When a Black Woman Asks For Help

I had a conversation with a friend yesterday that broke my heart. She's someone I've known since I was nine or ten years old and she's been going through a really tough time for the past year or so. I've often wished I was back in Chicago so I could be there for her more than I have been. I don't want to put her business out on front street but talking to her made me think about something I've asked myself many times over the years: What's the response when a black woman asks for help?

I've been thinking about this for many years because when I was in college, I noticed an interesting phenomenon happening with a few of the young black men who were among my best friends. Almost all of them lived at home with their parents, none of them were going to college even though one or both of their parents was college educated and they were often treated by their mothers and most of the friends we mutually had as an endangered species. Not that that perspective was necessarily wrong because looking at the statistics, they are often in physical, mental, spiritual and emotional danger. I also worry about all those statistics when I look at my own sons and the possibilities of what could happen scare me. It's just that the same care and attention was most often not given to the black girls and women I knew.

Out of the black women I knew, none of them lived at home with their parents. Almost all of them were going to college. Many had more than one job on top of school responsibilities, and if any of us said we were short on the rent and didn't know where the money was coming from, there was no helping hand to assist. If we were hungry, well, we just had to be hungry. We were not regarded as being an endangered species because we're supposed to be the Strong Black Woman -- you know, the woman who has endured birthing babies in the field and going back to picking cotton twenty minutes later.

For so many black women I know, there is a complete double standard in how they were brought up compared to their brothers or male cousins. The brothers and cousins were "loved" and the daughters were "raised". The lives of many of the black women I've known have been an intersection of the real axis of evil, racism and gender inequality. I remember how in high school, guys I know were expected to have girlfriends and their mothers would chuckle over their son's attractiveness to the opposite sex. The more girls calling the house the better.

On the other hand, some girls I knew were called whore and slut and beaten/grounded if a guy called them up. Academics were pushed with girls, and although they might be pushed with the boys, being cool was pushed just as much.

So many of the girls I know, girls who are now women, were raised with the attitude that black women have got to be self reliant, you've got to hold it together and if you're having a tough time, you better hustle and figure it out on your own because you don't have anyone to count on but yourself.

I remember being 19 years old and asking my now husband why it was that he was always getting asked if he was hungry but no one ever asked me if I was hungry. His black male friends were always being asked if they were hungry too. If these guys said yes, somebody would immediately fix them something to eat. Or, if we were out in public and one of my black male friends said, "I don't have any money," someone would buy them a meal or pay for their movie ticket. If they didn't have a ride somewhere, then someone would come pick them up. If they needed a job, hook-ups would happen.

Sometimes this all got particularly weird and seemed to have racial undertones to it because we hung out with a very diverse group of people. The sociologist in me would wonder how much of a role guilt was playing into some of the interactions I'd observe between my friends and those in our circle who were not black. I just knew that young black women weren't being cultivated and nurtured in the same way. Some would use the word "coddled" instead of nurtured. Sometimes my friends made me angry though because at times it felt like they sort of milked some folks' perceptions in order to get a hook up.

The person offering up the food or money for a movie ticket was most often not a black female. Black females would look at these guys and be like, "And? So? I guess you're not going to the movie then."

There was the racially sexualized dynamic between the black males I knew and the young white women of our acquaintance. I remember one college boyfriend brutally explaining to me that he was cheating on me with a white girl we both knew because she would give him, "her car, her cash and that ass."

Funny how some things are said to you and you never forget them.

Anyway, I can't tell you how many times this discussion about the differences in the way black women and men are treated by society has come up when I'm a room full of black men and women. Most often it's turned into a huge, heated argument where the women are sharing what they've been through and how they didn't have, for example, white girls lending a car, buying laptops for them or taking them shopping at the mall and they didn't have a mom at home telling them that it didn't matter what they did, they'd love them no matter what, and if things didn't work out, they could stay at home forever.

The men turn around and say that at least the women don't have to get harassed by the cops and put in special education. At least the women don't have folks grabbing their purse and crossing the street when they see a scary black man coming. The conversation never ends well.

So, like I said, my friend is really going through some struggles and yet many of the same people that would bend over backwards to lend a helping hand to the guys I knew back in the day are blind and deaf to her plight. She's not too proud to ask for help, but listening to her yesterday, her requests for assistance are being ignored.

I can't help but wonder if the response would be different if she was male.

What Do You Do All Day?

The next time someone asks me, "What do you do all day?" or says, ""I can't believe you're such a stay-at-home mom these days. Don't you get bored?" I'm going to scream!

Or if they're right in front of me, instead of screaming, I'm gonna stab them with a...with a...

Well, I'm sure I'll find something nice, sharp and painful to stab with. Like my keyboard.

Do these people not know what my life used to be like? Do they not know that if I never have an office job again, I have paid my dues and then some! Last year I was taking tests to determine if I was a workaholic and if I'd answered every question honestly, (which I didn't because it was too damn depressing) I would've scored a perfect 100%. I was considering going to therapy. Have they not read my post on working 101 hours in ONE WEEK?

But the truth is also that if I wanted to get everything done at my job that I needed to, there was no possibility of not working the hours I did. It's not a good or bad thing. It's just the way it was. We all know 40 hours a week is a joke for most people these days. It's not right, but it's the way it is.

What really bugs me that more women than men say these things to me. There's always an insinuation that I was the last person they ever thought they'd see leading such a "boring" existence.

I guess they liked me better when I was working all the time. I guess that made me more exciting. I guess I had value then and now I don't. Maybe it's not status-y enough to say that your friend stays home and writes? Is that the problem?

Because yes, I write and I get paid for it. I want to write more stuff and get paid for it. I like writing. No, I love writing and I'm happier when I'm writing than when I'm doing anything else. Want to hire me to write something for you?

Sure, the money's not as much as what I was making before, but I'm not working the hours I was and I'm fine with that. Even if I decide to go back to an office job next year, I will never ever again say, "Yeah, I worked 87 hours this week." I might not even be willing to ever again say, "I worked 57 hours."

I used to pay someone thousands of dollars a year to watch my sons. She was awesome and I think a huge part of the sweet, very polite and happy boys my sons are today is owed to her. But no one would have said she wasn't working when she was taking care of them. So how come I'm not working when I'm taking care of my own kids?

I 'm writing. I'm reading. I'm on three committees at my kid's school. I'm actually cooking dinner. I bury deceased hamsters. I read to my children. I do crazy things like organize my books alphabetically and call the LAPD about drunks loitering down the hill.

But what if I did nothing but lounge on the couch and eat chocolate covered strawberries? What if I just went to a spa all day, watched the maid do the laundry and made my chauffeur drive me to Fred Segal to shop?

Whose business would that be?

Inhale. Exhale. Do a yoga pose. Repeat out loud: "Violence is a tool of the ignorant.

But seriously, whoever has a problem with what I'm doing right now, step off.

How Depeche Mode Wrecked My Bid to Become POTUS

I really should have kept up my bid to become POTUS.

Just think, being both black and female, I could pull in the votes from both prized demographics. Plus, some are speculating that the "Latino" vote is gonna be key in this presidential race. I would have that on lock too since I live in LA.

I'm no dummy so I would have already hired some calculating campaign advisers to spin the LA angle, and the fact that I like to eat the tamales sold at the Hollywood Farmer's Market. I wouldn't put The King of Infidelity Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa up on national TV to campaign on my behalf either, no matter how desperate I happened to be for the Latino vote.

Instead I'd hire City Council President, Eric "The Hotness" Garcetti as my campaign manager.

He's a Rhodes Scholar, he speaks Spanish, he's a 4th generation Angeleno, he's a jazz pianist...and did I mention he's very good looking?

Hmm...maybe I better not hire Garcetti. Folks might start thinking he should be the POTUS instead of moi.

Oh well, come to think of it, I guess I am a little under-qualified for the job. Besides, there's probably enough fodder on this blog to completely eliminate me from contention. The Depeche Mode obsession alone would be the stake through the heart.

Can you imagine the press getting ahold of that? Chris Matthews would eat me for lunch.

Matthews: So you say your campaign song is "Personal Jesus". That's an odd song for someone who's not even an evangelical Christian.

Los Angelista: Not at all, Chris. In the face of rising gas prices and continuing threats from Al Qaeda, I firmly believe the American people need to unite for change and as the song says, "Reach out and touch faith!"

Matthews: I hear you throwing that "change" word in like every other candidate these days but aren't you just twisting the song to get votes? Isn't it really a song about Elvis and Priscilla Presley?

Los Angelista: Well, I'm glad to see you know a little Depeche Mode history, Chris. You have to admit, there's nothing more American than Elvis!

Matthews: Don't try to get cute! We're playing Hardball here! Besides, the latest Zogby poll is saying you're alienating evangelicals with this song.

Los Angelista: Well, as you know, we can't always trust polls, can we, Chris?

Oh yes, it would all go downhill from there.

Rumors of Garcetti quitting over my insistence on wearing a "Violator" t-shirt to the debate would get published on the Drudge Report.

An opposing campaign would engage in some shady behavior by mentioning that I might have said that given a choice between attending a Depeche Mode concert and brokering a nuclear arms treaty with North Korea, I'd choose Depeche Mode.

My campaign would then have to release a statement clarifying that in a moment of levity, what I'd actually said was that I'd take Kim Jong-il to the concert with me because I'm sure hearing "Personal Jesus" sung live would help seal the deal.

But the damage would be irrevocably done. I don't even know if I could get Gloria Steinem to declare her support for me in the New York Times. Would she take up the call that I'm a victim of sexism since I can't even have a healthy love for Depeche Mode? Would she note how no one would be complaining if I'd picked a theme song from a more traditionally masculine artist like Bruce Springsteen?

Or maybe she'd point out that if I was white, no one would bat an eyelash at me picking a Depeche Mode song. But nooo, because I'm black, the mainstream media expects me to have a Patti LaBelle or Luther Vandross track blaring as I walk on stage.

But that would mean that Ms. Steinem would have to acknowledge that racism does still matter a whole lot in this day and age. And I might take it upon myself to ask her, since she thinks black men have had it so good for so long, whether or not she's ever heard of a white woman being lynched in the United States.

Gosh, that would be the final nail in my campaign coffin, wouldn't it? I'd have nothing left to do but write a runaway bestseller, "How Depeche Mode Wrecked My Bid to Become POTUS".

Except I'd be such a has-been by that point that only three copies would sell, the ones I bought and autographed for each member of the band. Then I'd have to return my advance money and file for bankruptcy.

Yes, I suppose it's still best that I am not running for the esteemed job of President of the United States. A life without Depeche Mode, even one as head of the most powerful nation in the World (even though the rest of the world sort of financially owns us now) would be no life at all.

But if you'd still like to, "Reach out and touch faith", feel free to join me:

Dress Buying Drama

A really good friend of mine is getting married on Saturday and I've been stressing out about what I'm going to wear to her wedding.

I've spent some time standing in front of my closet, thinking that nothing in there looks remotely attractive to me right now. Everything screams, "You've worn me to million events!" It doesn't matter if it's different people at each event since when I look at the pictures I see the same darned dresses in every single one.

I know I must sound like a spoiled brat acting like I can't wear the same dress. After all, most of my ancestors back in the day probably had one or two good dresses that they wore, hemmed, repaired and wore some more.

But this ain't 1875 so I took myself to the mall. This is cringe-worthy in itself because I sort of hate shopping. There's too much stuff in stores, too much crap to sift through, and things are waay overpriced for what they are. If only I had Tim Gunn along with me to check my sense of style and help me sift through the racks and racks of clothing.

Let me tell you, after tonight's shopping experience, I feel like I need some sort of sedative. Ladies, we need to start a petition to have our clothing sized just like men's clothing. I am sick of vanity sizing. I am sick of every designer having a different fit. I'm sick of having to drag three different sizes of the same dress into the dressing room because I don't know if a six, eight or a ten is going to fit me.

If I want to try on four different dresses, guess what? I'm taking TWELVE dresses into the dressing room. That's just ridiculous!

The dress I really wanted was only available in sizes four, six and eight. It looked like it ran a bit small so I picked the eight. Unfortunately the eight was too tight in the chest.

I contemplated going on and getting it but I want to be able to breathe comfortably while I'm dancing at the wedding reception.

A size ten is available at Fox Hills Mall but really, there's no way I'm driving all the way across town for it.

Dress number two, a size eight, fit but I wasn't crazy about it.

Dress number three, the six was too tight, the eight too loose. I decided to pass.

The last dress, the eight was too loose but the six was comfortable. I ended up trying on the size four just to check it out. It fit better in the bottom but again, tight across the chest. Like I said, vanity sizing is out of control. I am no where near a size four. I highly doubt I'm a size six either. To tell you the truth, I don't really care about what size I am. I just want my clothing to fit!

Ladies, does this kind of ridiculousness sound familiar to you? Guys, are your eyelids starting to twitch just thinking about what it would be like to have to shop like that? I'll bet, because guys, here's what you do:

When you go into as store to buy a pair of pants, all you have to know is that you wear a size 30 x 34. And it's going to fit, no matter what store you're shopping in. You don't have to drag a 32 x 34, a 30 x 36 and a 34 x 34 into the dressing room with you just in case.

So I bought a dress. I like it. It's pretty...but I want to be psyched about my dress.

Unfortunately,. I 'm starting to think that the trip to Fox Hills might be worth it.

On the Phone With Mama

I have a deep, dark confession to make: I'm one of those annoying people that talks on their cell phone while grocery shopping.

This morning I woke up and realized we had no fruit in the house. So, I went over to our local supermarket and got sticker shock when I discovered that a box of clementines was $9.99! I was really annoyed but I wanted those clementines!

I decided to call my mom. And, then I wandered the aisles, talking on the phone to her and complaining about the overpriced clementines. I'm sure I must look like I'm a crazy lady talking to myself since I'm using my hands free device. I didn't care though. I heard about my mom's Thanksgiving, complained about the clementines even more and stuck almonds, tea and chocolate in my cart.

I wandered back to the produce section and stared at the clementine display. Seriously, that's a whole lot of ducats for a box of twenty or so little oranges. Seems like they should come gold plated or something for that kind of money.

My indecisiveness about buying clementines was abruptly ended when a heavily tattooed guy with a shaved head, wife beater t-shirt and sagging pants walked toward me, made eye contact and mouthed, "You're so f***ing sexy!"

Yes, it was clearly time to stop complaining to my mom about the clementines.

He proceeded to try to spit game at me. "What's your name?"

Time to get out of dodge and go home.

As I hope you know, guys don't take rejection too well. If women don't smile and giggle at their stupid lines then some of men want to call women a bitch (or worse). One minute a woman is hearing, "You're sexy," and the guy's all, "Lemme talk to you for a second".

But the next minute, after it's clear that being called "sexy" is not being taken in a complimentary manner, sexy can turn into, "Well f*** you then, you bitch ass ho!"

With that in mind, let me tell you: shopping while talking on the phone came in handy today.

I've learned a thing or two while living out here and working in the neighborhoods I've worked in. I've learned that certain types of guy, particularly those from a certain LA background that sport shaved heads, tats and the whole nine, well those guys, they love their mamas.

Mama is up in the church praying for him. Mama still makes him breakfast. Mama listens to his problems and gives him advice that he knows he should listen to. So, do whatever, say whatever, but you don't mess with mama.

I winked conspiratorially at this guy and, whispered back, "Yo, I'm on the phone with my mom."

His whole demeanor changed. He was instantly contrite, apologetic even. "Oh, sorry. Sorry!" And then he scooted off toward the bananas.

Ladies, if you're ever in a similar situation, and I'm sure you will be, make sure to tell those guys you're on the phone with mama. As for me, I put my clementines in my cart and headed for checkout!

America: Home of the Fatal Tummy Tuck

I just ate a clove of garlic and downed some NyQuil so this is going to have to be the most quickly written post in the history of this blog.

I took my temperature and it's 100.1. My body aches. I have a headache. My eyes are red... no photo of my jacked up state is gonna be posted. I'm not trying to "keep it real" to that sort of level.

In fact, I wouldn't even be posting except for Nablopomo. Yeah, I'm just competitive like that so I've dragged myself into an upright position and I'm sitting here typing. Ugh. I hate getting the flu.

But I have to just say that I feel so horrible for Kanye West. I was talking to my mom and sister earlier today about his mom's death and it's just awful. I'd be a wreck if that happened to my mom.

I keep thinking about how in pictures his mom wasn't even big. She looked just fine. She didn't look like she was in her teens or 20's. Nope, she looked like a distinguished black woman in her late 50's.

But nope, even educated, capable women are made to feel like they're nothing unless they have a flat stomach and some perky boobs. We're all responsible for that, not just that allegedly crooked surgeon she got caught up with.

I'll tell you, I've thought about getting a tummy tuck. And then I think about getting my badonkadonk up to run instead. If that doesn't get me the flat stomach, then guess what, I guess I'll just have to learn to live with control top panty hose, corsets, girdles... seriously, I would not want to die and leave my two kids and husband alone.

Plus, I've never had the $$ for plastic surgery so that's always squashed that idea.

And with that, I have to go keel over and wrap myself in a blanket. I hope I feel better manana and I hope you don't get sick too.

What's "The Wizard Of Oz "Really About?

I clearly have too much time on my hands because I'm watching "The Wizard of Oz" for the second time today.

Is it merely a fairytale or is it really all about money? Is the Wicked Witch of the East really a metaphor for Wall Street? Is the Yellow Brick Road really a stand in for the gold standard?

If I look at it as a political commentary, the, "Pay No Attention To That Man Behind The Curtain!" line is more relevant than ever. We aren't supposed to pay attention to what's what in our society. We're supposed to keep on shopping, keep on consuming and pretend we don't see the things that are staring us in the face.

It's also interesting to think about how a teenager is basically killing adults in this movie, but it's okay since it's all rather accidental. And, besides, they're female witches. Who cares if a couple of evil bitches witches die, right? Especially when they're the classic stereotype of a single spinster who's bitter because she doesn't have a man.

Yep, the Wicked Witch /Miss Gulch character was really evil. I used to be able to do the, "I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too," just like her.

What am I talking about, I can still do it. And even though I haven't seen "Wicked", I can empathize with the Wicked Witch because if your dog comes and bites me, guess what, Toto is getting put to sleep.

And then I'm suing you for not keeping Toto on a leash. You'll hear me cackling, "I'll get you my pretty, and your house/car/bank account too!"

Yes, I'll be living large in the Emerald City and you'll be in lock down at the county "storm cellar".

I'll come visit you in an H&M knockoff of the Good Witch Glinda's dress and some red shoes just like Dorothy's. Yep, put the two of those together and bam, instant hotness!

You see how easy it is to just think about the yellow brick road(gold) and the fly Manolo's? Yes, indeed, maybe "The Wizard of Oz" really is all about money.

I'm Never Drinking Rock Star Energy Drink Again!

I drank a can of that Rock Star energy drink about nine hours ago and I'm telling you, I'm still buzzed. I even went back to the park for a second jog and I swear, my right eyelid is twitching. I had no idea the stuff would affect me like this!

I have lost the ability to focus on just one thing...and that's totally fine since there's lots of things going through my head. Here are a few:

1) I'm Still Feeling Foster's Pig Tattoo: Almost a week later, I still think the pig is awesome. Only in NYC would I see this tattoo. I just can't picture a pig and a carrot going down as an LA tattoo. I'm also still loving Foster's explanation about these.

Come to think of it, my nickname as a child was "bunny". Maybe I should get a carrot like Foster's.

But I don't like pain and I've heard tattoos hurt...and two weeks later, I'd be trying to remember why exactly I decided to get a carrot on my shoulder.

So much for that idea. What else?

2) I hate Jay-Z: Even though I was in NYC last weekend, I did not go see the movie American Gangster. Yawn. Another glamorized drug dealer. Yawn again.

And I didn't buy Jay-Z's "American Gangster" cd either. But get me a bonfire and I'll toss one in there for you.

Every time I hear Jay-Z spitting his stories about how he came up selling drugs and committing other various criminal actions, I want that special prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald to find something that the statute of limitations hasn't run out on. Next time he alludes to his drug money, someone arrest Shawn Carter. (And throw Beyonce in there with him. Sentence her to three months without hair weaves, okay!)

I'll keep it real and tell y'all that I believe drug dealers should get the death penalty. They're killing other people, aren't they?

Plus, not only am I sick of Jay-Z's glamorization of drug dealing, I will also forever hate him because of his "Jigga, My Nigga" song. In case you're not familiar, here's the catchy chorus:

(Jigga) What's my motherfuckin name? (Jigga) And who I'm rollin with huh? (My niggaz) Uh-huh-uh-uhh-uhh-uhh Niggaz better get it right, bitches better get it right, WHO?

That song came out in the summer of 1999 and it was played all the time on the radio. The n-word was bleeped out on radio, but at parties, everyone, black, white, Latino and Asian, would sing it out loud. I really blame this song for the proliferation of the "n-word" in music. It made it mainstream. Jay-Z made it cool to say it. He's burning in hell for that one. For real.

Did I already say that I can't stand Jay-Z? Well, let's move on to Damon Wayans.

3) Someone PLEASE Slap Damon Wayans. Damon went on The View and agreed that those Rutgers women were "nappy headed hoes". Oh, he also thinks a woman's place is in the kitchen cooking. Don't believe he's really that dumb? Here's the proof:



Is he going to have to apologize for his remarks? Somehow, I highly doubt it because someone has passed around a memo that it's okay for black men to get up in public and disrespect black women. According to Damon, it's a "cultural thing". Yeah, let me make my foot in his ass a cultural thing too.

4) But, even though I wish Damon Wayans and Jay-Z would disappear, I'm proud of Chas Reynolds: Chas is one of my good friends out here in LA. He used to be a teacher in Compton and I was his supervisor through Teach For America. He was a great teacher but he was thankfully smart enough to follow his dreams into the entertainment business.

He's had a couple of very cool jobs with lots of cool perks, but after he started his blog, I became convinced that he needed to be writing for Rolling Stone. He's well on his way to doing just that with his latest gig writing for Artist Direct. Check out his thoughtful interview with up and coming hip hop artist, Gorilla Zoe. I'm so proud of him! Go Chas! And when you get the chance to interview Depeche Mode, remember your girl!

5) Speaking of Depeche Mode: There's going to be a Depeche Mode party next Saturday night the 17th at this place in Downtown LA. It's officially for some of the Depeche Mode albums that are being remastered. But really, it's a great excuse to come and dance to lots of great Mode remixes. I'll be there with one of my Depeche Mode shirts on:

The Grand Star Jazz Club (second floor)
943 North Broadway
Los Angeles (Chinatown), CA. 90012
10p-2a
$5 before 10p - $10 after - and no you can't bring your kids with you because it's 21+

Also, if you're some weird stalker, just stay home. Seriously, I really don't want to meet you and I'm not at all cute in person. Plus, I talk a lot and I like to dance so you'll never even get the chance to whisper your stalkery threats to me. And the slightly bored looking black guy with me...that'll be my husband.

Besides, there's plenty of great Depeche Mode music on YouTube. Stay home and watch/listen to those instead. Here's one to help you calm down. It's a rare acoustic version of "Nothing's Impossible". And come to think of it, as much as I really dislike Jay-Z, he did give Depeche Mode a shout out on his latest record. Maybe we shouldn't send him to the gallows after all.

Gosh, I promise, no more Rock Star energy drinks for me!

Trash, Cosmotrash and Glamourous Trash...Thank God It's Friday

I don't know about you but my week's felt seriously long. Dealing with trash, bees, a lock down at my kids school yesterday afternoon right at dismissal...ugh!

If you're unfamiliar with lock downs, that's what happens when an armed bandit is running around the neighborhood. The cops call the school and tell them to lock all the doors so that no one comes inside and shoots anybody.

Helicopters were circling overhead as I sprinted to the school. Fortunately, I got to there right when they were about to shut the doors so I got locked inside instead of outside.

We were locked up for a good twenty minutes before the "all clear" was given. I went and got my son who wanted to know if I'd seen the bad guys. Um, no. Fortunately not. Of course, on our way home we strolled our way past trash and bee central -- and suddenly, I heard a voice behind me. It was the assistant principal at the school and he was talking to someone about getting everything cleaned up! Whoo hoo! Is that good news or what? See, all y'all who checked the "keep dreaming" option on my poll just needed to have a little more faith.

Happy about this development, and eternally grateful to Alejandra in Eric Garcetti's office, I came home and got to talking to a friend who suggested that I take that Myers Briggs personality test over again. She wanted to see how my personality's changed since I've been working from home and being the neighborhood vigilante. Last year, I was an INFP - an "Introverted Intuitive Feeling Perceiving" person. This meant that I was supposedly a "healer" type. And my, "tranquil, reserved exterior masks a passionate inner life". I could also find the good in anyone and devote myself selflessly to a cause.

I guess all that's over since I'm now an ISFP , an "Introverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving" person. I've also switched from being a "healer" type to being an "artisan" type. Now I'm lighthearted, easygoing and completely in tune with all my senses. One site told me that essentially, I've gone from being Mother Teresa's apprentice to being Jacqueline Onassis. I guess that's a good thing. But, then again, yet another place said that this is the "crackpot" personality. Great.

Or maybe someone is trying to turn me into a crackpot. For example, did you know that the October issue of Glamour magazine is it's "1st annual figure flattery issue"?

Yeah, I didn't know that either until a copy of the 340 page glossy mysteriously arrived in my mailbox yesterday. My name and address are on the label, but I have not subscribed.

Perhaps it's a gift from someone? Yeah, someone who wants to turn me into a dumb bimbo! Someone who thinks I need to learn, "101 Ways to Dress Your Body Better" and, "39 Sexy Things To Do With Your Hair".

I'll admit, in my efforts to get bees removed and trash cleaned up around my neighborhood, I have probably been slacking in the hot, sexy hair department. Yes, maybe the owner of the corner store down the hill is sick of seeing me with my hair slicked back into a granny bun and so decided to gift me with a subscription.

Or maybe someone somehow found out about the bowl of Breyer's Triple Chocolate ice cream that I ate the other night and now thinks I need to brush up on, "The Secret Reasons Women Gain Weight and How to Stop". Or maybe someone figured I needed to lighten up a bit and read all about, "The Guys Who Can't Stop Fantasizing About You".

Really, are women supposed to care about stupid crap like this? Just imagine, if I was focused so much on fantasies and the, "12 Things No One Ever Tells You About Sex," then there might not be people cleaning up the mess by my son's school right now.

**Update: It must have been wishful thinking on my part. I just came back from the school and nothing's cleaned. But they put some pesticide on the tree where the bees came out. Oh, and my son's teacher only got paid $10 because LAUSD screwed up the checks. Nothing like working for a whole month and then getting paid $10!**

So yes, after all this "trash" I think I'm going curl up on my couch tonight, watch some movies and order some red curry with tofu from my favorite Thai restaurant in LA, Leela Thai.

Yum.

I'll leave you with a song that's appropriate given the week I've had. I used to have quite a lovely collection of techno records. One of them, "Cosmotrash", was by an artist called Trashman. I have fond memories of dancing to this back in '92/'93 at the old Kaboom nightclub in Chicago. Unfortunately, someone stole the record from me in '96 and I've never been able to get another copy. So, imagine my surprise at finding it on YouTube last night! And isn't it a wonderful thing that I'm tech savvy enough to know how to rip the audio?

Take a listen - don't be scared, it's a great record to dance to. It's a very Friday night record. Back in the day I used to speed it up considerably on my turntables. Hmm...I wonder what my personality type was back then?

If Clothes Make The Woman, Then LA, We Have A Problem!

The past couple of days have been pretty hot here in Los Angeles. And when it's hot, folks sometimes lose the ability to dress themselves appropriately.

Men, you have the same issues year-round. You don't iron. You usually forget to wear more deodorant and then you don't have on undershirt, so you end up with awful sweat stains. You wear pants that are too small for your waist size. You wear tank tops when you have a jungle growing under your arms. But no one is really going to think less of you or think you're stupid for not wearing socks with your dress shoes in the summer. Nope, folks will just think you need someone to take care of you.

Women though, let's face it, women have a much harder time getting dressed and we are, unfortunately, not judged solely by our brains. We are judged by our clothing too. To make matters worse, there are a whole lot of ugly clothes out there, and advertisers are paid big bucks to make us think we should be wearing them.

I've seen the following things in the past couple of days and I'm just left scratching my head. How can we create a society-wide ban on the following:

Miss Baby Doll: If you're wearing it, you can't be mad if someone says to you "Hey, baby!" or "W'sup, doll?" I know those stupid babydoll mini-dresses that make everyone look pregnant are in style, but guess what, if you are a grown woman, do you really want to wear one of those? Personally, having been pregnant twice, the last thing I want to wear is something that even remotely reminds me of maternity clothes.

Fine, you've never been pregnant and you like how loose and flowy the dress feels. Okay. But it's a mini dress that looks more like a long shirt. Try wearing something that doesn't have the world afraid that your undies are going to be exposed. How about wear a longer dress, something you don't have to hold down when a breeze is blowing? Or throw some jeans under it. Something! And remember, when you are wearing a dress, you don't bend over at the waist, you squat down from the knees.

Yes, You NEED a Bra: Unless you are a prepubescent girl, you probably should wear a bra. You should especially wear a bra when you're wearing a loose top and want to bend over at the waist to pick something up. Trust me, we can see everything when you bend over like that. It doesn't matter if your size A's look like mosquito bites, I don't want to see them. I don't want my kids seeing them either. Plus, it's very painful for me to hold my laughter in when my very observant six year-old asks, "Did you see the tarantula bites on that lady's chest?"

Booty Short Betty: I know Jessica Simpson wore her pair of Daisy Dukes every chance she got. I know the working girls over on South Figueroa wear them too. Yes, I know everybody has them on in the videos. Feel free to wear them at home when you're swinging around that pole you got installed in your basement. But, please, pretty please with a cherry on top, don't wear your booty shorts to the Trader Joe's! Eww...it's waay too much information! And, although I am a firm believer that women are made to feel needlessly horrible about having cellulite on their legs, I beg you, just skip the booty shorts if your legs look like you haven't walked, run, jumped, hopped, skipped or stair-mastered within the last ten years. Especially don't wear them and then bend over at the waist. You had me asking Jesus to take the wheel...goodness!

It's A Flop: Flip flops are not an excuse to drag your feet along the ground. Pick your feet up when you're walking. And, if you want to wear flip flops, you might wanna go get that pedicure. You're in luck because you live in LA. There are about two million shops where you can get your feet scrubbed. Feel free to pick one because crusty, dusty heels and toenails with chipped pink polish just aren't meant to be seen out in public. And please trust me, if you have a foot fungus and one of your toenails has fallen off, PLEASE, put a band-aid over it while it's growing back. I know, I should give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you just got out of a coma and so you haven't gotten your nails done. But, that benefit is hard to extend when I hear you yapping on your cell phone about how great the sex was and how you can't wait to do it again. Go ahead and use your imagination...cue the six year-old comments about sex right about now...but alas, that's a whole other topic.

The Right Underwear ARE Your Friend: Now, I'm not saying folks need to sport some Thomas the Tank Engine type undies. In fact, I know rolling with no undies is all the rage so I should be happy that folks are at least wearing them. You get an A for effort! But, brightly colored polka dot underwear aren't a good combination with skin-tight, white cotton pants. Psst...we can see the polka dots through your pants. And if you are wearing ultra low-rise pants, you need to get an ultra low-rise thong. Not a thong with a waistband that hits your belly button or the small of your back. In fact, here's a hint: When you go buy the jeans, on that same day, before you get home, go over to Victoria's Secret and ask them for low-rise thongs. If they're too pricey over there for your taste, guess what, they've got them over at Old Navy too.

I get it, when it's hot, that just makes it even harder to come out of the house without looking like you just exited a 50 Cent video. But please, LA ladies, use some common sense.

I Know I Look Good...But Not THAT Good!

From the title of this post, you can clearly discern that my ego is slightly out of control. It's just that I can finally add the following to my future obituary:

"So beautiful, she once caused a fender bender on the corner of 89th and Hoover"

Yes, that's right.

I was standing on the corner, waiting to cross Hoover Street so I could get in my car and head back to my office. I'm looking both ways as any good jaywalking pedestrian should. A couple of cars drive by, and then I see a very nice white car with tricked out rims crossing through the Manchester/Hoover intersection a dozen or so yards north of me. The driver's side window's down. R.Kelly's "I'm A Flirt" is blasting. Brotherman is bobbing his head to the beat...till he sees me and starts hanging out the window, hollering at me.

"Hey! Hey, girl!"

Do men really think women are going to respond to this? I know I've posed this question before, but I just don't get it! Do men seriously think a sista's going to just leap off the curb in response?

"Oh baby! I've been waiting my whole life for you to drive by and holler at me!" Yeah, right.

To be fair to our driving friend, I probably did seem to be some sort of ethereal vision of loveliness. I might have hollered at me too! After all, we each have those days where we think we look absolutely amazing.

In fact, I felt so fly, I was having one of those, "Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?" kinds of days. It must have been the dress...

Ok, I'll stop trippin'. Let's face it, even if I had three hairy warts on the middle of my forehead and was missing my front teeth, some man somewhere would take it upon himself to holler out his car window.

I'm not interested. At all. Ever. So, I ignored him. No smile. No nod of acknowledgement. Nothing.

He did not give up.

Instead, this fool started leaning out the window a little more. And as his car moved forward, in order to maintain eye contact, he had to turn his head and body in order to look back at me. He started to yell, "Hey Now! Shaaa--"

I'll never know what gems of wisdom were going to be shouted my way because the next thing I heard and saw was...

CRASH!

Oops. Someone forgot the importance of keeping your eyes on the road at all times in case traffic slows or stops.

I have no idea why the car in front of Mr. Crashtastic slowed down. Believe me, I didn't stick around to witness the fender bender fall-out. I made a beeline across the street, jumped into my car, did a u-turn and zoomed away.

Just think, if this man had just chosen to be respectful and keep his eyes on the road, his front bumper might have been spared. And the back of the car he hit? Even though he wasn't going that fast, it was pretty smashed.

Clearly, the moral of this story is, even if the most beautiful girl in the world is waiting to cross the street, just remember that car insurance is expensive in California and people like to sue out here.

The other driver is probably already consulting a lawyer. "Ow! My neck! I think I have whiplash!"

Fellas, keep your eyes on the road! Please, no more hollering out your car windows for the rest of 2007!

You Said It First! Who Said It First?

Ah, Don Imus.

I saw him on the Today show yesterday and wowzer, I have no idea how old he is, but the man looks like he's got one foot in the grave. No wonder he sticks to radio instead of TV. Don't you think he could use more than a two week vacation? I really think his bosses should do him a favor and make it a permanent vacation. It just seems like doing his show is taking way too much of a toll on what must have been, at one time, some spectacularly good looks.

Ok, I'll stop being sarcastic. Or, at least I'll try. It's just that with all the discussion about "The Don Imus Issue", I keep hearing a few things that have got me thinking beyond Don Imus.

First, I've heard a couple of folks share the idea that calling black women "nappy-headed hos" originated in the black community. We started it, rap music started it...and so folks can't be mad if Don Imus says it. It's a double standard!

Hmm. I don't know if black people and rap music really started the use of this terminology. Sure, it's internalized now, and some of us do use that language, but I don't think we started it.

I was commenting on someone else's blog that there are plenty of black people that dance at parties and bump in their rides to tunes like the currently popular Fat Joe and L'il Wayne song "Make it Rain". Yes, that song, like so many others, prominently features the word "hos" and features a video where guys are throwing money on black and Latina women who are busily gyrating like strippers. But if the Pussycat Dolls gyrate like strippers, they get a TV show and get called superstars. What???

Anyway, I digress.

YES, Snoop, 50 Cent, Jay-Z and all the rest quite frequently use the n-word, call folks bitches, and hos and regularly feature the aforementioned scantily clad black and Latina women in their videos. My question is, who's paying these rappers to make records like that?

Jay-Z may be head of Def Jam records but, hello, Def Jam is not black-owned. It's owned by Universal Music Group...which is owned by French-run conglomerate Vivendi. And who's the CEO of Vivendi? A guy named Jean-René Fourtou.

Now, imagine if Jean-René were to suddenly call up Jay-Z and say, "Look Jay, you're a really talented rapper, but you need to write rhymes that are not sexist or racist, or else I'm going to drop you from our label."

Can you imagine that? Yeah, I can't either. Reason being, 70% of rap records are bought by white people, primarily by the 18-24 male demograpic. Those young white males have a whole lot of disposable income, and so the records get made, because certainly, Jean-René probably has a place along the Seine to pay for.

I've heard some people say that black people don't complain about rappers so it's not fair that we complain about Imus. Um, that's just not true. The very same black people who've been upset about 50 Cent, Snoop and Jay-Z calling black women ho's are upset now. The problem is that mainstream media hasn't given those prior complaints any coverage.

Some of you all may not know about the infamous Nelly song "Tip Drill". If you don't, good for you that you were spared exposure to an incredibly lewd and lascivious song with an even more sexually explicit video. (Don't ask me how I saw it...my inability to turn away from train-wrecks is another issue.)

Now, in this video, Nelly swipes a credit card between the shaking butt cheeks of a light-skinned black woman wearing only a barely-there thong. It was disgusting. Absolutely horrifyingly sexist and racist on so many levels. But, was the New York Times or the Washington Post calling for Nelly's firing from his record company? Nope. Instead, it was the black women of Spelman College that led the charge against the song and protested Nelly's potential participation in a leukemia fundraiser at the school.

I also didn't hear any record company executives complaining about Nelly. In fact, I didn't hear anyone in the mainstream media complaining at all. It was further proof that when it comes this stuff, it doesn't really matter if black people complain about being called bitches and hos because we aren't the ones buying the songs. So, who cares what we think! This is also why Imus is probably only going to get a two-week vacation instead of a permanent one...sure, it's a hot story now, but after all, and I could be wrong here, I don't think many black folks listen to Imus. Again, it's that white male demograpic/dollar that advertisers want and Imus draws them in.

I also find myself thinking how none of the aforementioned rappers feature nappy-haired women. Their videos deal almost exclusively with black women who wear weaves. So, nappy hair...yeah, I remember being 8 or 9 and one of my aunts was trying to brush my hair. She smacked me on the head with the brush and started complaining, "You have the nappiest hair of any mixed girl on earth! What is wrong with you?"

Sure, my aunt said the word waaay before Don Imus did, and she used it in a negative way, but the thing is, who invented the word? I'm sure African's back in the day didn't sit around and say, "Girl, your hair is sooo nappy! You need to get your relaxer touched up!"

I also find myself having a hard time believing that the first black people off of slave ships just decided to started calling each other nappy-headed ho's without hearing someone else calling them that first...someone who owned them and told them they weren't fully human. (Wonder who that could be?)

Generations later, someone taught my aunt, and every other black woman born in the Western Hemisphere, to think that our hair is unattractive in it's natural state. As much as some folks want to, thankfully, advocate for a return to "natural hair" in this country, and as much as there are books like Nappy Hair, it's still an insult in the black community to say that someone's hair is nappy.

So, is there a double standard? Maybe in some ways there is, but I think our issues are more complex than just simply saying, "Well, black people, you did it first so don't get mad!" We have to go beyond that surface level argument and be prepared to talk about why we do and say the things we do. If we don't know the root cause, we can never cure the disease.

And, like any good school teacher should tell kids that say, "He hit me first!", it doesn't matter who did it first, if you did it too, well then, you're both wrong.

Questions And Observations

I know, I know. I've been an absentee blogger for the past few days. Shame on me for neglecting this little space. "Why so incognito?" you ask. Or maybe you aren't asking that and you've actually been thinking, "Good, she's finally given up this blogging thing. I hate reading what she writes!"

First off, my youngest son got diagnosed with impetigo. Don't know what it is? Yeah, neither did I. He had a cold last weekend and I thought the rash above his lip was just skin irritation due to me wiping his runny nose. Then it began turning into something else and spreading at a pretty rapid rate. Curious to see what it looks like? Go ahead and do a Google image search on "impetigo" if you feel a desire to lose the contents of your stomach. How'd he get it? I don't know but he was quarantined at home for a few days and I stayed home with him, praying that no one else caught it...well, I'll be honest: I was praying that I wouldn't get it. What can I say, I live in LA and I'm a teensy bit vain.

On the days I wasn't quarantined, I saw and heard lots of things I wanted to write about but I was too busy trying to catch up on work, etc., so, here's a few of my accumulated questions and observations:

1. Sexist perverts are everywhere: I went to the Vons grocery store on Sunset Blvd. and got stalked through three aisles by some weirdo who, it turns out, used to work with the guy running my checkout lane. Mr. Stalker came and chatted with the cashier while my stuff was being rung up, staring and winking at me the whole time. Oh they were all smiles and laughs. The checker was so busy chatting up his pervert buddy that I bagged my own groceries so I wouldn't have to stand there waiting for the cashier to do that. "Thanks, babe for bagging those. Do you need help out to your car?"
   
   I sooo wanted to say, "No, I don't need help out to my car, you sexist, punk-ass pervert mother-f&*%#6!" But, instead I smiled and said, "No, thank you. Have a great night!" I then went to put my stuff in the car and then came back and tracked down the manager. The manager was apologetic. "I'll be sure to speak with them about that. I'm so sorry." Yeah right. Bet I see the same checker there again next time I'm in there and bet he breaks my eggs. Should I boycott Vons and start going to Albertsons or Ralphs?
   
   
2. I could be a cure for alcoholism if I was cuter and had darker skin: On Thursday, the guy behind the counter in the Kenneth Hahn Plaza Rite-Aid suggested me as an alternative to getting drunk. As he's scanning my stuff, he starts talking to the grizzled man standing behind me in line. "You know, all you need to do is get this sista's number instead of drinking that liquor. She's so pretty, I'll bet she could make you feel better than drinking that whiskey ever could. Come on, ask her for her number."
   
   The man behind me, obviously a hard-drinking, pickled-liver kind of guy, reeking like he'd been dipped in a vat of grain alcohol, was very matter of fact in his reply, which he addressed to me, "Naw, I don't think so. Heh heh. You ok lookin' but I ain't into you light-skinned gals. I'll just stick with what I got right here. Heh heh." Then he hoisted his big bottle of liquor up on the counter, gazing at it like he was staring a lover in the eyes.
   
   Alrighty then.
   
   
3. No, it's not a weave, but I'm still not interested in you: Hey trifling males of the world, I'm just in Starbucks to get some tea, not to hear your lame pickup lines. Most women don't really respond to, "Hey shawty, what your name is?" being yelled across the room at them while they're ordering their tea. (Or do they? Ladies, you tell me.) Really, any woman would have to be crazy to check for that crap. Then, when I walked past the guy without begging him to take me somewhere and have his wicked way with me, he says, "Fuck you then, you ugly ass bitch! Probably a weave anyway." Yeah, um, dude, it's not a weave but I sort of hope you burn in hell.
   
   
4. Drop off your kids, pick up a prostitute: I'm just so tired of driving past the hookers on Figueroa Street standing on the corner a block from an elementary school. I'm tired of seeing all the boo-tay hanging out for all to see. But why does it always seem like they have less cellulite than me? Is it all the standing? Do the pimps get them personal trainers? I don't get it. And by the way, when I get to this same school, I'm tired of seeing the four huge signs warning me not to bring weapons on campus or make threats. Yet we wonder why kids aren't quite so innocent nowadays.
   
   
5. What if Tara Connor was black? Being quarantined this week meant I was home to catch Miss USA, Tara Connor, discussing her cocaine use with Matt Lauer on the Today Show. All I could think of was, "Would this heffa still have her crown if she was black?" Then Matt asked her if the rumors of her sleeping around are true. She completely denied it. Hmm. Tara, you're an underage drinker, you have "dabbled" in cocaine (What does it mean to "dabble" with cocaine?) but you claim you are celibate? Yeah. Sure.
   
   
6. Today I bought a new San Martin de Porres candle. Why? Well, Martin de Porres was the first black saint in the New World and is the patron saint of black people. He's also the patron saint of race relations and racial harmony. Maybe I should send a candle to Joe Biden. I wonder if Joe would consider me clean and articulate. And I should also send two candles to whoever that clown was in Virginia that said black people "should get over" slavery. Reparations isn't only about giving someone money. Reparations is a change of heart, a change of the soul, a change in the way black people are viewed, treated, educated, loved and respected. Think of it this way: Black people have only been able to vote in the United States since 1965. That's 42 years ago. How many people do you know that are 42 years old? My brother would be 43 years old this July and my mom couldn't vote when she gave birth to him. Her father worked for Studebaker's for most of his life, paid taxes his entire life, and was only able to vote for five years of those years. Sigh.
   
   And lastly, the biggest question of all, will the Bears win tonight? My fingers are crossed and the game is about to start! Go Bears!!! (please!)