Untitled - Education

I don’t remember what I did the first day there, but I recall it being eighty degrees, which to Londoners, is a freaking heat wave. People were sweating and walking round half naked complaining about the heat. That means I must have gone outside and I’m sure I walked around my neighborhood. I lived next door to the planetarium and Madame Tussad’s Wax Museum (I never went to either one, even on two subsequent trips to London.) The Sherlock Holmes Museum was on my block (never been there either) and I was a short walk from Regents Park (sort of London’s equivalent of Central Park), which I went to as often as possible. With their horrible weather (like Seattle), I don’t know how the British pull it off, but they have the most beautiful flower gardens of anyplace I’ve ever been. I’d wander around that park for hours sometimes and occasionally, I’d sit by the lake on one of the comfy cushioned-benches and watch the ducks play in the water or read a book. I loved that park.

WANT TO READ MORE BELLE? STAY TUNED FOR MY BOOK IN JUNE 2011: A BELLE IN BROOKLYN: ADVICE FOR LIVING YOUR SINGLE LIFE & ENJOYING MR. RIGHT NOW (ATRIA)

Untitled - The Roommates

Part 3: I was composed by the time I got to London's Heathrow Airport. I'd listened to Macy Gray the whole trip over and I'd resigned myself to my fate for the next four months. There was nothing I could do about it, so I might as well find a way to enjoy it.

Waiting for my luggage, I encounter a couple of students I recognize from the study abroad classes I took the previous semester. One of them is Erin, who turns out to be my roommate. She’s also a senior and this is her second time studying abroad. Last time, she went to Nice. She’s from Annapolis and her parents have a house on the water, which I deduct means they are loaded. She’s nice enough and in time I’ll find out she’s pretty normal, despite an obsession with getting wrinkles (during the trip she’ll shell out the equivalent of $80 on a thimble full of face cream that promises to delay aging.) Oh, and she can drink a bottle of any overproof liquor and be fine to operate heavy machinery, but two glasses of wine and she’s literally falling down drunk. (I discovered this when the two us and her sister went to some chic Italian restaurant for Thanksgiving dinner –which I knew was a uniquely American tradition, but had never really thought about what it's like to not celebrate en masse. Long, long night. ) She seems to have a sense of purpose to everything she does and when I'm bored, she lets me use her face as a canvas to do make-up. Months later, we take a trip to Rome and Venice.

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Untitled: Departure

I wasn't totally sold on the London idea, but I agreed to go (at least I'd be off campus). I started attending prep classes for the trip and realized I was only one of two Black girls going out of about 40 students. The Other Black Girl, Amira, and I agreed to be roommates. I didn't know much about her. She was tall and looked Nigerian (later found out she wasn't, but she had strong features and most people incorrectly assumed that too). She lived in my building and though she seemed nice and friendly, I suspected she didn't pick up on all social cues well. Once she came by the suite where I stayed with my roomies and sat for a couple hours in my living room while my roommates and I went about our regular programming not really paying attention to her. And so I'd heard, she had a crush on the guy who lived in the suite across from me. My roomie told me of a time when she allegedly sat in the courtyard of our building for an hour and waited for Stephen to come home just to catch a glimpse of him. Maybe she was weird, but she was Black so I'd take my chances.

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Untitled--

Part I I didn't want to study abroad. I didn’t see the point. I was one of those weird people who liked school, but I didn't see why I would leave the country to like it. Even in a foreign land, I'd still be beholden to deadlines and classrooms and books and professors.

I'd met with my English advisor earlier that week and he told me what I already knew (and gave me a great argument to support what I really wanted): I was an English class shy of the necessary courses to be able to graduate. All I had left were a bunch of electives. It seemed I loved English so much I'd taken extra courses just because. But really, it was easy and I wanted to dedicate more brainpower to my next hairstyle or tomorrow’s outfit or my latest crush or getting over a hangover. The advisor was impressed by my dedication to the written word. He thought he’d found a kindred spirit.

"You know what I would do?" he asked excitedly.

I knew the question was rhetorical, but I responded anyway. "What's that?" I responded, matching his enthusiasm.

“Study abroad in the Fall."

I'd never given it any thought. And I wasn’t about to start now. Leave D.C.? Why would anyone do that?

He must have sensed my hesitation because he followed up with, "You could bullshit here or go overseas and do it. It'd be much more fun over there."

WANT TO READ MORE BELLE? STAY TUNED FOR MY BOOK IN JUNE 2011: A BELLE IN BROOKLYN: ADVICE FOR LIVING YOUR SINGLE LIFE & ENJOYING MR. RIGHT NOW (ATRIA)

Random Thoughts: South Africa

So for years, I've been obsessed with Africa- yes, the whole continent. Anyone who goes gets my full attention during their inevitable debriefing (and anyone from there gets 50 million random questions as they pop in my head). As the descendant of American slaves on both sides, I kinda feel like I don't have a "home" country (Mississippi is not the “Old Country”) and while I'm told Black Americans aren't considered "African" in Africa (and if you're pale, perhaps not even Black), I still think of Africa fondly as this far off place where my people's journey began—sort of. Sidebar:

I was in Rome years ago and my friend and I met some Italian guys (by and large they LOVE Black women) while we were walking from the Spanish Steps. So one of them asks my girl (not Black) where she's from (cause heritage is a huge deal over there among all classes) and instead of just saying "American," she launches into where her people came from, going back way beyond when her great grandparents came to America. So when she’s done the guys turn to me and ask the same.

They’re Italian, but they’re “white.” I give up the PC, mixed-company answer. "African-American."

They look at me curiously, like they don't understand. "Are you African or are you American?" one asks.

Huh? Now I don't get it.

Then it dawns on the other. "One of your parents is American, the other from Africa!" he says, having a eureka moment. "What country?"

“Um, no.” I explain that the parents are American, technically. One from the South, the other from the Midwest by way of the South.

"But where are they from?" He wants me to name a country other than America.

"Uh..."

In order to explain, I have to launch into an explanation of slavery. And in a country where family name and status determine a lot of what you'll be in life, I lack the urge to explain that 400 years of Black slavery when all that lineage ish got erased. He’s a stranger. I don’t want to lay all my African-American baggage on him at this quaint outdoor café while having cappuchino.

There’s no way around it though as he and his friend are waiting patiently for an answer, so I spill it as off-handedly as I can. “No clue. My people came over on a ship from Africa. Somewhere from Africa is all I know."

I avoid looking at Steph. That this history is the best I’ve got, bothers me. I’ve just listened to Steph trace her people back to a small Irish town 300 years prior. I don’t know ish beyond my great-grandparents, and not a whole lot about them now that I think about it.

The two Italians think on my answer for a second. "Hmmm. So you're a real American then, huh?" one concludes.

I spare myself from launching into an explanation about how so-called “Indians” are the only real Americans. If we’re going by the convenient, short-hand definition of what an American is, well, I didn’t come over on the Mayflower, but my ship to the states sailed shortly thereafter.

"Yeah," I confirm. "I'm American." It only took a trip outside of America to figure that out.

Anyway, that’s not the point of today’s blog. The point is my yippity-skippity excitement over a friend who left for South Africa last week. For months now, I’ve been planning to buy a trip there for my 30th bday. I figure I’ll buy the ticket in July, and fly out the following December as a Happy Birthday-to-me gift.

So my friend, a deejay, has gone over there for 2 weeks to spin and soak up the culture. He AIM’ed me on my BelleBerry Saturday morning with an update on his travels (try as I might, I wasn’t able to pull off a last minute detour to go with him.) I got as much info. about SA out of him as I could during our quick back and forth. In case you’re thinking about going or are at all curious about South Africa like I am (He’s back today, but I’m waiting till Saturday to harass him about pics and details) here goes:

P: Dee Dee? [Belle note: only he gets away with calling me this.]

Me: You still there? I was sleeping when this came thru

Me: How is the motherland?

P: Wonderful

P: lots of money and lots of poverty...very polar

Me: Are you taking pictures?

P: im takin pics & video...going on safari in a few days

P: should be exciting

P: how r u

Me: Ure living the life I dream of. So happy for you.

Me: I am good. The world keeps on turning. What more can I ask for?

P: im prob coming back

P: next time im flying to capetown

Me: Of course you will. Is the culture entirely different?

P: yes and no, lots of similarities in the metropolitan areas

P: kids are kids

P: but safety is a major issue

Me: Wow. Like that?

P: but there’s soooo much culture and history

P: u could do a summer here easily

Me: Ahhh. If only I had the time. Ill prolly have to retire first.

P: u can take 10-14 days off

P: include the weekend

Me: Of course, I want a full report when you return. Are you keeping a journal? Blogging on this? You have to record it all.

P: no, but taking video

P: ill tell u all abt it

Me: Ok :-) hey what time is it there?

P: 5PM [Belle note: its 11:36AM EST]

Me: Oh. Ok. Did you spin yet?

P: Yea, last nite

P: loft party, very cool

P: it looked like LA [Belle note: I don’t know what I though South Africa looked like. It wasn’t jungles and lions. But hearing it described as LA through me for a loop.]

P: rich part of town

P: tonight i do the club

Me: It went well? They're up to date on American music?

P: Kinda

P: i think its a combo of tv, online and radio influence

P: So i can go recent..but not to new

Me: They responded well to ure music?

P: yeah, everyone had fun

P: they’re very beat driven [Belle note: no surprise here]

P: so i play faster pace stuff

P: and some house influenced stuff

P: house is big here

Me: House music in africa?! I love it. Who knew?

Me: Do they look like americans at all? Do they dress similar? Dance similar?

P: lots of similarities

P: ull see when i show pics

P: it also depends on income level of person

P: went to a university debate

P: looked like NYU

P: went to a township...looked like post katrina NO

Me: I have so many questions.

P: yes maam, feel free to write away

P: its a very inspiring place to be especially with such a recent turbulent history

Me: Uh, do they have an official president yet? Did that get resolved?

P: i believe someone has been appointed in his place now, until the official election happens (im never good with politics, but its BIG topic here)

P: among all ages

P: everyone is very in tune with political debate

P: i parallel it to pop culture knowledge among the american youth...it seems like politics are looked at as something you should know and discussed frequently.

Me: That's everywhere outside the us, esp in an election year

Me: Are you going to mandella's prison while ure there?

P: it's in capetown, im in johannesburg, may not have time to make it...i went by his house and a few museums & soweto

P: oh...u were asking about the music..go to youtube and check "kwaito" thats the popular music with the youth

[Belle note: This is what I found when I looked: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=euzWZp6kTdg http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JootqR3U9Lk http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gh59_fI9ks ]

P: its a combo of traditional, hip hop, house and funk

P: good stuff too [Belle note: I liked what I found.]

Me: Cool. Is it similar to house and garage in london? [Belle note: after searching it out, the answer is no.]

Me: Ahhh. Ok. You've been busy. Where r u staying? Do you have a guide?

P: a few friends from school live here

Me: Ahhh. U did say that. Go hoyas!

P: yes maam, hoyas run this ish

Fall From Grace, Part 2

I hadn't planned to write a part 2 to the London story. It seemed pretty complete to me (this could be me watching all these indie films that don't have conventional endings.) My boy called me up midway through Wednesday to ask what happened next. He wanted me to send P2 and couldn't wait till whenever I posted. I told him there wasn't any more.

"What?"

He was borderline belligerent, insisting the story wasn't done. I saw the comments, but I've got stories pouring out of me right now (as you can likely tell from the long, themed posts this week.) Anyway, I found time to write an unofficial Part 2 at your—and his--request. The thing about passing out is you don't know it when it happens. You figure it out by the gap in you're memory and the reactions of the people around you if you're in public, which is how I realized what occurred.

I come to as I'm being held up by a man. I'll learn later that he saw me swoon on the escalator, fall back, and he ran up the escalator to catch me before I tumbled into Hell. My purse and bag fell halfway down the stairs before another man scooped them.

I'm scared shitless and still on the escalator (it’s that long.) What happened? How did I get here? With my delayed reaction, it takes a few beats to figure out that the worst occurred, but not with the expected result. How long was I out for? Where did this guy come from? There was no one on the escalator when I turned around last.

"Are you okay?" The guy holding me pauses my racing mind in his British accent.

In response, I try to reach for the stairwell to stand on my own. My arm is heavy and even I think it’s moving in slow motion. I wonder how delayed my verbal response was.

He grips me tighter. He's got me by the shoulder and around the waist. I'm being supported and held by a complete stranger. I clearly don't have the strength to pull away. I'm weak and apparently he's strong. I look up to see his face. As weird as this scenario is, I feel safe.

At the top of the steps, the guy holding me guides me to the wall and leans me against it. The guy with my purse hands it to the man, not me. They're crowded around me in my personal space and moving their mouths at each other, then looking curiously at me like I am some sort of rapidly growing science experiment.

Any other time this would freak me out. But I don't have the energy to do that. My head feels heavy. I lean it back and close my eyes.

The man that was holding me steadies my right shoulder to the wall. I hear them talking then, about me. I realize they were speaking about and to me all along. I'm so out of it. Too far gone to even acknowledge or care how gone I am.

"Are you all right?" one man asks me. He's got that tone that indicates this isn't the first time he's asked.

I squeak out a meek "no." I'm scared. I don't feel right and I don't know what's wrong with me or what to do. Tears start to run down my face. I grimace trying to steel myself. Crying won't do anything, but it's the only thing I can do right now so I do it openly, but silently.

I don't know what happens next, but one guy --the one without my bag-- leaves and the other one guides me by the shoulder to the station attendant, a late 30- something Caribbean woman (I can tell by her features).

As he explains to her what happened, she looks concerned and rises from her perch on the stool and offers me a seat. I take it, slump, and drop my head to my chest. I feel slightly better, but I'm still exhausted. She hands me a hard napkin.

Before he leaves, the man sets my purse and bag on the attendant's counter. He asks if I'm okay again. I nod, wiping my face. The attendant promises him she'll look after me, and then he leaves. I squeak out a thank you at his retreating back.

The attendant lifts my chin, looks me in the face, studying me.

"I need to call someone to come get you?" It's posed like a question but it's a statement.

I shake my head. There's no one to call. There's the fucking Atlantic Ocean between me and anyone who cares that I could have fallen down those steep steps and likely killed myself. I need someone and no one's here. I start to cry again because I'm scared.

The woman is looking at me curiously.

"Are you okay, love?"

I swallow a sob, trying to keep from falling apart. I nod, still looking at the floor and say "yes."

I want to go back to the apartment and go bed. I slowly reach for my bag, but the attendant, stops me, steadying me in my chair.

"Don't you think you should stay here for a little while?" she asks. Another question, but more of a statement. "You can stay as long as you need to." She's talking to me like a child, which is great because I feel like one. I sit obediently on the stool.

She offers to get me crackers and juice, and I accept, remembering that was my original mission in getting off the train.

I eat, I sit. She talks to me about nothing, small talk mostly. I listen halfheartedly for what feels like forever. Finally, she asks how I'm feeling again.

I feel fine. I tell her I think I'm ready to go. This time she doesn't try to stop me. I thank her profusely for looking after me, and she tells me to come back and see her next time I'm in the station and to take care of myself. I try to offer her money, reimbursement for whatever she spent on my snack, but she waves me off. I head for the steps leading above ground.

It's a 20 minute walk back to the apartment. I can be back there (Baker Street) in 10, tops, if I take the train. But I figure the fresh air will do me good. Plus there's no way in hell I'm getting back on that escalator today.

I guess I look like hell when I get back to the apartment. One of the female roommates observes this in front of everyone. They are all gathered in the living room watching some British game show.

I sit on the couch to tell them the short version of what happened: I passed out on the escalator. This guy caught me. “I’m fine,” I quickly add. I’m tired of people asking me if I’m okay. I passed out on an escalator. Clearly, I’m not.

"Oh my God, are you okay?!" Steph exclaims as soon as I’m done. She's the closest one to me in the house, but we're not like real friends or anything. All of those are back in America. "Why didn't you call us? I would have come and got you!"

The rest of the room (except one. Long story.) nods or vocalizes their agreement. I shrug that off, but it means something to me. I excuse myself to bed.

I try to go to sleep, but thinking about their reactions. I choke up again. They really care? Wow. I had no idea that they did.

Fin

Fall From Grace

"There's a price to overdoing it"-- Jay, "Fallin'" London, winter 1999

I had the flu. I was studying abroad my senior year of college and shortly after I arrived on the isle of Great Britian I realized there was an entire ocean between me and the next person who really gave a shit about me. I am an only child and very comfortable being alone, but that was a daunting thought. If something happened to me, it would be nine hours, at least, before my mother could get to me. I have tendencies to go out in search of adventure, but I decided I would be very very cautious the whole time I was away from home. (4 months).

So I get the flu and in typical dramatic fashion, I convince myself the end is near. (I dont do illness well.) I reluctantly cancel my (very expensive) trip to Spain, because there is no way I can travel to Madrid and Barcelona in this condition. Plus, I was going alone. I need my full strength to naviagte an even more foreign land.

I stay laid up in the house for 3 days, drugging myself into oblivion until I feel slightly better and realize I'm going stir crazy. I'm still coughing, but my head's stopped pounding and my body no longer aches. I convince myself that I will feel better if I do something that makes me happy.

I load up on drugs and of all places in London proper to go, I decide to go to Oxford Circus (a London shopping hub with the congestion of Times Square. I blame the drugs for thinking this was a good idea.) I hit up Top Shop and Miss Selfridge. I feel fine. Thirsty and a little tired, but otherwise fine. Hmm. Maybe I'm overdoing it. I decide to go home. I have to take good care of myself. There's no one around to care if something happens to me.

I hop on the Bakerloo tube (ie subway), which is crowded with rush hour traffic. I'm hot. Wiping my brow kind of hot. No one else appears to be warm. In fact, they still look flushed from the November cold above ground. They're bundled up in coats and scarves. My coat's been flapping open since I left the house. I'm so hot I take it off.

The train begins to move and I feel weak. My purse and bag feel heavy. Just standing is an exercise. And I'm dizzy. And really thirsty now. F*ck. When was the last time I ate? Other than munching on crackers and drinking OJ? I guesstimate my last real meal was 4 days prior. Food. I need food. I'll make pasta when I get back to the house.

The train is being held in the station for some reason. I hope it's not a sick passenger. We could be here all night. So I’ll cook at home (Baker Street), two stops away. I run through the contents of the fridge in my head. Then suddenly I realize I can’t wait that long. I don't feel well. I'm sweating. Something is wrong with me. I need water. I have to eat now.

I hop off the train. I'm on the “brown” line, which means the train is deep below ground. Slowly, I walk to the escalators, thinking of the concession stand in the station. I will get juice and a hard cookie (soft cookies don't exist on the Isle of Great Britian.) The escalators to get to ground level are so steep and long that the first time I rode them, I nicknamed them The Moving Stairway to Heaven. I thank God for small blessings. At least I don't have to walk up.

I get on the escalator and realize then that I'm getting weaker. I need food now. My bags, which were light just a few minutes ago, feel like I'm carrying all four of the concrete bricks that hoist up the double bed in my dorm room back in Maryland. And my head? Spinning like I've taken a whole bottle of Absolut to the head. I wipe my soaked brow with the sleeve of my sweater. I've got cotton mouth too like I've just smoked. I realize then that I'm panting.

I try to steady my breathing. It's not helping. I feel like sh*t. I look behind me, down the long moving stairway to Heaven, which I guess from this angle leads to Hell. There is no one behind me. I'm three-fourths of the way up. I'd run back down, but I don't have the energy.

I grip the railing. I'm so tired that I can barely stand. I gotta make it to the top. Just hold on, D. I breathe in. I breathe out. Again. Again. C'mon, D. I'm trying to do some sort of mind over matter thing, willing myself to get to the top, to get to safety. It's all I've got. I can't pass out on this escalator. At best, I will be seriously injured. At worst… Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I 'm scared now. I want my Mommy.

I hold my purse and my shopping bag to me tightly. I literally try to pull myself together. C'mon, D, I plead with myself again . Nothing.

I' start to panic. I'd yell for help, but there is no one around. Rush hour in one of the busiest, overpopulated city's in the world and there is no one around?! I yell my name in my head, pronouncing each syllable distinctly and deliberately. I am commanding me to stay alert until I get to the top of the stairs.

All systems fail.

I pass out.

Knowing When To Say When

If you go to clubs, you’ve seen The Last Woman Standing. She’s a woman with the body that looks her age in a dress made for an early twenty-something physique. Her dress is too short (and often too cheap) for her grown woman frame. Her heels are too high for the dress, which often makes her get-up cross the line from sexy to slutty. She’s got a face full of make-up, but still not enough to hide her age lines. Her hair is in the latest teenage style. If she were to dress (or act) appropriately, she’d look and be great “for her age.” But because she is among the kids (anybody under 25) and attempting to blend in, she looks like she’s trying too hard because she is. When The Last Woman Standing sings along, she doesn’t know the lyrics, only the chorus. When she dances, it’s either too hard, or a two-step among a crowd of folks getting low. When she gets low, it’s never as far down as anyone else, or God forbid, she gets all the way down and needs assistance getting up. She hasn’t accepted that the club belongs to people who are young, not just those that are young at heart. (And so it doesn’t seem like I’m bashing the ladies, “she” also has a male equivalent, usually a zuit-suit wearing mofo with some grey in his over-groomed beard and a colored- in or receding hair line.)

For years, I used to see her every time I went out, but over time I saw her less and less until one day I didn’t anymore. I always wondered where she went.

WANT TO READ MORE BELLE? STAY TUNED FOR MY BOOK IN JUNE 2011: A BELLE IN BROOKLYN: ADVICE FOR LIVING YOUR SINGLE LIFE & ENJOYING MR. RIGHT NOW (ATRIA)

Um....

Hey--

I just got back from DC. Like just now (10:30 am) Came straight to work. I am exhausted.

I was with TLA all weekend so I didn't write a thing while I was gone. Not one single thing. I didn't even take my laptop with me. I was too busy living life to take time to write about it. But I will tonight, don't worry. (I had the greatest date ever yesterday!!! And I have pictures!!!)

I have lots of work to do today, so I probably won't have an update for you this afternoon. But in the meantime, think on this:

Ladies: will you take your husband's last name when you get married? why or why not?

Gents: would you be upset if your wife didn't take your name?

Let me know... Yes, this is going somewhere (eventually.)

Bad Kitty

So I found a spare moment:

I went to my girl’s birthday dinner two nights ago at Ideya in Soho. Great restaurant, great drinks, blah, blah, blah.

Somehow, I end up having a conversation with three men about bad p***y. A fellow blogger, Naked With Socks On, wrote a post about men faking orgasms. Seems they just want to get it over with sometimes too. But I wondered, what would cause a man to fake it? I mean they go through so much trouble to get the “kitty” (as TLA likes to call it. Pause. Has anyone noticed that I cannot write a post without mentioning him anymore?), shouldn’t they want to stay in and enjoy it for as long as possible?

Usually yes, but sometimes no. (Read HERE for the full article.) So bad “kitty” seems to be the culprit. This surprises me more than hearing that men are pretending to finish.

“P*ssy can be bad?” I ask the gentleman to my right.

He’s baffled that I thought it was all good. His response: “Uh, yeah, D.”

WANT TO READ MORE ?  PICK UP 'A BELLE IN BROOKLYN'.. IN STORES NOW! 

Technical Difficulties- UPDATE

Update: 

So the Belleberry is still on the fritz. I know you want your Belle and you're not trying to hear it. (The number of clicks yesterday was almost three times the average, which means you're checking back. LOL!) If I have time today-- unlike yesterday-- I'll write before I leave the office.  In "good-er" news, TLA listened to my whining about my 'bootleg' phone one too many and went out and got me a new one. (I told you men like to solve problems.) Bless him. Like seriously. The only issue: it's in DC. But I'll be there Friday, so worst case scenario we'll be up and running by next week.  The moment I get the new phone working, I'm throwing my BelleBerry!  I also have more exciting news (yes, the same news from last month. it's been confirmed), but I can't announce it yet. It's killing me not to mention it!!! In the meantime, if any of you have a story to tell (I know you do) and want to gush publicly about your lives, send me an email: abelleinbrooklyn@gmail.com  And if you're in need of a blog- fix: head over to http://www.parlourmagazine.com The ladies at Parlour have great, regular male bloggers. Check out Bundy and Southern Gentleman. I love them dudes! Oh, and one more thing. Hi, UK! There's 20 or so steady readers across the pond. I have no idea how you found this blog, but thank you for reading and coming back!  -B.

Yesterday:

I had a blog all written today , but my Blackberry won’t let me get to it. This phone is for sh*t. I hate this thing. No amount of turning it on or off is fixing it.

I’m at a miserable loss over what to do. I can’t text or email because the downward scroll button won’t work. I feel like it’s 1999 again with a phone only capable of making calls. I’m two seconds from throwing this thing at wall across the room. When I get to work I’ll try to get my posts off... then I’m throwing it. Grrrr.

More Belle later today. Please check back.

- D.

"I Give Up"

I swear, I am baffled as to how any two people of the opposite sex ever meet and fall in love. Women and men are on totally different pages about so many things.

Case in point:

TLA doesn't get why I'm into him. I tell him at least once a day that he's amazing and it's always because he's done something well... amazing. And it doesn't have to be anything "big."

Here's an overview of what he does:

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Stranger Danger

I'm swamped at work-- again. So I had to tinkle around in my personal archives for a post today (there are a good 50 or so unedited posts on my laptop.)  Here's one I meant to post after I wrote about sexual harassment on the street.

Feb 2008

I hate to revisit a topic so soon, but I want to re-address this one. It pained me that the guys didn’t get it. I’m rambling, a bit but I hope it makes sense by the end.

So I had to really sit down and thing about why the guy yelling out the backseat of someone’s truck about my earmuffs pissed me off so bad (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, search the archives). It wasn’t lewd. He wasn’t threatening. I just didn’t feel like being bothered and he bothered me, but that’s not the end of the world. He did holler out his car at me like I was a streetwalker. That’s fair reason to be pissed. But more than anything, it’s because I was used. I may as well have been the freshly bootlegged Erykah Badu album (comes out tomorrow: COP THAT!). I was a random object upon which he can showcase his bravado for his boys and picked solely because I was a female within earshot.

I was upset because hollering really is harassment. There’s little that I can do about it and there’s an underlying threat of violence to it. The latter is the bigger issue.

*When I was 16 at a friend’s house party, a guy hollered, asking me to dance from across the room. I turned him down nicely with a smile, a no, and a small shake of my head. Told him I’d been on my feet all night, tried to let him down easy. He spit on me.

*I was walking down the street in Madrid toward three guys taking up the whole sidewalk. They passed and one of them grabbed my ass hard and squeezed it. I turn around and yelled “fuck you” at them. They laughed and one of them called me a punta. (This incident ruined my whole trip in that city. I stil hate Madrid.)

*I was walking down South Street in Philly one summer (18? 19?) and I was crossing the street. There were a group of guys crossing toward me. One of them yelled something at me. I gave him the obligatory clothed mouth smile so he would shut up. When we crossed paths in the middle of the street, the guys surrounded me and felt me up—ass, breasts, face, crotch—like it was an assembly line. I ended up standing on a street corner crying hysterically in my friend’s arms while everyone looked at me like I was crazy.

My stories are unique in specifics but the type are too familiar to too many women. I’m sure the ladies reading could offer up three or more grossly disturbing incidents of their own. It’s just a fact that women’s lives are filled with violence, or at least the unspoken threat of violence. It’s the reason we don’t walk through a park at night or take the subway home after a certain hour, or take the long way to our destination instead of the straight line because we don’t want to walk down the dimly lit street or through a path that includes a group of men. It’s the reason we “hold it” in certain malls, because the public bathroom is too far off the beaten path and we don’t want to be too far away from the masses in case we need someone to hear us scream. On the rare late-night train ride home, it’s the reason we scan the cars to make sure we’re not the only woman in one. It’s the reason we might give up a fake smile or a polite no when a stranger tries to get at us. Maybe if we just say hi, he’ll go the fuck away.

There’s nothing offensive about “hello” or “how are you?” or striking up a polite conversation. Nothing wrong with a genuine compliment said in a polite—not leering, sexually suggestive --way. Women who hate the holler are not saying “don’t ever speak to me.” (Although, if you do approach a woman politely and she rudely shuts you down, can you really be mad? You just interrupted the woman’s personal space when she wasn’t asking to be bothered.)

Someone asked if how I would feel if I never got hollered at again, and when I said I’d be over-fucking-joyed, he (I know it was a he) said he didn’t believe me. (My first thought: Then why ask?) But yes, I could die the happiest most recently alive woman on the planet if another man never hollered. I like it when a polite man pays me a compliment—an attractive or unattractive one. I like polite people, period. And though I have every right to shut down any stranger who speaks to me, I make a point of refusing politelyto any man who has shown the same courtesy.

But so we are clear, there is nothing likable about a man hollering out a window or down the block, no matter what he says or how fine he is. There is nothing likable about some man yelling “sexy” when I walk down the street, letting everyone in ear shot know that he’d like to fuck me. Nope, not at all. There is nothing likeable about a man making kissing noises as I walk by or making that gotdamned psst psst sound. (Those are the sounds you make to get an animal’s attention. Not a woman’s.) There is nothing likable about a STRANGER demanding me to smile or do anything else solely for his amusement. I am not a baby or a puppy. There is nothing likeable about strangers pulling up to me in their cars as I wait at the bus stop and offering me a ride. If I wanted a ride, I’d have called a cab. No way buddy, you’re not Ted Bundy-ing me.

I went though great pains to make my block a Holler-free zone for me. When I first moved here, there was a guy who used to holler after me every single day on my way home from work. I ignored him. That didn’t work. I smiled. That was encouragement. Fuck!

I’d gotten off the train one day in a particularly good mood and by the time I’d walked the length of the block to the corner, I was sour. I realized I was dreading passing this guy. I was tired of being harassed.

I turned the corner and he starts up again, yelling, “hey baby, you looking good, blah, blah.” I stopped. I turned. I walked up to his ice-y stand (yes, I am getting harassed by the dude who works the ice-y stand) and introduced myself.

“My name is [Belle]. If you’d like to say hello to me, that’s just fine. I respond best to a simple hi. There’s no need to yell after me every day.”

He looked at me like I’d told him to fuck his own grandmother. After he recovered his speech, he said “What you want to fight me?” And then he flexed on me.

Not the response I was expecting, though I don’t know what I was. I stood my ground anyway. “No, I want you to stop harassing me. Just say hi, if you want to speak to me. That’s all I’m asking. ”

He grunted.

I took that as his caveman understanding of my request and walked to my apartment building 5 doors down.

I came home the next day, expecting the worst. And I got… nothing. Dude, didn’t speak to me for months and neither did any of his friends. I mean no one on that whole side of the block spoke. I could walk by a group of drinking and smoking men on a Saturday night in unusually-warm-for-the- season weather and they’d get quiet, but no one would say anything. I guess ol’ boy told them I was crazy. I dunno. But I was damned happy.

The following April, I came home from work one unseasonably warm night and the guys were outside again. I was all prepared to do the silent walk-by when it sounded like one of them spoke.

I pulled my headphone out of my right ear and looked at him quizzically. “Huh?”

“I said ‘have a good evening, Sis.’”

I smiled. “You too.“

Admittedly, it was a nice moment. Just neighbors speaking to neighbors. Made me feel all southern again.

That weekend, I went out, saw the harasser standing on the corner alone. He was setting up the ice-y stand (yes, in April.) He looked at me. I looked at him.

“Hello,” he said.

I smiled. “Hi, how are you?”

That was two and a half years ago. We’ve spoken cheerfully whenever we encounter each other every day since. He’s progressed to saying “Hey, baby, how you?” when I pass and because we’ve become familiar, I’m fine with that. And with the rare exception of the time I was waiting at the bus stop across the street and some man pulled up and kept trying to convince me to get his car, I haven’t really been hollered at, especially in my neighborhood--until that unfateful morning.

Does it make sense why I was pissed now?

"Thank YOU!"

Holy crap!!! I’ve had the best birthday week ever. I mean seriously. Thank you to every single person who e-mailed, called, texted, came through to the party, paid for a meal, mixed a concoction, shared a smoke, popped a bottle, drove down from Harlem, showed up early, manned the grill, rode with me back to NYC, played chaperone, spit hot thundercat fire in my ear, and shouted me out on a mic, and so much more.

Like seriously, I have the best friends/fans/readers in the whole wide world. I’ve never felt so loved. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! This week was one for the books, ya’ll. I’m so humbled to be surrounded by such greatness.

Unless I do Belle:The Book just about this weekend, I will never capture all the details. So I won’t even try.But I’ll do snippets of the weekend as I’m inspired. Let’s go:

I got a perm and no umbrella.

It’s the evening of my birthday. I’d met TLA at his house a few minutes earlier, but it didn’t smell like rain. Looked like it when I drove up, but I’m enough of a southern girl that I can smell it-—usually. I don’t know why I left the umbrella in my car. Maybe I was too excited to be taken out on a date-date by a may-annn.

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Men: The Manual Part 2

Men: The Manual (Part 2)

Thank you for all the birthday wishes. I’ve had a great day. I’m in DC with TLA!!! He fixed me a ‘fat girl’ birthday breakfast this morning—waffles, eggs, and fried fish!!! Tonight he’s taking me somewhere. I have no idea where though. But I’m putting on a pretty dress and heels to hang out with my boo!

Okay. Here’s more from Men: The Manual. I meant to post this morning but um… er… I was... busy.

Pause.

That’s all you get! Ha!

15. Men like confident women. At least the good ones (ie, non-predators). If you don't have confidence fake it. A friend shared an email with me recently that a woman he liked sent him. In it, she basically explained why a man like him would never stay interested in a woman like her. He'd leave her for someone more worthy of him, she wrote. He pretty much adored her before he read the email. By the end, she'd convinced him she wasn't worthy and so he lost interest. If you can't see your greatness, he probably won't either.

16. They're insecure too. No one ever acknowledges that for some reason. My father had a father-daughter talk with me and a great friend of mine one time. This is the only part of the speech I remember. I thought it was revolutionary. Apparently, the same way insecure women act out, men do the same. Instead of letting all the goods hang out, they buy a lot of flashy clothes and name drop important people and tell you how much they make. Oh, and male whores are more insecure than most. There's a lot to be dissected about a man who defines himself buy how many women he can pull.

17. They hate weaves-- if they can tell. I sat in a cafe with four men on Sunday. 2 women with past-shoulder weaves walked in. I thought they looked decent. The men thought they looked cheap, and this was pretty much based on their hair. They weren't wearing anything inappropriate. They weren't doing anything inappropriate. But the hair made them cheap? I don't get it... Probably because I am not a man.

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Men: The Manual

I was going to save this for my bday (tomorrow) but I just feel like doing this today.

After the SATC screening a few weeks back, I headed over to the Metropolitan Pavillion for the Tanqueray party w/ Ryan Leslie performing. Two minutes in, a fan of the blog approached me. She's a recent HU grad (the real one. Don't shoot, Hamptonites! LOL!) She told me that she and her friends too are all fans of the blog and became such after reading 28 Things I've Learned About Relationships, which I think I posted last year on my birthday.

I'm pretty proud of that list. I can't always abide by everything on it, but everyone of those "Things" is the God's honest truth as I know it.

I've had this list (below) for awhile (all of my close friends know that the posts are written daily but often not put up for weeks or months and even then go up not in chronological order) so here it is, or at least the first half, 14 of 29 More Things I've Learned About Men aka Men: The Manual

Let me know your thoughts...

1. If you date one, and you are a good woman, and ya'll stop dealing, he will come back. It might take a year, it might take a decade, it might just take a day. But he will come back. (That does not mean you have to take him though.)

2. Men like monochromatic colors. I can't figure this one out. I think this has to do with us looking less busy so they aren't distracted from our bodies and faces. Not sure. White seems to be their favorite though.

3. They like compliments. A lot. Thing is few people ever say anything nice to them about them. They respond like dry plants to water when you tell them they look nice, smell nice, did something well. (I texted TLA before a game once "you are phenomenal. You will make me proud." He still talks about it.)

4. Sports are male soap operas or reality TV for men. (Thanks, Tariq.) Once he put it context, I got it. Think about it. Now doesn't the obsession make sense?

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I *Heart* Real Men

I'm about to get random. Stick with me.

I went to get a veggie wrap for lunch recently. I was standing at the counter telling the sever what to put on it, when this guy walks up. White guy, not that it matters. But he had a sandwich that someone had taken a bite out of at which time it was realized that the sandwich didn't have the avocado it was supposed to have. The guy had come back to the counter to get the previously requested avocado put in the sandwich.

The sever agreed to put the avocado in, but he told the guy he would charge him a dollar more for the avocado. He stopped making my sandwich to say this. The guy argued (vaidly, I thought) that he should not be charged because "She," whoever she was, had ordered avocado and it wasn't put in. And as the customer, he was inconvenienced by having to come back and get it.

They went back and forth a couple times. The server adamantly argued the guy had to pay; the guy argued adamantly that he shouldn't have to because "She'd" ordered it and the server messed up the order. After a couple rounds, the guy finally said he would pay even though he shouldn't have to (clearly this was about the principle.) Either way the avocado was being put on the sandwich during all of this.

Now, on a good day, I would have cut all the convo short somewhere around the time the server stopped making my sandwich to address this dude's concerns. I would have insisted my sandwich be finished first before attending to this next dude. But I wanted to watch the scene play out and frankly, I was impressed by the guy's admance on behalf of "She."

Let me go back.

I've got a thing for men who get things done. See a problem, fix it. Don't see me in distress and look at me like "what are you going to do about it, D?"

I think men have been mislead. Someone's told them that they should do all this listening and empathisizng instead of doing what is in their nature and problem-solving. When I'm bitching and moaning about the way of the world, yes, listen. Then help me solve it. I'm really not just telling you for my health.

Many women will complain that they don't want a man swooping in from on man-high and telling them how to fix their lives. And yes, I concur, at times their man-step by step instructions can be very annoying. But if the alternative to them laying out what I shoud do is doing nothing when something's gone wrong, I'll accept that I can't have it both ways (men are simple. No really. They really can't switch on and off) and take a bass-filled Ten Step Plan anyday. (Men? Are you listening?)

Oh, and when something needs to be done, just do it. You don't have to ask me. Women confer and make group decisons. I promise I won't complain as long as the man takes on the mission and it is accomplished.

I turned to the guy in the deli and asked, "Is she your wife or your girlfriend?"

He was caught off guard. "My girlfriend," he said, taking a bit of ther bass out his voice.

I nodded. "She's a lucky woman." I didn't bother explaining what brought me to the conclusion.

He smiled. "Thanks."

(Note: men are complaining lately that no one compliments them. I try to do so randomly when they do good (yes, like superheroes.).

-B.

If It Isn't Love (Cue New Edition)

I was on the train headed home from work one night when a couple got on carrying a white loveseat (see above.) They sat on it and rode home, talking like they were in their living room. Guessing by the empty ring fingers, they weren't married. But I'm convinced someday they will be. And they'll probably be married forever.

I'm no expert on marriage and relationships (admittedly, talking to experts all day does not make me an expert) but I think a great way to predict if a couple will last is if they ride the same randomness wavelength, which clearly this couple does. For one adult to say to another adult, "Hey, we should take the couch on the subway!" and the second adult agrees this is a great idea is an indication of odd, odd thought that speaks to the magic between them.

Letting Go... A Little/ Ode to Belle's Teenage Love Affair

So Danielle wrote in with a great story that captures all the feelings that I'm having for Teenage Love Affair. I couldn't have described it any better myself.

I told him the other day that I had a blog (I intentionally neglected to mention that to him for the first few weeks.) And I told him that I wrote about him.

"What' s may name," he asked.

Oh God. I didn't realize till I was being probed about it by him how totally and completely mushy it is. There's no hiding exactly what you think about someone when you call them not just a "Love Affair" but a Teenage Love Affair.

I blinked. Looked up at him. He does this thing when he talks to me where he stares right in my eyes, like he's trying to see my soul. I couldn't lie to him if I tried. "It's..." I couldn't do it. Damn pride. "It's T.L.A. That's what they know you as," I say firmly like that's the end of the matter.

He screwed up the beautiful features of his face. "TLA? What's that mean?"

He's so cute when he's puzzled. I mean he's cute when he's not.. well, not really cute, more like handsome, and chiseled, and brawny and sexy... okay, that's not the point. The point is he looked puzzled. Ugh. Where is my backbone?

So I told him. "It's Teenage Love Affair," I blurted.

He smiled so big and wide. Then grabbed me to him and surrounded me in those big ol arms that I love so much. *sigh*

Everytime I talk to him now, he brings it up. I'm so caught up, I can't even get embarrassed.

I Am Not Superwoman

I'm not Carrie Bradshaw either. I'm Bridget Jones with a better wardrobe.

So I picked out this outfit days in advance to wear for my big presentation at work on Monday. It’s a black knee length dress with ruffles. Professional, but festive. I wear it whenever I want to feel pretty and confident. I wore it to opening night of The Color Purple a couple years back and to an auction for The Wire late last year.

All weekend, I stress about this presentation. I have this off-beat idea that I’ve decided to execute. I’m not 100% about it, but I can’t think of anything better. In my favorite dress, I feel like I can conquer the world though so I'm not too worried.

Monday morning, I put on the dress. I'm marching around the house in it and I'm almost out the door when the zipper breaks apart.

Shit!

I snatch off the dress and try to fix it. I don't have a back up outfit planned and it will take me forever to pick out something that I find equally comfortable fabulous and appropriate. I have to make this work. I remember that this happens to my favorite piece of luggage all the time and I'm always able to fix it with no problem. I'm nice with this.

I tug gently at the dress’s zipper and slowly but surely, I'm able to fix it. I put he dress back on and leave for work.

Six hours later

All morning, I've been listening to presentations from all of the top brass. I'm operating off 4 hours of sleep but I'm wide awake and engaged in the topics. I love where I work and what I do. I pay attention because I genuinely care about its success and my success here. I'm also the only junior editor scheduled to present. I take this as a sign my boss has faith in me and trusts me to represent our team well. I feel good.

I'm not that nervous about my presentation even though I decided not to go with a fancy Power Point set up and instead chose to rely on a lot of personality that I hope will leave a lasting impression. I've noticed everyone who gets a chance to shine here has great public speaking skills. This is my big chance to show that I'm capable too.

It's 10 minutes to go before my boss is set to present. She'll talk, then throw off the mic to another editor in our section who will pass the metaphoric baton to me. My nerves finally catch up to me and I shift in my seat.

Fuck!

I feel the zipper ripping apart. It's like in slow motion, but it happens quite fast. Impending doom descends upon me.

I snatch my dress together and carefully exit the room, clutching the fabric to my hip. In the bathroom stall, I yank off my dress, and tug at the zipper. Nothing. I have to fix my dress. I have to fix my dress!! I tug and yank.

The zipper pops.

Oh, fuck me.

I stand there for a moment in shock, then self-pity. This is my life. I am a walking dramadey, except this time it’s drama and tragedy, not drama and comedy. It’s fun to write about these things. In retrospect, they make for entertaining stories and posts. But this here isn't story time. It's reality and my boss, my boss's bosses and all of my co-workers are in the next room. In 15 minutes they will be expecting me to present. And there's no way I can.

I stare at my broken zipper thinking of all the hours of prep I put into this project that have just busted apart. I think of how when I was overwhelmed with planning my presentation last week and no good ideas were coming, I had a mini-nervous breakdown in the middle of Rockefeller Center plaza.

I called my father in damn near tears, because I was really thinking eff my job, and eff New York. In full on self-pity mode, I think I am not built for this sh*t.

My father's response (in summary): "what are you gonna do, D? Quit? Exactly. Woman up then!"

Finding no sympathy with Daddy, I fired off an email to a fellow writer who is adept at talking me down from the ledge in a crisis:

I'm turning off Alicia Keys and putting on Karyn White. I do not rock an "S" under my ruffled dress. I am not Superwoman. I am not the kind of girl that you can break down and think that everything is ok.

(I'm a writer. I have a flair for the dramatic.)

I leaned against the fountain waiting for her response and I realized this must be how my former classmate felt when she quit her job, packed her ish, and left New York in one week. My engine’s finally run out too.

I call Hov, then TLA. They get me back on track. TLA asks me why my job is so important to me and as I explain I realize I have to woman up just like my father said. I have to get this project—and all the others too—done. I am living my dream. I cannot just resign myself to failure. I have to try.

I wake up the next morning with renewed self confidence. I can do this. I have to do this. It's my mantra all weekend.

I spent every free moment Saturday and Sunday working on my presentation. It had shaped up to be really good.

And now this. All that work was all in vain. Maybe I'm not meant to succeed here. Maybe I don't deserve to be here. Maybe trying my best isn't good enough.

Tears well up in my eyes in the bathroom stall. I try to think of a Plan B. I'm blank. I'm out of steam. I wonder what I'm going to do since I'm not built to be a roll-with-the-punches editor, since I come apart at the seams--literally-- under pressure. Maybe I can't handle the pressure afterall. If this editing thing isn't going to work out, I have to have a back up plan.

But there's never been one. I only had one dream.

This is it.

I have to woman up! I don't have a choice.

I quickly pull my dress back on, cover as much of the busted zipper as I can with my sweater, bunch the fabric to my waist, and go back into the conference room.

I sit next to my boss, lean over and tell her as diplomatically as possible, that I am having a wardrobe malfunction and I will need to delay my presentation. She nods like she understands and doesn’t ask anything further. Right here. Right now. In this moment. I love this woman.

I rush back out of the room, kick off my heels and run to the elevator. I run throuh the building --barefoot-- back to my office. There, I run to the fashion department in a panic, looking for an intern who knows where the safety pins are. There’s no one there.

I rush the fashion closet, and see a bin of them sitting on top of a trunk like they were waiting for me.

I snatch up the box and run back through the office to find my girl who's working in research this week. I blurt out what happened and she runs behind me to the bathroom to pin my dress together.

She fixes me to decency, promising all along that the dress will be fine and so will my presentation. When I’m fixed, I hug her tight and thank her profusely for being a friend. Instead of telling me ‘you’re welcome,” she yells, “Go! Go! You have to present!!!” and shoos me out of the bathroom. (I am so thankful to have such great friends.)

I run back to the conference room. Barefoot.

Just before I open the door, I slip back into my heels. I walk in as dignified as possible, and hear my name. My boss is at the podium. I start toward her, only to realize it's not my time to present yet. She’s just started her presentation.

I take a seat and try to calm my nerves, try to get my mind right for this presentation. I'm flustered, thrown off in a bad way. I don't even know if my C-game is accessible right now, much less my A-game. I grab a napkin from table and wipe my face. We’ve been told by the higher ups that we’re not being judged, but I know a an opportunity to make a good impression is upon me. I have to do a good job—despite my sweating brow.

I deep breathe myself into semi-calmness, but I’m still hot as all get out.

When my name is called to go to the mic, I’m not totally unfrazzled, but I'm better. I vow to give this presentation my best. I’m going for broke. I don't have a choice.

I came with my A game.

I was in my zone. You know sometimes when you know you’re on point? You’re rhythm and flow are just right? That was me up there at the mic. I did better than I thought possible. Experts say the best way to do well is to envision your success. In all those times I rehearsed my presentation, I didn't see this.

As soon as I take my seat and settle my nerves (and wipe my brow. I felt like I was having a hot flash up there), I realize I couldn't have ever done this well if the zipper hadn't popped. That adrenalin rush, that moment on the ropes was what I needed to realize the stakes and just how much they meant to me. I am built for this afterall.

When the presentations wrap, my EE gets up to explain just what he point of today’s presentations were. She recaps how we were given a last minute assignment with vague instructions and it was to teach us how to perform under pressure. The higher ups wanted to see what we were capable of. They wanted us to see what we were capable of. The lessons learned today will take us far in life, she tells us.

It was a test.

Life is a series of them.

Today, I passed.