A Belle Leaves Brooklyn: Part II

I wake up Saturday morning to the sound of chirping birds. It's like 85 degrees and apparently they haven’t gone South yet. I guess it’s only September and just because it’s Labor Day Weekend and my summer Friday hours are no more that doesn’t mean the season is over. I look at the clock. 9AM. Damn, birds.

I pad to the kitchen and in the process discover no one’s home. My father is likely at the golf course, my mother at the hair salon. These are their weekly rituals. I check the fridge for breakfast contents. It’s virtually empty– except for lots and lots of meat, which I don’t eat. My parents, like everyone else in the county, are on Atkins. It’s the Master Cleanse of the suburbs. I nibble on leftovers from last night’s dinner, get dressed to run on the track. (Just because I’m away from home doesn’t mean I slack off.) I always run in the gym and everyone keeps telling me running outdoors is better. Apparently jogging in a circle beats running in place. I figure I’ll try it out. And I can breathe fresh air into my citified lungs while I do it here. I take a Claritin in case my allergies flare again and head out.

I’m only supposed to do 12 laps, but I end up jogging 15. The local community college men’s track team is doing an informal training and what’s another .75 miles when I can ogle fine young men with tight booties, strong broad backs, and narrow waists (it’s all about "The V," I tell you.) A too young cutie with pretty white teeth hits on me as I’m doing my cool down lap. He’s chocolate and 18. I could show him shit he’s never seen, the 7 wonders of the world. (ha!) He asks my age. I tell him, and 18 says, ‘wow, girl, you look good…. for your age.'’ I ain’t showing him shit.

Back home, I shower, change into my father’s sweats (the A/C is set to Arctic, but I’m not complaining.) I’m in the lounger trying to figure out how to work the fancy panel screen TV when Ace calls. Apparently, I am not sitting in the house until tonight. I am going to Georgetown.

Before I moved to New York, Georgetown was my favorite place on Earth. It reminded me of the Village, which I always hung out in on my 2 annual trips to NYC. Then I moved North and realized I was deluding myself. (Since I moved to NY,I don’t even bother shopping in other American cities--except LA. If I want it, New York’s got it, so what’s the point?) ‘’I don’t wanna go,'’ I tell Ace.

‘’Be ready in 30. You’re driving.'’ Click.

Georgetown’s better than I remember, has most of the chain stores from back Home, they’re not crowded (by NY weekend standards), and the store and dressing rooms aren’t cramped. Plus, all the weird, funky clothes I like are there in my size. Most are even on sale. (I don’t care how great DC’s club scene is, it’s still a conservative-dressing town). I pop into Urban Outfitter’s and pick up a pair of high-waist jeans that I’ve been searching for. In the Georgetown Mall, I find a handcuff-bangle at Taxco Sterling Silver (I forgot about this place. I dropped entire paychecks from my part-time job here back in the day.) I stop in a boutique and check out cocktail dresses to wear to CBC if I come back in town at the end of September. Ace and I make our way through H&M, Intermix, Zara, Arden B, Bebe, Anthropologie, Disel, Adidas, Ralph Lauren, Pottery Barn, Betsey Johnson, and a few boutiques that sell quirky-cute clothes. Four hours later, I am pooped!

Fendy, the Too Cute Assistant from Love calls my cellie. Apparently, Love owner Marc Barnes is opening another space on the 14th Street corridor called Park Place and she thinks I should check it out. (Full disclosure: I mentioned I might write about my DC trip. That’s why she’s calling.) When it opens during CBC Weekend, it will set a new standard for DC restaurants and lounges, she promises. Too Cute Assistant is in PR mode (they lie for a living) so I’m skeptical. (Sorry to all the PR people I just offended. But ya'll know it’s true.) It’s still a work in progress and the Gorgeous god Among Men will be there to show me around… if I’m interested.

I'm definitely interested.

We’re headed to Lauriol Plaza (www.lauriolplaza.com) in Adam’s Morgan or Busboys and Poets (www.busboysandpoets.com) off U Street, both chill sections of the city by day with plenty of boutiques, ethnic restaurants, and bars. Even after hanging out in the West Village for so many years, this strip still reminds me of the West Village. We turn the corner to get back to the car and spot the cutest restaurant with outdoor seating. Ace looks at me. I look at Ace.

‘’Sangria?'’ we ask at the same time. (We know each other way too well.)

Indeed.

Ney-La (www.neyla.com) has the best waiter on the planet who tells us we should have a pitcher instead of a glass. ('’The pitcher will make you feel better,”’ he says with a knowing look.) Two drinks in, the conversation has turned to boys and sex and I am laughing way too hard and telling too much too loud about the time I.. When he.. And how I shook and cried tears of joy after… And he laughed at me!… I was mad… Till he did it again. (I gotta blog about that someday.) I am officially tipsy. That’s when I realize I HAVEN’T EATEN all day. We immediately order a plate of the biggest grilled scallops I’ve ever seen to share and though the Middle Eastern meal does not come with pita bread, the waiter drops off a basket for us anyway. I think he knows we’re tipsy.

We sip and talk, talk and sip, till the pitcher is done. The best waiter on the planet doesn’t rush us from the table. He lets us marinate to enjoy the breeze and the view of cuties trotting past.

All the sudden I love DC. I think it's the liquor talking.

Finally, we sober up and can drive home to take naps before the evening's festivities. Back in the ‘burbs, Ace declares herself exhausted and passes on another night out. I’m tired too, but I don’t get a pass. Jason and Tariq are still taking me out.

After my nap (I’m old. I can’t run on adrenalin like I use to), I shower, put on my favorite short dress, and a pair of super high heels. Jason tells me we’re headed to an uber exclusive, boutique club where entry is based on the doorman’s discretion. Only the super fashionable and the super wealthy get picked to go in. I’m on a writer’s budget so I rely on a good outfit and hope sheer confidence will get me approved. Jason picks me up (Tariq’s meeting us later) and takes me to FLY (www.flyloungedc.com). The doorman singles us out in the crowd as we walk up and usher’s us in. I guess NY swag (J’s from NY) translates nationwide.

FLY is adorable. The spot looks like the inside of an airplane and the hostesses are dressed in stewardess uniforms. Flat panel screens line the walls and show pictures of friendly skies and gorgeous sunsets. I love it!

We hit the least crowded bar and order. I ask for a chocolate martini (my version of a Cosmo) and the stewardess tells me she’ll do better than that. She makes some concoction called an Almond Joy and I am in heaven after the first sip. The crowd is sexy and very Euro. The music amazingly good. I feel inclined to dance and so Jason and do another diddy, this time to some Justin song that sounds even better coming from these speakers. I could stay all night, but Tariq is waiting for us at LIV (www.myspace.com/livnightclubdc) right off the U Street Corridor. ("Corridor" is like DC’s favorite word.)

Jason calls the John Legend look-alike as we walk to the car. No answer. No Ibiza for us tonight either.

LIV is less posh and doesn’t give a damn about a fancy dress code. It’s a party-party, not a see and be seen affair. I’m freaking out about the wait till Jason calls a friend and gets us in without anymore hassle. Turns out the promoter for this party is a guy (Shi- Shiiiii!!! Inside joke) we went to college with at UMCP. A text from him to Jason’s phone deletes a wait at the door and the cover charge.

The decoration is minimal, the drinks are cheap, and the party is packed. We head upstairs to the balcony and we’re chatting it up about absolutely nothing when a burst of cold air assaults me and everything goes white. Seems I’m standing right under the fog machine.

Jason laughs at me. I laugh at myself.

Tariq and friends show up and I’m all golden. He’s brought the back-in-the day party pair with him. These two are married with a kid each now and it’s their first time out in months. We party like it’s first semester Senior year, 1999, when "International Players" comes on. The whole club breaks into song on the chorus. ('’I chose youuuu, Baby. I chose youuuuuuuu‘’) They go wild again for ‘’Superman That Ho'’ (I hate this song for content but it’s catchy as hell.) I refuse to do the Superman.

I dance so hard to everything the DJ plays that I sweat through my dress. I go stand near the fog machine so I can get blasted again and cool off. I haven’t partied like this since my undergrad graduation. And I’m drunk like back then too. Hanging with the fellas, I am subjected to drinking what they drink. No foo-foo chi chi ish like chocolate martinis. They keep coming back from the bar with Henny straight for themselves. Henny with Coke for me.

After another hour, Jason and I bounce to Republic Gardens (www.republicgardens.com) up the block. This is a DC staple and I partied here all through college. It has a new (non-black) owner, I hear, but dude has had sense enough not to change the décor or the vibe. We try to head through the sexy lounge area on One, but it takes forever because I’m cheek-kissing half the room. This is like Homecoming or something. Half the campus that I went to college with is in here. Upstairs we pass through the dance floor and find the other half of campus. EVERYONE is in here tonight! We head to the upstairs lounge and by the pool tables. There is just something so dang sexy about this place and it’s not just the nostalgia. Folks look good in their good wares. Fly, established, sexy, grown. I love it!

We mix and mingle till closing and outside we debate going to Adam’s Morgan for big pizza. There’s a couple spots on the strip that serve a quarter of a pie for $3.00. It’s the gooiest, cheesiest pizza on the planet and it sobers you up by the time you devour it. (No one just eats at 3AM.) I wanna go but I don’t want to walk, its far and I don’t have my back-up flip flops in my Louie.

Jason looks at me like I’m stupid when I say this. ‘’You’re in DC, D. We have cars here.'’

Oh. Riiiight!!! It’s what Oprah calls an A-ha! moment.

Jason drops me off at home and as I cuddle into my old bed at 4am, I realize I miss DC. A lot. I shouldn’t have stayed away for so long. That, and how is it I’ve been to 5 clubs in 2 days and haven’t heard go-go yet.

I have to hear some congos before I leave here. Jason will have to make that happen tomorrow. Part 3- SUNDAY, coming Sunday

A Belle Leaves Brooklyn: Part I

Anyone who's run into me in the last six months has heard me gripe about being homesick. Seven years ago, I couldn't wait to get out of DC (I was bored to tears). However, for the last year, I've been dying to go back--for a visit. Even if it's boring, home is still home. Problem is, I've been too busy grinding--my current resume lists me as a reporter/ editor/ blogger/ author/ event planner who dabbles in marketing and PR. It so happened that I was being forced out of the city for Labor Day weekend. The West Indian Day parade, the biggest annual event in the city, takes place one block from my apartment. It's one thing to go to it and an entirely different matter to live in the middle of it. Every year, I leave for the weekend. This time, I decided on a visit to the Old Country (Maryland.)

I booked an Amtrak ticket and looked forward to a delightful weekend of peace, quiet, and near-boredom. I planned to lay about the house all day, cuddle up in lounger (because my parents don't have couches) and watch DVDs of movies I'd missed in theatres. I would bask in the glory of central air and a stocked refrigerator and pantry (!) and then maybe just hang out in the laundry room for awhile, marveling at the suburban luxury of having a room just for the care of dirty clothes. (Yes, I know this is weird.)

Ace picks me up from the train station, and immediately I get to complaining about the suburbs and all things DC. The fresh air and greenery are irritating my allergies. I can't stop sneezing and my eyes are watery. And why is everything so damn bright? It's like these trees are in Technicolor or something. ("D, you need to go to the park more up there," Ace begins. "No one should ever be alarmed by a cluster of trees.") I whine about how much space everything takes up. ("Look at that parking lot. Do you know how many condos would fit there?") I moan about the wideness of the streets (wasted space), all the SUVs (gas guzzlers) and about how I won't be able to sleep well like I planned to because I know the sound of crickets (and birds) will keep me up (or wake me up). That and I was invited to a million BBQs and park parties in BK this weekend. I'm missing out on everything. I shouldn't have come. I want to go home--New York.

Quickly, Ace has enough. "You are not going to complain about my city all weekend," she lays out firmly. Ace, who never yells, is yelling at me. "You never thought it was this bad before. You've gone to New York and now you think it's better than everywhere else. Well, it's not!"

Ace grabs her cellie from her purse and calls reinforcements--Tarik and Jason, two amazingly well-connected guy friends or ours. She reports what I've done and said (Bad, D!) to each of them. They discuss and devise a plan (the Demi in DC Love Movement) to teach at least one New Yorker that "up top" ain't the only place where things get poppin'.

 

Friday

I rode 3 hours down on the train, but that's not enough of an excuse to get me out of partying with Ace & Crew for the night. It's too early--10:30--to go out, I remind her when she shows up at my house. And I typically don't party on weekends. And I only go out during the week because... Ace cuts me off and reminds me that I am not in New York and that I need to put on my highest heels– right now. "We get dressed to go out here," she reminds me. Then she reminds me that the clubs close at 3. Early, but better than LA. I'm skeptical... in five-inch patent leather heels.

Jason and Tarik drive us to Love (www.lovetheclub.com), formerly known as Dream. Seven years ago, I spent every Friday of the seven months of my discontent at this nightclub. I also celebrated my 23rd birthday here. My friends booked a table that came with its own bouncer, white choclate cake, 4 bottles of champagne (for the 4 of us)and choclate -covered strawberries. By the end of the night, I was dancing on a couch and smearing cake on men’s noses (long story.)

This place is still open?

Indeed. We valet the truck in front of the stadium-size structure that calls itself club and I stare at the long, long line snaking down its length. I'm a New Yorker now. I don't do lines--especially not for clubs, especially not for clubs out of state. I turn to Ace with a sour, oh-hell-no! look on my face. She rolls her eyes, grabs me by the wrist, and drags me as we follow Tarik and Jason to the front of the line.

Thirty seconds later we're up the marble steps, through the mahogany and glass doors and inside. Since I was last here, the venue's been reconfigured. The dark wood that once reminded me of a stuffy, Old Money cigar bar has been accented with more modern touches. The massive space feels more homey now, like I'm hanging out in a friend's parents' basement with a whole lot of other people. I look around at all the partygoers moving to and from the bar to the dancefloor. Men--attractive, freshly-shaped up men with broad shoulders who 2-step (ie, they can actually dance) and can get backed up on too– are in properly-sized button downs, properly-fitting slacks (!) and loafers. ("DC men care about fashion," says Jason, who’s decked out in a baby pink button down, white linen slacks and white soft-leather footwear. "Especially shoes.") The women are fly as well, but I was too distracted by the guys--french vanilla, butter pecan, chocolate deluxe– to give you a decent description of them.

Jason--who has turned into a hugely well-connected promoter since I headed off for Northern terrain– arranges for me to meet the venue's guest relations manager and assistant and the GM, an old friend from college who used to manage 40/40 (www.the4040club.com)in NYC. Apparently, the Demi in DC Love Movement isn't limited to just my inner circle. Joe from guest relations and who I immediately gave the nickname The Gorgeous god Among Men, and Fendy, the too cute assistant, take me on an impressive tour of Love. Only two of the four floors are open tonight and they are both packed. And all those well-dressed, well-coiffed, high-heeled folks are paaaaartying hard.

In DC?

The pair takes us for a quick pass through all the VIP rooms and sections and points out one area as the stage where Snoop will be performing the following night, if I'd like to come back. Fendy notes that Erykah Badu and Common will be on that stage in a month for CBC weekend.

DC is looking better already.

Half of the third floor and all of the fourth are rooftop decks filled with super cute all-white cabanas that remind me of Miami, especially the fourth floor deck with its hanging paper lights. Very Opium Garden (www.theopiumgroup.com) in South Beach (the only city I party in besides New York. Everywhere else is for relaxing.) I'm... impressed. You know how much a New Yorker loves her rooftop venues! (My favorite, BED, was closed earlier this year after a drunk C-list actor pushed someone down an elevator shaft.) Jason and I dance a quick diddy to "My Drank and My Two Step" under the stars before Fendy leads us to the very-exclusive Penthouse suite, which most people don't know exists and includes its own bar and showers. It's intimate, private, and sexy as all friggin hell.

What happened to the woefully conservative government town that I grew up in?

The Gorgeous god Among Men chuckles at my cluelessness, but I think I fall a little bit in love anyway. *sigh* "That's during the day," he notes.

After Love, we head to Avenue (www.avedc.com) a newer club that I've never heard of. It's conveniently located down the block from the new DC Convention Center (www.dcconvention.com). We park across the street and again, Jason maneuvers us to the front of the line and we are quickly ushered inside. It's not Love. Relatively small by DC standards, three floors, no fancy décor, and undecorated brick walls. The VIP room is just an elevated section with a red, velvet rope. No frills. We start in the reggae rooms on One and Two. It was hot– as in heat. If I had balls, sweat would have dripped down them. Then we work our way up to the hip-hop room on Three.

Dammit if those folks didn't party till the hard wood floors started to shake. At 2 am, sweated out hair and shirts were de rigeur for most of the crowd--though no one seemed to mind. Clearly, these folk came looking for a party and a damn good session is what they found.

We settle into a room off the dance floor with clear plastic furniture and colored lights. (Told you decoration was minimal.) Jason hits the bar to secure our drinks and I have no idea where Tariq is when a familiar face saunters over to me and Ace.

"Dominique?"

He was a promoter when I was in college and hit the club every Thursday thru Sunday. He doesn't know our names, but he knows Ace and I were regulars at his events back in the day. Apparently, he doesn't forget a face. Since I left DC, he and his boy, Tupac, have taken over the DC party scene. He offers to buy me (and the crew) some dranks and invites us to his Sunday night party at K Street Lounge (www.kstreetdc.com). He promises a good time.

Avenue is poppin, but we don't stay long. We have another stop to make. (Club-hopping in DC? Who knew?) Six weeks ago, a new spot called Ibiza (www.ibizadc.com) opened around the corner from Fur (www.furnightclub.com). Jason raved about its to-die-for rooftop deck with a great view of a DC landmark. Unfortunately, we arrived too late and the party was over (damn 3AM close time). One of the promoters– a John Legend look alike, replete with chest hair and an open collar shirt– offers to give us a tour of the club the following night.

Back in the truck, Jason and Tarik rattle off a long list of late-night spots we can hit up to eat and chill– Ben's Chili Bowl, Georgetown Café, Oohhs and Aahhs, The Diner– but Ace and I are tired so they take us back to the 'burbs.

Jason drops me off with a promise to call with a new list of places to go the following night.

There's more?

Indeed.

Part II- Coming Soon (right after I knock out a feature story and take a nap. 3 days of partying in DC wore me out!!!)

Where's the Love?

After I wrote "They Do Exist" about the Black man who doesn't date Black women, I got a ton of e-mails and calls and IMs. I expected the women to get riled up. I didn't expect the men to get so passionate too. (Most began thier rants with “what the f*ck is wrong with this dude?”) One, a great friend, e-mailed me to ask, "why would you write about the worst representation of a Black man, D? He made us all look bad and the vast majority of us don't think that way. It's a whole lot of Black men who love Black women. Why don't you ever talk about them?"

So ladies (and gents) I went and found the love.

It's everywhere!

I asked a bunch of attractive (all), gainfully employed (all), college-educated (mostly), intelligent (100%), articulate, well-rounded, tall, mostly single, straight (all) Black men if they loved us and if so, why. My Inbox was flooded with responses. I took over a conversation at a friend's housewarming and guys had plenty to say on why they dig us so (along with blasting me for that post about He.) Random men on the street (yes, I asked strangers. “Why do you love black women?” is a great pick up line/ conversation starter, btw) couldn't stop talking about what is about us that just does it for them. And not one said a word about our booties and our hips and lips or anything else on the surface. They got deep, ya'll. (Apparently, they know how much we like it when they go deep. LOL!)

Here's what they said:

· "Of course, I love Black women. I think any man of any race who excludes Black women from his dating/marriage options are excluding some of the most beautiful, intelligent, supportive women in the world."

· "I love Black women because of their faces. They just have to give you one look and it's a whole conversation. You can tell when their happy, when you did something wrong, when she's feeling you, when you've gone too far. They get that from their mothers. If you have a black mother, you see her expressions on a Black woman's face. It's familiar."

· "Black women drive me crazy. But I love them. I LOVE THEM!!!They make a man work. Nothing's easy A Black woman will be feeling you but she makes you chase. Other women don't do that. A Black woman will want you and you'll know she's interested but she's gotta play the game. I hate the chase, but when she lets you catch her, she's yours. She'd ride-or-die. Nothing tops that. It makes the chase worthwhile."

· "I never thought about dating anyone else. I'm just not attracted. I love Black women's whole vibe. They just get 'it.' That and they're not corny. Other chicks can be real corny sometimes."

· "Because of their beauty, the pain we can relate to, the strength they have and their overall being. Just because."

· "Honesty, I don’t think sistas hear enough from Black men how much we love them. The reason I love Black women is because I have a Black mother. If it wasn’t for a Black woman… I wouldn’t be here. We've got to do better, find a way to praise Black women as half as much as we complain about them. Black women are looking for us as Black men to defend them. Not to talk about them as being gold-diggers, hoes, and b*tches along with the rest of society. We are supposed to be their defenders. That’s our damn job!"

· "I love Black women because I look at them and see me and my struggles, hopes and dreams in them unlike with any other race of women. Despite the cliche, the truth of the matter is that only a Black woman can understand truly what a Black man goes through and deals with. I love Black women because they come in a lot of sizes, shapes and colors from dark chocolate to light cream and everything else in between. I especially love Black women because my mother is Black and I luuuuuuvvvvvv my mama…and my grandmama!"

· "I have to give the Sisters credit when credit is due. The Sister’s hold it down any shape or form. There are a lot more Black sister’s out there that are about their money and won’t rely on a man to save their life. I won't never ever, ever date a white woman to the point I want to make her my wife. There’s too many beautiful, working, independent BLACK WOMEN. You got to be a strong Black man to be with a Black woman. Ya'll should be happy when men who aren't up to challenge look elsewhere."

· "They call it Home Sweet Home for a reason. No matter where you go in life, what journeys you take, there is nothing like home. Black women are my home."

· “A crown does not make a queen in my book but the way in which you carry yourself speaks volumes of your royalty. I have a symbol tattooed on my back that I read was branded on a prince the day he became king because it embodied all the qualities a king needed to lead. Those qualities were knowledge, courage, humility, and strength. I believe those four things are the foundation of what begins to make you as a black woman great. We strive as men to achieve those four attributes when by nature you as women are those four. A black woman is the personification of perfection. She is nurturing, passionate, firm, outspoken, devoted, sensual, sexual, loyal, supportive (sometimes too supportive to the point that we don't become anything other than a dreamer) but she makes you believe that dream can still come true when no one else believes it including you. I know what to expect from you because within you is all the things that makes me. You know my pain, because you lived it too. You know the struggle, because in your own way you went though it too. You know about "the man" because he's fucking with you too. When I walk in the door frustrated with my head down after a long day in this corporate white washed world saying they are starting to get to me I don't have to go any further because at one point they were getting to you too.

“I know this should be about all the things within that make you great, but the package is just as great as the gift inside and deserves its due. You are beautiful. The glow of your skin. The familiar caress of your touch. The warm welcome within all the hues of your eyes. The warmth of your smile and the pleasure it gives us when we make you laugh at our corny jokes as those beautiful white teeth explode from behind that sun kissed skin. Bodies that speaks of a future and by that I mean the curves on a black woman aren't there by accident that is generations upon generations of creating the perfect vessel to bring forth life. When we look at you we not only see our wives but also the mothers of our children. I love you.”

4:20 is the Loneliest Hour on Earth

"All the world's a stage. And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts.

- As You Like It, William Shakespeare

 

Hey honeybees, I know I am usually light and fluffy with the posts, but this one's gonna veer left. Ride with me. I'm about to get real Tony Soprano (in the coma) on ya'll.

I had a reoccurring dream last night. I had it once a long time ago - maybe a decade? Or more?– and I've dreamed bits and pieces of it since--snapshots of scenery and locations, encounters with certain people--but it's only come together on two occasions. The last time it happened was so long ago that I forgot about. This time when I dreamt it, it was all the same players as before, but this time I could recognize most of them. They are all people I know or have met.

It was so real that I didn't realize I was dreaming. The emotions so vivid, even as I type now, it's like the whole experience happened and not just in my mind. I'll try to give you the background of the characters (in parentheses) as I go along so that it makes as much since as possible to you.

 

I get a call to meet Penelope and Carmen on the corner of Broadway and Canal (Friends I was supposed to meet earlier tonight were late meeting me. They were supposed to meet another friend who lives on that corner, but they didn't show up.) I'm already in the city so I hop a train. The train takes forever. By the time I get there, and hit them, they've already gone to the club. I decide I'll hail a cab to the meatpacking district club Tenjune instead of getting back on the subway.

I step to the corner, raise my hand, and the cabbie appears. I get in and I recognize the driver. He picked me up the last time I made the same mistake of being late to meet Nell and Carm at the same place. He picked me up in the same location. (The cab driver is a man I've met. Every time his name is brought up, I say something like 'he likes pussy. He doesn't like women. Note the difference. He is the biggest misogynist on Earth.') We chat like old friends because the odds of the same driver, the same destination, the same pick up point to meet the same people have got to be in the billions. He drives and in the course of the trip the destination changes. The New York landscape becomes the suburbs where I grew up, the destination is now a friend's house for a late-night housewarming party (I'm supposed to attend one later today.) The yellow cab is on the long, winding dark street that leads to my parents' subdivision back in the Old Country (Maryland.) At the end of the road, we turn right at the light and the cab is supposed to pull over to let me out.

It keeps going.

"This is my stop!" I remind the driver.

He ignores me.

I tell him again. And again. It's like he can't hear me, but I know he does.

I panic. Think of a how-do-I-get-out-of-this-one? Plan. I realize I have on flip-flops. He has to stop at some point. He has to get out of the front and into the back of the car to get to me. If he does not lock me in, I will get out and run like hell. He will have to catch me to rape me--or worse--kill me. He is counting on my fear, I'm sure. I will not wait for either to happen. I will run.

I hook my large purse on the crease of my elbow. My phone is in my hand in case I need to drop the purse while I haul ass. I must keep my phone to call for help when I get to a safe place. I don't know anyone's number by heart.

The cab tunnels forward, obeying the speed limit. It turns into a subdivision (not my parents') and I vaguely recognize my surroundings. It's a dark street and at the end, it's cul-de-sac peppered with mini-mansions. There was a party here once at a beautiful home with a gigantic fountain that greets visitors as soon as they enter what would be the foyer. The foyer was 20-feet tall. It was thrown by a friend of my father's. It was a night to remember. A stand- around- and-chat bourgoise affair while we all wore designer wares made to impress. Months later, 200 partygoers discovered that the house didn't belong to the person who threw it. In fact, the person the house did belong to didn't know there was a party.

The cab slows. I put my palm on the handle to open the door.

"Take me back to where I was supposed to get out,'' I demand to the driver. "Take me back!!!!"

He ignores me. I know for certain that I will be raped or killed--or both--if I don't act fast. I will die a gruesome death that when it is discovered people will read about it online, shake their hands, and say to a co-worker or friend 'there are some sick people in this world.' They will give the that's- such- a- shame' shy, click the close button for the news site on their computer screens and go back to the monotony of their jobs.

That will not be me.

I pull the handle and my plastic covered foot hits the ground. Dirt. Not grass. Easier to run in. I get my footing and I RUN. I RUN harder and faster than I have ever before. The purse doesn't slow me down. I clutch the phone like it is a gun and I RUN.

I get to the lights highlighting the houses in the cul-de-sac 300 hundred yards away from where I began before I slow down. I don't hear footsteps. I slow to a jog, then a walk. Illuminated by the street lamps, I turn back. The cab is still there. The brake-lights are on. The driver is still in the car.

I have to get inside one of these houses and fast. Before he comes after me. I look around and see the party-house. I don't know the owner but I think it's my safest best. It's familiar at least. I know a family lives there.

I walk up the stone steps to the mansion. I'm bathed in light on the porch. Huge spotlights gift the brightness of their bulbs on me as I ring the doorbell. Footsteps. Children's voices. A woman chastising them to get away from the door. "It's a woman," says one of the kids. Sounds like a toddler.

The woman peeks out the window, looks at me, then cracks open the door. "Can I help you?" she asks. She's blonde, stout. Her hair is in a messy ponytail.

"Yes. I need help. I think I was about to be raped. Please help me. Please."

She nods like she understands or at the very least she recognizes my pleading is genuine, and pulls the door wide open, ushering me into the foyer. Behind her, there's the fountain. Her husband is in front of it. I recognize him as one of my father's friends. A kid is standing behind him, peering over his leg to see me. (My last vacation, I was with my parents. My father had some friends by his suite. I told them I was leaving to run an errand and one- a middle-aged man too- made a sad face, told me he'd miss me. When I returned to the room, he was sitting in a chair facing the door. He raised both arms above his head in the touchdown stance and shouted "YOU'RE BACK! when I walked in. What a greeting!) He looks quizically at his wife (actually a current co-worker of mine) and I begin to explain what happened. He nods when I conclude and invites me to have a seat in the kitchen. The wall on the clock reads eight o'clock.

I get myself together and think who I can call to get me. My parents are nearby. Less than ten minutes away. I ask to use the house phone and when I pick it up to dial, I hear a modem. A kid in another room is instructed to get off the computer, then the line is free. I call my parents and my Dad picks up. I tell him what happened.

He refuses to come get me. (I can't remember why.) I plead with him. "Please. Please, Daddy." His answer doesn't change.

I call other people I know with cars (its' the suburbs. Everyone drives.) I get the voicemail of every single person I call. An hour passes. The kids sit at a nearby table for dinner with their parents and nanny. After dinner, Dad washes dishes, the nanny does flashcards with the kids. Then they are put to bed.

Another hour passes. No one has come to get me. I debate calling a cab, but there's no way in hell, I'm getting in another car if I don't know the driver. For some reason, I don't ask the family to drive me home. I feel like they've already done enough. I look out the window and the cab is still there. I see the brake lights.

I never think to call the police. What will I tell them anyway? The driver didn't stop when I said to and so I jumped out the car and ran? That I never paid the fare?

Another hour passes. The husband appears in the kitchen again. He's clearly ready for me to go. I apologize for bothering him. He shrugs it off, but I know he wants me out. I compliment his home. I tell him I've been there before. That I was at 'the party.' That like everyone else, I had no idea that the person who threw it didn't live there. I add that I hope nothing was broken and his house was not messed up. He tells me that it was left in perfect condition.

My cell phone rings. It's my mother. She wants me to go back to campus (apparently I'm in college and a senior). Pretend the whole thing never happened. Just go back to campus, she keeps insisting.

"Someone was trying to kill me! I cannot just go back!" I remember then that I have class tomorrow. That I have papers due.

My mother will not come get me. She asks where I was on my way too. I tell her a housewarming. She tells me I was probably going to meet some boy, sucks her teeth like she is disgusted with me. She just wants me to go back to campus. She knows I have no way to get there but to walk. Campus is 20 miles away. Even if it was on the corner, I would not go outside. I will not go near that cab.

Another hour passes. Carm calls me back. I tell her what happened. The cab. Where I am. My parents. Help, Carm! She tells me to shut up about it. Never to tell anyone. Act like nothing happened. I wonder what I will tell my professors, shouldn't I tell them why I will miss class? Why my papers will not be done on time? She says I should tell them anything but the truth. I should tell them I had PMS. "Nobody wants to hear that story, D. Nobody cares." She pauses as if realizing the harshness of her words. She begins again, softer this time. "Just move on, okay? Don't be a victim." She's not coming to get me either.

I wonder what to do next. I don't know what to do. I'd cry, but tears won't do shit for me now. I have to think of something.

A half hour passes before the doorbell rings. The husband answers it. It's my parents.

I thought they weren't coming.

They enter the kitchen and my father and the husband are chummy. My mother is profusely apologizing for me interrupting their dinner and family time. They never ask me if I'm okay. If there is more to the story than what I said on the phone. If I can ID the man to file a report. No reassuring hug that it will all be okay. That I am safe now. They don't even acknowledge that I am there other than to apologize for my presence in the family's home, my inconvenience to the family's life.

My father won't look at me. My mother finally pulls me aside as he talks shop with the husband. I have no idea where the wife went. Mother has the same advice as Carm. 'Shut up! Act like it never happened! Don't tell anyone!'

Each objection from me is met with another hostile "Don't..." followed by another piece of advice that I should pretend, ignore, erase from memory what has just occurred.

They drive me back to campus. The cab is gone when we pass the entrance to the subdivision. We ride in silence. My father's driving so the trip takes forever. The sky is turning light blue with the beginnings of dawn. They pull up in front of my dorm. (LaPlata Hall, where I lived as a freshman and sophomore at UMCP.) My father still hasn't spoken to me. I gather my purse in the hook of my arm, clutch my phone. This time it's just an electronic device to me, but I grip it anyway. Maybe that's nerves. I reach for the door handle in the back seat-passenger side. I open it, place a plastic covered foot on the ground.

"Demetria," my father begins. I look up. He's starring ahead like he's talking to the windshield. His hands are in the 9 and 3 position on the wheel. He can't even look at me? "When you get upstairs, look in the mirror," Dad says. "The woman you see standing there. It's her fault. (He actually said this to me about something else catastrophic that actually happened.) You had no business in that cab."

Something bad has happened to me. Someone was going to harm me definitely. Kill me, maybe. But it is my fault? His words seep into my core in that powerful way that only parent-words can. They go into that dark place that only the critiques of the people who brought you in this world and threaten on occasion to take you out can find. Only those who put them there have the key to unlock that place and remove the burden. I guess most of them lose the key or forget or don't realize what they did with the words.

It's my fault? quickly becomes It's my fault. The lock on the door to that place that I have no key clicks shut. It's my fault. It's MY fault. IT'S MY FAULT!!!! The purse feels extra heavy.

I nod. Duly chastised. It's .My. Fault, I process as I pull the handle to the door and mumble a good-bye to my mother.

I wake up with a start, staring at the ceiling. I blink once. Twice. Again. Again. Again until I realize I am home in my bed. I pull the covers to my chin and pray that I am alone. I am so scared.

I speak logically to myself. It was a dream, D. It was all a dream. I think it, then say it aloud as if hearing the words will convince me further. It works. My heart rate finally begins to slow.

My mouth is dry. I pad to the kitchen barefoot, wearing the dress I dozed off in. I throw a look to the front door. It's locked. The safety lock is on. I'm safe even if I don't feel it. Even if I don't feel it, I'm safe.

I get juice from the fridge, then sit on the counter top to smoke a Black & Mild to calm my nerves. I stare out the kitchen window into the blank night. It's silent. New York is silent.

Light it. Pull it. No one to pass it to. I want to tell someone what happened. I want someone to reassure me that I am safe. I debate calling my parents. I don't want to wake them. But really, I don't know that they will care. It was a dream, D, I remind myself. It was all a dream. I think of who else I can call. I don't know what time it is, but it's late, too late to call anyone about a dream. I think of Big, who I haven't talked to in over a year. I could call him. He would listen. He always used to listen. But I won't go down that road again. God bless the child that's got her own, Billie said. "I can make it on my own," said Lena, her incarnate (The Inner Beauty Movement).

I exhale a puff of smoke and cough hard. For the first time ever, I wish I didn't live alone. Maybe this is why people get married. So when they need to be assured that they are safe, there is someone -obligated by vows before God--to tell them "it's okay." I begin to analyze the dream, try to make sense of what it all meant. I reach a conclusion, then I tell myself--outloud--"It's okay." I add unconvincingly, "It's really not your fault. It's not my fault."

I look at the clock before I head back to bed.

4:20 is the loneliest hour on Earth.

Notes from the Nadir: They Do Exist

I'm back in motion, honeybees, but not running at full capacity. I still have an intermittent cough and when I'm not at work I've been keeping myself on bedrest so that I can recover sooner than later. You'd think with all this resting, I'd be able to get some new blogs going but the lack of interaction with the outside world has slowed my creativity to a crawl. Luckily (depending on your perspective), I met up with He, a man I've heard about before and read about in Essence but never experienced for myself. My conversation with He is the source of today's blog.

He is a black man who doesn't date black women. Like Santa said in the M&M commercial when he discovered talking, melt-in-your-mouth-but-not-in-your-hands candy was real, "they do exist!"

As some of you know, I've been working on a book for ... well, a long, long time (finishing it is how most of my bedrest has been spent). I met with an old acquaintance I've crossed paths with several times to discuss some new possibilities related to that project.** He's an amazingly resourceful college grad with a newly minted Ivy degree. His favorite show is about a white radio psychiatrist and his family and He prefers rock to hip-hop (it's all about money, gunplay and hoes, according to He). In rock, it seems every song tells a story. He is from Uptown and in his mid-twenties. He is tall, witty, decidely attractive, crisply attired the times I've encountered him, but alas, not my type. Aside from our conversations never escalating beyond pleasantries, that's why I never hit on him. And well, now I know why he never hit on me.

 

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Rants From My Deathbed: Distressed Damsel-Dar

So I am super sick, convinced, actually, that I have the flu in the dead of summer. Earlier today I declared myself near death (it hurt to hold my head up and I had a fever and chills) and called out of work, which I NEVER do. (I'm anal that way.) Four packets of TheraFlu and half a 12 pack of DayQuil later, I'm finally drugged into numbness and I've positioned myself in such a way that gravity won't allow my nose to run while I type. (All that said, I apologize in advance if this blog makes no sense.) I'd continue to give you all the intricate un-fascinating details of my illness, but that is not the point.

The point is that I think being sick is like best thing that has ever happened to my romantic life. Now that I'm weak and co-dependent (ie, a damsel in distress) every man I've ever batted a waterproof mascara coated lash at is offering to come to my rescue (ie, be my knight in shining armor). Without any call of duty, they are suddenly willing to go above and beyond.

 

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Verbal Snapshots of My Brooklyn Life

Since I started blogging here, people have been telling me how hilarious I am. Until recently, I've never ever thought of myself as funny ( I still don’t.). And I think I know why. My friends are all 10x funnier. Today's blog is random quotes about random things my Brooklynite friends (and visitors) have said, observed, recalled, or advised about relationships this summer. I hope they're as funny (or at the very least odd) to you as they are to me.

· "I have seen the light and it's in there!"--Pimpin @ Cafeteria, referring to his latest female acquisition, whose sex game is apparently on point

· "Learn to swallow... "- Andy @ VH1s Coolest Year in Hell screening , giving frank (albeit slightly drunk) advice on how a woman can keep (but not get) a man

· "Let me take you out, D. We can like go ride horses and shit."- Trent @ The Ave Magazine Anniversary Party, spitting his dead serious A game (he is one of the sweetest and craziest guys I know. He texted the next day to follow up. I turned him down though. )

· "Don't worry, D. I'll keep it soft"- David @ the Heineken/Roots showcase after he offered a formal invite to dance and I hesitated to accept

· "Hey, Baby... we met tonight, right?"- Simon, a hilarious -and gorgeous– man mid-hug/ air-kiss on the corner of 14th &8th. (We actually met the night before.)

· "Their conversations are slightly beyond remedial English"- Kay @ Diddy's Fashion Awards Party, summing up the new relationship between my arch enemy, the stupidest woman on earth, and the most beautiful man on Earth (after Blair Underwood , of course.)

· "You know what, D? It's all a big façade." (he pronounced it fah-caid, but I figured out what he meant anyway.)--Dear Stupid at my 28th birthday party @ Honey, the day I realized why I could never date him

· "D, you're amazing. You are the reason men fight wars."- a self esteem boost during a party at the Soho Adidas store from a male suitor after a really bad day. (I wish I was young enough to not know a line when I hear one. That woulda had me open at 22.)

· "I'm not your fucking brother"--Tariq @ Fort Greene Park after his hundredth pound, fiftieth double kiss, and being called ' my brother' a million times in just a 3 day visit to BK. He then noted that BK folks are the nicest people on earth.

· "My dick was in her mouth before the salmon was warm"- Parker @ Dos Caminos, describing his latest encounter with his most favorite older woman jump off (who cooks to show her appreciation for his services.)

· "Ugh. I want something brown in my bed, not Something New!!!!"- Ace @ Habana Outpost after I pointed out a delicious white boy

· "Why not? I have my shirt off"--a slightly drunk, slightly arrogant well-built bartender @ a Brooklyn house party when I refused to give him my number

I Put Away Childish Things... Or Something Like That

New York Fashion Week, there was a fabo party by Jacob the Jeweler at the Bentley dealership on the West Side. I was standing at the bar with Bianca, twirling a piece of my fluff around my index finger and waiting for my drink (they ran out of glasses) when a very lovely, chocolate, six-three , beareded specimen appears beside me. He elbows for room at the bar, bumping me.

"Mister," I say, glaring at him and pushing back into my space. "I know you see me standing here."

He assesses me for a few moments without saying anything. Then finally blurts, "You need a perm."

What?!

I fix my mouth to curse him out and he cuts me off. "It's really too much. You're trying too hard for attention. I like it though. But I still think you should perm it."

What?!

I cannot find my voice for some reason. Then he pulls my hair. Smiles. Is he flirting with me?

"What's your name, cutie?"

He is.

God help me but I find his asshole-ish-ness appealing. We chat about everything except the usual things people chat about when they first meet. He's totally random talking about glass bottom boats, the percentage of men in the United States who stand 6 feet or taller (14%) and perms. He orders our drinks ("you'll have what I'm having," he says). He hands me my glass of whatever and with a wink, he departs.

The rest of the night, every time he passes me, he makes a point to speak. He takes my near-empty glass and replaces it with a fresh drink. Another time, he pulls my hair again. Another time, he saddles up to my friends and introduces himself as my future ex-husband. He catches me on the dance floor doing my slightly-tipsy 2 step (normal for DC, odd for NYC) and he grabs my hand, and we dance. No bumping and grinding and backing it up, actual, real dancing. We were totally in sync. He knew my next move before I did. He's a GREAT dancer. I'm totally feeling his energy. Five dances and one almost-sticky shirt later, I scream, "Mister, who are you?!" and laugh with glee.

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"You Can't Start the Play in the Second Act"

I have a friend--strictly platonic these days--who calls on holidays and birthdays and other random occasions just to say hi. Somehow, a year passed without us chatting. Every time we talk, he finds a way to slip in a mention of this crazy night we shared far and long ago. The story is hilarious to us now, but at the time it happened, we thought it was the end of our then-budding friendship.

I talked to him the other day. He called to wish me a "Happy Birthday" and he told me I should go out and have fun. Instead of saying, "don't do anything I wouldn't do," he told me, "do all the things you've never done..." Pause. "Like the start the play in the second act." (Everyone from my long-term inner circle just busted out laughing and thought 'she is not about to tell this story.')

During the seven months of my discontent back in 2002 (my Dark Period), I went to a club in DC called Dream (now Love) every Friday night. Dream was a four-story super club that held about 5000 people and at the time, it was newly opened and the poshest place in DC if you were young and/or fabulous or aspiring to be such. Faithfully, my best friend Ace and I showed up every Friday around 7pm for happy hour. We usually two-stepped until midnight and were safely and soberly tucked in our beds back in MD somewhere around 1am.

One of those Friday nights, I met a boy. He was... beautiful. There's really no other way to describe him. No, scratch that. He was... of such beauty that he appeared to be hand crafted by God Herself. That's more accurate.

I spot him in the crowd and he's headed in my direction, but not headed toward me. He's sees me. I smile. He smiles back. I bite my bottom lip and look away. But then something feisty in me kicks in. This is no time to be a coy southern belle. This man was not going to pass without me knowing who he was. He needed to be spoken to. I make eye contact again, point to him, crook my finger and yell loud enough for him to hear me over the bassline of some B-more club song, "YOU, COME HERE!"

He happily and promptly obliges. I introduce myself cheerfully, tell him he is the cutest thing ever. I ruffle his vast mane of hair with my fingers. As we chat briefly, I'm beaming. So is he. He's got great energy. From that Friday on, we see each other at the club for the rest of the summer. He would see me, give me a hug, buy me a drank. His boys would see me and my girl, and they'd come up to tell me what floor he was on so we could find each other (this was before the days of rampant texting.) Or they'd bring him over to me and we'd just sorta stare at each other smiling like idiots going, "Hey." Pause. "Hey." Blush. "Hey." Giggle. "Hey." I was head over heels for this dude, but I didn't even remember his name.

So three months of these Friday interludes go by. In these passing convos, I piece together that he's a senior at a local university, he's from the ur-e-ah (DC speak for "area") and he's a year younger than me. I'm sure more details were exchanged, but I was usually tipsy during our interactions. Damn Bone Crushers. (What is in those things?) I knew the most important facts: he's cool as hell and he has great energy.

One Thursday afternoon, I get a call offering me a job in NYC. It's far from my dream job, but it's in New York, where I desperately want to be (that I was not there was the source of my seven month depression.) Of course, I take it. I have to move in three weeks, and two of the weeks I've arranged for an overseas vacation.

My summer of Friday-night partying at Dream comes to an abrupt halt as the next night will be my last at the club for the foreseeable future. In honor of my departure, Ace and I decide we will party the night away. We'll arrive when the doors open and enjoy the buffet, dance until we sweat through our dresses and not leave till the lights come on at which point we'll slip on flip flops to walk to the parking lot. It's the only proper way to say goodbye.

It's my last night at the club and dude finally asks for my number, tells me he'd like to call me sometime. But summer is almost over and so is my stay in DC. I don’t do well in long distance relationships. And I already know I don’t want to be just Dude’s friend. With a deep sigh, I ask him, "Dude, why'd you wait so long? I'm moving."

"Moving?" He looks stunned. "What do you mean moving?"

"I'm leaving. I'm going to NY." And then I explain how I have this two week-trek coming up and that night is my last in DC for a long time. (The following morning, I boarded a train to NYC to find an apartment in two days.) "Dude, I'm out," I say.

He asks for my number anyway. I ask him back, "What's the point?"...

 

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"Who are they? Actually, they're strippers."

Whenever I need to really chill, I leave Brooklyn and go back home to Maryland. It's difficult to sleep with the sounds of crickets instead of sirens at night and even more difficult to sleep-in with those suburban birds chirping all in those trees everywhere and what not. Truthfully, I'll take the sound of horns and the morning garbage trucks any day, at least I can sleep though those sounds… but I digress. The Old County, as I affectionately call Maryland, allows me to get away from the ever-constant hustle that is life in NYC. Everything is just really slow. The last time I was home, sometime around Thanksgiving, my best friend and I had a girl's night out at Jasper's, a local bistro (if you can call it that) with excellent crab cakes, fat, beer battered fries, and Bone Crushers, a local alcoholic beverage of which I have never figured out the contents, but order everytime I go there.

The goal was to have a chill night. Keep it local, have a couple drinks, some dinner and head on home before 2. But nothing is every simple when I roll with Ace.

We get to the bar and spot a pair of attractive, well-structured men drinking close by. At first, they look, but don’t speak to us. They are clearly on the hunt, scoping every woman that walks by. At some point in the night, after Bone Crusher One but before the end of Two, one of them eavesdrops on our conversation. So I've been told by more than one listening intruder, Ace and I's chat tend to TV-ready banter at its finest--especially after the first Bone Crusher.

The twosome engages us in playful banter. We tease them about the number of women who have been stopping by to say hello. One of them chuckles and says with no trace of humility, “Oh? You don’t know who we are?”

I screw up my face in the classic WTF? look. Ya'll already know I can't stand a man with an ego.

“Uh, naw, dude," Ace says, humoring the conversation. "Who might you be?”

Another chuckle and a shared glance between them. “Nobody at all.”

I'm completely turned off by these dudes now. So is Ace. We’re now giving them our best f**k-off’ aura, showing a clear disinterest and only speaking to each other. They don’t get it. (If you know me, you've heard my thoughts about men loving mean or disinterested women.) Now, they want to talk. Just great.

So they start talking and we're eating, half-heartedly paying attention. But eventually we start listening intently because with only two Heinekens each in their systems and me only half-heartedly using any journalism skills, this is what a pair of quite beautiful, six foot, two hundred pound black men made of sculpted muscle shared with us:

Who are they? Actually, they’re strippers. But don’t call them that. They like to be called entertainers. Oh, and they’re not dancers. Their “show” is more than dancing. They work 10 minutes a day, 7 days a week (one takes Sundays off to go to church and be with his WIFE and children). They get butterball, birthday-suit naked on stage...

 

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A Moment of Clarity

Alicia is a good friend and a gorgeous woman. Beautiful. Good character. Total wifey type. I've always thought she was amazing--inside and out. We attended a black-tie hip-hop affair for Kanye West's 30th birthday recently and she was wearing a gold BCBG cocktail dress that accentuated the best of her curvy size 6 frame. Her make-up was perfection, highlighting her high cheekbones, tanned complexion and her radiant smile to their fullest potential. In short, she was glowing.

"Wow," I thought as she sauntered up the steps to the second floor of the Louis Vuitton store on 5th Avenue to meet me and Penelope. "She looks amazing! One of the most beautiful women in this room." And that's saying something too, because there was a good thousand+ people present. Some extraordinarily fine 6-foot creature told her she looked like a Senator's wife, like she belonged on the arm of presidential hopeful Barak Obama. (*sigh* What a line... And why didn't she get his number?)

Her SO (def: significant other, not really her man, not really not her man, not really her friend.) stopped by to greet her as we peered over a ledge watching John Legend perform. I gave a smug hello and paid little attention to him. I've always had mixed feelings about their relationship. The 30+man's been promising Alicia for years that he's working on being better for her and that he's taking his slow time making any sort of commitment because he's growing and it's a long process. Whatever the hell that means. He hung out for a quick two minutes, took some pics of us, then went to work the room. I was glad when he left.

 

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28 Years Later

July 9 is my 28th birthday. In the days leading up, I always take stock of where I am and where I want to be. To acknowledge the day in years past, I've written blogs about the things that every woman should know by whatever age I'm turning. This year, I've been inspired in a different direction. I was at church today and my pastor said this: "You may not be where you want to be, but thank God you are not where you were." That line got me to thinking about all the things that I've learned about relationships and men in the last 28 years. Lord knows I've encountered my share of BS, but I don't regret any of it. I've grown and learned from my mistakes. I still have a long way to go, but I thank God everyday that I am not where I was.

Most of the lessons I learned are very simple and very obvious but were very hard to get nonetheless. I made a list of (only) 28 of them. They are all things that I wish someone had told me or things someone told me that I didn't listen to. I know there are a whole lot more that I know and haven't written and plenty that I just don't know yet. Post your comments at the end and add what I left off.

If he doesn't call, he's not interested. Period.

Friends last longer than boyfriends.

It's impossible to fill a spiritual void with a physical act.

Men are insecure too.

If he says he's not ready for a relationship, believe him.

 

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F*ck Black Women

Let me preface this blog: Misogyny runs wild in American culture, period. So it's certainly not just so many of the brothas who are guilty of hating women in general, and black women in particular. But a so-called brotha is the inspiration for this blog and hence, ithis post only address Black men.

I know the title of the blog is inflammatory. But that's really want I want to say to a lot of Black men who date Black women, but don't really like Black women. And let me clear this up quick, just because a man likes to have sex with Black women, does not mean he actually likes Black women. There's a difference between liking to f*ck someone and actually like them. Pause. Read those last two sentences again. If you just now get the difference, I have just shaved reams of relationship drama from your life. Thank me someday.

My best male friend in the whole wide world, Tariq, sent me an exchange he had with one of his friends--a male– complaining about Black women's hair. The crux of the story went something like this: Black man raised by Black mother met a girl one night, asked her out another, but before she said yes to the date, she said she had something to tell him. He's thinking she's married, got a man, got a kid. That something was, "I was wearing a wig last night."

Instead of being relieved that's all it is, the man--who until recently has made it a point to only date women with one white parent because he prefers lighter skinned women with wash & wear hair-- the man is angry...

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On Turning 27...

I am a big birthday person. Skip Thanksgiving, just acknowledge Christmas with a phone call--or show up at the house if youre my S.O.--, take a shot of Patron with me for New Years, V-day only requires a text message. But my birthday?!

Its not just a day. It is an event! And got damn it, you better act like you know. I dont need gifts, but a bunch of undivided attention from my inner circle is required. Make a big deal over me. Go the extra mile. Allow me to inconvenience you for just one night. Indulge my ego for one day. Oh, and dont laugh at my tiara (yes, I wear one all day on my b-day) and most important: make sure if (when? LOL!) I dance on the table that youre there to catch me if I should stumble. Thats all I ask.

Is that too much?

In previous years, Ive anticipated my annual Big Day with giddiness, thinking only of the pure debauchery of the upcoming celebration. The count of the years creeping higher didnt faze me in the least. I made no New Years resolution-type list of goals to reach in the upcoming 12 months. My birthday has always been just another day on which a major party occurs and a lot of shots are consumed in my honor.

But this year, eh things are a little different. Ive found myself taking stock of lifewhere I am, where I thought I would be, where I want to be. Its not a milestone year, but Ive officially entered my late 20s. I feel funny still trying to claim girlhood and all the easily pardoned stumbles that being young allows for. I feel like I have to be a Woman now and Im not sure exactly what that means.

Recently, I was reading an old issue of Honey (from the great years when they had the original editors and publishers) and I came across an article entitled something like 30 things a woman should have/do/know by 30. If it was a graded T/F pop quiz, I would have passed barely. Ive never approached a man to ask for his phone number, much less insisted on getting the home number. I cant spot a flawless diamond and even dont know how theyre graded. I dont know how to cook a grand meal and I would butcher any attempt to recreate one of my mamas dishes. I have no clue how to change a flat tire or insert a female condom.

However, I have traveled internationally (just got back from my third trip to London earlier today, in fact.) I moved twice into my own apartment without borrowing money to do so. Ive read the black female literary cannon. And Ive had a (actually several) mind-blowing orgasm(s) without anyone elses assistance. Ha!

There were a couple other notes on the list that I checked off (performing a breast exam, getting out of debt, fixing my credit), some others that I would like to accomplish sooner than later (praying regularly, actually asking for a promotion instead of avoiding the conversation and quitting for a better job and more money, purchasing a classic power suit from Barneys).

While I also get to accomplishing what I havent already on that Honey list, I figure with my birthday rapidly approaching and my self-defined entry into official womanhood, Id make my own late 20s checklist of what I think women should have/do/know.

A woman should (in no particular order):

Use her woman/from-the-diaphragm voice even when she can get her way easier/faster with the squeak (theres a blog coming on that one soon.)

Get an HIV test

Accept that it is ridiculous to tie her worth and daily self-confidence to a number on a scale. Accept that a size 4 or 6 or any size is not worth starving for.

Get a job she loves or at least likes instead of one that inspires little, but pays the bills

Finish whatever it is she started (for me, its the book Ive been on-and-off writing for 3 years.)

Own good lingerie. (Its not just for him. Its for you too!)

Dance on a table; dance like no-ones watching even if its off beat

Stop drinking beyond her limit and officially put the hangover weekend behind her; Drink brand liquor. House brand is guaranteed hangover

Give back. Volunteer; donate time and/or energy to a cause.

Quit experimenting with hair color at home. Professionals are better at dyeing hair than fixing botched dye jobs (add to that, only dyeing her hair colors that reasonably can occur in nature.)

Not lie about her age or anything else. If youre grown enough to do it, be grown enough to own it.

Own a sex toy and know how to give herself an orgasm in under 5 minutes

Buy a cherished piece of jewelry for herself

Let a man who wants to go, leave; walk away from a relationship as soon as you know its not going to work

Become a proud feminist (there is nothing wrong with wanting equality)

Use condoms 100f the time (birth control only means youve decreased your odds of getting preggers. Its still quite possible and it does nada to prevent STDs/HIV.)

Forgive herself for having an abortion

Have her pictures framed. No more thumbtacks or tape to hold up her pictures

Contribute to her 401K; Invest in something; Save at least 10ør the future

Know how to instruct a man to please her physically; tell a man when she has not been satisfied by him

Establish a strictly platonic relationship with a man

Understand that No. is a complete sentence and that it is okay to say it as often as you feel necessary

Take a solo vacation; eat, got to the movies, a concert alone; understand that alone does not mean lonely

Make an important decision without consulting anyone or asking their advice

Know NOT to follow a man to another city without a ring!

Handle being broken up with in a dignified manner (break up does not mean break down)

Own a full length mirror; Buy clothes that fit in the size that she is, not the size she hopes to become someday

Giving to Get: A Revolutionary Concept

I’ve been accused of being hard spirited and hard on men too. Maybe I am. I have expectations of decency and behavior that I think the man in my life should meet. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. I want a man who takes out the trash and fixes what’s broken in the house and assumes responsibility for moving all heavy objects and killing insects and investigates bumps in the night as much as a man wants a woman who cooks and cleans and washes clothes and decorates. I’m not sure how reasonable my expectations are these days, but we all have certain wants and desires. It’s human. The question is: ‘what are we doing to get those wants, desires and expectations met?’

I think not much...

READ THE REST in  A BELLE IN BROOKLYN: The Go-to Guide for Advice on Living Your Best Single Life. ON SALE NOW. 

A Tale of Crash & Burn: Burn

Part III’s been a longtime coming and I think I know why. Reading all the signs he showed me about his asshole-ry, I’m a little embarrassed that I let it go on for so long. In hindsight– which is always 20/20, somewhere around the post-midnight ride to the train on our second date, I should’ve stopped taking his calls. Only because I promised the whole story, will I share it with ya’ll. Hopefully you’ll see the signs of fuckery in my story and if you ever encounter this type of dude, you’ll dead it sooner than I did.

The story:

He asked me how else I wore my hair. I didn’t know what he was getting at, but I told him anyway. The gist of it is, it’s either out, in a high poof, held back with a head band.

“How long is it when it’s straight?” he asks.

“I don’t straighten it,” I tell him. “It’s a matter of principle.”

He looks not pleased. “Never?”

I tell him I did it 3 months ago for the first time in a few years. I don’t plan to do it ever again. The fear of water in all its forms terrorized me for 10 days. That, and no one–even close friends– recognized me and I look better with fluffy hair.

He takes that all in, nods, and tells me, “You know why you get away with your hair like that?” He doesn’t wait for the an answer. “It’s cause you have a pretty face.”

I think he meant that as a compliment. I was offended. I glance at the clock, which reads almost One, and pushed his legs off my lap. “It’s time for me to go,” I announce, reaching for my Louis.

 

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Another Woman's Trash

I was at T-Pain's album release party at PM with Penelope and a friend of hers, Giselle. I'd hung out with Giselle a few times and she was cool as hell. We had a lot in common, including the same taste in men, it would turn out.

We were at the bar when a gorgeous stranger ran up on Giselle and hugged her. He was fine. Crazy, dumb fine.

Bootyful was introduced to Penelope and I. He said "hello" casually, chatted briefly with Giselle (I didn't pick up relationship vibes from him), then returned to whatever Heaven-sent place he'd come from. As soon as he left, I couldn't help myself from asking her, "Who was that?"

"Just some guy I used to get down with."

"An ex?"

"Oh, hell no, girl. Just a little jump off from a couple years ago."

 

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A Tale of Crash & Burn: Lift Off

Part I- Lift Off I met a guy--a cute guy--at a Stevie Wonder party. It's a once a year shindig in New York where everyone who's anyone and loves Stevie gets together in a massive warehouse to dance for hours. Every person--male and female– I've ever met at one of these parties has been a great individual. So I meet this guy and we chat. He's got great conversation, only one dimple and a smile just made for dropping panties--and he seems to be wholly unaware of this. His laughter makes me laugh. All good signs.

So we exchange numbers. Our first conversation lasts an hour. We text compulsively. A week or so later our schedules finally calm enough for us to make a lunch date. I realize I'm nervous. Really nervous. This is very very good and very very bad too. It's been years since I've liked anyone other than Mr. Ex. He made me goo goobs of nervous and no one has affected me the same way since--until now. I don't like this feeling. I like to be in control. I debate canceling the date until Penelope, my NY bestest, talks me out of it.

I go on the date. I order salad and can't finish my food because I am just that jittery. I realize that Mr. Great Conversation has the longest eyelashes I've ever seen on a man. They make his eyes beautiful. I could stare at him all day. I sigh outloud and I can feel my face burning. I am blushing. My normally deep-for-a-woman voice is girlish and light. I twirl my hair over dessert. I've got it bad. He asks me a question about my last relationship and it catches me off-guard. I spill half a glass of water down the front of my sweater. (Told you I was nervous.) I am beyond embarrassed. All I can think is: "He is never going to call now." I am being such a girl.

He calls the next day from work. We schedule to meet again on date night (Friday.) We go to my favorite restaurant. It's outdoors, under a tent, candlelit. As we sip our drinks, rain begins to fall, the tap, tap, tap of the water hitting the tent just right. It was like a scene straight out of love jones. I debate inviting him to my house after "just to talk" if only to play out the fairytale romance of it all.

He asks me what my sexual fetishes are. It catches me off guard. I realize that this is only Date 2 and here he is asking me about sex (bad sign), but there is no way I'm ruining the oh-so-romantic moment with my sometimes prudish, Southern Belle tendencies. That and I was halfway through my second coconut martini. Oh, and even though it's just the second date, I have already decided that if this man doesn't say anything stupid, that I will envelop him someday. Likely sooner than later.

"I got this thing for..." I laugh 'cause I can't believe I'm about to confess this to a virtual stranger. "Like chains.... But like necklaces on men," I add quickly. "Not kinky, bondage, tie-me-up type chains."

He sips his wine, studies me, and leans back in his chair (you know that sexy man- sprawl they do). "What is it about chains?" he asks, eye-ing me now, smirking as he waits for my answer. “Sometimes I like to bite em.... Sometimes I like to pull em... It keeps the man close. That's sexy to me."

 

He smirks. "You have control issues." A statement not a question. I freely admit to him that I do. "But you like to be manhandled too, huh?"

He’s got this habit of catching me off guard. Instead of spilling my drink, I laugh until I am near-tears. I avoid answering the question and he does’t press the issue. He hands me a napkin and just when I think he is going to switch the subject, he tells me he already knows the answer.

He asks for the check, pays the bill. He– a driver– asks how I am getting home. I tell him I'll take the subway. He notes that it's after midnight.

And it all goes downhill from here.

Get Over Mr. Ex

I was beyond drunk one night long ago. It was my unofficial Get the F*ck Over Mr. Ex party. There are pictures to prove I did what I did and the stories of what I said (and did) are starting to filter in slowly from friends. I didn't dance on any tables. All things considered, I think I was pretty well-behaved.

Anyway, I invited a very attractive man  to party with me that night. If all had gone according to my week long, shit-talking plan, he would have been my "gift" for the night. The plan was to gauge Cutie's interest, and if he was indeed interested, invite him over to the house to celebrate finally getting over my ex. I'd ask him to bring a bottle of wine and we'd watch a late night movie... "or something." LOL!

Cutie shows up looking just as delicious as I remember...

READ THE REST in  A BELLE IN BROOKLYN: The Go-to Guide for Advice on Living Your Best Single Life. ON SALE NOW