Earlier today I was rollin' through the hood to find the boys, to kick dust and cuss, crank up some noise...

Oh, wait. I'm not in LA anymore am I? (You get bonus points if you know the artist and song title -- and don't Google it to find out either!)

Sooo... I was actually driving my sister's SUV to a natural foods store, you know, the place with a dozen kinds of tofu and zero foods with high fructose corn syrup. My mom was in the passenger seat and my boys were in the back, chatting up a storm.

We were cruising along quite nicely till all of a sudden, traffic came to a standstill due to road construction. My mom was looking out the passenger side window and I followed her gaze. That's when I saw a brother in a green Mercedes staring at us. He looked to be in his early to mid thirties and was neither attractive nor ugly. He looked like the "friend" type.

And then he smiled at us. Because I was in the driver's seat, I thought he was smiling at my mom! I couldn't help but think, "Oh my god! This guy is flirting with my mom!" She found the whole thing hilarious and started laughing. I laughed too because every time our cars pulled up alongside each other, there he was smiling and winking.

Finally I got sick of him, his smiles and his winks. I changed lanes so that he was behind me. Then, he changed lanes so he was on the driver's side just as we passed the last of the road construction. I sped away but he finally caught up with us at a stoplight. He then started motioning for me to roll down the car window. I did, but only because I started thinking he was maybe someone I'd gone to high school with or somehow knew. I have a notoriously bad memory, so heck, it could've been.

But nope, all he wanted was my name and phone number. He was cool when I yelled back that I'm married because after wishing me luck and telling me how my husband's a lucky man, he turned left as I kept driving straight on.

The whole thing gave me and my mom a good laugh, especially when my eldest son said, "Why did that weirdo want your phone number?"

It also got me thinking about how difficult it is for so-called "weirdos" to be single and find someone nice to be with. I have a few very good friends who are single guys or gals and they are going through the "find somebody" desert right now. I don't know where the oasis is for my single friends, but I wouldn't suggest cheesing it up on a busy city street as a tactic for meeting anybody either.

I don't need to tell them that because they already know this. Still though, meeting someone decent is incredibly difficult for them. Too many game players, crazies, immature people, controlling folks and people who flirt, flirt, flirt but then act like they've just been trying to be a good, platonic friend.

So, you tell me: what should my friends do to meet someone that isn't seriously a psychopath and dying to keep them in a cage in their bedroom closet?

No Death for Molesters

When I was in college, one of my sociology professors shared a shocking statistic with my class. She stated that one in four girls in this country is sexually abused as a child.

I often thought about that statistic in the days following that particular class, especially as I engaged in the typical conversations and interactions with the various women I knew. Indeed, a few days after that class, I went out with the group of young women and men that I spent most of my time with. I looked around at all the women and reflected on the fact that as much time as we spent with each other, we really didn't know each other well enough to talk about such things. Yet I wondered, if, within our group of friends, that statistic was true.

The guys we were hanging out with were being really juvenile (we were all around 18 or 19) and trying to get all the girls to say whether we were virgins or not. If a girl did not want to say, the guys were being all, "So you must not be a virgin if you don't wanna say anything."

I began to think about how such a question is so complicated for the victim of sexual assault. How does a girl say, "No, I'm not a virgin because I was raped as a child?"

And really, how does one begin to share that they have been raped as a child? Or as a teen? Or whenever?

When I became a teacher, I learned about some common signs that a child is being sexually abused. And in my first year teaching, my heart broke when I found out about the abuse one of my young, eight year-old students was enduring. My heart broke again a few months later when one of my male students confessed to me that his mom had had it out with her boyfriend because his two young sisters said they'd been molested by him.

Then it came out that the boyfriend was touching my student too, but he didn't want to say anything because this guy sometimes took him to the Bank of America on Long Beach Boulevard. No big deal to you and I, but a big deal to an eight year old in Compton. He claimed that his sisters were just jealous because they didn't get to go to the bank and said, "They just don't want me to have a daddy."

Now that I've had my own children, one of my biggest fears is that they'll whisper in my ear that they have something to tell me and they'll say that someone has been molesting them. Quite frankly, I worry less about strangers trying to get at them. Instead, I worry about the relative, the friend of the family, the next door neighbor, a coach or someone at their school.

I worry about both the physical effects and the psychological effects such abuse could have on my boys, and I also worry about what I might do to any potential abuser. As in, I worry that I might be that parent who loses it and hires a hit man to take the abuser out.

I've said for many years that I think the death penalty should be a possible punishment for rape, and that's whether someone's been a victim of rape as a child or as an adult. I know there are so many who don't believe in the death penalty and feel that as corrupt as our justice system is, how can we sentence someone to death?

To me it's simple: you rape a child, you die. The jail thing doesn't work for me as adequate punishment because we live in a society where Michael Vick got more jail time than the average child molester or rapist -- because being nice to dogs is more important than honoring and protecting children.

Of course, our Supreme Court disagrees with me. I read today that the Court has rejected the death penalty as a possible punishment for raping a child. Sex offenders don't get rehabilitated in jail and we all know it, that's why we don't want them living next door when they get out. We know the chances of them repeating are pretty high.

I'm sure to millions of victims of childhood rape, this decision feels like it's saying the life of the rapist is more important than the horrors inflicted on the life of the child. I think we culturally have an attitude where we believe it's awful, but we also believe that the child will eventually get over it.

One thing's for sure, the child victims of sexual abuse do not just "get over it". Look at the drug abusers, alcoholics, compulsive eaters, compulsive exercisers, sex addicts and child molesters in your midst. How many of those drug abusers, alcoholics and all the rest are trying to get rid of the pain, the trauma they experienced? How many adult victims have been in therapy for years, trying to get rid of the feelings of shame and worthlessness that plague every single thing they do?

Yeah, I am sure many folks will disagree, but I don't see how raping a child deserves anything less than death.

Voices Carry

Sound really carries in my neighborhood at night. I don't know if it's an effect of the hills around here or if smoggy air has more sound conducive properties, but I'm constantly overhearing the most random conversations.

I just heard one of my neighbors talking to a guy right underneath my living room window. She and her roommates aren't particular favorites of mine. I readily admit they aren't as bad as Crazy Claudia, the compulsive vacuumer who used to live across the hall. Claudia hated Black people and loved to stomp up and down the stairs as loudly as possible. Nothing can top Claudia's madness.

But, these current neighbors just have that vibe that they're really trust fund brats who run a meth lab out of one of the bedrooms. One of the guys spends a lot of time hanging in front of our building in his wife beater t-shirt. The other guy always looks totally wasted and only grunts when I say, "Hello".

The girl who lives with them is the type that thinks she's hot because ages ago some delusional soul told her she was the stuff. Oh, and her favorite outfit is a pair of cowboy boots with bare legs and a baby doll mini dress. That goes over really well when she walks by my sons.

I imagine she had on one of her baby doll dresses while she was having her little chit-chat right beneath my living room windows. I wasn't 100% paying attention to her inanity about some audition she screwed up and how depressed she was about it. What did catch my ear was that there was a weird pause where they suddenly weren't talking. I hadn't heard footsteps walking away or heard the door to our building slam shut.

Hmm...No one walked away. No one went inside either. No one was talking.

I don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to guess they must have been kissing because the silence was broken when I heard him say, "So can I come in?"

Ladies and gentleman, it was a classic case of a guy trying to charm his way into a woman's apartment so he can get some!

I couldn't help but think, gosh, is that how easy it is? I guess straightforwardly asking works because next thing I knew, I heard her seductively ask,"What about your girlfriend?"

He had the decency to pause before he chuckled and replied, "Well... she's not really my girlfriend anymore."

Whoa! Hold up, neighbor gal! Come back down to earth! He's LYING! If you ever hear a guy say such a thing, you know that his girlfriend is probably sending him unsuspecting text messages like, "Do you want me to pick up some flowers for your mom on my way home from work tomorrow?" That's why his phone is on silent and why he was gone in the bathroom for 10 minutes while y'all were out to dinner. You see, he was talking to his "not really my girlfriend" girlfriend! Besides, if you need to ask about a man's girlfriend, that's a sign you need to repeat three times, "His girlfriend may be crazy, track me down and slash my tires!"

Not scary enough for you? Okay, how about, "His girlfriend might be crazy and try to cut up my face with a razor blade!"

Before you say that sort of stuff only happens in the movies, trust me, I've known people it's happened to. So I'm just saying, it's something to think about. Is 10 minutes of fun worth getting your face scarred up?

Obviously to Tramp-o-La it is. She upped the booty call ante with some more purring. "All you want to do is talk?"

Eww! But that's when I heard her keys jingle. He started giggling like a goof ball and so did she. I heard the downstairs door open and slam shut and then they tramped through our hallway.

I think I might shut my windows and throw on my iPod so I don't have to accidentally hear any other, ahem, noises tonight.

I'm Glad I Have Sons Instead of Daughters

Years ago, I decided that if I was going to have children, I was not having sons.

The reasons for this are much too complicated for me to get into on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Let's just leave it at me really wanting to have amazing, smart, bad-ass daughters, the kind of girls that'd be elegantly taking names and bent on global domination...just like their mom!

Delusions of grandeur aside, when I first got pregnant, or rather, after the fifth or sixth home pregnancy test when I actually started believing that I really was pregnant, I immediately began picking out girl names. I loved Róisín Dubh, which is an Irish name that translates to Black Rose. But that got a big veto so I finally settled on Almitra, the seeress in the Khalil Gibran book, "The Prophet".

Everybody said I was carrying like I was going to have a girl. I had dreams about girls. I looked like crap and everybody said that girls steal their mother's beauty...I was soooo ready to be a mommy to my Almitra Naomi.

And then I had a boy. So much for the old wives tales.

Second pregnancy, would there be an Almitra cooing from her crib?

To save myself months of speculation, I decided to find out the gender of the baby. Almitra? Oh, nope, a third leg on the screen. Another boy.

I love my two sons like nothing else. And, to tell you the truth, I often have moments these days when I am secretly glad I did not have little girls.

I'd hate the pressure to dress my daughter in all that pink and lavender crap clothing with sparkly, bedazzled studs all over it. I hate that mess like nothing else.

I hate the toys marketed toward girls. They're mostly boring and sleazy. Whoever designed those mini-ho Bratz dolls deserves a throne on the right hand of Satan. Do you ever see girls in commercials playing with cool toys like Legos? Nope. They're always brushing some dumb ass doll hair and changing the doll's clothes. I hate that.

And, even though I was a cheerleader, I don't believe in what seems to be some sort of early-onset sluttization of cheerleaders.

Yesterday when I was out at UCLA for the magnet school fair, the place was crawling with dozens of cheerleaders. These cheerleaders had thick black eyeshadow on, false eyelashes so heavy that they could barely open their eyes. Their hair and faces were caked with makeup and glitter. The skirts were so short that they barely cleared their rears, and the ones that weren't in skirts were in super short shorts, the kind that women that pose on the covers of King and Smooth wear.

And these girls were probably no older than eleven or twelve.

Their mothers sat around beaming at their daughters. Each mother was really overweight, really blond and dripping in designer labels and diamonds. It almost seemed like they were projecting whatever sexiness they wished they still had onto their daughters.

Seriously, what do we think we're getting when we dress our children in this way? Rocket scientists? I mean, everyone wants to shake their head and wonder exactly whose daughters are in those "Girls Gone Wild" videos...well, wonder no more.

And really, I'm once more wishing I had a daughter so she could grow up to be the opposite of all that b.s. But, since that's not happening, I will remain thrilled to have sons that I can raise to reject that sort of imagery.

Yes, today I'm very glad I have sons instead.

The Rolling Stone Surprise

Three months ago, a copy of Rolling Stone mysteriously arrived in my mailbox. Kid Rock and some gross looking scantily clad women were on the cover.

Boo!

A few days later, a copy of Glamour also arrived.

Double Boo!

Needless to say, I was a little puzzled by these magazines coming to my home. Sure, they had my name on the address labels, but I have never been a regular reader of Rolling Stone or Glamour. I never sent in one of those 3x5 "Yes! I want 12 issues!" cards for either and no one told me they'd decided to bestow a gift subscription on me.

I rang up the subscriptions department of Glamour and found out that my receiving the issue with America Ferrera on the cover was, thankfully, some sort of mistake.

Whew. There is a God!

I expected to hear a similar story from Rolling Stone but kept forgetting to contact them.

A month into this mystery subscription, I sat down to read the Rolling Stone 40th Anniversary issue. I briefly wondered if the subscription was the "gift" of some sort of online stalker. I love y'all and all that, but you never know.

Putting my paranoia aside, I cracked open the issue and found that it featured "Twenty-five Interviews on the Future of America and the World." There were only three women interviewed, and out of the men, let's just say they were a very undiverse group. It annoyed me so much to think that the magazine could ask the usual suspects like Bono, Bill Maher and Al Gore to talk about the future of this country but not query women and people from diverse backgrounds who are really doing amazing things.

Of course, this got me thinking about how I honestly don't really know who the women who are doing amazing things are. What do I see or hear about the real things women are doing in the world? Well, the majority of stories about women are concerned with whether they were best or worst dressed, whether they had plastic surgery or not. Whether they got dumped or are dating and whether they are too fat or too thin.

Who could they interview? Angelina Jolie? Nancy Pelosi? Condoleeza Rice? Meredith Viera? Heck, I don't know. They interviewed a lot of old school male rock musicians so surely they could have asked Pat Benatar or Tina Turner to chime in on what they think about George Bush and Iraq. Debbie Harry, anybody?

But no such luck.

My irritation reminded me that I needed to contact their customer service. They had an 800 number listed in the "Contact Us" section, but it was after business hours so I shot an email off to them and asked if they could tell me how I got the subscription.

Today, as I perused a very photo-shopped looking cover of Led Zeppelin, I realized I hadn't heard back from their customer service.

I checked my watch and saw that it was well before the end of business hours. So I dialed the 800 number. I immediately got connected with "Brian" --who totally sounded like a woman, but whatever.

I felt like an idiot as I explained to "Brian" that I'd been getting the magazine for a whole three months and I had no idea how this had happened.

Brian very patiently told me that I subscribed when I purchased some concert tickets through Live Nation earlier in the summer.

"Um, huh? I don't remember that."

"The subscription came free with the tickets you purchased."
"So it didn't cost me anything extra?" I'm sure my voice conveyed all the skepticism I was feeling.

"No. Not at all," Brian reassured me.

And this is where I am sure I must have sounded like a complete moron to Brian.

"Oh, that's good because I wondered for a second if some weird blog stalker had decided to give me a gift subscription."

Brian could only say, "Um, well, no. Okay, umm....You have a subscription till October 2, 2008." I'm sure he was thinking, "What is this crazy heffa talking about?" Or at least, if I were Brian, that's what I would have been thinking.

I rescued him from the awkward "too much information" moment and said, "Well, thanks for the info, Brian. Bye!"

So now I am left with the realization that I have a whole year of Rolling Stone to enjoy. That is a surprise indeed.

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!

Do You Believe in Soul Mates?

It's so foggy outside that I can barely see out my window. It's the kind of weather that has me wrapped in a blanket, sitting on my couch, channel surfing. I just caught the tail end of "The Bachelor" finale and a brief snippet of Tila Tequila on the Tyra Banks Show.

There's a whole lot of supposed searching for love happening on TV these days: Flavor of Love, Rock of Love, I Love New York, A Shot at Love With Tila Tequila, and of course, the aforementioned Bachelor.

The guy on "The Bachelor" didn't pick either woman. He decided he wasn't "in love". Both women cried and sobbed about how they didn't understand how he could be walking away from what they have.

Are they for real or just hoping they can get their own reality shows and extend their own fifteen minutes of fame? I just don't get what these women think they have. To me, you've got a guy who's been busy making out with a bunch of women. You've got a guy who's been laughing to himself over the cat fights the women have been having. You've got a guy who's asked a group of women to disrespect themselves, all for him. All for love.

So girls, thank God that he decided he didn't want you because not one of these "relationships" has turned out.

And why haven't they panned out? Well, if I was a guy, I'd have a hard time respecting any woman who let me roll like that. "Go ahead and kiss all on a bunch of other women but I'll be waiting right here for you honey!" Yeah, if I'm a guy, I'm programmed to believe that only hos are cool with stuff like that.

And as a woman, could I respect a guy who's also whoring himself out in pursuit of some sort of "true love"? Would I really believe this man was in love with me? Heck no!

I know, these shows are not about love, but are instead on some level about the search for fame. I get that. But they perpetuate some of the stuff we believe about love.

For example, do you believe that everyone has only one true love, one soul mate? Because these shows are all supposedly about helping someone find their soul mate.

The young lady who babysits for me asked me on Saturday night what I thought about this whole soul mate thing. It was 2 AM and I was driving her home. She's beautiful, single and highly frustrated with finding "true love" in Los Angeles. She didn't even have to go into details about the clowns she's meeting. I was able to list them out for her:

1)Men who are really only interested in sex but know women want love so they front like they want love too.
2) Men who want to act like they own you and you need their permission to breathe.
3) Men who act like they have to be super successful in their career before they can commit.
4) Men who think you're lucky they're even talking to you because they're such a good catch. And they let you know you're lucky.
5)Men who are so insecure that they can't stand it when you're more successful than they are.

I could tell I sort of disappointed her when I told her that I didn't know for sure about the whole soul mate thing. I told her how I think we've gone overboard in our culture with believing in the lightning strike, highly romantic ideal of true love, that I've tried to be much more practical and level headed about Love with a capital "L".

"Practical?" she asked. "As in you don't really love your husband, it's just a practical arrangement?"

Um, no. Not that. It's just that that "spark" thing isn't enough. That spark isn't going to keep anybody married. After all, I'm sure everyone Pam Anderson has married has really believed they had that special "thing" with her. And then, kaput. Divorce.

I told my babysitter how for me, I learned it was just too easy to get carried away by that instant spark of attraction. I'd then forget to ask the tough questions surrounding who that person really was, what they were really about, what did they really care about?

No, the lightning bolt sort of thing never turned out well for me. To tell you the truth, it made me feel mentally ill. Then I'd ignore all sorts of big red flags because of that magical lightning bolt... and then I'd find out some sort of insanity about the person and before you know it, I'd be plotting my revenge on a guy. My motto was, "You make my life miserable, I'm gonna make you wish you were dead." But that takes a whole lot of energy and wastes a lot of time.

So I had to learn to be more level headed, get to know someone as a friend first and see past the mirage of that chemical reaction that happens when you feel that spark. I had to take a step back and learn to analyze men very carefully. Grill them like nothing else and grill myself too. After all, it's really difficult to figure out who you are as a woman and what you really want in a world that has so many jacked up images of women and men...and "love".

What do you think? do you believe in soul mates, true love, following the spark? Or no?

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.

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?

Friendship and Fate

One of my many faults is that I don't always keep up with people I care about. It's not that I stop thinking about them. Indeed, I often wonder where they are and, more importantly, who they are now. But, I moved, they moved, we have kids -and those kids have activities to be driven to-, addresses seem to disappear, emails change, drama happens -- and before I knew it, people who were a part of my life are no longer around.

On the one hand, as ridiculously superstitious as it is, I believe we meet the people we do for a particular reason. They're there to help us learn something about ourselves or the world. And maybe they're in our lives for some pre-ordained amount of time.

On the other hand, I believe we have free will and we decide who we want to make the effort to stay in touch with. That's why I don't have a problem with Facebook and MySpace. Pointless time wasters? Maybe. But the truth is that because of both I've managed to catch up with quite a few folks I've lost touch with over the years.

One of the friends I've connected with again, Jane, fortunately has a job that sometimes brings her here to LA. I saw her last Friday for the first time in a dozen years.

When we first connected on Facebook, it was funny for me to remember how when we were younger and I'd have my moments where I felt like an ugly duckling, I wanted to be Jane.

Sure, folks can say that everyone should just want to be themselves, and I can definitely say that now. But when you feel like a gangly, geeky preteen and teen, it's easy to want to be someone else. And to me, Jane always had such style, grace and personal warmth. She was creative, boys liked her a whole lot, and I remember her having the coolest pair of red jeans when we were teenagers. Don't ask why I remember random things like those jeans, but I do.

A dozen years later, she still has all those qualities. But now, she also has greater wisdom and maturity. I was so happy to give her a hug, and listen to what's been going on in her life, what her hopes and dreams are, the things that she's thinking about, and what moves her spiritually. She said some things I definitely needed to hear and it was easy to share some of what's in my heart. Indeed, our conversation picked up as if we've been talking a couple times a week. And she's generous enough to claim to have forgotten about the time I ate tons of oranges and then threw up in her bedroom.

So yes, it made me think about how important it is to keep up with the people who mean the most to me. It's something I need to commit to doing. I can't leave everything to fate.

Beauty Is Skin Deep

Dove has a new marketing campaign to try to get you to buy their products bring awareness about the beauty industry. It's a short film called "Onslaught" and it's about body image and self esteem for girls. I guess I shouldn't knock it because they don't have to do it at all and it does make you think.

But, it's making me think about things that I'm sure they didn't intend.




First, 95% of the images in it are of white women. So essentially, self-esteem is not for me. Yes, I think this movie is telling me that the self-esteem of black, Latino and Asian women pales in importance next to the self-esteem of our Caucasian sisters. Because you know, culturally, we are okay being a bigger size and we don't get eating disorders. Our little girls might pick the blond haired, blue-eyed baby doll as the most beautiful, but really, it's the little red-headed white girl with the cute freckles that we have to be worried about. That little red-headed girl 's gonna die under the onslaught of images that tell her that she's not dark enough, her hair isn't nappy enough, and her booty isn't round enough. Poor thang!

Gosh, it's gotta be hard for the little red-head girl to see women who look like her on the covers of every major fashion magazine every single month, especially when they're all telling her she's not good enough. And, oh no! She might find out that Lindsay Lohan has red hair and freckles in real life and have a panic attack over it. Horrors!

I guess black, Latino and Asian women shouldn't care about whether most of the media images of us are primarily of lighter skinned women. Last time I checked, I haven't seen any ads featuring really short, dark descendants of Aztecs...or of those really dark Cantonese folks...or those really dark sista's from the deep South. Hmm...I wonder why that could be.

Maybe it's because Unilever, the parent company of Dove, is too busy promoting SKIN LIGHTENERS around the world to women who aren't white. At the end of the Dove film, there's a slow-mo shot of a bunch of girls, and that's where they throw the diversity in, along with the tag line, "Talk to your daughter before the beauty industry does." Just make sure to skip the talk about how skin lighteners are racist, right?

Feel like throwing up this morning? Well watch this:


Yes, make sure to tell your daughters that if they're lighter-skinned, their career is going to be made! And they're gonna get the hot guy too!

Yes, lighter skin. That's all we need for higher self-esteem.

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.

Steve & Barry's Shopping Adventure: That Size Eight Is SOOO Fat.

Yesterday I trekked over the Beverly Connection shopping complex over on La Cienega Blvd and Third. I went to the new Steve and Barry's shop over there. You've never heard of Steve and Barry's? Yeah, me either. At least not until I was sitting in my hairdresser's chair on Saturday, reading "O" magazine while getting some of my hair chopped off. This month's "O" (as in "Oprah") has a spread of Sarah Jessica Parker's new clothing line, Bitten, and it's available at Steve and Barry's.

Now, I'm not, as a whole, a big fan of SJP. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've only seen "Sex and the City" twice in my whole life. I wasn't particularly impressed with the show and I've always wondered how frequently the concept of STDs was discussed. But maybe that's just me and my germ-phobia. Or, HIV phobia, whatever you want to call it.

Anyway, SJP's clothes at Steve and Barry's are pretty cute. And, major shocker here, the prices are dirt cheap. How cheap? Well, right now I'm wearing a pair of jeans I got for $14. Yeah, that cheap. This is not another overpriced celebrity clothing line with logos all on the outside of the clothes. That's quite a relief. We'll see if the jeans fall apart in the washer, but in the meantime, they're pretty fly. And did I mention already that they were $14?

Now, to get to this one pair of jeans, I had to try on at least seven or eight different pairs. You just never know how the sizing is going to work out with a new line of clothing, and there are so many different cuts to choose from. Skinny jean. Boyfriend jean. Low rise, also known as ass-crack jeans. Ultra low rise, also known as "You'd better forget about sitting down" jeans. High waist. Bootcut.

I made it easy on myself and ruled out the ultra low rise and skinny jeans. Both are just ridiculous and I'm sure millions of women the world over can't wait for them to go out of style.

So, I'm in the dressing room, almost finished trying on my armfuls of jeans when I overhear the mother/daughter pair in the dressing room next to mine. This mother says to her daughter, "What size are those?"

The daughter replied back, "An eight. Do they look too tight?"

"No, they look fine but they're an eight. You should be wearing a four, or at the most, a six. What's happening to you? We're going to have to get you to a gym or you need to stop eating or something because you're just blowing up!"

I was absolutely horrified by this conversation and immediately found myself thinking about how if I had a daughter, this is exactly the kind of ridiculousness I'd have to protect her from. I know childhood obesity is a problem in America, but a size eight is fat? Maybe if you're five feet tall or something, but come on, regardless, I was so shocked by this conversation. This mom was single handedly ruining my Steve and Barry's shopping experience. And killing her daughter's self-esteem.

"I mean, don't you know they do vanity sizing all the time and an eight is really a ten? Do you want to be a size ten?"

The daughter mumbled, "No," and tried to protest a little by saying, "But I think these clothes run a little small."

"It doesn't matter. You should be wearing the six, not an eight."

I hung out in my dressing room till they opened the door to theirs. I wanted to get a look at this mom and daughter. The daughter was about 5' 8" or so, and looked totally healthy, totally normal. The mom had that super-skinny tanorexic, LA plastic surgery look to her. She looked mean.

The conversation made me not want to get my jeans at all. It made me think about all the actresses, SJP included, that diet down to nothingness and then become the norm for body size. I'm no advocate for being overweight, especially if it's negatively affecting your health, but I'm not trying to look like I just spend two months on a deserted island. Although, if I did look like that, I'm sure there are those folks who'd say, "Oh wow! You look sooo good!"

So, yeah, you already know I got my jeans. Like I said, $14...I couldn't resist. And I don't care what size they were. I just wanted them to fit and look good on me.

I wish that teenage girl had a mom who felt the same.

Girl, That Skirt!

I'm usually not a big shopper but yesterday I went to the mall and did a little material object acquisition. I got a case to protect my new red iPod from iDeath. More socks for my two sons. A shirt from Ann Taylor and a very lovely and classic shirt dress from Express. Although I bought the dress, while I was trying it on, I found myself thinking that it was a bit on the short side.

My, how things change. This dress was just above the knee length. Ten years ago, I would have thought the dress was a bit long. Twenty years before that, despite the fact that I was forbidden by my parents to wear mini skirts and they had never bought me one, I wore skirts that were so short that the security guards at my high school threatened to send me home to change.

How did that happen?

Every day I left the house wearing the mother sanctioned Talbots-type conservative outfit, complete with penny loafers. The school bus would come, number 172, blaring Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me".

I'd climb on and slide to the last two back seats. Once on the bus, I'd find myself seated across from a boy who reeked of weed and enjoyed our ride to school by surreptitiously sipping from a flask and slurring my nickname "Lizzie" into "Ishhe".

"Isshe, you gonna put one of them short skirts on today?" he'd ask.

In response I'd laugh and tell him he'd better not peek while I changed. Then I'd take what I was actually going to wear to school out of my backpack. These skirts that emerged from my bag, a short black denim or a micro mini red cotton number, were borrowed from my second cousins who also attended my high school.

To start the transformation, first I pulled the skirt up and over my pants. Then I'd unbutton the pants and slide them off. I'd fold them up and stick them into my backpack. A couple times a week, I'd step off the school bus in one of these mini skirts, rain or shine, and whether it was 20 degrees or 80 degrees. After school let out, I'd transform back into the conservative pants and stick the skirt into my book bag. I wonder what that bus driver must have thought of my back-row transformations. (Unless she reads this blog, I guess we'll never know).

My parents were none the wiser until the unfortunate day my dad, unbeknownst to me, decided to pick me up from school. I remember strolling to my locker with one of my cousins, (their lockers were right next to mine). We were strutting in our matching black skirts and red tops like we knew we were hot stuff. And then my cousin gasped, "Oh my gosh, Liz! There's your dad!"

I looked down the hallway toward my locker and horror of horrors! My father was standing right there and he looked furious!!

If I could have turned and run the other way, I would have. But, I couldn't. So I propelled myself forward and heard him growl, "What do you have on?"

I've always been quick on my feet so I told him some lie about how someone had spilled their chocolate milk on me at lunch and how my cousin had had some extra clothes in her locker so I'd had no choice but to put the skirt on.

He didn't look like he believed me at all. My cousin tried to back me up, but he still wasn't buying it. I was such big trouble with my dad that I couldn't even imagine the thunder my mom would bring when she found out. I knew I'd be lucky if she let me out of the house ever again and alas, my mini skirt days were definitely over.

When I finally got to college I figured it was my chance to wear minis again. But, it was the height of the grunge movement. In general, minis and grunge just didn't make a good mix. Still, I remember the first time I went to my parent's house in a mini skirt, focused on proving that I could wear whatever I wanted when I wanted. All my mom would say was, "Oh, that's a cute outfit!" That drove me crazy! Why couldn't it have been a cute outfit five years earlier?

Since then, I've worn my share of mini skirts and sometimes miss the days of going dancing in a denim mini, black opaque tights and black Doc Martens. I guess it's good that I got all that out of my system because I've clearly become more conservative in my thirties if I think that a just above the knee-length dress is short.

At this rate, I'll probably be in floor-length skirts and dresses by the time I hit fifty.

To Enhance Or Not To Enhance...That Is The REAL Question

OK, I'm out on the town in Breast-Implant Land, I mean, LA. Did I mention that I'm on vacation this week? Well, I am! Thank goodness for vacation because I was singing DMX songs in my head last Friday. I'm at The Grove, everyone's favorite outdoor mall/pseudo community on 3rd and Fairfax. The rest of my family is next door at the theatre watching the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie. Yeah, sorry, but I had to pass on that one. I've been strolling around outside and I just walked by the Victoria's Secret so here's another bra-related question:

What's up with the plethora of padded and push-up bras available?

I mean, do most women really want the average man (or woman) staring at their chests? Ladies? Tell the truth. I'll tell you my truth: I think it's annoying and insulting and I wish I could use a red-hot poker or an acid-filled water-gun on the offenders. I know, I'm supposed to ooze sex appeal, have my ta-tas jumping out of my shirt, and not worry about whether or not I'm being taken seriously at work or anyplace else. --On the other hand, maybe I should try wearing a push-up AND padded bra at work. Maybe I'll get a promotion or something.

Seriously, come on. If you've got the padded/push-up thing going on, once you take that thing off, somebody's gonna know all that cleavage wasn't really you. And, since I'm married and believe that a present for my honey equals a new pair of underwear, (they really don't buy them for themselves) I know that padded boxers and briefs aren't available in mainstream department stores.

Nope, men don't roll around wearing gel-enhanced underwear to make themselves look more physically endowed. Or, if you're a man and you do that, I'm sorry, but there's a possibility that you're still mentally in the eighth grade.

We women, alas, we've drunk the kool-aid that's been trickled down our throats. We've been brainwashed into believing we are less than worthy if our breasts aren't gigantically standing at attention at all times...but, don't get me wrong, I'll be the first to admit, if you need a bra, please wear one.

And now I'm off to observe some non-undergarment related activities...like the guy sitting to my left here in the Barnes and Noble. He just dropped his half-eaten cookie onto the floor and instantaneously picked it up and started eating it. I don't even think he's aware that he did it.

It's a sure sign...he must have kids.

32A, 34B, 36C, 38D? Your Guess Is As Good As The Salesgirl's!

Last night, I went to the JcPenney at the Glendale Galleria. I was in search of new shoes and pants for my eldest son, Olinga, also known as "The Human Weed" because he's growing so quickly. After getting both of my kids shoes and pants (great prices!) I decided to head to the lingerie department to check out what was on sale there as well.

My eldest is at that age where he screams, "EWW...GIRL'S UNDERWEAR!" at the top of his lungs. That progresses to, "I can't look! Rescue me, mommy! AAGH, I SEE BRAS!" The younger one says whatever his brother is saying, but he seems to have more lung power, and also will add his own flavor by saying stuff like "nasty underwear" and "gross bras". Needless to say, I sent them to a play area with their father.

It turns out, I was the only customer wandering around the lingerie department at 7:30 on a Sunday night. I picked up some underwear that was on sale, "Five for $25". I'll never get why a pair of underwear is $5, but that's a whole other issue.

Then I saw a sign advertising a "Free Bra Fit Event" and figured I should get myself measured. After all, I always read how most women are going around wearing the wrong bra size and I don't want to be one of them. And,I was safe! No other customers were there to hear my measurements, unlike last time I got my bra size measured and the saleswoman seemed to be hell-bent on shouting my measurements through a megaphone. I figured it'd be smooth sailing.

I approached the counter where three employees were chatting with each other while folding and rehanging items discarded in the dressing rooms. I waited...ten seconds. Twenty seconds of hearing how Tatiana's man is no good. Thirty seconds...he is cheating with, "that slut". I'm thinking, "Ok, maybe they don't see me, even though I'm standing right there." I decided to interrupt their gossip-fest.

"Excuse me, but if it's not too much trouble, I want to get my bra size measured." Jeepers, listen to me! No wonder my sister says I'm waaay too nice to people.

The sales girls exchanged looks and one said to me, "You don't know your bra size?"

The very question made me feel like a moron even though they had the Bra Fit Event sign right next to the cash register.

"I know my size, but I want to make sure I'm wearing the right size. It's been about a year since I got measured, and I want to be sure."

They exchanged looks again and one of them said, "Ok, Kati (pronounced Khaa-tee) will measure you."

So Kati sighs, grabs a tape measure, comes from behind the counter and says, "What size were you before?" I tell her but explain that I've been working out more and so my bras feel a little big. She starts to wrap the tape measure around my chest. Thirty seconds later she says, "Well, you're either a ___ or a ___ ." Kati suggests that I try on both sizes to see which one I like best.

I had instant misgivings about this you're one of two sizes measurement. One of the band sizes she told me was bigger than what I currently wear and if I already think what I wear might be too big, how could this possibly fit? The other size was the same band size I wear now, but a much bigger cup size. As flattering as being a bigger cup size sounded, um, it really was just ridiculously unbelievable!

I knew that no bra in these two sizes would fit me. I wanted to ask Kati to remeasure me but she'd already stalked back behind the counter to hear more about Tatiana's trifling boyfriend going over some other woman's house.

See, now I know why we ladies are going around wearing the wrong bra size. It's because customer service is truly a lost art. We're left to guess whether we're an A, B, C or D or ZZ cup. We're left to try to just pick something off the rack and hope it fits. What size bra do I really wear? Your guess is as good as mine.

And, in case you're wondering, yes, I left the underwear on the counter. Even though they really were cute, I couldn't buy something from a trio of salesgirls who couldn't even get it together for one measly customer. I keep thinking about why I didn't say something to them about their poor customer service. I know back in the day, my mom sure would have.

What would they have done if I'd actually told them why I wasn't buying anything? I don't know about you but my gut tells me they would have just shrugged it off.