That's Right- I Said It

L'AIMguage For LAMEguists

2009-09-02T18:01:00.013-04:00

One of my bestest BFFs, Jah, moved to Atlanta a few years back. I thought the long distance would take a toll on our relationship, but we've managed to hold it down via AOL Instant Messenger. We AIM each other at work non-stop on a daily basis (weekends excluded). It's like she never even left. Since we chat on our respective companies' time, dime, and computers we've learned to censor our conversations in fear of "The MAN" covertly reading our scandalous and sometimes plain stupid dialogue.

Obviously, we keep foul language down to a minimum, because that's a sure way to get us shut down by the corporate IT gatekeepers. But we don't just stop there. We're convinced that even the most subtle and random words will raise red flags for The Man to sneak a peek at our verbal exchange. This paranoia induced us to practically invent our own AIM language. It's not a complete language- it's more of an array of substitute vocabulary words. Actually, it's really just our personal slang, but it feels like a language. However, our "AIMguage" is not to be confused with standard E-speak, where words are shortened for space sake. We use that too. But there's actually a full thought process and rationale behind our phraseology. The funny part is, we've been typing this in this manner for so long, that we've adapted it into our regular speaking jargon- and it totally works. As a matter of fact, I'd like to share some of our AIM slang, and you can decide for yourself whether it's brilliant :) or psychotic :( Either way, I think it's quite amusing.

NABISCO
Everybody knows The MAN is of European descent, so we try to limit talking about White people because we don't want him reading it and telling human resources we're racist or anything like that. Not that we're saying awful things about White people- they just happen to come up rather frequently in a conversation between two women of color working in corporate amerikkka (j/k). To avoid being tagged for this we refer to Caucasians as NABISCOS. I cannot take responsibility for this word. The Queen of All Media, Wendy Williams, actually coined this term. "Cracker" or "Cracka" is an old derogatory word for Whites. Nabisco is a leading manufacturer of the cracker food. You get the logic.

Race seems to always come up when Jah and I chat. We joke about it. We use race to describe people. We have serious debates about it. It isn't always offensive talk; however, people are just soooooo sensitive nowadays. THE MAN could hypothetically read our exchange and pin all kinds of race infractions against us. To play it safe, we expounded on the Nabisco logic with the following code words:

CORNBREAD - Black person
TACO - Latino person
FORTUNE COOKIE - Asian person
NAN - Indian person
MATZOH or JEWBISCO (we alternate) - Jewish person

You don't have to be super geniuses (like us) to figure out that the word corresponds to a bread popular in that particular race's culture. I know- a fortune cookie isn't a bread. It's not that serious.

Moving on...

Jah and I are pretty much thirty years old; and although we don't look a day over twenty-four, our bodies are definitely feeling the effects of old age. As a result, we're constantly discussing our physical ailments and gross bodily functions. Imagine if THE MAN got a hold of our AIM and revealed this information to the world. How embarrassing. To maintain a little couth during our distasteful moments, we use the following key words:

AUNT FLO - popular expression for menstruation.
#2 - to make doodie.
and both of those could lead to BUBBLEGUTS - tummy discomfort

Another daily topic of conversation is our weight. Jah and I are always struggling to lose fifteen to twenty pounds, which seems impervious despite all of our efforts. We both dream of the day when we'll shed those extra pounds and become BOBBLES. A bobble is short for a Bobblehead, or a girl so skinny her head looks unnaturally huge in contrast to her body. As of late, this word morphed from a noun into a verb (probably because we'll NEVER achieve bobble status). Now BOBBLE simply means to exercise.

This level of sophistication may be too much for some of you, but please try to keep up. The next group of our fab vocab consists of nicknames of people we know. Being the social butterflies that we are, Jah and I meet tons of people and can't be bothered remembering everyone's name. These nicknames actually serve as mnemonic devices to help us eliminate all the backtracking and redundancy of reminding one another of who this person is and where/when/why we know them. They also come in handy if someone we're talking about is milling about while we're AIM'ing not so nice things about them.

BL - Boss Lady. Jah and I both have female bosses, and talking junk about them using their governments would be definite grounds for termination.

DING - Two specific co-workers who regularly interrupt Jah and I, respectively, while we're busy...um... "working." Their visits are like bells- and we type "ding" to signal one another of their presence, which causes a pause in our very important conversation.

LAMO - Jah's male friend, companion, sometimes designated driver, man servant, etc. who is completely enamoured with her, but is too wack for her to date. I'm convinced they will marry in twenty years.

LAMO #2 - Another of Jah's suitors. He's in the military, has money and some magical hookup to free album downloads, but is still equal in wackness to the first Lamo.

BDD - Triple Baby Daddy - Cute guy in which Jah is actually halfway interested, but he has too many offspring. We used to call him BDDD for Baby Daddy Daddy Daddy, but we just shortened it.

MIMBO - a male bimbo who Jah's mom hooked her up with in Florida. He doesn't have enough mental capacity to keep Jah's interest.

EL BROKO - a broke loser with whom I used to jump off. I can't remember much else about him except he was really, really, really, really poor and smoked a lot of weed. He doesn't even deserve to go on the list because we don't talk about him anymore. However, since I aired so much of Jah's dirty laundry, he made the cut. He is NOT to be confused with an ex-boyfriend of mine who was also financially-challenged. I always used his "real" name since I was in luv.

MILK - A homosexual. We used to call them "How You Doins," before Wendy Williams blew up and made the word oh-so ubiquitous and way too conspicuous. Milk derives from Harvey Milk. Google him if you still don't get it.

This post will probably continue to grow as more words come to mind. I love the idea of us longtime friends creating our own little idioms and totally getting one another on that level. It makes me nostalgic for those childhood days when we made up secret codes and special clubs to certify our friendships.

Me and My Pooch

2009-08-24T17:30:00.006-04:00

For the past few days my AIM status has read, "I'm fine with my pooch...really." No, I don't own a dog. I'm referring to my tummy pooch or lower abdominal region. I've struggled with my size for as long as I can remember. In elementary school, I was always relegated to the back of the line right in front of Emma*, the amazonian African girl in my classes. Sometimes we made the line so long that we would have to double up onto the boys line, which made me feel like I was too huge to even be a girl. She seemed to embrace her stature, whereas I just couldn't wait until the class reached its final destination, so that I could jump outta line and rush over to my midget friends. (Sidebar: My chiropractor subsequently diagnosed me with "Tall Girl Syndrome," which is when a tall girl's back tends to stoop over a result constantly lowering herself around short people.)

Puberty hit me hard around age eleven. I was socked with lop-sided boobs, menstruation and a whooping 181 pounds of fat. People told me it was merely "baby" fat, but just because the word "baby" prefaces something, doesn't make it any better (e.g. - BABY hur). Add that to my height and I was a freaking enormous giant with pigtails. Thankfully that phase only lasted a couple of years. Most of my "baby" fat melted away by my freshman year of high school and I had the mini skirts to prove that I was somewhat proud of my new body. Only I was never completely satisfied with my figure A) because my butt never grew; and B) because my tummy was never completely flat. Don't get me wrong- my stomach never bulged out of control over my waistband or anything. When I looked down, my feet were still visible. My stomach just had a tendency to make a roll whenever I sat down or wore anything tight. Even at my skinniest, I can recall feeling like my fat "gut" was the ultimate bane of my existence. When I stood up, it pretty much disappeared, but if I ever saw even a hit of protrusion in my profile, I would freak out. I was never athletic, but I am sure, with my teenage metabolism, if I'd attempted to do ten crunches and eased up on the high school diet of Mcdonald's and pizza, my issue would've been resolved. However, hindsight is 20/20 so I just whined endlessly about my tummy tire.

My pooch and I survived four years of college- late night fast food runs, alcohol binges and ironically, Spring Breaks in South Beach and the Caribbean. Before every vacation I would crash diet and fret over how I was going to pull off a bikini with my jelly belly. My friends thought I was a nut because I clearly wasn't overweight. They couldn't tell because I was such a master at hiding it. Besides, they were too busy flaunting their rotund behinds, double Ds and/or killer legs to obsess over their little paunches.

Truthfully, I didn't look bad back then. Heck, I WISH I could get my college body back- stomach and all. But that's the point- ten years from now, I'm going to long for my body today. The other day I wore the tightest pencil skirt ever with a tank top. When I turned to the side, my gut was somewhat apparent, although the dark colors camouflaged it very well. And guess what? I still looked hot to death. Everyone complimented me and the dudes tried to holler- as usual. It was such a relief to just not care. I'm not saying that I should wild out with my potbelly. Occasionally, it is necessary to tame it with a pair of Spanx. However, after almost thirty years of tormenting myself over something so trivial, it feels so good to finally let it go. Face it, I've never had and probably won't ever achieve a six pack- and that is okay. A little softness in a woman's midsection may not be "perfect," but it is perfectly normal... and even kind of sexy. Now, I won't play myself and go outside with my full midriff on display. But I've gotten cocky enough to rock a low-slung bottom that showed a hint of belly button with my newfound body acceptance.

I am so glad to be over that mental-physical hurdle. As long as I don't get pregnant, my pooch and I will get along just fine :)

No Homo, But...

2009-06-11T10:55:00.013-04:00

Let me preface this entry with the following five words: I am not a lesbian. Not that there's anything wrong with that and some of my best friends are gay (no they're not). But for real- I am "strictly dickly" and a fan of the phallus. Oh- and I like guys too. However, I might say that I display certain behaviors that are inconsistent with my hetero-status. I am just being completely honest here, so please don't judge because you probably do some of the same things. And if you don't, you're probably suppressing some secret "homo" tendencies and you may want to let them out. This will be short and sweet because I'm not 100% comfortable with this side of myself, but I must release.

No homo, but-

1) I stare at female booties (and sometimes other body parts). No, I do not lust after said females. Nor do I feel any sexual arousal or fantasize about their behinds. This obsessive butt-gazing can probably be attributed to my ill feelings towards my own derriere. You see- when the Creator was handing out round rumps, I was on the other line getting extra brains and beauty- so I ended up with a little "badinky-dink." I'm sure I'm looking at other butts out of sheer envy, but the way my head automatically turns to look at another chick's bum still freaks me out.

2) I'm absolutely fine with the fact that I may not find a man to marry- and as a result will have to make one of my homegirls my life partner. I have way more substantial relationships with my girlfriends (friends who are girls) than I've ever had with any man. The only thing that'll be missing is the sex. Hmm... about that.

3) I think women are beautiful. Face it- we go through a lot to make ourselves aesthetically pleasing to men. The make-up, hair, clothes, SHOES. We have so much going on- and I appreciate that. Don't get me wrong- nothing catches my eye faster than a fine ass man. Unfortunately, I've found that a good amount of the dudes who look too good are too good to be true- meaning they are gay. Straight guys are all scruffy and they usually have to exhibit some type of distinct behavior [swag] or do something [buy a drink] to make me really like them. For the record, I've never seen a woman so beautiful that I wanted to switch teams.

4) I've had "girl-crushes." I used to obsess over my next door neighbor. She was pretty, always had a dope haircut and cute clothes. She also possessed a certain "something" that made me blush and smile every time I was around her. I would synch leaving my apartment with her departure just so we could share an intimate elevator ride. She wasn't gay and neither was I. It was just one of those things, I guess. Like all of my other crushes (male and female) it was was fleeting.

5) I secretly get offended when I'm someplace with a lesbian population and no one tries to hit on me. Why don't they like me? I'm no bomb shell or anything- but men have certainly taken double takes of me. What's up with the lesbians? They barely glance in my direction. Besides, they're women- shouldn't they be looking for something deeper than a big butt and a smile? Maybe they can tell that I wouldn't be interested? But that's never stopped them from trying to pick up some of my straight friends.

6) I totally get the appeal of Ellen. I can't really explain it- but I "get" it.

That's all for now. I bet you thought I was going to add "i kissed a girl and I liked it" or something like that to the list. My "no homo-homo" ways haven't gone that far.

A recent terrifying experience prompted to include a small addendum to this post. The next point on my "No Homo, But..." list is:

7) I wish I had a penis. Aside from the obvious reasons - no menstruation and easy urination- men don't even realize how sweet it is to possess their member.
Almost every woman I know dreads going to the gynecologist for her annual pap. Personally, I never saw what the big deal was. It's pretty much a quick in and out (no pun intended) procedure and you're on your merry way for the next 12 months. Not this year. My annual gyno check up was followed by an ominous phone call from my doc explaining that my pap came back IRREGULAR and I'd have to return so that she could take a closer look. Nooooo! WTF does that mean? I'd been so good all year. No birth control hormones, regular periods (sorry for the guys reading this post) and no s-e-x. ARRGGHHH!! What could be wrong down there? I immediately suspected the worst case scenario- CERVICAL CANCER. Seriously, that isth is all over the place now. And my trendy self is always up on the new stuff, so go figure I've come down with the latest cooch issue.
Men don't have to deal with this scary crap because their organ is external. If there's a problem, it's easily identifiable. No closer inspection beyond a glance, tug and a cough is required. Please allow me to explain the "closer inspection" I had to endure. Basically, my doctor dug inside of me and cut off samples of my parts for testing- all while I was awake and forced to make small talk about some stupid book to allay my discomfort.
I think I'd rather suffer the embarrassment of an inadvertent erection over another colposcopy any day. Penis please.

Just a Dream?

2009-05-08T11:59:00.006-04:00

Went on a date last night. New guy, total sweetheart- kinda cute, nice smile, great upbeat personality- and best of all he paid for everything. I know that's to be expected, but you have no idea about the messes I've dealt with in my past. I'll spare the details of the date. It was your typical "first date-date." Everybody on his/her best to impress behavior. Future looking bright, etcetera. Although something could be said about a first date, I had a bizarre experience AFTER the date- which my be cause for some speculation. Turns out this dude ended up being the "man of my dreams." Later that night, he appeared in my sleep.

I dreamt that dude and I went to a ghetto club. It was "ghetto" because we were frisked at the door by huge angry bouncers. After we made it in, the deejay was playing Britney Spears. I don't recall the song, but either way, that's so not-ghetto (white trash, but not ghetto), and the crowd was mixed. The club was veiled in some kind of red lighting and the dance floor was kinda small, but dude and I headed straight to the middle and began to slow dance to either "Toxic," "Gimme More," or "Circus." Apparently, I didn't care about the poor choice of music because I was swooning in this guy's arms. After a while, the crowd slowly dispersed around us and I sensed some mild commotion. Then lo and behold J.W., a party promoter I know, was coming through with random electrical equipment forcing everyone to get out of his way while he set up for his event. My date and I temporarily took notice of this interruption, then continued to slow jam. And then, he kissed me. The kiss was light and delicate- yet passionate. (FYI- this guy and I have never kissed in real life). Meanwhile, J.W. was was stomping all around us, and moving random isht. Somewhere in my reverie, I felt something tugging at my ankles, and I looked down to find myself tangled in a pool of J.W.'s wires. I nervously looked up at my date and before I could say anything, J.W. tugged the wires from his end, causing me to fall HARD on my ass. As J.W. continued to pull the electrical ropes- some of which were still knotted around my ankles- I was being dragged on the dance floor away from my man- who just stood there all cool watching me slide away.

That's it. What does it mean?

Sucka Punch Drunk... again

2009-04-24T12:02:00.011-04:00

If you recall from previous posts such "Dangerously in Like," and "How He Doin' part 1," I tend to fall truly, madly and deeply in like with whomever is courting me at the moment. Of course those posts were written at the height of dating bliss. For some reason, I rarely ever follow up with the "What a D!@khead" sequel that always occurs about three to four months down the line. Guess I'm just trying to keep my blog nice and pleasant. Besides, I've learned my lesson on more than one occasion about posting slanderous accounts about my exes online.

Call me a sucker, but I absolutely adore the behavior males exhibit during the early stages of dating. Sure, deep down inside I know that it's all an act- but who doesn't enjoy a good show every now and then? Once upon a time, I was afraid to admit to prematurely liking a guy because I didn't want to seem too gullible. A man wasn't worthy of my fondness until after he took me out on about three dates. Only then could I freely share my feelings about the guy, because I had the time and money spent to validate liking him. Peculiarly though- now that I'm older and (wiser?) I've let my guard down (just a little) enough to appreciate the more modest acts of courtship. Random, thoughtful text messages make me cheese. Minor public displays of affection get me all gushy inside. I could forever listen to stupid, sweet nothings whispered in my ear. For someone who doesn't consider herself a "Hopeless Romantic," I sure am acting all "pink." Tee hee hee.

Whatever, I'm just in one of those moods. Of course there's a new guy who is sweet as pie right now and I am absolutely enjoying every minute of it. Unfortunately, I still have that cynical bitch side telling me that he is full of doo-doo and I kind of believe her. But hey, if someone really wants to put in the time and effort pretending to be someone he is not, then his ailment is far worse than my temporary love-sickness. Who knows? Maybe guys are genuine in the beginning and us ladies turn them into the lying, cheating, monster a-holes that they inevitably become. Ummm... not likely. Look, I don't even have enough time to delve into why men suck. I just know they usually don't start out sucking; and, those brief moments are why I continue to date and unabashedly share my heart.

Black Buccaneers- R.I.P.

2009-04-13T11:44:00.004-04:00

Move over Jack Sparrow! There are some new Jacks taking over the high seas- The Somalian Seasters. I gave them that moniker because these brothas totally deserve a cool name. For over a year now these Maritime Mobsters (I have a million of em) have been jacking cargo ships and putting it down on the sea streets. Seriously, these are not your average round-the-way hustlers who consider trivial CD/DVD-peddling on 125th Street piracy. These men are running isht on another level- claiming oil and other major commodities.

I first read about the Somalian pirates last year when I came across a blurb in the paper about "pirates hijacking some foreign vessel." My initial reaction was a befuddled, "who knew there were still actual PIRATES out there?" Over the next few months, I kept peeping tiny articles buried in the International section of the AM daily about these pirates successfully seizing more and more ships. My interest was really piqued when they were later revealed to be Somali. Get the eff outta here- there are still actual PIRATES and they are BLACK?!

One newspaper released a photo of these Black Buccaneers (that has a nice ring to it) and I was floored. Forget what you heard from old Walt Disney. These dudes were clearly NOT of the Caribbean. They were young, very "Somali-looking," with those prominent foreheads and pointy noses, and they wore hot little jackets and fatigues. Not one puffy shirt in sight. While I love me some Johnny Depp, these dudes could probably "get it" too. Hell, unlike traditional pirates, they look like they might actually want IT from a lady.

Anyway, these pirates have finally plundered their way to international notoriety with all of their swash buckling hi-jinx. They recently took over a United States NAVY ship and held the captain hostage. I'm not sure if they took anything else, but as of this morning the U.S. Captain was released unharmed and three of the Somalian Sea Soldiers (THAT'S a good one) were killed by NAVY Snipers. They just had to mess with the U.S. didn't they? Sidebar: If memory serves me right, they've pretty much pillaged without ridiculous violent sword fighting and plank-walking. Yeah- they carry assault weapons- but, I'm sure that's just an intimidation tactic... They once came aboard a cruise ship, barely rattled any feathers and left peacefully. I'm sure now that the Big BAd U.S. has been victimized- the SSS's reputation will sorely suffer. From what i could gather, they weren't looking for trouble- just for the LOOT, which they allegedly stole about $70 million worth. WOW! Maybe they'll lay low for a while and decide to trick some of that booty on some real booty- preferably mine. Unless of course, that whole PIRATE stereotype is true- to which I'll say to them "how YOU doin'?

HATE Rising

2009-03-27T10:57:00.012-04:00

My friend left me a frantic voicemail message yesterday telling me to call her back ASAP to help her decode some "weird" phone call she received. I was convinced that this was going to be another one of her wacky "Dating-in Durham" stories, so i called her back immediately. Here's how the conversation ensued:

ME: Hey girl. Got your message. What's up?

SHE: Girl, some man called me today and said he got my information from ______, a girl I went to Columbia J-School with...

ME: OMG- is she setting you up on a blind date with some random down there?

SHE: Well, not really. He manages a Black online newspaper in New York and- I'm pretty sure he's offering me a job to be a journalist.

ME: (less excited) Great- so what's the problem?

SHE: (super excited) Well, I can't just leave my cushy, but lame, job here in Durham to live in one of my favorite cities to finally do exactly what I want to do- and work for my biggest idol- Cathy Hughes (black female media magnate- NOT OPRAH)! OMG- can you believe it?!

Of course I can believe it. Why- because she is not me and this sort of thing happens to her all of the time. A cool job just lands in her lap in the middle of a friggin' recession. I've sent out four cover letters requesting mere informational interviews and haven't heard so much as a peep. But that's not the real problem here. She is a good journalist- award-winning, in fact; and, she's passionate about what she does. Kudos for her! I say it and I absolutely want to mean it, but I am so consumed with my dissatisfying life that I have difficulty accepting my friend's good news.

I've been plagued by this issue for quite some time now. The "HATE" is what I call it. As with most of my "disorders," it helps me to cope with them when I write. With me, the HATE is so dire that I wrote an entire article about it, which I am in the process of shopping around to publications. Unfortunately, because my life is so sucky, I have yet to get a response to my countless query letters. Actually, one online publication expressed interest, but they only wanted to pay me thirty bucks for it. So what if I'm an unpublished novice- I know my worth. I want at least three figures for my thoughts. Of course, if nobody else wants it, I can always just publish it for free on my own damn blog- so here it is. Here for all two of you to read. Oh, I'm still shopping it around.

The HATE

Maino’s “Hi Hater” is more than just a hot song- it also happens to be my personal anthem. Just the other day, my homegirl announced that she got a promotion. I was ecstatic for her- proud even. She worked hard and put up with a lot of crap to earn her merit. All while I was smiling in her face and congratulating her, I could not seem to shake that familiar sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach along with the tiny imp on my shoulder whispering despicableness in my ear like: “She doesn’t need more money;” “She’s not even all that qualified;” “Where's my damn promotion?” I felt guilty for thinking such awful thoughts about my friend, but I just couldn’t help it.

I have a disease. It’s not really a disease in the terminal-go-to-the-hospital-need- medication sense. It’s more of a mental condition. I am a HATER.

Why would I admit that? Well, because it is a problem and the first step to conquering any issue is to confess. Though I am pretty sure everyone drinks his or her share of HATERade, I’m concerned that my consumption of the bitter beverage is about a gallon more than average.

Seriously, anyone can fall victim to my askance glare, eye rolls and acidic remarks- friends, enemies, men, women, educated people, not-so-educated people who are doing “better” than me, women with nice bodies, black men with white women, married people, rich people... must I continue? Most of the time, my adverse emotions are not even intentional. I will see or hear about something at random and suddenly SNAP. I need help.

While researching my condition I learned that “hating” manifests itself in a variety of ways. As a matter of fact, Urbandictionary.com has approximately seventy-three definitions for the word “hater.” With a term this broad, I am definitely not the only person suffering from this disorder. I pinpointed my particular strain of “hate” as:

A person that simply cannot be happy for another person’s success… they make a point of exposing a flaw in that person.

That certainly describes the bulk of my symptoms.

Sometimes my hate is justified. I refuse to give props where none is due. As hateful as it might sound, I think most reality stars are untalented media whores who are not worthy of the attention or money they attract. That's clearly a mere casual observation; however, it could easily be misconstrued as “hate.” Whatever- I have a tendency to say what’s on my mind- negative or positive. I do not know or care about reality people anyway. The simple cure for that form or hateration would be to heed to the old adage, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.”

What worries me more is the hate geared towards my friends and loved ones. When this hate hits me, I am capable of curbing my verbal remarks, but I tend to experience an emotional Tourette’s where I can’t stop my terrible feelings and thoughts- even against people I truly care for. A situation this dire requires a professional’s diagnosis. I turned to North Carolina A&T's Professor of Psychology (and my BFF), Dr. Renee Alleyne, for a more in-depth analysis of my disorder.

According to Dr. Alleyne, there is no concrete psychological definition for the contemporary syndrome of “hate.” “I think what you are referring to is jealousy…or even envy,” states Dr. Alleyne. Certainly I am already familiar with feelings of jealousy and envy, but just to be clear, we checked Dictionary.com and found their definitions to be pretty similar to my symptoms.

Jealousy can be used to describe feelings of “resentment or anger against a rival or another’s success.” Okay, that sounds like hate. Envy is a “feeling of discontent or covetousness with regard to another's advantages, success, possessions, etc.” Bingo. For further elucidation, Dr. Alleyne and I also looked up the word hate, and lo and behold- “to feel extreme aversion for or extreme hostility toward” jumped right at me like a fake booty on the cover of King magazine (I hate King too).

Apparently, I suffer from a jealous-envy-hate amalgamation of “Hate.” Those emotions are completely natural and fairly easy to cope with separately. However, the hybrid of them all- under the dark cloud of “Hate” is a whole other beast.

Dr. Alleyne assured me that although jealousy is a part of human nature, the amount of jealousy one possesses and the effect it has determines whether or not it is healthy or normal. “Small amounts of jealousy may serve as motivation to do better. However, if you are so jealous that you experience a significant level of distress, then that is a clear indication of how unhealthy jealousy can be,” says Dr. Alleyne.

The envious feelings I direct towards strangers is usually superficial and fleeting. The hate I inflict on my peers is the result of something deeper and more profound. Dr. Alleyne cited the Appraisal Theories of Emotion
Frijda (1986), Lazarus (1991), which suggest “that emotions are a result of people’s interpretations and explanations of the events. Specifically, an individual’s emotions will be based on the good or bad implications that the event has
for the individual, as well as how the individual explains the cause of the event.”

“When your friend announced her promotion, right away you interpreted this situation as a threat to your success, which caused you to have negative emotions,” surmised Dr. Alleyne. She was right. My friend and I work in the same industry and I sometimes feel that I could- or should be in her shoes.

My professional circle is rather small, so I constantly hear of some acquaintance’s progress. I get so frustrated because I tend to compare my status to theirs and project my shortcomings on them. Dr. Alleyne suggests that if my friends and I were in totally different fields, I would less likely have negative feelings about their success.

I explained to Dr. Alleyne that sometimes my hate gets so severe, that I lose sleep due to my ruminating thoughts. One night after seeing one of my peers in a magazine ad, another in a movie, and hearing about yet another’s career success I actually broke out in hives! Dr. Alleyne confirmed that an excess of negative emotions could indeed cause both psychological and physical ailments. “Jealousy leads to stress and stress has been linked to a number of physical illnesses including severe headaches, common colds, heart attacks and strokes.”

The very thought of my hate causing serious damage to my overall health is quite unsettling. I need to take action. Dr. Alleyne says that my self-awareness is already a good start. “If you become aware of your hater ways, then you are in a position to do something about it.” She recommends that haters try identifying the positive aspects of their lives and focusing on achieving their own goals instead of on someone else’s prosperity.

In a case as severe as mine, Dr. Alleyne thinks speaking to a professional to help deal with underlying contributing factors would be a good idea.

Hating in excess is not healthy or beneficial to anyone- no matter how natural it may be. Although, I sometimes feel that my hating is uncontrollable, it would behoove me to get a handle on it to at least avoid hurting my friends and loved ones. I definitely don’t want be labeled as a hateful, jealous person who can’t appreciate another’s success. Armed with my newfound understanding of “hate,” I am on the road to recovery.

If all else fails, I could always attempt to make a successful career out of hating like a popular New York City radio disc jockey. Wait- I meant EX-NYC radio disc jockey. Look at where the HATE landed him.

New Year, Same ____

2009-01-13T17:01:00.009-05:00

Damn- it's already the middle of January and I haven't posted anything since early last month. My friends keep telling me to post something (even though they rarely read), but I don't have anything to say. Hmmm... What to talk about? Let's see... I'm drawing a blank, so I'll just free write. I'm apprehensive about posting New Year's Resolutions, because they're so cliche and I never keep them. But for the purpose of writing something I'll list my top five intentions for 2009.

1) I intend to give to more homeless people without caring what they spend my dollar on, or whether or not they really need it. Hell, if I was homeless in the cold streets of New York City, I'd splurge on a little Paul Mason to warm my insides. I always need extra money, but I wouldn't be caught dead begging on a train, so more power to the bums with the chutzpah do so.

2) I will embrace the big 3-0, which is looming upon me. Enough said about that. Just thinking about it makes me nauseous. Baby steps...

3) I will stop carrying my credit card in my wallet. I broke it out last August for "emergencies" only. Apparently, I dealt with the crises of 2008 with alcohol and shoes. Hmmm...

4) To resume going on my annual vacation. I took last year off to "save money," but i still accumulated debt and have no drunken bikini pictures to show for it. However, i will try my best not to violate Intention #3 to achieve this one.

5) And last but not least my most familiar intention (next to losing fifteen pounds) : I will WRITE, WRITE, WRITE- even when I have nothing profound to say (like today). Look- nothing turned into something.

Happy New Year!

Honorary Intention #6) I will value myself and protect my heart more than I did last year. 2008 ended on a sad note with me feeling sorry for myself and upset over a breakup (insert violins here). Sure, stuff was all rosy and he was seemingly "wonderful" when we were together. But in retrospect, he was a selfish brat and I was love-starved. I put his needs and feelings above my own; and, compromised a LOT of my self and standards for him. I definitely don't regret my time with him. However, I am so glad he ended it.

Ugh- Spit!

2008-12-04T14:46:00.006-05:00

Yesterday on my way back to work after one of my "extended" lunch breaks, I decided to bypass the closest train station and walk the five extra blocks to the next one. Hey, the sun was shining, and thanks to global warming the temperature was in the mid-fifties. That's a treat for a New York City December, so I decided to take advantage. I couldn't help but notice the attractive (at least from behind) brother walking ahead of me, so I quickened my pace a little. Perhaps I could catch his eye and get a walking buddy. As I neared my unsuspecting target, he turned his head just a little. Initially, I thought that he could sense my presence. Newly single and desperate women must release some kind of pheromone. Just as I was about to put on my "blank-cute-girl" stare (mustn't actually LOOK like I was interested), he kind of leaned his head back and hocked a big, nasty loogie on the ground. UGH! And to make matters worst, the backwind had just picked up and his mucus glob almost hit the front of my pant leg. Double UGH! I stopped dead in my tracks and SPAT, "Nasty ass." Dude didn't hear me, though I wish he did. Turns out we were both headed for the same destination and ended up waiting for the train together. He tried to give me the eye a few times on the platform, but I just met his glare with a screwface. I didn't even care what he looked like at that point- he was just nasty. Oh, and would you believe that he even spat again into the train tracks while we were waiting? UGH!

I swear- I hate, hate, hate when people spit on the sidewalks. It is totally gross. What should people do with their phlegm? Beats the hell outta me. Put it in a handkerchief and toss it. Spit off of the edge of the street curb. Swallow it. I don't care. I just don't want anyone's bodily waste on the bottom of my shoes. Really, walking down the streets of New York is like navigating a mine field. I have to dodge dog poop, trash and SPIT. For some reason, the spit bothers me the most. Men are the worst offenders too. Most women attempt to be somewhat discreet when they spit. Personally, I think it's altogether un-ladylike to spit in public. But if it is absolutely necessary to spit, then don't make a big show of it. Do it in a corner or something. Men just spit all willy-nilly in the air and on the ground. I know for a fact that their lower lips and chins must be riddled with spittle. UGH!

Winter is an absolutely horrid spit season. Everyone is walking around sickly and discharging their illnesses on the sidewalks. The spit freezes and remains on the ground for days. Sometimes actual spit-cicles form when people spit over the edge of a surface. It's really just too gross to accurately describe.

A friend told me that New York City is the worst place for me to all of a sudden develop these weird phobias of anything gross. This city is a huge melting pot of germs. But, I just can't help it. Seeing saliva on the the ground triggers something deep in the back of my mind which makes my imagination go wild- in a bad way. I get all fixated on the mucus blobs until i nearly spit up my own bile just imagining its icky texture and taste. Ugh!

At the end of the day, I know that I'll just have to get over myself because people are not going to stop spitting on the sidewalks. But think about how much spit we step on every day. Think about that next time you walk into your home with a spit-bottom shoe. All of that spit all over your nice, clean floors which I know you've eaten a potato chip off of at least once. Ugh!

Grinding my Gears - UGH!

2008-12-03T15:34:00.013-05:00

In my sixty-seventh attempt to write daily, I'm going to try a new approach. After hearing my relentless complaining about the obnoxiously loud screeching of NYC subway brakes, a certain "someone" suggested I blog about stuff that gets on my nerves. Um... had he been reading my blogs like he said he was, he would've known that that's pretty much all I write about anyway. Except for that one time when I blogged about how much I liked his ass (and I'll never do that again), but that's a whole other story. Anyway, I totally dismissed his suggestion at the time. I mean, that's what he was there for- to listen to me gripe and make me feel better. Besides, a regular blog about my pet peeves is so hackneyed. Anybody recall Peter Griffin's "Grind My Gears" news segment? http://nerdnirvana.org/2007/06/14/family-guy-what-really-grinds-my-gears/

Well, my constant lack of inspiration and perpetual "writer's block" state of mind are really beginning to bother me... almost as much as spit on the sidewalk... and idiots who press their stinky butt cheeks against my gorgeous face cheeks when I sit by the door on the train...and my moronic co-workers who simultaneously knock on and open my office door before I invite them in. AND, I am most annoyed by the idea that I am actually about to heed to my evil ex-boyfriend's advice. UGH! Okay- here it goes. Don't worry, I will interject with my regular random posts whenever the mood strikes me.

Since this will hopefully be a regular post, I'll have to title it appropriately. "UGH" is perfect! That's the word I utter whenever I am pissed, annoyed or disgusted at anything. Shout out to Watchen, my co-worker who frequently typed "ugh" in our AIM conversations whenever I made an offhand comment to her. After I fully figured out when and why she used the word, I was totally floored. Those three little letters accurately express my mood about eighty-five percent of the time. Hell, my whole life seems like one big "UGH." Can't wait to share it with you.

Scooby-DOOn't Bother Me None

2008-08-05T12:39:00.004-04:00

I went Whitewater rafting in the Poconos this weekend. My friend asked me to go at the last minute and I agreed on a whim. The Great Outdoors is not my thing, and I can’t swim a lick. Why I considered Whitewater rafting is beyond me. Character flaw #24: Impulsive. I paid sixty bucks, secured my spot and freaked OUT for a week prior to the trip. All I could imagine was our rocky raft ride ending with us sailing off Niagara Falls. Not likely in Pennsylvania, but who knows for sure? For the next seven days I made it my mission to research everything about Whitewater rafting to clear up any misconceptions I had about the activity. Most fear stems from the unknown, right?

I googled Whitewater rafting and found tons of information about the history, logistics and potential DANGERS of whitewater rafting. As usual the negatives were all I could focus on. I called the facility a hundred times and they assured me that the Poconos had no waterfalls and I would be fine. That wasn’t good enough. My aquatic fear/handicap has never stopped me from snorkeling or jet sking in the middle of the ocean; and I have 100% faith in life vests, but I still can’t help my nerves. My friends nicknamed me “Scooby Doo” because I’m afraid of everything they consider adventurous. They tease me mercilessly whenever I have reservations about participating in a thrilling activity, but whatever. Fear- especially about dying- is a perfectly healthy emotion. The feeling of my stomach dropping is something I can do without. Panic is what I do. Panic is never good in a dangerous situation; therefore, I choose to avoid them whenever possible.

Obviously I survived Whitewater rafting. I’ll even admit that I had a ton of fun doing it. After the trip my friends were all like, “See, see- It was no big deal. Nothing to be afraid of.” Nonsense statements like that (just like the empty words of sorrow during times of death) don’t make me feel any better. I enjoyed my experience and am a little proud for accomplishing something new, but I don’t feel like any more of a woman for Whitewater rafting. I could have still cracked my skull on the jagged rocks out there or drowned in the river if my ankle got caught on some underwater bramble. My fear could have easily been justified.

I wish my friends would just shut up about me being afraid to try stupid extreme stuff. It’s just not me. They think they’re so tough and exciting for wanting to go sky diving, jump off cliffs and ride roller coasters. Knock yourself out. As a matter of fact they probably might do just that. Just leave me alone for not wanting to cheat death or have pre-mature heart palpitations. I find it very interesting that they are “brave” enough to try Bungee Jumping, but scared to death of trying a new hairstyle in FEAR of looking "different;" or talking back in FEAR being judged; or ending a bad relationship in FEAR of being alone. None of those things bother me much. Who’s the real Scooby-Doo, bitches?

Going Green?

2008-07-10T16:47:00.013-04:00

Before I hit the ripe old age of THIRTY, (oh I hate the way that sounds), I am determined to get a few irresponsible urges out of my system. I have been sexually active for well over a decade and a regular drinker for almost as long. The only vice in which I have not engaged was drugs (alcohol doesn't count). Drugs have never really appealed to me. I was a child of the "Just Say No" eighties and the "New Jack City" nineties. Lord knows Chris Rock's "Pooky" portrayal scared the hell out of me; and not even Halle Berry was all that cute when she played a crackhead in "Jungle Fever." Besides, my parents never smoked (around me), so I wasn't directly exposed to or influenced to do drugs. I got completely turned off from smoking when my curiosity got the best of me at ten years old and I picked up a lit cigarette abandoned by my aunt. I held that cancer stick in between my index and middle fingers with the coolness of a sexy old starlet, placed it in my lips and blew OUT. Well, obviously that was ineffective, so I tried inhaling instead. I took a deep pull, tasted that acrid flavor and my throat felt like it was being attacked with acid. I coughed- not so vehemently- because I was afraid my aunt would hear from the next room; so, basically I silently gagged on the smoke. Yuck! I probably had the same reaction the first time I snuck a taste of my dad's Jamaican rum, but I quickly discovered the wonders of sweet mixers and cordials; therefore, I happily re-engaged in booze. I am proud to say that I have graduated- and can now throughly enjoy the taste of most alcohol- undiluted.

Studies show that the body starts to break down a bit after thirty, so I really want to take full advantage of this last year of physical abuse. After my thirtieth I will exercise like a maniac, drink "good" alcohol- wine, and limit my sexual partner count to just one man- my husband... because i will be married, right? Okay- well the sex isn't that big of a deal. But, until then I must admit that I still want to try marijuana. OMG- I know I am totally too old to just start experimenting with drugs. And weed is a "Gateway" drug. If I start now I'll be a forty year old heroin addict and a fifty year old crackhead. But, I just want to try it. I probably won't like it [weed], but I must satisfy my curiosity. When I was fourteen, my ex-boyfriend used to smoke and I was awfully turned on by his half-mast, red eyes and stinky clothes. He offered me a pull once, but I just put it up to my lips and blew OUT because I caught a sudden flashback of my burning throat. Instead of my dude instructing me on the correct way to inhale, he snatched the joint out of my hand and chastised me for "wasting" the stuff. He convinced me that I would catch a contact high from breathing in his smoke, but all I caught was a bad case of funky hair.

A few of my friends in high school smoked weed and I tried in earnest to catch that elusive contact high- but with no success. Sometimes I thought that maybe I did get "high" from the residual smoke, and that it was nothing to brag about. Eventually, my desire for the green waned and I went on about my business of drinking. I miraculously survived four years of college weed free, and even managed to avoid it (among other drugs) in the television industry. For some reason, my desire for the ganja has resurfaced. Perhaps because I'm a stifled creative? I've noticed that many creative types occasionally get high to get their juices flowing. Who knows what great, innovative body of work I could potentially produce if I succumb to some good green stuff?

Others have told me that getting high is just like getting drunk minus the extreme violent emotions and awful hangover. In that case, I NEED to get high. I am far too old to be cursing people out, drunk dialing my man and shamelessly flirting with strangers. Instead of arguing with bartenders about why there's less than a three count of vodka in my drink, I could be having deep, cosmic discussions with like minds under the influence of that magical plant- heaaavvvy.

The only downside I foresee to smoking weed would probably be the "munchies;" but that seems comparable to my existing post-drinking, greasy Mickey D's cravings. No love lost there. Oh yeah- and that whole "gateway" drug thing has me a little shook; but honestly, most "Herbalists" I know stick to the green only. I don't know any (Black) weed heads who also moonlight as Cokeheads and Her-on addicts. Hell, I definitely won't eff around with needles. I'm also not very fond about the idea of snorting stuff up my nose. Ugh- my allergies would be out of control.

I have not yet settled on a final decision. Maybe there's been a reason why I never gravitated towards weed in the first place. Could I be immune to its effects? The contact high may indeed be very effective on some, but just not me. My body is probably enduring enough distress trying to ward off severe alcohol wreckage to my liver. Don't even get me started with the drama and stress involved in casual sex. Who needs all of those damn STD tests, pregnancy scares and stupid ass men? Do I really want to deal with probable lung and brain damage as well? Whatever I decide I need to hurry up and do it within the next year because I am looking forward to leading a long, healthy, vice-free life at thirty. Wait- thirty is the new twenty, right? Think I can get away with another ten years of foolishness?

How He Doin'? - Part 2

2008-06-16T14:00:00.009-04:00

In case you just couldn't get enough of my captivating dating saga with my "possibly-gay" EX-beau (or if you're just bored), I have part two for you. Remember- it was originally an email to my friend, Lindsay, so if you're a bit nonplussed I've been kind enough to include explanatory notes in [brackets]. Happy reading.

__________________________________________________________________________
Hey Girl,

I got a weekend quickie for ya. Abridged b/c it's only for Sunday.

So Sunday evening I was pretty tired after a long night of partying it up in Long Island for Mo's birthday. I was all ready to chill w/Desperate Housewives and a pint of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Haagen Daaz when Chris called me. We hadn't seen each other in about two weeks, and our phone conversations were sporadic and stale. When he said he wanted to see me, I was down so we could salvage our fading courtship. We ran through our usual list of Sunday date spots, but none of them really appealed to me b/c I was feeling too lazy to dress up, and it was cold outside. Chris didn't
mind staying in either, so he suggested that I come over to his place to watch a movie or something. You and I both know that "watch a movie or something" is man-speak for gettin' some. But, I was quite "movie or something"- deprived, so I readily accepted his offer.

Chris is kind of too nice for his own good, so he offered to pick me up all the way in Harlem, drive me to Brooklyn, then drive me back to Harlem and the drive himself back to Brooklyn. Really he wanted me to just stay the night, but I had work the next day, so I offered to take the train out there on the condition that he drive me back home that evening. He agreed. He lives kind of deep in BK, but it was a rather easy commute on the Q train. He met me at the station, we picked up some food and went to his house. When we finally arrived at his building we sat in the car for a minute and talked. He must've gotten a little self-conscious because he
started making excuses for living in the hood and for his building looking rundown. Initially, I didn't think anything of the aesthetically unappealing building exterior. It's NYC, some of the flyest apartments are nestled inside of the ugliest buildings. I mean, my building isn't so hot on the outside, but the newly renovated apartments are pretty nice. Mine could be too if we just cleaned up. He was probably embarrassed b/c there he was driving a new Lexus, rocking expensive clothes, spending crazy loot when he goes out and he's living in a slum tenement. Hmmm... "Nypical Tigger."[Hopefully, that was pretty self-explanatory. Other terms that could be used are "Hood Rich" and "Ghetto Fab".] Oh well, at least it wasn't the projects.

We trekked up four flights of stairs (no elevator) and made it to his apartment, which he shares w/his sister. She was a nice young lady. They moved in together when Chris and his baby momma fell out. She's a nurse, and was on her way to work the overnight shift. The apartment wasn't so bad- typical tenement. There was barely any furniture- since they'd moved in recently. The little bit of furniture there was very ugly. Chris may have an eye for fashion, but he's certainly no interior designer. I must admit- I had a bit of a Joan moment [Joan is the Carrie Bradshaw-like character from the show- Girlfriends] when I surveyed the place. It didn't impress me like all of Chris' other superficial things. I expected more from him. I don't know where or how I get off being such a snoot [I'm a little ghetto fab myself, but i do recognize the flaw in it].

Anyway, after chatting w/Chris' sister before she left, I made myself comfy on the sheet-covered couch (at least it wasn't plastic). Chris said he was in the process of switching from regular cable to satellite; therefore he had NO CABLE. He said he had left most of his personal items at his baby momma's house, so he had no pics or fun stuff to explore. He only had furniture and plants. He did own a DVD player, so I figured that would we could kill a good three hours watching "The Departed." As soon as the movie started Chris excused himself to take a shower.

I was fine w/that b/c I was looking forward to watching "The Departed"- and I was a little, teeny weeny, bit less attracted to Chris after seeing his place (that's bad right?). After about twenty minutes into the movie Chris was out of the shower and shouted out from his bedroom, "Hey Brittny, wanna see me naked?!" That really caught me off guard b/c although I knew what was inevitably going to happen that evening, I didn't think Chris would be so forward since our relationship was moving on the Tortoise Express. Also, I was like, "C'mon dude, I'm an effing lady. You gotta play the game." I firmly responded that I did NOT want to see him naked and for him to put some clothes on. He kept insisting that he wanted me to see his body and that he was gonna come out naked. I repeatedly yelled back for him to put some clothes on before he came into the living room. Finally he acquiesced... sorta.

Girl, he leapt into the living room wearing some royal blue, tight spandex shorts and a wife beater! Then he started posing in front of me. I nearly died. He stood right in front of me with those tight things and asked me if I liked him in them. I guess I was supposed to be floored by the imprint of his package in the shorts, but I was far too distracted and amused by his entrance in these silly blue shorts to even care about his junk. I responded to his question with a shock and awe gaze that must have made him realize how much of a nut he was, and he got the hint. He had a cute little frame (a bit of a belly), but nice legs, arms, booty and "Peter." I couldn't get turned on though, b/c I was laughing hysterically. I begged him to change into some sweats or something. He was a little embarrassed b/c he repeatedly asked what was wrong w/the spandex, and through my chuckles I told him something about them being unhygienic. Defeated, he went back into the room to change.

About ten minutes later, Chris returned in regular baggy boxers and his wife-beater. Still a bit under dressed, but much, much better. Mind you, I was still fully dressed in a turtleneck sweater and jeans. We'd only gotten through maybe another ten or fifteen more minutes of the movie before Chris made his next move. Here goes that 0 to 90 I was talking about. We kissed for all of three seconds before he jumped off the couch and LITERALLY KICKED HIS SHORTS OFF. Let me repeat. He got off of the couch, snatched his boxers down and flung his leg HIGH up in the air, exclaimed "Whee," and kicked the shorts across the room. Then he gyrated his way over to me. Once again, I went into hysterics b/c I was convinced he'd gotten his "sexy" instructions from Barnum and Bailey's.

Lindsay, Chris is a damn foolish, clown! I don't know what I'm going to do with him. We messed around the rest of the evening. We didn't go all of the way b/c he said that he didn't think it was the "right" time (back to 0). He mentioned something about it not being the way he planned and wanting to make it special for me. Little did he know, that was already a "special" experience for me. He also said he was a little embarrassed about his place. At that point, his place was the least of my concerns. Honestly, I was ready for some action once I'd gotten over my fits of laughter (who knew- Jokes as foreplay?) I also re-asked him if he was gay. Once again, he replied, "No," and told me that he was growing a little tired of me asking him. Chris also expressed that he had a problem w/his performance in condoms, so he didn't want to disappoint or disrespect me or himself by NOT using one. That was pretty much the most sensible part of the evening. Boy was he serious about
that. We did pretty much everything we could do w/o going "all the way."
And he didn't break down once through all of that temptation. So basically, we had about three hours of foreplay. Does that make him self-controlled or gay?

Another funny thing was that when he was looking at my body, he gave the usual compliments- "sexy, nice, blah, blah", but he also regularly commented on how "clean" I was. "Oh, I like you. You're so nice and clean." Clean is a good thing, but not exactly a word you'd use in the heat of the moment, eh? That boy is too weird. Anyway, he drove me home at about 3:30am; but, b4 he dropped me off, he said that he hoped I would continue to call/see him, but he'd understand if I was disappointed by his non-performance that evening. Who's the girl in this relationship, again?

How He Doin'? - Part 1

2008-06-16T13:37:00.009-04:00

Like a deejay, I sometimes like to dig in the crates for some oldies but goodies. This is an email I sent to my homegirl about a date I had awhile back. I love reading it and observing my transgression from yesterday's giddy crush to today's "OMG- what the eff was I thinking?" For the record- this guy and I are totally NO LONGER an item. Also, I included little notes in [brackets] so that you can understand some of the vague parts. Hope you enjoy.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hey L,

I was actually out on a date w/Chris - the dude w/the shiny, new Lexus I met at Mo's [a bar in Brooklyn with a significant number of gay patrons, but NOT necessarily a "gay bar"]
few weeks back. I called him after my lunch outing w/Mo [a BFF- not a non-gay bar] and Pam, and we decided to meet up for drinks or something.

He picked me up at around 9 and I'd totally forgotten what he looked like.
One time I had a nightmare about him looking like Zab Judda. Thank God he
didn't look like ZJ, but he did look like another celebrity- your ATL homie-
Bobby Valentino- good hurr and all. LOL! He had on an Ed Hardy
trucker cap, a black sweater w/a green/white checkered button down
underneath and some fancy ripped up jeans and suede loaferish shoes. - He
put my lame black jeans/black top ensemble to shame.

So we drove around a while trying to figure out someplace to go until he
mentioned something about wanting to play pool. I suggested Slate (which has since
added several more ping-pong tables). He played his son's CD in the car
during the ride. Keep your ear's peeled for Lil Twizzle's first single. I
could tell he was very proud.

Chris is exactly my height and I was almost a few centimeters taller than
him in my 1 inch heels. He was nice and a terrible pool player- or maybe he
was so bad because he was distracted by my sexy pool moves. You know how I do [Lindsay jokes that i like to play pool on dates because of my "seductive" moves - i.e. - bending over the table; sitting on the edge and shooting from behind; and my all time favorite- bent over the table with said guy behind helping me shoot].

We had a couple of drinks and called it a night pretty early. No crazy
stories- just a nice, innocent date. He had me home a little before
midnight and he mentioned a 2nd date. He gave me a sweet little kiss on the
lips before I got out of his car and that was it.

Oh, but we did have a conversation about our dreams and goals. I told him I had
TV show aspirations (no didn't give specifics about ideas and stuff) [Linds and I have pitched super secret tv show ideas to each other that NO ONE must have wind of], and he surprised the hell out of me by saying that although he does I.T. [found out later that he installs internet for Time Warner Cable- which makes him the Cable Guy] for a
living, he has a STRONG DESIRE to pursue FASHION. Perplexing- Is he secure
enough in his manhood that he can openly admit that he wants to work in
fashion; or should a red flag be going up in my head? Isn't that my dream-
to date a dude who shares a love for nice clothes like I do? Or am I a
fag-hag? Hmmmm...

Oh well - I think I like him.

[Continued in "How He Doin'" Part 2]

Life Block

2008-06-09T11:51:00.007-04:00

I'm tired of being stuck... Stuck to my stupid job. Stuck in the 150-160 pound weight range. Stuck to my crappy apartment. Stuck with my dumb driver's learning permit. AARRGGHH!!! It just makes me want to scream. But screaming gets me nowhere. The only significant life change I have made this year was my hairstyle. Yeah- I'm transitioning from chemically straightened hair to natural, nappy hair; but, surprise- the length of my hair seems to remain STUCK on short.

Unsticking myself from these conditions is not going to be easy because i have no clue what my next step would be. I feel like a lone piece of beading on a fancy tee shirt, who knows it should be part of a ball gown, but will just end swept in the trash if it tries to free itself. That's called "STUCK for decent metaphors." Seriously though, at this point in my life, I almost feel that any move I try to make might land me in the trash- and I'm just too old for that kind of risk. That ball gown is unattainable and nearly impossible to land. My tee shirt is comfortable, safe and smart. (That's as far as I'm gonna go with that analogy.)

I know that change is never easy, but where do I even begin? Currently, I have an administrative job at a television network. Despite my previous metaphorical blunder, I really am a pretty good writer. Unfortunately, I am not sure that every one else would agree- and my insecurity keeps me stuck. This insecurity is not completely self afflicted. When I took the necessary steps toward writing for this network, I was shot down because I didn't "pass" their writing test. Oh c'mon! It didn't even test for technical or grammatical skill. I didn't have to create any kind of fancy figurative speech either. Rather, it tested SUBJECTIVE comedic ability- and apparently I didn't make my tester chuckle hard enough. Although I've been promoted within the network since that dreadful exam, I still have not moved on. And I know I can't use that nitwit-administered dumb test as a scapegoat forever, but it has made me reluctant to give writing here another shot. At this point, I just want to get my own writing poppin', blow up and tell these mofos to kiss my butt as I laugh all the way to the bank. Yeaaaaa- they'll be sorry then... or not.

My weight is a whole other issue. Last year's "Fat Girl Thoughts" post pretty much explained it all. I have an warped relationship with food and, once again, wouldn't you know - it is mostly due to my own crazy disposition. (I might be on to something here.) Maniacal exercise, low carbs, binge eating- No matter the approach, I constantly get the same end. This is mind blowing. Back in high school, losing a bunch of weight using one of those methods was a breeze. Nowadays it would be a blessing for me to hit 148 pounds.

I suppose, my real gripe is that change might be easier for me if I could just get something drastically different out of it. Even if the change does not last, I just want to go through it. I am not sure exactly where I wanted to go with this post, but I'm desperate for change. Obama-rize my life!

Dangerously In Like

2008-03-17T14:45:00.006-04:00

Everyone who knows me completely understands that I basically write to rant or complain about something. If one finds himself the subject of one of my blogs, he better brace himself for a good e-lashing. I try not to be malicious with my entries- and I usually aim to prove some significant point with my diatribes- but it is what it is. In honor of my return to blog-dom, I will switch it up a bit. Someone has inspired me to write expressions of joy- as opposed to my usual bitchy attacks on whatever I deem to be wrong with my life or the world. Please bear with me as I attempt to venture into the unknown cosmos of blissful blurbing. Trust me, I'll
be back to my regular harangues tomorrow.

Okay- where do I begin? Let me take the "free writing" approach to this one. Not only is this style of writing slightly foreign to me, but so are the strange emotions and experiences I'm dealing with. For example, the mere thought of this person gives me bubbleguts- not the gross ones I suffer from after ingesting an excess of rum and greasy food. These bubbleguts kind of cause me to smile uncontrollably and get all antsy. OMG- I can't stop cheesing when thinking about this dude. On rare occasions (probably when I'm PMS'ing), I have even had the urge to cry over him. Not the familiar tears of depression or anger, but "happy" tears- WTF? I have no idea how to deal with those. I can just hear my dear Bonnie telling me "not to be cryin' over no man" - but did she also mean crying like this? I'm totally embarrassed by these gross, but wonderful sensations I'm feeling.

Hold the phone - he just called me at work just to tell me that he was pondering how fortuitous it was for us to have met each other. Normally, I'd chew somebody out for disrupting my work flow in the middle of the day- while I'm AIM'ing my friends, listening to Wendy Williams and watching Oprah simultaneously; but, with him I just did not know how to respond. It's so easy for me to react to negativity. I have an army of defenses lined up to handle rude, disrespectful, idiotic or stupid people. ANd who in the world calls in the middle of the day to just express kind feelings and thoughts? He does- on a regular. It's sick... yet sweet.

Did I mention he wrote a song for me? Yeah, it is corny but I've never had a guy be inspired enough to compose a three minute tribute about me. It makes me feel special and wanted and all of the ways I have NOT felt from anyone I've dated since my high school sweetheart. We can spend hours together- talking, kissing, watching television, whatever. My mind constantly pesters me to make a fast get away from him because that's how couples bore of one another. Meanwhile, another part of me (dare I say my heart?) draws me in closer- makes me just want to be with him and I linger. The even crazier part is he actually asks me to stay. After spending the entire weekend with him, he actually cooked breakfast for me.

Trust, I am as cynical as they come. For all I know this guy could be hitting me with the Y3K game and I am just too hungry for male affection to notice. That idea crosses my mind from time to time, but honestly I really don't care. I've dated some real pieces of work (and pieces of poo) in my day- and not one of them has made me feel the way this guy does. They put absolutely no unique effort into courting me past paying for dinner and drinks. As a matter of fact, I think I was so used to believing that paying for a date was equivalent to a man liking me that I completely forgot about the other ways a man can show that he sincerely digs me. If he is faking it, then I would like for him to continue because as weird as this feels, I think I might actually like and appreciate it.

I Know Better Now

2007-08-10T10:14:00.005-04:00

About two or three times a week, I leave my house looking like I'm headed to a photo shoot instead of my little 6 by 7 office at my less than glamorous job. Some mornings I just get the urge to put in the extra effort to have my makeup just right and my hair perfectly coiffed. The positive attention is also good for the self-esteem. Although it's friggin' rainy and disgusting out, I decided to take that special ten minutes this morning to make my appearance just so. Honestly, I had no choice but to get it together because I was hungover and needed to double up on the concealer to hide my puffy eyes.

As I made my descent into the train station, a young man was at the bottom of the stairs waiting with open arms to greet me- literally. First I thought it was some random dude who had gotten all creative with his game and expected me to run into his arms because I looked so good. Then, as I got closer I recognized his face- and surprisingly remembered his name. I swear I have some kind of brain malfunction, where I can remember this insignificant guy's ( who I hadn't seen in about four years) name; but repeatedly call my Vice President, DEBBIE (who I see daily) the name "Donna." Oh well...so when I hit the train platform, dude tried to embrace me but I promptly kept him at arm's length because although I remembered him- I didn't recollect us having any kind of real relationship- intimate or otherwise.

His name was "Lex," and I met him when I was fourteen when Lexus vehicles were all the rage in the hood. Lex did not own a Lexus, but I'm sure he aspired to. He was a petty hustler with nice gear and a lot of gold, which was attractive to me back then. He was a smooth talker; just cute enough to not be ugly- and he smelled like a mix of Polo cologne and "Eau de Ganja." We exchanged numbers and saw each other on the block occasionally. I think I even snuck up to his apartment one day and kissed him ONCE, but thankfully I was so afraid of my mama catching me up to no good with a street knucklehead that I didn't give him a real chance to pursue anything. He flirted and I teased and that was the extent of our "relationship."

It wasn't long before I just didn't see Lex around anymore, and I barely even noticed. He resurfaced again one summer when I was home on college break and told that he'd also been "away" for a while. He was not away at college. He tried putting the old moves on me again, but I had been exposed to the "Educated Playas" at my school, and was so over the "Roughneck" thing.

Now, here was Lex again at the train station this morning. He was still the same guy- just a little older- but definitely NOT wiser. I was so not interested in carrying on a conversation with him, but he boarded the same train as me and I guess we had some catching up to do, right? He constantly commented on my "breathtaking beauty" (his words- NOT mine) and was practically undressing me with his eyes while we were on the train. I squeezed into a tight seat to hide my body but that just gave him a bird's eye view of the teeny bit of cleavage that was peeking out from my blouse. I uncomfortably clutched the top of my shirt to cover up. DAmn- why did I have to bring sexy back today? The lady next to me got off at the following stop, which left just enough room for Lex to slide right in next to me. In an attempt to divert the conversation from my "breathtaking beauty" (I like saying that), I started up a little small talk. Once again Lex said he'd been "away" and he was on his way to see his parole officer, yadda, yadda, yadda. I didn't even bother to bore him with the details of my every day, non-criminal, working life. It wasn't long before Lex was back to his old bullisht flirting, but this time I was NOT reciprocating - not even a little bit. While he was busy explaining to me exactly how hard he could put it down, all I could think about was why I even knew this guy. I also wondered how hard he was getting IT put down on him while he was locked up. There was absolutely nothing attractive about Lex now. His gold was all gone, his grill was messed up and he was ashy. I felt like I should have known better when I was fourteen. Anyway, I am so glad I know better now.

Fat Girl Thoughts

2007-08-01T14:52:00.000-04:00

It's only Wednesday- and I have already failed at yet another attempt to lose ten pounds. Every Monday, I embark on a new journey to rid myself of my protruding gut (which I'm sure exists because my lower intestine is out of place), ever-expanding hips and flabby thighs. This week's plan was to eat only fruits and vegetables; satisfy my sweet tooth with Diet Coke; and, not to eat past 7:00PM. I was doomed from the start because I went out and had a couple of drinks Sunday evening, which subsequently led to that post-alcohol feeling Monday morning where I needed just a little something greasy/starchy to soak up the remaining liquor in my stomach. I stopped by the Whole Foods Market on my way to work and picked up two slices of bacon, egg and cheese breakfast pizza (strike one). I convinced myself that the pizza wasn't all bad since it was made from the most wholesome and fresh ingredients. Besides breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I had even opted for the stairs over the escalator in the train station for good measure- so I was covered.

I was still a little full by the time lunch rolled around, so I used my hour to do a little shopping. When I arrived back at the office I spotted a co-worker with a Whole Foods container. Immediately the site of the small, brown box conjured up images of the steamy hot food bar and mmm... hot wings- which dude confirmed were available in the Comfort Foods section. AAArgh- I wasn't completely hungry, but it was past lunchtime and I was supposed to have eaten something by now. Besides, I'd yet to figure out Whole Foods' menu schedule, and the buffalo wings were not offered daily. I had to seize the opportunity when it presented itself. After scarfing down eight wings (I only had the intention of getting six, but they were so tiny- and I don't clean chicken down to the bone), I guzzled down a cup of water and Diet Coke. Two hours later, I was a little low on energy so I ate an apple with about a 1/4 jar of peanut butter.

The upside to that snack was that it provided plenty of fuel for my Kickboxing and Upper Cuts and Abs classes. On the other hand, I'd probably only burned off approximately two tablespoons of peanut butter. That's so not fair. I was feeling so pumped up after my workout that I even walked twenty blocks home, which left me ravenously hungry. The Tostidos on the table were calling my name, but I resisted and broke out the blender for a banana/pineapple low fat yogurt smoothie- complete with wheat germ. It tasted every bit as good as it sounds. The smoothie filled me up, but full doesn't necessarily equal satisfied to me; therefore I popped a cheesy broccoli and potato meal in the microwave just so I could get something with some substance in my tummy. Oh, and yes it was well beyond 7PM at this point. That was okay because Tuesday would be a new day.

I finished the rest of my smoothie for breakfast and squirmed all morning in anticipation for lunch. Chipotle Mexican Grill is my current most favorite eatery; and, despite the fact that there's not a single one located in my immediate vicinity I try to eat there at least twice a week. Their guacamole is the best tasting stuff this side of the border. Now- Chipotle both fills and satisfies me. I was still bursting at the seams with the Mexican goodness when I received an office email reminder about Mark and Tyler's wives' baby shower in the conference room at 4pm. Office parties always guarantee diet sabotage. Sure enough when 4 o clock rolled around I was among the first people to arrive in the conference room just to be greeted by a table full of assorted cookies, fruit platters, mini-cupcakes, potato chips, totillas and- eeek- more GUAC- this time from Whole Foods (yes there's one right across the street from my office). I tried to prepare myself for this delicious spread ahead of time by satiating my sweet tooth with a Diet Coke- but I chipped in ten bucks and I was gonna get my share. It started with just one chocolate mini-cupcake, but ended with a plateful of a little bit of everything else... even the Whole Foods guac- which was comparable to Chipotle's.

I vowed to work extra hard at the gym after work- that was until my friends invited me to happy hour drinks. It was the last day of July, which meant summer was halfway over and I HAD to take advantage of the nice weather with hurricane season approaching and everything. Alcohol is probably the second largest assassin of my dieting efforts. I go out boozing at least 3 times a week and those alcohol calories add up. Of course no happy hour would be complete without the requisite buffalo wings- which I inhaled because they were from Pluck U.- and the second batch was from the equally delectable Atomic Wings. I was in buffalo wing heaven. Man, I'd always said I could eat buffalo wings everyday- and already I'd had two consecutive days down.

This morning I woke up with bubble guts and guilt. I pondered re-starting my diet all over again, so I had an apple before I left the house. Twenty minutes later that apple was chased down with another Whole Foods (they must put crack in their food) breakfast pizza slice and TWO chocolate chip cookies. Hey, at that point it didn't even matter anymore. I was so disgusted by my lack of willpower, that I tried to deny myself any more food for the remainder of the day. But as luck would have it, someone left two pizza pies and a huge salad in the shared kitchen. I walked by and tried my best to ignore the pizza three times before I gave into temptation and snatched up a pepperoni slice- that I covered with a pile of salad. I'm DEFINITELY going to the gym today!

Is my obsession with food healthy? I can't help that I LOVE tasty food- and it's not my fault that tasty food isn't always healthy. Food, men, clothes- stuff we love is never really good for us. I have to get a grip and control my eating habits. Until then- i guess my gut won't be going anywhere. Oh well, I won't give up. Tonight i will NOT eat after the gym.

Blogger's Block

2007-07-23T10:22:00.000-04:00

Man, this writing stuff takes serious discipline. I started blogging to hone my WRITING skills, so that I could someday write a book or screenplay. Every time I hear a story about some random non-writer who suddenly authors a book- they always say the key is to just sit down and write every day. Sounds simple, right? No! I'm having a hell of a time trying to force myself to blog on a daily- shoot- a regular basis. That's funny because I always have SOMETHING to rant about. I spend a very healthy portion of my workday WRITING email and instant/text messages to my friends (sometimes co-workers). I'd have an epic novel if I combined my personal correspondence. When it comes to gathering my thoughts and actually typing them out into something readable, I think I just get a little unfocused.

I have to work on that. Anybody have any suggestions on how to combat my "Blogger's Block?"

Medieval Today

2007-07-12T11:52:00.000-04:00

We all learned about the various, terrifying torture devices used to punish people back in the old days. There was that coffin-like box lined with spikes meant to impale the body. One of my favorites was the “extend and pull” machine that eventually stretched a person’s limbs and torso until death. Actually, that one reminds me of the Pilates machines used today to tone and tighten. Folks must have had some pretty warped minds to sit around and think of that stuff- as if somehow the more deranged the mutilation, the more folks would be deterred from committing a crime. Thankfully, society now has more humane ways of dealing with offenders. However, a new breed of torture devices have arisen, and innocent women- like myself- are all willing victims.

Today, I am wearing a torture device and submissively suffering the consequences. Of course, it doesn’t look like anything harmful or scary. It’s quite nice- disguised in shiny, black, patent leather strapping. From a distance no one would even be able to tell it is causing me pain for I torture myself so often, I have learned to hide my anguish. But inside, I am screaming in agony. The skinny straps are so tight that they are squeezing my little piggies together. They are so bound by the rigid patent leather (doesn’t stretch like real leather) that I fear they may all morph into one giant toe. Oh, and my poor little, baby toe keeps unsuccessfully trying to escape; but, at each attempt the lower skinny strap takes notice of the bold action, traps and strangles it until she’s just falls to the side- defeated.

The wicked straps are aided in their foot massacre by the unassuming- yet equally thin kitten heel on the bottom of the shoe. Every time the strap prepares for an attack, I attempt to adjust my foot to thwart it, but that sneaky, skinny heel always twists to the side and shoves the side of my shoe back into the grasp of those patent leather serpents. I even think that bitch of a heel has an ulterior motive of injuring my ankle. I’m watching her.

While this war is raging in my lower region, I must remain cool, poised and confident. Why? Because the evil shoes are cute, and they totally complete my outfit. Not to mention, I got them on sale. “Pain is beauty.” Isn’t that what they always say? That motto sucks, and was obviously created by some woman-hating, misogynistic man to keep us in pain while he runs the world. (He was probably a descendant of the “Crazies” who created those medieval torture devices.) Yet, we buy into it every time. Why are women spending millions of dollars just to torture themselves for the sake of vanity? We are constantly subjecting ourselves to these acceptable forms of torture by stuffing and cinching; pushing and pulling; tweezing and waxing; nipping and tucking… I just want to scream sometimes!!

Meanwhile, men are strolling around comfortably in their nice, flat, sturdy shoes. They seek out and drool over the most “tortured” women; and, are totally unaware and unappreciative of the damage we’re subjected to just to look good. Actually, we would look very good without the torture. We’re just conditioned to think we have to go through all of this madness just to prove a point. Just like in medieval times.

Me, Annoy You?

2007-07-09T17:16:00.000-04:00

I am NOT one of these chicks who insolently boasts that she only has male friends because women are too catty and jealous. I am totally blessed to have some of the best female friends in my life. They are wonderful, intelligent, stylish, and beautiful ladies. We laugh, cry, chill and party together- absolute "BFFs." I love my girls to death; however, sometimes I also want to strangle them to death. I totally value and respect their different personality traits. These are the things that make them special. Unfortunately, some of their "unique" characteristics irk the hell out of me. So, in true "girlfriend"fashion I'm going to talk about them.
(First, let me drop this disclaimer: If any of my homegirls are reading this blog, please try not to take too much offense to my reckless writing because I am really going somewhere and making a point in this piece.)

BFF A- Sweetest girl ever, but totally self-absorbed with poor listening skills. Always rehashes the same stories with as much zeal and enthusiasm as she had when she first told them. I think her constant repetition is due to the fact that she just likes to hear herself talk.

BFF B - Totally dependable homegirl from back in the day. Been with me through thick and thin (literally and metaphorically). I think her education and employment gave her both a superiority and inferiority complex. That discord causes her to turn her nose up at certain people and put herself down at the same time- and that annoys me.

BFF C - A total "social scene" queen who shares my my passion for all things fabulous and superficial. She's a major "BAP," and I adore her for it. She too, has that "superiority/inferiority" thing going on; but, what really "Grinds My Gears" (Family Guy ref) about this girl is that she endlessly criticizes me about certain things I say/do, and then turns around and does the same things. When I call her on this behavior, she insists that her reasons for doing whatever are more justified than mine...Whateva.

BFF D - I've known her the longest. She is mature beyond her years, exceedingly responsible and has a great head on her shoulders. Unfortunately, she is stubborn as a mule. She is trapped in a mental jail cell and is afraid to let loose. Her obstinate demeanor is really a shield she uses to protect herself from living life to its fullest. Oh, and beyond that- she's a REPUBLICAN (gasp)!

BFFs E and F have their issues too; but, I will spare them so that I can finally get to the point of this entry. Plus- they're probably the only friends I'll have left after the others read this.

With friends like me, who needs enemies? Well, I've never been big on the "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all" adage. I prefer going the "truth hurts" route. Occasionally, when I am PMS'ing, drunk or just in a pissy mood I tend to put my friends on blast and reveal to them what I regard as their personality "flaws." All the while, I have never really considered the possibility that I annoy my friends. I wonder what they would find reprehensible about me. Well, I pondered long and hard to compile this list of the top five things that I think my girls may find aggravating about me, but are far too gracious to disclose (to me at least. I know those heifers talk about me behind my back).

1) I have a BIG mouth. Rather, I am perceived to have a big mouth. Actually, I don't think I have a big mouth, I just sometimes have a hard time determining a "secret" from something I'm just not supposed to say when someone else is around. Yeah- isn't that a secret? No. I can't get into the specifics right now- but there is a difference. People just have to make it very clear to me that what they are telling me is a secret. Preface said sentence with, "Hey B, don't tell anybody but..." and I will understand.

2) I am about 85% bark and 10% bite (those numbers can skew based on the situation). My friends probably can't stand the fact that I talk a good game, but probably won't act. Oh well...

3) When I'm right, I'm right. When I'm wrong, I'm RIGHT. I support most of my arguments with emotions and not logic (excuse me for being a girl) and one cannot prove feelings wrong. Therefore, I can't be necessarily be wrong. Makes perfect sense to me.

4) I am a hater. Most of my hate stems from envy and jealousy. However, sometimes I'm merely making casual observations and maybe not expressing them in the most tactful manner. In my defense, I think my friends are not always annoyed with this trait because sometimes I say stuff that I already know they're thinking, but just aren't verbalizing.

5) I am insecure. My girls recognize my potential far more than I do; and, the fact that I prefer to bitch and complain as opposed to actually living up to it frustrates them. I'm working on it. Besides, whining is totally healthy and cathartic.

There it is folks. I love my girls despite the stuff I hate about them. I am just grateful to have them in my life. Really, if given the chance, I probably wouldn't change their little idiosyncrasies because it's part of who they are and perfect people are so lame and boring.

If I Won the Lotto, I Would...

2007-07-06T12:23:00.000-04:00

Be incredibly HAPPY!

"Money can't buy happiness" my ass! A broke person or someone who was never broke came up with that nonsense.

BFF? Not By a Longshot

2007-07-05T10:58:00.000-04:00

So I have this "friend." I have to put "friend" in quotations because I'm seriously debating in my head whether or not our relationship constitutes actual friendship. I met her in high school a few years back, and even then we didn't necessarily click. She ended up having a stronger bond with a buddy of mine and they hung out more than she and I did. When we were together, the mutual friend served as a buffer, and we really didn't have to interact with one another. I was fine with that.

I graduated from high school before this girl. All of these "shes" and "hers" might get a little confusing, so for the purpose of this blog, I'll refer to this "friend" as "Shalana." During one of my college breaks, my mother wanted to introduce me to her good friend's granddaughter, who coincidentally was a senior at my alma mater. Surprise! It was Shalana. Her grandmother was all too pleased that we'd already made each other's acquaintance, and she encouraged me to take Shalana under my wing tell her all about college life.

The first few times we hung out, I chalked our awkward conversation to lack of familiarity. I mean- I was on a whole new level now- in college. Reminiscing about our high school glory days was a wash because we were in different grades and didn't really share the same experiences. Anyway as time went on, Shalana and I continued to hang out, but our relationship remained on the same awkward, superficial level. We never really shared secrets and the more I hung out with her, the more I started noticing things I didn't really like about her. She was kind of boring, self-absorbed and bossy. Not exactly traits I look for in BFFs. But due to the fact that I knew her for several years and our familial ties and close proximity, I felt obligated to continue our friendship.

I had a break from homegirl for about two years when she moved out of state. Avoiding her phonecalls was a lot easier. Sometimes she came back to New York to visit, but I would either flake out on her invites or make up excuses for not being able to join her. I was off scott-free- But not for long.

Shalana called me the other day, and I answered because 1) It had been about two years since we last spoke; and 2) I had recently experienced a tragedy and she did call to express her condolences, so the least I could do was thank her... six months later. Basically, Shalana called me to tell me that she was back in New York- to STAY, and she really thought we should meet up after work at a happy hour. I'd already made plans with my real friend, so I was covered. But she kind of used her bossy-wiles and invited herself to my outing. Once again, when we saw each other- it was like for the first time and after exchanging the usual formalities we were back to square one.

I seriously need to break it off with this girl. I cannot spend another strange minute with her. If she were a guy, we would've had sex until it got stale and been done with it all. This relationship has officially run its course. Now- how do I break it to her?