After spending much of this week in a kind of a fog, I think I've figured out why I've been in this funk lately. I don't feel the same about myself as I used to, physically and career-wise.
Physically, I'm in the worse shape now than I think I've ever been in. I tried to ignore it but the now infamous ball dress incident really put a spotlight on it. Not that I want to be rail thin or lose weight to fit any type of mold, I just want to be me, only like 8 years ago. When I was an undergrad, I took my body for granted. I had a flat stomach, not a six pack, but still I could show it without worrying about scaring small children (the cleavage on the other hand .... a different story). I had just enough butt and thighs to provoke a second glance, but not so much that imagine myself in gauchos is enough to make me frown in disgust. But did I exercise? No. Did I continue to eat any and everything any time of the day? Yes.
Don't get me wrong, I like me. I just would like me better if I could wear a crop top. Not that I would wear a crop top, but I would like the option to be able to if I wanted. So, I've given myself a goal: to be able to wear this fitted jacket and pants combo (you know, the jacket where you leave the bottom open to show a little stomach?) to the sorority's big party in May. And with a little help from the Mister, I'm already on my way.
As for the career part, I'll get into that later. I've finished my cardio and I have to get to some squats and lunges. After all, this ass isn't going to lift itself!
Addition: Feel free to provide to the iPod fund (after all my birthday is in like ... 5 months). Why am I the only MF on the elliptical machine rocking a portable CD player? It's not right I tell you, it's just not right!
Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Mad World
So, I’m sitting in my office, munching on some grapes, PRAYING that the rest of the day will go off drama free, when the phone rings. Now, mind you, for some weird reason, my computer is on the other side of the room from the phone, so err-time the phone rings I have to roll my chair over to my desk. So clearly, each ring of the phone brings on a slight bit of annoyance before I even know what the person wants. Anyway, I get to the phone:
Me: “C speaking.” (I use my singsong voice here. After all, I am customer relations)
Dumb ass customer: “Hey, how do I fill out a claim?”
WTF?
Who ARE you, and what are you TALKING about?!? I mean, really, people. Did you think you were calling an insurance agency or something? Please get whatever it is you want to say mentally organized before you pick up the phone and start asking for s—t. Write it down if you have to. It shouldn’t take me 10 minutes to figure out what the hell you want.
While we’re at it, why do people always call me about random s—t, anyway? To give them credit, I’m listed in the phone directory under customer relations so maybe if nothing else in the book fits your complaint or concern, call me. However, also listed is furnishings and work order among others. So, why do I get phone calls asking, “Hey, who do I talk to about getting furniture” and “Is this number I call to get something fixed?” No, but HELL NO! Seriously, if you had the book to look up my phone number, why not go that extra mile and get the number to the department that might really give a damn be able to help you?
And what about the ones who try to be all friendly with you because they’re getting ready to ask you for some dumb s—t.
Me: C speaking, how may I help you?
DAC: C is it? Well, hello! And how are you doing this fine afternoon? The weather is really looking wonderful don’t you think?
Me: (How the eff should I know I work inside!) reality: hi. And yes.
DAC: So, C (what the eff, you think you KNOW me now?) … launches into long boring story, which ends with something I can’t do.
Just get to the point! We don’t have to be friends. Really, it’s OK.
Last, but definitely not leastI AM NOT IN THE EFFIN ARMY!! That means don’t talk to me about “digits”, or ask me if I’m “tracking” something. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. When I tell you something, don’t say Roger to signal your acknowledgement, and (listen closely, this one is most important) don’t say HOOAH to me – at any time, regardless of the circumstance! (I think I used it in a blog, actually, but you know, I was being sarcastic so it doesn’t count.)
I think that’s enough sunshine for the day. Now, enjoy the rest of your day, with my assurance that you can continue on just a little bit wiser.
Me: “C speaking.” (I use my singsong voice here. After all, I am customer relations)
Dumb ass customer: “Hey, how do I fill out a claim?”
WTF?
Who ARE you, and what are you TALKING about?!? I mean, really, people. Did you think you were calling an insurance agency or something? Please get whatever it is you want to say mentally organized before you pick up the phone and start asking for s—t. Write it down if you have to. It shouldn’t take me 10 minutes to figure out what the hell you want.
While we’re at it, why do people always call me about random s—t, anyway? To give them credit, I’m listed in the phone directory under customer relations so maybe if nothing else in the book fits your complaint or concern, call me. However, also listed is furnishings and work order among others. So, why do I get phone calls asking, “Hey, who do I talk to about getting furniture” and “Is this number I call to get something fixed?” No, but HELL NO! Seriously, if you had the book to look up my phone number, why not go that extra mile and get the number to the department that might really give a damn be able to help you?
And what about the ones who try to be all friendly with you because they’re getting ready to ask you for some dumb s—t.
Me: C speaking, how may I help you?
DAC: C is it? Well, hello! And how are you doing this fine afternoon? The weather is really looking wonderful don’t you think?
Me: (How the eff should I know I work inside!) reality: hi. And yes.
DAC: So, C (what the eff, you think you KNOW me now?) … launches into long boring story, which ends with something I can’t do.
Just get to the point! We don’t have to be friends. Really, it’s OK.
Last, but definitely not leastI AM NOT IN THE EFFIN ARMY!! That means don’t talk to me about “digits”, or ask me if I’m “tracking” something. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. When I tell you something, don’t say Roger to signal your acknowledgement, and (listen closely, this one is most important) don’t say HOOAH to me – at any time, regardless of the circumstance! (I think I used it in a blog, actually, but you know, I was being sarcastic so it doesn’t count.)
I think that’s enough sunshine for the day. Now, enjoy the rest of your day, with my assurance that you can continue on just a little bit wiser.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Intermission
Ok, since I didn't put the pics from the last post on, here are some to get you by :) Ok, they're old, but so what? Enjoy! Well, at least until the Mister makes me take them down.
Pics from the last ball in December.
Mountains from the Edelwiess Lodge, where Woodstock took me for my birthday.
Me and Wood drinking a beer at Oktoberfest - OK, it's his beer, but I got in a few big gulps.
Pics from the last ball in December.
Mountains from the Edelwiess Lodge, where Woodstock took me for my birthday.
Me and Wood drinking a beer at Oktoberfest - OK, it's his beer, but I got in a few big gulps.
Queen of the Night
As I inhaled sharply, I felt the hands on my back, tugging. I could practically see his face grimacing as he put all his muscle into the task, grunting and pulling. I think I felt a rib crack – and then he was done. Attempting to exhale, I walked slowly over to the bedroom mirror to survey the damage. And although he didn’t say anything, as I made my way to the mirror, I already knew it: the dress I wanted to wear to the ball didn’t fit.
Of course, it was my procrastinating, OK and overeating, that almost left me dress-less the night before the ball. But who has time for trying stuff on? Especially when you know there’s a chance it might not fit. I have to hand it to Woodstock though. He didn’t laugh once as he struggled to zip up the dress, leaving me looking like a stuffed sausage. He also didn’t launch into a diatribe about how I need to start doing 100 crunches a day or anything like that. He just … stayed silent. Which was good. Anyway, I had another dress in my inventory so I just put that one on and put on a tiara with it for good measure. You know how I do! So, long story short, here’s some pictures from the 2006 Lightning Ball, Hooah! Enjoy.
Aw, ain't we sweet! Peep the tiara!
Wood and an OBC buddy
Me and the girls (sorry, it's distorted but I tried to do this night vision s--t and f'd it up. This blogging is harder than it looks!)
Of course, it was my procrastinating, OK and overeating, that almost left me dress-less the night before the ball. But who has time for trying stuff on? Especially when you know there’s a chance it might not fit. I have to hand it to Woodstock though. He didn’t laugh once as he struggled to zip up the dress, leaving me looking like a stuffed sausage. He also didn’t launch into a diatribe about how I need to start doing 100 crunches a day or anything like that. He just … stayed silent. Which was good. Anyway, I had another dress in my inventory so I just put that one on and put on a tiara with it for good measure. You know how I do! So, long story short, here’s some pictures from the 2006 Lightning Ball, Hooah! Enjoy.
Aw, ain't we sweet! Peep the tiara!
Wood and an OBC buddy
Me and the girls (sorry, it's distorted but I tried to do this night vision s--t and f'd it up. This blogging is harder than it looks!)
Fireman
So for like the last week, I’ve been feeling really blah about myself and life in general. But I don’t really know why. Nothing’s really doing it for me lately. Even my normal triggers have no effect. Case-in-point: I pick up my pink suede jacket from the dry cleaners yesterday. The ish cost like $40 but I figure it’s suede you know, so I didn’t expect it to be cheap. So I get ready to put it on today, and lo and behold there’s a rip right beside the button. Those mfs had the ish buttoned so I wouldn’t notice, and they probably figured weeks would go by before I found it and then they could blame it on me. So, what did I do?
Nothing. Not yet anyway. See what I’m saying? Ok, I called the number I got from the operator every hour until I got off (nobody picked up!), but really. Is that what No Limit would do? Hell to the naw. On a regular day, I would have considered going up there before work and waiting until they opened. Realizing they open at 10, and I have to be at work at 7:30, I would have nixed that idea and went to work. Then I would have called 10 times in a row. Getting no answer, I fly over to the dry cleaner, whip out the jacket, point to the hole and say, “Gimme my money back, b@#$%es!” Ok, I probably wouldn’t curse at them the first go around, but it makes for a better scene though, right?
Anyway, the point is I’ve been here all day and have done nothing. I’m going to go after work and try to work something out. This might seem like a step in the right direction, or even “growth” as RR2 incorrectly surmised. To me it’s boring. When I failed to get worked up about something, that’s not a good thing. I even bought two pairs of shoes yesterday in an attempt to get over this funk. Nothing. If I thought a third pair would help, I might even order another. Maybe I should try, just to be on the safe side. I've lost my fire. So, what should I do to get over this boredom? How do I get my spark back? I don’t know.
I saw a casting call for this reality show on MTV where journalists compete for a year-long stint as a Rolling Stone contributor. RR2 says I should try out and she’ll help with the audition tape. Yeah, it’s silly, and do I really want to show my a$$ on TV? Not really. But if at least sending the stuff in and letting myself dream for a minute gets me my “mojo” back, I think I’ll do it.
Plus, I’m taking the jacket in a few minutes to try to get my money back. If they try to front like they don’t want to help me, I might get my fire back sooner than expected.
Nothing. Not yet anyway. See what I’m saying? Ok, I called the number I got from the operator every hour until I got off (nobody picked up!), but really. Is that what No Limit would do? Hell to the naw. On a regular day, I would have considered going up there before work and waiting until they opened. Realizing they open at 10, and I have to be at work at 7:30, I would have nixed that idea and went to work. Then I would have called 10 times in a row. Getting no answer, I fly over to the dry cleaner, whip out the jacket, point to the hole and say, “Gimme my money back, b@#$%es!” Ok, I probably wouldn’t curse at them the first go around, but it makes for a better scene though, right?
Anyway, the point is I’ve been here all day and have done nothing. I’m going to go after work and try to work something out. This might seem like a step in the right direction, or even “growth” as RR2 incorrectly surmised. To me it’s boring. When I failed to get worked up about something, that’s not a good thing. I even bought two pairs of shoes yesterday in an attempt to get over this funk. Nothing. If I thought a third pair would help, I might even order another. Maybe I should try, just to be on the safe side. I've lost my fire. So, what should I do to get over this boredom? How do I get my spark back? I don’t know.
I saw a casting call for this reality show on MTV where journalists compete for a year-long stint as a Rolling Stone contributor. RR2 says I should try out and she’ll help with the audition tape. Yeah, it’s silly, and do I really want to show my a$$ on TV? Not really. But if at least sending the stuff in and letting myself dream for a minute gets me my “mojo” back, I think I’ll do it.
Plus, I’m taking the jacket in a few minutes to try to get my money back. If they try to front like they don’t want to help me, I might get my fire back sooner than expected.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Beautiful Skin
Imagine a father and daughter, talking about the daughter’s goals in life. “I want to be Ms College Queen,” says the young girl to her daddy. “Well, honey,” her father says, “I’m sorry, but you’re fat, and unless you lose weight you’re considered unattractive so maybe you should just aspire to be SGA president instead.”
Of course, no father, unless he has serious mental problems, would say that to his daughter. So why is it so easy for us to say it about someone else’s daughter, someone else’s sister, or someone else’s role model?
Today I was perusing one of my daily reads, the Tallahassee Democrat FAMU Sports message board, and it caught my eye: another insulting shot at black women. Now, this MB has frequently crossed the line of decency, in my opinion, as it relates to black women. But this conversation was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
The conversation started out OK, with a sort of congratulations to FAMU for having this year’s Ms FAMU featured prominently in Ebony’s yearly College Queens section. But from there, it went downhill. One poster remarked that is was nice that FAMU had finally returned to some “normalcy” with this year’s selection (last year’s Ms FAMU was overweight). Someone else went on to remark “…I don't understand the purpose of electing an unattractive "beauty" queen.” WHOSE view of beauty are we looking at?
When the former Ms FAMU, my soror, was selected, I was proud. Not because we are in the same sorority, but because it showed me that maybe we were growing up, that maybe we were on the right track to loving and appreciating our black women in whatever shape, color or package she came in. I guess I was wrong.
Black women have been told by mainstream society for years how we were to look, and now our safe haven, the black man, is making us feel like we’re not good enough. My good friend, RR2, put it best in an e-mail:
“Women really have no chance in our community, because our own standards are so screwed up. (Men) objectify women from the womb because that’s what everyone tells them to do. Then, they wonder why the women they’re with can’t feel comfortable. She’s trying to compete with other breasts, thighs, waists and booties instead of building something with the man she’s with and fully loving herself. So, she’s eating twigs and berries, being mad because she really wants to eat the steak she served him and growing more and more resentful. “
For every man who has heard, “Do I look fat in this” or “Does this make my butt look big” or something similar, ask yourself if you might have prompted the question. Ask yourself if perhaps your own unrealistic view of beauty is contributing to your girlfriend/spouse or child’s low self esteem.
My younger sister, at age 12 was chubby. She felt down about herself because she didn’t look like the women on TV who everyone seemed to fawn over. I told her she was beautiful, not because she is my sister, but because it’s true. She has since lost weight playing sports but she was beautiful before, is still beautiful, and will continue to be, even if she gains weight. I just hope when she grows up, she won’t let any man – or anyone else for that matter – make her believe otherwise.
Of course, no father, unless he has serious mental problems, would say that to his daughter. So why is it so easy for us to say it about someone else’s daughter, someone else’s sister, or someone else’s role model?
Today I was perusing one of my daily reads, the Tallahassee Democrat FAMU Sports message board, and it caught my eye: another insulting shot at black women. Now, this MB has frequently crossed the line of decency, in my opinion, as it relates to black women. But this conversation was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
The conversation started out OK, with a sort of congratulations to FAMU for having this year’s Ms FAMU featured prominently in Ebony’s yearly College Queens section. But from there, it went downhill. One poster remarked that is was nice that FAMU had finally returned to some “normalcy” with this year’s selection (last year’s Ms FAMU was overweight). Someone else went on to remark “…I don't understand the purpose of electing an unattractive "beauty" queen.” WHOSE view of beauty are we looking at?
When the former Ms FAMU, my soror, was selected, I was proud. Not because we are in the same sorority, but because it showed me that maybe we were growing up, that maybe we were on the right track to loving and appreciating our black women in whatever shape, color or package she came in. I guess I was wrong.
Black women have been told by mainstream society for years how we were to look, and now our safe haven, the black man, is making us feel like we’re not good enough. My good friend, RR2, put it best in an e-mail:
“Women really have no chance in our community, because our own standards are so screwed up. (Men) objectify women from the womb because that’s what everyone tells them to do. Then, they wonder why the women they’re with can’t feel comfortable. She’s trying to compete with other breasts, thighs, waists and booties instead of building something with the man she’s with and fully loving herself. So, she’s eating twigs and berries, being mad because she really wants to eat the steak she served him and growing more and more resentful. “
For every man who has heard, “Do I look fat in this” or “Does this make my butt look big” or something similar, ask yourself if you might have prompted the question. Ask yourself if perhaps your own unrealistic view of beauty is contributing to your girlfriend/spouse or child’s low self esteem.
My younger sister, at age 12 was chubby. She felt down about herself because she didn’t look like the women on TV who everyone seemed to fawn over. I told her she was beautiful, not because she is my sister, but because it’s true. She has since lost weight playing sports but she was beautiful before, is still beautiful, and will continue to be, even if she gains weight. I just hope when she grows up, she won’t let any man – or anyone else for that matter – make her believe otherwise.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Don't take it personal (just one of them days)
OK. I have remained silent on this for too long, and now I must say with the utmost decorum and class …
STOP SENDING SO MANY MFING FORWARDS!!!
Now, I am not speaking to everyone, but you know who you are. If you send more than two forwards a week, I’m talking to you. If you send an e-mail that in any way, shape or form, mentions sending x number of people the e-mail or you will go to hell/die shortly/have all around bad luck, then I’m talking to you. And if includes the words “I sent this to the people I thought would respond” then I’m talking to you. Because you know damn well I won’t respond.
Now every once in a while, you come across something so funny/shocking/ridiculous/cool that you have to share it. Like what I get from Tha Riddler sometimes. That’s cool. But e-mail forwards are getting out of hand.
J-Boogie AKA Woodstock (Using aliases is my new thing) says he gets about 10 forwards a day from his cousin. WTF? Is sending junk mail her full time job? And please, don’t send out forwards that promise to do stuff that is more than likely impossible. For example: Bill Gates is NOT going to give you money for using e-mail. There is NO SUCH THING as a beta test that tracks your e-mail and pays you. Why would they pay you to send e-mails when there’s hella people who send e-mail for free? We pay THEM for the privilege to send e-mail, not the other way around.
I mean some of them make no sense. For example, I get an e-mail that tells an inspiring story of someone whose religion saved them from a horrible fate. So within 10 minutes, I am to send this same story to 50 people or we all lose our blessings and go to hell. Now, I admit I haven’t actually heard the pastor say this yet, but the God I believe in is omnipotent. So why would he send me a message through e-mail? As a matter of fact, I am hereby deeming all such messages blasphemy!
All I ask is this. Before sending me a dumbass e-mail that promises to: make me money, save a starving child in another country, on line surveys, etc. do some research! Go to snopes.com, a site dedicated to proving/disproving urban legends. http://snopes.com/inboxer/inboxer.asp goes straight to the ones about Internet stuff.
If you get a forward that proves to be true through Snopes, copy the link and add it to the forward. Send me a copy, and forward it to 100 more of your closest friends. This works, I promise! I heard it from my aunt’s cousin on her dad’s side whose beautician’s lover has a sister that’s a lawyer. And if you send it out in 7 minutes you’ll get a phone call immediately and in 7 days you see the ring. Um, or something like that.
STOP SENDING SO MANY MFING FORWARDS!!!
Now, I am not speaking to everyone, but you know who you are. If you send more than two forwards a week, I’m talking to you. If you send an e-mail that in any way, shape or form, mentions sending x number of people the e-mail or you will go to hell/die shortly/have all around bad luck, then I’m talking to you. And if includes the words “I sent this to the people I thought would respond” then I’m talking to you. Because you know damn well I won’t respond.
Now every once in a while, you come across something so funny/shocking/ridiculous/cool that you have to share it. Like what I get from Tha Riddler sometimes. That’s cool. But e-mail forwards are getting out of hand.
J-Boogie AKA Woodstock (Using aliases is my new thing) says he gets about 10 forwards a day from his cousin. WTF? Is sending junk mail her full time job? And please, don’t send out forwards that promise to do stuff that is more than likely impossible. For example: Bill Gates is NOT going to give you money for using e-mail. There is NO SUCH THING as a beta test that tracks your e-mail and pays you. Why would they pay you to send e-mails when there’s hella people who send e-mail for free? We pay THEM for the privilege to send e-mail, not the other way around.
I mean some of them make no sense. For example, I get an e-mail that tells an inspiring story of someone whose religion saved them from a horrible fate. So within 10 minutes, I am to send this same story to 50 people or we all lose our blessings and go to hell. Now, I admit I haven’t actually heard the pastor say this yet, but the God I believe in is omnipotent. So why would he send me a message through e-mail? As a matter of fact, I am hereby deeming all such messages blasphemy!
All I ask is this. Before sending me a dumbass e-mail that promises to: make me money, save a starving child in another country, on line surveys, etc. do some research! Go to snopes.com, a site dedicated to proving/disproving urban legends. http://snopes.com/inboxer/inboxer.asp goes straight to the ones about Internet stuff.
If you get a forward that proves to be true through Snopes, copy the link and add it to the forward. Send me a copy, and forward it to 100 more of your closest friends. This works, I promise! I heard it from my aunt’s cousin on her dad’s side whose beautician’s lover has a sister that’s a lawyer. And if you send it out in 7 minutes you’ll get a phone call immediately and in 7 days you see the ring. Um, or something like that.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Jigga What?
Just when it seemed as though we had reached a new low in ghetto culture (Three 6 Mafia winning an Academy Award? Puh-leeze!) along comes something even more ridiculously ignorant.
Damon Wayans, you know, Homey D. Clown from In Living Color and one of the numerous Wayans siblings, has been trying for 14 months to trademark the term “Nigga” for his new clothing line.
In the words of one of Atlanta’s greatest icons, Lil’ Jon, “Whaaaattt?!?”
According to an article at wirednews.com, Wayans wants to “dress customers in 14 kinds of attire from tops to bottoms, and use the controversial mark on ‘clothing, books, music and general merchandise,’ as well as movies, TV and the internet, according to his applications” to the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. The Office has repeatedly denied Wayans’ requests because of a law that prohibits trademarks that are “immoral or scandalous." Some people are arguing that hip hop culture has changed the meaning of the word, and that Wayans’ trademarked term will be that acceptable meaning, not the derogatory one associated with slavery.
WTF?
I know we are trying to do the whole reverse psychology thing with the word so that it loses its negative connotation and its “power” and blah blah blah blah, but really, who are we kidding?
Maybe SOME folks wouldn’t raise an eyebrow if I was sitting in the library wearing a shirt that said “Nigga what?” and reading a book that said “Nigga Please” on the cover, but I know I would definitely be taken aback if I saw something like that. And while we are mass marketing such products, we must keep in mind that often entails mainstreaming it. Meaning, you know blacks won’t be the only ones buying or wearing the apparel. Maybe some of you can reconcile your psyche so that you don’t mind your white “homeboy” wearing one of the shirts.
But what about that openly racist co-worker? Do you think his wearing of the T-shirt would spark an intelligent debate about the pros and cons of the word, and whether or not wearing the shirt makes the word lose its power? Or do you think that you’ll just give ole boy a good ass whoopin’? I’m inclined to say the latter. And what about the redneck who puts a Nigga sticker right below his confederate flag decal emblazoned with the words “The South will Rise Again” on it. Do we give him a pound and thank him for supporting our thriving black hip hop culture?
We have to learn as a race/culture how negative that word is and that no matter how much we try to “empower” ourselves, we need to find another way to do it. You can’t regulate what people wear or how people feel, but if Wayans actually succeeds in his venture – or even if he doesn’t but is openly supported by the black community – it’s just another reason for other races to look at us as just a bunch of “niggas.”
Damon Wayans, you know, Homey D. Clown from In Living Color and one of the numerous Wayans siblings, has been trying for 14 months to trademark the term “Nigga” for his new clothing line.
In the words of one of Atlanta’s greatest icons, Lil’ Jon, “Whaaaattt?!?”
According to an article at wirednews.com, Wayans wants to “dress customers in 14 kinds of attire from tops to bottoms, and use the controversial mark on ‘clothing, books, music and general merchandise,’ as well as movies, TV and the internet, according to his applications” to the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. The Office has repeatedly denied Wayans’ requests because of a law that prohibits trademarks that are “immoral or scandalous." Some people are arguing that hip hop culture has changed the meaning of the word, and that Wayans’ trademarked term will be that acceptable meaning, not the derogatory one associated with slavery.
WTF?
I know we are trying to do the whole reverse psychology thing with the word so that it loses its negative connotation and its “power” and blah blah blah blah, but really, who are we kidding?
Maybe SOME folks wouldn’t raise an eyebrow if I was sitting in the library wearing a shirt that said “Nigga what?” and reading a book that said “Nigga Please” on the cover, but I know I would definitely be taken aback if I saw something like that. And while we are mass marketing such products, we must keep in mind that often entails mainstreaming it. Meaning, you know blacks won’t be the only ones buying or wearing the apparel. Maybe some of you can reconcile your psyche so that you don’t mind your white “homeboy” wearing one of the shirts.
But what about that openly racist co-worker? Do you think his wearing of the T-shirt would spark an intelligent debate about the pros and cons of the word, and whether or not wearing the shirt makes the word lose its power? Or do you think that you’ll just give ole boy a good ass whoopin’? I’m inclined to say the latter. And what about the redneck who puts a Nigga sticker right below his confederate flag decal emblazoned with the words “The South will Rise Again” on it. Do we give him a pound and thank him for supporting our thriving black hip hop culture?
We have to learn as a race/culture how negative that word is and that no matter how much we try to “empower” ourselves, we need to find another way to do it. You can’t regulate what people wear or how people feel, but if Wayans actually succeeds in his venture – or even if he doesn’t but is openly supported by the black community – it’s just another reason for other races to look at us as just a bunch of “niggas.”
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
R.I.P.
When I taught my first class, I had my students do a report on a famous black journalist. One student, a photographer for the student newspaper profiled Gordon Parks. It was the best presentation of the bunch.
A famed photographer, director and composer and more, Gordon Parks died Tuesday at the age of 93. He contributed to this country in his works as a man - a black man. The picture below is my favorite.
Crush on You
I have a crush.
Now, before you all go calling my husband, mother, mother-in-law, let me explain.
I have a crush on a woman.
For those of you who read neither Cosmo nor the New York Times, the times defines a "girl crush" as the following: "A girl crush refers to that fervent infatuation that one heterosexual woman develops for another woman who may seem impossibly sophisticated, gifted, beautiful or accomplished. And while a girl crush is, by its informal definition, not sexual in nature, the feelings that it triggers - excitement, nervousness, a sense of novelty - are very much like those that accompany a new romance"
OK, I don't know about all of that fervent infatuation stuff, but it's kind of like I have stumbled upon another, nicer, version of myself. Except this version wakes up with smooth, soft looking skin, whereas I must wash, tone, dab on eye cream, lightly moisturize and Maybelline mousse my skin into submission. And she's smart. When we talk about our problems, it's often eerie how similar they are. And when she is going through a tough time, I am actually angry FOR her. As in how DARE he, she, them do that to US!
And now, she might be leaving.
I'm actually kind of sad*. It's a weird feeling to want someone to stay somewhere, even if you know that to leave may be the best thing for them. I guess this is mostly my fault. I should have "played the field" a little with my friendships. I shouldn't have put all of my eggs in one basket. And so on and so forth with the cliches. I mean who will I call when I want to know how to make Basmati rice? Or who will tell me whether I'm being out of line when I harp on the bad a$$ kids who came into the office? (BTW: She usually agrees. Those food court kids are the WORST!)
Of course, all of this is very selfish on my part, and it's not fair to want her to stay because I won't have anyone to talk to. But my inner child is still whining, "But I'm not good at long-distance relationships!"
All of this is to say: whether she stays or not, she will still be my friend and my sister and I want for her whatever is best for her life and her family. To you I say: You are a beautiful, smart, and talented woman. Don't ever let anyone make you think or feel otherwise. Because they're wrong.
*Disclaimer: Yes, I do have feelings for those of you who claim to have never seen them exhibited. And no one shall ever speak of this to me again. After all, I can't have people thinking No Limit has gone soft, can I?
Now, before you all go calling my husband, mother, mother-in-law, let me explain.
I have a crush on a woman.
For those of you who read neither Cosmo nor the New York Times, the times defines a "girl crush" as the following: "A girl crush refers to that fervent infatuation that one heterosexual woman develops for another woman who may seem impossibly sophisticated, gifted, beautiful or accomplished. And while a girl crush is, by its informal definition, not sexual in nature, the feelings that it triggers - excitement, nervousness, a sense of novelty - are very much like those that accompany a new romance"
OK, I don't know about all of that fervent infatuation stuff, but it's kind of like I have stumbled upon another, nicer, version of myself. Except this version wakes up with smooth, soft looking skin, whereas I must wash, tone, dab on eye cream, lightly moisturize and Maybelline mousse my skin into submission. And she's smart. When we talk about our problems, it's often eerie how similar they are. And when she is going through a tough time, I am actually angry FOR her. As in how DARE he, she, them do that to US!
And now, she might be leaving.
I'm actually kind of sad*. It's a weird feeling to want someone to stay somewhere, even if you know that to leave may be the best thing for them. I guess this is mostly my fault. I should have "played the field" a little with my friendships. I shouldn't have put all of my eggs in one basket. And so on and so forth with the cliches. I mean who will I call when I want to know how to make Basmati rice? Or who will tell me whether I'm being out of line when I harp on the bad a$$ kids who came into the office? (BTW: She usually agrees. Those food court kids are the WORST!)
Of course, all of this is very selfish on my part, and it's not fair to want her to stay because I won't have anyone to talk to. But my inner child is still whining, "But I'm not good at long-distance relationships!"
All of this is to say: whether she stays or not, she will still be my friend and my sister and I want for her whatever is best for her life and her family. To you I say: You are a beautiful, smart, and talented woman. Don't ever let anyone make you think or feel otherwise. Because they're wrong.
*Disclaimer: Yes, I do have feelings for those of you who claim to have never seen them exhibited. And no one shall ever speak of this to me again. After all, I can't have people thinking No Limit has gone soft, can I?
Monday, March 06, 2006
Sometimes
She stormed out of the office, eyes blazing. Her children - and her human hair curls with their bouncing reflecting each of her angry footsteps - trailing behind her.
Sigh. Another satisfied customer.
I'm not what some people would call a "people person." I mean, I do OK, but patience is not a virtue that I was born with. So every once in awhile, when I look at my name and title posted outside my office door, I marvel that I could have a job with the words Customer Relations in it. This particular customer has been in and out of my office on and off for 5 months. And today I almost lost it.
We had reached that point in a conversation where both our voices were getting a little louder, temperatures a little higher. Luckily, she (or maybe I) was saved when a co-worker brought me the keys to lock the doors. (Side note: Our office closes at 4. For those of you who know Germans, they GET OFF when the office closes. That means at 4:00:01 they are walking out of the door. It is now 4:15. Unacceptable.) I welcomed his interruption, because I was about to go where a professional woman, especially one with Customer Relations written outside her door should go.
In journalism, for the most part, it's OK to be a little mean. And you're expected to be pushy. But this alternate universe I'm living in is really pushing the limits of what I'm used to.
But I will resist the urge to ask her why she waited until 5 minutes before closing before she brought this SAME, long, ridiculous situation to me AGAIN. And I won't even say that I'm not a doctor, so why are you trying to give me all of your medical records? And I definitely won't tell her that if she has a problem she can go back to the states.
But if you see her, you can tell her for me.
Sigh. Another satisfied customer.
I'm not what some people would call a "people person." I mean, I do OK, but patience is not a virtue that I was born with. So every once in awhile, when I look at my name and title posted outside my office door, I marvel that I could have a job with the words Customer Relations in it. This particular customer has been in and out of my office on and off for 5 months. And today I almost lost it.
We had reached that point in a conversation where both our voices were getting a little louder, temperatures a little higher. Luckily, she (or maybe I) was saved when a co-worker brought me the keys to lock the doors. (Side note: Our office closes at 4. For those of you who know Germans, they GET OFF when the office closes. That means at 4:00:01 they are walking out of the door. It is now 4:15. Unacceptable.) I welcomed his interruption, because I was about to go where a professional woman, especially one with Customer Relations written outside her door should go.
In journalism, for the most part, it's OK to be a little mean. And you're expected to be pushy. But this alternate universe I'm living in is really pushing the limits of what I'm used to.
But I will resist the urge to ask her why she waited until 5 minutes before closing before she brought this SAME, long, ridiculous situation to me AGAIN. And I won't even say that I'm not a doctor, so why are you trying to give me all of your medical records? And I definitely won't tell her that if she has a problem she can go back to the states.
But if you see her, you can tell her for me.
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