Six Months Left To Live

Oh...I'm not there yet. But I will be.

And do you have any idea how fucking scary that is?

In a little over six months...pow. Another box... checked. Reading glasses. The age when all chicks who grew up on Carrie Bradshaw should have gotten Mr. Big by now.  Or Steve. Or Harry, or hot younger model-type dude who you dump your billionaire boyfriend for. (Seriously. Where they do THAT at?)

Yes... it's 40.   My young adult life is clearly done.The land of "fine line reducer" and "15% chance of conceiving naturally". I'm about that wine and Spanx life. The thought of anything beginning at 10pm makes me laugh. Even if it's Friday. And 20 somethings are beginning to irritate me. Not because I'm jealous of their youth, but because they're just fucking irritating.

40. The number implies half of my life is already done and whatever I'm doing should be what I'm happy doing for the rest of my life because I'll be too damn tired and ornery to do anything else. I should settle into boring...and like it.

 Now,  this is the part when I try to rationalize not being the raving success that I thought I'd be at this age. This is the part I justify the proverbial "midlife crisis motor cycle." This is like scratching a rash to heal a headache, so feel free to decline my invite to the pity party. I shall be pouring lots of glasses of self pity. Poor me. Pour me.

To be fair (to my ego), I was only able to REALLY get down with like, half of my age as a working independent adult capable of making awesome life changing decisions, right?  I'm saying, you can't really LIVE until you're at least 20, and then you need to pack as much awesome as you can into those final 20 years.

  I mean, from age 0-21, I'm pretty much still capable of doing shit that might get my parents thrown in jail for not keeping a better eye on me. From 21-30, I was pretty much broke and trying to figure it all out and from 30-39...Jesus. I have no idea what the fuck happened.

Oh, wait.  Yes I do. </Excuses>

I won't go into it, but it had a lot of giving myself AWAY and not focusing on what the eff I needed to do as a responsible adult because, being honest, I never thought I'd have to grow up and become one.
No. That's a lie.

 I didn't want to.

The way I see it, my life up until now has been Jay-Z philosophy applied backwards. Dude had 99 problems but a b*tch wasn't one? I had 99 problems and they were ALL about a b*...well... a relationship. (I'll be nice.) The one problem I wanted to have...should have had, would have been fucking DELIRIOUS to have, would be to concentrate on my writing and career. However, I was under the impression that since I lived in New York and was awesome at communication and drinking....success would just fall into my lap. Just like that. Finger snap. Lookie at how lucky I am!

By the time I woke up and smelled the Bustelo (because I still live in the Bronx, I don't care what the people in Riverdale consider it) I was 38 and like this, sad, black girl version of "Eat, Pray, Love".

Let me tell you. I sat on my couch, night after night watching that damn movie. Eating Bertoli mushroom ravioli with a glass of wine and crying.

...I'll take a year off. I'm sure this will happen to me.

Don't give me that look. It's not lazy. I read the book too. 

Fine. Actually, I listened to the book. I got it from an audible free trial.  (It was unabridged, OK?) And Elizabeth Gilbert said (she narrated it) hit me directly in my gut and I know I'm not the only one. How? 

Well, you don't get on Oprah and get to give epic Ted Talks if a few million women didn't nod along with your beat. So by default, I was now connected to millions of women who had felt the same way in some form or fashion (and Bali's tourism got a hell of a boost). 

Do you know how good that feels? To know you're not alone in the mid-life crisis? To know you wake up one day, look at your life and say, "What the fuck? This is not me. This is somebody else. And I've been too afraid to be me." And you're not ALONE in faking it?  I hope you do. If not, get on that bus IMMEDIATELY. 

Well, actually, there was one place I could actually be myself.  Where "being me" had been nothing but praised and celebrated. Being "me" gave everyone else permission to be them... and then something happened. I got honest. Real honest...while online, which was soon shot down as "putting business out in the street" and I stopped. As did the flow. 

But back to the movie. I wanted to go on my own "Eat, Pray, Love", but let's be clear. I was not naive enough to believe that Elizabeth's journey and mine would be exactly alike. I wanted an "Eat, Pray, Love" to get back to the truth. And I had to do it ASAP...before I died inside. It was that serious. And I knew it was, because I developed "pericarditis" and doctors couldn't explain why. But I knew why. Fully. 

Know that moment in the book/movie when she's crying and just praying like..."just tell me what to do..." and Spirit tells her simply "Go back to bed Liz."  That actually happened.  

The "still small voice" does JUST that. It doesn't say, "OK. Get out your pen. First of all... you're going to do "this". I don't know why I believed asking for help from Spirit is like asking for a wish from the genie in Aladdin. 

 It simply tells you to go back to bed. Let go. Surrender. 

So I did. And I found out about a class at my Spiritual center called "The 4 T's" Now, the "4Ts" stands for the "Tithing" of "Time", "Talent" and "Treasure".  And I meant to do it...fully. I'd just come off the heels of Iyanla Vanzant's 

One Day My Soul Just Opened Up: 40 Days and 40 Nights Toward Spiritual Strength and Personal Growth and I was READY honey! What's next Life??  Bring it on! After 8 weeks of intense soul searching? WHAT? Oh that soul was thoroughly SEARCHED.

 I laughed. I cried. I was cracked wide open emotionally and ready to live the truth. 

And then Life has a funny way of asking you, "Are you sure?". And I answered. "Yes." with all certainty and clarity. 

Let me tell you, the DAY I finished my last class, I mean THAT NIGHT... I'd found out the man I was dating, (who, in reality, I was terrified I would actually fuck up and marry...how deep is THAT?), was heavily involved in an emotional affair with someone else. 

Of course he was. How could he not be?

And so that ended. 

It was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. 

That was the PRAY version of our book. 

Next comes the EAT. 

Which is exactly what I did when I got an invitation to go to Paris. Long story short, it was my "bucket list" trip. I got a deal, everything fell in line and I went. 

And while there, I realized something. I hadn't been authentic in years. 

YEARS. 

And I had no idea how long I'd been bullshitting myself, but it had been for quite some time. 

And so, while in Paris, I sipped on wine every day. I looked at beauty everywhere. I spoke French. I fell in love...with myself. And I ate every single Parisian pastry that was put before me because I'd realized something else. 

I'd been starving myself on purpose because I knew HE was attracted to slimmer girls. So I ate. 

I came back to New York size "sexy". Hips. New hair. New outlook. 

And before I could even breathe, here comes this man into my life who is determined to make me his wife. 

LOVE? 

Well, he did sound a lot like the "Love" part...and this is what's supposed to happen, right? I mean, I ate. I prayed. And now he was supposed to crack through all of the "getting to know myselfness" of it all and get me to "attraversiamo". 

And so, I let myself heal. And be loved. And be taken care of. And you know what happened? 

The almost absolute and complete loss of self. A-fucking-gain. 

The early morning yoga followed by weight training? No longer, since he's always at my place. 

The writing (either via social media or otherwise), the editing for fun (or practice), the silly creative things I do when I'm alone....stopped. 

And the job I thought I loved became routine, frustrating. Boring. 

And size sexy has morphed into size "Seriously? WTF?'

What the fuck happened to the woman who left Paris? What the fuck happened to "I found my spirit and my truth?" You threw all that away for the sake of a relationship...AGAIN? 

And so, to therapy I go. (And not my black friend "the agent", because I don't have one yet because I haven't written anything agent worthy yet.) So Mr. Therapist pretty much recognized the Merry Go Round for what it was and it was totally up to me if I wanted to stay on or get off.  And like some fucked up version of "The Alchemist", I found myself back home again. Where the answer was all the time. 

So I decided to stop the ride. 

As it slows, I can see that I've been on it so long, my head is still spinning and I really don't know how to walk yet. I accept that I've got 6 months to get to where I want to be, and I'm doing it. 

With gazelle like focus. 

I have a new bucket list. It's MY bucket list. But it's a reverse bucket list. 

Not what I want to do before I die...but what I will get rid off so that I can LIVE. 

1. Anything other than the truth. 

2. Thinking my work isn't good enough. 

3. Negative body image. 

4. Fear of commitment. Marriage/kid. Etc. 

5. Thinking in terms of lack. 

6. Asking permission to be me. 

7. Giving a fuck about what people think. Period. 

I have six months to get to this place where all these things are gone for good. And that's exactly what shall happen. 

Oh yeah, and I'm going write about it. A lot. 

So now that I think about it. 40 is going to be awesome. Because I'm leaving all of this shit on this busted ass carousel and I'm moving on. 

It's going to be a hell of a trip. 

Who's coming with me? 

-N

ALWAYS Embarrassing... Period.

Without dangling myself dangerously close to the TMI area, I'm going to attempt to get this pseudo-feministic pet peeve out without sounding like a hater because I have to go through this every month. 

So with that said... 

Not long ago...in a galaxy far, far away...

It was toiletry time. Time to head into Duane Reade with my list, grab the little red basket and go nucking futs getting stuff to, once again, thwart Mother Nature's damnest attempt to turn me into a man. You know, razors, exfoliating gloves, age defying lotion, Neet, cocoa butter...stuff like that. But I also pick up other things while I'm there. Cosmo magazine (Don't laugh. The "tips" are great.). A large bag of Doritos. (They don't have small...OK?) Secret Clinical Strength deodorant. (Why bullshit with the "floral daisy" or whatever? Just go for the big guns if it's an option, right?) And something chocolate. Anything chocolate.

Oh yeah. There's one more thing on the list to pick up as well, which is why I go during an obscure hour. Like... 3pm on a Thursday. Did I walk to the Duane Reade closest to me? Oh no. THAT one is for common shit like toothpaste. For this monthly purchase, I actually walked five blocks out of the way, with my big ass leather purse so that I could 1) inconspicuously buy the product without running into a co-worker who'll have a "Kaiser Sose" moment realizing why I've been such a bitch the past week and 2) I can hold my head high without worrying about a small, green, square-shaped package showing through the nylon sheer "Duane Reade" bag. 

Now mind you, everything was going according to plan. The store was pretty empty. They had the large jar of cocoa butter for a change (with 20% extra free!), the razors were in stock, got the other crap...now off to the most un-fucking-comfortable and dreaded section of the store...the "feminine hygiene" aisle. 

It's always located waaaay in the back. Or in the basement. It's product placement Siberia and usually near the laundry detergent. However, neither industry is upset about this. Oh you WILL visit Siberia. Oh yes. You will. 

A relief, however, is that the FH aisle is almost always empty... because there's nothing more awkward than standing next to another woman who is just as cranky and bloated as you are. 

Now, no matter what you know about my so called "strong" personality, all that shit goes out the window and I practically turn into a thirteen year old rookie when I'm in the FH aisle. Dude, I WISH I were one of those women who leisurely strolls over to the aisle, starts picking up boxes, compares absorbency levels and gushes about "wings" being the best thing since sliced bread. (Though, keeping it real, they are.) But I'm not her. Not even close. 

There's a time honored method to my monthly trip. I've got no time to lolly gag; I'm on the clock. Get in and get out. 

Scan the aisle. Identify favorite brand by color. Double check to make sure it's not a knock off that's been lumped in (it's happened before), toss it in the basket and bounce. Don't run. Makes you look guilty. Just casually stroll away like nothing happened. Well done Bravo Team Leader! Mission accomplished. Then, I pick the shortest checkout line and fall in.

And that's when I see him. 

The Unicorn. It never. Ever. Fails. 

He's well groomed. He's well dressed. He's "oh snap" attractive. He probably smells good, but I don't sniff the air around him, cuz that's just weird. As I think about that last line, I giggle to myself. Then I notice I'm giggling to myself and cautiously peek to see if I've been labeled crazy. Nope. He's smiling. He's giving eye contact. He's on a parallel line to my left. I'm shyly not really looking at the cover of "US Weekly". I look back. He's still looking. I look down. Into my basket. The basket that screams the following: 

"HELLO THERE YOU AGING, DRY, ASHY, HAIRY, CRANKY, CATTY, SMELLY WOMAN ON HER PERIOD! YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD MAKE THIS BASKET COMPLETE? DOUCHE! SOMETHING WITH EXTRA VINEGAR PERHAPS? AHHHHHH! REFRESHING!" 

Uh. OK. Move basket into other hand. Shift contents to cover up the pastel green plastic package. 
(And that's another thing. Who in the fuck decided that FH products need to be the same color as Easter eggs? Think that makes us feel better about the whole situation? I'm losing a pint right now, but thank goodness the packaging is cheery? Uh, no. I'll tell you what it really does. Makes it fucking damn near impossible to carry that shit to the restroom without your "quick chat" co-workers giving you that..."Oh. Well..let me let you go" once they get a peek at that green plastic. But I digress. Where was I? Oh yeah...) 

"NEXT!"

And are we neck and neck to the finish. Is he distracted by paying for his own products you ask? Nnnnnope. U'Nique the clerk happens to be price-checking some lady's trail mix and he's got nothing else to do but wait...and check out what the girl next to him is unloading onto the counter. 

"Do you have a Duane Reade card?" 

"No." Bitch. I don't. Just ring it up. 

Now, this isn't my job, but I've seen clerks do it enough to know that you're supposed to scan and bag. Scan and bag. WHY are you just laying everything out on the...GASP! 

Cosmo cover: "THE HOT ISSUE! COSMO'S BIG, JUICY SEX POLL! 30,570 DUDES TELL WHAT THEY'RE DYING FOR YOU TO DO IN BED!" 

I place it face down on the counter. The scan-code is on the front, and like my mother trying to teach me a lesson about how learning to be a skank leads to the dark side, the clerk holds the magazine up in the air for all to see, looks at me, then scans. 

I glance...he's smiling. 

But U'Nique is still waiting for a manager. Bad. 

I'm running out of items and soon, I'm going to have no choice. Big Green has got to come out sooner or later...

Here's the razors... (moving things around...) here's the chocolate....and uh... here's the...

"NEXT!" 

Thank you U'Nique! He steps up and starts to empty his own basket. Now! Red team go! Red team go!

I reach into my basket, palm the goods and while he's not looking, hand 'em over for scanning. Wow. I did it! Ain't nobody dope as me.... I’m just so fresh and...

"The pads are on sale if you have your club card." 

(Record scratch.) Huh? 

"THE PADS. ALWAYS MAXI PADS are on sale if you have your club card. It's a dollar cheaper." 

Bitch...didn't I just TELL you ... 

"It's OK." 

"Do you want to apply for one?" 

"No. I'm good. Just..." 

And there he is. Looking at my pads. Right at my pads. Then at me. Then my pads. Then...not again. Not. Again.


Now, here's where my pseudo-feminist peeve comes into play. 

Did I once look into his basket to see if he had nut-fungus cream or whatever the hell it is men come into the drug store for? Nope. Under those shoes, he could have had some serious corns, or been picking up some Rogaine for his looming "George Jefferson". But that wasn't my concern. I'm concerned about my little green package and a man actually knowing I'm a normal, functioning human woman. I actually cared about protecting the male hang-up with the menstrual cycle. And yeah, they've got em. Not all of them I'm sure, but in my very unscientific survey, about zero percent of the guys I know can even stomach looking at the word "tampon", let alone follow it's purpose to the logical conclusion without gagging. And to that, I have one thing to say. 

Skid marks. You guys get them. We don't. Ours? Unavoidable. Yours...? I think that makes us pretty much even. 

And look. I get it. It's not pleasant. But it's a fact of life. And hey...maybe I didn't dig deep enough into Tolle's teachings, because I still trip out about shit like this. But hey. You didn't have an accident at your Jr. High School Graduation right before you made your Valedictorian speech...in a yellow gown. (I'm working it out. I'm getting better every week.) 

So sure. Maybe dude was taken and harmlessly flirting. Maybe he was gay. Maybe it really wasn't that serious and maybe I'm trippin'. All I know is there was no "maybe" that came into play until he saw the big green overnighters with wings. And maybe I was objectified. And maybe I sorta liked it. And maybe the "Oh shit. She's on her period!" thing made me human. And maybe that insulted me. And really. Really. Maybe...that's fucked up. And that's not his fault.

And I'm not going to try to get men to understand what we go through, because...you've got enough on your mind. Shaving and weekly haircuts have got to be a heck of a bother. (Snicker.) The best I can do is work on my personal shame of the cycle...and overcome it. Because I've seen what's next and Lord knows that shit ain't pretty. 

...Or at the very least, least write a letter to the Always people suggesting new colors. Cuz really? Pastel? Really though? Really? 

This Guy Knows His Shit. Who Knew?

Just Say No. (The Yearender)

I didn't do a lot of shit this year.

Some of it on purpose...some of it, not so much. But the point is, whether I intended to or not, 2007 has been the year of abstinence.
Little did I know it at the time, but now...all better and wiser in the last few months of my 34th year, I realize something.

Abstaining does not bring you some Jesus/Buddha/Confucius-like wisdom. You don't automatically become Gandhi because you decide not to smoke a joint.

Wait... before I launch into this, let me give you an idea of my sacrifices this year.

Regular* Sex
Smoking
Drugs
Drinking

(*"Regular" meaning "on a (by my standards) consistent basis". Not "regular" as in "ordinary". Ahem.)


I know, right?! I mean, this doesn't even sound like me, does it? Not that I'm Keith Richards or anything, but hell...I'm a big fan of vices...and some of you indulged in these vices right along with me...so I fully understand that what you're reading may come as a shock, but let me explain. (And no...I'm not a born again Christian. I did that in the 90's. It was overrated.)

Smoking:
I quit. Plain and simple. It was killing me. It was a crutch. It made me smell. Gave me bad skin. Lowered my energy and self esteem and was just disrespectful. I got tired of waking up to a livingroom that smelled like an ashtray and lungs that felt as if they were filled with cotton. I got tired of seeing that stupid Mexican guy with the voice box and secretly hoping that doesn't happen to me one day. I got tired of the shame I felt every time I asked for a pack of "Newport Lights". I got tired of masking the taste with bottles of wine. I got tired dumping an ashtray filled with butts so I don't have to look at them as I light another.
I got tired of counting how many I had and congratulating myself on having less than the night before. (Or berating myself for having more, and justifying the reason.) And I got tired of that feeling of panic at one in the morning, when I realize that I'm pretty drunk, I have to get up for work in six hours and I'm down to my last cigarette. No more cigarettes means it's time for bed. How fucked up is that? I also got tired of listening to Amy Winehouse. Hmmmm....

Drugs:
OK, maybe not "drugs". Just weed. I loved weed. Especially the "weed" and "regular sex" combination. It was a freakin' winner. And although nothing has changed about how I feel about sex, I honestly lost the taste for weed. I just...lost it. And I'll be honest...I sorta miss it. I'm not sure how, or why, but I just didn't like the way it made me feel. During or after. So I gave it up. No fanfare. I just....lost the taste. (shrug.) It's sort of like falling out of love I think. I think watching "Half Baked" sober had a lot to do with it. That's a bad movie. A really bad one. However, when you're high... it's really fucking funny. So weed was actually crushing my movie critic street cred. Fuck that. Some things are more important.

Regular* Sex:
This was quite unintentional. Nobody in their right mind just gives up regular sex if they can help it. Unless they don't enjoy it...and with me, that's just not the case. Shit just happened. And let me tell you, it was frustrating as hell. And it sucked. However, it does give you a fantastic "ah-ha!" moment.

I've learned that when you strip away sex as part of the bonding glue between two people, you start to see whether you can really stand each other. Because nothing says, "Lets work this out" like a great dual (or multiple) orgasm. There's something about a great orgasm that says, "Hey...your ass hair isn't so gross after all!", as you stroke it lovingly. However, without that post-coital filter, guess what you see? That's right. Ass hair. And there's nothing cute about it.

Ever see old couples that can't stand each other? I mean, the couple that looks at each other with that "will you just hurry up and die already" glance? Well, backtrack a good 30 years or so, and you'll probably see two people who, outside of a great sex life, weren't friends at all. Because when you strip it away...(and one day, it will get stripped away) you're left with someone you'd better be able to laugh with. Because ass hair may not be cute, but it sure as hell is funny.


Drinking:

This is a biggie because nobody enjoys a good liquid poison more than I do. But over this Christmas holiday, after hanging out with co-workers, I found myself on my knees... vomiting all over the bathroom. Violently. I ruined some clothes, boots, the bathroom rug, and had to be cleaned up and put to bed. (Thanks...) Oh. I also fucked up a pretty damn good surprise I had no idea was coming. And had the surprise been in my way, I would have vomited on that too.

And sure, I can blame it on the following:

1. I got braces, so I can't eat as much and thus, had no food to absorb the alcohol.
2. I drank "boiler makers" on top of champagne. (Classy meets frat boy...)
3. I drank too fucking much.

Umm...I'll take #3 Alex.

And previously, I'd hung out with the same co-workers three times over the course of two weeks, and drank just as much.
(Actually was invited to go out an additional time...which is just suicide.)

Now, somewhere along the line, I'd convinced myself that I could not have a good time without drinking. Or that celebrating just ain't celebrating without downing five or six. Which can't be true, can it?

So I had something to prove. Can I celebrate without booze?

Christmas Eve, I made my way through a half bottle...ok, 3/4 bottle of Champagne and poured out the additional bottle I had in the icebox and let the experiment begin.

And you know what? Christmas was great. I even scored two bags of weed and they still remain untouched by me. ( I did, however, touch the hell out of my aunt's sweet potato pie. Touched the hell out it.)

And here we are. New Year's Eve.

(Or what I'd like to call...the day after the nastiest fight I've had this year. Yeah...it was pretty bad. Like..."where's my arm?" bad. And still...no booze. Because it's not going to help. )

And for the first time in 20 years (do the math), I'm going to bring in the New Year sober. Why? Because I don't need an aid to celebrate and be thankful for what I have. I have all I need...right now.

And THAT boys and girls...is what I've learned this year.

It's not about what you need to get you by...it's about slowing down and acknowledging how lucky you are to have what you already have.

It's about what you HAVE right now. It's about being appreciative and thankful for everything you have. And as I'm typing, a dizzying amount of things I have to be thankful for are rushing my thoughts. (Don't worry...I won't name them all.) But there's a lot. An awful fucking lot.

I'm so grateful first and foremost for the lesson of this year. I won't ever forget my 34th year. And thank you all... who shared it with me.


Like I said, abstaining does not bring you some Jesus/Buddha/Confucius-like wisdom. What it does is keep you awake and aware long enough to see everything around you. And who knows...maybe that's what those guys were preaching about in the first place.

I'm going to have a wonderful 2008. It's going to be filled with magnificent love, gratitude, friendship and prosperity.
And I wish the same for you...

I love you all! Happy New Year!

-Nyree

Six Degrees Of Friend-eration Ex

For all of you who would rather blow your brains out in front of your youngest child than watch a single half hour of "Sex And The City", this first paragraph is for you.

I've quit smoking...just like the main character "Carrie" on the show, and what she USED to do (while contemplating how fucked up her love life had become) was pull on a stog...exhale..and by the the time she'd fully rid her lungs of smoke, she'd come up with another gleaming morsel of relationship ephiphany that she'd then summarize into one perfect question...typed directly into her hopelessly outdated Mac. Now, the reason why your woman watched this show quite religiously (pay attention...I see you dozing...) is because these are the VERY QUESTIONS she asked herself time and time again, and still does. About you, and her ex. That's right. Her ex.

I hate to tell you this but she still thinks about her ex. Actually that's what the show was all about if you really want to sum it up into a poor generalization.

(To be read in S.J.P.'s whiny drone...)

"In a city of potential "the ones"...what if "the one" was someone you already had...or could there be more than one "one". I couldn't help but wonder...how many "ones" do we get?"

We think about this shit all the damn time. And usually, when we're not expecting it.

For instance...when I heard, quite by accident, "Rain" by SWV. (I'm probably going to get an eye-jammie for annoucing that ...but what's the point of being an artist if you can't be honest? And what's he point of hiding the following fact, when, if this song is ever played in presence of current "Boo-Boo", I'm probably going to smirk. Big.)

I got my back blown out to this song once upon an ex.

I mean, the kind of back-blowing where you want to know what exactly you did to deserve a back blowing this good. The kind where it makes you scared that this is the BEST you will ever get in your life and it will never...not with this person or another... EVER get this good again. Because for this enchanted moment, the planets decided to orbit backwards, Teddy Pendergrass stood up and started a slow clap, your Mother apologized about not getting you the Darth Vader Head collectible storage case when you were ten because it wasn't gender appropriate, your shit DIDN'T stink and damn it...could you use a glass of cold fucking water...scratch that. Beer. From the tap that Sam Malone just fucking poured and your sitting inbetween Frazier and Cliff ....and Norm just walked in the door. And to top it off...damn it...you're sore. In a good way. In the "I'm gonna feel this tomorrow but won't have to blot when I pee" kinda way.

SO ANYWAY....

So I'm tasting the preverbal foam of my beer and suddenly the song ends.

And I begin to wonder dumb female shit like... why aren't we friends? We were best friends when we were together...why can't be friends now?

And so, due to lack of a stog, I pour a glass of wine, and wish to GOD I didn't move to such a fucking bougie neighborhood, or I could run down to the store and cop me a loosie to go with all this typing.

But no, cuz I'd have to walk all the way down that dark fucking hill to the "real-er" section...and it's cold and late. Sure, I don't live in a neighborhood where a dude has to walk you to the train or even out the building to the cab (memba?) but upgrading means you have to deal with shit like... serial killers. Different demographic, different problems.

So anyway, the thought of the long walk to the store triggered other shit.. like that time he got Kobie'd and I realized that the store on the corner was closed so I had to walk to the 24-7 "revolving bullet-proof lazy suzan" A-Rab spot to get a pack of Fiberglass Lights so I could cope. And THEN trekked four flights of steps to the apartment, crying hysterically...wondering if I'd destroy his shit first or smoke. Hmm...what to do...what to do.

And then I wondered about the other ex...and the ex before that...and before that ...all the way back to the first.

I mean, the truth was... I was best friends with all of them. How could I not be? How can you spend all that time saying nothing of substance with another person and NOT be? Because, let's be real. Eventually, the conversation turns from your personal thoughts on Al Sharpton's position on global warming to "I got my pedicure for only $10 today! It's usually $21 but her other client cancelled so I got a discount!" type-uh bullshit that you actually should keep to yourself. But because you've spent so much "just-breathing" time together, you've shattered your inner dialouge.

Not only that, but you've done other dumb shit...like let him into the bathroom with you, which, at first...is cute. It says, "Hey...I'm so comfortable with you, I can pee right in front of you. Isn't that GREAT!??"

But to him says, "Oh shit. She pees from the same place I actually put my mouth?"

Yeah, he knows. But he didn't KNOW KNOW. Now, he does. And you've moved into "best friend" territory. (BTW...men don't go to the bathroom with friends. Only women so that. Just want to put that out there. Close the fucking door.)

But see? It's shit like that. Like, wiping your ass in from of him that makes you think you can be friends post break up without giving him ass on a regular basis and you know what?
You can! But without giving up ass... it's gonna get old real quick. For both of you.

And really. Was his position on Jehovah's Witness' vs. Paganism THAT profound?
And, if you were in college, weren't you high most of the time anyway? Of course he was your best friend! It was a simpler time. A time when having a kid was taboo, instead of anticipated.

So do as Badu says. "Let it go...let it go..let it go..."

Just like Denise Forbes in the third grade probably went on to bigger and better best friends...without once wondering why you're still not playing hopscotch with her...nor shall you wonder why any of your ex's are not you're friends.

It's simply because they had their time...as u have had yours. Trying to re-invent it will cheapen what you had. And do you really want to lose that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you hear "Rain"?

Uh...I think not.

So just listen to the song. Smile. And go cuddle up with your current "one".

That's what I'm gonna do right now. And hopefully, when I hear Floetry's "Say Yes" one day, I'll smile just as big.

(Cue "Sex And The City" end credit music here...)

For Swizzle: Charlie Murphy's Right...We Got To Do Better.

So, a few months back...after a restful vacation, I return to work and I walk in with my black co-worker.

Not one that I'm regularly cool with...you know. I don't know if she has kids or a man or is gay or anything, we just speak about the bare minimum. This means, with black folk, it’s usually about music or what Beyonce is doing. (Yeah. We touched on her. Wait for it... wait for it...)

So anyway, even though there are eight elevators available, thanks to her talking to one co-worker, me talking to another and elevator manners being what they are, we all (4) wind up in the same elevator up to the ninth floor.

"How was your weekend’s all around, and she mentions to one of the other co-workers, she'd just returned from the Essence Music Festival.

Now let me say this.

I've never...ever had the urge to go.

OK. That’s a lie. I did once. But that's when Prince performed and by that time, I'd caught him four times in the NYC area and thought I'd had enough of his tiny, redboned self.
( SIDEBAR: I learned something very important about myself that year. I can never have enough tiny, redboned self. Especially when it drops the lights and starts with an electric guitar "Question of U" solo. But this isn't about him. )

Anyway...I never wanted to go cuz...well, The Essence Music Festival seemed too damn...black.

There. I said it. It's too damn black for me and one thing I know about myself...when I'm surrounded by too much black, I can't fucking breathe.

This is not to say I don't love my people. I loves my people. Lord knows I do. I just don't like them. Not all of them. Some of them. But that number is growing.

Now, I'm not really sure when this happened. I mean, once upon a youthful time, I had NO problems with my people. I was fitting right in, with a THICK Bronx accent, no vocal audio level other than "LOUD", and no "think before you speak" button.

Take me to any black event, and I didn't so much as blink. I'd check my really long gold colored tips (yes, girl...), my brown transparent plastic text pager, and start looking for the first cutie that walked in the door. Name the event, I did it. Grants Tomb (does that still happen?), Amateur Night @ The Apollo, Greek Week, The Car Show...

By now, I think you get where I'm going with this. Yep. I was a Chickenhead.
Bronx variety.

Albeit, not a good one, cuz I wasn't giving any up. And you just can't be a Chickenhead if your a...well...chicken. Eventually, you'll be found out and forced to prove otherwise. Besides, Chickenheads were supposed to be stupid and settled for what was put in front of them, so you might say I was the Little Mermaid of Chickenheads. I wanted more...

And I'm not alone. I come from a long line of "Former New York Grade A Chickens". Examples:

J. Lo - Branding Genius. (She got every Puerto Rican chica under the age of 18 in the Boogie smelling like "Glow". Don't. Fucking. Hate.)

Rosario Dawson - Hollywood loves her...even without her tits.

Alicia Keys - Mediocre musician/songwriter. But they LOVE her. Still not quite sure why...

But what do they all have in common? Yep. FORMER CHICKENHEADS.

Oh no? Don't believe me do you? Check out how they USED to talk. Remember Alicia? That bitch was the reigning "Queen of Misplaced Preposition" and she took her title very seriously.

Rosario? When she gets fired up...watch Brooklyn come out. Don't believe me? Catch Quentin's last flick. ...WHERE BROOKLYN AT?

And J.Lo... well. She never really got rid of her shit. But she did get married, so that immediately dissolves the Chickenhead status.

I do have a point.

The point is... at some point, you gotta grow up.

You can't take BET at word and run out and get Kool-Aid Red tipped hair cuz Keisha Cole has it. It's NOT ok to wear a fucking sports jersey to an adult concert unless your game went overtime and you were startin at the Garden. It's not OK to tattoo your son's name on your neck*. (Yes...I put him on blast.)

And it's triple, stupid, dumb NOT OK to order a neon glow in the dark swizzle stick in your Hennessey at a Jill Scott concert at Radio City Music Hall. I don't give a shit if they're selling them. They're selling them cuz YOU'RE BUYING IT ASSHOLE.

See. If it was the Universal Soul Circus... fine. I expect it. Hell.
Those other souvenirs can get expensive and you got five kids. Do you.
But don't have me looking at a thousand points of light in the Orchestra section, about to have a fucking seizure, because you thought that irritating green light would show off the fact that you're drinking GOOD brown liquor. Fuck you.

It's also NOT OK to sing all the songs along with Chaka Khan so that I can't even hear her. NOT OK.

It's NOT OK to stand there making idle threats to staff for no reason.
Girl on line to get her glowing squizzle stick: "I know they better had notta run outta Alize or there's gonna be some shit in here."

No there's not, bitch. Will you sit down somewhere?

Don't you get it?

It's NOT ok to accept living in the PJ's. It's NOT ok to dress like a slob. It's NOT OK to get disability and brag about how much you get. It's NOT FUCKING OK if your son gets sent to the guidance counselor for ANYTHING. It's not OK to get a bad hair weave. It's not OK to wear clothes so tight you look like a busted can of biscuits. It's not OK to talk as loud as you can on the 1 train. It's not OK to be pregnant by another man when you're pushing a one year old in a stroller. It's not OK to buy your one year old little boy a gold chain with a big cross on it that extends down to his belly. It's not OK to buy a Coach bag when you haven't paid your rent. It's not OK to let "that nigga" pay your rent. It's not OK to lie for public assistance. It's not OK to vote for Obama "just because he's black". It's not OK not to use protection and wonder how you got HIV. It's not OK to think you can't have better. It's not OK to just want what's given to you. It's not OK to not LOVE yourself.

There's a lot that's not OK. So leave Charlie Murphy the fuck alone because he's right. We GOT to do better. We really do.

And until we stop spending up all our money on bullshit, I'm gonna keep putting us on blast. Including myself.

So here's what I did.

I cut up all my credit cards and leave my debit card at home.

If I need money, I go to the bank (remember that place?) and withdraw it because all that convenience was costing me way too much fucking money. Not just in ATM fees, but it created the illusion that I had a stash of unlimited 20 dollar bills that are at my beckoning. And that's just not the case.

I quit my other gym membership. (I belonged to two. I know. Wasteful.)

I stopped buying lunch and bring it to work daily.

This, along with a host of other really inconvenient habits I re-adopted.

Because you know what? My moms didn't have any of this shit.

Not an iPhone, cable, ATM, internet shopping, microwaves...and somehow, she always found a way to feed & clothe her 4 kids. She didn't see life as inconvenient, it was life.


More to us than what we spend and show.

So I guess my point is... please. STOP PUTTING SWIZZLE STICKS IN YOUR HEN-ROCK.
And do better. At least try.

-Nye

One more thing. It's not OK to torture animals. You sick fuck. Color, celeb status, your Momma aside. It's not OK to torture animals and make a profit off of them, and it's doubly wrong when you don't NEED the money and you're doing it for shits and giggles...you sick fuck. Lost your job? Bankrupt in ten years? Oh fucking well.

And You're Upset About "Nappy Headed Ho"?

Not to piss you off...just to open your eyes for a second.

Umm... did you have any idea there are THIS MANY slurs out there?

Sticks and stones people. Sticks and stones.

(Some of them are actually pretty funny.) Ready?


Alligator bait
(U.S.) also "Gator Bait." A black person, especially a black child. More commonly used in states where alligators are found — particularly Florida. First used in the early 1900s[clarify], although some hypothesize the term originated in the late 1800s[clarify].[1] (The phrase may have lost any racial connotation at all among fans of the Florida Gators, for whom it simply means "a rival team who loses or will lose to the Gators.)
Alabama porch monkey
A black Male
Ann
A white woman to a black person — or a black woman who acts too much like a white one. While Miss Ann, also just plain Ann, is a derisive reference to the white woman, by extension it is applied to any black woman who puts on airs and tries to act like Miss Ann.[2]
Ape
(U.S.) a black person.[3]
Aunt Jemima / Aunt Jane / Aunt Mary / Aunt Sally / Aunt Thomasina
(U.S. Blacks) a black woman who "kisses up" to whites, a "sellout", female counterpart of Uncle Tom.[4]
Boogie
a black person. Referring to "Boogie Woogie" form of jazz? Could come from W. African "Buuker" or "Buckra", meaning "Devil", "Boogie man" or "White Man". Turned around and used against Blacks by Whites.[5]
Buffie
a black person.[6]
b. (U.S. black) a young, brown-skinned person 1940s–1950s[7]
Bush Boogie
a black person. Derived from alleged jungle origins.[8]
Colored
(U.S.) a Black person. Now typically considered disrespectful, this word was more acceptable in the past. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, for example, continues to use its full name unapologetically. Some black Americans have reclaimed this word and softened it in the expression "a person of color".
Coloured
(South Africa) a community of mixed origin, including Khoikhoi and Asian slaves, not derogatory but the normal term for this community
(UK Commonwealth) a black person (while not usually intended to be offensive, the term is not regarded as acceptable by many black people)[9]
Coon
(AUS, U.S. & U.K) a black person. Possibly from Portuguese barracoos, a building constructed to hold slaves for sale. (1837).[10]
Crow
a black person,[11] spec. a black woman.
Gable
a black person.[6]
Golliwogg
(UK Commonwealth) a dark-skinned person, after Florence Kate Upton's children's book character [12]
Jigaboo, jiggabo, jijjiboo, zigabo, jig, jigg, jiggy, jigga
(U.S. & UK) a black person (JB) with stereotypical black features (dark skin, wide nose, etc.).[13]
J: A person of the jewish faith, also used as a verb

Jim Crow
(U.S.) a black person; also the name for the segregation laws prevalent in much of the United States until the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 1960s.[14]
Jim Fish
(South Africa) a black person[15]
Jungle Bunny
(U.S.) a black person. Jungle is referred to their jungle origins and bunny is referred to some people saying that jack rabbits looked like 'lynched' black people. [16]
Kaffir, kaffer, kaffir, kafir, kaffre
(South Africa) a. a black person. Very offensive. Usage: Kaffir Boy was a famous autobiographical book by Mark Mathabane about his childhood in South Africa. (The South African Consul General in Lethal Weapon 2 calls Danny Glover a kaffir and Mel Gibson a 'kaffir lover'.) b. also caffer or caffre: a non-Muslim. c. a member of a people inhabiting the Hindu Kush mountains of north-east Afghanistan. Origin is from the Arab word kafir meaning 'infidel' used in the early Arab trading posts in Africa. The term passed into modern usage through the British, who used the term to refer to the mixed groupings of people displaced by Shaka when he organized the Zulu nation. These groups (consisting of Mzilikaze, Matiwani, Mantatisi, Flingoe, Hottentot, and Xhosa peoples inhabited the region from the Cape of Good Hope to the Limpopo river) fought the British in the Kaffir Wars 1846–1848, 1850–1852, and 1877–1878.)[17][18] See also Kaffir (Historical usage in southern Africa)
Leroy, LeRoy, Leeroy, LeeRoy
Given name allegedly common among black people.
Macaca
Epithet used to describe a Negro (originally) or a person of North-African origin (more recently). Came to public attention in 2006 when U.S. Senator George Allen infamously used it to describe a person of Indian descent. [19]
Mammy or Mammy Woman
(U.S.) an unflattering term for a mature black woman — usually subservient (term popularized by Al Jolson in song and film), a pop culture example is Hattie McDaniel's character in Gone with the Wind for which she won the Academy Award[20]
Monkey
(UK) a black person.[21]
Mosshead
a black person.[6]
Munt
(among whites in South Africa, Zimbabwe, and Zambia) a black person from muntu, the singular of Bantu[22]
Mustard seed
(U.S.) a light-skinned person with one white and one black parent[23]
Milada,/ half black, half white person. Oreo: Cookie:.
Nego / negão / negalháda
(Brazil)
Nig-nog or Nig Jig
(UK & U.S.) a black person.[24]
Nigger / nigra / nigga / niggah / nigguh / nigglet
(U.S., UK) a black person. From the word negro which means the color black in numerous languages. Diminutive appellations include "Nigg", "Nigz". The terms "Nigga" and "Niggaz" (plural) are frequently used between African-Americans without the negative associations of "Nigger."
Nigger baby
(U.S. Military) obsolete: a type of large cannonball [first used in the 1870s][25]
Niggerhead
1.)an isolated coral head: these are often a navigation hazard in coral reef areas. Also called a bommie. 2.) a species of tobacco plant (appears in Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn").
Nigger shooter
a slingshot[26]
Niglet
A young black kid.
Nigra / negra / niggra / nigrah / nigruh
(U.S.) offensive for a black person [first used in the early 1900s][27]
Nigre
(Caribbean)
Pint of Guinness / Mr. Guinness etc.
A black person with white or very fair hair, so called due to the drink Guinness, which has a black body and a white head.
Powder burn
a black person.[6]
Porch Monkey
A black person
Puddle Jumper
black person
Quashie
a black person.[6]
Sambo
(U.S.) a derogatory term for an African American, Black, or sometimes a South Asian person.[28][29]
Smoked Irish / smoked Irishman
(U.S.) 19th century term for Blacks (intended to insult both Blacks and Irish).[6]
Sooty
a black person [originated in the U.S. in the 1950s][30]
Spade
(U.S.) a black person
Spear Chucker
(U.S.) a black person
Tar baby
(UK; U.S.; and N.Z.) a black child.[31] See Tar baby.
Teapot
(British) a black person. [1800s][32]
Thicklips
a black person.[6]
Uncle Tom
(U.S. minorities) term for an African-American, Latino, or Asian who panders to white people; a "sellout" (from the title character of Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin.)
Zebra
(U.S.) an often self-referential or affectionate term applied those with parents of mixed race, specifically black and white. The term was further popularized by the 1992 film Zebrahead.


Funny. Nappy Headed Ho isn't even on the list. If I were Imus, I'd be PISSED!