minus 8 hours til 2008.

I didn't wanna do the obligatory blog-for-the-sake-of-blogging for NYE. But last night, two dear friends and I were discussing New Years resolutions and love over Yuenglings and cocktails, and it got me to thinking a bit.

As for resolutions, I'm canceling my gym membership, and switching to pilates and weight-free only. And as it has been in years past, i'm vowing to "be more kind." again. Save money, be more decisive, and cut unnecessary sugar out of my diet.

Now for the love part. A couple of things popped into my head, and I quickly wanted to jot them here.

- Don't have expectations. It's never a good idea to plan the wedding before the 3rd date.

- Nothing you do can make "it" happen--"it" has to be organic.

- Fear is naturally apart of loving someone.

- I'm not ready for this, means, I'm not ready for this WITH YOU :-(.

- Love doesn't allow for even a drop of selfishness. Give a little...and you'll get a little back.

- Don't listen to the "shoulds." Only you know what's best for your relationship.

- Be patient with your lover--patient, not foolish. It will help you in other areas of your life.

- Say what's on your mind (within reason). It will save you from mind games, sleepless nights, and awkward silences.

Ok people...that's all from me for 2007. Happy New Year!

thank you. i love it...

...and you. photo by Richard Chapman

when i can't find you.

I convince myself you are warm in your cluttered cozy apartment making stew with carrots and knitting afghans for your unborn babies.

I imagine you'll call me and invite me over for tea and sunflower seeds, and you'll tell me about your next mission and the people next door who you hear screaming through the walls.

And you'll ask me if I called my sisters, and tell me about when my hair was short and red and how I'd run when you tried to comb the kinks out. How one time I ran into an iron and burned myself, and you held me, wiped my tears, and asked had I'd learned my lesson.

You'll laugh and try to find the pictures you saved from those years in our old gray house with weak floors, but you've forgotten where you keep them.

Before leaving, I'll ask, "You need some help cleaning up this place?" And you'll say, "Oh no...I like it this way. I know where everything is."

text msg: saved and unsent.

I typed in "Happy hol" last night. And that's as far as I got.

napkin impressionism.

I draw things like this in staff meetings. It helps me to focus. But I drew this one on a napkin during "our talk." I couldn't keep constant eye contact with you...for fear that I'd get too emotional in public. But I heard everything you said.

p.s. I do not like ducks in front of houses.

more of these...

Painting from The Rainbow Kingdom

:-(

Aman the Vendor Guy hasn't been around in over three weeks. I miss him. I think he has relocated; hopefully to a better place where people buy hotdogs and candy from him on a more consistent basis. Still, I want my Coke from him, and my afternoon chocolate. And I want to admire his cool tweed jackets.

a watched pot never boils.

i'm going crazy waiting for my phone to ring...

UPDATE: the pot is boiling (more like simmering). now there's more waiting...acting...patience...work...butterflies.

a phone call, an email, and a little optimism

When I was very young, and I really really really wanted something to happen, say I wanted Samantha to end up with Jake, or wanted an A+ on my spelling test, I'd cross my fingers. Then I'd say "My toes are crossed. My hair is crossed. Even my eyes are crossed." How silly. I can't remember if that did the trick...although Sam and Jake were the happy couple last I checked and I always got a perfect score in spelling. So, if only for nostalgia's sake, I'm crossing my fingers, and leaving the rest up to karma.

4 inches of snow, pale skin, and a photo op.

I was gonna post something about the first snow of the season..."blah blah blah...it snowed last night...4 inches or something like that, and it's nice. some kids in mountain towns got a 2-hour delay...blah blah." but...this trumps snow:

Among a dozen or so parts of my body, I seem to have always been extra extra self-conscious about my pale skin. I wouldn't dare let a guy, or a Peeping-Tom, see me flat out naked unless I had a tan or at least a slathering of some Sun Laboratories (tip: I swear by this stuff post-Winter. It's the only self-tanner w/o that oompla-loompa tint). But lately, like so many other realizations that come with age, I'm starting to become okay with my paleness. Sometimes, with a bit of self-examination and flattering lighting, I'd even call it pretty. I'm getting there. Though, no matter how grown I get, it's still an uphill battle to unhear the "white girl!" taunts from my adolescence. If you went to my high school, you got tormented waaaaaay more for being unfortunately light than for being strikingly dark. (later I'd find that this light-skinned/dark-skinned battle, whether post-high school, post-college, or post-humous, never ends.)

Kids who couldn't even spell it used to call me "translucent!" Remember that movie "Powder?" Yep, that was one of my nicknames back then. I used to pray to the melanin gods to make me just fall somewhere in the middle. I once even oiled myself with vegetable oil and laid out in the sun...to my chagrin, I fried to red, instead of brown.

Nowadays, I can laugh at SOME OF my memories of taunting and of dreams of being browner. And I've been a little more accepting of the "white girl" that I am, often telling myself--and others, "I'm NOT pale. I'm FAIR!" **think Lizzie Bennet**
Photo by S. Smith

happy birthday hannah.

Have a happy happy day! I have no advice, except -- the late 20s, for me, have sucked (for the most part), but they're slightly better than the mid-20s, and heaps better than the early 20s.

p.s. I've thought about it and I refuse to send you wrinkle cream. You don't need it...you're beautiful!

i didn't take this photo.

...but i wanted to. Some DC photog snapped it. I saw this dilapitated building two weeks ago when I was shopping by Metro Center. It struck me for two reasons: 1) it seems so misplaced in the light-gray-dark-gray DC cityscape; and 2) because I hardly ever look UP in this city. I'm always looking straight ahead or down and walking speedily to make my way with as little interaction as possible with what's or who's around me (no wonder I get so pissed off with this place--and the heels of my boots wear down too quickly). I've lived here on and off for many many years and I never noticed this old cracked-up beauty. Gotta look up more oft.

fortune cookie part 2.

a lil somethin' about the pain in my neck.

I went to Dr. P today for my muscle sprain, and he says I have a "rather long neck." "Really?!," I ask. "Yes, you do. There are women out there who would kill for your neck," says Dr. P. (Really? WHO are these women?)

I see my neck as your typical squatty-and-buried-under-my-chin neck, but knowing it's long makes me wanna wear low-cut blouses and show it off. And reminds me of the swan in this fairy tale I was obsessed with as a little girl. It's a sad-but-hopeful story of a rejected "duck" who, through hardship and eventually running away, learns to appreciate his beauty.

Painting by Sunil Gangadharan

"the view" is so much better on vicodin.

funny stuff.

they're talking about sesame street on "the view" and
how adults are now concerned about the characters on
the show. cookie monster promotes obesity, oscar the
grouch is an asshole, and snuffalufukous hallucinates
...like he's on drugs. lol. i have no opinion on it, except
that I love sesame street. [and hate "the view."]

thanks for the title, S. xoxo.

saccharin dinner date.

mixed berries swimming in yogurt and honey.

granny smith apples with caramel dipping sauce.

hot cocoa topped with heavy whipped cream.

warm yellow-brown candle light on our faces.

talking to myself;

I do it everyday. I hold long conversations with myself in an attempt sort through my problems and anxieties and other bullshit that creeps into my life. Saying it out loud (or writing it here) can sometimes make sense of the nonsense my mind tends to create. So today, on my walk to work, the conversation went like this:

Maybe it's just me overthinking things. I do that a lot. Cuz really, why would he lie about that?

It's silly. I'm silly. Nevermind.

And you know, even if he did lie, it's was so long ago and I was nothing to him then. Maybe NOW it would matter, but not then really. I'll leave it alone.

Everyone lies.

I lie.

But I wonder WHY he lied. I feel like I need to know this, but what if it's nothing, and he didn't lie and I'm just getting carried away in my suspicions because I'm insecure and afraid?

I am afraid. I don't want to know. forget it.

What if it's something I cannot forgive? What if it hurts too badly and I can't trust him afterwards? What if there are multiple lies?

This hurts already...it reminds me of something. of SOMEONE else.

for Bea.

yesterday, i told Bea i skipped lunch to get my eyebrows waxed. She was worried I'd be hungry so she joined me in a break to get a Snickers from the deli across the street. As we're crossing the street, she says, "I've never had my eyebrows plucked. Do you think I should? Maybe I should. Yours look fantastic! And they're quite organized!"

cute. organized eyebrows. never ever heard them described that way. I don't really think that deeply about my eyebrows, but she's right I think. LOOK and LOOK. very organized.

that corner smelled like old piss.

And it was cold. But it unknowingly made for a cool grainy photo of some bushy-haired girl doing The Onion crossword, and some 19-year-old comic writing jokes in a notebook--in a bar on a Monday night.

the thing about smiles...

...is that they are usually false and easy to fake. (I said usually.) A smile doesn't show how you REALLY feel. It's a protective covering. An easy lie. A smile dims your hurt and crazy. And people are content with smiles and are unlikely to question your feelings or give you the "Oh what's wrong?" pity stare. I hate the pity stare even more than I hate the fake smile.

I once dated a very sweet, honest guy, and in the first month that I was getting to know him, I was afraid he'd think I was too crazy and fucked up for him. He was so "together" to me. Too together for me--and I didn't want to scare him away. I liked him. So I lied and told him I was going to celebrate the holidays with my big happy family...and made it sound like a wonderful tradition. (very untrue.) Then I flashed a big convincing smile. He smiled back and the lie was sealed. But now I was comfortable, and so was he. I just knew he couldn't handle the truth. "No. no plans, aside from laying in bed all day and pretending to be dead."

"last night I dreamed..."

"...i was in Urban Outfitters in the sales rack.
What a lovely dream! I bought you a hardcover
comic book on Spiderman. wow. I must really
love you if I'm buying nerdy crap like that for
you in MY sleep-induced shopping experience."

(AND in hardcover, no less.)

i love pr.

No, not puerto rico. not public relations. PROJECT RUNWAY!! (i realize how corny that sounds...oh well, i can't be expected to be cool all the time **wink**). The 4th season started last night and I'm all about it. Oh, and i'm on Team Christian. That black and tan bubble jacket-skirt ensemble was gorge' on his model--and a great effort for the first challenge. **tiny claps** And only 21 and all that bitchiness (and some weird Flock of Seagulls hair to boot). Love him!

Don't call me on Wednesday nights or ask me "whatcha doing tonight"?, cuz I'll be busy--glued to the couch for the next 10 or so weeks. Even the anti-reality-show bf stole little peeps over the top of his book at Heidi and the runway show.

silly crazy good stuff.

I'm addicted chapstick. I can't live without it. I apply it all day, and ALL NIGHT. When I wake up in the middle of the night to pee, I put on a teeny bit before I go back to my zzzzz's. If I leave the house without a purse, I carry the essentials: phone, keys, debit card, chapstick. crazy huh?

This is my latest obsession. Well, let's call it a healthy obsession. I think it's healthy anyway. I googled it and couldn't find any evidence saying overuse can lead to fatigue, sexual side effects, diarrhea, muscle spasms, dry mouth, and/or death. But I AM convinced there are psychological side effects--I get irritable and nervous and dig through my purse like a mad woman if I can't find my lip gloss. Do I need help?

So, I did a little more googling for said "help," and found this LBA site whose stated purpose is to "stay free from lip balm and to help others achieve the same freedom." LOL. Come on!! I mean, really...is a little chapstick dependency such a bad thing? **hands shake, scratches nose, sniffs** It actually keeps me sane. **sniff scratch** We all need a vice...or two (or three). **shakes chills**
********
UPDATE: To the person (you know who you are) who questioned the mention of "sexual side effects" in this blog--there are NO sexual side effects caused by applying chapstick to one's lips. I repeat, NO SEXUAL SIDE EFFECTS. sheesh.

today reminded me.

on the day you hurt me, it rained cold and hard.

i cried all day at nothing and everything--and told those who asked "it's hay fever." for the next three months, i went mad and cursed you and me and love and everyone in love.

i thought i'd die.

i didn't.

the deluge became a drizzle. then a mist. and then one day...

...it stopped.

photo by Saanga

just for a minute...

...allow me to be my cynical, and slightly antagonistic, self.

Often I feel that good, deserving people always get the shit end of things, while the less-than-deserving seem to have the best of everything. There are books written about it. For i.e. a woman who works in my building received a day in her honor just because she talks about God all day long and sings and greets people in the morning by saying things like "welcome to work!" "Come on down the red carpet to work!" Come ONNNNN! But then, for i.e. there is a crazy woman with a brilliant mind and a good intentions who doesn't even have a roof over her head.

Not much of an example, but you get it. And you more than likely know how it feels to be passed up for something you know is rightly yours, but someone else gets it and you can't figure out why. It's possibly karmic forces, or timing. I have a friend who believes the things we do in our past lives affects us greatly in our present one. Like if we were a wealthy tyrant in a past life, we're getting it all back now by struggling to pay our bills. Hmmmm...not comforting, but maybe.

vendor guy part 2.

You know that Vendor Guy across the street that wipes down my Coke cans? I’ve noticed he's quite snazzy for a guy who sells hot dogs. I mean, not that he shouldn’t be, but most Vendor Guys in these parts wear your basic dirty khaki or dirty jeans and dirty t-shirt get-up. Not this Guy. My Vendor Guy wears a tweed newsboy cap, a tailored wool blazer with a button-down oxford, and sometimes a cardigan over it. (He probably has cool shoes too...I hope they're not penny loafers. Please don't let them be penny loafers! I'll check next time.) He's a handsome older guy, East Indian descent (I think. I could be wrong about that), with gray hair, a tailored jacket--and he's wiping down Coke cans and asking folks what they want on their dirty hot dog (I really wish these Guys sold Sabretts...yum!).

Maybe he actually LIKES his job. OR maybe he likes fashion. Either way, I like him. I gotta ask his name next time, so I can stop calling him Vendor Guy. I'm so hasty sometimes. I wonder if he wipes down everyone's can, or just mine.
******
UPDATE: Ran over for my afternoon Coke five minutes ago. His name is Aman.

uh oh...

...look at what I discovered tonight. This is sooo awesomely dangerous! I've been at it for three hours straight, my eyes and fingers are tired, I want a snack, I have to pee, but I can't stop. I'm going to quit at 11pm. really.

I used to spend hours and hours and days playing this game in college. Sophomore year. I think my roommate Tedra was a tad bit worried about me.....I would eat, then play, maybe shower, maybe not, play, eat again, play, and then fall asleep from exhaustion and sensory overload.

At some point, Tedra cared enough to demand that I "get off the computer, get out of the room, and get some contact with the rest of the world." I'd laugh and say "I'm ok. Seriously! This is my LAST game. Really!" Then she'd turn on the music and lip-sing to "All My Life" while holding her brush mic and gyrating/gesturing the way R-rated R&B singers did back then. I'd get distracted, lose my game, and crack up. That ALWAYS did it for me...her being out-of-character silly, and serenading me with that mushy R&B song. Come to think of it, I was the one that bought that CD for her! Ha! I wonder if she hears it and thinks of me, the way that I do of her. That corny KC and JoJo ballad will forever be "OUR SONG." I'm smiling too hard right now as I type this out. ugh. moving on...

We spent most of that year giggling, and me mostly being the silly, happy-go-lucky, naive girl drawing eyeliner mustaches and flowers on her face and knees while she slept (I'll try to dig up some old pics of this), and hiding her coveted beanie babies. Us reassuring eachother that things would be OK in our "love" lives. Me ironing her clothes because her wrinkles drove me nuts, and her rolling her eyes at me and my OCD's that drove her nuts. No drama though, and no judgements. None whatsoever. Just sweet (and embarrasing) memories of Tetris, R&B, Fourth Street, and a good friend.

sunday dreamin.

I was gonna post an entry about the changes that have taken place in my life over the past year, but I'm not ready for that.

This is one of my favorite songs, by the great Etta. (I don't know anything about this short film, but it seems to work with the song. probably because it's black and white. I dunno. I like it though.)

i love bulky oversized man sweaters.

And finally, i have an excuse to wear them.

I'm ending the week on a bundled-up, pleasant note...the headache is gone and it's Friday. Here are some random, semi-connected little notes that inspired me this week...and helped clear some fuzziness from my head. (fuzziness belongs on sweaters, not in heads.)

"I am sorry about your stomach. but babe. you REALLY
don't give a fuck on how you eat...your favorite foods include:
toaster stroodle, candy assortment, popeyes, pizza, coffee,
no breakfast, hotdogs, something dairy with a lot of sugar,
and on top of that you got that carbon water no wonder you
got gas love. your stomach hates you. yes lets go get some
fruit. fruit is good."
*****
"Or maybe it's just karma pulling you out of the hole of a
false relationship you were in with him...getting you out of
that dreadful situation, revealing to you that you deserve
better...you deserve the truth and someone who doesn't
make you question yourself."
*****
"We all deserve the truth, if nothing else, I think."
*****

more on WM.

I mentioned Walter Mosley earlier in the week...here's the continuation. I'm not gonna talk in length about him or the book he was reading from. If you care, it was Blonde Faith.

WM gave some candid, three dimensional answers to your generic-style booksigning questions...the kind I call "questions for the sake of asking questions." Aside from being a great storyteller, he's also a bit of a charmer; he reminds me of gray-haired gentlemen I've encountered in Harlem dressed in brown Sunday suits, talking old-fashioned dirty-sweet talk. "You sho make an ol' man smile." Well, he's not that old, and he wasn't that sweet, but still, he reminded me of those gentlemen. Maybe it's just because he wears a cool hat.

I sometimes look to successful, published authors for some kind of secret. An ANSWER. Perhaps a formula for writing a book and getting it published. Whatever it is, I was hoping WM would've let me in on it. He didn't. Not really.

He told us, with writing, it's either in you or it's not. It's not something that you call yourself because you wake up one day and want to quit your IT job and decide "Hey, I think I'll be a writer now." There's no magic to it, you can't fake it. Not very comforting...but sooo true. Oh, and he said something I really liked...I can't quote him but I'll try -- "Being a writer is about your relationship with books that you develop early in childhood, and the way you share that relationship with your audience." And one more. This is simple...but it speaks to the heart of my problem/ambition--"Writing the truth is difficult." As simple as his words were...I needed to hear them from an accomplished author. Without knowing it, he gave me a little "answer"...an affirmation.

This is out of context and all over the place. I just wanted to get this out before the week ended, and now I'm done.
******
Image from cover of Fortunate Son

kaiser.

I let him nibble on my ankles, play with my string, lie with me in bed, and hold the remote control. And what does the lil' shit give me in return?

SLEEP

inconveniently true.

A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.

- The Picture Of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

how to be.

The other day in a bookstore, I picked up this little book on how to be happy. I was curious, so I read a couple pages while waiting for Walter Mosley to arrive and read to us.

Page 1: Show up.

Page 2: Follow your heart.

I ended there. That was enough. True stuff, but nothing novel. And, I didn't need to read that on the pages of a book, did I?

I put the book back in it's place on the shelf. Got a latte, took my seat, and Walter began.

(I think I'm gonna talk a bit more about Walter later in the week...but I have no idea what I want to say.)

so last friday...

...one of my favorite bloggers posted a short-and-sweet entry. It made me smile. TAKE A LOOK-SEE...end the week on a positive "note."

my girlfriends make me laugh.

From this here silliness (she's way cuter than that dog), to Kai's crazy Bed-Stuy date from hell (sooooooo glad you got the f*ck outta there alive!), to Geri's very odd crushes on Putin and Ahmadinejad (Geri, you should have never told me that!), to Hans' joy over her discovery of pretty pink cigs (I want one!). I LOVE these girls--and credit much of my joie de vivre to them and their whimsies.
photo by Hannah C.

can't wait.

This weekend is all about cleaning out my closet, weeding through all the stuff I never wear, and saying "adieu" to a lot of junk. Mustard Seed, Goodwill, and Chyna here I come!

Rule 1: if I haven't worn it in a year but keep insisting "i might wear that oneday," it goes.

Rule 2: if it doesn't fit me exactly the way it should and if it's not worth it to waste money on tailoring, it goes.

Rule 3: if i don't love it, it goes.

It's a good feeling--letting go of all that extra baggage and clutter...and finding the special things I forgot I had.

road trip.

i sit beside you.

i hold your thigh. you hold mine. then the clutch. then my thigh again. i squirm--i'm ticklish there, but i like it.

i smile at your profile--the perfect curves that still feel new to me. the tiny mole on your neck, just beyond your ear.

you wrap your fingers around mine.

i sit beside you.

you listen to hip-hop 80s, rock 70s. i can't get my way--so i listen to my ipod--R&B 90s, soul 60s. i take little breaks to chat with you and eat your Grandma cookies.

between naps, i stare out the window at Fall leaves and country markets. between smiling at my naps, you stare ahead at 64 and 295.

you curse the post-weekend gridlock--"Damnit...I should've stayed on 60." i curse the weather--"Damnit...It's too warm for Fall!"

"look at the cows!" you say, because you know the Virginia child in me wishes i could have one in my backyard.

we steal fast kisses at red lights and in between stalled cars.

you drive. i Google-map. you pump gas. i browse the aisles of Sheetz.

you slide your hand over mine, and wrap it around yours.

i sit beside you.

oh, I liked "Writing"...

...by Charles Bukowski. And since you liked his quote from "Women," and someone else liked it too, I've decided to post it here. Maybe it will help, or provide an answer, or give some sort of meaning to someone else. Or maybe they'll just "like it" as we did.

Pain is strange.
A cat killing a bird, a car accident, a fire...

Pain arrives, BANG, and there it is, it sits on you. It's real.
And to anybody watching, you look foolish. Like you've
suddenly become an idiot.

There's no cure for it unless you know somebody who
understands how you feel, and knows how to help.

"i'm mad. you're mad."

painting by Jacques Hans Gallrein
****************************

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat. "or you wouldn't have come here."

-Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

i am...

...READY. ready to go. ready for a change. Soon is too slow.

my little brother.

at age 4, what did you know about pain? desperation? wanting? but you weren't supposed to understand, were you?

that day you walked in on Mommy in the bathroom, you weren't supposed to, were you? you were supposed to be playing with your teddy in the bedroom or playing with your puppy outside--"Don't run out in to the street for anything! Stay on the sidewalk!" that's what you were supposed to be doing.

but you didn't listen. at age 4, sometimes you don't listen, or you just forget to because you're thinking about all the other things you're supposed to remember: "Don't run out into the street. Don't talk to that man who lives across the street in that gray house(he's mean to children), Don't pee on yourself, Careful not to fall down, Come here and let Mommy comb your hair, ok?"

but you didn't listen to "Don't come in the bathroom," and you saw what you didn't understand, and maybe it wasn't real, like the cartoons you watched every Saturday. but this was different, because you couldn't unlearn it, and many many nights many years into the future, how could you know, that you would beg God to take it away. to wipe your memory clean. if only. you could go back and not see what you saw that day, when you were 4:

Mommy crouching in the bathroom. bare feet. cold tile. body lurching forward. face contorted like a monster. wire hanger in twitching hand. ripping away her own flesh. my own flesh. she screamed something, but you don't know what it was. you couldn't hear, you could only see. you wanted to move, and to scream, but you were frozen. bare feet. cold tile. eyes widened. you don't remember when you walked away. it was more than you could ever understand. and more than a child's heart could hold.

"i will...try...

...to contain that eternal loneliness that seems to eat away at you."
painting by Valery Milovic

(about hair) i posted this on another blog.

And then I thought, "wow, I really overdid it on this chick's blog." I mean, I posted a blog entry within a blog entry. But on the other hand, sometimes I like when I overdo it, cuz some topics merit wordiness. i.e. this wordy comment I posted about hair and women and preference and men that I'm sure a lot of women can relate to:

"I think hair beauty is in eye of the beholder, and while what you do with your hair should not matter, I know from experience, that to many of our people, it does. And some, not all, black men have a “thing” about hair. Some call it a preference, others call it a bias. To each his own, I guess. I’d like to add that some white, latino, and asian men have a "thing" about hair as well, so I think this preference/bias "thing" crosses over to every culture and race.

I’ve had my hair in every style there is to have: the short “toni braxton” cut, a shaved Sinead O’Connor head, the long and natural, the short and natural, relaxed (straight) and long, highlighted, dyed, a straight bob, and now I have a mid-length natural style that I’m growing out (because I’ve found that relaxers are so damaging and I have less and less time to put into maintaining it). Over the years, I’ve had varying reactions from men. For years, when I rocked the short ‘do, men would say "I love a woman with short hair. It truly shows off your pretty face." Very nice. And I now I get compliments about my natural hair, and guys always want to touch it (lol). I guess I cannot speak much about negative comments I've received from men about my hair, except that a number of men I’ve dated, both younger and older, have actually asked me, when my hair was short, to grow it long because they preferred longer hair. Maybe they were just old-fashioned. Maybe their mommas had long hair, and they like women to look like their mommas. Maybe they just like touching, caressing, or running their fingers through long hair. It is what it is. People have preferences. Some men like long, others like short, (my current boyfriend likes mohawks…lol) some say it doesn’t matter. Some women don’t want to date an overweight man, or prefer a tall man. These are ALL personal preferences.

Now, if men are making negative comments toward you, that could be a reflection of the type of man he is and his overall views about women, and not about who you are or how you wear your hair. If a man is coming from a place of respect, how he relates to you shouldn’t matter if your hair is short, long, natural, or relaxed. And it’s one thing to prefer one hair style/length over another, but JUDGING someone because of their hair, even if it’s a positive judgement (i.e.”My queen, I love your ‘fro”) is still just what it is –- judging a book by it’s cover. A ‘fro does not maketh a queen, and a relaxer does not maketh a ho.

I wear my hair natural because I think, of all the looks I’ve had, it’s the easiest to manage right now, the healthiest, and the most flattering. I’m absolutely the same person I was when I had straight hair with highlights and my short razor cut. How people look at me is there own “thing.” I’d just hope the people who really SEE me, would look past my hair.

P.S. Sorry for the extra long comment…and this is also my favorite Honey blog.

today on my afternoon caffeine run...

...the sidewalk vendor, grabs my coke from his cooler, cleans the top of it with a napkin (like I'd normally do for myself), wipes the excess water from the can, and neatly wraps three napkins around it with a straw. Then he thanks me and bids me good afternoon. It's so rare to encounter a gentleman, you kno. I must be courtesy-starved to make such a big hoo-raa over a guy wiping my coke can down with a napkin.

fortune cookie part 2

I posted a similar entry last Friday, but I like this one more -- posted last Thursday. If only all that could fit on a tiny strip of paper!

wear the blue one, cuz red is the devil's color.

She loved to draw and paint, and she was good at it. It made her someone else. She could add a "real, grown-up" arm to my stick figure. Her sisters said she would have been a "real artist" had she had the proper training. But she had no time for that, "with the kids and all."

Her art only graced the red walls of a dark, old basement kitchen, and the pages of her spiral notebook. I saw them there in that notebook: the art that makes me squeeze my eyes shut and creeps into my head when I'm alone at night. demons. devils. warlocks. cat eyed and horned and winged mythical creatures. black, inky eyes pressed deep into the pages. red eyes. eyes with no faces. "Who are they?" I ask. "Our neighbors," she says.

fortune cookie.

I hope this "cake" is chocolate, lowfat, with lots and lots of layers.

marilyn.

No one ever told me I was pretty when I was a little girl. All little girls should be told they're pretty, even if they aren't.

text message.

"I love you and ur sandwich makin ass"

and this is from the book...

...on which that little movie from yesterday's entry is based. I haven't read it (yet), but this painful excerpt makes me sad. The author seems to romanticize Ray's fucked-up relationship "etiquette," making us ache for him. But authors do that. Writers do that. People who have lived through any type of hurt do that.

*********************

Although he does not know it, Ray Porter fucks Mirabelle so he can be close to someone. He finds it difficult to hold her hand; he cannot stop in the street and spontaneously hug her, but his intercourse with her puts him in proximity to her. It presses his flesh against hers and his body mistakes her flesh for mind. Mirabelle, on the other hand, is laying down her life for him. Every time she jack-knifes her legs open, every time she rolls on her side and pulls her knees up so he can enter her, she sacrifices a bit of herself, she gives him a little more of her that he cannot return. Ray, not understanding that what he is taking from her is torn from her, believes that the arrangement is fair. He treats her beautifully. He has begun to buy her small gifts. He is always thoughtful toward her, and never presses her if she isn't in the mood. He mistakes his actions for kindness. Mirabelle is not sophisticated enough to understand what is happening to her, and Ray Porter is not sophisticated enough to know what he is doing to her. She is falling in love, and she fully expects her love to be returned once Mr. Porter comes to his senses. But right now, he is using the hours with her as a portal to his own need for propinquity.

"...the couch shot gave a feeling of isolation."

I watched this little movie last night. I watched 85 percent of it about a year ago, but Netflixxed it a couple of weeks ago to see what happened in the remaining 15. I'm no movie critic, and this is not a critique anyway, so just bear with me.

My boyfriend came in during the last eighth of the movie, and plunked down on the couch to watch it with me. It ended in that classic cinematic way (yes, I'm giving it away): Right Guy gets Right Girl, and Wrong Guy that hurt Right Girl wishes her well, but feels a loss. And somehow they all manage to move on and live. Well, throughout the movie, Mirabelle is romantic-friend-with-benefits to much-older, emotionally detached and unavailable Ray. You’d think, at his age (he had to be at least 50), he’d be more than ready to settle down. Alas, I’m a woman, and I just think that way. But Ray wasn’t ready. Mirabelle asks, "Ray, why don’t you love me?" He hesitates a bit, but then blatantly cops out with something like, "Well, I thought I’d made this all clear from the beginning." I've heard that one before. The cold "I’m this way, take me this way or leave me this way. I’m not gonna change to that way for you." Leaving us with no choice but to either tag along and perhaps wait decades for a change of heart, or get out now with ours slightly bruised, but still in tact.

Well, Mirabelle chose the latter, rationalizing that she could "hurt now or hurt later." Smart girl. Too smart. Further letting me know, it's just a movie.

Anyways, enter Jeremy: A sweet, younger-than-Ray, socially clumsy, "aimless", and lovable all-at-once guy Mirabelle once dated but found hopeless in the art of romance. But Jeremy, knowing he had failed miserably the first time, tries again. He is miles from "the perfect guy," but he opens himself to Mirabelle, and through that, she sees that Jeremy could be "the perfect guy"--FOR HER.

And so at the end of the movie, my boyfriend (who btw, cared more for the French-like couch shot in the movie--because it "gave a feeling of isolation"--than he did the actual story) asks, "So who won, Ray or Jeremy?" I say, "Jeremy" of course, and he says, "Ray. Because she wanted Ray more." I say, "No, she thought she wanted Ray more, until Jeremy showed her what she wanted was what she needed. Ray withheld his heart, and made her second-guess herself, and she felt like getting love from him was this unattainable thing. But with Jeremy, she never had to work to be loved by him, he just did. Because she was worth it without ever having to try to prove her worth. He saw her and accepted her for her...no questions, no hurdles, no hoops."

I’m wordy, I know. But you get it.

On a separate note: Get well Emily!

the spectator

I have always enjoyed the circus--even though it smells like shit.

wear black.

Support the Jena 6.

and then there are...

...certain things we can say only to our girlfriends, and we know it will make perfect/illogical/sense to them.

"Btw, I think i'm gonna stop by **** tomorrow or this
weekend...they have a 15%-off sale on denim. While 15%
is practically just tax..it's still something...I NEED
jeans. I also need groceries too, but hey, jeans will
make me happier right now."

In search of a new body...

...cream.

(random "thank you" note)

Until last night, I thought my body cream smelled like the ocean. But then you told me it smelled like glue. I sniffed and sniffed, putting away my thoughts of what the ocean should smell like, and it turns out, you were right. I reek of glue. But come to think of it, smelling like the ocean would have been pretty stank anyways.

what a purty sunday!

(This is the 2nd time today I've posted this, but it's worth it.)

I saw Uma Thurman coming out of Whole Foods in Union Square yesterday as I was going in. She's mammoth...about 6'2", really natural and gorgeous, and dressed cas'. And of course she had that really good I-just-had-micro-dermabrasion celebrity skin. It was a Gawker Stalker moment! (looks like there was a sighting of her on Friday too.)

I have nothing else to say. Enjoy this weather, and let's hope it lasts!

it's gonna rain today.

And we need it.

I'm ending this long week with a big, somewhat exhausted smile--and hopes for a friend taking her next step toward happiness. And, since I'm too lazy today for a segue, here are more syrupy bits of an email.

"I love you *****. I don't say it enough. You
are amazing--like this sneaky little blessing I
wasn't expecting. And there you are. I love you.
If you hurt me, I'll kill you."

reapin' and sowin'.

Karma is a funny thing, isn't it? Not funny like "ha ha," but kooky and whimsical and satisfying all at once. It reminds me to be good to people. And to bend down and pick up my candy wrappers, even when no one sees me drop them.

Realize that everything connects to everything else.
Leonardo DaVinci

Men may not get all they pay for in this world; but they must certainly pay for all they get.
Frederick Douglas

They who live have all things; they who withhold have nothing.
Hindu proverb

The consequences of our actions take hold of us quite indifferent to our claim that meanwhile we have "improved".
Nietzsche

And one that I overuse:

There's a reason behind this.
Unknown

the unwelcome shoulds.

(I’m gonna make this one sorta quick, because I need my coffee.)

I had lunch with a new friend over the weekend. Nice girl, like her a lot, and it helps that we have a common “issue." This friend had patiently been on the receiving end of (some of) her girlfriends questioning her every move regarding her rather new relationship. Their frequent and nosy lectures usually opened with a “You should be doing this” or a “Girl, you shouldn’t be doing that.” My thoughts on this? If she’s happy and the relationship is a healthy one, then the people who are dishing out the shoulds--SHOULD shush it up. Oooh, I’m sassy today, huh? This topic really strikes a nerve in me.

Some people will find a flaw in everything you do, because they’re bored, jealous, judgemental, or simply a product of having someone always find fault with them. I've made myself promise to try my best not to do this to my daughter(s). These "friends" might even mean well, but a true friend knows when to dish advice on your love life, and when keep mum until you ask for advice--or really need it. Besides, it is SO the case, that if you are overly concerned with what’s going on in someone’s else life, then you probably have nothing going on in yours. (Gosh, this is another entry topic altogether, since I'm both guilty and unashamed of scanning Perez Hilton's blog about 10x/day.)

As far as the “issue” goes, talking about it with her really helped. That and the passage of time, which has proved to disprove all the shoulds that were handed out to me several months ago. It's good to finally be in the clear.

Finally, life and love is not about shoulds, it’s about drowning out all the background noise, and doing what feels right for YOU.

there are things you can't keep to yourself.

Like these four small (but enormous) sentences of an email that came my way:

"but you make me worry. and for some reason
i go with it. you give me a feeling of worry
that i hate. but you give me a feeling of joy
that i can't get any where else."

(I mentioned in an earlier post that I'd touch upon the love thing often.) Happy "it's almost over" Monday!

i almost didn't leave the house today...

...because of the America's Next Top Model marathon. This show is such good candy. Go Caridee!

(next year's gonna be the year I stop watching MTV. seriously)

the day you bought toys for adrienne.

There are certain perfect moments i’d like to bottle and give away. (how unselfish of me!)

In MUD café, we listened to “Mary” while the
waitress kneeled in close to take our order.
We ate grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches
with cappuccinos, giggling like school girls
and musing like old biddies.

I guess you can tell that I'm really going to miss you when you leave again. But at the same time, I'm anxious for you to go.

tiny kid steps.

Sometimes I email something or ramble to a friend, and I then want to post it here. Kinda like eavesdropping on myself. Often not caring, like now, that it will probably make very little sense to anyone but me.

"speaking of mang mangs...this morning, I saw the
sweaty mang mang who delivers the Examiner to
everyone's house. Damn him. But, before I could give
him a dirty look, he graciously, honestly, said to me
"You know, you really are beautiful." It was sincere
and non-threatening, so I forgot the newspaper, and
just said "thank you," and went on my way. and then
while on my way, I saw the little girl with the white
mom (the one who has the black dad. duh). And I got
really sad. I even got a bit teary. For a split
second, it reminded me of my mom and me. Mom taking
big mommy steps, and kid taking tiny, quick, double
kid steps just to keep up with mom. I got really sad.
And I'm trying to just get past the memory and put it
out of my head. I hate how these thoughts can mess me
up for a whole day or sometimes longer. I gotta get
out of DC."

something I'll probably touch upon often.

I don’t know what love is.

Or at least I’ve never been able to define it. I’ve tried though. Like back in college, when I thought I knew everything about everything, I thought I’d crafted my own interpretation of love and no one could tell me any different. Silly me. I had no idea. I hadn’t even fully experienced it yet. Just bits and pieces. Or sometimes, I was totally wrong about it. If only I'd known back then that it wasn't that he didn't love me, it was just me misreading him, then maybe it wouldn't have hurt so much.

I have a dear friend who once told me that he wasn’t sure that he knew what love was and how to put it into words, but he knew the feeling. A distinct, sometimes overwhelming and all-at-once troubling feeling that you’ve gotten into something that’s out of your hands, and you NEED to be with that person. It’s not like just missing them when they’re away…but it’s an urgency to see them. He didn’t use these exact words of course. I’m embellishing, but that's pretty much the crux.

Maybe that’s just one phase of love, or one layer. But again, what do I know? I’m not here, writing this out, to define it. For all I know, I may never know the true meaning. But I keep my eyes open for bits and pieces of what it means TO ME, and today I got just that. So, just for today, my meaning is this:

When the farewell doesn’t end at the “goodbye” kiss. It continues as the lovers’ eyes follow each other up the escalator and through the door, until one or the other disappears. Then, there’s that knowing smile that they will think of you all day, the same way that you are thinking off them all day, wanting the hours to rush by so that you can see them again.

I hate it when I get sappy, and I have no cynicism to counter it. But I’ve been wanting to get that out all day.

i make the best fried chicken on the planet.

hands down! And that's all i'm gonna say about that.

tiny bits of hope.

Yay...it's confirmed! Halle Berry is 41 and preggers! Who cares that you can't act...you've given us all hope that love, babies, and gorgeousness are possible in our 40s. Congrats Halle...you're the answer to the most depressing blog entry ever.

most depressing blog entry ever.

No, it’s not about global warming, or gas prices, or inflation, although, yes, I fully recognize the serious nature of these topics, and I don’t want to take anything away from that. But, since this is my blog, I can be as me-centered as I want, and so onto my depressing pressing issue: My empty uterus.

I’m dating a 25 year old, and I want a baby.

Not because I’m ready to wake up in the middle of the night to change diapers and warm bottles, but because everyone else is doing it, or so it seems, even women years younger than me. And just like when I was a 13-year-old Catholic school girl and my chest was flat and everyone else had boobies, I’m the perpetual late bloomer. Meet the new, adult-sized, pink-tinted peer pressure. Everywhere I look, everybody’s preggers...i mean EVERYONE, from Nicole Richie to the giant pandas--and I’m selfishly sick of it. How incredibly pathetic is it to be jealous of a panda?

I went to a baby shower last week. Nice people, but the mommy-to-be was only 26. I’m 29 and years away from being sperminated. Ask my boyfriend, he’ll tell you the same. The shower, I know it wasn’t about me. It was all about her and her entry into mommyhood, something I want, but don’t really want yet, and am quite afraid of, but really really--I still want. Confusing, right? Life is so unfair! This was my 2nd baby shower of the summer, and I’m certain--there will be more. Soon I’ll be overtaken by them…and I’ll go broke (and crazy) supplying cute little neatly wrapped onesies, bibs, and Baby Einstein toys. And what do I get? What does this all mean for me and my empty uterus, six months away from 30? Am I a failure? Who knows…and I doubt writing this little entry is gonna clear it up for me.

I don't know if you can relate, but my withering uterus sometimes talks to me…and it doesn’t whisper, it YELLS, "When are you gonna get knocked up, it’s cold in here!” and it taunts me when I pass a pregnant woman on the street “Awww, look at her…isn’t she cute with her perfect little healthy round belly? I bet she's not a loser like you.” Mean uterus! Maybe I’m schizophrenic, but at certain times this “voice” is louder and more obnoxious than I can deal with, and I end up in tears.

So anyways, I’ve heard the women-are-having-babies-much-later-nowadays schpiel. I’ve read the many articles, blogs and seen the studies and news bits dedicated to this reassuring message. But then there are also the counter-arguments. According to CNN doc (and hottie) Sanjay Gupta, experts say the best time for a woman to get pregnant is when she’s in her mid-20s. (Well, there goes nothing.) Then he mumbles something else about the increasing risk of infertility and birth defects. Ouch. Thanks Sanjay.

None of this biology makes me feel better about my unoccupied uterus, but I guess I can at least take comfort in knowing that I have a little time left. But also, it's helpful that I’m not alone…that millions and millions of other women are, like me, listening to their ticking clocks while panicking and driving their hubbies and boyfriends crazy about it. And, you know what else helps: Whenever I see an exhausted couple, each with a baby carrier haphazardly strapped to their chests, and a screaming toddler on a kid leash. At that chaotic moment, I feel the sudden urge to get down on my knees and thank the fate gods for condoms. And I humbly vow to wait my turn.

so, I changed my mind.

After only three blog entries here, I've decided, I need to change my tone. I'm here to write about life and myself and my dreams and about things that matter to me and that make me laugh and inspire me.

I'm 29 and a half, and my goal is to write a book by 35, but I don't know where I want to begin. Maybe writing here will be a start.

(I wanted to write more details about who I am, but I'm horrible at writing neat little descriptive bios. Besides, if you care to read this, you'll learn more and more about me and my opinions on life day by day.)

a writer is a visionary.

I'm not always silly.

Like in these tiny moments when I'm inspired, I'm very serious and level-headed for that moment. I read this and thought, "I want to one day be on this list." I still have time, don't I? I'd like to be there, but can't design products or furniture (it's okay, I'm at peace with the "c" word.), nor am I an architect or a holistic healer. I wonder if a writer fits in the "visionary" category. I'd say yes, undoubtedly.

I want to be there.

pretty dresses

Four dresses hanging on a silver rod in her small, lofted bedroom, next to a dozen cotton shirts, all the same--with cap sleeves that cover the shoulder just slightly.

Colorful glass bottles adorn the window sill and dusty ballerina prints deck the faded brick walls. Her artwork, photos taken in Paris--a graveyard, the Eiffel Tower are just a few--lay against the floor and on the shelves, neighbors to books on Van Gogh and Vermeer, American Ruins, and one on Paris--the city where she found her beauty.

Cigarettes, a mug, mail, a laptop, files made her just like me, but everything else is simply, distinctively Hannah. Well, things are also there that don't belong, a football, a t-square--we joked about those.

This place is a chapter, at least one, in her memoirs. I'm sure of it. These are the remains, or rather the keepsakes. Only the things she has loved, only the things she needs. All the things I adore about her.

sometimes...

...things are exactly what they seem. When your eyes are open, you'll wonder why you ever allowed them to be closed.