Sizing Me Up

One of the most annoying things about going somewhere and having to meet and interact with new people is the way in which we're socialized to size each other up.

You know how it is, you're chatting with someone new and you slowly realize they're trying to place you on their scale of social importance.

I got sized up yesterday and gosh, it drives me crazy! I found myself wanting to tell the most outrageous lies and make up the most random stuff just to throw off the other person's efforts to determine whether or not I'm worth respecting.

Here are some of the questions and my interpretations:

1) So what do you do? This question is used to figure out pretty much everything under the sun about a person. If I say I'm a corporate lawyer, then you know I have an advanced degree, am making beaucoup dollars and work too many hours. You're going to think I'm smart and maybe a little ruthless, but in our culture, is that necessarily a bad thing?

On the other hand, if I say I'm a "dancer" at Spearmint Rhino, well, no offense to anybody who may be employed by said strip club, but no one is gonna be thinking I'm all that smart. In fact, your eyes might suddenly gravitate to my chest to see if you can discern whether or not I've had any "enhancements" done.

2) What does your husband do? If I say my husband is a film executive you are going to think something different than if I say he's a gardener. If I answer that I'm not married then the person's going to wonder if I'm a lesbian or if I'm trying to be a character from Sex and the City.

3) Where'd you do your undergrad? This is one of the really slick ones. With this question, the interrogater is letting me know she actually went to grad school. Notice how people who only went to undergrad don't phrase things this way. They say, "Where'd you go to college?"

Sometimes the questioner will find out what she wants by saying, "Well, when I was in undergrad, I blah blah blah!"

I'm supposed to respond, "How fascinating! Where did you go to undergrad?"

That then opens the door to the other person revealing in their best, self-deprecating tone, "Oh, Harvard. What about you?"

This game is played till the location of their graduate school is revealed as well.

4) "It's just sooo hard to see all of the Louvre in one day, isn't it?" This is the question that is designed to figure out whether or not I've been to Europe or have any European cultural awareness. I'm supposed to answer, "Oh my God! Yes, it is! I spent a whole day and didn't even get to see Antioch's Venus de Milo!"

After that, if I'm to prove I'm "somebody" I should launch into all the details of my time gallivanting through Paris.

On the other hand, if I say, "What's the Louvre?" well, the person probably will excuse herself to go get another drink. Or if I say, "I've read that it is hard to see all of it but I've never been to Paris," I'll get grilled on whether I've ever been to Europe at all. When I reveal that I haven't, then that supposedly says something about me.

5) "Is that a Marc Jacobs jacket?" This one is also used to determine my status. Like, am I going to reply, "Naw, heffa, it's from Target," or will I answer, "No, this one's from Gucci but it looks like Jacobs from two seasons ago, doesn't it?"

You see what I mean about how annoying these little "let me place you socially" questions are? And we all do it. Over the years I've tried to make a conscious effort to not ask these sorts of questions but I know I still do sometimes. Granted, if the interrogator is nice and not condescending, sometimes I don't mind answering.

I just know I will be happier in the world if we all figure out how to talk about real things with the people we meet instead of engaging in this mindless Q & A that's all designed to figure out how well you think you have to treat someone.

And for the record, in case you are speculating, I do not work as a corporate lawyer.

(I'm not a stripper either.)

Your Big, Cellulite Covered Booty

I know you have cellulite on your booty.

Even if you are a resident of Los Angeles and best friends with a plastic surgeon, I know you have some ripples and dimples somewhere on that big ole booty of yours. What I don't know is whether or not someone is coming to take a picture of your booty.

You see, I was at the grocery store waaay too late last night, and the covers of the magazines in the checkout aisle were totally harassing me. Why do I have to walk past the checkout line at a grocery store, where, mind you, I am buying FOOD, and see pretty much every magazine cover discussing who's too fat, who's too thin, and how to lose 10-20 even 50 pounds while still eating white sugar, flour and a boatload of salt? Why?

And clearly it was a slow news week at the National Enquirer because they did one of their covers similar to this one, spotlighting which stars have cellulite.

Hint to the Enquirer: ALL OF THEM have it. Every single last female celebrity has cellulite. Even if they have starved themselves down to crack-head levels, they probably still have some cellulite. No matter how much you try to get those ripples sucked out and smoothed and whatever the heck else, 99% of women are going to have cellulite. It's called being human.

Instead, the Enquirer brings poor Mischa Barton to tears by running a photo of her 22 year-old booty, complete with ripples and dimples. Now, I'm sure on the one hand Mischa's loving the free press because she hasn't had anything going on since the OC went off TV. In fact, I'll bet you asked yourself, "Who the heck is Mischa Barton?" Yeah, me too. Never watched the show and I don't think she's "hot" by any stretch of the imagination. But now Mischa's got an interview with OK! Magazine about how unfair the Enquirer was. OK! asked Mischa profound questions like, "Are you self-conscious about your body?" -- to which Mischa said, "No," because she comes from a European family. (Whatever that means!)

No, what Mischa should have done is told the Enquirer that she's actually part black and the black community is a lot more accepting of having some booty. Then she could have pointed out that studies are showing having a big booty is nice and healthy and helps prevent diabetes. Granted, the study was only done on lab mice, and any health benefits of the big booty can and will be negated by the spare tire you're carrying around across your belly, but still!

Mischa should've also asked the Enquirer why they don't take more pictures of men and their guts and man-boobs. Seen photos of Tobey Maguire when he's not shooting a Spiderman movie? Uh huh, I don't think so!

Think about all the sitcom husbands with their toothpick-sized wives. It's like we're supposed to believe the wife isn't sitting around eating high fructose corn syrup laced food too. I'm supposed to think the wife only breathes in the aroma of the Doritos and doesn't ever eat one. Whatever.

And next time you see Jack Black in a movie playing the fat goof ball, ask yourself, would Jack Black ever get a job in Hollywood if he was a woman? If you said yes, let me tell you, you're wrong because if ever there was a candidate for the Jillian Michael's 30-Day Shred DVD, it's Jack. (Did it for the 3rd time this morning. Yes We Can!)

But women? Who do we have? Jennifer Hudson, Camryn Manheim or that one girl from High School Musical -- gosh, her name escapes me at the moment but it's not the one that's dating Zac Efron and had the naked pictures of herself floating around. No it's definitely not naked picture girl because nobody wants a naked picture of a "big girl" unless they are, ahem, into that sort of thing.

I know, it's not going to change anytime soon because a million people will pay money for that copy of the Enquirer and all the other magazines that try to sell how amazing your life will be if you don't have cellulite and you get a whole lot skinnier.

Look to Mariah Carey if you need proof that the skinny does not equal an amazing life. The magazines showed us photos of Mariah Carey's transformation from a size 8 (me) to a size 2 (what I'm apparently supposed to want to be). Well, Mariah got skinny and went and married Nick Cannon so clearly, being thinner does not equal having a lick of sense!

Anyway, I hope you and your big, cellulite covered booty have a great day. Just no "switching" when you walk, mmkay?

Badly Behaved Children

Sometimes I get a little annoyed when folks go on and on about how shocked they are that my sons are so well-behaved. The typical comment goes something like this:

"I just can't BELIEVE how good your kids are! I mean, look at them! They are just so well-behaved, it's AMAZING!!!"

Those are the moments I want to ask in return, "Why can't you believe it? Because they're black and male? Do you think all black males are heathens who can't behave? Hmm???"

But that would be me reading into the situation a little too much, even if I do sometimes think that racial dynamics are a part of the shocked response to their good behavior. I never ever do the, "Oh, but you should see how they bad they are when they're at home," thing. Instead, I verbally agree with the person, especially when my boys are in earshot. "Yes, they are very well-behaved. They are such good, polite boys."

We talk about the proper way to behave a whole lot in my house. Plus, I was a teacher, a teacher that did not play around and accept anything less than excellent behavior. Kids learn how to behave if you teach them how to and reward them for being good. To me, it's the essence of vanity to think you can go somewhere and be rude or disrespectful.

My seven year-old just started taking Kung Fu lessons at a place a couple of miles from my house. My husband took him to the first two lessons but I wanted to go so I took him last night. There are six other boys in the class and five of them are really badly behaved. My husband had warned me about how bad they are, but I still wasn't fully prepared for how they were talking back to the Sifu. These boys are a little older, maybe 6th graders, so the Sifu was giving them sets of push ups to do as punishment for being disrespectful. It really didn't seem like these boys cared all that much because they were doing dozens of push ups.

I saw my son watching these boys and then he'd look over at me to gauge my reaction to this. I kept shaking my head at him and giving him the "eye".

I started having flashbacks to something that happened when I was at a middle school basketball game. This girl in my class named Eleanor called her mom a bitch in front of everybody. What did Eleanor's mom do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She just stood there and said, "Oh, Eleanor, don't talk like that, honey!"

And what did Eleanor do with that? "Well you are a bitch! And I hate you! I wish you weren't even here."

My mouth was totally hanging open and I remember my mom just looked at me with this look that said, "If you ever do something like that, I will kill you."

The parents of these boys at Kung Fu last night were sitting right there watching their sons misbehaving. I think they saw my mom's look on my face. But them? One mom actually had the nerve to laugh and say, "They just come in here with so much energy, don't they?" They were totally being Eleanor's mom.

I made sure to talk with my son after the class about it all. I told him how I liked how respectful he was, how carefully he followed directions and how he thanked the Sifu after class. Then I took him to Robek's to get a smoothie treat. He asked me why I thought the other boys were bad and I told him it's because their parents let them act like that.

Later on, I got to thinking about how every single one of those misbehaving boys are white. After I got home I was talking on the phone with a girlfriend of mine and I told her about these boys. I started joking with her, "What they need is a black mom to set them straight because black moms don't play that."

Total stereotype, I know, but I think there is a grain of truth that certain cultures, particularly black folks, don't look kindly on their children misbehaving in public. And if your mom or dad is there, that's a definite no-no. It's not regarded as cute or funny and there's the cultural legacy that misbehaving in public can get you killed. Google Emmett Till's story if you're not sure what I mean by that.

Clearly, I know from teaching that black and Latino kids can and do misbehave in public. But again, I never saw it go down while the parents were sitting right there. I had students who would talk much smack, they'd be all, "Call my momma, I don't care!" Then when I'd call mom and get her to come up to the school, the tears and apologies would start big time and they'd never be a problem again.

The flip side of this is that while some of this cultural stuff is true, it also gives rise to, like I said, stereotypes. White parents are nice, but passive wimps, and black parents are mean and will beat your ass if you even look at them wrong, (especially if they're from the Caribbean).

Now, I don't beat my children at all. I do the modern version of discipline, which clearly, parents of all colors do: explain the rules, enforce the rules and reward and punish accordingly. I'm curious though, what do you all think about all this? What do you think about culturally different ways that people raise their kids or discipline them? In your experience, what do you see happen?

Who You Callin' a Bitch?

Back in the mid nineties, Queen Latifah released a song called U.N.I.T.Y. It's been a long time since I've listened to it. And it's my guess that Tina Fey has never heard it.



According to Tina's most recent Saturday Night Live weekend update skit, it's okay to call yourself a bitch and to call other people a bitch too. And all women should be proud to be called a bitch because, "Bitches get things done."

In Tina's world, Hillary Clinton is a bitch so therefore she's going to get things done.

Just like Rosa Parks and Betty Shabazz, right? Just like Oprah? Just like my mother? Just like my sister?

Just like me?

Because trust me, I get things done. But I don't believe I need to be a bitch to do so. I don't believe strength and standing up for what's right means I'm a bitch. As Latifah said, "Real bad girls are the silent type."

Emulating the worst aspects of a male-dominated society in order to accomplish something is nothing but getting down in the gutter. We've got plenty of male bitches running things and Lord knows we don't need more of the same.

I don't tolerate people calling me a bitch. To me there's nothing empowering about being called a bitch. And I don't take it as a compliment if it's another woman calling me that. Where I come from, you call a girl a bitch and it's on.

Maybe this is a white women of privilege thing. Maybe they are the ones who find it empowering to be called a bitch. I don't know. You tell me.

And another thing Tina Fey needs to recognize is that bitch will never be the new black. I don't care if she was referring to it in a fashion sense or not. The double entendre is pretty obvious.

Tina Fey can stand around and say, "I'm a bitch and I get things done!" all she wants but I bet she won't have a hard time catching a cab in New York City.

Ever.

Yeah, I'll bet Tina Fey's never stood on the southbound traffic side of Broadway hoping that cabs will pull over because they're thinking she's not headed uptown.

I've bet Tina's never had a cab driver tell her he doesn't know how to get to the Bronx.

I fully believe sexism is alive and well in the United States, but in the meantime, don't call me a bitch.

The Photoshop Experiment

I'm a mere three weeks away from being ejected from the desirable 18-34 marketing group.

Yes, I'm approaching the age where any magazine will suggest that I slather myself with $60 face creams, have some laser resurfacing done and consider using some "preventative" botox. Or I could just use my very amateur Photoshop skills and tweak a few things here and there.

According to our beauty standards, what needs tweaking?

To be quite frank, unlike Jennifer Love Hewitt, I am not a size two. Or a four. Or a six...unless I'm shopping at Old Navy. But you can't see that in this picture.

So, what can you see?

Well, I have lines under my eyes. Sure, you have some lines as well. But when's the last time you saw lines like yours and mine on a magazine cover? How about the dark circles? And while I'm on the eye area, my eyebrows are in dire need of waxing.

I have freckles under my eyes. Or are those really age spots? The results of sun damage?

Okay, let's move on to the forehead. See those two grooves on my forehead maybe an inch down from my hairline? Those are two scars from a severe childhood bout of chicken pox. For some reason, they seem deeper than ever these days.

Come to think of it, the skin on my forehead is overall pretty rough. It must be the effect of the LA sun. Plus, I can see the little scar left from when my then three year-old threw a Batman at me in a fit of rage earlier this fall.

Hmm. Those laugh lines are starting to look a little deeper than they did before.

My hair is graying, dulling. Losing it's lustre. And someone should have told me to touch up the lipstick.

Have you looked at yourself lately and done this similar self-analysis? It's dangerous, because really, where does it stop?

I've only used Photoshop once before and with my very limited skill level, I can barely erase the wrinkles, color my hair, and get rid of my chicken pox scars and freckles. And I "softened" one of the laugh lines on the right side of my face. I should have done the left as well just to balance it out, but by then I was feeling a little nauseous from all the self-inflicted tweaking.

Imagine what a professional, someone who regularly tweaks the likes of a Julia Roberts or a Halle Berry could do with me?

Just to twist the knife a bit deeper though, I asked my oblivious son and husband what they thought about these two pictures.

"Which one do you like better?"

Guess which one they all chose? My eldest even pointed to the second one and said, "You look ALOT prettier in this one, Mommy."

I don't know why I got irritated when all three of them chose the second picture. Really, isn't that what we all do? Sure, Pam Anderson sans makeup and photo editing is a scary thing. But if I didn't know otherwise, would I feel so horrified when I see it? How must it feel for celebrities to see professionally Photoshopped pictures of themselves plastered all over magazines and know that they really don't look like that?

They are not that thin. Their skin and hair is not that perfect. And they're getting Photoshopped after having had laser skin resurfacing, botox, and professionally applied makeup. No wonder they become drug addicts and alcoholics. They wake up every morning having to change who they really are, knowing what they are presenting is a lie.

They wake up knowing that if we don't see them in all their "perfection", they will get ripped apart for looking...human.

At the end of it all, I'll take the version of me with the two chicken pox craters in my forehead. That's who I've known all my life. I think I like her better.

Could You Tell It Was Veteran's Day Today?

I sat in a cafe this afternoon and wondered if anyone in the place was a veteran.

After all, today is Veteran's Day.

Something like 25% of LA's homeless population is comprised of veterans. Clearly though, not every veteran is living over on Skid Row in abject poverty. Those ones that decided they didn't want to rack up the savings at Macy's awesome Veteran's Day Sale were probably getting all the recognition they needed at trendy little cafe's with profound names like "Intelligentsia".

I'll admit, there were no signs in the cafe proclaiming, "Thank you, Veterans, for risking your lives so we can enjoy our $4 lattes."

There weren't even any, "Free coffee if you got a cap busted in your ass somewhere overseas!" signs.

But maybe a couple of vets came into the cafe before I did and told them to take the signs down because they didn't want to draw too much attention to themselves. They probably wanted to sip that $4 latte and discuss the writer's strike in anonymity.

Yes, they must not have wanted to call too much attention to themselves, even though it's technically Veteran's Day.

I'm sure the tattooed up guys sitting across from me poring over photo shoot proofs probably just got back from Iraq.

The woman who seemed like she'd forgotten to put on a bra had to have been chasing Osama in Afghanistan this time last year. She was probably risking her life in barren terrain, so she should have the luxury to yap into her cell phone about how her boyfriend is an, "F-ing cheater," but she can't leave yet because the, "Sex is sooo hot. Like every night!"

Yes, even though I couldn't tell at all that it was Veteran's Day today, that doesn't mean the veterans around me felt at all slighted or unappreciated.

I'm sure they just were glad to have a day off to relax, shop, sip coffee and be cool...just like me.

Stranger in a Crowd

It's 46 degrees and overcast on this Saturday in New York City. I'm still loving it, even though I'm cold as I don't know what.

Did I really once live in this city and stroll down Broadway on days like this, jacket open, nary a scarf in sight? How times have changed as I shiver in my coat and granny scarf. My hands feel like icicles.

To remedy this chill factor, I just popped into Allegro Coffee, a cafe close to Houston and Bleeker, and am now seated here sipping chai, dreading the moment I must step back outside.

I have so many photos to share, including the one I just took of Foster, an Allegro Coffee employee. Or rather, my photo's of Foster's tattoo on the inside of his right forearm. It's a pig but the pig body is divided into numbered sections. I asked him if I could photograph his pig and he was quite obliging. I don't know how I'd react if some weird woman with crazy curly hair ordered a chai and said, "Excuse me, can I take a picture of your pig tattoo?" But Foster was a total sweetheart and even stuck out both arms. He has a carrot on the other arm. He's planning on turning that arm into a tattoo sleeve of food.

I asked Foster what the divided and numbered pig body is about. It turns out it's a diagram of how a butcher cuts up a pig. Foster used to live in Italy and while there, he worked as a butcher. They say you learn something new every day, but learning about how a butcher cuts up a pig was something I hadn't expected.

In another ten minutes, I'll be heading out the door, heading back into the sea of people out on the streets. Whenever I come here, I always look at the faces of the people I'm walking past because, without fail, every time I'm in this city I run into someone I did not expect to see, someone who doesn't live here, isn't from here and just randomly happens to be in this city, just like me. It hasn't happened yet on this visit, but I still have a whole two days ahead of me. I
wonder who it'll be.

I went to the Nuyorican Poets Cafe last night. I haven't been there in about eight years and it was interesting to see how much nicer the neighborhood's gotten since I last ducked in those doors, and how much more diverse the crowd has become. There were the usual folks with
locs, fros and hoop earrings, but the crowd last night had someone from every background there. That was nice to see.

As luck would have it, it was the semi-finals of their poetry slam. I can't really get into all the finger snapping folks do at those, but I loved every minute of the poetry. The poems seemed to be falling into two categories. Interestingly enough, many were about a longing for spiritual enlightenment, a longing for closeness to God, a crying out to God to heal the ills afflicting both individuals and our collective society.

The second theme I kept hearing was one of fatigue with the disrespect and objectification of women in our culture. And it was nice to see this fatigue coming from both the male and female poets. I took some video of a couple of the artists, so when I get a chance, I'll upload it so you can see what I experienced.

A young poet named "Soulful Jones" won the slam. He did some amazing poems about his mother. His mother was a prostitute. He had nine brothers and sisters and no father. But he is on fire and full of hope. And if he can be hopeful, what excuse do I have to ever give up hope?

I sat on the A train this morning, watching tough girls with their gold door knocker earrings and curly Dominican hair stroll by in tight jeans and Timbs, gum popping and eyes cutting from underneath tilted pageboy caps. I saw women applying even more black eyeliner to their
eyes and men, eyes closed, bobbing their heads to hip hop blaring from iPod headphones.

I watched a West African mother chastise her two small children, a girl and a boy. The lilt of her accent as she said, "Sit in your seat like you're supposed to," was like a music all it's own. The daughter's hair was covered with a colorful head scarf that she seemed to wear with pride. The boy was just as cute as he could be, his eyes shining with the clear desire to get up and explore the train. I wanted to ask them what country they were from, but clearly strangers don't speak to each other on the train. It's taboo to even make eye contact.

All that diversity on the train and we don't see each other, don't really look at each other. If I see you and you see me, if we connect, then we might see each other's vulnerabilities.

Of course, the fear is that one stranger will take advantage of the other's vulnerabilities and weaknesses.

So, my time is up and I must head back out to the cold, back to find the stranger who's face seems so familiar. Who will be that familiar stranger in a crowd?