Hollywood Secrets REVEALED!

Not to sound sceptic or pessimistic. Not to down-talk the fabulous Halle Berry. And above all...not to assume that every Hollywood actress fits this stigma, but let's be real people.... we all know how they get thin so fast. The people of "Hollywood" actually believe that we common-folk are dumb enough to think that ONLY diet and exercise comes into play for their post-pregnancy bodies??

I'm sure you'll all agree that the "miraculous" turn around time along with the quality of their results is nothing short of a hoax. As if Halle and J-Lo were actually walking around with stunt-bellies and pigging out (for that nice "rounded-out" effect) while some poor schmuck carried their actual baby for them. I'm more prone to believe that, thank you.

These women are millionaires. They have their millions because of their perfect bodies. They dedicate hard time and money into keeping thin and fit. So of course they will bounce back from a baby a lot better then your average soccer mom who takes a brisk walk every so often during her pregnancy. But remember, they also have access to the best plastic surgeons, trainers, nutritionists, coke dealers and least not forget; air brush specialists. So before you get all hyped over the next "diet craze" these trashy Hollywood magazines try to peddle off; always remember RESULTS MAY VERY.

Nothing to Hide Behind

So I added the "after" picture below to my last entry. So far, everyone has given me positive feedback. I huffed and mumbled "well, what the hell" right before entering my office this morning. Lucky for me everyone was gathered right near the door and as soon as I walked in I was greeted with gasps and hands in the air with great exclamation. My boss loved it, so did everyone else. I searched their reactions for underlined doubt. I wanted to make sure they weren't just saying that before I accepted the shower of compliments.
"It fits your style", Claudine said.

I guess the thing about the new doo, isn't that it's extremely short and maybe even a little boyish. It's that it's so revealing. I feel naked. I know I always put my hair back, but on those days when I wanted to cover up I always had that hair available to pull down over my face. I could be a little frumpy, a little disheveled and slightly but not entirely askew. Now that my face is my main attraction and my hair is merely an accent; I feel like I have to be on point. I can't get chunky, I can't wear ugly make up, I can't be lazy about what I wear and for some reason....I feel like I can't be an ass hole. Not that I AM an asshole, but I can be a little cut and dry at times. My teenie weenie afro has humbled me, changed me and frankly I also think I'm done with meat.

In this ever evolving journey I've taken since I strayed from my home in California I was searching for who I really am. And as cliche as it sounds, one thing is for sure; I am DEFINITELY not my hair.

Nappily Ever After

It probably needs not to be said, but hair is a big deal to black women. Hair is a big deal to ALL women, but especially black women. We are judged (within our own race, of course) highly on how our hair is presented. Is our hair real or fake? Short or long? Nappy-curly or Curly-curly? Are we mixed? Is that a wig, girl? And depending on the men we partner up with, it's an even bigger deal. My ex-fiance wanted me to get a weave. My hair was long and thick and I hardly had time to get down and flatten it out, so I kept it up. But he wanted the ghetto fantasy, so he was constantly trying to bribe me into weaving it up. I'm glad I said no. Neither the man nor the weave would have been worth it. I've been battling the hair-war for over 16 years now. Ever since my mom put the first relaxer on my head and melted my kinky curls into silky-soft, long tresses.


But now the madness ends. I'm done stretching out my kinks with fire roasted flat irons, and trying to avoid the truth I thought was too bitter to taste. My hair is kinky as all shit, thick as hell and absolutely gorgeous. So today, around 6pm, eastern, my relaxed ends (and the majority of my hair) will be cut off and thrown out like the rest of the things that used to hold me back. I'm down for it, D's down for it and that's really all I need.


I'll be posting an "after" picture tomorrow. I want to see some comments!!


BEFORE: (Check my Heidi Braid) AFTER: (TWA, Teeny Weenie Afro)

Before I Was Jaded, I was 12

Those of you who follow my blog, or know me personally are well aware that I don't believe in baggage (the emotional kind, not the designer kind...that, I believe in fully). But I can say respective to my beliefs that there comes a time in our lives when we become permanently or temporarily jaded by love.

There also comes a time before that, when love is new like a fresh bottle of water; before lip gloss and backwash taint it's clarity. I forgot about this time. Until today when IM'ing Roscoe, and she told me that she was fully convinced and still is to this day that she was in love in Jr. High.

When I was 12 I had a boyfriend named Donald. He was the tallest boy in our class. Everyone always teased him because his head was shaped like an egg. Of course they called him "egg-head" but with respect to the fact that he was big enough to beat some ass. He took it in stride. He always had a basketball under his arm, and always glared at me during 4th period. It was a nice glare though, a look of speculation. At that age I was very shy with the exception of my circle of friends, I hardly talked to anyone I didn't already know. Which made me appear to be the most stuck up girl in school.

One day, my teacher gave me the task of bringing our attendance sheets to the front office. I of course elected one of my "circle-friends", Elizabeth, to accompany me. We walked into the office and suddenly I realized why I hadn't seen Donald's puppy dog brown eyes in class that day; he was getting suspended from school. I didn't bother asking (outwardly, it was beneath me; inwardly, I was too shy to initiate conversation with him), I simply completed my task, and turned back towards the door to leave.

"Ashley.."

First I looked at Liz, then at myself in the window pane in the office door. I was one of 11 Ashleys in my grade, so maybe he was talking to someone else. Liz nudged my elbow...no...he meant ...ME. I turned around transforming from a deer-in-headlights to a casually collected raised eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"I'm about to be gone from school for like...a week. But...u wanna go out with me?"

"Going out" back in 1997 meant to be boyfriend and girlfriend. It was, at that point in my life, as significant as a marriage proposal. I'm sure I only thought for split second before saying, "Ok. See you in a week I guess." Me and Liz held our excitement until we were safely from ear-shot before exploding in high pitched screams. That day Liz did her duty of spreading the word of our newly-founded courtship to everyone in school. Donald's "cool-points" were boosted and suddenly I was the topic of conversation that week.

Over the course of that year, we went on school trips together and held hands on the bus ride (inducing stirs and whispers), kissed after school ( I was 4'10" so I had to literally get on my tip toes while he bent down in order to kiss his lips), we talked on the phone after school for countless hours, and played coy at lunch to keep the rumor mill down (Jr. high is like Roberts Ave. in Beverly Hills and the Paparazzi clan), in that time and that place, he was my everything. I was sure it would last forever, especially since our first and last names lined up in length perfectly.

Then came the summer before 8th grade. Everyone went away for summer vacation, except me. My mom didn't have the money for family trips anymore, at least not one's that stretched out beyond the weekend. Donald went to LA to visit his mom. In his absence, he appointed his best friend Russell to look after me during the summer. Russell did a good job, calling to make sure I was ok, giving me updates about how Donald was (because his mother wouldn't allow girls calling the house) and making sure I hadn't found someone new. When Russell went to LA for the weekend with his parents, he sent me a letter in the mail professing his undying love and affection for me, and included a necklace with the drama faces on the pendent. (I never responded to the letter or brought it up, but wore the necklace every day until 10th grade when it was replaced with a necklace from my new boyfriend Gerald). One day I got a call from Donald himself. It was a few weeks before school started back up.

"Hey" he said, sounding deflated. I was just happy to hear his voice. We talked casually for a few moments, and then he said he had to get off.

"Before I go, I have to tell you something. My mom wants me to live with her now. You know, in LA." I didn't process it at first, and then my mom stepped into the living room so I had to pretend as if everything was fine and was talking to one of my girlfriends.

"Oh, that's cool." I said convincingly even-keeled.

"Yea, um..I guess. So that means I won't be coming back this year." He said.

"Well, when will you come back?"

"Probably not for a long time."

And that was it. I never saw him again, never heard from him again, not even a letter.

As my first lesson in love, it taught me that love is just like a faucet. It can burn, it can freeze and it can wash you clean at the drop of a hat.

Pork References & Revlon Red Nail Polish

It was one of those moments that beckon a "you had to be there" credit, but none the less a stand-out point in my life. I was drunk with a few friends. I was about 19 and we had gotten some Everett and Jones (a BBQ spot in Cali) and brought it back to my place. Waving a rib in her manicured hand, my friend Sharice exclaimed, "Everything rare in life is going to happen!!" as she tossed the half eaten rib bone across the scope my living room and into my empty kitchen sink. The obvious sentiment (for those who missed it) was "pigs flying". And for some reason, this week and especially this morning; this thought crosses my brain.

The recent occurrences themselves aren't necessarily the rarities. It's really the manner in which they happen. The sequence and the coincidence. How funny it was that the very day I throw my hands up in disgust and insist on moving out of my mad-house apartment in Bed Stuy that I meet (via Craig's list- who is this Craig person and how do I send him a Thank You note for being so damn fabulous?) Jazz, a girl near my age from Cali looking for a room mate. And that in that same day Jazz met Monica; a twenty-something artist living in a devastatingly adorable three bedroom apartment near the BK museum looking to fill the extra two rooms.

It was like sneezing and farting at the same time; relieving but still very strange.

To add to that, in the same week my current room mates (finally) make complete asses of themselves. I didn't have to do a thing. And even better, my sister was there to witness it. So now when I call my family to complain that my house mates are insane, my loved ones, being now informed by Brittany's first hand relation, can agree knowing I'm not just being a spoiled brat. Thank you KARMA.

I note the fact that I actually have a respectable amount of money in my bank account as we speak, and know I can move next month comfortably enough to splurge at IKEA and get some much needed organizational items. I'm indulging in the fact that I thought to stop by Duane Reade and buy red nail polish convinced that it would be the perfect color on me and was right (being that I'm of a red-brown hue, finding good colors for my complexion is actually quite challenging....so this, of course, required a victory dance at the check out stand to which the cashier said, "I know how you feel, I just found out that yellow looks awesome on me this year.").

So these feats, being both dramatic and minor are all coming to this very specific head. My head. Which is presently covered by MILLIONS of tiny braids, carefully put in by straight faced Nigerian women on Flatbush ave. As I sat with my flat ass becoming increasingly numb, head tilted towards a tiny screen showing dvd after dvd of Nigerian movies (which are HIGHLY recommended, better then Lifetime ANY DAY), the ladies of my choice braiding salon bound my tresses in human hair so that all my madness was quaintly contained. Well, being as how I need chaos in small doses like a morphine drip, it's time to break free from "quaintly contained". So this weekend, I'm having the same ladies carefully unravel my coif-cuffs so I can shake out my nappy curls in true victoriousness (that's a word?). That's right....Ashley will be rockin THE FRO. A big, proud, thick mess of coiled, stretched out all American blackness.

Everything rare in life is happening....all of my happinesses have become one. And just when I'm afraid that something terrible is going to happen, it rains...hard. Rain I can handle.

Introducing FUX!!!

I've started a new blog with my good friend Roscoe, y'all!! Imagine Perez Hilton, now add Wendy Williams....throw in a dash of street fashion and NYC events reviews and you've got FUXfashion. FUX stands for Fashion Under Xamination. It's me and my girl Roscoe attending NYC events (concerts, museum openings, indie film premiers, sample sales...so on) and giving you the scene. And not just the "brought to you by" and "featuring" with cute little pictures accompanying well thought out and polite comentary. The REAL scene. The who, and why-the-hell-did-she-wear-that scene. That's right, celebrities aren't the only one's with interesting lives. We believe in a new kind of celebrity. The celebu-not! We've got our ear to the ground and we're snapping pics along the way. If you live in the NYC area and are prone to attend events in NYC, New Jersey and even Philly....you just might see your face (and ya bizzness) on our page!

To see our first post and subscribe click here!!

See-Sighting

Statue of Liberty

This is Our Winter, That was Our fall

I'm standing at the end of a ten-mile road. I'm bent over, palms on knees, head hanging; sucking in long heaving gasps of air. Ragged and worn, but still smiling. Right now, my life is much like a long run home. Down Fulton street; dodging little kids playing, and old women walking at a snails pace. I'm stopping at the red lights and waiting for my turn to dash across the heavily populated street, just barely missed by swerving town cars. I'm Avoiding traffic, and trying my hardest not to trip over the uneven pavement.


Here I am, in the middle of a busy life, quite pleased. I have to move in less than a month, possibly two weeks. I'm in the grit and grind of school and class is becoming increasingly more intense. I've started a second blog about fashion with a friend, and we're both pretty gung-ho about it; which means we have to find weekly events to cover. I'm back with my beloved; D. Yes, all hail, we finally made it official. Which brings to light an entirely new set of thoughts to process. What does this mean? Where will we be when the winter comes? And in the wake of all this, I'm beginning to realize that worn out as I may be....I'm doing exactly what I had set my mind to do. I'm building up a life, for myself. Instead of letting someone hand one to me. Instead of letting opportunity pass me by. Having good friends, strong family and a very, VERY good man by your side can do that to you. Make you a woman that is.

Life, Pause....Life Again...

Because life can be excruciatingly boring at times and then turn around and become so eventful that your head spins I, sadly, have not written in a while. But you'll all be glad to know I haven't been sitting on my flat ass this whole time. The week Atya, my cousin came out, I busied myself with showing her around. Of course because I'm still a "temp" at my job, so I can't just take off a week and go chill. But fortunately for us she came up during the 4th of July weekend, so I already had two days off. I showed her Brooklyn, and of course my favorite spot; Habana Outpost. Took her with me to Philly where we met up with Gwen for the 4th of July concert in the park. Crowds gathered, John Legend performed and fireworks crackled and lit of up the sky. It was a good day.

The following weekend, Gwen and I and her boyfriend Murphy met up to spend the day in NYC. I took them to Sylvia's Soul Food restaurant in Harlem (my favorite), where we watched Murphy scarf down like 8 cornbread muffins before lunch even came to the table. Yes, it's THAT delicious. Later we went to Dumbo and walked around, overheard the Brooklyn Hip Hop Festival grabbed some iced coffee and headed to Brooklyn Heights so I could show them the view.

The next day I picked my sister, Brittany up from the airport. I was immediately irritated because the Dunkin Doughnuts stand near the baggage claim was out of coffee; forcing me to wait. But I lit right back up when I saw my sister walking towards me. And speaking of "lighting up", so did her eyes when we emerged from the underbellies of the subway and onto the sidewalk of Fulton and Nostrand, right smack in the center of Bed Stuy. She looked around and took it all in as if she was in some kind of adult candy shop (candy, perhaps a little porn..). Her eyes were so big, I was reminded of my old neighbor Gerri who owned to Shitsu dogs and once told me that their eyes can actually fall out of their tiny little heads. Before I had to scoop my sisters eyeballs off of the dirty gum ridden street corner, I asked that she kindly not act so "new". My sister and I spent the week hanging out at lunch, and after work. Went to Bingo night with Tia, Etienne and some of his friends. Got silly drunk and actually stayed for open mic night. The week was a blur of weed smoke, the Dark Knight premier, obscene shopping, long nights and finally topped off with the 2008 Siren Music Festival at Coney Island. All in all, the week was phenomenal.

It even over shadowed the fact that both my room mates are complete dick-hole morons (it's my blog I can bitch if I want to) and I've decided to move out and leave them in the filth of their own unpleasantness. But I found two AWESOME room mates in an AWESOME apartment near the BK museum... so boo. ♥

Me and Gwen in Brooklyn Heights

Me and Atya in Philly at the John Legend Show

Me and Tia at the Siren Music Festival

Ego-Nomics

I was staring blankly at the floor this morning on the subway, noticing the things I imagine few people might stop to notice. Like the slant towards the middle of the train that runs beneath the rails. The way the ads peel on the walls, and somehow the one peeking from behind it's ripped canvas makes it better, or more comical. How very stubborn people stick out like sore thumbs, as everyone on the train sways in unison with it's jittery motion; they remain stiff, refusing to be forced to jerk around by something as measly as a commuter train. How dare this vessel conduce me to unwarranted movement. I noticed the speckled floor. Billions of tiny multicolored dots, perfectly random and misplaced. Like people.

I love that people have egos. It's the most interesting thing to me that some can be so absorbed in themselves and effected by it. Anything that causes you to be less self-aware holds the danger of being a weakness. Egos are no exception. With them come responsibility, and a issue of perspective. We are dots on a subway floor. Not higher beings, not God, not even as regal as birds. Who can see what we cannot, from an angle we'll never understand. So why do we insist on building these high horses? Who could we possibly be looking down on.

I'm a victim myself. I have an amazing ego. I'll be damned if anyone tells me that my eyes ain't pretty, or my style ain't cute, or that in some way I'm not the absolute shit. I would never SAY that (although I realize I just did). But the entire point of an ego is so we don't have to say these things. We simply think them. Recite and know them as facts. Our constructed reality. So when a woman similar to my cachet, steps into the room. With the jeans on that I can't afford, and the journalism career that I know I'll never have; I am to feel demoted. But alas, my ego will sustain me. Prop my head up high and cause me to do silly things like compliment said girl on her outfit in a way that only women can. A joke within an insult within a compliment. Awww......I was gonna buy those jeans, but they went outta style before I could afford 'em.

If we are, what they say we are, mere humans. And if this life is short and fleeting and lasts only as long as one breath from God....why are we all out to prove so much? Why do people battle each other for and with everything from love to money? Why is the competition so severe when we are all ultimately in the same race against time? I don't have the answers to any of this. But I know, because I'm always asking these questions, my ego will never get the best of me.

New Label: Shorts

Yesterday I posted a short story (see below, "The Conversation"). In explanation of the context; it was inspired by true events, people and places, but the actual story is purely fictional. In explanation of the reason for a short story, I'm a writer. Although it may seem my passion is to blog about my day, as exciting as I know my life is....(insert audience clapping and laughter), I really just like to make shit up. So often, perhaps weekly, expect a little tid-bit of a story thrown into the mix (thanks Chica♥). I hope you enjoy. The comments are very helpful and I appreciate the feedback.

Lotus

"The Conversation"

She was static in his world of calm. Electric with energy. She always wanted to move around, sing, dance, make love and tell stories. She made his life more lively, even when it was quiet. And together they had laughter and passion. When they parted he thought it was best to move on quickly. To shut her out of his mind, and pretend she no longer existed. They remained good friends, but the love never quite seemed to dissipate. She still longed for him. She told him often. Said she wanted to start over, and build a new life together. But his doubts weighed him heavily. He was slow to forgive, and quite stubborn. So he took his time.

She called him one day and said she was done. Done wanting him so badly. Done waiting for him to want her again. She said her legs were physically tired from the chase. She felt whatever wrong she'd done, couldn't possibly warrant such distance from him. Since he could give her no definite answer, since he was still unsure himself; she said she'd make it easy on him and walk away.

6 months later he received a piece of mail. An invitation to her wedding. She was engaged to a friend who became a lover, and then a provider. A graphics designer she'd met through a friend. She'd mentioned him only in passing, not knowing herself that she might fall for him in her loneliness. Not knowing there was space in her heart for such a thing.

He called her to congratulate her. His intention was to wish her the best, and to say that unfortunately he felt it best he not be in attendance. But when she answered the phone, sounding already much like another man's wife, his heart began to pound and suddenly his mouth was dry and tart. He cleared his throat and spoke. He told her that he received the invitation. He asked how wedding plans were going. She said they were going well, that she was just putting finishing touches on their honeymoon plans. She said they planned to move back to California, that he had a job waiting in Los Angeles and a house that would be built when they got back from Nice. She asked how he was, and he became silent. He told her he would be in New York. That the weather was nice this time of year and he was planning on visiting a good friend in Jersey. He asked if he could meet her for lunch during his visit. She excitedly agreed.

They sat in a small cafe near E 42nd street, sipping tea and fiddling with deli food. Casual banter polluted the air until he put his tea cup down and pulled his chair in. He sat erect and erased the smile painted across his pleasant face. He looked at her as she waited for him to speak. Her eyes taking him in, brown like sweet tea. The way she tried to hide her admiration; knowing it was inappropriate. She looked away as he began to talk. He told her that he knew very well what he had lost. He somehow could never have imagined she would become the stunning woman before him, and yet he was not at all surprised. He said her fiance was a lucky man, and that he had the utmost respect for him and his plans for their future. He said, sweetly, that he understood how a man would look at her and desire her as a wife. How a man would want her to bare his children and keep his home. She flicked a small tear away, and started to interrupt. He raised his hand, silently disputing her to speak. He continued to say that although he considered himself an honorable man, with integrity, he would want nothing more than a second chance. He said he knew his feelings came at an unusually inconvenient time. But when was it ever convenient to feel this way? She smiled as if she understood. He sat in his seat across from her, in the small corner cafe. With his empty tea cup, depleted and hollow. He couldn't swallow, he couldn't blink. He only waited breathless to see what she would say. Would she walk away from him and live the life they had once planned to have? The life he wanted too soon, that she tried to salvage too late? Was this the story of their beginning, or of their end? She calmly wiped her lips on her napkin and placed it back into her lap. Leaning forward she could only manage a whisper, tears were streaming from her face, and her cheeks were pink with warmth.

She said simply, "I know."

You Can't Hurry Up...U Got 2 Much Stuff

Releasing yourself from baggage and finding a way to move past something that once defined you is probably the challenge of a lifetime. I might not have any kids out of wedlock or bankruptcy, but there are things that I took a while to get over. Things I still run over in my mind. Daily. My broken record is like a jagged film strip. Family photos and what not, creeping though my thoughts like a lucid dream. They fade and fall into the backdrop. But they're there, and quite frankly, I'm done apologizing for that.

Not every one had a rockin childhood. Most people didn't, to be real. Plenty of us walk around every day with missing pieces that our mothers and fathers took from us long before we had the ability to hand them out. It's a scientific fact that the happenings of your first 8 years of life shape who you'll be forever, so why are we all running from it? I'd like to stand up and introduce myself.

My name is Ashley and I have issues.

Now that I've made that statement, I'd like to make another one. My scars are beauty marks. Because I made them that way. I turned my tendency to worry into motherly concern. I'm always going to want to know whats on your mind, and I'm always going to tell you what I think. Know that it comes from being pounded and infiltrated with secrets and lies, but none the less it makes me a better friend, lover, sister and child. I turned my fear of trusting into being slow to trust. I take my time, examine physical proof, place it in a baggy and file it in my evidence room. I'm learning to remember more vividly the good things rather then the bad. A lesson He taught me, and still teaches.

Settled in the pit of my stomach will always be a strong sense of North. Knowing where my balance resides, and how to find it. Sifting through bullshit comes naturally. I watch eyes; how long they stare, if they dart, in what direction they are looking. I note patterns of behavior, and when I find routine I lay on it and nest. When inconsistency pours from some one's lips, I can tell right away they are lying. Whether it be a false truth or an altered perception riddled with loop holes, I can smell it a mile away. Thank God for that. This comes from a weakness, and I made it a strength.

My baggage doesn't weigh me down. Instead of Hefty bags full of missing, forgetting, wanting and wishing, I just have a nice little accessory. A utility belt if you will. Happy with where I've been simply because I like where it pushed me to go. To everyone with baggage...don't throw it away, make it work for you and use it to your benefit. Be emotionally economic.

Money Matters

Take a look at this picture. Imagine that Lucy (on the right) is your checking account, and Ethel (on the left) is your savings account. The conveyor belt before them carrying chocolates are your bills, and the bitch in the middle calling the shots is LIFE.

Just when you feel like you can't quite take on anymore of these "bill" things....life, predictably, gives you more.

If I got paid to pay bills; I'd just about break even.

Ummm...HOT!

A Sexy President?.....

I could get used to this....!!

The Evil Laptop

I just got a new laptop. I ran it by D the day I ordered it. "Sony Vaio, red..." Those key words ignited so much joy into D, I thought maybe he was more excited that I was. "It's technology.." he said in explanation. Yes, D is a certified nerd. I've known that since our first conversation when he told me that he's a nerd. A funny, sexy, interesting and handsome nerd.

So last night I was playing with my laptop. After a VERY entertaining phone call with D, boosted to a new high by the magic of a web cam, I fiddled with my wallpaper, changed my screen saver and all the other stuff silly girls who don't know much about computers manage to do. But this Windows Vista thing is killin me. Every other second it's telling me that it is installing updates, or configuring something. Then the Security software....don't get me started. That thing had the nerve to give me an anxiety attack last night, after it flashed a warning that my BRAND NEW, barely used computer might be in danger. Using words like "hijack" and "attack". I couldn't help but wonder if George Bush was behind that marketing ploy.

Oh, now the computer terrorist are going to get my Myspace password...I better buy this $257 security software when my 30 day trial expires! Yes, lets all note that my computer is apparently at Defcon 4 (whatever that even means).

Anyhow, technology is a beautiful thing. I can keep my blog updated properly, keep in touch with D without squandering our cell phone minutes, and do my homework. Which is all I really need these day. I love it when things come together, even in the midst of seemingly falling to pieces.

And Now the World is Quieter

I got bad news while walking down Broadway on this beautiful sunny day in NYC. "Sheree passed this morning." My mother said.

"Hello?" She said.

Didn't I say, "Oh", I thought I just said, "Oh".

"Ash, are you ok?"

"Yes. Ok."

My mother said some more comforting words, in that comforting way that she says them, with a milk and honey kind of voice. She reminded me that life is precious and said she loves me tenderly. My eyes swelled with tears and my voice became shaky. But it passed. I took a breath and tried not to think about the people I've lost in the past year. How it happens suddenly, and always unfairly.

What other words can I say. Everything is hushed when they leave. Like green lights turning yellow, without a single sound.

BINGO Night, A New Friend, and A Swedish Opera Singer Named Robin

I was IM'ing my (fabulous) friend Phil the other day, telling him how miserable I was because I have virtually no girlfriends (besides my room mate, Molly and my friend Gwen who lives in Jersey) now that I'm in New York City. He suggested I give Craig's List a try. Now, Craig's List is the website me and my friend Rachel used to look at late at night, drunk so we could laugh at all the weirdos who posted listings under "Casual Encounters". You know, "Female seeks Male Companion for Masked & Bound Ass Pounding" That sort of thing. So immediately I made a screwy face. But he sent me a link for a book club, and I realized that like me, there were loads of people just looking to meet new friends, especially in a city like New York where EVERYONE is from out of town.

So I looked.

I met a girl named Tia who lives in my neighborhood. A 23 year old clothing designer. We emailed back and forth a few times, but I could tell immediately by her casual sarcasm and blunt sense of humor that she was my kind of gal. We decided to meet up.

"This ain't your grandma's BINGO." She said, asking me to meet up on Monday night at the Bowery Pottery Club near Houston st (pronounced "House-Stun" in NY...don't ask). I got home from work and received some bad news from my mother (which I'm not emotionally capable of writing about yet) so I knew a night out with a new friend was just what I needed. I changed into my fave jeans, fave yellow top, sandals and my fave aqua-blue beaded hoop earrings. I wanted to feel....well....fave.

When I got to the Pottery Club the first thing I realized was how hip it was. Cafe tables in front near a coffee and snacks bar. Shelves speckeled with tons of books. Exposed brick, funky art. Further back there was a curtain separating the two entities and suddenly I was in a lounge. Fully stocked bar, stage in the far back, low lighting and tables everywhere. And most surprisingly...it was PACKED. And not with grandmas. Tons of colorfully dressed (as usual) New Yorkers, laughing, chatting and sipping on $4 beers. I called Tia's cell phone. "I'm here!" I shouted. "Ok, I'm going to stand on a chair and wave madly...ready?" Suddenly I saw a black girl in fabulous, vintage sequined shorts and a black top balancing herself on a bar stool and waving like a crazy person. My new friend.

"Hi!!" I said, as we shared a quick hug and check peck. She was just as I pictured. Petite, cheery, and dressed like she meant it. "This is Robin, I met him here a minute ago." I shook hands with the slender, guy who stood about 5'10" and had a mess of scruffy blond hair . "Hi!" I said, "I'm Ashley."

"Robin" he said, but it sounded more like "Ru'bein". I asked what he does, and he said he'd just graduated from school in Sweden and came to New York to sing in an opera choir. "Cool!" I said, genuinely amazed that he'd only been in the US two weeks and was already going off to BINGO night by himself. Balls, I thought, he's got balls.

BINGO night, to say the absolute least, was a BLAST. Hosted by two cross-dressers and a young lady who was their version of Vannah White, showing off the "fabylous prizes" and sporting a mean case of camel-toe, but still pleasantly amusing. The lesbian named Murry, was dressed like what I can only describe as a 40 year old, vacationing father of three from the 1950's. And Linda. In a word, was Jakie O-esque, in a fabulous brown layered wig, and a black off-one-shoulder dress that said "Goddess" across the front. She was calling out the bingo numbers in a way that reminded me of watching QVC..."Now were going to hop on over to the B row....B-14..."

I didn't win, but when we got to the bonus round, they said the first person to fill their entire BINGO card up wins the jackpot of $261 (the money from the BINGO card sales). I wast even close, and neither was Tia; but Robin managed to get down to one measly number standing in his way of taking home the cash. Instead some cocky guy with a thick Brooklyn accent won, prancing up to the stage to claim his prize. He boasted about how he knew he was going to win the cash and then just to be annoying (because he couldn't possibly be THAT idiotic) he cracked a joke about supporting Bush. Immediately the crowed began boo'ing him and chanting to the hosts to take back his prize. Linda, although looking a bit perturbed by the guy's Bush-comment, reminded everyone that people are all entitled to their opinions, but that he would absolutely have to dance for the money now. They blasted Beyonce's "Crazy in Love" (or whatever that over-played crap is called), and the guy shook his thing tossing his shirt out into the audience. The crowd went wild.

Afterwards, Tia and I exchanged info with Robin promising that we'd meet in the city soon to check out a karaoke bar that sits above a Japanese restraint at 32nd and 5th. Tia and I took the same train home (the F to the A and got off at Nostrand) chatting away about our adventures with hot-sweaty apartments and loud teenagers who think they know everything.

All in all it was a good day, a good night and very good company.