Today is a good day. The sun is shining, my apartment is clean and guess what? It's the 11th anniversary of my liver transplant. Mmm-hmmm, just like that. After all the craziness, I'm still here making the magic happen. It don't get much better than that, I tell ya.
So in honor of my special day, I'm going to do a little bit of work (just enough to keep the lights on), eat a really yummy breakfast, go sit in the sun with my dog and wait to see what other wonderful things will develop.
I'd be wrong for not posting about the hot ass mess that was the BET Awards, wouldnt I?
'Cause I'd really rather not talk about the tomfoolery that snatched almost four hours of my life away and left me utterly depressed. On some- so this is what we've been reduced to, huh?
And it's not even so much the whole T-Pain accepting his award with a red plastic cup in hand, ya girl Beyonce selfishly choosing to sing a lackluster Ave Maria instead of a MJ song when she's probably one of only 4 people in the entire place that could've done it justice, Zoe Saladano's no home-training having self announcing to the world that veteran actress/Star Trek icon Nichelle Nichols was delayed the show up because she was in the bathroom TWICE or even Ving Rhames violent crackhead-esque outburst.
Naw, it was the subtle screw-ups that made my nerves bad.
Like, this many years in the game and your tech guys still can't get the sound system situation together? Err-um, why in the world weren't the nominees in the various categories named? Who the hell didn't realize that Don Cornelius is a thousand years old and anticipate his obvious need for the size of letters on the telepromter to be EXTRA, EXTRA LARGE? And most disturbing- Where was the Michael jackson bio?? All the energy put into Jaime's wardrobe changes and nobody realized that there wasn't a complete career bio/ montage prepared? Sigh.
There are no words to adequately express the shock I felt upon seeing the confirmed news reports about Michael Jackson's death. I literally had to sit down on the couch and catch my breath. I haven't felt this dazed since I found out that I was actually going to receive my much needed liver transplant eleven years ago. That's deep, right?
Be clear: Michael Jackson has been a friend in my head FOREVER. Since my certified tone deaf ass could screech a out, "A-B-C, easy as 1-2-3," MJ and his music have been a part of my life. And trust, our friendship was hardcore.
It spanned his rise to superstardom, the freak accidents, a complete ethnicity/race change and yes, even the recent controversial fall from grace. Forreal, forreal, me and Mike been through it: He'd make me happy, he'd make me sad, he'd humble me, and then leave my jaded self in complete disbelief.
And still, I jammed on.
So riddle me this- how does a man who's musical genius changed the WORLD die of cardiac arrest at freakin' 50?
Not for nothing, people like MJ are supposed to either: A) live forever or B) die in some unexplainable event like an airplane disappearing over the Bermuda Triangle. NEVER, EVER the mundane heart attack. I mean, wasn't that the point of the hyperbaric-oxygen-tank-thingy that he's allegedly been sleeping in since the 80s? Sigh. I can't.
Apparently, NYPD Detective Christopher Perino thought he was slick and denied threatening a suspect Erik Crespo in court. Well don't you know the tech savy teen taped the entire "conversation" that included threats to the then 17 year-old's mother and sister on a tiny MP3 player he had in his pocket?
So much for doing a thorough job of frisking the suspect, huh?
Therefore, when the trifling Detective got on the stand talking about he never interrogated Crespo let alone threatened him, the defense attorney basically whipped out the 62-page transcript of the taped convo and cold busted his ass. Mmm-hmm, just like that.
In addition to being played to the left in front of a courtroom full of people, the Detective was immediately charged with perjury and arrested. He is suspended without pay, will probably lose his pension and could now go to jail his DAMN self.
You know.... I wanna say I feel bad for the former Detective, especially since it turns out the kid is truly guilty of the crime they arrested him for (he was caught on tape shooting someone).
BUT at the end of the day, I'm not really for all that threatening of folks mothers and sisters... No sir, not at all.
Apparently, good ole Carl (who mind you, was recently voted District Officer of The Year) got wind of the fact that his estranged wife was screwing around at the crib with another man. So naturally, as soon as he got off duty he headed over to 'get things straight'.
When he arrived on the scene, I guess homegirl was trying to be on some slick shit and refused to answer the door. (Can't you hear her now- "Just ignore all that banging baby. I told you, me and him not together no more.")
Well don't you know homeboy smashed a window, stormed in and charged up to the bedroom?
Once in the bedroom, crazy ass Carl (you like how he went from good ole Carl to the crazy ass, right?) found the freaking Police Chief HIDING out in the closet and proceed to pistol whip and beat FIRE out of that ass.
DAYUM son. Can you say anger management issues? WTF?? I'm gonna need the Chicago Police force to turn off the R.Kelly and pull it together. Not now, but RIGHT NOW.
Err-umm, I know most parents stop whooping their kids when they get old enough to comprehend but real talk? Some of these hard headed mo-fo's need to be beat all the way up until they turn 21 years-old. And preferably with a large, thick, you-gonna-remember-this-one-right-here leather belt like the one my Dad used on my lil' ass back in the day... Uh-huh, yeah, I said it.
So naturally, like all immature, adolescents under pressure Ms. Kimberley went straight into denial mode.
Don't you know, this silly child had the nerve to insist that she'd "only asked for three stars, feel asleep in the chair and woke up with a galaxy on her face." You ONLY asked for three stars on your FACE??? Feel free to insert the blank stare with 2 blinks.
But wait on it... Her parents actually believed that bullshit!
I mean to say, not only did they believe it but they proceeded to hire a lawyer and press charges against the tattoo artist/ parlour. As if any sober person in their right mind could sleep through 56 stars being inked on his/her face... I. can't.
Needless to say, not even a week later homegirl got caught on a hidden camera admitting that she knew all along what the tattoo artist was going to do. So she's had to issue an apology, retract her statement, lost the almost $18,000 her parents put into making the claim/ hiring a lawyer, et al.
So ummm, I'm just going to go out on a limb and say, this right here. This is what happens when "time outs" go horribly wrong. No offense
This fool straight dressed up like his mother- wig, sunglasses, moo-moo and all, picked up his homeboy to play his part and the two of them headed down to the DMV and tried to get a new State ID for this woman. Mmm-hmm...
But wait on it... the real reason he even got caught is because when his mother's home was sold into foreclosure (naturally, he wasn't making any payments), he refused to vacate the premises and tried to sue the new owners-AS HIS MOTHER.
Uh-uh, I. Can't. Lord, it's too early in the week for this nonsense...
I just looked at all the sandals sitting in my closet and had to shake my head. I really, really don't like rainy days in the summer time a.k.a the open-toe killers.
Speaking of toes, a while back I posted this pedi question:
Would you clip your partner's toenails?
78% said sure, it wasn't a big deal
22% wouldn't do it even on a dare.
Gotta say, I am on the fence about this one right here. Cause in reality, I'm really funny about people's toenails being too long. That whole, dragging on the sidewalk over the tip f your flip-flops? Oh god, it just makes my nerves bad.
Mind you, my fixation on feet is hardly extreme (no, there'll be no toe sucking for the kid) but I definitely appreciate it when men take the time to make sure their respective foot game is on point.
So with that said, if the length of my significant other's toenails are bothering me more than him, then yes, I'm quick to offer my services.
But what if your partner has fucked up feet? You know, the joints that look like bird talons? With all that caked-on dead skin, ginormous bunions and Grand Canyon fissure-like cracks in the heels? Ewwwwwwa (Insert image of me vomiting in my mouth).
Call me funny actin' but I would be hard pressed to share a bed sheet with anyone who had crazy looking feet, let alone trying to clip the nails. I don't care how much I like you. As long as you're looking like close cousins with the barefoot homeless guy outside the Port Authority with all that thick yellow, flaky, fungi growing all up under and around your nails, I'm not the one.
How is possible to get stabbed in the neck with an ice pick and not be critically wounded? What kind of weakling is this man? And better yet, how did his punk ass manage to stab the BOTH of them? Not for nothing, but even if they were sleeping when the attack started, wouldn't the screams from the first person to get stabbed wake the next?
I'll tell you what, as much as I love me some Elsa, if someone was stabbing her in the neck with an ice pick, I gots to run and get help. Shooooot... ain't no point in us both getting shanked. No offense.
Even if the weather isn't necessarily cooperating with those of us in the tri-state area, summertime is here party people. Wanna know how I know?
'Cause the New York Times just published it's annual 'please-don't-poop-in-the-pool' article. You know, the one where they report on the rising number of people swimming in NYC's public pools that become infected with a nasty intestinal parasite that's found in feces?
Uh-huh, feel free to vomit in your mouth right about now.
For those that need more details: Cryptosporidium is what they call it. The only way to become infected is through ingestion. And the reason that so many people become ill is because that bad boy can survive as long as 10 days- EVEN IN CHLORINATED WATER.
Talking about, "We want people to swim but be healthy about it." Uh yeah, no thanks.
Jesus be the cold water in my shower until I arrive at a beach far, far away...
It's been a long while since I've come across a blog that I kid you not, makes me want to pee my pants. You know the ones that are so good you can't help but stop whatever you were supposed to be doing (like work) read every single, solitary entry from wherever it starts until the very end?
For those that haven't, this sentence from the article sums it up:if black women are going to defy the statistics, they need to start being more realistic. Holding out for the perfect man, someone who is intellectual but not nerdy—cool but not arrogant—impeccably dressed but not effeminate—not a player but with just the right amount of edge—is useless.
And you know what my response to that entire train of thought is? YOU SHUT UP.
Cause forreal, forreal, why are we so quick to assume that Michelle was being 'realistic' (read: settling) when she started dating Barack? Maybe the First Lady has a thing for skinny bi-racial guys with big ears that are into helping the community and wanna be President?? How do you know that Barack wasn't EXACTLY what she was holding out for? And so what if the car he was dead broke and driving a hoopie?You ain't never seen a sexy struggling artist/activist that could get it? Shoot, we've ALL seen the pics of him smoking ganja. Ain't nothing about that man look the least bit nerdy or effeminate- at all.
All I know is, I continue to work DAMN hard to pull myself into a marketable package. And I want to see the same in my partner.
I refuse to spend a moment (let alone the remainder) of my life with a man that makes me wish I was anywhere else under the sun but with him. And that's exactly how I (or anyone that's willing to be honest with themselves) will feel if we give up the search and start accepting whatever is in front of us...
If I don't like lame guys, I'm not dating them. If I don't like dudes who are excessively overweight, I'm not dating them. If I don't like men who spend more time grooming themselves and looking in the mirror than me, I'm just not dating them. PERIOD.
I refuse to walk through life in a pair of dark shades so that my significant other doesn't notice all the side-eye I'm throwing at him just for being him. And keep it one thousand, if you've ever been with someone that works your nerves for no good reason, you understand exactly what I'm talking about.
And on the flip side, I for damn sure don't want anyone settling for me. If I'm not the one- Keep It Moving Shorty. There are way too many options out there for you to be wasting my time, making me jump through hoops when you already know I won't ever measure up. No thanks, I'm good.
Oh and real talk, NONE of the women that I know in relationships/ marriages worth talking about EVER settled.
So last night, my boy G-Payton scored tix to see the dress rehearsal performance of The Wiz featuring Ashanti and Orlando Jones. Under normal circumstance, you'd have to drag me kicking and screaming to anything remotely Ashanti related but it's The Wiz. I couldn't resist.
And I am SOSOSO happy to report that for the most part the play was really good. As expected, LaChanze (she played Celie in Oprah's The Color Purple musical) was phenomenal. Orlando Jones looks like he's put on a couple of pounds but still dead on as The Wiz. I seriously heart the Scarecrow, Tin Man And Cowardly Lion. Them brother right there can BLOW. And don't sleep, even though she only had two and a half scenes, Tichina Arnold straight STOLE the show as Evillene (the Wicked Witch of the West).
But I did say for the most part. As in not completely... Sigh.
Poor, poor Ashanti. Her costume was probably the most unflattering thing I've seen in a LONG time. Cause we all know that girl got cankles and big feet. Who in the unholy costume-design-school-dropout HELL thought it would be cute to put her in a dress that tea length dress and black Converse sneakers??
And even though it seemed like they tried to rearrange the tone/pitch of the songs to accommodate her limited range, homegirl still came up waaaay short. Although, I must give her points for being creative enough to try and whisper sing (like Janet), so that folks couldn't really tell that she can't sing. Unfortunately, them type of smoke and mirror shenanigans don't really work when you're performing with or right after folks that can really, really SANG.
I just thank GOD that the producers/writers kept her speaking parts to a bare minimum (at least it seemed). So there were moments that you could sorta- if you tried very, very hard and clicked your heel 3x- forget that she was there.
Here's the thing, I'm all for fashion forwardness. I love seeing new trends emerge (so about to cop an adorable one-piece pantsuits) and disappear (baby doll dress be damned).
Even if good old fashioned commonsense/ awareness of my body shape won't necessarily allow me to get involved (thigh high boots), more power to those constantly push the envelope.
With that said, this morning I have serious beef with Rihanna.
What the in the unholy my-stylist-had-the-night-off HELL was she doing prancing around NYC in a damn over-sized cardigan like it's a sweater dress??
Shit is a certified wreck. Oh and PS, the random bustier tossed up under there doesn't make it any better. At. All. Cause really, it just looks like ya girl put on the pretty drawers, the sweater and said bump wearing pants/shorts/anything to properly cover her butt.
Listen, I know the poor thing done been through some shit recently but that's simply no reason to hit the pavement assed-out and half-naked. Uh-uh, no maam. Not today, not tomorrow, not even on a dare.
But the FORREAL, FORREAL reason that I'm mad at Rih-Rih? For every time her tall and skinny behind tries to pull something crazy like this off. There's a confused girl with a TOTALLY Different shape following her lead... AND FAILING MISERABLY.
Exhibit A: Homegirl following right behind her in the shiny shirt, leather boots and a crazy looking cardigan vest of her own. Need I say more?
Jesus be a fill-length mirror. Light a candle ya'll...
Okay, real talk? I think my breasts are shrinking!
I used to be a very ample C/ borderline D-cup. Nowadays, I'm only halfway filling out the C cups. And puh-lease do not make the bra cup structured... they're straight puddling in the bottom!! What the hell!?!?!?
I keep trying on all my bras, adjusting the straps, twisting from side to side and the results are still the same- freakin' Magda boobs.
I feel so betrayed. I LOVE the twins. My market loves the twins. It's not like I've lost considerable weight or been breast feeding anyone's baby lately. How are they gonna just up and deflate on me like this?
I'm just saying... Don't they know there's a recession going on? I can't afford to replace all the cute underwear sets. Sigh. And after all the exposure I've given them... ungrateful I tell you.
All I can say is, Jesus be the augmentation savings fund.
Slow news day... Which inevitable leads me to fall back on old poll questions. Here's one that I've been meaning to discuss for a minute: Do you need to be held by your partner after sex?
65% of you said you can take it or leave it.
26% say its a must
7% would rather not.
I see I'm in the minority...
Don't get me wrong, for the most part I'm a very affectionate person. I always enjoy having my hand held, being held, hugged, kissed, etc by my significant other. My friends will tell you- Mitzi is very big on the PDA.
But all that 'afterglow cuddling?' Especially after really, really good sex? Yeah, no.
And I'm not quite sure what that's about. All I know is I'm exhausted, I need a minute to get myself together and I DO NOT want you draping your heavy thigh over me while I'm trying to find my head scarf and get my heart rate down. At all.
*Truth be told, the only time, I want to cuddle immediately after sex is if it's wack (and that's just to hold me back from getting up and getting the hell outta there).
According to news reports, the journalists were working on a story for Current TV, a San Francisco-based media company co-founded by former VP Al Gore about the trafficking of women from North Korea into China, but other reports said they were reporting on North Korean refugees who had fled their country. Whatever the case, border patrol officers from the North snatched them chicks up and charged them with illegally entering North Korean territory.
Amnesty International reports that prisoners in these work camps often work 10 hours or more a day, with no rest days, performing demanding work that can include logging and stone quarrying. Beatings are not infrequent, even for simple stuff like forgetting the words to patriotic songs. And obviously, food, hygienic conditions and medical care are poor at best.
But wait on it... in the meantime, US politicians are describing the situation as "high stakes poker game." Huh?
What in the back-breaking-foreign-torture-mind-game hell is this? I. Can't. No you heartless idiots, this is not a damn game. Two women are up shit creek without a paddle for doing their JOBS. And folks need to stop playing the who's balls are the biggest foolishness and bring them the hell home. Seriously.
Cause now, anyone with a good gay friend (hey, G.P.) or S&M fetish (don't even look over here)can tell you that this man done messed around and kilt himself playin' the reindeer games. And he was in Thailand? Land of the underage prostitutes and anything goes erotica scene? Sigh.
Not that either scenario is better than the other but at least the masseuse understood that every time she responded to an ad, there was the possibility of some craziness jumping off. This poor woman unknowingly went to sleep (mind you, their two kids were in the crib) and the man that was supposed to love her 'till death do them part set her up for the straight okey doke. Err-um, no thank you.
And what about the poor schlub who actually raped the victim? As much as rape role play ain't never gonna be my type of hype, everyone is entitled to their own turn-on. HOWSOMEVER, there's a gargantuan difference between fulfilling an extreme fantasy and actually committing the crime. This dude has to live with the fact that he RAPED someone for the rest of his life.
Raise your hand if you managed to get up at the crack of dawn (approximately 6:10am for those on the east coast) to watch President Obama's speech in Cairo live? Yeah, me neither.
But since I was bombarded with opinions, reviews and commentary from the moment I logged on to the internet, I decided to bite the bullet and watch all 54:52 min online (My god, that's a long time for anyone to speak continuously, no?).
Gotta say, I'm so not mad at Michelle's man.
Not only does President Obama continue to be one of the most engaging and eloquent public speakers of modern times, but the man does it with a smile. He managed to take responsibility for our nation's history of poor decisions (Iraq War, Guantanamo Bay, unjust discrimination against Muslims) while still making it clear that any and every damn body can get it if they mess with the US.
Uh-huh, I see you moving and shaking Barack... Do it. Check it out for yourself HERE.
Alledgedly, Staff Sgt. Bryan Damone Cunningham (Um, Bryan Damone? $50 says this fool is Black. Sigh. My people, my people puh-lease STOP watching Hustle & Flow) attempted to barter the girl to a pair of 18 and 19 year-old interested recruits as an incentive to sign the dotted line. Sick Perv.
But wait on it... According to the po-po, homegirl met Cunningham online and had sex with all three men. She also told the cops Cunningham wanted her to work as a prostitute and had tried to take her to Los Angeles County against her will.
So basically, she was down to have sex with all three but just didn't want to go to Los Angeles? Uh-uh, I can't.
Jesus be a 7-year stint in a convent far, far away.
There are a lot of really, really, really good reasons to end up in jail: rape, murder, assualt, sex trade trafficking, multi-million dollar white collar crimes, domestic violence, and the list goes on. But adultery? Eh, not so much.
Good grief, if ever, this was a day deserving of a do-over. First, I woke up this morning with a crick in my neck, pinch in my hip and a headache from hell. Then to make matters worse, I heard the breaking news about the very real possibility of Air France Jet 447 being found in pieces in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Seriously?
Cause the thing is, I LIVE to fly. If I could get on a plane from here to the corner, I'd do it. But over the past couple of years there have been so many crashes... it's a lot. My nerves are getting increasing worse... especially when I'm not the one flying.
I know, I know, sounds totally irrational but oh so true. I get so weirded out anytime my family and friends get on a plane, its ridiculous. Like I want a call when boarding, right before take off, as soon as they say it's safe to turn on cell phone and the moment you step outta that airport. And no, I don't give a damn if you're on the other side of the world. Find yourself an international calling card and make the magic happen. (LOL, can you say neurotic?)
The thing is, I don't want to be the one left behind. Call me selfish but I'm very okay with the idea of being the one that goes down in flames. Now as for being the one that has to go pick up the remains? Not so much.
So I finally touched NY ground late last night after the cute 4-day vacay in Miami with a bunch of my old school FAMU crew to celebrate our boy's graduation from dental school. And despite Florida's touch and go weather (it rained for at least 3 hours every single solitary damn day), I still managed to get more than my fair share of sun, fun and grown folk relaxation on. Mmm-hmmm...
Lord knows, it's always fun times getting together with college folks I haven't seen in YEARS... first and foremost because they're the people that I spent the majority of my ignorant late teens/ early twenties getting in and out of BS with (raise your hand if you know about those late, late night runs to Guthrie's and chugging flaming Dr. Peppers) and because we're finally grown enough not to have to sleep two in a bed and one on the floor to be able to afford a room in the nice hotel. Mmm-hmmm, just like that.
Lord, there's so much new stuff to catch up on- where you at, what you working on, where you going next, who still has all their hair, how many pounds we've all gained, etc. I swear, I haven't laughed so hard in a very looooong time.
But seriously- when the hell did discussions about daycare and private school tuition replace talking shit?? I mean, forget the big money schemes, fly rides, latest styles and upcoming vacay adventures- this time around it was all about how to maintain your swagger while pushing the minivan w/ multiple car seats, where to find the Spanx thong and tips on how to remain as quiet when the wife is speaking. Huh??? Oh and wait on it...
What you know about the virtues of a vasectomy debate that ensued over our Saturday night dinner. With more than a few of the wives talkin' 'bout, "snip, snip negro!"
Yo, forreal, forreal?I haven't been so happy to be single and child free in LIFE. To be able to say my biggest concern before boarding the flight was whether I remembered the sun block v. worrying that my mother-in-law might feed our 3 year-old McDonalds, was PRICELESS.
I respect Black love, the commitment my peers have to making their families work and all that Barack and Michelle jazz BUT Jesus take the wheel! I'm G-O-O-D.