Archive for the 'holidays' Category


for old times sake……

auld acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and days of auld lang syne* ?

For auld lang syne, my jo,

for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

Robert Burns
One of life’s greatest untold ironies, and indeed, most significant
disappointments, is the truism that we all end up in the same place.
Most of us, anyhow.
Certainly, we’re taught, from a very early age that, should
we put forth our best efforts, and keep our noses clean, a wealth of
opportunities and riches await us in our futures.
Some years later, myself now fully grown, I’ve began to take
stock of this much-fabled do-better-in-the-long-run theorem of childhood
And it’s crap.
Absolute crap.
The real truth is that with a few minor exceptions, the kids
who stole from Spencer’s will end up in lives nearly identical to the kids who
placed first at science fairs.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
There I was, three weeks ago, at the corner of Wilson and
Courthouse. The day was bitter cold, and the wind was whipping at my
extremities with a brute force that made my knuckles weep.
Though overburdened with a laptop satchel, purse, and
bookbag, the heels of my pumps etching life from the Arlington pavement with my
every slew-footed step, I could tolerate the frost at my fingertips no further,
and stopped, suddenly. I wasn’t going to move another inch until I’d donned a
pair of gloves.
I furtively rustled through my purse, shifting receipts here
and there, fumbling over pens, glasses, business cards, but nothing, nothing with
the familiarity of kid leather.
I scrunched my nose as it started to run, sniffing
fervently, willing myself not to focus on the cold, or my growing frustration, when
my hand snagged at something smooth. I recognized, immediately, that whatever I
was grasping wasn’t a glove, but curiosity demanded I withdraw it from my bag’s
One lone pair of hot pink boycut boxer briefs.
I had stuck my hand in my purse, and pulled out a pair of
drawes on the corner of Courthouse and Wilson.
I rushed to put my findings back where they’d been
discovered, only to have my hand caught, again, by a smooth fabric-y something
or other. Removing my hand, once more, I looked to my palm.
“Son-of-a-BITCH!” I exclaimed. Black, satin panties.
Jamming the underwear back in my bag, I assembled my things about
my person, and proceeded to the parking deck, hands freezing, nose running, and
several curses ever-present on my lips.
It is not often that I reflect upon the manner of woman I’ve
become, but, on this day in particular, the expensive lining of my bag being
kept warm by my unmentionables, I paused.
Like…… was I living? Was my life so crazy? Were my nights so wild
that I couldn’t deign to sleep at my own house, everything in its proper place,
panties on poon, not in purse?
At that moment, all became clear to me.
My great revelation.
The unexpected synchronicity of life’s experiences between
myself and a teenaged slut I once knew.
And an auld acquaintance I’d
long forgotten sprang to mind once more….
Okay, so, truth be told, I never personally smelled Meka.
Like, I’d never, you know, experienced her rumored wet-assy odor, first hand.
But, she looked like she stank, or was, at the very least,
musty-as-a-motherfucker-seeming to my 13 year old eyes, so I didn’t really fool
with her too much.
Besides, she was new to school (in so much as she hadn’t
attended any of the 3 elementary schools whose graduates now teemed the halls
of Brandon Middle) and had every appearance of trouble about her.
That she’d consented to being the doormat in Remonica
Jenkins’ motley assortment of derelict girls didn’t bode well for her either.
I kept my distance, and merely watched from afar, seldom
offering up opinion on her presence at our school, even when asked directly.
But her every move captured my attention. Something about this girl fascinated
Meka was of above average height and dark brown in color. I
suspect her hair was originally fashioned in the style of a bob, but had
somehow lost its way when she’d elected to deprioritize consistent relaxers.
She had a rather nice set of teeth, I always thought. I was
keenly aware of this fact, as Meka had the misfortune of being something of a
While she was nothing to really look at, all in all, she
fared no better or worse than any of us, but for one distinguishing set-apart:
Meka’s face was covered in a veritable sea of blackheads; blackheads that she,
by all appearances, was rather fond of
picking at.
When I say that Meka was a doormat in Remonica’s crew, I do
so without the slightest touch of hyperbole.
On Monday, they’d be nice to her, inviting her to lunch, and
joking with her. By Wednesday she’d be “stinky, ugly” Meka, on whose desk they’d
deposit a wash cloth and soap before class. True story.
It didn’t help that she was a little on the fast side. Boys
lined up to get at her, as her virtue was said to be free for the taking.
And that was how things were at Brandon Middle, on and on ad infinitum until the unthinkable
happened…Meka got a steady boyfriend.
None other than Justin Dart, brother to Monique Dart, best
friend of Remonica Jenkins.
A brief word on Monique Dart.
They say she went crazy.
I don’t know if that’s true or not.
What I do know is, that back then, Monique was a bully of
the first water. She was tall and slight of frame, but scary as all hell,
repeatedly in trouble, and awash with enthusiasm at the prospect of fucking up
anyone who dared step in her path.
She had less hair than you could snap your fingers at, but miraculously
defied known science day after day, and managed to put it in a ponytail (think
of one of those ittybitty dwarf ponies that only come to your knees, and make
you kinda sad to look at).
But what was most fascinating, and indeed, spectacular,
about Monique, was the ever-present layer of dry, crusty, chappy, rashy ash
that circled her full lips in a perfect oval.
Why spectacular?
Because she insisted upon concealing said oval of dry,
crusty, chappy, rashy ash at all costs.
And she didn’t employ a traditional method of concealment,
like, say, oh….idunno…CONCEALER….
Oh no.
Monique covered her mouth………
With her fucking hand.
All the time.
She talked THROUGH her hand.
Like a horrible puppeteer, or that black beat-boxing dude
from Police Academy.
Let’s say we were in class and Monique had to use the
restroom. She’d raise her left hand, whilst covering her mouth with her right.
When called upon, she’d mumble her request THROUGH her fingers.
And her hand was ALWAYS there. I bet it was balmy as FUCK
under there, and I’m certain that mushrooms thrived in the webbed cartilage between
her fingers.
Whatever the case, I’m sure her being mean as the devil was
directly related to the chronic slow burn plaguing her forearm that never
deviated from its 45° angle.
But I digress.
Meka, a sucker for a bad decision, had taken up with Justin
Dart, and by all accounts, was giving up the bads to him on a fairly regular
She continued to abide the constant demoralization of
Remonica and her crew, trying desperately to win their affections—some days she
was the bird, but most days she was the statue.
Then, one day, it all changed.
I’d left my classroom a little late, staying behind to speak
with a teacher, and by the time I hit the halls for a quick run to my locker
the corridor was thick with a crush of seventh graders.
Everyone seemed really excited, and loud for some reason.
Moreso than usual. The crowd of kids was jeering and a thicket of boys were at
the very center, hands outstretched above their heads, fingertips avidly reaching
for something. I saw something being passed from person to person, and I couldn’t
make it out, but the mystery object was driving my schoolmates into a frenzy.
“What’s up?” I asked Melanie, a friend of mine, who had
appeared by my side, giggling and grinning.
she drawled before firing out the next sentence with a rush of information, “MekaputherdrawesinanenvelopeandtriedtogivethemtoJustinbutRemonicaandthemgotemandnowtheypassinthemaroundeverywhere!!!”
I looked up, again, and now, fully apprised of the
happenings, noted that the object did
appear to be a pair of women’s underwear—black, satin panties.
Meka, in a last ditch attempt at sexy, had put her rank,
rancid drawes (I’m taking some license,
here) in an envelope, brought them to
school, and tried to give them to
Setting aside the fact that drawes in an envelope don’t so
much give off “sexy” as they do “evidence collected from a crime scene,” they
were now being passed around from person to person, her humiliation more
profound now, than ever before.
I saw her then, in the midst of the chaos, standing there
looking dumbfounded. She wasn’t even trying to get them back as much as steel
herself from the noise all about her. She looked a bit bewildered; as though
she couldn’t comprehend how things had gotten to this point.  And I remember, for the first time, feeling
truly sorry for her.
My unexpected encounter with my own unmentionables made me
think of Meka, that cold day in December.
I mean…our dissimilarities are many.
She was a child of 13, and I am a woman of 30.
She was a social pariah, and I’ve always enjoyed the warmth
of good friends.
She was hot and loose with the ass, and I am……..less hot and
loose with the ass.
But somehow, someway…
Despite passage of time and difference of circumstance……
We both own the
same pair of black, satin drawes.
And neither she, nor I, had the good sense, presence of
mind, or common damned decency to leave those sonsofbitches at home.
On a cold, windy day in December, I was Meka. And by Jove,
Meka was me.
So, to Burns’ query, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot and
never brought to mind?” I say, “Shit, no!”
And tonight—
Tonight,  I’ll raise
my cup o’ kindness to the tarnished memory of Meka, the slut that Time may have
forgot, but not I…..
Not I.

My super-duper, unapologetically long manifesto, or, “yes, i’m 30. whooptee fuckin doo.”

I began this blog a little over a year ago.

I was finally dealing with a breakup from a man I’d dated on and off for the better part of six years, and coming to grips with what I’d considered an indeterminate future.

I was 28, roughly a year into my second law firm job, and a little uncertain with respect to what a rational, responsible adult my age was supposed to look like.

A year prior, at 27, I’d come to the conclusion revelation that nothing in this world truly mattered. Not in the way we all seemed to think it did, rather. I wasn’t becoming cynical, or apathetic; it just occurred to me that I’d spent the majority of my life placing great emphasis on so many bullshit things, never stopping to consider the temporal nature of it all.

New me was on some “We pass this way but once” type shit.

New me was in the midst of a full on conversion to Epicureanism.

New me codified her sentiments in an idiom she proclaimed to whoever would listen. “Life is long, but youth is short,” New me would say.

The expression gave me life, and indeed, some limited sense of purpose. Every time I breathed it, aloud, into open air, it was a license to tomfuckery.

While I was taking babysteps to my freedom from institutionalized patterns of thought and behavior back then, it would be another two years before I crossed into full-fledged i-don’t-give-a-damn-ery.

Which brings us to present day.

In less than one month I will be 30.

As I couldn’t give a hearty damn about some arbitrary number the world at large has capriciously designated a milestone in my own personal life—a life, about which “the world” knows nothing—I’ve given the occasion little thought.

But all about me, everyone seems to care.

I mean care, care.

Like, 30 is big shit to a lot of people.

Everywhere I turn, there are these lists—Things to Do Before You’re 30, What You Should Know By 30, 30 Things to Do Before You’re 30­—and it all just seems like hogwash to me; a complete waste of time. If a naturally occurring, chronological determinate date, over which you have absolutely no control, is the marker by which you assess your current life state, you need to get another fucking life. Like, ASAP.

But………..from all I’ve observed, some cursory bout of self-reflection, demonstrated in list-format is appropriate.

I’ll comport with custom—kinda—one final time, for the cheap seats….

10 Things You Should Do When You Finally Wake Up and Realize It Doesn’t Fucking Matter 


1. Give in to your anger and tell someone who deserves it an emphatic “Fuck you,” “Fuck Off,” or “Go Fuck Yourself.”

Thoreau said, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Seriously, there might not be a more depressing quote in existence.

It’s true, though. We expend immeasurable portions of our lives trying to perfectly fit into clearly-defined lines, telling ourselves to “grin and bear it.” In order for civilization to remain “civilized;” to prevent reversion to Rosseau’s proverbial “state of nature” where we fight it out like savage beasts at every pass, each of us must be occasionally willing to concede some ground in the face of conflict.

Fair enough.

The problem is, we’re conceding more and more, every day. This is particularly true for those of us set up in our dignified, hyper-educated, professional spaces. Our lives become this predictable pattern of acquiescence.

Here’s what you need to know. People can smell it on you. They can tell that you’ve been trained, systematized. And they will feed off of it; talk wild to you, firm in their reasoning that “”

This is what I believe. You can stay in your lane every day of your life, if you so choose. It’s not going to make you successful; or a titan of industry. The real winners are the rogues, the cowboys, the desperadoes who are willing to occasionally push propriety aside and live on the margins.

Alas! Get thee to an f-bomb. If there is one message I’d like to leave this world with, upon my departure, it is, that nobody but NOBODY is above a well-timed f-bomb. NOBODY.

To date, I have told one client, and one doctor proclaiming himself to be terminally ill that they could go fuck themselves.

I have told one lawyer that he could represent to his client, on my behalf, my desire for him to go fuck himself.

I have told two men, with whom I’ve been romantically acquainted, to fuck off.

I have told the friend of one of one of those men,  that said romantic attachment could “Go fuck his mother.”

I’m still here.

And know what?

ALL of those people came back.

2.  Accept that honesty is NOT the best policy. You’re living in a fucking fantasy.

Anyone who tells you that honesty is the best policy lives one of two diametrically opposed realities: 1. He/She is *the* biggest asshole on the planet, or 2. He/She has the most bullshit ass monotonously boring life ever.

Look, I’m gonna give you some advice that is going to free you, okay?




You know the most popular thing people say when they’ve just revealed some great truth to another party? “I felt so relieved. It was as if this huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.”

Anyone wanna hazard a guess as to where all of that “lifted weight” goes?

Thhhhhhaaaaat’s right. Square on the shoulders of that motherfucker you just saw fit to bulldoze with alla that truth.

You think you’re this bastion of ethical righteousness because you chose to tell the truth? No, no. Try again. You’re a selfish asshole.

Look. If you love me, you need to go ahead and lie to me. Tell me I look thin. Tell me you like my blog. Tell me you didn’t fuck that girl. Just lie. Don’t think that our love is strong enough to overcome these monumental acts of betrayal. It’s not. Stop thinking that I’m a big enough woman to see to the heart of your affection for me and give you another chance. I’m not. Lie to me, baby. I’d do it for you.

The flip side is that you’re this mouse of a person, always dutifully seeing to the needs of others, putting your wants and desires behind everyone else’s. You’re this chaste virgin of the Hearth, ever-campaigning for wholesome happiness and sprinkles and rainbows to be spread throughout the Earth. You want for nothing but quiet simplicity, and to be a living, breathing personification of Christ’s love.

You don’t lie because you have nothing to lie about. You literally spend your days doing good deeds, or no deeds at all.

Really, good for you.

Personally, I’d rather die.

3.  Get up and wordlessly walk out of a room. Hang up on someone.

Look. I don’t know about you, but, my time is precious. I don’t have a whole lot of excess seconds and minutes to be passing time with a bunch of dicks. So, when I feel like a conversation has gotten to a place where I am no longer interested, or a place that is particularly aggravating or patently offensive, I simply take my leave.

I will walk out of a client meeting. I will walk out of an argument or a would-be argument with a friend or romantic interest. And you can bet that sweet ass I will hang up on a motherfucker. With a quickness.

But here’s how you have to do it in grown up stance—wordlessly.

Don’t knock any desks over. Don’t make any violently loud protestations. Only a bitchass makes a demonstration of strength only to dip and not deal with the repercussions. No, no. Yours is a quiet exit. It’s not about the physical act of your departure or the physical reality of the now-dead phone line. It’s your mental state of no-longer-give-a-fuck-ness that is important, here. It’s not about the other person at all. You are saying to yourself, “Wait.a.minute. I just stopped giving a damn. I’m gonna go.”

And here’s why.

It’s high time we all start to acknowledge the fact that we are grown ups. And you know what—save some jarringly illegal exceptions—I can do whatever the hell I want.

So I will.

4.  Be unapologetic about the amount of television you watch.

Okay. So right. There’s this “movement” among academics and intellectuals that’s been underfoot for a while. And it’s rooted in this hoity-toity, “I’m too smart to waste my time watching television; there’s nothing but trash on it anyway” stream of thought.



Do you know how ridiculous you sound?

Do you know how many fucking channels there are?



There’s nothing of merit, nothing worthy of your attention, in a thousand channels?

How about the news, Numbnuts? You don’t think live broadcast programming of an interview conducted with Hamid Karzai is worth your time? Oh. Okay.

My love of television doesn’t make me an idiot, or some mindless nothing. And when I get home from my relentlessly demanding job, I watch “Bad Girls Club,” the entirety of the “Real Housewives” franchise, “Maury”—the trash of the trash, people. And, you know what, “I feels jes fine” about it ( © Shug Avery).

5.  Stop worrying about how fat/ugly you are.

Seriously. Just stop. It’s tired.

Do something about it, or shut the fuck up about it.

Just stop worrying about it. Stop letting that shit run you. 

If I could go back in time and tell my 15 year old self just one thing, it would be that personality is what matters the most in the get-ass game. Personality.

It’s what matters in the friendship game. It’s what matters in the professional game. Personality is everything.

You know the reason why everyone hates your ugly girlfriend, ladies? It’s not because she’s so ugly.

Oh, no. It’s because her ugliness has metastasized into this black nebulous of hateration. She’s discontent in her ugly status, and is prepared to use the full throttle of her ugly resources to bitch, whine, ruin your good time, cockblock you, and ultimately, attempt to slowly suffocate any happiness you are able to actualize.

NOT because she’s so damned ugly.

But because she can’t get over that shit.

Look. They can’t all be bangers. Some of us are destined to be trolls; “swamp donkeys” ( © S. Bernard Shaw,

Write some shitty spoken word about it and get the hell over it. You are a grown ass woman. What in the fuck do you look like crying about how you look? I need to go grab a drink and figure out how to make income in the midst of a recession, and your monkey ass don’t wanna go out because you got a pimple. Grow the fuck up.

6.  Put something ridiculous on display in your office and refuse to comment on it.

In my last office, in the midst of diplomas and law stuff, I had: a plastic, bloody, severed arm, a book on my desk called Apes and Monkeys, and a stapler completely bejeweled in pink rhinestones.

The point?

Even if your job is serious, it’s not that serious.

I don’t give a damn what you do.

“You are not your job.”–Tyler Durden.

That’s right.

Fight Club.

I just went there.

You’re welcome.

The truth of the matter is, no matter what you do; no matter how good you are at it; no matter how many awards and accolades you receive—no one will ever be able to truly appreciate how much you give, or how much you contribute. Even if you devote all of your time to making other people’s lives better. When it’s all said and done, we’re all too caught up in our own shit to ever truly understand the extent of the sacrifices others have made on our behalf. It’s fucked up, but true.

And, oh yeah, by the way—

You’re expendable.

Like FUCK.

So go ahead and cover the back of your laptop with SpongeBob stickers. I guarandamntee it won’t matter worth a damn.

7.  Say something inappropriate to your parents.

This shit should actually be Number One on this list.

At the most elementary level, your parents are unable to see you as an adult until you force them to see you as an adult.

Now, this is largely because the majority of us engage in childish shit.

The fact remains, however, that we are adults.

And I am a firm believer that parents have as much to learn from children as children their parents.

Now, my parents were UNCOMMONLY strict when I was growing up.

And through some very expensive, carefully orchestrated psychotherapy sessions, I am learning to come to terms with some of the perhaps irreparable damage done during the course of my childhood.

All of that aside, when I finally started to show my parents the real adult me (through a series of awkward sexual references and well-placed “Damnits”), they began to see me as the real adult me. Not some well-assembled genetic replica meant to be doted on and showcased. And I actually think they like me more, because I like me more when I’m not playacting for their benefit. They trust my adult judgment, even if they don’t understand it.

And you know what? While plenty of y’all are faking the funk, pretending to lead these virginal lives, and getting drawes and socks for Christmas—

My parents just returned from vacation bearing gifts of shotglasses and booze.


Who’s winning, here?

8.  Take an afternoon and just dedicate it to pornography.

I’m looking at you, ladies.

For the life of me, I will never understand how we all became so vehemently anti-porn.

I don’t wanna hear shit about porn objectifying women, and the hazards of porn. Don’t say it to me, ladies. I don’t wanna hear it. And let me tell you why.

I know that 89% of y’all making these protestations haven’t seen any porn.

And even if you have seen some, you haven’t seen a broad cross section of it.

I’m not telling you that you have to derive some sexual gratification from it. I’m not saying that you have to like it. I’m not even suggesting that you engage in some anti-Christine O’Donnell to it.

I’m just telling you that you need to see what’s out there.

Odds are, if you haven’t peeped any, you are the absolute worst where it counts. And you might not even know that you’re the worst. But you are.

More to the point, men watch porn.

Some less than others, sure.

But, men watch porn.

Are you telling me  you feel comfortable with a group of people who constitute half of this nation’s demographic watching some shit you’ve never seen before?

It’s like those people who brag, “I’ve never seen one episode of Seinfeld,” or “I’m happy to say I’ve never seen one episode of Friends.”

Well now. You’ve just shut yourself out of a solid 15-20 years of cultural references that everyone else around you can—at the very least—recognize.

You’ve successfully managed to stay in the dark. Congratu-fuckin-lations.

Trust me, ladies.

Take a day.

I personally like to call it, “Self-Abuse Saturday,” but, whatever your pleasure—

Open a bottle of wine.

Draw the blinds.

And watch a few flicks.

You may not know it now, but this is the exact reason you moved out of your parents’ home.

It might not change your life, but, you can probably stand a temporary disruption from our normally scheduled programming.


Don’t download that shit.

9.  Stop being a pussy about being alone.

I’m an only child, so perhaps I have the advantage here, but, I can never get my mind behind these need-to-be-all-up-under-you types. You have to be on your phone. You have to be with your friends. You have to be with your girlfriend/boyfriend.

If you can’t stand to be around just you, why in the holy fuck do you think anyone else will want to?

That doesn’t even make sense.

It will not kill you to have a drink by yourself.

It will not kill you to just sit in your home and stare up at the ceiling for a bit.

If we, indeed, grow from our experiences, a great many of us are missing out on vital parts of our personal progression when we shuck aside the value in experiencing ourselves. Like, in our truest form. Stripped of makeup and fancy clothes. Devoid of business cards, and explanations of comings and goings. Completely protected from our friends’ prying eyes or judgment.

You know the number one complaint of my married/parent friends? They don’t have any time to just be by themselves.

And here we all are, imprisoned by this seemingly-flip expression that has been drilled into our heads for the better part of two decades: “single and ready to mingle.”

No, Boo boo.

Try, “single and ready to roll dolo because I ain’t got no muthafuckin kids, what what!!! Hootie hoo, my dude!!”

My periodic absences from civilization are LEGENDARY in my friendship circles.

I’m finding more and more inner peace by the day.

10.  Stop looking to everyone else for the answers to shit.

I know, I know.


After I’ve just dedicated 2,000 words of “to do?”

Hear me out.

It has been said that only a fool relies on his own counsel.

I totally agree.

As a matter of fact, in my estimation, the only thing better than a sound piece of advice is a sound piece of tail.

And if anyone has any sound advice as to how to effectively pursue a sound piece of tail…whoaaaa buddy.

My apologies.

We’re nearing the end, it’s been a long road, and I’ve digressed into ass-talk. Forgive me. Habit.

The point is, there is no harm in seeking advice. Or giving it when solicited (*cough* I’m pretending y’all solicited this shit *cough*).

We just need to take care about that which we’re seeking—advice. Counsel.

NOT “answers.”

I watched this episode of Real Housewives of Atlanta the other day (Fuck off, tv haters), and saw that countless Black women had piled themselves into a seminar on how to find love taught by some asshole named “Dr.” Tiy-E (see, tv haters—you’d KNOW why I put the “Dr.” in “ “s and called him an asshole if you’d WATCHED. Now you have to google it, while everyone else can just flow, knowingly with the remainder of the entry).

These bitches PAID a SINGLE man to tell them HOW to find love.

Like, they paid good money, with the understanding that this follicle-ly challenged court jester would give them the answer to why they’re single.

People have been finding love for centuries, FOR FREE AS A MOTHERFUCKER, and they paid this monkey for an *answer.*

Well, merrymakers, here’s some advice for the “bargain price of –on the house—“ :


There aren’t any.

Got it?

The answer is literally, whatever the hell you say it is.

Start making your own answers.

Better yet, find the maverick in you and have the courage to do as Rilke suggested—

“Live the questions now. Perhaps, someday, far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answers.”

(Kudos to my angel, “Michael,” for putting me on to this particular quote.)

This is the only life we’ve got, people.

With odds like that, who the fuck can afford to waste time worrying about 30?


So, I know it seems like i hate the ADA, but I don’t. The ADA hates me.

A little piece of me died on the Fourth of July.

Once again, I underestimated the power of a motherfucker with no legs to creep into my body, and steal my very soul.

You see, I’d assumed, that if your legs were all fucked and paraplegically janky, you would generally err on the side of shutting the hell up, and not letting any manner of crazy shit come out of your fully-functioning mouth.



As it turns out, a Gumbylegged bitch will roll up on you and ruin your entire evening just as quickly as a bitch with good, working knees.

There I was, clad in my fresh, white dress, shoulders out, hair all black and shiny (by “shiny” I mean, glossy-enough-to-look-fantastically-HalleBerry-in-good-lighting, but just-short-of-greasy-so-any-white-man-or-not-typically-associated-with-black-girls-devoid-of-color-man could run his fingers all through it and escape confusion or awkwardness), sitting solo (ON PURPOSE) by the bar on the first floor of the W.

I was jotting down notes from the previous evening, and my neck was still flushed from the ribald guffaw I’d just delivered to my barkeep’s face when he’d informed me that my glass of chardonnay was seventeen dollars.

All I’d wanted was to pass some time; to avoid the fray of south-bound holiday traffic.

And I was doing so, peacefully, when my thoughts were interrupted by the, “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” coming from down below.

Seated in one of those half wheelchair/half walker contraptions (for the sake of today’s entry, we’ll refer to said machine as a “wheelwalker”), was a Chinese girl, seemingly my age, wearing one thousand rings on her mere ten fingers, and a tiara on her head.

Mellowed out by my first glass of wine for the evening, but, truthfully, probably my fourth for the day, I answered, simply, “Not at all,” and moved my purse from the coveted spot.

Let me use my favorite hood preamble so you can appropriately gage the gravity of the following set of circumstances.

Now,me,myself,personally—I don’t just roll up on other broads while I’m out and strike up conversation with them for no reason. That’s either some Ilovemesomebitches type shit or some I’mwarmandoverlyfriendly type shit. I profess no particular talent for either category.

Which is why I was surprised—and by “surprised” I mean “shocked” and “fucking appalled”—when this broad proceeded to do just that—strike up a random conversation with me.

WheelwalkerBroad: “I love the Fourth of July, don’t you!?”

Me: “Er—I’m not particularly big on it as far as holidays go, no.”

WWB: “I think a lot of black people feel that way.”

Me: “Uh, I didn’t mean it from a—“

WWB: “Cause like, I know a lot of black people are angry about slavery and racism and stuff, but, like, I’m like, I mean, get over it.”

Now, I want to stop the narrative, at this point, and inform everyone that, when shit like this happens to you, you never respond the way you think you’ll respond. For instance, me,myself,personally, I assume that I’d get all righteously indignant, stand up, and shout out my Angela Davis/Stokely Carmichael-style schpiel detailing 200 years of slavery, three decades of Jim Crow, and present-day continued systemic, institutionalized race-prejudice, followed by an angered pouring of my drink on her non-working, ignorant, babylegs.

But she was handicapped.

And my drink cost seventeen dollars.

So, instead, I just sat there, mouth agape, as she continued, barely ceasing for breath, about black people being angry for good reason, but, you know, beleaguering the point and “not getting over it.”

And she had lots to say. LOTS.

She talked about hating the people she’d gone to college with, because they were all spoiled, rich types; not people like her and “probably [me]” who’d come from hard-working, but poor families.

She talked about how she’d thought that sororities were so stupid, and how her roommate had pledged a sorority and she didn’t know what all they’d done, but she was certain it was stupid. And besides that, even if it wasn’t, they were mean black girls, and probably discouraged her roommate from being her friend. They were Deltas. All Deltas were mean. She hated Deltas. Only after she’d vomited this sea of unwanted information all over my person, did she inquire: “Did you pledge a sorority when you were in college?” Me: “Yes.” WWB: “Oh really? Which one?” Me: “Delta.”

Between her repeated and conspicuous flip-hair-over-shoulder-then-flip-it-forward-to-hang-on-shoulder movements, she told me about her one million careers, one of which had included doing hair and makeup for “lots of designers.” She let me know that I should probably wear a little bit more make up; that while my eyelashes had sufficient length, they could use a bit more volume.

And I wanted to scream. I did. I wanted to tell her to shut up. I truly did.

But the bitch didn’t have any legs.

What do I look like screaming “Shut the fuck up!” to a bitch with no legs in a bar? How am I gonna look, being all, “BITCH, you’re wearing a FUCKING TIARA in a BAR” to a broad with Teddy Pendergrass  quadriceps in the foyer of the W? It’s kind of a classy place. It just isn’t done.

So there I sat, considering the ramifications of simply setting myself on fire, and the likelihood of her continuing her one-woman conversation with my charred, smoky, engulfed in flames black body, when she suggested: “So, I’m on the list for the party upstairs. Wanna come? It’s free top shelf booze til 12.”


I called to mind the countless times throughout my childhood when my mother and grandmother had informed me, “God can do anything but fail.” And I knew that my willingness to bind my tongue, just this once, had paid off. And my reward would not have to wait til Heaven. Oh no. My reward was in a chilled glass on the rooftop of the W.

Once upstairs, a lot of people stared at us.

I had been drinking, so it was hard to say if they were staring because we looked ridiculous together, or because I looked so dope in my white dress with my glossy hair.

But, were I a betting woman, I’d guess that they were staring because my companion was in her wheelwalker JAMMING.

I mean, gettingthefuckdown.

She was doing half-sexy half body rolls in her wheelwalker (Here’s something you don’t often think about: a full body roll with full-sexy is a luxury only able-bodied bitches can afford. You don’t realize how lucky you are til you see a bitch attempt a half body roll in her wheelwalker).

And while she wasn’t doing wheelies or spins in the WW, she was definitely on the floor grooving with her machinery. Like, make-the-crowd-of-people-around-us-hype grooving.

At some point, I became really self-conscious about all of the eyes on us. And then it hit me—the depths to which I’d sink for free alcohol.

I feigned dizziness, and tried to gracefully depart, but WWB followed me to the bathroom. She chatted incessantly about nothing even as I peed.

As I washed my hands and told her I was ready to go home, she suggested we hit up another spot a few blocks up and go for a swim in a rooftop pool. Free entry, of course. More free booze, of course.

And I thought about my life, just then. I thought about the woman I’d become. I thought about how far away I was from home. I thought about the next time I’d get to go skinny dipping in some rooftop pool with a bunch of strangers and free booze, without a care in the world.

Then another scene entered my mind. This one involved me explaining to EMS workers how I’d gotten some pseudo-legless broad wasted and then dumped her little drunken naked ass in a pool, where her efforts to swim like everyone else had resulted in an irrevocable, fatal fail.

The party was over.

“Naw, dawg,” I said. “Thanks, but, I gotta get home.”

She looked crestfallen, but it couldn’t be helped. I wasn’t gonna end my future over this bitch. She hated Deltas and had called me poor.

“All right,” WWB sighed. “By the way, what was your name, again?”


Pretty Woman II: So you Married the Ho, Dirty Dancing Redux: Johnny Probably Can’t Spell and Baby only knows 2 Dances, or Valentines Day pt. I.

One dollar a day.

One dollar a day.

That is not how much it costs to keep a starving child alive in the Sudan.


One dollar a day is the amount Redbox charges my friend, Michael, every day he does not return the movie that he rented from them.

Well over a month ago.

Is Michael a billionaire? Is Michael free from worry and a devil-may-care persona?


Michael is a gay.

He is a funny, over-educated, good looking, well dressed, gay, who has single-handedly hip-hop ab’d his way to a waistline smaller than mine.

But it’s overwhelmingly tough out there on the mean streets of the DC gay market (which we affectionately refer to as the “garket”). His last encounter with a seemingly well to do lawyer type resulted in him leaving said lawyer’s posh, upscale pad in such a state of disarray that he forgot his rented Redbox movie.

One dollar a day.

One dollar a day.

Because, to add insult to injury, psychogaylawyer won’t return the movie.

I’d like to know, Valentine’s Day, oh maker of all things both lovey and dovey—does Hallmark make a “Thought our shit had promise, then you acted a fool, so give me back my movies you sad, thieving, motherfucker” card? Does Harris Teeter carry a double sided balloon with “Redbox” on the front and “$1 a day, bitch!” on the back?

I didn’t think so.

Sixty dollars a month.

Sixty dollars a month.

That is not how much it costs to keep two starving children alive in the Sudan.


That is how much it costs me to get a mani/pedi every two weeks.

Do I have a problem with how my feet feel? Do I hate my feet in their natural state?


They’re my fucking feet.

But I pay a delightful Vietnamese woman named, Sunny, sixty dollars a month of my hard-earned cash so that the edges of my heels don’t feel like dried out biscuits when they rub up against the calves of the man I love.

Riddle me this, Valentine’s Day—does 1-800-Flowers make a “Baby I love your ashy, chappy, rock-kicking, sandy biscuit hobbit feet” arrangement?

Does it?

I didn’t think so.

What about my girl, Michelle, Valentine’s Day? Is there a “Yeah, whatever, call the cops. Yeah, I keyed that bitch’s car. What the hell is she doing in your house with the lights turned off?” box of specialty chocolates that Godiva makes?

Are there Sweethearts candies available that spell out, “I-swear-to-God-this-baby-is-yours” or “False-alarm-it’s-not-vd?”

Let me guess. No.

Here’s the thing.

I hate you, Valentine’s Day.

And this isn’t one of my misanthropic, self-indulgent wallow sessions, either. I’m not decrying the legions of people forced to affect sentiment through a meticulously-calculated, mass-marketed, grossly-commercialized completely made up faux holiday, whose origins have absofuckinglutely nothing to do with love.

I hate you because your existence is the epitome of taxation without representation.

Me and my friends—we spend good money on love/lust’s pursuits. We invest time and expend effort. I let some random chatty bitch touch all on my feet two times EVA-REE month, and none of your day’s lilac-scented, sugary prose ever even hints at our struggles.

And I’m not asking for the moon, Big V.

I don’t need a Pretty Woman II: So you Married the Ho; or a Dirty Dancing Redux: Johnny Probably Can’t Spell and Baby only knows 2 Dances.

I just want the tiniest smidge of reality. A dose. An e-card that says, “Every time I think of you I fist pump the sky.”



i resolve not to resolve, part I: how a few tweaks to your shit can make my shit better in 2010

I have determined that it is almost wholly useless to go about New Year’s resolutions in the traditional vein that has so occupied all of my Januarys for the last 29 years. In lieu of my epiphany, this year, I’ve elected to make a radical departure from society’s group-think, self improvement, new beginnings bullshit. I will demonstrate said departure by way of this two part series entitled: I Resolve Not to Resolve.

I’d like to spend today reflecting on some things/people/circumstances that had occasion to really piss me off in 2009. As such, I’d be much obliged if the following things/people/circumstances would consider the weight of their actions, and how these actions negatively affected my life. That’s right. Part I is about what everyone else can resolve to do about their own behaviors that I might have a more awesome 2010.

4 things/people/circumstances that brought fuckery to my 2009 and need to shape it up for 2010:

–hand to hood lady-

Hand to Hood lady, you are a dark horse in the race, as you only  made an appearance yesterday, 2 days before the start of the new year. Boy, did you make an impression. I have to commend you. I was entirely caught off guard when you slammed your hand down on the hood of my car in righteous indignation because it was situated a little in the crosswalk. Now, my immediate rolling down of windows, and exclamation of, “that’s how bitches get choked out!!” was a little unbecoming for a person of my relatively good breeding, I’ll grant you that. But as I’ve indicated, it is not my behavior that we’re modifying for the new year. It’s yours. So I need to know right now, straight up. Are you out of your fucking mind? Seriously. Don’t answer right away. Just let the question sink in and marinate. Are you out of your motherfucking mind? You are lucky I didn’t raise up out of that car and smack you squarely in your petulant mouth, the way you did my car. I could tell by your stunned demeanor that you took my outcry as a threat. But it wasn’t. It was a declarative statement of empirical fact. Slamming your hands down on the hood of random strangers’ cars in the middle of the day in a high traffic, high stress area like the Greater Washington DC Metropolitan area is EXACTLY how bitches get choked out. Read the paper. Watch the news. I’d wager slamming your hands down on the hood of random strangers’ cars in the middle of the day in a high traffic, high stress area like the Greater Washington DC Metropolitan area is the leading cause of choked out bitchedness, today. Check yourself, pedestrian. A choked out bitch is of little service to anybody.

–racist senior partner-

I don’t know why you continue to regale me with your tales of the glory days, Racist Senior Partner. The days when black people couldn’t get jobs in any positions outside of custodial work, but “loved, loved, loved” cleaning. I don’t know why you think it’s appropriate to convey to me how “overwhelmed” and “shocked” and “pleased” you are that so many people in my family were able to go to college. I’m made uncomfortable by your laughter at the fact that, “all of the clubs were open to people of all ethnicities and nationalities…except, of course, for blacks. Ha ha.” Look it—we don’t have to talk about my race, every time you override my cascade of lies and excuses and insist that I meet you at your office. Believe it or not, we CAN, in fact, just talk about the practice of law. As a matter of fact, if we could limit ALL of our discussions and interactions, period, and restrict the remaining few (preferably EMERGENCY situations) to conversations regarding little trifles like, “work” or “my fucking job,” I might be persuaded to set aside that hair-wrapped voodoo doll the shaman of my tribe in Africa sent along with my slave ancestors; you know, the one that has been passed down many generations, enduring the stains of chit’lin and collard greens juice,  and now pleasantly rests atop the monster sound system I have in my low-riding tricked out car, where I love to sit and blare my rap music.

(editor’s note for the daft* Sr. Partner has referenced “Africa,” “slavery,” “spicy ethnic food,” and “loud rap music” in several of our conversations.)

–sexy men who don’t want me-

Now, thankfully, to my knowledge, there was only one of y’all who came into my existence in 2009. But he was more than enough. I’m gonna be honest, the blow to my ego was a great one; a crippling one, in fact. Now, in hindsight, it was probably a necessary exercise as that thing had swollen to catastrophic proportions. Just the same, my heart still palpitates when I consider Captain Rejection’s unparalleled sexiness, and his as-subtle-as-a-boot-to-my-ass “no thank you.” So, any sexy men that I’m interested in, I need you all to shower me with your affections in 2010. No more of this “no” shit. Seriously. That’s complete rubbish. Feel free to convey these affections with such classics as, “the dinner invite,” “the innovative-think-outside-the-box-wild-date invite,” and my personal favorite, “the why-don’t-i-come-over-so-we-can-watch-some-movies invite.”


Ummm…Metabolism? Are you depressed? I’m staging an intervention right now, Metabolism. I know that we haven’t always been the best of friends, but, lately, I can’t help but notice some strong hatred vibes coming from you. Do you remember, back in ’94 when we discussed my unwillingness to buy clothes in the double digits until my womb was thick with child? Remember that? I just need to know when the playbook changed, is all. I’m out there on the field with grit in my eyes and dirt under my fingernails, time eating away at the clock, all ready for an eagle swing right, and you’re callin’ fucking audibles. Get your shit, together, Metabolism. How are you gonna let a few late night pizza runs and a little bit of hard liquor come between us, Metabolism? It’s game time, right now, Metabolism! Get your face on! We’re within arm’s reach of 30, and I have 21 year olds questioning my youth, my sexy, and my overall spry-ness at every pass. I cannot effectively rally against them wearing Spanxx.

Metabolism, this morning, when I put on my slacks, I heard this woeful cry of agony. I looked around to see if I’d stepped on one of the dogs’ paws. I had not. I inclined my head to see if somewhere, off in the distance, a lone child, somehow separated from his mother, was weeping. There was no such child. Sadly, I looked down at my pants, overflowing with the coffers that once were my buxom backside. All that remained was a fat ass. Surrounding my fat ass like so much sausage casing, were the strained, wailing fibers of my very expensive 120 count sailor pants. My ass-fat compelled my inanimate clothes to speak, Metabolism. In 2010, a bit of hyper-speed mercy, if you please.

T-minus 24 hours, people.  Get it right. Get it tight.


Christmas makes me want to die…kind of.

So, the older I get, the more Christmas makes me want to die.

Now, please do not mistake my wish for my own demise as an indicator of the standard holiday blues type deal.

No, I want to die so that the people around me can know just how annoying they actually are. More like a, “See how annoying you are? See what happened? I just died. That’s how fucking annoying you are. Your annoying-ness induces death,” type thing.

And the thing is, I love my family. I’m crazy about my family. But, the older I get, the more intolerable everyone’s questions seem to be.

Here are the standard 3. See if answering these year after year don’t make you want to die in defiance too.

1. “Where’s your friend?”

Innocent enough, right?

WRONG. WRONG. This is old, southern, black people speak for, “Where’s your boyfriend?” (In these progressive times, please note, that “friend” can also mean “gay lover.” Old, southern, black people haven’t quite come round to the terms “gay,” “homosexual,” or “lesbian,” quite yet.)

Here’s the thing. There’s always a specter of the unsavory about the word “friend.” People always kind of whisper it when used in this context. What it really means is, “Where’s that man that you brought around last time that we all know you were having probably-nasty sex with, who you just couldn’t quite get to marry you?”

Now, you probably think that a question like this can be answered with a simple response like, oh, idunno, the truth: “We broke up.”

DON’T DO IT. Cause then, everyone who wasn’t listening, now is. And even though you JUST answered these questions at Thanksgiving, and at the family reunion, and on the Fourth of July before that, suddenly, everyone has degenerative memory loss. And when you try to simply answer their queries with basic responses like, “It just didn’t work out,” everyone will pounce on you like the bloodthirsty, carnivorous, feral wildebeests that they all are, and make all kinds of ludicrous suggestions as to why it “just didn’t work out.”

And if your family is like my family, it will lead you through this exercise for every man you’ve ever brought home, and make you re-live every breakup you’ve ever had, to the extent that, by mid-evening you’re feeling like some insufferable, relationship-unworthy, premarital-sex abusing, lonely-old-whore. Awesome.

2. “Have you gained weight?”

This is what I want to know. Has anyone EVER been asked this question, when the answer was “no?” Has that shit EVER happened? If you have to ask, the answer is “yes,” which, of course means, you really fucking shouldn’t ask. I work 6-7 days a week. I drink copious amounts of alcohol a solidly consistent 3 days a week. The quickest, easiest meal in the world to prepare is pasta with something. I get it. My ass is expanding with rapid, hulk-like speed. I don’t think we all need to weigh in on it (pardon the pun).

But, to add insult to injury (which, frankly, is the EPITOME of all inter-familial dynamics), there’s always “THE DEFENDER.”

Who’s The Defender? The person, who, JUST when the weight discussion is dying down, brings it back, in an attempt to restore honor to your figure. And, I don’t know how this happens, but, The Defender always has a way of making the word “weight” reverberate throughout the room.

“I don’t think she’s gaining WEIGHT.” “Shhh…just leave her alone about her WEIGHT.” “I can’t tell that she’s gained WEIGHT.” “I think that extra WEIGHT looks good on her.” “I love the way her dress looks. She’s just the right WEIGHT for it.” Now, Lord. Take me now.

3. “When are you getting married?”

Cliché? Yes. True? Sadly. My family is worried, too. Like worried, worried. Cause I should, at the very least, be navigating my way through marriage number one by now. I’m clever, educated; I have a good job and am not some boulder-dwelling troll. I should definitely be married. And yet, I’m not. Not even a fake proposal. More concerning is the fact that, I’m seemingly not bothered by my unmarried status. Ever helpful, my southern black family is ever-at-the-ready with positive input:

“Something must be wrong with you.”

“I hope you’re not ‘funny’ (read as: “gay.” My family puts any small measure of progressivism behind when we’re speaking in terms of my sexual orientation and any remote possibility that I will not find a suitable boy-match in this life)”

“You’re not getting any younger.”

“Marnita’s half-retarded girl—the one who use to be a crackhead—you know she just got married, don’t you?”

“I don’t know why nobody wants to marry you.”

“Maybe if you lost some of that WEIGHT you put on. It looks good on you, but it might be the reason you’re not married.”

“Keep on doing the way you’re doing, and you’re gonna get too old. Then nobody will want you.”

“You won’t be able to have any babies before long. All dried up.”

I’m fuzzy on the details, but i’m almost certain my Aunt Faye tried to sell me to my cousin, Josh’s, 21 year old unemployed friend a few years back.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but…I just turned 29.

All of this being said, I’ve elected to take a different approach, this year. I can’t spend the rest of my life wishing myself some violent harm because sensitivity training wasn’t a viable option for my father’s generation.

So, I’m telling everyone that I’m pregnant.

That’s right, pregnant.

Where’s your friend? –“He left me cause I got pregnant.”

Have you gained weight? –“Uh huh *insert abdominal pat here*. Pregnant.”

When are you getting married?—“Honestly, my number one priority right now is my baby.”

It’s the only way.

April 2019
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a history of my meanderings….