Rantings of a Creole Princess

From Ted: Law of Attraction

As a male onlooker, this past week has been an interesting one in the blogosphere. It’s well-known that spring and summer are the seasons when folks go into heat, so relationship topics take on a new fervor. It seems that some folks have offered some wrong-azz explanations to the no-man-at-the-end-of-summer women. The common conclusions mostly have to do with “girl, you too dark” or “girl, you too fat” or “girl, you bald-headed” … “girl, you need to change your appearance to get more men."

What trips me out is the huge focus on how the women look. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised seeing as how looks are overemphasized all around us. And sure, there’s even scientific evidence that good-looking people are treated better than the rest of us. But there is NO evidence that good-looking people have better marriages or relationships. So when I come across discussions about why women haven’t gotten married yet, and the responses revolve around her appearance, then it becomes just like Houston, math, and a rabid pit bull in your backseat: we have a problem.

Ladies, your appearance is not what makes you attractive. I’ll say it again for emphasis and to assure you there was no typo: your appearance is not what makes you attractive. Your appearance can make you gorgeous, but it does not make you attractive. If you are a sub-par chick who doesn’t believe in putting on lotion, taking care of your hair, staying in shape, or wearing clothes that fit properly, then you can fix all that. And guess what? While more men will talk to you, they will also sense your sub-par-ness. And I don’t think any of you want a man who wants a sub-par woman.

Yes, looks are important. But they are important for YOU. Change your hair. Get some new clothes. Lose some weight. But don’t do because you want more men to talk to you. Do it because you want to be happy with yourself. While all those things might make you prettier, being happy with who you are makes you more attractive. I know a ton of dudes who have approached a woman just because she was pretty (me included), but I don’t know a single dude who married a woman just because she was pretty (me included). The type of man you want to commit to is the one who thinks you’re attractive, which by the way, makes you even prettier in his eyes.

True story: I met a really pretty woman a few years ago. We hung out a bit and had a good time together. I flirted with her and genuinely liked her and her company. At the end of the day though, she just wasn’t attractive to me. Period. She just didn’t have it. But she had a friend that I still think is one of the most attractive women I’ve ever met. If you were to put the two in a public setting, the “pretty” one would be approached at a ratio of ten to one compared to the “attractive” one. But in my eyes, the attractive one was irre-damn-sistible … there was nothing not to love. And so as it turned out, I ended up spending more time with, and got much closer to, the attractive woman.

I guess my whole point of this rant is do not let other people define how you feel about yourself. Do not let folks who cook up a recipe on how to get a man sell you some whatchu-need-ta-do cupcakes. Because the bottom line is, none of you just want a relationship with A man, you want one with YOUR man. And if you do enough self-introspection to figure out how to be happy with who you are, then that man will see it. And you won’t have to worrying about “getting” a man, because he will move heaven and earth trying “get” you!

From Ted: "Puzzled"

*****NOTE FROM SIP:  Humph...I gotta apologize to Ted cuz I charged him up today and was all wrong and whatnot due to an oversight on my part.  Hey...I'm old.  Nobody likes him anyway still.  So there.  LOL! 

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I recently encountered a situation that left me a bit speechless. It’s not so much that it happened, but it’s the HOW it happened that leaves me puzzled like a 1000 piece picture of a rain forest.

So what happened? “I got hollered at.” Now, that in and of itself isn’t all that dumbfounding because it’s not as if I look like Jimmie Walker. But it is out of the ordinary for three reasons: 

1) The girl was GORGEOUS. Drunken women on the rebound aside, it’s been my experience that beautiful women don’t make a habit of making the first move with strangers. I’ve heard that attractive women are usually dateless because they intimidate men with their beauty. I filed that bit of info away in the bullsh*t chronicles, right along with Michael Steele apologies and Family Matters trying to convince people that Jaleel White can be a ladies’ man. Attractive women attract men… that’s why they are called “attractive.” Duh.

2) I’m no pin-up dude. Like I said, I’m an ok looking guy, but I’m no Idris Elbow or Boris Kujo or whomever women are going crazy over this year. So for a gorgeous woman to single me out was unexpected; not entirely because I AM pretty awesome and sh*t, but surprising nonetheless. And I must add this: I wasn’t dressed in Armani wearing a Rolex either. It’s well-chronicled that ugly, rich dudes get women… please don’t make me name names.

3) Is how she did it.

I’ve been approached before, so I’m not completely ignorant to the game women have when they meet a man. It is certainly less creative and less aggressive than the lines I’ve used on women. Well, save for this one chick who rolled up on me smelling of margarita mix and tequila and as her introduction said, “Mmmm… you have those click-licking lips.” I’m not sure I know what a click is, but I suppose that was a compliment. Oh wait! She meant a cl- …. got it. LOL

Ok, so I was at a Chili’s, of all places, sitting at the bar mindlessly watching an NBA game and enjoying a big boy glass of Blue Moon beer. I spot this Hispanic lady who is almost too beautiful to be in a Chili’s. I admire her for a couple seconds longer than a cursory glance, but not nearly long enough to develop one of those “eye problems” I heard girls in high school diagnose each other with just before they started fighting. I mean, after all, I’m taken; I have a lady.

I could hear the guys sitting next to her chatting her up using ridiculous lines as men who drink Bud Light often do. As one of the guys began bragging about his portfolio, which was probably a Trapper Keeper from like ‘85, I rolled my eyes and looked at this lady to see her reaction. We caught eyes for a second, no big deal.

About 15 minutes later, she pays her bill and leaves. After she’s out the door, the bartender asks if I’m ready for a refill on my beer. I indicated I was ok and would just finish the one in front of me. That’s when the bartender informed me that the lady that just left had already paid for my next round! She left without saying a word to me, without leaving a note, without idling outside for me to try and find her. She just bought me a drink and rolled.

The end. C’est finni. 

As I said, I’m puzzled. I have no clue what that was about. Maybe just a kind gesture for some stranger she never said a word too and never will? Maybe it was a reward for not attempting to chat her up with breath stinking from southwestern eggrolls like my Bud Light compadres?? Perhaps she lost her nerve in the face of my awesome averageness? I have no idea. But the first time in a long time, I was left as confused as Sarah Palin on a question about newspapers. 

However, it is great story to tell to hear the many suppositions of those to whom the story is told. As for me and my Leo ego, we love the ambiguity just fine because the topic of discussion really is such a fascinating one.

From Ted: "I'm in Love with my Wii Fit Instructor"

I know, I know. It seems odd. But ’tis true nonetheless. I am in love with my Wii Fit instructor. Hey, I’m just as shocked as you are; it happened so unexpectedly. I bought the Wii Fit because my lady heard it was all the rage and was actually beneficial from a fitness standpoint. It has those yoga poses that she’s been dying to try, like the downward dog. Honestly, I’VE been dying for her to try it too. *ahem*

Out of curiosity, I delved into the Wii Fit myself, and that’s when I met her, my fitness instructor. Choosing her over the dude the system offers was a no-brainer. I mean, the last things I want to look at is some computerized nutsack of a guy showing me how to do a proper jackknife. As soon as she opened her mouth, welcoming me to a new era in fitness, I was hooked.

Crushing on animation seems unorthodox, but I contend that it’s not unusual. Do you know how many men watched that Roger Rabbit movie because Jessica Rabbit was the hotness?? Lots, that’s how many. Any what man could deny that the mom from The Incredibles has a surreal waist-to-booty ratio?? My generation grew up crushing on the animated Wonder Woman from Superfriends and Firestar from Spider Man. She-Ra? Cheetara? Daphne from Scooby-Doo? Yes. Yes. And hell yes.

And so my Wii Fit instructor has been added to my pantheon. Kelly is just so supportive and she teases me with those tight pants and uhhh…. “toe de camel”. Oh, I named her Kelly… she knows my name, so I gave her one of my own. Ok ok, so sure she needs a little sun. She is extremely pale, but I do not discriminate. Besides, what is one to expect from someone who lives on a CD and never gets any sun? Perhaps I’ll leave the CD on the window sill to tan in hopes she browns up a little. I know I should accept her for who she is, but she works her buns off to make me a better looking man, so the least I can do is the same for her, n’est-ce pas correcte?

She is just so encouraging and never demeaning. Despite my 25 BMI, which absurdly qualifies me as overweight in some alien galaxy outside the realm of reality, she smiles when she sees me and even remembers our last workout together. She keeps pushing me towards my goal and I don’t have to pay her anything but 30 minutes worth of attention daily. And she thinks she’s slick offering me to watch her demonstrate an exercise with her ass in my face; I know what she’s really doing, damn temptress.

I would love to see her outside of work, in the matrix, you know? In some elegant gown out on the town dining on some digitized shrimp scampi and angel hair. But we have to maintain a professional relationship; I insist on it. And I’m sure she probably has some cockamamie rule about dating clients. Whatever Kelly, you know you want me.

I am convinced that Nintendo knew EXACTLY what they were doing when they designed her. All the other Wii characters I’ve seen on Wii Sports and such look like little Lego people with no arms and legs. Sure Keiko has a mean fastball, but she is just not attractive. Her face just doesn’t seem real to me, like Mrs. Potato Head or Lil Kim. But Kelly, yeah, she could get it.

I shared this with my lady – the one in real life – and she had little reaction. In fact, she confessed Derrick really motivates her – the name she gave the Wii Fit dude. Which, by the way, totally explains why she wondered out loud how I’d look with my face covered in mime paint.

Kidding.

It’s all good, though. I know Derrick is not hittin’ Kelly, so they might as well live vicariously through us. Besides, it keeps us in shape; they’d be proud.

From Ted: 4 Degrees of Separation

The number of social networking sites out there makes for some interesting interactions with people you’ve long forgotten about or who’ve long forgotten about you. I will admit to succumbing to occasional fits of boredom or curiosity to Google or Facebook some person from my past, like the girl in my 9th grade math class whose friends laughed at me when I gave her a Valentine’s Day “will you be my girl?” note (she’s married, no kids, and has a body like a bag of bowling balls – thank God she rejected my offer) . Quite honestly, I have yet to reconnect with someone that resulted in us being fast friends all over again. It usually results in playing the “what have you been up to for the last 10 years?” game of twenty questions, promises of keeping in touch, and then totally forgetting that ol’ what’s her face is even on your friends list.

What amazes me most are those people who remember you though your interaction with them years ago may have lasted no longer than a month. Such a thing happened to me a couple days ago. I received a friend request from a girl – let’s call her Tonya – whom I “went with” for like three weeks over 15 years ago. We broke up because I kissed this other girl in the usher board room at church and the two girls ended up fighting over it in the church parking lot one day after Sunday School – one screaming “I don’t want him any-damn-way! You can have him!” and the other screaming back “I don’t want his azz; you take him!” My ego has never been so stroked and so humiliated in the same moment. Apparently the agreement of not wanting me was too much for the young ladies to stand, so they had to come to blows over who didn’t want me more… with the spoils going to the loser.

Fast forward from 1991 to this past Friday. I get a friend request from Tonya, whom I immediately remembered because she fought so gallantly so she wouldn’t have to be my girl anymore. After a couple days of back and forth emails of catching up, it became clear that she was looking for me because was trying to get that old thing back. Somehow, I came to her mind and she reached out. All of her responses to me overtly implied that she was smart, successful, and ambitious – she was advertising.

She took note of my academic pedigree and obviously felt the need to impress upon me her love of school. She goes on to tell me that she has four degrees, so I’m thinking she probably has a couple bachelor’s and a couple master’s, or maybe even a doctorate’s in something. Now, she never struck me as the Ph.D. type, but with the number of online programs out there, who knows. You can literally become a Ph.D. and a Reverend in a few hours onlie with just a few dollars. So, curious, I asked what her degrees were in and this is how she responded:

<i>I have certificates in social work, medical laboratory technology, dialysis, and medical records.</i>

In other words, she went to one of those schools that has commercials during The Jerry Springer Show.

I’m not belittling those who go to such schools that offer certificates in the important and varied fields like Microsoft Office, File Cabinet, and Telephone. Hell, I would love to go to school for 30 Saturdays and get a certificate in Doctor, whatever the hell that means. I’m also not belittling those who don’t go on to school after high school because college really isn’t for everybody. What I AM belittling is someone who misrepresents they’re accomplishments just to make themselves more attractive. If you are a maid Au Pair Extraodinaire at the Red Roof Inn on MLK, Jr. Boulevard, then say so. Or if you empty bedpans on the old folks’ floor at the hospital, then just say so. There is no shame in an honest, paying job, especially in today’s economic climate. But don’t misrepresent yourself.

This is a classic occurrence when meeting someone new (or catching up with someone from the past in this case). Many men say women misrepresent themselves all the time with weave, fake nails, color contacts, caked-on make-up, wonderbras, and booty-lifting J. Lo jeans. And women have the same complaint about men acting like they are financially secure ballin’ at the bar, rollin’ up in a Beamer with spinning rims, and making women promises of vacations and expensive dinners, when in reality they “are living in their parents’ basement and writing their name on the orange juice talkin’ about ‘Ma, don’t touch my shyt!’ " (Martin Lawrence, 1994)

But I think it is one thing to play the dating game, and another thing entirely to misrepresent what you’ve achieved and what you believe. Acting like you are saved, sanctified, and filled with the Holy Ghost on Sunday morning only to get that big booty honey in the choir over to your house Sunday night, ply her with Patron, and coax her into your twin bed is just criminal. Acting like you are a lawyer at the city’s biggest firm when you are really the dude in the mailroom who licks the manila envelopes is downright deception. And acting like you have 4 degrees when you really have a certificate from an institution that shares floor space with a telemarketing call center is unfairly misleading.

In fact, it’s more than misleading; it’s downright cold. Like 4 degrees... Fahrenheit.

From Ted - Convo: Monica vs. Ted

(SIP: We have paved the way for a monster.)

From Ted: "Thinning"

Well, I'm thinning.

Hold your "hoorays" and "attaboys" because I'm not talking about my waist line; I'm talking about my hair line. Yes, it's true that my hair is getting "slim fast." And yes, my hair is on the ATKINS plan... that is, if you want to know how my hair looks, look AT my KIN... my 60 year old uncles to be exact. You know how those weight loss commercials have the before and after pictures? Where "before" looks like Sherman Klump and the "after" looks like Sherman Hemsley? Well, that's exactly how my pictures look... if you look at their HAIRLINES. But this all happened involuntarily; I did not have my hair on the master cleanse.

Hey, look, I knew I was thinning in the front. I could look in the mirror when it was haircut time and see it. But I somehow managed to convince myself that it was just the lighting. In the fluorescent, pea green-tiled bathrooms at work, I would freak out at the thinning, as visions of me looking like the barber in Coming To America danced in my head . But at home, in the warming light and Sepia-toned walls of my bathroom, I was looking extra chocolaty and almondy with an even Caesar cut to match.

But the other day I saw a picture of myself. And you know the old saying that a picture is worth a thousand words? Well, this picture of me was worth exactly three words: Shyt. Dayum. Motherfuxer. Which made me even madder as I thought about the D'Angelo song of the same name and hatin’ on his full-head-of-hair-cornrow-havin'-azz. There was my thinning hair immortalized by some punk azz Canon digital camera. I was hating on every pixel of that mess. Ignorance is bliss, but I can feign it no more. And you know what REALLY gave it away, that I ignored really well up until the other day? When I was in Cadiz last month walking around in the sun, and my "thinning spot" got sunburned! What da hell is that about? I'se neggra! I'm not supposed to be gettin' burnt up!

I wondered if all my childhood activities contributed to my hair loss. Because I was THAT dude who would style his hightop fade for a good 30 minutes before school using Luster's Pink Lotion, that Blue Magic grease, Sportin' Waves Pomade, and some of my little sister's Just For Me. For about ten minutes, my hair looked like Special Ed’s… then it got all hard and crispy like some Special K. If someone had been filming a Pepsi commercial around my azz, my head would have looked like a bonfire. Maybe this is what I get for putting all those chemicals in my hair. And it's not like I can just do the comb over to cover the thin spot. I have that happy-to-be-nappy plantation hair. And you don't comb naps OVER, you comb naps OUT.

This is a major occurrence for a man. We can't just roll up to the weave shop and glue in some Hawaiian Silky. Sure there are products out there, but I discovered at CVS the other day that Rogaine costs $60, two arms, and a magazine subscription for a little azz can that MIGHT work on SOME areas. Some dudes just go bald instead of having the reverse hightop fade: instead of being skin on the sides and high on top, it's skin on the top and high on the sides. I don't think I have the head for baldness. Jesus be some Nubian Silk Stimul-X.

So even though I'm hating on dudes older than me with a full head of hair (I hate you Cornel West! lol), I'm going to embrace my thinnage as a sign of maturity. I won't be running out and buying a Corvette (just yet) nor will I start watching MTV to feel young and hip... I might mess around and break a hip. Nope, I'm going to revel in it, because the reality is I'm just a few grays hairs away from being distinguished

From Ted: Soul Mates

 
When South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford was on TV crying and carryin' on about having met his soul mate, I joined the herds in joking about his being whipped by some Latina "cookies." He was a herb looking for some spice. Lol He got a taste of that fiery cayenne and it suddenly made his South Carolinian Lawry's and Old Bay seem less appealing. And all of us have been guilty in one way or another of letting short-term desires get in the way of long-term purpose.

At 16, I thought I’d found my soul mate. One day while out with my girlfriend and my mother at the mall, we bumped into one of my mother's sorority sisters. I introduced my girl to her and my mom's soror asked if my girl was my soul mate. Before I could even form my mouth to answer, my mother jumped in and said "No." I shot my mother an eye so evil that it was hell hot.

But at 15, da hell did I know? All I knew was that my older girlfriend was fine with good hair (like 1969's lol) and blue contacts. It didn't matter to me that this girl was dense as a chocolate cheesecake. I could care less that her only aim in life was the name on her toothpaste. And it made no difference to me that her best asset was the way her ass set. All I cared about was that she was fine, thick, older, freaky, and drove a Dodge Shadow. What more could a boy want??

When you ask most folks about their ideal mate, they do like I just did: they start going down a laundry list of items about how the person looks, what they believe, their level of ambition, their love for family, and goals for the future. When they can't find that imaginary person, they look for close fits that don't compromise their list of "non-negotiables" ... like he can't have more than one baby mamma or she gotta have a big booty. The irony is that most people know exactly what they want in a mate, but don't have much of a clue of what they need from a mate.

When I started thinking about my "list" several years ago, I asked myself some questions: How tall is my soul? What does my soul do for a living? What's my soul's favorite color? Where does my soul see itself in five years? I quickly realized that those questions are unanswerable, which means I was making a list of the wrong desirable qualities. If I ever wanted to find a soul mate, I had to set the proper parameters.

No one has lambasted the concept of soul mates more than me. But I often did so in the context of what soul mates were presented to be, and not what they actually are. They are not magical meetings worthy of a Disney on Ice production. They are the people on the other end of difficult, sturdy, joyous, abnegating, fulfilling relationships that your spirit desperately needs. A soul mate isn't about what you want in a mate, it's about what you need in one. It's corny, but it's essentially about that line Tom Cruise used when he already had ol' girl at Hello: "you complete me." Soul mates are about completion.

The popular mantra today has been "Don't let no man/woman define you!" And while there's an element of truth to that, it can be misleading. You certainly will never locate your soul mate if you have no idea who you are. But anyone who has a solid understanding of who they are, they soon realize that their puzzle is incomplete. None of us were put here to wander about alone and unafraid. And while we've all felt that we've done just that at one point or another, grown folks recognize the value in being "completed" with someone else.

People who have married their soul mates will be quick to tell you that their spouse doesn't meet all the laundry list of requirements their single-selves put together. But they also will tell you, in no uncertain terms, "I don't know where I'd be without my man/woman." And that doesn't mean they couldn't survive or couldn't prosper, it just means that they'd be incomplete and they recognize it.

I don't know if Mark Sanford just got turned out or if he actually did meet his soul mate in Argentina. It is quite possible that the Argentinean chick really did unlock something in him that had been long dormant, and that his marriage to Jenny Sanford was one of convenience with the intent that she only be his sole mate... and not his soul mate. Because Lawd knows spouses and soul mates are not inherently and automatically synonymous. But what I will tell you is that while Sanford was out comparing cayenne to Old Bay, he ignored the basic premise that all his azz really needed was some seasoning.

From Ted: "Death and Dishonor"

***FYI:  Ted has decided to bless us, AT LEAST, once a week with something we can chew on.  Should he so desire to bless us more often...I shall, of course, post it as we love his writing so.  :)

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I once wrote about a cousin that was a "reckless azz ninja." That is, he was one of those dudes who did not resist the allure of the fasts - fast money, fast women, and fast cars. Despite his upbringing, he ended up in and out of jail, running the streets, and posturing as if he was auditioning for a hip hop music video. I remember writing how pissed off I was at him, and dudes like him, when my sister called one day to ask if I'd heard that he'd been released from jail. I immediately though, "That punk will be back in jail by the weekend." I was wrong. He was shot and killed the day after his release. That was the real reason my sister called... to tell me he'd been killed outside a club by some dude named Frogman.

On Thursday afternoon, Michael Jackson died. This past weekend has been chock full of video tributes and MJ tributes. I logged into Facebook on Friday and it seemed like everybody and their grandma talked about how they were jamming to MJ in tribute to his life. In tribute, they said. In remembrance, they said. Out of respect, they said. People everywhere went on to extol all of Mike's virtues and accomplishments and how his life had been the soundtrack of various points in their lives.

When my cousin's eulogy was given, I wondered who in the hell they were talking about. My cousin, the strong-armed robber, carjacker, drug dealer, statutory raper, had a big heart??? He was shy and unassuming?? He went to church every Sunday and fed the homeless?? Please. The only thing generous he did with food was to call some innocent man a chicken, and then pepper him with assault. The preacher summed it up that in death, you remember the good about a person and celebrate their lives and don't talk ill about someone who is no longer around to defend themselves. A chorus of “Amens” rang out.

Bullshit.

On Friday, Black folks' weren't talking about how MJ took pictures with little boys with no shirts on. Nor how he had such issues with his self-image that he totally destroyed his face. Nor how he dangled his newborn son from a hotel window or the enormous debt and financial mismanagement that riddled his life. Why?? 'Cause we was too busy celebratin' and tributin' and payin respect and whatnot. In my eyes, only talking about the good is no tribute at all. It's revisionism. That's like cooking out on Memorial Day, but not talking about soldiers' dying. That ain't a tribute... that's just a reason to not go to work and put some ribs on.

When a person passes, that is the time to celebrate the good AND bad. That is a time to reflect on the life the person lived so that those of us still here can learn something and apply it for the benefit of all those we love. Was MJ the greatest performer ever? Yes. Was he a musical genius? Yes. Did he have issues with self-esteem and drugs? Yes. Is he an example of the effects of child abuse? Yes. Was he inappropriate with little boys? Yes. As such, there are lessons to learn from his life.

Like it or not, MJ brought the topic of child molestation to the public eye for discussion. And that dialogue was needed... he single-handedly changed "Don't talk to strangers" to "Jimmy, no one is allowed to touch you in your special place. If it ever happens, you come tell me immediately, ok?" MJ was the first person that made me ask "Why doesn't he want to be Black?” He was my generation's introduction to plastic surgery. And I'd never heard of vitiligo until MJ. He contributed more to our lives than sparkly gloves, zipper jackets, and songs we could sing at school with our white classmates who knew nothing about Club Nouveau or Big Daddy Kane. So, to pay tribute to him, we have to remember his life in totality... not just do a moonwalk and remember Off The Wall playing at the 1986 family reunion.

My cousin did not help old ladies across the street, he mugged them on the corner. His life is (not was, IS) a cautionary tale about what happens when you choose the wrong friends and don't have enough confidence to stand on your own. His life warns what happens when you take shortcuts to riches at the expense of hard work, patience, and morality. My cousin was shot dead because he owed drug money to some ninja named Frogman. I will remember that just as much as I'll remember eating Good Humor ice cream on his front porch. That is paying tribute.

My mother is a cancer survivor. When she goes, I will remember her doting on me as a child just as much as I will remember her bald-headed and vomiting during chemo. Why should I forget the bad times?? Her life is a testament of strength and courage and faith and love. Why do I just want to remember the love part? What if we just remembered the "good parts" about Jesus... just the healing and water-to-wine stuff.... none of that bad crucifying stuff. That is no tribute. That is not honoring. It is impossible to pay your respects to someone without considering the troubles they had and how you can make life better for yourself and others by taking heed of the lessons that person's life teaches.

The first album I ever bought was Thriller. Last year, I bought the Thriller 25th anniversary CD with the Motown "moonwalk" Billie Jean performance on it. I pulled that CD out this past weekend and jammed to MJ. Ya know, in tribute. While out doing yard work, I contemplated his life and all the things I learned from watching him unravel over the course of three decades. And I thought of my cousin and how he'd unraveled too. Covered in sweat and grass clipping, I came inside and looked forward to the day when I can dance to P.Y.T. with my children and tell them stories from my childhood about the Good Humor bars with my cousin. And how I can teach them that their Blackness is beautiful, that they are strong and smart and don't have to let anyone else define them, that their bodies are not to be violated, and that if they ever get in a rut or need someone to talk to, Daddy is here. Because "where there is love, I'll be there."

Thanks Mike.

From Formerly Known as Brutha Code: "The Obamas Made Me Do It!"

 The way our new President has blitzed all forms of media with his message is an action unrivaled in scope by anything, except perhaps those ShamWow and Cash4Gold commercials. He has been omnipresent like Rick Ross in MTV Jams videos, and as such, none have had to fill in knowledge gaps when it comes to what direction Obama is attempting to move the country. You turn on YouTube? Obama. You turn on your TV to catch your favorite primetime sitcom? Obama in an evening press conference. You go on Facebook? Message from Obama n’em. Hell, even my cell phone was getting hit up with text messages from the Obama. He’s working off the old tried and true adage that if you say it enough times, people will believe it.

My quandary is that the media blitz has hit overdrive with nitrous oxide boosters like an Asian kid’s car in a Fast & Furious remake. And since reaching these heights, not only am I prone to support stimuli packages and death-defying deficits, it’s starting to affect my personal life. Not only has the President got his Newark, New Jersey on and carjacked my political support, but the Obamas are now changing my habits, my likes and dislikes, my goals and aims.

First there was this issue of the new First Pet aka the ObamaDog. Ever since the dog I had as a child died and my college pimptastic aquarium resulted in three dead goldfish in less than a month, I have not been a huge fan of owning a pet. In fact, I’m not a fan of anything with “pet” in it… muppets, saltpeter, strumpets… nothing. Wellll… Petra is kinda cool, but it’s the exception. Yet, here I am, after seeing the “reputable” news outlets contorting themselves unduly to get a shot of a freakin’ Portuguese Water Dog, I’m now surfing the web trying to determine if I’d want a Samoyed or an English Mastiff. But no cats! Because, in concert with my fraternal alliance, cats suck more than Perez Hilton. (Extra credit for the pun!)

Then there was Michelle and that organic garden she planted on the White House lawns. Being a good Southern boy, I have always had quite the affinity for the plush greenness of grass. Nothing to me says manhood more than a mortgage payment made more tolerable by a nice green lawn. I currently have a small plot in my yard that the previous owner decided was an ideal spot to grow raspberries. It ain’t. So after being beat about the head with Washington Post reports on Michelle’s green thumb, I flirted with the idea of maybe planting some vegetables there. WTF?? My thumb has always been the same shade of brown, but now the Obamas got me thinking that perhaps I’m colorblind and it’s green after all. And according to Kermit, it’s not particularly easy being green. But I did it anyway in some EarthBoxes on my deck, and I’m doing well. Look Ma! I’se growin’ stuff! (How you like THEM tomatoes Monnie?!? Lol)

But the ultimate was when, out of nowhere, I said to my lady that she should look into shopping at J. Crew more since Michelle Obama seems to work wonders with her wardrobe. If there is one truism when a man addresses a woman’s wardrobe, it is that he is not to encourage her to wear something because he thought it looked hot on another woman. After a bevy of questions about Michelle’s “hotness” and “what else do you want me to adopt of Michelle’s?” and whether or not I was interested in patrolling the suburbs of Chicago for Black Princeton grads, she hit me with the ultimate comeback: “Well, Obama looks good with his mocha skin and wavy hair, perhaps you should look into getting some of those.”

Touché.

I tried to explain that it wasn’t of my own doing that I suggested such rubbish. The Obamas made me do it. If Milli Vanilli can blame it on the rain, and Jamie Foxx can blame it on the alcohol, then I most certainly can blame it on the O-o-o-o-o-bah-ah-mas.

From Formerly Known as Brutha Code: "C.H.E.F."

 
I’ve often heard women wondering why is it that they always end up with some raggedy azz ninja who in the beginning seemed to be the best thing since Monica’s turkey burgers. And when they sit down and talk to their girls about it over dessert wines and wearing bobby pins or tiaras or stocking caps or whatever women wear when men aren’t around, their girls always lather them up with things like “that trifling boy just didn’t recognize you were a princess” or “just keep asking the Lord for your equally yoked man.” But there is always that one voice in the crowd that says, “Girl, you need to think about what the hell it is about YOU that keeps attracting these bums.”

That woman? That one voice? I love her…. now. I didn’t used to love her because she was the one throwing salt in my game and sugar in my tank. That woman was the one speaking the truth that, if heeded, would put an end to women getting preyed on by jokers just looking to take advantage of a woman.

From Formerly Known as Brutha Code - "Flew. Flu."

Because of my profession, I’m a bit of a road warrior frequent flier of the friendly skies. As such, I encounter strange people, new places, and fresh experiences. Here are some observations from my latest jaunt:

Soul Plane

First, I apologize for the stereotypical use of a Snoop Dogg movie to describe an atypical sighting, but I have to make a certain amount of references to things Ebonic-y in order to maintain my Black status.
So guess what I saw at the airport last week. It’s akin to seeing a leprechaun, Bigfoot, or an pro-Obama report on Fox News. It’s one of those things that people swear exist, but you have never seen proof of it. I saw a Black FEMALE pilot. It’s true… I swear. She couldn’t have been more than 30 years old and she was all garbed out in pilot attire, walking with one of those rolling black boxes, with a daggum Louis Vuitton bag. My mouth literally dropped open. In my eyes, she was BAD. I wanted so much to run up to her and get her story, but she was doing that fast azz airport walk that aircrews do. Turns out, she was piloting a DC to Detroit flight. Stereotypical.

The Swine Flu

Now I’m no alarmist, but I do enjoy people’s response to alarmism. Just like any true-blue, red-blooded US citizen, I love sensationalism. How else does one explain the success of Povich paternity testing and Springer antics? How else does one explain the success of Cops and watching horrible singers get lambasted by a Brit with a crew cut on American Idol? How else does one explain the hordes of rubber-neckers tuning into the Vice Presidential debates last year for the imminent 7-car pileup known as Sarah Palin? Sensationalism is as American as apple pie, 3mpg (7 on the highway) Hummers, and Octomom.

And while I am the first to ridicule people who overreact to the media’s play-up of the H1N1, I also admit that I can’t help but be affected by it. For example, the agent at Dollar Rent-a-Car who was signing out my car for me COUGHED on my keys before giving them to me. And you know what I thought about first??? “This MF just swine flu’d my keys to a Dodge Caliber!” And then there was the old lady with sky blue K-Mart slacks, black socks, and sandals who sat RIGHT BESIDE ME and coughed all out in the open multiple times. Her coughs sounded like a ‘76 Datsun that won’t start and I could smell her breath as she did it. And what did I think? Yep, she just swine flu’d me, my laptop, and all of Gate A1 at Dulles Airport. But what really took the cake was the Black chick I saw walking around with a surgical mask like Michael Jackson and Asian people on the subway. This was hilarious as I’m sure she had probably just returned from a rendezvous with her weekend lover sans latex, but has the nerve to wear a mask at the airport. Last I checked, HIV was deadlier than H1N1… though admittedly I didn’t watch CNN this morning, so who knows.

There I was, laughing at people and their precautions while simultaneously thinking every person that coughed or sneezed has just doomed me to Porky Pig’s prostration.

@ Hotel

I am a frequenter of Hilton hotels, which means I get the hook-up at every Hilton I go to. Apparently, my preferred status meant quite a bit to the greeter at my last hotel because she HUGGED ME when I checked in AND when I checked out. She was the age of a Wal-Mart greeter and wore those beige nurse shoes that old people love, and she freakin’ wrapped her arms around me when she saw I was an HHonors member. A 76 year old Italian grandma? Mama mia! Of course, I thought she must have a chocolate fantasy she wanted me to star in. Then I thought she was just one of those overly nice folks who think “people just don’t hug enough.” But then I settled on the fact that she was just trying to give my azz the swine flu like dude at the rental car counter and the chick at Gate A1.

And like the guy who sat beside me on the first leg of my return flight. I’m not sure if you can catch the H1N1 virus from someone who just “cut the cheese,” but such a horrible smell can only emanate from someone who lets a piglet crawl up his azz and die, which this dude surely did.

So, when he “cut one loose,” the pig flew.

Wordplay.

From Formerly Known as Brutha Code - "Cookie's Calling"

Back in 1986, DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince released a song entitled “Girls Ain’t Nothing But Trouble.” In 1990, Bell Biv Devoe released the song “Poison” with the now ubiquitous catchphrase amongst Black men: “Never trust a big butt and a smile.” A couple years later, when the doorbell at my parent’s home rang, my father unintentionally reminded me of this song when he sensed the young lady who I opened the door for had, shall we say, ulterior motives. His exact words were “Never put your d!*k into something you can’t put your heart into.” Makes sense, I mean, I DO love my Fruit of the Looms.

Like many young men, I didn’t immediately heed the ominous declaratives of pre-Jada Will Smith, nor of the over-sans-ropas’d BBD who certainly entrusted their willies to many a smiling big butt, nor the witty postulate from my father. I was intent on throwing caution to the wind. And I was this way primarily because of the call of the woman.

It was this call that caused me great joy and pain, sunshine and rain (Rob Base and Maze in the house!). Now in the throes of adulthood, I see the wisdom in each of the warnings above, with caveats of course. It’s not girls that are trouble, it’s the infatuation with them that is. Similar to the old saying that money is the root of all evil, when in fact it’s the LOVE of money that’s the actual problem. As for BBD, it’s probably best not to trust EVERY big butt and a smile, but I know for a fact that there is one big butt and a smile that I love and trust with my life.

But as for my father’s words, they still ring truer than ever…

This is all coming to me now because one of my buddies just ruined his career over a woman. Basically, he was stroking someone who worked directly for him, the job found out about it, and he was reprimanded. And in our line of work, that effectively kills his career. He had a bright future and is most likely on the current promotion list that is due out in a few months…. a list that will probably have his named struck from it now that he’s been caught. The guy has a beautiful wife and a kid, but he let his dingaling get the best of him and he got caught.

Now surely some folks will read this and say that he had this coming to him. And to them I say that it must feel good up there on that high horse of yours with your azz on your shoulders. We have all done things we shouldn’t have and are not proud of. And for a number of those things we were never caught and continue to live fruitful and blessed lives. And others, we were caught and paid dearly for it. And in my eyes, that’s life… you win some, you lose some. But in either case, you never play the game perfectly. So your errors that never catch up with you are blessings that no measly person and their judgmental outlook can take away from you. And certainly, people will scream that what goes around comes around and that karma is a beeeotch. And to that I say go read about karma. The karmic concept has nothing to do with tit for tat or one good thing for each bad thing. Karma is about reaping in your next life the seed you sowed in this life. It is a Buddhist concept that has been hijacked by scorned lovers and people of all sorts to make them feel better when someone does them wrong. In my boy’s case, he was caught for a reason that only God knows.

Here’s what I do know. Before hearing from him (not a friend…. just some ninja I was cool with) yesterday, I hadn’t talked to him in 6 months. So I don’t quite understand why he felt the need to tell me. But on thinking on it further, I take this out-of-the-blue contact as a reminder from God of the lesson my father taught me. And I am damn sho’ listening. I am a believer that reminders come before you’re aware you need them… so I’m on the lookout to avoid every loose-legged hussy with a sparkle in her eye. You won’t catch this brutha slippin’.

Wearing c0nd0ms has been preached into our heads since we were teenagers. They always were pitched as a measure to prevent disease and pregnancy. Eddie Murphy joked about how by not wearing one all the time, he had gambled with his health for years. Comedians have mentioned that with the widespread onset of AIDS, that a woman may now have “killa cookie.” And that isn’t a euphemism for the ooo-weee goodness…. that is a literal description; if you get hold of the wrong one, it could kill you.

The dude in this story doesn’t have to worry about anything of that magnitude. The other woman is healthy and she isn’t pregnant. But his desire to conquer one more lady…. the call of the woman… has just killed his career. And despite Magnum being protection for the “big boys,” even it couldn’t protect him from the death of his career… which hopefully does not cause the death of his marriage as well.

From Formerly Known as Brutha Code - "This Is My Confession..."

I have an admission to make that has been weighing on me lately and I’ve finally decided to come out of the closet address it publicly. I have watched Dancing with the Stars on 4 occasions this year. Pray for me. Jesus be a Nielsen box.

Do men actually watch this show? Let me rephrase that…. do STRAIGHT men actually watch this show? Hey, dancing is not a feminine activity. I spent my formative years as a young man trying to MASTER the slow dance. I am an appreciator of the fine art of dancing. And I can’t even count the number of times I’ve watched some terpsichorean move about a shiny metallic pole… I think her name was Mocha Delight. I have even promised my lady that I’d take salsa lessons with her on three conditions: 1) That I don’t have to prance around like a gay Mexican cowboy; 2) that I don’t have to wear sequins; and 3) that she has to dress exactly like an Afro-Brazilian woman at the Rio Carnival.

So, as you can see, I clearly like dancing. It has been rumored that my trademark move was the inspiration for Cassidy’s song “My Drink and My Two-Step.” And I’ll have you know that I have worn fat laces and done backspins on a cut-up cardboard box that once housed the family’s new TV. Sure, my taste is more Breakin’ than Fame, but dancing ’tis dancing… ’tis not?

Admittedly, I didn’t start watching Dancing with the Stars of my own volition; I was “quality-timed” into it. But persuasion by the opposite sex is quite persuasive. And the fact that Lawrence Taylor was on the show made me feel a little better. I mean, if he is jumping around on TV, then clearly this isn’t dancing… it’s just a co-ed New York Giants’ game on a stage without pads. I can drink a beer to that. But then I saw that tough azz football player prancing. Pigs shall soon fly, no doubt. And then David Alan Grier showed up, and this worried me more. Aside from the fact that his smirk makes him look like the Black gay Grinch who stole Kwanzaa, his most famous role on In Living Color suddenly became so much clearer. Hindsight w/ Lasik clear.

But then I saw someone that forced me to watch the show beyond that first episode: Lil’ Kim. Holy Collagen, Batman! Yes, I know the Queen Bee is a felon. Yes, I know that she has had more surgeries than the red-nosed fellow in that Milton Bradley game Operation. Yes, I am aware that the hoodrat from Brooklyn now looks like the love child of Michael Jackson and a Bratz doll. But I simply do not care. Watching her dance is a beautiful thing… she’s got skillz. The ghetto jump-off has actually managed to seduce me while dancing with another dude… this is no small feat. I know her body measurements have been inflated like the 2005 real estate market, but I don’t care one iota. Watching that big ol’ implanted booty, those siliconed milk puppies, and those Angelina Hoe-lee lips cavorting about to dances I’ve never heard of from Argentina is quite the spectacle. Plus, this is the girl who rapped that she has “buffoons eating her [cookie] while she watches cartoons.” How can you NOT love her??

So there, I’ve admitted it. I’ve watched Dancing with the Stars more than once, and watched it all the way up until Lil K was booted from the show. For those of you who think less of me, you can kiss my black Rumba.

Formerly Known as Brutha Code responds to our BAT SIGNAL!

The Other Side of the Rainbow

 

I’m pretty much convinced that all educated Black women want their lives to resemble one of three people: Oprah, Beyonce, or Michelle Obama. I’m certainly no sociologist or anthropologist, but I am a rather observant geek who can knockout a one-star Sudoku puzzle in like 5 minutes flat. That clearly qualifies me to make sweeping generalizations with a deftness normally reserved for Meet The Press soundbites.

First, the “educated” modifier is necessary because I’ve yet to meet a woman with a college degree aspiring to be a video diva dancing with blinged out men who make their dental appointments at Kay Jewelers. Women with education normally have their sights set on a goal of riches, fame, and/or a Cosby-esque family, all of which are to be obtained by talents and intellect and not because they have an apple bottom or Linda Tripp as a best friend.

So why those three? Because they represent the proverbial end of the rainbow. When a woman reaches that fork in the road of life where they must choose their goals and make their path, the end goal is to be like Oprah, Michelle, or Beyonce. Oprah represents otherwordly success based on her abilities alone. And she don’t need no stinkin’ man. If Oprah was as gorgeous as Beyonce, there is no way her talent shines through. She would always be “that pretty girl” who “thinks she’s all that;” other women would hate on her. If she was as intellectual and family-oriented as Michelle, there is no way she has the time or interest to host talk shows everyday. Oprah captured the hearts of women everywhere because she was so regular. She isn’t a dime and she isn’t inordinately smart, thus she makes her accomplishments seem attainable by all. But those accomplishments were only achieved because she didn’t have to be a full-time mom or put her dreams on hold for her husband’s dreams from his father.

If Oprah represents ambition above all else, then Beyonce represents beauty. Yes, of course, she is talented. But so are the seals at Sea World. If Beyonce looked like Kelly Rowland, she’d be like… Kelly Rowland. So why would educated Black women want to be like this uneducated lady recognized for looks? Because she is uncommonly beautiful and talented and marketable. And what woman doesn’t want to be a force to be reckoned with and adored by millions, while remaining the apple of every man’s eye? Show me a woman who doesn’t want to be Beyonce for a day, and I’ll show you a man who wants to be a eunuch. Certainly being lusted after by every Black man on earth and having your life plastered on every page of every magainze isn’t for everyone, but for some, it is.

But for me, like Jack Cafferty, the woman who aspires to be similar to Michelle Obama is the type most attractive to me. Of course, I’m a bit old-fashioned, so I may be jaded. My younger brother would much prefer Beyonce. But Michelle, the Ivy League graduate twice-over, is the epitome of intellect and the self-abnegation of motherhood and marriage without being hard on the eyes. Could you imagine if Oprah married to Barack?? They’d be fighting over who got more time on the microphone and who’s book sold more copies. Barack married to Beyonce? A like scenario has actually happened before with a recent presidential candidate… his name was John McCain. It takes a remarkable woman to put her successful career aside to support her man in his ambition. Michelle is like Corretta Scott on steroids. No, she’s not as gorgeous as Beyonce or as ambitious and rich as Oprah, but somehow she outshines the both of them. It may even seem a little sexist to imply that I’m attracted to women who’s ultimate goal is to be a role model mother and wife AND woman. But I assure you there is no shame or misogyny in a woman standing beside her man and raising her children. For me, Michelle is the epitome of Black womanhood… so shoot me.

Of course, it is possible to aspire to bits and pieces of each of these women. For example: Oprah + Michelle Obama equals Condoleeza Rice. If Oprah had Condi’s money, she’d jump off a cliff. If Michelle was all alone and had nothing to show for it but a signature hairstyle and a grand piano, she’d be unfilled at best.

Beyonce + Oprah equals Tyra Banks. If Oprah had Tyra’s ratings, she’d weigh 350 pounds from stress-eating. If Beyonce looked like Tyra, she’d be Ciara, which means dating dudes like Bow-Wow and barely filling up an ampitheater as an opening act; that ain’t Beyonce-esque.

Beyonce + Michelle Obama equals Vanessa Williams. Who knows, maybe this is Beyonce’s future… it isn’t necessarily a horrible future. But for Michelle, divorce and multiple baby daddies is not on the agenda… ever.

But the bottom line is that each of those women would be unfilled in the shoes of their sum. Besides, the women who aspire to be Condi are Oprahesque. The ones who aspire to Tyra Banks just want to be the Beyonce of the model industry. And those who aspire to be Vanessa Williams are Michelle minus the penchant for familial sacrifice.

So there it is: Oprah, Beyonce, and Michelle. They are the other side of the Black woman’s rainbow, not no freakin' leprechaun.