madison Square Garden, get a lil bent. Then we start walking down 7th Ave into the mild evening air… cloaked in nonstop conversation through the garment district, in and out of the heart of Chelsea, past the swanky bars on 14th Street, and into the pulse of the West Village.

Every progressive metro has a “Village”. In Philly it’s South St., In DC I guess it’s U Street, Dallas it’s Deep Ellum. Ya know, the communal social toilet where you can get the best drinks in town. Where the mohawks and chain belts mingle with the same-sex kids, where tattoo shops and purple hair are as common as the stop signs on each corner. Anything goes in the Vill…except I guess, for the eccentric sideshow of a sista with a white boy. ::GASP::

Oh, I didn’t mention Chris was a cute white boy...and I, a wise sista? I digress…

By now, we’re so comfortably lost in the great, easy conversation. Immersed in the joy of spending quality time with a good person with whom we shared a pivotal moment in our young professional lives. We’re holding hands as we walk.We stop at a little kiosk near 8th St. looking at cheap silver rings and braided bracelets. The Indian woman behind the cart gives me the ice grilly. Rather than defensive, I get suspicious…

Did it look like I was about to scoop up that thumb ring that I thought was cute but not for THAT price? Is my shirt buttoned too low like a loose chick? Is my part crooked? WHAT?? I got a gin and tonic stain on my cleveland or somethin? [note: my cleveland is more like Akron. Sista could use a high-calorie diet for the tits. ::sigh::]

I pay her no mind, but Chris notices it too, and as we continue down the way… toward a clearing in the skyline that would have given us a plain view of the WTC had it been a few years earlier… he informs me that for blocks we have been the talk of the town like Wendy Williams. I’m suddenly hyperaware of the constant stares. And not like regular, “Damn, those are some cute pumps Sista's rocking” looks. But undeniable "WTF?" glares.

We laugh it off as we approach Tribeca, pointing out a million other things that should have been considered an oddity...

The bag lady pushing a dirty baby doll in a stroller walks along unnoticed.

The cat with the nut-hugging plaid orange cut-offs is chillin like Ralph Ellison.

But the Black girl (rocking the cute azz pumps, might I add), and the handsome, trendy white boy are starring live on Broadway.

While the attention was amusing, I could relate...

Anytime I visit my hometown, the mall is always a destination. A quick one, for sure, unless you sincerelly want a reunion with your 3rd grade classmates or any bad fucks from back in the day. They WILL corner you at the food court. Never fails.

And it also never fails that nowadays I can’t travel between Claire's Boutique and Yankee Candle without passing an interracial couple or two. And by interracial I do mean black boys with white girls. And more and more the party involves a stroller.

I don’t give a fcuk about PC, this is an ode to my own personal politics…and this is alarming to me on so many levels. These are the same dudes you couldn’t pay to walk around with a sista of ANY hue. Naw, he prefers to stroll the summer festivals and concerts with his boys. The same dude who demands my homegirl get rid of his seed. This is the cat that is hugged up tight playing house with Becky and Darnell Jr.

So when we see the Lizzie Lovers, with said Lizzie, in the mall or on the street, yeah we do stare. But hear Heather tell it, we’re isolating them, and making them feel uncomfortable…like a sista is lifting up her shirt to brandish a gat in the waistband or some shit. Gimme a break like the sitcom.

Personally speaking, I usually don’t give them the satisfaction of thinking that I care that they’re together, because in all honesty, I don’t. It’s not my concern. He’s your headache now, Laura.

But sometimes, just to be an azzhole, just when I see them consider turning and walking in the opposite direction when they see me approaching, I might look them both in the eye as I pass by. And smirk. Same way I would do an Ex on a day I’m looking extra fly.

In this day and age, I doubt many sistas are really that pressed about making a scene…unless of course looking is considered Act I.

Here are a few reasons why I look at Darnell and Becky:

Ø I want to see if I know him…in which case I can try to figure out why he’s with her (slow down…it’s not a white thing. Any time we see an odd couple we wonder why and how. Think: JDupri and Janet)

Ø I want to make sure he’s never or never in the future tries to holler at me. I’m typically not into dudes who like white girls. Shut up…personal preference.

Ø I want to glimpse their dynamics. Ever wonder if Tiger Woods’ wife ever slips and calls him a "fcuking honkiniggachink"? I do. Or if Heidi Klum laughs when her model friends tell her that their code name for fine azz Seal is "Amistad"? Yeah, I’m dying to know too. So I always study to see if she looks like the kind of redneck who’s perpetually got “broke nigger” (yes, with an 'ER') on the tip of her tongue.

Ø I wonder if what brothas say is true…are white girls more accommodating (read: buy them shit), and are they really more obedient? So I’m nosy, looking for Foot Locker and Structure shopping bags stuffed under the stroller, and downward cast eyes from Jenny, as receipts hang from her jacket pocket.

Ø I want to see what “type” of brotha this is. Is he the young, broke opportunist? The mature, I-never-meet-any-sistas-on-my-socio-economic-level dude? And since I’m convinced I’m an excellent judge of a book cover, I always trust my 1st look instincts.

Ø I’m also interested in what type of white girls like black guys. Is she the no-one-at-my-Dad's office-can-find-out, Mom-is-so-pissed WASPY chick…the Girls-Gone-Wild type…the Honor-Society-student-gone awry…or the corn rowed I-grew-up-with-niggas white girl named Tasha? Just wondering.

Look, we hear about white girls like it’s a fairy tale lifestyle….so naturally we’re curious about you and Snow White. You really expect us not to be after you hoist them up on pedestals high above our nappy roots? That’s like asking a Mexican not to look toward the border.

We’re curious…but not always contemptuous. And rarely as consumed or concerned as this (too long) blog post may suggest.

But I get it. I can relate. Perhaps the Village People were just curious about me and Chris. Was I a valley-girl-accent in-black-face? A stripper meeting a client on my day off? A die hard suburbanite? An athlete’s daughter? Straight from the Ivy League? A starving artist on my way to the casting couch?

And who the hell was this cute white boy with impeccable taste, walking her all the way from Midtown to Ground Zero?

So I’m opening up the phone lines to the females reading this…

Do you get curious when you see the Black.White? Why? Why not? Do you fear Darnell and Donna get the wrong impression? Have you ever been confronted by an insecure couple?

1-800-2So-Wise

Colored Boys For Sale: Seeking White Female Buyers. Series Part I

I’m putting Black boys on the market... mainly because I'm bored with their logic. Consider this like a red-tag sale, where only those marked are up for grabs. I wouldn’t dare give them all away. And there’s no need to actually go through and mark the ones that are discounted…we all know who they are. They are in my immediate dating pool, and I don’t feel like wading through the bullshit. That was soooo immediate-post-college.

I earned my certification to negotiate such transactions by virtue of being prematurely generalized and labeled a “problem,” “a liability,” “dramatic,” “controlling,” “independent,” “opinionated,” “ugly,” “insensitive,” “emasculating,” and “sexually repressed,” among other serious offenses. You see, I'm a convicted Sista.

SOME Black boys are “allegedly” like Ron Artest…they are beautiful and brilliant, amazingly talented, and hard working. SOME can also be unfocused and immature. Unsure of their desires. They kick azz and ask questions later, get suspended, fined, (or arrested and fired), lose money, lose credibility, lose their way…

And SOME sistas are like Donnie Walsh and the Pacers…lending support, defending him, making excuses, allowing him to still practice with the team, while he's relentlessly maligned at work, in the press, in society.

And what do SOME brothas do in return? They say they’re worth more than the Pacers/Sistas are paying; they have superstar talent and capabilities, and they feel that they’re holding the team back…except in reality that's usually verbalized as something like, “I need to explore ALL my options.”

So instead of bickering, instead of being “put on alert” and threatened that I can be replaced, instead of continuing to patiently endure the inane, contradictory, and largely unnecessary justifications, I’m setting you boys free. Putting you up on the blocks just like in the old days, and see how much I can get for your sorry azzes. Because the message I hear is that you’re for sale.

But just for clarification’s sake…

Yes, SOME sistas DO take issue with brothas traipsing the alternate route through Ghosttown. Why? Here are a few reasons…

Y’all LOVE blaming us for your decision to go there.
Y’all LOVE blaming us for your decision to go there.
Y’all LOVE blaming us for your decision to go there.
Y’all LOVE blaming us for your decision to go there.
Y’all LOVE blaming us for your decision to go there.

Sistas don’t have shit to do with that…so please stop.

Do you have any friends who you’ve just seriously outgrown? Every time you speak to them you realize it’s always a sorry spin-off of the same conversations you’ve been having for over a decade. I swear to you, that’s how I feel about this issue. Dudes been saying the same shit for YEARS and as we get older, all I ever want is to start being critical thinkers, if not intelligent ones. I’m so tired of having to explain to grown men the same things I had to break down to Burke in high school.....

Burke was (and dammit, still is) the finest boy in high school. And he knew it. He was such a problem. Curly, who is one of my best friends (and who reminds me a lot of her), went to school with him from Kindergarten thru HS and she was (and still is) in love with him.

I’ll never forget sitting in the Senior cafeteria as sophomores when Burke says, “I don’t mess with black girls at all. They’re too mouthy.”

He then chronicles a brief stint talking to one of the “sassiest”* girls in our school, who also happens to be quite attractive and outgoing and smart.

I say to him, “So that experience represents experiences with all sistas?”

He says, YES.

I tell him he’s an idiot for excluding his own race, but refrain from references of self-hate, cuz I know it will go right over his head. I respect his right to date whomever he desires, but openly ridicule his ignorance, since he openly expresses it.

So who was Burke’s cup of tea? Kiera, this white girl from his JR high school. She was the doting daughter of a doctor, whose love and obsession with Burke rivaled Curly’s. Burke was a star athlete who rocked a lot of fly sports gear, Jordans, whole nine, courtesy of Kiera’s allowance. She was neither attractive, nor smart or outgoing. Not exactly a plain jane, but definitely a girl with identity issues.

She didn’t go to our high school, but we all knew her, because in social situations she’d follow behind him clutching a granny pocketbook, wearing her soccer mom tapered jeans, nitpicking and nagging. She held his bulging biceps like the jaws of life, neck whipping in obsessive compulsive succession, eying anyone eyeing her man. I say this not to berate her, but to say that I believe she mirrored her own mother…who, incidentally the doctor Dad had just divorced.

She also seemed to mirror what she believed was black culture. She bought her way in with all the Jodeci, SWV and 2Pac CDs. Was a Cross Colours, Karl Kani and U-Men fiend...matching from scrunchie to shirt to socks. And, true story, she went to a black hairdresser, and yup, you guessed it…got black relaxers. No joke, a white chick with a Dark & Lovely. So in essence, it appears Burke just wanted a light-skinned black girl with money! (Today, Burke is one of my very good friends, and he now co-signs this hypothesis. He also admits to liking women he can control...he now has a black fiancée, who is 6 years his junior (22)...and trapped him by getting pregnant (twice). That’s a WHOLE 'nother blog, really.)

Then there was Spence in college, who told anyone who would listen, that he was half Italian. He came to my crib one time with one of my boys, and said he hates black girls cuz their hair smells like grease (his preference was Prell).

I swung my press and curl right underneath his nose and let him follow the fresh strawberry scent right to my front door.

“And what does your Nigga-talian azz smell like besides cheap weed and malt liquor?” I respond. And a hint of garlic.

Then there’s my best guy friend on earth, Big, who could only hang around our college-turned-pro athlete friends for so long before he caught the bug too. It’s to the point now where he doesn’t even spend enough time with sistas to get to know any. He’s always at this spot in White Plains, getting drunk for free, falling in love with Jessica…no, that really is her name.

Look, as an adult, it is not my business who the hell you fall in love with. You do not need to explain or justify that to anyone but your significant other. But I do take issue with the fact that as I get older, more and more guys are complaining about sistas and then claiming refuge with white girls... who are equally as dramatic. Is their drama somehow less than ours?

And why is it so appalling when a sista looks at a white boy, or even a Latino guy? Brothas are twisting their nuts dry over this Sanaa Lathan movie (rather than joining the dialogue in an intelligible manner, or simply supporting a non-violent black film).

Dudes are calling for Eve’s head.

The point is, I for one am tired of the same old debate, when frankly, your love life and preferences shouldn’t even be up for discussion…

But, since SOME of you black boys looooove dragging us into the fray…TRUST, I do have some things to say on behalf of ME, one mouthy azz black girl.

Next Up in The Series: “Why Sistas Stare At You and Julie When You’re Walking Hand in Hand Through the Mall….It’s Not Cuz We’re Hating…It’ s Cuz…..”
>>*Sistas, isn't “sassy" white people's new PC for "bitch?"

White Bitches & Hoes Can Rhyme, Too

Ok…I decided I’m not exactly up for a good ole fashion internet litigation right now…the fight’s just not in me at the moment, so I won't jack the video and post it here. But this is the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time. I’m still a fan of Saturday Night Live, tho I missed this episode. But please check it out. You WILL laugh out loud.

Click on ya girl, MC Gangsta Padme'...

Bitch Dudes: A Case Study

Now back to regularly scheduled programming. I’ve been recently sidetracked by surveys, jacked by jet lag, and derailed by the death of Civil Rights….but today I am itching to get back on my public service grind. This has been on my mind for some time, so it’s long overdue. Today I devote my attention and affection to BITCH DUDES.

I’ll let you know right now, if you are overly sensitive to gender roles, or a purveyor of political correctness [read: a brotha with a weak stomach], point your browser elsewhere. Bec I don’t have time to mince words, cater to egos and be more objective…and in fact, if this bothers you, and you have a penis, you might see your reflection all over this post.

Bitch Dude: n. – 1. A hetero guy who has the annoying attributes of an overbearing woman; as in, one who constantly whines, complains, has an attitude, pouts, holds grudges, and argues to no end. – 2. A guy who is inconsistent, indecisive and unable to take responsibility for mistakes, or ignorance.

There are varying degrees of bitchiness, but the conclusion is always the same, you always wanna tell his azz to MAN UP. Now lemme say that I am not one to ever contest a man’s sexuality. But Bitch Dudes usually carry that suspicion.

Still confused? Here are some of your favs:


Cam’ron is the Shut the Fugg Up BD. He just talks too much...50% of what he says is some kind of grandiose boast (‘This groupie was on me, and I passed her on to my crew’…how philanthropic of you); 40% is him complaining (‘I was supposed to be the president of The Roc until Jay came back from St. Tropez!’); and the last 10% no one’s listening to anyway. Mind you, this has nothing to do with the 7 minute Jay-Z dis/cry for attention (tell the truth, dude always takes like a full 45 secs to spit 2 bars)…but has a lot to do with the fact that I live in DipSet territory, and am reminded of his punk purple poser prowess every time I duck into the bodega on 140th and Lenox for a Corona.




Kobe is probably my fav BD. Fav as in, the one I most like to analyze and vilify. I think this one is pretty self-explanatory, but he qualifies bec of his demeanor, that bitch azz swagger he carries. He has this ridiculous chip on his shoulder and he is under the impression that he is way more loved than he is…this of course, was before he dropped 81, bec I tend to agree with Scoop Jackson when he says that Kobes blacked out bec he thinks the world hates him. No, no, I’m talking about Booed in Philly, Gas Face Kobe. You know this BD in your real life... He takes himself WAY too seriously, employs a solid set of values that are much more about what he thinks will make him seem mature and professional than what he actually passionately believes.

Ahh the next is a very popular one…BD that goes public when he doesn’t get the equivalent of the Album of the Year Grammy – ya know, that promotion at the job, an office position in his professional organization, the girl of his dreams, the girl working the drive-thru, etc. He believes so highly of himself, but refuses to acknowledge that his attitude is annoying and that his complaining is juvenile and unattractive. We call him the Minstrel BD, bec he goes to great lengths to bitch out. [Is often compared to Shut the Fugg Up BD.]


Derived quite closely from the Minstrel BD is the Thug BD. This one is essentially also really good at something, is desperate for acclaim and recognition, usually gets it, but still finds other shit to cry about. Pushes good people out of his circle for not agreeing with him (Coach Brown). Loves to throw blame. I hate to say this, but AI is notorious. ["Practice???"] Dawg, slacks. A sweater. Rest the bling. Most jobs have this policy. Grow up, and more importantly, MAN UP. [I’m a fan, but he' still annoying]


Now granted, he got my vote in 2000, and I will go to my grave knowing in my heart that he was robbed (and knowing that I earned my stripes in the newsroom during this election season)…but Al Gore is the kind of BD that won’t let it go. It’s 6 years later and he has these random public moments where he is still talking about how he got robbed. But he’s mad snooty with his. Turns up his nose and smirks, but is still hurting inside. He’s on the DL with his, not realizing how transparent his pain is. He needs to go on Dr. Phil and just cry and then heal! Let go, let flow!

You get my drift…the point of all of this? Well it’s personal really. Nothing gets under my skin more than a Bitch Dude. He's the homeboy who brings you his drama, and it baffles you when he can’t see why he can’t find a good woman.

He’s the one who, like Cam, whines about women who play him out, but is unwilling to see that they were honest with him all along.

Like Kobe he has a chip on his shoulder bec he assumes that his degree, pay stub and work ID make him a great catch (personality be damned, I guess).

He sides with Kanye bec he has never been late to work and his evaluation reflects his excellence. So with that said, we should not only think he’s amazing, but we should also suck his dick just because! And suck it well! [Stay tuned for "Why She’s Not Giving You Head, Even if You Do Her First"]

He’s the guy in your life who throws adolescent tantrums when you have to cancel on him. [Zig Zaggy cornrows are optional, tho it all sort of makes sense when you see that he actually dresses like a child too...fellas, visible boxer briefs or oversized jerseys are neither grown, nor sexy]

Finally, he might also rear his bitch azz like our former Vice President…ya know, he finds it necessary to blast some random chicks who just weren’t feeling him, and can’t seem to let go of all the things she did to show him just that.

Fellas, you think I’m berating, but I’m simply holding up a mirror. And I’m doing so in a highly subjective (tongue deep in cheek) manner. My hope is that we can all find love…and to that end, we must all find ourselves. Let’s all, guys and girls alike, commit to an honest examination of self. Let’s understand why it seems there are no sistas feeling you. Why there are no good brothas out there. And perhaps on that journey, we will all meet in the middle, and find true love. Fuck the career.

BROKEback Mountain...No Homo :)

Oh my gosh. Marriage. For the record, I’m nowhere near the place, so trust I’m not hardly trying to speak on the institution beyond saying, ‘I hope it lasts.’

So I’m talking to this kid I grew up with, I mean from like, 5 years old…we live on the same street. He’s come a long way from the cantankerous, mischievous, hard nose boy with the ridiculous temper. He’s mild mannered and easy with a smile and chuckle. Ivy League educated, attractive, athletic, intelligent, open, spiritual, down to earth, and funny as hell. Sweetie Pie.

Then why can’t Sugar find a decent woman? His trouble: he’s broke.

After Ivy he spent time working then went back to school. So at 26, he hasn’t had many full years of working full time. But check it, Sweetie Pie was engaged to a fellow Ivy Leaguer, who happened to be the daughter of a senator. Talk about fast track.

So he and I hadn’t seen eachother for years between school (him) and work/moving (me). But one day he calls me and tells me he’s in NYC with his future in-laws. Wants to know a spot to hang out. Of course I immediately suggest some sophisticated, sexy lounge or another, only to find out Sweetie Pie doesn’t drink. And Ivy Wife wouldn’t be feeling that type of décor anyway. Well excuse the hell outta…..

So he’s only in town until the next afternoon (Sunday) so there’s not enough time for me to come meet him…and meet Ivy Wife.

So fast fwd to the next morning, I’m at church (shout out to Abyssinian Baptist!) and the pastor announces that one of our visitors is none other than a senator and his family. The Senator stands and introduces his family, including his “future son in law, who is fitting in quite nicely.” I almost ripped my offering envelope. I’m peeking over church hats and ducking around ushers trying to get a glimpse of the Senator and his family. Sure enough after service I go investigate and it’s my Sweetie Pie neighbor, so cute in his little tweed blazer and tan slacks.

Ok so that’s just a fun story that I love telling anytime I mention my Sweetie Pie.

But there is a point. He was engaged to this girl, and the next time I hear from him - through email just after the anniversary of his brother’s (my childhood sweetie) death – he was less than a week “disengaged.” He called it off.

So fast fwd like 2 years, to a week ago when I ran into him in the post ofc….then again to last night when he called me to see what I was up to. So Sweetie Pie has literally lived in 3 different time zones since undergrad and is back in NY. Nursing a healing appendix. A bitter outlook on his immediate love life. And broke.

See, according to Sweetie Pie, he’s not even in the league of great catches for one reason and one reason only…his cash flow needs viagara. Women, he says, ain’t messing with no bling-challenged brother. Now scroll back up if you will, and peep his credentials…he’s fine, fun and not a ho. 26. He says his stint in Phoenix was the last straw. He felt NO LOVE there at all.

“What ever happened to the days of wanting to grow with a brother?” he laments…and I concur. “I’m a decent brother, make enough to pay my bills, drive a tight, clean car, maintain good credit, and a comfortable lifestyle,” he says, “but just not thousands of disposal dollars to give to a woman, RIGHT NOW. But I will!”

He says women are not feeling men with no money, point blank. So he’s basically chilling until he reaches the next echelons of his career, a plateau that will afford him the luxury of picking and choosing his gold diggers.

So I say, “But if you attract them under such superficial circumstances, then the rewards will be superficial.” To which he says…

“Well maybe a trophy is better than an empty case,” he says.

Hmm…

But it gets better. I suggest he accompany me to a young professional party, where I will personally point out a number of women on the cusp of 30, who don’t give a fuck about any man’s bank account. She’ll have her own. And all she needs is a true companion…someone to be there when she gets home from work…to rub her feet, her back, listen to her work drama, hold her tight at night, and be honest when she asks if her suit is getting a little snug.

I’m not suggesting that women at my age have low expectations, but I am saying that [as we get older and as the pool of eligible brothers dwindles] our needs tend to be different from a lot of younger women. I mean really, we remember what it was like to be fresh out of college, $50,000 in the hole, and stuck with job prospects that pay only a portion of that. A guy with some dough would have been nice, if for nothing else than to treat her to something other than spaghetti or ramen noodles one night a week. So shout out to all the young chicks looking for the big pay back.

Older women, ones with secure careers and decent finances tend to be less concerned with finding a man who can buy her things. We’ve been there, done that shit, and it wasn’t all that…ok birthdays WERE off tha chain! But at 30, a woman with a thriving career and toilet level romance prospects, is more likely to see your potential and want to nurture it.

Stop right there. I didn’t say ALL. Nor am I speaking for all. But if your problem is the money problem, then perhaps instead of writing of ALL women as stars in a Kanye video, consider a woman with some dough of her own…

So Sweetie Pie, what do you think?

“But I want a younger woman,” he says!

Well good luck, playa. Like you said, she ain’t messin with no broke ngga.

Don't Believe the TYPE

I learned something a long time ago, and thank God I did:…not every girl is for every guy…and obviously vice versa. We all, to some degree have TYPES. Check it…

In high school I had a reputation of being a “guy’s girl.” Ya know, the girl who is really cool with guys, is into sports, is really laid back, and tends not to pay much attention to pre-set gender roles. (Sadly, today our sexuality is questioned, but not back then!)

Now I never lacked for attention from guys…there were plenty who appreciated my kind of femininity. But at the same time I was not always attracting the type of guy that I was into. Case in point: Jon Summers*. He was a good friend of my childhood boyfriend, a guy I grew up with. They were very similar, had comparable personalities and interests, so I figured I'd have no problem attracting Jon the same way I had my friend.

So imagine my dismay when I went to a party at their school and Jon was stapled to the corner lip-locked up with this, this, this chick! The general adolescent consensus at the time was that chick was not too bright, and by most estimations, not that attractive either. I was PERPLEXED…and kinda salty.

But bec I liked him, I took for granted what kind of girl that Jon would like without acknowledging that he might have other interests. Maybe he liked ultra-femme, trophy girls. Maybe he liked someone not on his intellectual level, ya know, someone he could teach and mold. Maybe he didn't like chocolate sistas like myself. Who knows!

But the point is that just because I'm hilarious, smart and cute, does not mean that I'm the kind of girl that every guy wants…

Now having said all that…fellas, is there a girl or two in your life, or in your past, who might fall into the same category? You just can't understand why she is not wide open for you? You're smart as hell. Have a promising career and ambition draining from your pores. You keep a tight fade, and you always smell sexy. What’s the deal??

Well it might just be something as simple as her not feeling your “type.” It’s really not much different than the way you process women you meet. You take one look and the possibilities (or impossibilities) become obvious right away.

So don't blame sista…she is clear about what she wants. And it’s not an indictment on your character. Maybe you're just not her “type.”

*name changed slightly, but if you know me then you know I aint really changed much at all!

Boy Chart

Happy New Year, boys...

I spoke to a college friend today. She reminded me of the age chart she and I devised back then, that explains where in life guys are at different ages up to 30…bec at 21 I wasn’t really checking for men over that threshold. As we grew older we began to really see the validity in our claims, and it has never been more clear and correct than it is today.

Do YOU fit the bill?

20-23 – College. Still obsessed with sexual conquests…and video games.

24-25 – Finally finished with school and actually landed a decent job. Now he’s able to finance his feverish conquest for ass, so watch out. Now, when you see him perusing the mall, he’s got not only the latest Madden his shopping bags…but, oh my, CK One cologne.

26 – He’s been on the job a year now, and has a full week and a half’s worth of black and blue dress pants hanging on wire hangers in his closet….floor full of Jordans. He’s met some really great women at after-work happy hour, and he’s even dated a few for extended periods of time. But he still has some low-expectation homeboys who convince him he’s still much too young to “throw in his player’s card.” Plus they need one more pair of thumbs to round out the NBA Live tourney next Saturday.

27 – By now he’s switched jobs, this one has a 401k (of which he does not take advantage. He needs his WHOLE check…or rather, Discover card is demanding it!). He’s been with so many women – (he’s embarrassed by a great many of them, but azz is azz) – that he is now tired of the game, and secretly longs for a steady…but of course he masks this desire and remains elusive by being “really focused on the career right now.” His ego soars high as the girl in Human Resources outdoes herself to get his attention. But he’s the guy who “works crazy hours” and doesn’t “have time for a serious relationship right now.” Oh, and he’s upgraded to Crave cologne. Even owns a few pairs of square-toed shoes. Sneaker game is out of this world. Also at least one of his boys is now a baby daddy…who now buys X-Box games “for his seed.”

28 – Like many of his female counterparts, this guy is deep in debt, btwn credit cards and Sallie Mae. So he’s not at happy hour as much, and is “tired of the mall” (plus now he’s also upgraded to “the outlets”). Karma has paid this fucker a few visits, and truth be told his heart’s been broken. He’s so disillusioned by being played that he turns to white girls. Yes, he’s a bit of a late bloomer. He finds a whole new world at the white bars, and finds it less expensive there too. Needless to say, with all that free bunny love, he’s not thinking about no wifey…despite the fact that he is FINALLY realizing that his white counterparts on the job have long since mastered the corporate game and now parade their trophy wives to all the holiday office parties.

29 – Mama’s on his azz now. As if HER biological clock is going nuts, she’s all but shopping for baby clothes, waiting on that grandbaby. This guy’s grandmother passed recently, and he’ss starting to feel lonely and under pressure for love. But he’s squandered away most of his 20s trying to conquer as many women as he can. Most of his friends are either in baby mama hell, or back living with their parents, so he spends a lot of time playing Playstation alone. Lives for the Saturday afternoons when one of his boys’ kids is with the in-laws. He’s got a photo album full of anonymous smiling women from the good old road trip days: Freaknik, Daytona, Caribana, Jones Beach. At 29, dude is depressed about 30. He’s discovered his 401k, wants to buy a condo, and has been researching Whole Life insurance policies…but then frowns knowing he has no one to leave the money to in the unfortunate event of his demise. All of a sudden, he wonders when the tides have turned…women used to be aplenty. Now it seems the well has gone dry, and he can’t seem to find “the right girl.” The one who can cook and strip at the same time. The pressure is so thick he contemplates relocating for a fresh start. But then mama calls, and he rationalizes that he’s got “family obligations” and THAT’S why he’s single with no prospects.

30 – Still deep in a depression, his boys take him out to celebrate the big 3-0. And despite the despair, it’s like New Years Day…a rebirth or sorts. He begins to see this decade as a way to rewrite his future. He frequents the real estate section of the paper and will actually go to an open house this year. He will order a copy of his credit report. He will get an HIV test. He will buy his mama a substantial gift. He will get rims on his Explorer (still spinnin’). He will ask for a raise. He will upgrade yet again. Maybe a Polo fragrance to match his new boxer briefs. He will finally give in to the girl in Human Resources. Try the steady thing. He will get a flat screen TV. He will bring his dead Granny bouquets on Sundays after church. He will get his four suits tailored. He will get some AZZ!
Sound familiar??

Genesis...Understanding Women...Not Gonna Happen...Unless...

This is a Public Service Announcement…or maybe just an announcement of my new public service. Ahem, well, since it IS the holidays (thank GOD it’s almost over), I’ve decided that my blog will be a gift to young men everywhere…no not that kind of gift…(and what a GIFT it is!)

OK it’s much more self-serving than that actually. You see, I am a writer so this has been a long time coming. But truth is, I am in my late-20s, and after hitting corporate America hard since 2 weeks after college graduation, I am soon heading back to the books to tackle my Masters.

As excited as I am about being reacquainted with the collegiate bursar nazis, it just occurred to me that I will once again be placed into a population of horny, young, impressionable boys. College boys. I didn’t take too kindly to it the first time around (undergrad was SO wack), so imagine my enthusiasm as a grown ass woman. I’m dripping…really. [note: this blog will be terribly sarcastic]

What is it about young guys that unsettles me? They’re dumb, for starters. No offense, fellas, lots of the girls are just as clueless…but in the past few years I have come to know quite a many younger guy who is at his wits end trying to “figure out women.” The notion alone is so laughable, that it has actually become nauseating. The whining…

My credentials: Really, just being a fairly astute, mature, sensible woman, who has encountered relationships of ALL types…who seems not to be so baffled of the whole gender thing. It’s not brain science, boys. I swear to G, it’s not.

What you’ll learn: Follow me on this journey and I will explain to you the mysteries…

Why she won’t give you head
How to know if you’ll hit, and how soon
Why she’s so clingy
Why she didn’t call you back
What makes women think you’re gay
Why it seems all women love thugs
Why nice guys finish last
Why she ain’t messin’ with no broke, broke…
Why you are a plutonic pimp
How you can be broke and still attract women
How to interpret those ambiguous signals
Why you’re a drama magnet
Why you think you’re being sensitive, and she thinks you’re a little bitch
When to shut up
Why sistas who give you and your white girl the eye aren’t mad in the least
What older women REALLY want from your young ass
And of course, what you really want to know…What do women want! The answer is so simple…

But baby steps, young man. Shaken baby steps…because let’s face it, you don’t have a clue and we need to start at the very beginning (Doe, a deer…)[note: If you’re a heterosexual man and you got that reference, email me immediately. I will have a crush on you.]
Stay tuned boys…bec if all goes well, you will also become privy to comments from woman who will co-sign (or negate) my expertise. And by all means, hiht me with your personal dilemmas and I will help you navigate them…or at the very least find a funny way to tell you that.... SHE’S JUST NOT FEELING YOU!