sometimes all the good karmic forces align...

...and give you what you need right when you need it.

Like just now, as I'm counting down the seconds to a 1:30pm lunch date with my friend M (who the heck schedules a lunch date for 1:30???), and it's only 12:35 and I'm STAAAAARVING, and can't find a single piece of candy or cracker in my purse or around the office. I normally carry granola bars or treats for hunger attacks (and because I have a fear that one day I'll get trapped on the metro or the elevator for hours and i'll need granola to get me and fellow patrons through it)...and usually the receptionist keeps a bowl of Hershey kisses at her desk, but I just walked by and phoooey! It was empty! But, then, I remember, my desk drawer! Ahhh, my junky desk drawer might be hiding an old-but-edible snacky snack. And VOILA (such an overused expression but I don't care)--a bag of Corner Bakery kettle chips!

i rarely go to the movies.

I'd rather not get into a deep discussion of why (we won't go into my "people issues")--but let's just say, I'd rather sit at home, watch it on my own TV, with my own cheap snacks, and with the ability to press pause when I have to pee or take a phone call. But, last week, the BF dragged me into the theater to see THIS(watch trailer below). And I swear to you, a child wrote this screenplay (i think). A 10-year-old came up with the concept of erasing all the movies from a bunch of videos in a video store and having mos def and jack black (with supporting cast) clumsily re-shoot them all--Ghostbusters, Robocop, etc--and then speed-dialed Michel Gondry and asked him to direct and produce it.

Go see it though...for lots of wacky laughter--and get lots of candy, popcorn, and soda so as to simulate that fullblown bellyache, giddy feeling of being a kid again. Critics agree. The adult me is still a bit disappointed in myself for liking it.

i'm soooo not ready to have babies...

...so says the nightmare I had last night (contrary to my past sentiments). I knew I shouldn't have watched "Cold Case" and eaten two brownie cookies before falling asleep. Or it could have been HSN's Miss Tina collection (I watched it for all of three minutes) that threw off my sleep pattern...truly HIDEOUS, cheap-looking crap she's calling "fashion." just plain tacky!

Now for my nightmare: I went to the doctor for a regular check-up, and this evil nurse told me I was preggers. I told her she "must be mistaken!", so she made me pee several times into tiny glass test tubes. Then she shook all of them and cackled like a witch as they all turned pink (which, in my dream world, must be some sort of litmus test for pregnancy). As the nurse gave me the news 10 times over, my head spun with anxiety and questions--"This is the worst possible thing that could happen...my world is crushed! What am I gonna do with a baby? I just got a new job!!! I can't go on maternity leave yet? And what about [the BF] and his dreams?" Yes, I actually had this logical thought process in my dream!!!

And then I woke up this morning with a pounding headache, but relieved beyond belief that it wasn't morning sickness. whew!

my hair smells like a big bowl of fruit.

(In case you hadn't guessed, that's my hair up there.) I'm blessed/cursed with wiry, curly, wavy, unruly, straight-in-some-places-kinky-in-others hair. When I was a wee-girl, I'd run and hide from my mom when she tried to comb it, and my grandma used to call it "wild-woman hair." After nearly 30 years of running and hiding, I think I've sort of almost figured out a good mix of products to tame the "wild-woman." It's still a work in progress, and it's still winter, so who knows what will happen when the spring/summer humidity sets in. But for now, I'm sorta happy with my healthy hair regimen.

Back in the day, the only hair products I had to work with were Royal Crown and Cholesterol. I've seen hard times with this hair--poodle cuts, the mushroom (the guy from "No Country for Old Men" has nothing on me circa 1995 and 1997), half-done blow outs (what can I say, my arms get sore quickly), the Halle-Berry cut waaaay before there was a Halle-Berry cut (she stole my haircut!), one bad weave, and every type of braid you can think of. But now and I'm back at square one...the wash-n-go, whatever, low-stress, natural 'do. I'm seriously too lazy for anything else.

So here's my recipe:
ξ Shampoo and condition two or three times a week.
ξ Moisturize. A little bit goes a long way, and it smells fruity. Olive oil is a good substitute.
ξ Extra conditioning. I recommend two or three quartersized dollops of this stuff (products sold at CVS and on Ellin Lavar's web site).
ξ Pony tails, up-dos, chignons (i have no idea what those are), waves, and the like, try this stuff. It smells like fruit (yum!).
ξ Staying power. This stuff is great for when humidity strikes--but as with all of these products, don't over do it.
ξ These are also great products to try...for more defined curls...for light hold and shine...for lazy summer wash-n-go's...for a moisturizing boost...and for straight styles and blow-outs.

p.s. and here's another fab product I recently re-discovered.

happy styling!
(this is something I'd never say in real life, but I have no other creative way of ending this post.)

i hope to post something tomorrow...

...I feel like I've been either preoccupied or slacking or both.

In the past month, I've heard two very painful stories on the news about children who have died at the hands of their own parents. Really too painful to recount. Both stories make my heart ache...partly because children unconditionally trust parents to keep them safe from harm, and partly because these children will never have a chance to grow up and find out there's a better life outside their own dark circumstances.

Today I felt like a quote (from Mitch Albom's, The Five People You Meet in Heaven).

All parents damage their children.
It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine
glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers.
Some parents smudge, others crack, a
few shatter childhoods completely into
jagged little pieces, beyond repair.

i dunno, blame it on the freezing raindrops.

i felt like a sappy montage today (so unlike me, eh?). this is my roomie's cat Dante, the sweetest furball ever made! And I'm going to miss him (kitty man: only three more weeks of head, chin, and belly rubs). There's a reason women love cats. They listen better than anyone else--and cuddle unconditionally.

p.s. whew! cupcakes and kitties all week? I must be hormonal.

happiness in the palm of your hand.

Oh yes indeedy! And on a day when I can't really find it in big, tangible globs...I'll take some in palm-sized cake form.

I came across this new cupcake shop here in DC, and I'm posting the link here since the web site is oh-so-snazzy and because I rant at least once a month, "We need some real cupcake shops to compete with those yucky bricks they call cupcakes at Cake Love. Damnit!" (and no, i'm not linking to their yucky-brick web site...you don't even want to bother.) My BF loves them, but my argument has been "You can't just bake dry cornbread and slap some heavy, thick icing on top, and sell them to people as 'cupcakes'--and if you could, my name would be Dunkin Hines."

A cupcake is a spectacular experience--it's more than cake! For years now, my favorites have been the rich red velvets from Billy's that awesome Kevin and I used to stuff into our faces (your favorites were the german chocolates. Right Kev?). Another plus about cupcakes, which probably makes them extra-loved by women, is that they're just the perfect sized dessert with a bit less of that pesky calorie-fat-sugar counting guilt. You can't eat more than you can fit in your hand--well, hmmm...nevermind...INDULGE!!!

today felt like a monday...

...a bit overwhelming, with no end in sight. btw, I know this is a lazy, lackluster post, but there's a drop of substance still...promise. I wasn't OK with the "okay, so it's over" post lingering there at the top of my blog...it makes me anxious and flashes a reminder at me that I have things I need to deal with. Not today. I don't wanna. I just want to be simple for the day (or at least part of it.)...plus Bloated Kitty makes me giggle.

okay, so it's over...

...the birthday weekend has come to an end, and I've had an extra day to "recover." I had a perfect birthday--big hugs and many thanks to my friends (Emily, Asabi, and the BF) who threw the bestest party a 30-year-old girl could ever wish for. It almost didn't happen eh? (And also, thank you to fellow bloggers who sent b-day wishes my way...I'm truly grateful.)

I started feeling down tonight around 10pm. Actually, I started feeling down yesterday afternoon, but decided not to deal with it, and like everything else you hide in your closet and brush under your rug, it re-surfaced. I might deal with it tonight, but it's late, and so I'll likely go to bed with it keeping me awake. I have this deep, troubling feeling, right there inside my chest cavity, that I missed out, maybe somewhere in childhood, on some vital ability to process, deal with, and express emotion. I'm considering therapy, although I've tried it unsuccesfully--mostly because I find it difficult to be honest with a stranger--and, in general, I don't trust people. For instance, I have people I consider friends who don't even know about this blog. Why? I don't feel comfortable with them knowing so much about me. Crazy.

I also feel that I want to spill all my "issues" out at once and will the therapist to take all the pieces I've spewed out and fix me. I'm impatient--I don't want to go over it all again for months and months--I just want it fixed and done with. I know this is not healthy, and I know it take steps and stages--and at my age, I'd say it's time to deal with the things in my past that have tried so hard to screw up my present. I want to have kids, but my BIGGEST concern is that I will be emotionally unavailable to them, and they will need therapy because of me.

Now, I hope I can sleep for tonight, and deal with this a little more tomorrow.

so...i was born 30 years ago...tomorrow.

One of the many joys and pains of me and Hannah's weekend outings in NYC used to be our trips to the Union Square Forever 21. We'd look, from the outside in, with squinted faces, avowing, "I hate this store." Yet we trudge forward anyway, in hopes of finding that $12 top that didn't look $12. And it happened often; but even more often, we walked out empty-handed and disgruntled and cursed ourselves for engaging in the heathen-like shopping practices of "those teeny boppers."

Back then Hannah was around 25, and I was 27 or 28, and I would whine "I'm too old for forever 21" and she'd soothe my ego by telling me "no,you're not." This is all sorta-kinda, in a round-about way leading up to me saying that I think I'm ready. Well, no, I AM ready. I have to be, right? The big 3-0 is one day away, and I'm decidedly ready to turn in my 20s card and embrace it. Whatever IT is.

In another anecdote, I was chatting with one of my BF's buddies at a favorite coffee shop a couple months ago--and I threw in that I was approaching that feared age on which many a chick-lit novel and self-help books are hinged. He goes -- "Oh, that's the BIGGIE." I want to scowl at him, "Biggie my ass!" but I can't. I'm a grown-up, and besides he was a very nice guy. And I couldn't be bothered by him--he's a boy...probably mid-20s guy who's been thrown into the awkward fire of my torment and knows of no other way of putting it out other than to give an over-used, empathy-soaked response. So, I told him, to make both of us feel better, "It's okay though. I'm ready. At least for the actual, technical turning-a-year-older part. That's nothing. I guess what I'm not quite ready for is the societal-pressure-of-turning-30 part. Like, will I still be able to make the mistakes of my 20s without people telling me I'm "too old for that"? Will I still be accepted if I continue to behave like the big kid that I am?" Yes, I said all that. Then, afterwards, I thought, "Did I just make a plea for societal acceptance? Is turning a year older making me actually care about stuff like that"? No way, I shutter at the thought.

When I was younger, I told a lot of my girlfriends that were turning 30--"now you're a real woman!" How silly, but sweet eh? But that's not true for everyone. I'm already a real woman. All the mistakes and holes I've crawled out of and triumphs and sadnesses and fuck yous and changes that have happened in year 29 have prepared me for the worst and best of whatever is to come for me in my 30s.

Now for more of what I'm looking forward to in my 30s:

♥ gray hair (I think it's beautiful)
♥ the unstoppable sex drive i've heard so much about
♥ being brave(r)
♥ children (mine and those of my friends)
♥ nurturing my REAL friendships
♥ moving back to NY, and being able to afford my own apartment **fingers crossed**
♥ learning to drive (no, i've never had/learned to)
♥ dinner parties (sooo grown-up)
♥ buying a car maybe (although I don't like them one bit)
♥ going to Europe
♥ getting more financially stable (bye bye debt!)
♥ not givin' a fuck, more often
♥ more people telling me "you look 23." yow!
♥ life with my 26-year-old heart throb
♥ my book (hey hey now)
♥ more of this blog

Oops, memory's fading already. I don't remember who took this photo.

i don't celebrate valentine's day.

period. I'm not anti--but i'm not pro either. I love LOVE...everyday of the year! And I love being in love. And most of my friends who read this know I get sorta embarassingly personal on this blog when it comes to the love in my life. And, what tha hell--I felt like being sappy today...

HIM:
I read your rib blog and thought how my name
is now BF, and how wonderful the rib man was.

ME:
I call you that because I'm not sure how you feel
about having your name plastered across my blog.
And also, it still gives us a bit of romantic privacy...
and I like that.

HIM:
BF is romantic. i can dig it lover.

So much for "romantic privacy," huh?

well, well, well...i'm sartorialist-worthy.

I rarely post anything fashion-related here, but today is an exception because I'm on The Sartorialist! Not really, but the woman pictured here (click on it to enlarge) from Sarty's Feb. 7th post is wearing MY gray canvas pumps (is it okay to say "pumps," or should I refer to them as "heels?"). This is awesome for a couple reasons: a) these pumps are kick-ass, b) these pumps are comfortable, and c) these pumps go-with everything, but not in the tacky matchy-matchy sense. But also d) because I love this gentleman's site and not a day passes where I'm not perusing it and admiring some old classy French guy in a Donegal or young LES hipster in a some shabby-chic "only-I-can-pull-this off" costume. I get a sudden burst of whimsical joy when I see a piece of clothing or an accessory I own posted on his site.

more vintage obama...

...looks like a pic from a 70s college recruitment brochure--or the JCPenney catalogue. p.s. i think i'v outdone myself today..no more from me til tomorrow. Go B.O.!!!!

party like barack star, party like barack star...

...party like barack star!

I know, it's silly...something my roommate said to me yesterday, and I thought it was goofy, but still kinda cute (dontcha think?). And since today is the Potomac Primary, I'm gonna talk politics. Well, sort of.

I started proudly wearing my Barack '08 button on Sunday, after my BF bought it off some eager canvasser in my neighborhood. But I've noticed for months leading up the the primaries, even before I could get my hands on a button, much less a sticker, folks have been approaching me in a manner suggesting they're 100-percent certain I'm a Barackian...and by "folks" I mean mostly random people who don't know me from Adam. At work: "sooooo, you're voting aren't you? Barack?" At brunch: "Do you want the Barack Pancake Special?" And of course just about everywhere else from the drugstores to my metro stop to U Street bars.

And I figure I look the part of a Barackian. I fit the 'stereotype' I suppose. It goes without saying...I'm a young (is 29.9 still considered young?), professional black (or biracial. Not quite sure what they're calling us these days) woman and I DO give off that "I'm all about change" aura. And I figure it's impossible that I'm a McCainiac, and unlikely that I'm a Clintonite. But I wanna know why? Oh screw it, it's because I'm black, isn't it?

And I'm okay with shouting from the rooftops "I'm for Barack" and "I love Barack" and "I think Barack's haircut and signature pointy hand gesture are cute," but I want it to be on my terms. I'm still trying to figure out if I'm okay with strangers asking and assuming and offering me Obama-flavored pancakes. Nevermind that it seems slightly unethical for people to assume and openly ask about my political preferences. Our director here at work announced he was "for Barack" last week in our staff meeting, and then motioned for everyone around the table to say who they were "for." Uncomfortable! It was like The Wave until it landed on my boss and she said, with her feathers ruffled, "Isn't this illegal?"

Am I being ultra-sensitive? What's my point anyway? I guess in past election years I was either too young or too indifferent for any of this campaign madness to matter as much as it does this year. No, that's not my point.

It's more personal. I loathe being neatly boxed and labeled and figured out, particularly based on my age and appearance, and the assumption that I'm a progressive, left-wing, Green, organic, eco-forward-thinking, sustainable liberal. I'm uncomfortable with strangers being "sure about" me. And ever since I was taunted in middle school about my chest being too flat and my skirt too long, I've since not been the type to need to fit in or hang with the popular kids, and why start now? And that's my point...and so i've made it all about me. HA! Well, it's MY blog.

Photo from Harper's Bazaar

separated at birth...

I've been dying to post this for a while now. But today, (alas!) I have a good reason (excuse). Take a look at vintage Barack next to Aubrey Graham from Degrassi (btw, if you don't watch this show, you're missing out. It's one of the best shows on network TV).

dirty-old-man.

***because Mondays are extra long and blah, aren't they?***

The BF and I have a lil joke...kinda derived from one of his stand-up routines. When we're fooling around and just plain being silly, like we often are on Sundays after brunch, we feign a dirty-old-man voice and imitate some dirty-old-man mannerisms, and we rattle off dirty-old-man one-liners. Think the way dirty old men hit on young women in a real creepy, lip-licking way, but since it's old men, you somehow find it cute and endearing and non-threatening. "Lemme put some butter on your biscuits girl" **scruffly country old-man voice** and then we keep it going...until it becomes too ridiculous and we have to let it go so we can still giggle about it later.

lemme put some biscuits on your gravy
lemme put some gravy on your biscuits
lemme put some pork in your greens
lemme put some fatback in your baked beans
lemme put some butter on your potatto
lemme put some brown sugar on your yam
lemme put some syrup on your pancakes
lemme put some shrimp in your gumbo
lemme put some sausage in your jimbalaya
lemme put some Old Bay on your crabs <=<=this was my last one...you could tell I was winding down.

i want ribs (i'm all-over-the-place today).

So I think every blog from now until Saturday, and maybe thereafter, is, in some way or another, gonna be about my birthday or turning 30 or milestones, or "becoming a real woman," and coming-into-my-own or turning points and all the million kitchy things people say to you when you turn 30. ay ay ay!

The other day (can't remember which one), my boyfriend read my blog and noticed I mentioned getting a massage and facial for my birthday and he goes, "yeah you need a spa day. Which one?" To which I said, "I dunno…cuz I've never done any of that in DC. When I lived in NY, I had this little spot I used to go to called WaterLilly and the massages were only $45 for an hour." Every spa in DC seems so pricey. Even my eyebrow wax is twice as expensive now, and I'm only half as pleased with my arch. He and I go back in forth by email about my birthday and I tell him, "small, and cheap" is the name of the game…"don't go all-out please. Really." I'm a simple (yet emotionally-high-maintenance) girly girl.

"The smallest, cheapest things mean the most to me. you alone, are enough. you and some bbq ribs." Which launches me into this silly little faux request that he bail this old black dude, who happens to make some of the best ribs I've ever tasted, out of jail. I'll be quick and dirty with it...

There's this crappy soul-less restaurant in Adams Morgan called Grand Central (believe me, it's not worth a hyperlink). Not my kind of restaurant, not my kind of crowd, but now the food shocked the heck outta me one day last summer. Me and the bf decided we wanted dinner, and we wanted to sit outside and enjoy August, and since those were the only requirements, we decided to give the crappy place a go. We had Yuenglings (yum) and the "special" plate of ribs, baked beans, and mac n cheese (double-yum). After my first taste of the ribs, I caught myself saying, "Somebody back there is black," referring to the kitchen. The ribs were cooked to perfection--moist, meat falling off the bone, slightly smokey, tangy-sweet sauce...yum (I'm a Virginia gal...so I figure I have just enough Southern-cred to judge when a rib is cooked to perfection or not).

Sidenote: The bf disputes my assumption that only black people can make good ribs. His favorite rib joint is this Korean spot called Mandu. And, yes, the ribs at Mandu are good…but those are Korean ribs, and the one's I prefer are southern-style soul-food ribs. But he won't give in…for him it's all about Mandu's ribs. (I'm still not sure a Cali/Jersey boy can assess ribs to my liking anyway.)

Anyhoo...back to my story. One summer Saturday, we were polishing off one of those "special" plates at My Rib Joint, and we notice a 50-something shriveled black dude wearing a dirty apron walking around, stopping at each table. Then he comes outside to smoke a cig, and seeing the rib bones (I suppose) stops at our table. "How's the food?" he asks (I hate when people ask me about my food when I'm chewing, and licking my fingers and clearly enjoying it) and we say "delicious," of course, and at that moment, I figured this was the rib god! We made small talk with him--but then let him enjoyed his cig.

Is this quick and dirty? Hmmm…I'll speed it up. One day, we came in to get our "special" and the godly-but-shriveled chef was gone. We couldn't get our ribs, and really, we couldn't get anything. Our entire meal was so dreadful that the waitress comped everything. When we asked, "What happened to the chef? she goes, "Well, he's gone. I mean, he won't be back for a looooong time." And the bf goes, "Like jail gone?" (how'd he know?) And she nods. She looks depressed..like, I'm-about-to-lose-my-job depressed. So there…another shriveled black man in the pen, and all I could think about was how all I wanted in this world was my "special" plate, and that I hope he at least landed a job in the prison kitchen. sad.

My joke to the bf was "bail him out for a night to come to my house and cook." But it was a joke. seriously. a joke.

sick day...

ick, the flu:-(

be back soon:-)

a couple quick day-after super tuesday things.

Today we've got a bit of Spring--minus the pollen and DC humidity(yay)! It's seriously nearly 70 degrees and it's February(!) and I soooo want to take the day off and walk by the pier.

And, I decided to not watch Super Tuesday coverage last night---I just couldn't hack the emotional ups and downs of it all. Besides, Yahoo sends me constant alerts, so I opted for a night of Law and Order SVU (I usually call it SUV) and CI instead. But, I wanted to post these freaky caricatures of the candidates (posted by Salon.com). Of course, these results are not quite accurate (check out the real numbers here), but how cute is the Big O? And why no cartoon effects for Huckabee? No fair!! Hmmm. p.s. no more caffeine for me today. seriously. i just switched from caribou to starbucks and i don't think i can handle it.

thanks angelica.

"just think of it as someone showing you how far you have come. it's a sign for you to appreciate what you have, who you are right now and the path your life has taken you...all because he was NOT in your life."

one of my favorite bloggers is moving away.

No, we don't live near eachother nor does she know me...I doubt she even knows I exist (oh, how high-school of me!). But I enjoy--no, I love her blog. And she's leaving a city that I love--San Fran--to embark on a new life in Germany with her boyfriend.

This post is just to wish her well--and to thank her for her many whimsical posts (like this favorite that I printed out and taped next to my wall mirror)...and for Ebay-ing her deliciousy glam wardrobe. As I begin to weed through the horrible muddle that is my bedroom and pack my own boxes, it's exciting and encouraging to know that people I look up to are landing on--sometimes tumbling onto--their "next step" as well.

P.S. ugh...jenine wears a size 7 shoe, but I'm crossing my fingers **fingers crossed** that there are some size 38's I can squeeze my fat piggy toes into.

Cheers Jennine!

happy birthday to you!

Happy Birthday, my love.

Today, 26 years ago, you were being born, and I'm so happy you were! And maybe more importantly, for the next two weeks, I am only 3 years older than you. **big kiss** xoxo