Archive for the 'business' Category


“songs by the Little River Band” or, “how a Mexican and 12 pack of cheap beer inadvertently changed my life…”

I resigned from my job, yesterday.

When I was a child, I always thought that resignations were the distinct province of older white men who worked for fifty years at important companies, and were rewarded at day’s end with a signet pen and a bottle of aged brandy.

As an adult, I, of course, realize that a resignation is what parents have when they accept that their nearly 30 year old daughter prefers a boozy night out to a domesticated night in; or, in my case, what one says to her wonderful boss to mean, “I quit this bitch—only not today,” whilst walking out on a perfectly good job in the middle of a recession.

But more on that, later.

Though I didn’t realize it at their respective times, I bore witness to two events, this week, which ultimately proved the catalysts for my untimely bow out:

Wednesday, September 8, 2010. 7:45 pm. Alexandria, Virginia.

I decided to take some work home, and had parked my car curbside to easily transport the box of files I‘d, in all likelihood, ignore. Upon my return to the office, I heard a rustling noise from the far end of the hallway.

There he was.

The short, gold-toothed man of the cleaning crew.

Now, sadly, like most members of professions who occupy fancy office spaces, I’d never taken particular note of the cleaning crew or Gold Tooth; never offered Gold Tooth more than a smile, and a general “hello/goodnight”  in the two years time that I’d worked at my firm. I didn’t know his name, or if he had children. I didn’t know if he enjoyed his job;  if he’d drawn a correlation between my fondness for late night Thai takeout and my ever-expanding hips while dispensing with the trash.

But all of that was forgotten, as I stood there, in that new moment, immobilized, watching him with avid fascination.

He was attempting to prop open the glass door of the business at the end of the hall.

Only, he wasn’t using a doorstop.

He wasn’t even using a brick, or heavy box.

He was using……

a watermelon.


He was using two watermelons.

Or attempting to, rather.

You see, he’d get the door open and pushed to the side, and secured with one watermelon.

Then, he’d rush to get the other watermelon.


By the time he’d gotten back to square one with the second watermelon, the door was slamming with the first watermelon.

And it was slamming with force, too.

Like, it was sending Watermelon One rolling all the way down the hallway.

Then Gold Tooth would let out a curse, put down Watermelon Two, go rush off after Watermelon One, and start the whole thing all over, again.

As God is my judge, I watched him go on in this fashion for no less than two minutes before sparing him one last look, and a confused shaking of my head.

Enter life’s lesson number one:

Contrary to popular belief, most shit doesn’t make sense.

Our thinking that there is a determined model of how things are supposed to be is not a product of empirical fact as much as it is a general rationalization of something we’ve grown accustomed to seeing.

Thursday, September 9, 2010. 9:30 am. Alexandria, Virginia.

I was getting coffee at my neighborhood 7-11. Having been up since 7, dealing with the legal problems endemic to a society that permits marriage between two idiots but not two men, I wasn’t in the best of moods, and didn’t bother to look up when the usual band of ne’er do wells attempted to woo me with their early morning bird-doggery.

I was determinedly fixated on the perfect cup of Colombian roast, waiting impatiently for a fresh pot. As I stood there, staring angrily at the stainless steel java station, this loud woman entered the store, jovially greeting everyone with her raspy time-worn voice. Her movements were all at once shuffled and fast, blurry, but noticeably clumsy. She was about 55, and wore a dirty tee shirt and mom jeans, and a wig I would have easily described as the worstwigever prior to my move to DC (whose intimate familiarity with tragic wiggery has given me a newfound appreciation for the hair Afghanistan* that sat atop this woman’s head). Today I realize that hers wasn’t the worstwigever. It was just peasely/natty/nappy as FUCK.

Her outside voice belied an ease with the “s” consonant of which I took particular offensive note. I looked up to identify the source of my audio derision. There she stood, next to me, happily pouring old coffee into a cup and flooding same with milk and sugar; loud talking all the while, in a manner of speech marrying Daffy Duck with runaway slave. She had approximately four teeth in her mouth. 

Directing her conversation to a passerby I assumed she knew, she said, “I’m just trying to run these quick errands. Git these quick thangs. You know I gotta pick Mama up from her dialysis.”

I glanced over at the “quick thang” she was toting with her. It was a 12 pack of Natural Light.

She amicably chatted with the person at the station, making certain to mention two more times that she was in a rush to “pick Mama up from her dialysis.” It took everything within me not to roll my eyes or groan as I stood there waiting for the coffee I was certain would save some unexpected person from an unmerited curse out upon my entry to the office.

I nearly did a praise dance when I’d finally secured a cup.

Recalling that my assistant had asked me to bring her a pack of gum, I debated ,briefly, about what  flavor she’d like before remembering that she was my assistant, and I truly didn’t give a fuck.  Grabbing a packet of Big Red, I approached the cash register only to find myself behind the loud talking lacefront offender.

I once more fought the urge gouge my eyes out as she requested a pack of Parliaments and deliberated with her friend about which lottery tickets to purchase.

The doors opened, again, and the loudtalker eagerly greeted the new patron.

“Cousin!!!” she shouted (or said in a decibel natural to her).

“Hey, gal!” the woman replied.

The new woman appeared to be cut of the same cloth as the loud talker, and she inquired about Loud Talker’s comings and goings and the health of her mother.

She began, “Girl, what chu doin’ in here? Girl, look at you drankin that beer this early. I ain’t gon’ say nothin’. You know I ain’t gon say nothin’. How’s yo’ kin? How’s yo’ mama?”

Quite naturally, Loud Talker obliged her with the information she had been supplying the whole store, about her need to quickly complete her errands. “Chile, go on! You know I ain’t drankin’ this water beer, chile. If I was drankin’,  you know it’d be the bull, girl. You know I only mess with the bull. This here is for Miss Dena. You know I gotta hurry up cause Miss Dena gets her dialysis on Thursday, now.”

That’s when it hit me.

Miss Dena = Mama.

Mama = Miss Dena.

Loud Talker was in a rush to pick up beer for her old ass mother who she was also picking up from her dialysis treatment. At 9:30 am.

Enter life’s lesson number two:

There comes a time-

in every adult person’s life-

when you





giving a fuck.

Sometimes, the only shit that matters, is that shit don’t matter.

On Friday, September 10, 2010, at 7:15 am, I walked into my beautiful, wonderful boss’s office, looked him dead in the eye, and rejected nearly thirty years of indoctrination in favor of my own personal road less travelled.

It didn’t make perfect sense.

It didn’t have to.

I’d stopped giving a fuck.

*Afghanistan—Aff.gan.i.stan. n. A country in the Middle East bordering Iran and Pakistan; a generally fucked up situation.


Dear potential clients, please treat the following as “understood” in any contract for legal services struck betwixt us two….


I want you all to gather round for a moment. I have a few things that I’d like to share, that have been weighing on my heart .

A lot of motherfuckers out there in the world have me confused with someone else.

Now, while I can’t say for certain, by my own cursory estimate, a lot of motherfuckers out there in the world have me confused with some broad who won’t shut all of this shit down.

By “this” I, of course, mean “every motherfucking thing.”

Dear, dear potential clients, only moments before I began this entry, I had to fire an existing client.

Bet you didn’t even know lawyers could fire their clients.

Know who else didn’t know?

My bitchass client.

‘Til I fired that ass.

Why did I fire her?

She refused to watch her fucking tone.

Despite my numerous protestations,

And that made me want to punch her in her sassy mouth.

Which I viewed as both counterintuitive and problematic to our continued attorney-client relationship.

So that bitch had to go.

Now, I know exactly how it happened. I know the precise moment when shit started escalating beyond my control. But, unfortunately, things were so far gone, the only remedy available to me was the nasty, black bitch one.

And she never saw it coming.

No one ever does.

Let me explain.

Hyper-educated black women are compelled to contend with a number of forces on any given day.

Now, because they are “forces,” these things are largely invisible to the naked eye (read as culturally unaware, historically ignorant, socially insensitive as a motherfucker). So if your vision isn’t that stellar (or you just happen to be culturally unaware, historically ignorant, or socially insensitive as a motherfucker) you might fail to notice the constant guerilla warfare in which we frequently engage.

For your general edification, allow me to alert you to the fact that, the moment I walk out of my door, I have to confront several basic truths:

-I am black, and an awful lot of people hate black people. Even the people who pretend they don’t hate black people sometimes hate black people. These people are the ones who generally like black people like me, and hold me up as an example of the type of black person they like. Then they either expressly say or implicitly suggest that we never talk about my being black, as we are, after all, living in a post-racial America. There’s no need for talk of blackness in post-racial America.

-I am a woman, and an awful lot of people think I’m incapable of being as smart as a man, or as tough as a man. An awful lot of people think I’m given to little more than wild flights of fancy or frivolity.

-Everyone expects me to smile. When I don’t smile, I am perceived as being mean, or sassy, or moody. Cause you know, black women are all mean, or sassy, or moody.

-I am expected to find the perfect balance between strong and bitch, between confident and uppity, between attractive and hypersexed.

-I have to take care to annunciate, and utilize proper grammatical sequences and tenses, and appropriately effectuate subject/predicate agreement, for any slip into colloquial speak or euphemisms could result in my listener concluding I know no better. Also, I generally have to articulate every word that comes out of my mouth in a treble at least 1-2 octaves higher than my regular speaking voice; you know, so as not to threaten non-blacks.

-I have to be conscious of the fact that my education and professionalism lend themselves to criticism in my own community, and make certain to appear humble at all times, lest any of my own people think me uppity.

-And after all of this is done, I still have to actually work within a highly politicized framework, pay bills, pay back student loans, get my coarse, Negro hair done, and somewhere in there find time to be sufficiently and thoroughly fucked.

And I gotta make it all look effortless.

Now, I’m not complaining.

I’m a big girl. This is my lot in life. And, given the chance, I probably wouldn’t have it any other way. The most beautiful things we are to achieve in this life are often first born of hardship.

However, on account of my delicately manufactured smoothness of exterior; because of the perceived ease of my delivery, people sometimes forget themselves.

People mistake me for being soft.

And this sad reality weighs heavily on my already-overburdened heart.

Listen, people.

All I’m asking, is that you take into consideration, the breadth of that list of “forces” with which I’m made to contend every day of my young, mahogany-colored, close-cut coiffed existence.

Remember that list. Guard it close.

And know that I am never, ever—

Ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever


More than 1-2 minutes MAX away from cursing you THE FUCK out.


I don’t give a damn WHO you are.

In the immortal words of my prophyte, I will knock allllllllllllllllllllllllla this shit down, okay?

I will straight destroy eeeeeeeeeevvvvvverything within your line of vision.

Further, I have to assume that, if something has brought you to my door, it is you who needs me. Not the other way around. I do just fine on my own. If you have any doubt of this, please refer, once more, to aforementioned list of shit I deal with on a daily basis……SUCCESSFULLY.

So, basically I just need you to watch who the fuck you’re talking to.


Fooler Fridays–delayed, condensed, and….on Saturday…but, for what it’s worth….

My apologies for the delay, guys…my real life got in the way. Here you are, fresh for your consumption, two weeks worth of Fooler Friday questions…..

Fooler, great blog. Here’s my question. Hope you answer it. Should I be worried that my boyfriend won’t let me go through his phone?


Know why?

It’s his phone.

I know a lot of women will disagree with me on this one, but, I am, and have always been, vehemently anti-snooping.

It makes you look crazy and irrational.

More importantly, it is a complete invasion of privacy. Your boyfriend has a right to his privacy. That’s the bottom line.

I know that’s not what you want to hear, right? In your mind, you’re probably all, “If he didn’t have anything to hide, I could look through his phone.”

You’re probably right. But here’s the thing: Most people have something to hide.

I’m sure your boyfriend has a gang of exposed titties on his iPhone. I’m sure some skank with an itty bitty waistline and a big ole booty has sent him every manner of suggestive “sext.”

And while that shit is the “proof” of wrongdoing, your preferred method of “procurement” is unnecessary, and equally violative.

Here’s how I see it.

The Fourth Amendment of the Constitution grants all persons in this country an inalienable protection against unreasonable search and seizure. Bear with me for a moment.

In criminal law, if a suspect is stopped and detained unlawfully, and subsequently searched, no matter how gruesome or incriminating the find, said contraband is subject to a determination of inadmissibility. This is generally referred to as the doctrine of “The Poisonous Tree.” All of the shit illegally recovered—the “fruit” of the “Poisonous Tree.”

Invading someone’s privacy to substantiate your suspicions is a toxic practice. Scrolling through someone’s call log is the figurative epitome of Poisonous Tree branches. It undermines the trust, security, affection and respect people agree to share when first they embark on a relationship.

In essence, it’s fucked up.

Further, it’s unnecessary. In my mind, the mere fact that you want to search his phone is telling. It suggests either a problem with you, or a problem with him and how he’s behaving. If your suspicions compel you to need proof of his fidelity; if he has to literally prove that to you—that is to say, it’s not otherwise evident—you might want to give some thought to whether this is the type of space you want to be in.


If he’s not a complete jackass, his phone is clean, anyway. All that means is that he’s A) erased her texts and photos, or B) has her number saved under “Brian” or “Mark” in his contacts.

Fooler, I love the writing on this blog. I do some freelance writing, myself, and love and admire your use of language. Do you have a favorite word? I’m obsessed with words.

I love this question!!! I ask people this question ALL of the time! I do have a favorite word, actually. Ready for it?


Permit me a non sequitur.

One of my favorite indie movies is this film called “Flirting” with Thandie Newton and Nicole Kidman. There’s this scene where the high society Nicole Kidman is describing this off beat relationship she has with some random blue collar man. She describes this practice they have which involves her sitting in a chair, perfectly still, and him simply walking around her, periodically touching her. Then she exhales deeply, and says, “Just the thought of it makes me feel shivery delicious all over.”

This is one of my all-time favorite movie lines, and it goes straight to the heart of how I feel about the word “decadent.” I’m fairly certain that anything categorically characterized as such has the capacity to make me feel “shivery delicious all over.”

Whew. It’s hot in here.

Hey, Girl. I’ve always loved DC, but I never get to spend any real time there. I’m planning a trip for a week or two towards the end of the summer. What’s your favorite thing to do in DC and why?

Wow, this is a huge question.

With lots of answers.

Generally, I like to kick it with my friends. And I make it a point to always, always set an extra place setting for my favorite “roll dawg” of choice, bourbon.

As it happens, DC is chock full of places to just chill and imbibe seven days a week. I’ll be damned if drinks on a moonlit rooftop terrace, with good company, amidst a backdrop of centuries old triumphs in architecture don’t beat all.

Now, when I want to go somewhere no one will recognize me; when I’m feeling frisky, and in the mood to dangle my participles and substitute “ph” consonant blends for “th” consonant blends (“wiph” for “with,” “earph” for “earth” and so on); when I want to don my palm-sized doorknockers that my linesister has forbidden me to wear beyond the four walls of my home–I go to Lux.

But, I’m an only child, so I’m pretty big on basic things as well. I’d equally consider, among my favorite DC to dos:

-walking my dogs downtown.

This is best affected in a quasi-revealing sundress and large sunglasses. The combination of dogs, flesh, and “stunnas” is lethal for the average DC male, and you are bound to return home with approximately a 46-68% boost in confidence.

-visiting the monuments…at night.

Guarandamnteed BEST makeout spots in the Greater DC Metropolitan Area. Careful not to get arrested.

-the zoo.

It’s hot as FUCK to do, and it goes on for years, but I love the National Zoo. And I’m a non-meat eating zoo-hater, generally, so it’s saying something that I love it so. I make everyone who visits go at least once.

Finally, I have this elaborate fantasy about getting on the train and riding it to no where in particular, but simply watching people along the way. People in this area are out of their minds crazy, which makes for good blogging. When I finally get the time to do it, I know it will quickly overpower any previously enumerated thing on this list.

Fooler, I have a crazy situation. Me and my best friend have been cool since we were kids. We’re both 31 now. She has been dating her boyfriend for 4 years and he is a great guy. They’ve been through some stuff along the way, but he’s great. We’ve been cool for a bit and have always gotten along, but I recently moved to a new apartment and we live closer to each other so we’ve been spending more time together. I know I’m attracted to him and I know he’s attracted to me and we’ve talked about it but haven’t acted out of loyalty to my girl. But she’s cheating on him! And he suspects but doesn’t know. People can’t help who they fall in love with. Should I tell him she’s cheating?

This is a great time for me to restate my general Fooler Fridays caveat: I am NOT a relationship expert. I am not a people expert. I am not qualified to advise any person on any thing outside of the shit I hold degrees in (and even that is occasionally suspect).

That said—

Girl, HELL NO.

That dude is NOT your man.

He is your friend’s man. Period. The end.

This isn’t some ridiculous surrender to the arbitrary dictates of Girl Law shit, either. What you are contemplating is pretty broad strokes fucked up.

I literally, two days ago, came across this great E.M. Forster quote: “…[I]f I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I should hope I have the guts to betray my country.”

Maybe your girl is a shady character. Maybe she’s not worth a damn. But, you’ve thrown your lot in with hers and, by your own admission, have cleaved to her since you were children. Why would you betray her trust?

I obviously don’t know you.

I don’t know this man.

Maybe he is the answer to your soul’s siren song.

Maybe you are two tragic, star-crossed lovers, thrown into the chaos of this crazy, unpredictable world, and as the foundations of everything else you knew, and were indeed, certain of, crumble about you, all you’ve left is a desperate, love-wrought, adhesion to one another.

But my money’s on your being two horny, selfish, sonsofbitches.

Look. Who among us hasn’t been attracted to a friend’s boyfriend or girlfriend at one time or another? It makes perfect sense. Friends are drawn to each other often out of some commonality of purpose or perspective, so it’s in keeping with shared ideologies and tastes that they’d occasionally overlap in their affections for the companions of the other. No harm, no foul. It’s logical even.

But, girl, when you start creeping around that man’s house under cover of night, not telling your girl—or worse, telling her, because she has every reason to trust that the two of you will comport yourselves appropriately, you’re treading dangerous waters.

I hate it when people say “You can’t help who you fall in love with.” That’s bullshit. The heart may indeed want what it wants, but the heart is trapped inside of your body; your body has an ass attached to it; you and that ass ought to be at home, in your own house, with your own man.

But you didn’t ask me all of that.

You asked me if you should dime out your best friend.


Here’s why:

  1. You’re not acting out of his best interest. You’re acting out of your own. Telling him is only going to unleash hurt and anger. Maybe it will make you feel better because you’re not guarding a secret, but it will make him feel worse. Further, your loyalties to her outweigh any loyalty you feel you have toward him. Not to mention the fact that this is kind of a hater thing to do, no? Snitching out your friend so that he can fall for you.
  1. He’s gonna be mad. Know why? Cause his girl is cheating on him. How’s that going to make you feel watching him freak out over her indiscretion? And let’s say he gives himself permission to fuck you silly after finding out. How will you know that his actions aren’t in whole or in part motivated by some vendetta he has against his whoremongering girl (who I’ll remind you is your best friend)?
  1. What if he tells her you told him? Men are notorious for getting angry and telling shit they don’t have any business telling. NOTORIOUS. How are you going to explain your telling to your friend? She’s done him dirty for sure, but, damn, she thought she could confide in you.

Look, I’m all about freedom, and doing your own thing, and moral relativity, and situational flexibility and all that and all that. And in defense of my EXCEEDINGLY judgmental depiction of your situation (and I apologize for it), I am simply a stranger responding to a stranger’s anonymous question. I don’t know you. I don’t know your love, and therefore I lack the capability to see any “special” in your particular set of circumstances. In fact, all I see is typical. I see, in typical, girl fashion, one broad going for another broad’s man.

I’ve done my fair share of dirt, but I punish myself severely when I’ve fucked over a friend.

Just once, for the sake of the historical analysis; for the analogs of Womankind; for the edification of our gender, whose time-worn chronology has seen more than its just portion of boys destroying the unions of girls—

Be atypical.

Choose her.


here’s a newsflash, quickie mart disciple: her period *could* be *your* friend…

This morning at 7-11 I stood behind this especially rough-looking young man who was on the phone with who I will presume was his girlfriend. He was letting her know all of the things that he was picking up–milk, a liter of fanta (don’t even pretend like fanta isn’t some of the most delicious carbonated sugar-water on the planet), a pack of AA batteries, and some cigarettes.

Now, as best I can tell, the woman on the phone asked this dear gentleman if he would be so kind as to—in addition to the rather meaningless assortment of price-gouged trifles he had at the register—grab her a box of tampons.

A virtual LITANY of almost indecipherable “English” burst forth from his ganja-black, chappy lips. “NAH SON, NAH. Ain’tnobodyupinhe-yeretryinagitchunotamponspadsnone-adat,ma!” (Translation: “I’d rather not.”) I can only surmise that his response was met with a case of “The woman doth protest,” as he went on and on while me and the rest of the store waited. “NAW!!! NAW!! WELLYOUJUSGONHAVETOGITUPANDGITCHUSOMEDEN!! YOUJUSTGONHAVETOGITUPANDGITCHUSOMEDEN!! I’m sorry! I’ma man, son! I’ma man. Ain’t nobody fittin’ ta buy no tampons, pads, none-a dat up in here! Call one of your girls to git chu some. I’m comin’ home.”

See that? This man was soooo put off by her womanly time and its accoutrements, that he couldn’t even process rational thought. He was on his way back to the place they shared in common. He was at the quickie mart where one traditionally buys last minute this and thats for sudden needs. And he suggested that this woman, who he obviously has some regard for, at the crack ass of dawn, get up, get dressed, and she, herself, come down to where he already was, to buy some shit that he just couldn’t bring himself to buy. He then supplemented that ridiculously fucked up suggestion with another liken unto it in fuckedupedness—that she call one of her friends—a stranger to their home—and have one of them, at the crack ass of dawn, come down to the store, where he already was, and buy some shit, that he just couldn’t bring himself to buy.


Now, granted, what happens to a woman’s mound of love during her monthly ladytime isn’t exactly a fistful of awesome. We’re not entirely over the moon about it, ourselves. But this campaign against a woman’s period has got to stop. Like, it has to stop. What that man did, today, was pure-tee ignorant. No other word for it.

And frankly, I don’t get what everyone is so up in arms about. In my mind, men who writhe and moan in disgust about a woman’s period are over-looking two very important factors.

  1. A woman’s period is not a time to fixate on or get disgusted by what her body is doing. Rather, it is a time to get hype about what her body isn’t doing.

Namely, carrying around your unwanted, bastard child. Let me tell you something right now. There are three things in this world that I hate the idea of going on in my belly. Number 3 is my period. Number 2 is the growth of a regenerated alien life form that has, unbeknownst to myself, used my womb to house and incubate its alien-spawn in an effort to proliferate its own kind on this Earth for the ultimate purpose of intergalactic species domination. Number 1 is carrying around your unwanted, bastard child. You just be glad that box of tampons you’re holding isn’t a box of pampers.

You know what’s really nasty, Ignorant7-11Man? The skidmarks that I bet are stained in your damned drawes. I bet you don’t have a bunch of unwashed drawes in your home because that good woman is too skeeved out to wash them. I bet she doesn’t suggest that you call your boys over to put your shitstained boxer-briefs in the gentle cycle.  I’m sure she is big enough to overlook it. Here she is, unable to control having her period, and you can’t even be bothered to wipe your own ass. Be quiet, grow the fuck up, and take that home-making, washing your dirty drawes bitch some tampons.

2. A woman’s period might shine a light on the closet freak you’re kicking it with.

(Ed. Note: I like to put the word “freak” in bold so you can comprehend just how emphatically I am saying the “fr” consonant blend.)

Generally speaking, most menstruating women are inclined to deem any advancing penis as persona non grata for the next three to seven days. EXCEPT for the wha-wha-wha-whats??? That’s right, the freaks. Freaks don’t have a problem with letting you in their little molten hot box of monthly-courses love. Those bitches will put a towel down so quickly and beckon you ever-onward with their come-hither-type stares. But you won’t be in a position to know this super-carnal knowledge-secret about your down-for-whatever girl until her period comes. Here you are thinking you’re dating some mousy, traditional, mealy-mouthed broad who barely communicates above a whisper. Little do you know, there’s a kotex-casting-aside, pop a midol and let’s roll, certified Adina Howard between those Wamsutta 600 thread counts. You could even mess around and find out that once monthly she’ll let you do that other thing in that other place……………….You know what I’m talkin’ about….

So, I’m saying, fellas…

A little perspective, if you please…


The beginning………..perhaps………of the end. Fooler Fridays…

First of all, I would like to thank everyone for submitting questions for this first installment of Fooler Fridays. Seriously, I appreciate the feedback.

I didn’t know where everyone stood on anonymity so, I’ve erred on the side of caution.

Also, I haven’t posted all of the questions because a lot of you asked about my personal life, which I found a bit surprising. I’m happy to answer them in due time, but it seemed a little bit of a dick move to spend the whole forum talking about how awesome I think I am.

Oh, also, one more thing. Just so we’re all clear, I’m not a relationship expert. Like, at all. I’m actually the worst person in the entire world from whom you should expect any Oracle at Delphi relationship wisdom. I just thought, you know…y’all outta know that. If you’re relying on my representations, you will totally F yourselves in the A every.single.time.

So, without further ado………

Dear Fooler,

I am a male reader, and I love your blog. I am always a little surprised when you talk about the male/female dynamic. I guess I always thought that women didn’t go for sex outside of relationships like men do. Have I been wrong? If I have been, how can I get more of this in my life?

–Hmm. I have it on good authority that all women aren’t the same. My own group of friends is split firmly down the middle with respect to the clandestine encounter/jumpoff vs. relationship sex debate. Some go for it, some don’t.

So I guess you haven’t been wrong, per se.

LOL. You want me to tell you how to score a jump, huh? I don’t know that I can answer this to your satisfaction. I will say this, though. I truly believe that a man’s ability to get a woman into bed depends more on the man than the woman. If a man is confident, and not a complete jerkoff; if he doesn’t talk too much (seriously, this is the death knell of passion—I don’t know when y’all will learn to just not speak); if he’s not horrifically ugly (emphasis here on the modifier…we WILL fux with a little bit of monsterface if his game is right); and if he can (sparingly)say one or two of the right things—a cocktail or 3 later should find you, at the very least, in the back of her car with your hand down her blouse.

Okay, maybe it’s not that easy, but, you get the gist of it. I think that’s the best I can do without knowing you.

Hey Fooler! Great blog! Cupcakes: good or bad?

–Omg, are you kidding me?!!? GOOD! THE BEST!! Okay, as it happens, I have been on a mission I’ve entitled the Great North American Cupcake Hunt since 2007. Seriously. I’ve been trolling this country in search of its finest cupcakes for 3 years, and have only been met with moderate success. Mine is a merit-based system predicated on 3 main categories: aesthetics, actual cake-in-a-cup-ability, and handle-ease.

Aesthetics: The cupcake has to look awesome, but not at the expense of taste. I once caved and bought these beautiful poinsettia cupcakes from Whole Foods around Christmas, and those fuckers tasted like recycled toilet paper.

Cake-in-a-cup-ability: Now, there are two schools of thought on this. Some people prefer cupcakes to have a little less substance than an actual cake; to be a little lighter; to be a less heavy alternative to an actual slice of cake. Personally, I’m a strict constructionalist with respect to my cupcakes. I’m looking for the actual cakeness of cake——-in a cup.

Handle ease: This is where people in the District fuck up. Y’all are doing too much. I have to be able to hold the cupcake and transport it. It’s supposed to be easier than a piece of cake that requires a plate and utensils. Stop putting gummi worms and loads of frosting and shit on these cupcakes, people. Bitches with sticky fingers are not welcome in my vehicle or home.

Good morning, Fooler—
Me and my co-worker have an ongoing bet based on the fact that you talk about your linesister all of the time. I’m a Delta. She’s an AKA. I say you’re my soror, she thinks you’re an AKA. Who’s right?

—You are, Soror. _______________ Chapter of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated. Spring 2002, #2. The LS to which I consistently refer is my #10 out of our line of eleven. As you can imagine, we look quite ridiculous while in public, together. Doubly so as she refuses to acquiesce to my persistent request to not wear 4 inch heels.

Dear Fooler,

I love your blog. You are hilarious. I forward it to everyone I know. Me and a couple of my girls want to know why you never talk about love. Have you ever been in love? Do you think it’s harder to find as a black woman in DC?

—WOW. Okay.

Simply put, love is hard, ass is simple. As I—above and beyond all things, perhaps—appreciate simplicity, I focus on ass. There’s not enough room in the blogosphere to support the one hundred million thoughts I have on love, or my own ability to mishandle it.

Have I ever been in love? Yep.

Do I think it’s harder to find as a black woman in DC? Nope.

I do question, however, women who are on the active hunt for “love.” Like, why is “love” something that anyone is “looking for?” I can guarandamntee any love that’s hiding under a rock waiting to be found is not what you want.

In my experience, people who are looking for “love” really mean that they’re looking for “romance.” The two are not one in the same. Not at all. Romance is flowers, and handholding, and hushed whispers in the dark, and knowing glances across the dinner table.

You ever travel forty-five minutes through Metro traffic with a bag full of medicine and a bottle of OJ to reach your phlegm-spewing, puffy-eyed girlfriend whose face has doubled in size overnight? Cause that’s love.

Fooler, please fill in the blanks—

My friend _________ has the cutest child in the whole wide world.

My friend _________ has the smartest child in the whole wide world.

I am fairly certain that my friend _______’s child is going to be the President of the United states one day, or maybe a Supreme Court Justice if he/she decides to go to law school.

Hint: All three blanks should be filled in with the same friend’s name.

—-FYI, I never had any doubt in my mind where this question came from. You’re an asshole.


My friend, Kelly, a jackass, has the cutest child in the whole wide world.

My friend, Kelly, a jackass, has the smartest child in the whole wide world.

I am fairly certain that my (jackass) friend, Kelly’s child is going to be the President of the United States one day, or maybe a Supreme Court Justice if he/she decides to go to law school.


Fooler Fridays……

So, my postings are a tad on the irregular side….
what, with my paying job and all….

A friend of mine has suggested that I open up this page to reader questions…and, while I must wholeheartedly concede that I am qualified to advise absolutely no one person on any one thing, I do think a Q and A forum might help with my consistency….

So, starting tomorrow, Friday, the 7th of May, I will open this space up for questions. I’ll try to post the queries and my responses every Friday for as long as they come.

No topic is verboten, obviously, save legal questions, as I’m fairly certain blindly responding to legal questions on a blog space is, at its worst, malpractice, and at its best, malfeasance.

So, by all means, indulge my internet narcissism.
And with that…let the Friday fuckery begin……


why i fux with lux

—I fuck with that; I fucks with that; I fux wit’ dat—euphem. Eng. Derivative of 1970s, “I can dig it.” I like that very much. That’s awesome beyond all recognition. I can certainly appreciate that.—-

Educated black people, in large quantities, enlightened by their life’s experience and matriculation through the upper echelons of The Man’s world—— fucking suck.

That’s right. I said it. Y’all suck.

I don’t want to see your fucking business card. I don’t give a damn about your Ivy education. Your fancy foreign car can suck meat. Y’all suck.

Unduly harsh? I’ll take a step back, for a moment.

I’ve always wanted to live in DC.

Ever since I was a child.

For me, DC represented this sleek city life, teeming forth with urbane sophistication. A Tidewater native, DC was the polar opposite of my staid, suburban upbringing. And while some of the outlier contingents of Tidewater’s “seven cities” provided a slight deviation from the quiet, nuclear family mold my parents and neighbors tirelessly worked to cultivate for myself and my peers, the mean streets of South Norfolk (pronounced naw-fuk) and Newport News (affectionately nicknamed, “Bad News”) wasn’t exactly what I was shooting for. Mind you, I wasn’t naïve. I knew that DC had its less than desirable elements (I cannot even tell you what my mother calls it, and my father outright refuses to visit). But, if there was a place where blacks could thrive, DC was it.

When I went to college, this DC fantasy flourished. I met a group of people who I knew would be my lifelong friends, and they all had similar aspirations of DC living. By the time I reached law school, this fantasy, now epic in stature, was the only thing that kept me from shooting myself in the face. But, by this point, the dream had matured. My college friends had already preceded me and set up shop in the District. And I just knew that someday, soon, we’d sit around drinking glasses of red wine, engaging in deep discussions that were both esoteric and “down,” laughing in that self-congratulatory way that one does when she’s “made it,” our backs to the White House, and our eyes to the heavens.

And it all happened. With some minor tweaks, of course. We’ve grown and fused our networks, met new people and friends, but, the original concept is still there. And when we go out, we go to lounges or bars. Because, apparently, that’s what urban sophisticates do. They lounge. Even when I hang out with my newer friends, a decidedly more blipster (black hipster) set, we go to artsy lounges. Or rooftops set up like lounges. I imagine, like myself, everyone had grown long tired of the “club thing” in our late teens, early twenties.

Here’s the thing I didn’t bank on-

Educated black people, in large quantities, fucking suck. (I know I said it before, but trust me, it bears repeating.)

Everywhere I go, there’s some new mixer for “young, black professionals.” And everyone does the same thing. Everyone is a lawyer, or a doctor, or works on the Hill, or is a consultant. And everyone is so excited that he/she is a lawyer, or a doctor, or works on the Hill, or is a consultant. And it’s gotten to the point where those are the only people we seem to want to be around. Like your drink doesn’t even taste right if the girl next to you does hair for a living.

And then, one day, it was there…like a mirage in the desert. Lux Lounge.

Now, don’t be fooled by the “Lounge” part.

That shit is a club.

Through and through.

And it doesn’t seem like one at first. And by “at first,” I mean, from the outside.

Situated on New York Avenue (mmmhmm), Lux is a beautiful four storey building with elaborate molding, and a velvet rope. But once you get through security and step beyond those wood paneled doors– thug motherfucking life.

And this is the thing about growing up. Sometimes, you never know what you’ll miss until you happen upon it again.

And what I didn’t know that I missed, was that shady, hood element to be found in South Nawfuk and Bad News.

I didn’t know that what I really need, once in a while, is to put on the shortest, tightest, nakedest bitch dress I can find, with my doorknocker earrings, and get gully with DC’s finest.

At Lux, dudes come up to you, grab you by your waist, and hold you close. They whisper in your ear and call you “ma.”

At Lux, the wifebeater is an actual part of the outfit. The shirt is technically a jacket, meant to ultimately come off.

At Lux, bitches wear wigs. And not like, day-to-day, my hair is a mess wigs, either. Like, they’re on some, “Girl-it’s-about-to-be-on-tonight-and-I’m-wearing-my-good-wig-too” shit. You didn’t even know there was such a thing as a “good” wig, did you? Like, a wig that’s gonna help you get ass quicker than the wig you wear to work.

Know how many times I’ve been to Lux? A lot.

Know how many times a man has asked me for my card? Not a damned once.

And while there are plenty of good looking people at Lux, there is always a strong ugliestmotherfuckerinthewholewideworld element.

And they re-pre-sent.

Do you think that they care that their face game isn’t the tightest?

Hell no.


Cause even the ugliestmotherfuckerinthewholewideworld gets ass at Lux.

Let me tell you something. The other night, my linesister (who had treated me to Lux because she knows I love it so) was near the bar, and this troll-looking dude, this Chem lab project, rolled up on her (cause that’s how they do—they roll up on you), did the Lux-appropriate waist-grab-pull-close maneuver, and started grinding on her. Even though she’d thrown a few back, she had the presence of mind to incline her head to see the manner of man thoroughly assailing her hip bones with thrust after pelvic thrust. When she again, turned her head forward, I saw the panic gripping her face. Calling to mind the oath I’d taken, so many years ago, I immediately interjected myself between soror and orangutan, and started dancing with her, myself.

Now, at a typical DC lounge, said facemonster would have mentally relegated me to haterassbitch status, and moved on, perhaps even defeatedly walking away, tail dragging between his cloven, hoofed feet.

Not at Lux, baby.

What did horriblestgrillintheworld do?

That’s right.

Effectuate the Lux-appropriate waist-grab-pull-close maneuver on me, and start grinding on me.

Cause he didn’t give a fuck.

Cause dudes don’t give a fuck at Lux.

Know what I did?

That’s right.

I thrusted back.

Cause I don’t give a fuck when I’m at Lux either.

At Lux, I once saw this little, bite-sized man dancing with this extremely large woman.

Not such a big deal, right?


He was eye level with her gargantuan breasts (at Lux, we call these “titties”), and with his left hand, took her left breast and swung it into the right breast, and watched them swing at each other, knocking each other back and forth like measured balls, all the while keeping his head rhythmically in time with the music.

He did this several times.


Cause he was at Lux, and he didn’t give a fuck.

And the girl let him. She didn’t feel violated, or objectified, or maligned, or aggrieved, or any of those fancy words we like to toss around at our young, black professional mixers.


Cause she was at Lux. And she didn’t give a fuck, either.

Now, trust me. I’m sure there are people who do big things, and go to Lux. I’m sure there are mortgage brokers, and nuclear physicists, and philosophy professors who all, from fair to fair, enjoy passing time there.

The point is, you’d never know. Because it’s not about who you are or what you do. It’s about having a good time; about stripping yourself of your titles and modifiers and losing yourself in the anonymity of a booty clap.

At Lux, the vice president of a bank can be found in the middle of the dance floor next to a nail tech, each of them bending over and touching their toes in perfect, cohesive harmony.

And THAT is why, I fucks with Lux.

July 2019
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a history of my meanderings….