YIPEEEE!!!

I feel like an abandoned pet jumping around in it's animal shelter cage, poking it's paws through the wires with gleeful excitement. VISITORS!!! My cousin Atya is going to be here at midnight tomorrow and she'll be here an entire week!! We're gonna go to SoHo and browse the shops, hit up a club or two and go to a John Legend concert in Philly. I haven't seen a familiar face (other than D's) since March and it's starting to drive me a little nutty. I can't wait!!

Much Easier When He Loves You

I was having a text conversation with an old friend
(technically an old boyfriend, but it was so long ago I forget
we dated sometimes), when he asked how things were going with D. I replied "we're workin on it" to which his response was something like, "well take it from me, try your hardest." Then he said something that literally made me stop and stare down at my cell phone with a blank look on my face.

"Does he make you better?"

I thought about it, then thought some more. I decided to put the thought away for the moment. I put my iPod ear buds in and as the sweet acoustic sounds of John Mayer flooded my mind waves, I slowly drifted to sleep. But right before that; I realized something.


The short version is "Yes he does", and the long version would involve me telling the entire story of me and D's relationship. So here's the in-between version.

D and I were the kind of couple that actually had a life together. We took day trips, visited family together, went out dancing, shopped together, went to dinner every week and genuinely enjoyed each other's company (you know- like actual friends). My favorite thing to do with him was simply take a walk. We could be anywhere; power walking for our health benefit, strolling through Bay Street to shop during Labor Day weekend, walking to Safeway to get stuff for breakfast; didn't matter the reason. I loved walking beside him because he'd hold my hand like he meant it. Because he'd talk to me and tell stupid jokes. Because together we gave off this aura that told everyone around us that we were most definitely in love. I felt this solidarity that I'd never had before.

Well, the reality of it is, when someone feels this kind of solidarity from a partner; they feel that they can do anything. When we were together, so much of me struggled to change. Like I was in a comma my whole life and suddenly I felt compelled to sit up and run around. I suddenly wanted to know who I was, what I wanted to do and be. Things I thought would just come like waiting for a batch of cookies to get crispy on top. With D, I felt the desire to take the reigns of my life and give it a solid try. I was always so afraid of failure before, that I thought trying would only expedite defeat. But with D there, supporting me, beside me the whole way; I felt like no matter what it was worth me giving it my all. Of course it was trial and error. I tried and failed a few times. Played with different ideas. But at least I tried. And even though it took loosing each other to realize how amazing what we have actually is. Even though I'm here and he's in Houston. EVEN though we don't know where our future will take us; he did and still does make me better.

Why I ♥ My Job

They feed us when we work hard...!

Fashionably Late

It's funny how moving to New York changes you. Everyone I know who moved here from another state, says they've completely evolved into who they've always wanted to be. Maybe it's the rush everyone is always in here, subconsciously compelling you to "hurry up", "catch up" and figure it all out. Maybe it's the blend of new age with old school. Hailing taxis and paying with debit card. The Brooklyn museum speckled with contemporary graphic design. However, I personally (and preferably) chose to believe it's the fashion.

When you first arrive here in New York, you will immediately be aware of how out of date your style is. Not your clothes per say, but your style. The way you over think an outfit and try to insist everything matches. Matching my clothes was something I stopped doing years ago. First because I found myself obsessing over things like, now if I could just find a melon-orange tank top to match these sandals. And secondly because no matter how hard you try, nothing ever REALLY matches, unless you buy one of those annoying 2-piece outfits that come on a combination hanger. Gross. So I gave up, and despite being brutally teased by my best friend Theresa about how I must be out of my mind to be from Oakland and not match my shoes to my shirt and purse (I insisted that leopard print flats can go with anything), I was happy with my decision to do so. Things should "go", I preached.

I used to take hours to get dressed. To D's horror, I would always put three outfits on at least. The original outfit which I'd conjured up in my head the night before. The second one, which I put on after feeling like I was "over doing it" and then the final outfit, the "safe" outfit. This was what I ran back to put on after announcing to D that I was ready to go. "I'll only be another minute" I'd say and disappear back into our bedroom. After a while, he barely moved until he'd at least seen three costume changes, "Are you sure, Boogie?"

Somehow there is this terribly close connection associated with our outward appearance and how we feel about ourselves. It battles the idea of beauty being skin deep, because if you don't feel outwardly attractive, how can you really think your beautiful? How can you feel confident about who you are when you don't even know what style defines you (or how you define style)? I moved to a city where EVERY one is original, where a lot of women would rather walk down the street in a $30 sundress they found at Stella Dallas (the most adorable thrift store near Bleecker street), than the $900 Gucci tote that everyone and their mother is sporting. Where people would rather be randomly cordial than formally polite. The most amazing thing happened, I was forced to find myself in a messy crowd of people, just so I didn't feel lost walking down the street. I was forced to look in the mirror and define myself. From my clothing and make-up preferences (purple eye shadow is my absolute shit) to what I want to do with the rest of my life (teach, write and marry; not exactly in that order) to what I think about my family (loving my mother for just who she is and realizing that my sister is the most successful woman I know).

I know plenty of girls my age, who have figured this out long ago, or maybe they just mastered the art of pretending and are actually trapped in the prison their mind created. Either way, I felt behind. It's true, I lagged. I tried different faces on like outfits, even though I'd conjured up the perfect one in my head already. I felt like I was too much, then not enough; bouncing from one idea to the next like Goldilocks sampling porridge. Until finally I realized that there is no sense in fighting it. I'm louder than most people would probably prefer. I'm very sensitive and cry a lot more than people realize (mostly when alone). I accept the fact that I'll always be slightly misunderstood (which I was told is the burden of being a pretty girl). I prefer pink toe-socks with cows on them over a plain white socks any day. When given an inch, I'll surely take a mile, and I don't have a second favorite color because other than purple every other color is equally fabulous in my eyes. This is who I am, finally.

A Toast To Women With Balls

It's rare to find anyone in this world who sees you for exactly who you are, and despite that; loves you unconditionally. I've found that for the majority these people are usually of blood-relation. But occasionally we meet people in this life, who don't have to, yet insist on loving us. Those people are rare gems, and blessings.

I'm still friends with 80% of the girls I knew back in school. Thanks to Myspace and Facebook, I get to stay in touch with them (even Heather, my 3rd-5th grade best friend who is now married and living in London). But the ones I consider to be sisters are few. And aside from being few, they're also quite ballsy. I'm convinced that if they weren't we'd have broken up years ago.

My best friend Theresa (the one in the middle in the first pic) is the most amazing best friend anyone could ever ask for. We met in Ms. Stall's science class back in 98 (9th grade). We ended up being lab partners one day and neither one of us could sit still. I don't remember what it is were supposed to be "learning" in class that day, but I do remember that we had verbally dubbed each other friends by the end of the period. A few weeks later, we were strutting down the hallway being our weird, silly selves repeating "Now you see me...now you don't" making perfect sense only to ourselves when we came to a short chocolate-colored girl standing by the lockers. Theresa looked at her and repeated our mantra. Instead of looking puzzled the girl burst into laughter, "OH!! I get it! Now you see me....now you don't!" She was virtually spilling with happiness. Her name was Nanika (second picture) and since then the three of us have been practically inseparable. Since high school we've encountered some pretty big tests of friendship. Like when Nanika dropped out of our "lets move in together" idea at the very last minute, after I'd already canceled the lease on my apartment. That was a bad two years for us. And when Theresa got pregnant with Tashawn, and was struggling with the idea of becoming a mother. I reminded her that she wasn't supposed to know everything just yet, and that in my opinion she'd be an amazing mother. I was right. I've never seen a more dedicated mom than Theresa. Or when Nanika got arrested and Theresa and I spent hours trying to find out where she was sent and how to get her out, since no one else seemed to know. After which we kidnapped her, took her to my house and had an intervention. She needed to make a change. After Louis and I broke up and I was left devastated by the aftermath of our relationship. My two besties packed their stuff and stayed with me for a few days to make me feel better. They took me out, fed me and reminded me how beautiful I really am. That was a tough time in my life altogether, and I couldn't have made it without those two. I also couldn't have made it without my other ballsy bi-otch...

Atya (Far right in the first pic). My hip, which we call each other because as kids we were attached at the hip and everyone teased us about it. We're cousins by marriage (although neither of us has ever figured out how) and have had the rockiest, most rebellious, heroic, drama-filled friendship in the history of black girls. It's hard to find words to describe Atya. When we were in high school we were always plotting on something. We would decide what kind of guys were good enough for us, while figuring out what clothes accentuate our curves the best, while trying to escape our mothers. We'd plot on how to make the money our mothers gave us stretch during our long weeks in Vallejo (which usually just meant not sharing- cinch!) We'd do the whole "I'm spending the night with Atya" "I'm spending the night with Ashley" excuse to dodge curfew and go on dates with older guys. We always maintained the idea that self development and evolution is an endless process. Even as teens we'd each have some paper posted on our walls reminding us to work on something. "Patience" it would say. And when Louis and I broke up conveniently within the same week Atya and her long time beau, Brandon called it quits we nursed each other through the rough times. Evey day after work I'd call her and see how she was. "Hungry" was the typical reply. "Well," I'd say. "You still have that chicken in your freezer, I just bought some green beans the other day...." No more words were needed. With her chicken, my green beans, the remaining ingredients which we'd commandeer from her parents house (under the guise of a friendly visit we'd each stick needed supplies into our jackets and purses), a movie from blockbuster and some weed from her little brother Antoine (my other favorite cousin) at the discounted price of course (3 for $15), we had our night set up. After a few months (yes, months) of this routine, long nights spent crying to each other, crazy set backs (like when Louis broke into my house and tried to kill me) we had each healed from the wounds of tattered love. TGI have Atya.

The friendships I have with these three chicks is far from perfect. We anger each other, ignore each other, hide and trample each other at times. But these women are far from weak. They've been through it, learned lessons and decided to keep pushing. They can take a joke and criticism in the same breath without taking offense. They can dish out what they can take which has always been A LOT. They are beautiful and strong and confident. And best of all they stand out in a crowd. I could probably complain about them as much as they could about me. But the fact of the matter is they are one of a kind. No one is more enthusiastic that Nanika. If you want a genuine reaction to good news, tell Nanika; she'll make you feel like a million bucks just for finding your keys. Theresa is the most understanding person in the world. I can tell her anything and she'll listen without waiting to speak, then get up and make you dinner. Atya will serve it to you straight, no chaser. It took us a decade to learn to ask, "Do you want my opinion" before speaking, because neither of us pull punches especially for each other. They are three of the most important out of a bunch of my crazy, ballsy girlfriends. They made me who I am, and will always keep me grounded. Nothing beats a friend that actually tells you when you look fat.

Growing Pains

I was reminded of childhood this morning on the train by a man sitting in the back corner seat. The seat I never sit in because I'm convinced every bad smell in the train collectively accumulates into that one corner. He was slumped to the side, asleep with his head bobbing to the movement of the train. He had on a yellow hard hat, blue and white plad shirt, torn, paint-splattered jeans and workman's boots. His eye lids glissened behind thick black framed glasses which I suppose mostly reminded me of the 90's, but also of my 4th grade social studies book. When we were learning about how people have jobs and pay bills and the difference between the blue and white collar workers of the world. I supposed they should have added a chapter between why school is important and what kinds of careers people have in the world. "The Buck Stops Here" it should say.

My weekend was calm to say the least. I was supposed to go to Long Island with a friend, but my hair appointment ran horribly long, so instead we went to get some wings and watch the UFC fight at the Atlantic Mall. (Am I becomming you, D, or have I always been this way?) I met a guy there with the exact same birthday as D. "So can I call you sometime?" He wanted to know. "Sorry, I'm married." I said holding up my ring finger and it's faux wedding band. Strangely he seemed more interested knowing that I belonged to someone. Men sicken me.

Sunday was laid back. I went to Target to buy crap I sort of needed; like a few books to read on the train and some tee shirts, because for some reason I have none. I didn't actually want a plain t-shirt, but I knew that's all I'd find in Target so I settled on one with the most flattering neckline (although I didn't try anything on). After I left and was headed back to the train, I stopped at the Outpost Market (set up outside Habana Outpost on S. Portland). There was a girl there with thick dreads who looked about my age named Chanel. She was selling the most amazing tee shirts with bold colorful prints, reminisent of Andy Warhol's pop art. I told her if I haden't spent money on plain ugly t-shirts (well not UGLY) from Target I would totally buy one of her $30 shirts. I took her card; JUNKPRINTS it said in huge purple letters. (http://www.junkprints.com/) Check her out.

After that I came home and made myself some Jambalaya and watched "The Long, Long Trailer" starring Lucy and Desi, my favorite. I thought it was the saddest thing in the world that two people like Lucile Ball and Desi Arnez could look so blissfully in love on the silver screen and yet be so terribly unhappy in real life. Smoke screen love. I pulled out my notebook and came up with few concepts for my book. A title...? "Dirty, Nasty, Hairy, Sticky Love"...... I'm playing with it.

I talked to my sis on the phone for hours on Sunday morning. The idea of being our mother's daughters came up. We are all bi-products of our parents, repackaged and rubbed down, shiny and new. But are we just like them? My mother is a beautiful woman, smart, anally organized (which is a good thing), animated, silly and outgoing (at least to me). She loves to laugh, which makes it that much worse when she's sad. I've spent my whole life trying to make my mother laugh. She's always told me, "Ashley, you are just so dang funny!" I used to be funny on purpose. As a little girl I'd dance around the house and stand on my head if it would make my mother smile. Anything to counter act what my father would do to her. She became quiet and solemn in his presence. Now it's just habit. (But I digress) What makes us like our parents? Making the same decisions? Dating the same kinds of people? Having the same personality flaws? If we could all look at our parents, extract the good and mimic it; analyze the bad and avoid it then we'd be super-human robots by now. I'm 24 and already I've repeated several of my mothers so-called mistakes. I also realize, that I have a choice. To be as beautiful, as amazing; to maintain that certain thing she has that draws people to her. To always want to know. To love conversation. But somehow find a way to stay happy, even when it's hard. Without the bouncy, comedic 9 year old to beguile me, although I'm hoping I get one of those too.

To the He Who Annoys the Snot Out of Me

Ladies: Don't Be A "Dick"

In the archives of my mind, is a file marked "MISTAKES MADE", and every so often I thumb through it's contents and remind myself not to repeat them. One of the worst mistakes I've ever made is looking for dirt....and finding it.

When D and I were still together back in California one winter, he decided to go on a trip to Vegas for All Star weekend. At the time I was 22 and he was 27, and the club scene was still a very strong presence in both our lives. Neither of us were INTO clubs in a big way, but we still went every so often without each other to let loose with our respective clan of friends. Nothing wrong with that. The thing is when the words "Vegas" and "All Star weekend" and "My friend B" came together in his sentence, a thousand thoughts began to flutter through my brain. One of them was the fact that although things between us were "fine", they could have been better, and maybe he was trying to get away from me on a subconscious level. Then I thought about how All Star weekend has a reputation for bringing EVERY one-night-stand seeking hootchie to the desert ready to leave what happens there buried in the sand. THEN I thought about the fact that D's friend B was single and free to mingle and I hardly believed for a second that he wasn't planning on using D as his wing man.

Well, even though I was getting heart palpitations and cold sweats, I tried to play it cool. I dropped my beloved off at the San Francisco airport, gave him a kiss and playfully reminded him to be good. We had something of an agreement, no over-drinking, and call me and let me know your ok. While he was gone I distracted myself by staying mostly over my best friend Theresa's house and putting myself to sleep in our empty bed aided by a bottle of white.

When I picked him back up from the airport, I expected a colorful story about his adventures in Vegas with the boys. He mentioned that he did some gambling and "No" they didn't hang out with any girls while he was there. I know that as boyfriends go I was lucky enough to get a damn good one, but even I'M not that stupid. He was hiding something and simultaneously playing me for a complete fool. My blood began to boil.


Well, weeks and weeks passed and I found a way to put my doubts to the back of my mind until one night when D went to finish up his laundry. "You wanna come, Boogie?" he asked. But I was tired and already into whatever show was on TV, so I politely declined. He left to go down the hall to put his load in. Now I know that in real life things like microwaves and vacuum cleaners cannot talk (unless your on PCP or shrooms) and no "thing" can actually call your name....but I swear as I sat on the couch across from where D had his phone plugged into the charger I distinctly heard..." Ashhhleeeyyyyy....Ashhhllleeyyyyy....." I shook the idea off and reminded myself that D loved me, and it could be very well possible that he had a stale, boring vacation in Vegas. Surrounded by scantly clad gold diggers. And his playerific friend. Hundreds of miles away. Filled to the brim with alcohol and testosterone.....

I'll just look in the Inbox.

I scrolled through to the February texts and started skimming for anything out of bounds. I flipped through about 5 messages and started to feel like a true psycho bitch when I saw it. "Really? Hows she looking?" from B. I stared at it for what seemed like hours while my face drained itself of color and blood. I laughed to myself. That could mean anything! So I took my sleuthing a step further. I checked the Sent folder. I went to the matching date and time as the mysterious culprit to see what D's response was, and there it was. It was just hours before I'd picked him up from the airport and D was at his gate chatting it up with some bitch in line and texting B about how fine she was. UGH!!

I quickly put the phone back where I'd found it and prepared to smile when D returned home. Later that week I found a way to finagle another chance for D to come clean. "I still can't believe how boring your trip to Vegas was, babe. I mean, if I was in Vegas with my girls I'd be flirting my ass off and scoring some free drinks!" He laughed and kissed my cheek as if I were some kind of rug rat on "Kids Say the Darnedest Things", and simply replied, "Nope, it was a good trip. Just low key." I pressed harder. "Your not afraid to tell me about the girls you met, because you think I'll get mad are you?" Again, D gave me his best chuckle. "Boogie, the only girl I met out there was this big fat chick that B and them dared me to go up and talk to outside one of the casinos one night." I dropped it.

The thing that made me the most upset wasn't the fact that D saw some cutie in line at the airport and started up a conversation. It wasn't even the fact that he was so enamored by her, apparently, that he absolutely had to report to B and describe what she looked like down to her outfit details. It was the fact that he didn't feel comfortable enough in our relationship to bring something like that up when I specifically asked him if he'd gotten his flirt on. I didn't ask in a threatening manner. I didn't want names. I didn't even CARE. I was just trying to have a casual conversation with the man I loved. The only reason my mind began to wonder in the first place and drive me to do something as low as invade his privacy, was because he acted SO strange about telling me about his trip. I always used to tell D about my nights out, even if he didn't ask. I'd tell him if some guy hit on me, because I thought he got a kick out of hearing how I brushed them off. I made sure that it never seemed like my nights out with friends was separate from our relationship. I wanted him to know that I was the same Boogie he knew even when I was out of sight. It crushed me to know that he could be two faced.

Looking back on all this I realize it was hardly worth the fuss. It wasn't worth getting sauced up on Rum in order to find the nerve to confront him. Screaming at him wildly for hours and telling him how worthless he was, and how now I didn't trust him. I definitely wasn't worth breaking up for a whole day. D talking to that girl meant nothing. He did it probably because that's what you do in Vegas, and maybe a little bit because we were going through a rough patch. He probably didn't tell me for the same reason most men wouldn't tell; because men are idiotic and convince themselves that their "little woman" can't handle the truth. It's pathetic that men lie to themselves about as much as women do. D is and has always been a good man, and I know that the majority of that entire episode was just my own stupid insecurities. Sure it would've been great if D had enough courage and trust to keep it real. But I was lacking the same to go behind his back and check his phone.

The moral? Anyone sneaky enough to REALLY fuck around is sneaky enough to hide the evidence. So anything you MIGHT find is usually not half as bad as what they already deleted. It's simply best to put trust in your man's character and morals. But if you feel the need to pry into your man's personal affects in order to find a truth you feel he doesn't have the balls to confess to, whether big or small (...truth that is, not balls); tell him! Say, "I am feeling insecure about this, even to the point of being tempted to check your shit." It sounds bad, but it's a whole lot better than actually doing it. If he refuses to show proof or tries to avoid talking about it....well, then maybe you would have found what you were looking for. And in that case, what more proof do you really need?

Comfortable Here

"There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter--the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion."
-EB Web, 1940

One of the questions I was bombarded with when I first moved to New York, was "Why did you move here?" And even though I had a million reasons, I always stumbled over my words and simply replied, "Change of scenery." And although that answer is a severe understatement, it's also very close to the truth. Not the sky scraping buildings, or the yellow taxi cabs and black town cars that line the streets. Not the endless rows of shops and mom and pop stores to browse through or the historical landmarks that sit in literally every corner of this great city. The "scenery" I'm referring to is me.

Finding a place in yourself that feels safe, at least for me, is an accomplishment that means the world to me. I've felt rushed my entire life. Like there was always somewhere I needed to be. If I didn't grab it, change it, find it or say it; someone else would. I thought the things I was doing was for my own benefit. But I realize that I didn't even know what I needed to begin with. In fact, I realized I didn't know anything about myself at all. When someone is faced with a life altering decision, one that will not only effect themselves, but their partner and future children...well, it's best to do a little self-analysis. It's a little difficult to stare into the mirror, when the people around you are twiddling their thumbs and checking their watches.

Enter New York. The strangest, dumbest, scariest and smartest thing I've ever done for myself. I risked absolutely everything and did the most selfish thing possible. I dropped everything, and went somewhere I knew nothing about. I knew I would be shocked, I knew I would be lost and severely inconvenienced to say the least. And I hoped, with all my heart, that I was right about my own resilience and strength. Well, I was.

I'll always be that girl who needs to be entertained. I know I have a slight case of ADD, and I tend to be impatient. But it's only because I have a passion of life. What I've realized is that since I've been here, I've been completely content with myself. When I'm not busy, I don't mind sitting in the quiet of my room. With my leather-bound journal filled 3 quarters of the way with my scribble in my lap; and the sunlight trickling in through my tomato-red curtains, I feel comfortable, and at ease. I know millions of Americans travel to places they've never been every day. And those people may not consider a 5 month stint in a foreign state to be a life-altering experience. Well, that's just too bad. I for one could never be that passionless.

Maybe Next Year

Now, I'm not some basketball genius or anything. I mean, sometimes I get confused about what qualifies as a technical foul and what qualifies as a personal foul. But I do know good offense when I see it, and last nights game #6 between the Lakers and the Celtics was equivalent to Kobe walking up to Garnett, and handing him the championship. I'm sorry but were the Lakers AWAKE last night??

After game #5, I got a boost of energy. I thought, "See? Those statistics are all wrong...." and I truly believed that after Sunday's win the Lakers would regain confidence, grow back their balls and stretch the Finals into game #7. My dreams were shattered ....oh...about 4 seconds into the first quarter. The Celtics took the lead immediately and kept it relentlessly. It was a sad shame. At one point during the 3rd quarter Boston fans chanted, "Na na na na....na na na na...hey hey hey...GOODBYE!"

Goodbye, indeed. Maybe next year.

Best Picture Ever

As D would say, "Thats so Boogie".

P.S.

GO LAKERS!!

It Never Rains in California

...At least not compared to how it rains in New York. I was getting ready on Saturday to visit a friend in Park Slope when I was beckoned to my window by a noise that sounded like a clan of monkeys on my roof. After speculation, I realized that it was just and still hard, heavy rain. Real, and actual rain. The kind that makes a perfectly coiffed woman look like a drowned rat within 2 minutes. Thank God I have braids. I shoved my foot into heavy rain boots and grabbed the huge umbrella I was forced to buy earlier that day (which cost $15 for some un-Godly reason). But, this is New York, so NO JACKET, mind you. It was still a blazing 88 degrees outside. and being rained on is much more pleasant that sweating like a pig. I called for a cab begrudgingly instead of taking the train. Why does rain cost so damn much?

The next day while walking to the F train, it rained some more. But I noticed a few things that were pretty amazing. The first thing I noticed was that there was a farmers market down 9th, lining the streets and stretching out for blocks and blocks. Kiosks and tents perched near the sidewalk and the smell of Italian sausages and Jerk chicken wafting through the misty breeze. By now the rain had caused my umbrella to spring a leek, and water was hesitantly dripping on my face. My pants were soaked through, and my first instinct was to turn up my lip to the situation and think how it was such a waist to have such a cool little market set up outside in the pouring rain. But then I realized the place was buzzin. There were loads of people walking around, going from tent to tent sniffing the foods, and buying tee shirts and picking up pamphlets about conserving energy. People with shorts and rain boots on, looking as ridiculous as I was. Some people without umbrellas, walking in the rain with soaked hair, as if the it didn't bother them at all. In California, everyone would be pissed. Soaked completely through? Hell no, Californians would leave the pitiful market and run to the closest Jamba Juice for shelter. But here in the middle of Park Slope, everyone just carried on with their day as planned. So I strolled through and bought a little statue of those four weird monkeys; the see no evil, speak no evil ones. I got an Italian sausage on a hot dog bun, smothered in peppers and strings of grilled onions so long they looked like linguine.

I stood near the entrance of a deli munching on my snack and observing the scene. The rain rushing down the slanted streets creating currents beneath the tires of parked cars and into the gutters like waterfalls. California rain, I realized at that point, usually only comes down hard or long enough to annoy you. Long enough to make your hair frizzy. And just enough to make your car dirtier rather than cleaner. But this rain, this tsunami, hurricane rain; seemed to be washing everything clean. It smelled so fresh. I never understood those Downy commercials, referring to their latest scents as "Fresh Rain" and "New Rain". But now, in the middle of a blazing hot summer, when it seemed as if even the buildings were sweating, a cool shower was released on everyone and things slowed down. No one scattered. Some people walked barefoot. The rain was just another element of their environment. Like bright yellow taxis in the city, or subway stop lanterns scattered through the neighborhoods. And in that sense the rain was just like sunshine.

I hung around for a bit, but then continued on my way. I might be a New York implant, but California runs through my veins....and the fact still remains that we likes to stay dry.

Y'all KILLIN Me!!!...

Note to the Lakers: Can y'all PLEASE stop sucking ass and beat the Celtics already??!! Because every time you suckas loose my boo gets all moody and won't talk to me. Move that ass and quit missing the damn basket. How the FCK do you keep a 20 and 30 point lead through the whole fckin game and then loose by 6 measly points!!??? STEP IT UP!!!

Thank you

12 Play: Plays with 12 Year Olds

If there is actually anyone out there who truly feels that Robert Kelly, a.k.a. R. Kelly, is innocent of the crimes he's currently accused of, please feel free to smack the shit out of your own self right now and go sit in the corner. The guilt is as plain as the big ass earrings his old ass wears in his floppy ass ears.

Pardon me, I tend to have a lack of sympathy for perverts of any caliber.

I'm pretty sure that this is all going to go down as predictably as I imagine. Another typical Hollywood, make-shift court decision. Kelly will probably be found guilty of something and have to pay damages and get put on probation for a few years, but will basically be set free to exploit someone else's underage daughter. His pockets are far too deep to actually have to do time in a place where he will surely get his ass pounded in by the inmates who have (like myself) zero tolerance for men who choose their sexual partners from the kiddy pool. The whole thing is going to go the same route such cases as Phil Spector, OJ Simpson and Micheal Jackson's went. All accused of crimes they CLEARLY committed. All found "innocent". But lets just look at the evidence at hand.

I don't know if everyone in the entire world has forgotten the very first peculiar and perverted act R. Kelly committed, and that was marrying 15 year old Aaliyah back in 94'. They came out with court documents showing a marriage license and proving the rummer to be true only two years ago. The ONLY reason a (then) 27 year old man would want anything to do with a 15 year old girl is to get busy. Kelly has obviously had an obsession with little girls for quite some time. Lately, there have been all kinds of witnesses surfacing who are saying that Kelly had sex with them before they were 18, and they know the girl who was in the video. That he has an entire video collection of kiddy porn. That his "people" have paid off several girls who tried to come forward about it. And the only thing his team of defense attorneys seem to have on their side is a mysterious "mole" that is absent from the said video, that R. Kelly reportedly has on his body. They are also claiming that the video could have been digitally altered to replace heads to the bodies in the video. Because maybe the people at PIXAR got a hold of it and decided to devise a plan to bring R. Kelly down. Whatever their excuse is, there is still the very strong issue of character at hand. He simply has a history of liking the younger ladies. There is no reason to assume R. Kelly is NOT a pervert. All this hush hush and people getting paid off, and witnesses refusing to testify is getting out of hand. He can't just do whatever he wants just because he was hot in the 90's (cause lets face it Usher stomped him out like 5 years ago), and has a ton of money. He can't exploit young girls the way that he does, and he shouldn't be able to get away with any of this. If there is any justice in this country (which we know there isn't) Kelly would not only be castrated but put to sleep like the nasty, horny dog that he is.

12Play was the SHIT though...

Free Prayer

Getting off the train yesterday at Nostrand, and scooting through the turnstiles, I was invaded with a swarm of people in red smocks. There were from the nearby church, and they were all randomly shouting things like, "Free Prayer!" and "Let us pray for someone who needs the Lord..!" It's not the first time I've seen them there. Almost every week I pass them by on my way home from work in the subway, and every time I wonder how a prayer can be considered "free".



When I was a little girl, my parents were Jehovah's Witnesses. I was raised going to "church" or the Kingdom Hall twice a week, plus a weekly bible study and had scriptures read to me every morning before school. Needless to say, the bible, it's teachings and prayer were concepts embedded into my life at a very early age. I had the books of the bible memorized before my times table. Later on, around age 13, my parents drifted from that specific religion, and I went through a with drawl period. I didn't want to read, hear about or talk about the bible. Like having too many syrupy pancakes on Sunday morning. I just plain didn't want anymore. This lasted about a year. At 14 I started to spend my summers and weekends in Vallejo with my Aunt Sharon and my cousins who were all very deep in the Christian church. At first my mother made it clear that she didn't want me going to church with them. I was raised JW and surely any other form of Christianity wouldn't do. I understand my mother's perspective, it's the way anyone coming from where we did would think. But my Aunt Sharon wasn't having it. One morning she woke me up at 5 AM and simply said, "Get up. Your coming to church and I don't care what you have to say about it. Church vans waiting." And that was it. After that I went to church every Sunday with her, starting with Sunday school and ending with morning service and prayer. It opened my eyes again to the reality that my life is and will always be empty without the presence of God and prayer. No matter from what source, how fed and by who; I need Him in my life like water.


I suppose when it all boils down whether or not a prayer is promoted as "free" at a subway station, or passed out on street corners it's still the same thing. I don't think it matters if your part of a highly structured denomination such as Jehovah's Witnesses or Mormons, or if you just attend any church that's close to home. If you believe in God and the bible, especially if it's meaning has been engraved in you, it can come from anywhere. The truth of the matter is, I find the best church I've ever attended is in the quiet of my room before I go to sleep. When I pull out my bible flip to a scripture and read a few verses, which turns into a few chapters. Then I think about it, pray about it and go to sleep knowing that I rest in God's hands, and His word is a part of my life and daily thoughts.

"We Ain't Ready to See a Black President..."

..Said the late, great Tupac. His words rang in my ears back in 1998, reminding me that as black people we are born with limitations. We can only accomplish so much. Everything we do, everything we achieve is tag lined with, "..that's really good... for a black person." Doing your best will only make you good enough. Right?

Enter Barack Obama. Now, I've never been into politics. Voting was more of a statement then an actual interest of mine. So when Obama announced he was running for president, I politely questioned..."The president of what?.." Then came the doubts. "Oh Lord, they gon' shoot that poor skinny black man...that's a damn shame.." But his endurance, and persistence along with the support of his amazing partner and wife Michelle (who I like to believe is the next Jackie O), has proven his efforts to be more than just a shot at the big Oval Office. As if he knew all along that he would win. Like he knew it was time.

So now here we are at the brink of a new era, and it appears, at least to me as if we've finally ran out of excuses. We can no longer complain about the social injustices of living in America. To that percentage of black men and women (or children for that matter) who thoroughly believe that we are second class citizens whether by birth or default; take a look around you. The excuses have all dried up and blown away. The second slavery (of the mind) is over. There is finally another role model for our children to look up to other than 50 cent and the latest NBA recruit. Someone who doesn't just flaunt unreachable financial status. Someone who is not exploiting their celebrity. Someone who is fighting for a real cause, and wants to make a real difference. I know this all sounds like some kind of rally speech to vote for Obama, but regardless of who you vote for, just be thankful that we have come to a place where the opportunity is there. Let it be a constant reminder, that there is no mold for our lives, and no restrictions to the things we can accomplish.


Photo: "Abraham Obama" by Ron English, http://www.popaganda.com/

Spider Hand....Spider Hand...

Popsicle Memoirs

"So what are your plans for the rest of the night?" My friend asked me over the phone yesterday.

"Well, to be perfectly honest, and excuse my vulgarity, I plan on taking a cold shower, not drying off and laying spread eagle on my bed glistening and naked until I fall asleep. You?" After his burst of laughter, he informed me that he'd probably do the same now that I'd mentioned it. It was 94 degrees after sundown. The humidity hadn't let up one inch and there was nothing to do but bare it. So after my shower I put my towel over my bed and laid there with a Mango Popsicle in one hand and my latest re-read, 'Memoirs of a Geisha' in the other. I was reading it to gain a little inspiration. The descriptions and color of the novel always make me filled with ideas of how I want to build a new character, and how they'll look on paper. My advice to anyone suddenly uninspired by life, read it....it will definitely wake you up.

After balancing both the book and my heavy eyelids I finally put it down and turned off my reading light. I let the crack in my drapes trickle in light from the street. It was almost midnight but listening to my neighborhood you never would have known it. Everyone was outside, playing old R&B songs, and talking and laughing. I wondered if anyone outside had a job to go to in the morning. Probably not; school was out and the high school seniors of 2008 were in that fabulous portion of life between graduation and the rest of their lives where they were expected to do absolutely nothing for a few months. I remember that summer. It was the summer I was dating this kid named Phil. He was a football player at the city college, and all the girls there had a crush on him. I remember when I started there, the girls all hated me because whenever I came around he would turn into a little puppy dog and follow me to class. He was pretty hot. No, scratch that.... he was MAJORLY hot. Tall 6'3" frame, lean muscle everywhere, dark piercing eyes and a chiseled face. He was handsome in that classical way; the typical football jock except he was pretty smart too. It only lasted through the summer, but it was a good ass summer. Being as how we were neighbors, he only lived about 45 seconds away. He would call me in the middle of the night to see if I was up sometimes. "I have to come give you something." He'd say. Then a minute later there was a light rapping at the front door. He'd be standing there in his pajama bottoms and Debo slippers with nothing in his hands.

"What'd you want to give me Phil?" I'd whisper, because my mother was asleep upstairs. Phil would simply lean forward and plant one on me. Just because. Then he'd say "See you in school." and walk back to his place. Looking back I realize that it meant nothing. We weren't each other's great loves, we had nothing in common except physical attraction and a common zip code. It was just curiosity and infatuation that lasted a few months. It was a few tender kisses and a couple of long nights together. Back when sex was less complicated, and boys had less game. When a kiss meant more to me than anything. Between a summer job, fighting with my mother, wishing I were older and figuring out college by myself....there was this really fascinating, once-in-a-lifetime thing. The last uncomplicated relationship of my entire life.

95 degree ♥'n

Welcome to New York in the summer time, you will die here.

Aside from baking both inside and outside of my Brooklyn apartment on Sunday, I was also trapped via swelled-front-door. I frantically called D, as if he could do anything all the way from Texas. Well, this is why I love the man...he fixed it.

"Just try hitting the door a little with your shoulder, and jam it loose." Was his suggestion, then he back-peddled, "On second thought maybe you shouldn't....you might hurt yourself." Of course although he said this with a little bit of laughter in his voice, he was mostly serious. I'm sure the idea of his "Boogie" laying helpless on the floor with a dislocated shoulder didn't appeal to him at all. So I opted to kick it, and after several tries the door came open easily and I could finally escape. To buy Popsicles and a hamburger. And the ONLY reason I spent $4 on something I could have made myself is because the idea of heating up the apartment anymore than it already was by using the stove, just didn't fly.

Later that night I took a mildly cold shower and wet my sheets by air drying on my bed. I didn't care. And to the light of my CD player placing a cool blue glow over my bedroom, and the sounds of summer rain outside I went to sleep last night quite peacefully.

Friday night I went out with some friends to The Gallery Bar in Manhattan. It was a swanky little spot to say the least, cushy seats and sofas, coffee tables. The walls were decked out with art for sale by Purvis Young, who's take on the concept of "Big Brother" was pretty out there. There was actually an actress hired to sit in a little loft above all of us about 5 feet off the ground. She sat with one of Young's paintings hung behind her reading books, and checking email on a Apple MacBook, all to show the idea that we are always being watched. It was pretty strange but after a while I forgot she was even there. I had two drinks, and danced a little bit. I met Brian Wood, who was the birthday boy. He's an amazing urban designer (http://www.brianwoodonline.com/) and also a cool ass guy. I mingled with Brian's sister, and Xsavier and Dave and Mike and met probably the most attractive and trendy mortgage broker I've ever seen, at which point I came to the realization that all these people were pretty much around the same age as me. Which made me feel really cool, then super old, then pretty content. Somewhere during the evening I challenged Skinny D (Dave) to a karaoke match, insisting (while waving a half-full martini glass) that I can do a damn good "Mariah Carey" which is a pretty outstanding lie. I mean, come on...NO ONE can karaoke to Mariah Carey, the woman is mad with those octaves.

Saturday however, if I may jump around, was the best day of all. I woke up around 11 am, without hangover to the first blazing hot day of the summer. I immediately shut my drapes over the light (which didn't do much since they are really light weight drapes from Target). As soon as I laid back down and tried to shut my eyes I remembered that D was buying his house today in Houston. I knew he was probably nervous and all tight and quiet like he gets when he's anxious. So I picked up my cell phone and texted him:

"Good luck with the house today sweetie. I wish it were 'our house' I can't even lie. I'm proud of you." Great, I thought after I'd already pushed SEND, now he's nervous and annoyed. I threw my cell phone to the end of my bed and plopped back down onto my pillows. Bringing my hand to my face I smacked my forehead and rolled over. Maybe he wouldn't check it. Just then my cell phone buzzed and beeped. Text message. I was sure he was going to say something vague and pleasant, like, "Thanks Boogie. Call you later." But when I checked it, my face became one huge smile with lips stretching from ear to ear and teeth gleaming in the daylight.

"Thanks for the support Boogie. There's a good chance this could be our house which is why it's so big."

A thousand thoughts flooded my brain. Immediately I imagined our entire lives over the next 5, then 10, then 20 years. I became riddled with enthusiasm as women tend to do in these kinds of situations. "Our House" he said. I was awake after that. Wide, wide, wide awake.

The Thing About Beauty

Aside from people who drive slow on the freeway, and loud-talkers the only thing that annoys me more in the world is women with low self esteem. I only question these women because they are overlooking one of the most important facts of nature; that women are mothers to this earth and therefore our beauty is imminent. Feeling less than beautiful, at least in my own eyes, makes you less of a woman.

I know how it can happen. Boy can I. You meet the wrong man, you have the wrong father, you catch a bad brake in grade school (i.e. braces, extra pounds, bad acne..) your bound to end up with a few question marks over your head. But to permanently accept what others have only temporarily convinced you of is another matter entirely. And it shows.

That girl, the one who is too lazy to think herself a queen, is usually the most annoying one in the room. She's usually the one who requires an audience at all times, otherwise she'll feel unimportant. She won't applaud you when you are triumphant, but she'll have a lot to say when your failing. Her choices in men is reflective of how she sees herself. Usually the man who captures her the most is the one who makes the most noise. The one who throws a tantrum when she goes out with her friends, all the while she's smiling because she thinks that validates his love for her. This is the girl who cakes make up on her face, buries her hair in weaves, and wears jeans three sizes to small. This is the girl who obsesses over a few pounds in either direction, but hasn't gotten off her ass to do anything about it. This is the girl who can talk all day about her self, but when she needs to discuss business; she dosen't have the confidence to face the music. This is the girl who criticizes every woman she sees, and pretends not to care about what they might say of her. This is the girl who plots her EVERY move before going out on a date. Throwing dagger-edged questions at some poor guy who just wanted to take her out for a meal. This girl annoys the begeezis out of me.

Being beautiful has nothing to do with the labels you wear or how skinny you can get. It has NOTHING to do with what you look like. This is so cliche, but the truest thing I know. Beauty is simply an inner glow. It comes from confidence to rock whatever outfit you can afford and know it looks good on you. It's the patience to let people come to you instead of chasing them down. It's pride in what God gave you, instead of covering it up, straightening it out and stuffing it in something tight. It's the ability and kindness to compliment your fellow sister instead of pick her apart. It's the open mindedness to give a standing ovation when a close friend accomplishes something. It's also the maturity to only let men and women into your life who appreciate you void of all your costumes. Because when the make up rubs off in the morning, and it's just your face in the light; everyone can see you for exactly what you are. And if your not happy with it, no one else will be.

Promise to a Gun-Toting Matriarch

I called my mother's house last night so I could bitch about my room mate drama (which by the way is solved...all is well) but instead got my Grandmother. The matriarch of our family's infrastructure. The icing on our cake, so to speak. The first chapter of our book. I was pleased to catch her especially since she sounded a lot better than she had the last time I'd spoken to her. She sounded cheery and upbeat, and I could hear in the back ground the rattling and banging of pots which indicated she was also cooking; another good sign. "Hey babe!" She said in her high pitched soft voice. I smiled at the sound of it, my Grandmother's voice has the potential to be very annoying (when she's mad) but very comforting at the same time.

"Hey Grams." I replied and asked where my mother was. "Not here, babe. I think she's still at work." Duh, I thought to myself, time difference...

So instead of bitching, I chatted with my Grandmother and gave her the update on my life. Starting back to school July 7th; No D and I are not back together yet; but yes we're still considering it; work is fine; my room mates are fine (lie); yes I'm being careful....

She complained about not getting the respect she deserved, but said it jokingly, so I ran with it. "Well, beat some ass, Grandma!" She convulsed into chuckles at the idea. My Grandmother was not only the eldest of our family but the smallest. At barely 5 feet tall, there was pretty much no one she could whop these days. "Forget that," She said, catching her breath, "Grandma still has her gun, and you know I finally found those bullets the other day!" I laughed until my sides hurt at the idea of my 71 year old Grandmother still toting the same gun she used to keep under the front seat of her Ford Probe and threaten to bring out when people cut her off in traffic. Oakland girls don't play.

Before we hung up Grams asked me a few more questions about school. "Yea, I just need to get a laptop within the next few weeks at least for school. I'm excited about it too, because I can also use it to finally finish my manuscript." My Grandmother's voice lit up as she gasped. "Oh, babe, your finally gonna do that?" My Grandmother has been pushing me to pursue writing since she read my first short story when I was 11. It was about a girl who lived next door to an elderly woman and developed a friendship with her; based on my own relationship with my Great Grandmother Ann (my Grams mother, may she rest in peace). "Honey, you should definitely get going on that. You have so much inspiration, what with your life being so crappy when you were coming up and all." "Thanks Gram" I said sarcastically. But she was right, my life up until a few years ago was riddled with constant drama, divorce, moving from one place to another, sexual and physical abuse, depression and emotional uproar. I had plenty to write about; and being that I've kept a journal for 18 years I also have plenty of notes.

"Well you make me a promise." My Grandmother said, putting all jokes aside. "You get started on that thing asap. And when your done you submit it to publishers like you said. I'm going to give you three years, maximum. I wanna read that thing before I'm gone!" Three years was more than enough time to finish a manuscript. I already had in my mind the concept I was going to use. My life broken down into 10 or 15 short stories featuring anonymous characters. All I had to do was start writing. It's not as if writing has ever been work to me. It's what makes me tick really. Imagining characters and bringing them to life with detail and care is something I'm not only driven by, but also comes very naturally to me.

I listened to my Grandmother's inspirational words about how I should 'write a little a day' and make it a habit and 'throw any idea down and just play with it'. She knew what she was talking about. Whether or not anyone knew, my Grandmother was a pretty damn good writer herself. I'm sure the diligence to write came from my father, but the style, the detail, the color....that was all from Grams.

"I promise" I said before we hung up, and suddenly I felt energized and light headed all at the same time. First order of business is to get buy a laptop this week. After that, no more excuses. I'm getting this thing done and soon. So look out for my first book....cause you might be in it.

Life Lesson #2678

Room mates. Best served light. Two room mates who are dating each other will most definitely gang up on you. I've always enjoyed living with my room mates, but today it feels like getting ass-fucked with a crowbar.

Note to self: next time stay where I get laid; only move in with someone I'm dating.

The Tale of Two Cities

The sky is black and blue today, beaten to a pulp by the rain. Goodbye sunshine; hello ugly grayness. It's still a solid 75 degrees outside, which basically makes the subway hot and sticky, but no one seems to be bothered by it.

It's getting closer to that time. Time for me to shove off, short of some outrageously pressing reason to stay. New York has definitely won me over, but I (for shame) miss the slow life. The easy going way of "anywhere but here". Where people say "hello" and "your welcome" and call you "miss" and "ma'am", instead of "Hey scrumptious". Where you don't have to kick garbage with your open toed sandals walking on the sidewalk. Of course nothing is more beautiful than the New York skyline. Almost everything in this place looks like art. Even the run down streets of Bed Stuy have a way of smiling at you from cracked windows and graffiti-covered walls. There is always something to do, even when you have nothing to spend and no where in particular to go. Just walking through the park can take you all day. There is a stronger sense of community here as well. As individual as people are, they all seem to look out for one another. If you ever come here and get lost, just ask someone who looks like a local and you'll get subway directions and a recommendation for the best place to buy coffee.

I thought by now I'd be a mess. Hurried to figure out where I want to go and what to do. The OMG feeling running through my veins making me break into a cold sweat and reach for comforting carbs. But alas, your girl is quite calm. I'm probably going to end up moving to Atlanta, where there are warm familiar family faces. Where I can hang out with my favorite cousins; Shatis, Atya and Demetrius, and catch up with old friends I know there. Where my rent can be a wonderful cool $600 a month and I don't have to feel cheated, paying for a view I can't even see. Because the view in Atlanta is amazing. I'll probably move to Houston, where I can lay in the arms of my brave and beautiful man. Where we can put our past behind us and start over. Where forgiveness and warmth waits, and Sunday morning pancakes. I know for sure that either way I'll probably be very happy and content. They say if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. Don't be confused by my quick exit after only 6 months. I proved to myself that I can survive the biggest culture shock of my life. I proved to myself that I can fit a size 6, as silly as that sounds. I proved to myself that I can figure out what I want to do with my life, and for anyone who knows me, it feels like the 2nd coming of Lord to finally realize that much. I proved to myself that I don't need anyone to get by, but I do prefer it. I proved my patience and determination, and if that's not "making it" then I don't know what is.

A Big HUG

I've been hoping to gain hits on my page lately, simply because I like to feel special, and a friend of mine recommended this site: http://www.rsshugger.com/

For those of you who are bloggers of all walks of nature and would like to know where you can submit your blog for review and directory this is the perfect place. The website is well made and easy to access, everything is very clear and simple and there's a great span of community with a Top 100 list updated monthly and discussion forums. It really does feel like a little cyber hug.

Chicken Noodle Soup for tha Love Sick

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. ..It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs...Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth....It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. " - 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

My definition of love has always evolved as I have evolved. When I was a little girl, love was my mother and father and sister. Love was my grandmother. It was bear hugs and bed time stories, it was darkened by anger and sustained by my own childish ability to forgive. I didn't know about love's pain or it's joys even. I only knew that it was warmth.

When I was a teenager love took a new shape altogether. It became exciting. It was cutting class to go to Jack London square with Gerald. It was taking pictures at One-Hour photo for Valentine's day. It was he said, she said and prom pictures. It became hurtful, revengeful, powerful and impossible. I lost trust and virginity and gave time I could have spent on something else. It may not have been love at all, but it made my heart beat faster than an amusement park ride.

Now, at 24 love has settled down. Love is assuming the best at all times, and letting go of insecurities. Love is like a highlighter, bringing to focus everything you thought you could cover up about yourself. Love digs deep and wants to know. It recreates you and smooths out your rough edges. Love is meeting half way, but sometimes it's give and take. It hurts the most when it's not real, or one sided. If feels the best on Sunday morning. Love is like a drink of water; refreshing, pure and vital. Love lost is love gained. And Whitney was right...the greatest love of all is for your self.

Happy Birthday Papa!!

Love Ya!!!!

Best Picture Ever

The Rest of the Weekend

As for Saturday and Sunday, it somehow felt like more than just two days. Saturday was it was supposed to rain, but it didn't- at least not in the day time. I spent it basking in the silence of my empty apartment (Molly was at school and Ralphy was out and about). I took a few cat naps, ate lunch, gabbed on the phone with my cousin Atya and took some weird camera phone pictures of my stomach. When Molly came home and announced that Marshall and Los were having yet another cook out, I was immediately up for it. I'd laid around quite enough, it was time for beer and hot dogs.

It was about 75 degrees outside and humid, so Molly put on a sun dress and I had on shorts and sandals. But as soon as we left the house we noticed the clouds canvased above us threatening rain. It was still hot outside, but it was sure to get wet. We hovered across the street deciding whether or not to go back inside and change and eventually decided to just ruff it. By the time we got to Los and Marshall's house on Madison, we were almost completely soaked. Los, Marshal, Ralphy and some guy I didn't know yet named El were all perched under the picnic table umbrella. An old school boom box sitting on top of the table surrounded by hamburger fixin's and a pitcher of Jungle Juice was the source of entertainment. I noticed behind us through a gate was another cook out. One with way more people and a few more uumbrellas. I didn't know people actually had cook outs in the rain, but the idea appealed to me. It was so random, so spontaneous. Once the rain stop, the jackets came off and I wiped down the bench to sit down. I introduced myself to El and complimented him on his tee shirt. It was a vintage-style faded brown tee with a black pick up truck slanted downward as if it were tossed in the air. The bed of the truck had all kinds of guns falling out of it. "I wonder if the artist was thinking of a pocket knife when they drew that," Molly said pointing at his tee-shirt, "Cause it definitely looks like one to me." El looked down at his tee shirt and squinted. "No. I wasn't thinking of a pocket knife, but I see why you'd think that." He said with a hint of a Spanish accent. We all shared an "Oh" moment and I finally realized who El was. He was the artist Marshall was always talking about, he did the artwork for all of Marshall's tee-shirt designs. Eventually our conversation went to another form of art; writing. He said he needed a writer to help him develop an illustrated story. So we exchanged info and decided to meet up the next day.

Sunday. The day started as any other. I lounged around with my room mates, took a few naps (perhaps a few too many) and contemplated doing laundry but opted not to. Around 6pm I got a text from El, "Lets go to Habana Outpost for drinks, around 8ish." Perfect, I thought. That was the place Molly had told me I absolutely HAD to go to, because it was so cool. 8ish turned into 9ish, but eventually I got on the C train and got off at Lafayette. There was a huge crowd of people outside the entrance and the monstrous patio behind the gate was even more crowded. I headed in and spotted El by the door to the patio. It was movie night and along with drinks and dinner, all the patrons were treated to a screening of "The Last Dragon", the old kung fu movie from the 80's. It was perfectly warm outside, I didn't even mind standing the whole time. El was there with his two friends, Mike and David. Mike was tall and looked a lot like John Favreau http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0269463/ : from the Iron Man), David was an even taller, thin white guy with huge funky nerd glasses and an old school baseball cap hiding a mess of curly hair. I greeted each one and received a "your-in-the-city-now" peck on the cheek/ handshake. After the movie was over and El and I had upgraded our Coronas to Mojitos (which was by far the absolute best Mojito I've had in my entire life), the four of us comizzed on where to go next. There was some discussion of getting a car, and then possibly going somewhere called The Belmont which David said "Is Jamaica" on Sundays.

After David parked (aided by me waving him into a tight park space as if I was guiding a plane on the runway), we went into Belmont and instantly it was as if we entered a different world. Everyone there was the milky complexion of mocha, every one's skin glistening from the humidity, people swaying in dark corners to island beats and grinding against each other on the dance floor. We walked all the way through and out to the back patio where the beats filtered through large speakers on the outside walls. We surveyed the scene mutually impressed with the huge turn out. "Hey," David said, tapping my shoulder, "There goes Ashy Larry..." We looked over at a man dressed in a red tee-shirt and black pants and it was in fact Donnell Rawlings from Chappelle's Show cutting through the crowed and heading back inside. We wandered back inside and found a spot near the bar, I couldn't help it, the music was intoxicating, I had to dance. I sandwiched myself between El and David and danced to the music closing my eyes in submission to it. Before we knew it, it was 4 am.

I woke up this morning at 8:20. Mind you I start work at 8:15. After a frantic call to Beth, my manager and some fake coughing I grabbed some cloths out of my closet and literally got dressed in the dark. I didn't realize I had a hang over until I was securely on the A train headed to work and started feeling the vile creeping up my throat. The only good thing I can say about throwing up in my mouth on the train is, thank GOD it was only water and very little at that. As for cook outs in the rain, throwback movies projected on the side of buildings and hot, sweaty Jamaican clubs....I guess I can say it's all worth it.

Sex and the City- The After Glow

As soon as I got home from work I started mentally sorting out what I would wear to see Sex and the City that night. There was a forecast for rain, but that didn't stop me from putting on a short denim skirt and calf high boots. And just as I started thinking maybe I was over doing it for an 11:00 PM showing of a movie in downtown Brooklyn, a girl called into the radio station, " I want to give a shout out to all my girls coming with me tonight to see Sex and the City; Shantaul, Veronica, Monica, Sharonda, Alicia, Kim, and my cousin Tamika. Woooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!" Then she asked the DJ to play the Missy Elliot, Lil Kim, Brat, Left Eye version of "Lady's Night". So I felt my level of enthusiasm was appropriate.

Once we'd finished getting dressed we hobbled off to the subway and got on the A to Jay Street. Neither of us were sure how to get to the Court street theatre, but after a quick call to Ralphy we were on our way in the right direction. This was further confirmed when we approached Court street and saw what can only be described as a frantic mass of overdressed Brooklyn girls crowded around the entrance of the theatre. We were home.

Just to get to the kiosk to retrieve our fandango tickets was madness. Everyone squeezing through the double doors, inching closer and closer to the escalators. There was the random male floating in the crowd there just to see Iron Man or something but got caught in the mob. "Are you waiting to get your tickets?" I asked a guy standing by me who looked like Simba in The Lion King when he gets caught in the stampede. "No," He said darting his eyes around, "I have my tickets already." He held them up and waved them in the air. "Then what are you doing over here?" Molly said, trying not to appear irritated. "We're all waiting to get our tickets, you can go inside!" I pointed to the gaping side door and he ran through it and up the stairs. The space which was now empty filled up with eager ladies almost immediately.

Finally we got upstairs and after almost fighting a girl who thought Molls and I were "Obnoxious" for cutting in line, when actually there was no line, we finally took two seats at the end of the third row from the back pretty satisfied with our view. The girl next to us, a robust woman to say the least pulled out of her over sized tote bag a small plastic container housing a giant slice of Red Velvet cake. "Oh GAWD...!" Molly said when her eyes caught the delicious icing drenched confection. "Yea girl, cause I'm not gonna go buy some nasty ass popcorn when they got a bakery right around the corner." She said dipping her plastic fork into the middle and scooping a huge bite into her mouth. "Damn, that looks good." I said, my mouth watering. She stopped chewing and smacked her lips, "It is." She continued shoveling the cake into her mouth as me and Molly started to contemplate getting something from the snack bar. Instead the lights dimmed and the movie started.

Sex and the City was 145 minutes of pure chick-delight. When I say I laughed, I cried, I mean I literally laughed so hard my sides hurt and cried my waterproof mascara off. Our four favorite New Yorkers had grown and gotten older and wiser. They seemed hardly confused about the opposite sex anymore. Carrie and Big (who she referred to as John now) were happily house hunting when they decided to get married. SPOILER ALERT: Miranda and Steve broke up when he admitted to sleeping with someone else after a 6-month drought with Miranda. His solemn face right before he spit it out was so realistic to how a man would look when telling the love of his life about such an indiscretion that it was too much to handle and thus marked my first cry of the movie. The entire movie theatre relinquished a unison gasp followed by a few "Oh no...." and "Bastard" remarks. The characters took form as if they'd never left, and it literally felt like watching a marathon of Sex and the City. This time I got to see the beautiful landmarks that I was now familiar with. Like the New York Public Library at 42nd street that Carrie and Big were getting married in. Carrie went into the library and held her Fendi bag open for the security guard exposing a matching wallet and Metro Card. These are things no one else would take note of unless you lived in the city, but it seemed purposely placed there as a quiet little "Hello New Yorkers"to the audience. And although I was against the introduction of new characters, I can't imagine this movie without Jennifer Hudson in it. She played a wide-eyed country girl who came to the city to "Find love" and became Carrie's personal assistant. I can't give away too many details, because I want everyone to go see the film. But over all Sex and the City was by far the best chick flick I've ever seen in my life. It was well worth the blisters from the heels, the $11 ticket, and getting elbowed by a mob of angry women. When the screen feel to closing credits the audience applauded and cheered and I left the theatre feeling as though I'd eaten Red Velvet cake.