Lady Says...

Welcome to the lounge...

Just want to thank you for visiting. Trying to work things out in life though my writing, hope you can help me and enjoy yourselves at the same time. Must see posts are Introductions, Gimmie, Contentment, Recession..., & the Chewing the Cud Series. However, feel free to browse any of the entries.

I encourage you to please please post comments and requests -- I'd like to know what you think.

much love,

C.

That Last Time.

Remember the last time you saw a good looking man?

Not just handsome, but truly beautiful. Remember the first time you saw his lips break into a smile? It was enough to get you thinking, entertain the idea of being with him. Doesn't matter how well you do or don't know him, whether or not you're looking for a relations- in that instant you're toying with the idea of seeing that smile over the breakfast table. Remember seeing someone that fine that for a moment, you projected him into your future.

As this little montage of your hypothetical life plays, he notices you. Its a split second where you have to decide several things: First, is he even looking at you? Do you smile or just acknowledge him with your eyes? Do you speak first? Ironically enough all these decisions hinge on just how FINE he is.

Because there are those men that are just that good looking that you just have to speak first. Then he speaks, and is voice sounds so good that you just have to be the initiator, the instigator of whatever there is to come...

Fast forward to the first time the two of you are alone together. That moment when he tempts you just to see if you'll take the bate. Think how you looked at him, a warning almost of what you could do. He's so fine that when you look at him you want to tell him what you could do for him, what you would do for him. You massage him so that he has an idea, just an idea of how hard you would work for him. You kiss and suck his ear softly just to give him an idea of how you would support him. Think how you danced for him just to give him an idea, just an idea, of how you can please him.

Because he's so fine, you allow him to interrupt this projection and bring you back to earth even though there's a chance he may never live up to your fantasy... but you hope he does. He's talking to you and you're multi tasking: listening, responding, analyzing, daydreaming and hoping.

Hoping.

Hoping.

Let it Flow.

Feeling Dark.

Did you ever stare in the mirror and try and live with what you see?

Trying to put yourself in the place of everyone else-
how they feel, what they think when they look at you?

Did you ever stare at your reflection and get that
tight sick feeling in your stomach, like you'll cry at any moment?

Did you ever analyze your mouth, your lips or your eyes for sexuality so far gone?

Ever wanted to rip all your hair out?
Take a pen and scratch out your reflection like a typo or a silly cartoon in the margins of your paper?

Do you mussy your hair around and turn your chin into your shoulder
trying to find your good side, to catch the light in your own eyes?
Staring until the person that you see is not only vacant, but unfamiliar?

If you've done this-any of this-you know how wonderful it is when you can look into the mirror and smile.

Patience.

I know, I know, its supposed to be a virtue, but really... I mean honestly how long am I supposed to wait for you? I don't know if you noticed, but over there on my refrigerator there's long ass TO DO LIST. I understand that, for you, that list is just something I bring up whenever I'm "nagging" you, or whenever I'm trying to guilt you into behaving the way I want you to. But look here, baby, that list is imperative.

Well, at least it was imperative before your ass came along. Before you slid up behind me like liquid and turned those lips to the side of my neck and caressed me just right. Before you started sending me all those nasty ass text messages. Before you started making all those sorry ass promises. Promises. Promises. Promises kept and promises broken.

I suppose there was a point when I loved hearing you say things, loved hearing you ramble on about all the shit you were going to do. I guess I figured if I let you keep talking, eventually you'd speak the shit into existence. But I digress...

Patience is a virtue. You know I think a man made that up. Although I could be wrong because patience can be applied to so many aspects of life: love, family, faith... Especially in faith. Perseverance- I've heard it pays off. However, Patience (in reference to love) is some bullshit. I think some man told a woman she should be patient while he ran off and sewed his wild ass, funky ass oats.

I'm not so good at patience. Its really a problem (as I've mentioned in previous blogs). I'm especially no good at patience when it comes to my personal life. See, if I am having a hard time putting the rest of my life in perspective: looking for a job, getting that perfect apartment in the city, that white and black farm house in country... that OSCAR-- If I'm having trouble with all that what the fuck makes a man think I want to be waiting around for his ass?

Since PATIENCE is a virtue I should hold on for dear life as I have so few of those left. But really, back to love and relationships. In all honesty, I do understand this whole patience thing, I do respect the power that is "HOLDING OUT" (in whatever fashion one may choose). I understand that you have to be patient with your significant other because that other is another person, another human being with their own agenda, their own To Do List. Why shouldn't a man be afforded some time (five minutes even) to adjust, get acclimated. Who am I to demand immediate gratification?

On behalf of myself and some of my girlfriends I've tossed this question around in my head. Who am I? Who am I to want decision making right now? Honey, I'm the best thing you've had and the best you're ever gonna get. I'm the BEST YOU WILL EVER HAVE BECAUSE guess what...

I cook, I clean, I play chess, I can load a .45 faster than you can unbuckle your pants, I type 70 WPM accurately, I wear lingerie for no reason, I clean in my high heels and I will kick your ass in HALO. I'm the only one within 2 Thousand miles you will find smoking a cigar and sipping scotch in 6 inch heels, but don't worry I'm still a simple girl, I like smores and champagne by the fire (smile). I'm the best because at the end of the night when you're weary of all your friends jokes I'll be waiting in the kitchen with your favorite dinner in your favorite bra and panties. You can take me home to parents, you can take me out with the boys, or you can take me to bed- your choice. I'm good for all three. I'll support you, I'll love you, I'll bathe you and take care of you...

But... could you take care of me?

Damn.

Is that so very much to ask? You have to make a decision. Get it together, baby. Either you want cake or you don't want chocolate cake. Seriously, how long do you need to prepare before getting a slice of that cake?

Blinking Cursors.

My apologies for the time that has passed between postings. Currently working things out on paper, hope to be blogging again by the end of this week. Been a crazy few weeks, trying to get into the right state of mind. Stay with me people... (smile).

When We Dance.

When we dance-
Damn it feels so good to take these shoes off
They're suede and patent leather and make me stand up so straight

When we dance
I close my eyes and I breathe you in. Dancing with you
Its so familiar that closing my eyes now, I can smell you
Can recall the faintest bit of our cologne
light scratch of your beard

When we dance
For once, for real, I can let you lead
I can trust you completely and almost predict your next move
You guide me close then spin me away
But you never let go

When we dance you put me on display
You always could put on a show, but half the time I barely know what I'm doing
Somehow, somehow, when we dance, I look good
Everyone's watching. They're watching. They're whispering.
We're flawless

You move not only to the beat, but to the words as well
Your incredible body finds the mood of the music and the heart of every song so
When we dance
We're flawless

When we dance you create circles around us
I fix my hands in yours or around your shoulders and I'm locked into a very private embrace,
a separate space even
With my head resting on your shoulder I can only feel it when you're smiling
I cherish your arms, your fingers that press into the small of my back
That reassure my steps

When we dance
I'm yours
I believe you
I want you

When we dance
you can convince me of anything
Ask me
Ask me again
This time I'll go.

In a sentimental mood - Duke Ellington and John Coltrane

Chewing the Cuds. Two

Savannah

It is so easy to love you.

We're going on five years now. I still get butterflies when you touch me, when you walk in a room. In the morning, when you're away, I still reach to call you first. In the evening, I still reach for your favorite perfume just hoping you notice (though you always do).

When we sleep, I still face you, I still snuggle against you and tap my finger on your chest to the beat of your heart. Still reach for your hand when we walk down the street. Still feel my heart flutter whenever you call. Lying here... I can remember our first kiss. I recall how surreal it was for you to reach for me the way you did, looking down at me- God you're so tall. The movie way you touched my face and cupped my chin, the Denzel way you stared into my eyes... the hungry way you took my mouth.

Love you, love us together. Love our way together. Our things live together: your clippers next to my curlers, your wave grease next to my spritz. Panties against drawers, oxfords against stilettos, and skin against skin. Love us together.

Lying here list all the reasons I love you. Watching your chest rise and fall, I feel the heat of a million black women before me watching their own men so lovingly. Watching you I see all that there is to be proud of in a men, everything there is to want and need in a man, in watching you I see a man. I see my man.

You influence me. Seeing you break a sweat, I want to break a sweat. I want to run harder and pray harder. I want to be more because you're more. More than I ever asked for. A blessing when tears were what I knew best. I get an ache when you're gone. Get a crease in my forehead. I get a walk about me. Then you come back and you work it right back out of me.

Love you. Love you. Love you because...forgiveness is possible around you. Focus, strength, and wisdom are attainable with you. Because you don't fault me for knowing myself, for honoring myself, for being myself. Because with you there's no apologizing for emotion, for silly, for stumbling. There's only encouragement with you. There's only real with you, truth with you. I love you because its easier to breathe with you.

Lying here with you I take deep breaths. In. Out. In... Out...

Effortless.

its easier to breathe when I'm around you

Chewing the Cuds. (A Series)

Nina.
Made it home early today. Its just dusk now-kids are still out and about. I turn the car off and roll up the windows, reach for my purse. I make it to the door and-shit, almost forgot the wine. Got to have my wine. Yes, its been that kind of day. I make it to the door and suddenly I'm not as tired as I was before I left work. You know that feeling, that little burst of energy you get when its time to clock out. Funny how at two o'clock you could barely lift your eyes to look at that computer screen, but suddenly its 4:52 and you're bouncing off the walls. I've only just started sorting through my mail when I get tired again. Comcast... Verizon... Direct Loans... Another wedding invitation? I start into the other room with a wine glass and the brown paper bag my Pinot is hiding inside of, leaving the mail on the table. I take my first sip while I finger through my records. If I flip through them long enough the tips of my fingers will start to smell like the sleeves. I rescued most of these from the flood in my grandparents basement. I heaved all three crates up two flights of stairs and across five states. Duke suits me, so I set the record playing.

The bathtub is already full by the time I finish my second glass of wine. I turn the water off and run my hands along the surface. Its too damn hot, but if turn the faucet any less to the left it'll be too cold. I let the water cool down while I stare at myself in the mirror, tea lights nestled all around me in little glass jars. My whole apartment is filled with that bathwater smell, the song changes and a run my hands along the underside of my breasts. Two nice handfuls, I've been assured and I'm really hoping that's the case. Another glass of wine and I'm in the tub. I stretch my legs under the water and the heat prickles my skin. Drinking in this heat is never wise, but its a calm like no other so I indulge. Over every splash I can still hear the Duke. A date of my gave me twelve cool points when he found out I liked jazz. However, he lost all his cool points when I found out he couldn't fuck. That's harsh-it really is- but for the state of mind I was in at the time, that was standard.

Another ... boyfriend, I guess you might call him, was incredible in bed and as a bonus he was incredibly stupid.I kept him on top of me so he wouldn't feel obligated to talk to me. Is that bad? Is it bad to keep someone like that on standby or is it necessary? Also, he made the mistake of believing we had a good thing. He was sweet, really, and determined to "pull me out of my shell". That's what it was, he thought I was just reserved or shy somehow. It took me leaving his house three times at 3 am for him to understand I was just indifferent. He used to whistle on the phone while I was listening to Miles Davis. Didn't even have the courtesy to whistle along with the song I was listening to, just made up his own shit. So when he stopped calling, I did too.

Third glass down and the water is perfect. My eyebrows are heavy and I'm warm behind the ears- good 'ole Pinot. I've reached that point that I've been thinking about all day. The song changes and I plunge my washcloth into the water between my knees. I wring it out over my shoulders, down my arms and scrub my elbows till their soft. I lean back and rub my chest, rub my shoulder, exhale... I remember he used to touch me like this. He being the one man I crave- the one I always crave. I squeeze my thighs together. Nights like this he would be coming over. Work, dinner, studying would be out of the way. I'd answer the door and it'd be over.

The water's too hot.

Once he came over and we didn't even talk. Not once. He watched me put on some music and draw the curtains. With all that happened that night what I remember most is his smile, that beautiful smile and those beautiful lips. This was long before the stupid one, but I remember. I remember his hand in my hair, at the back of my head and him breathing me in like he'd die if he didn't. And he stayed. Then he left, but not a minute before or after I wanted him to. My skin felt different when I was with him. My head felt different with him- wasn't so crowded, wasn't so noisy. Days went by like hours, hours like minutes...while he kept coming back, while I kept calling him back. He got to me, got into me, got under my skin, got in my head then left it there. I get butterflies like no one's had butterflies and sink down in the tub. Fuck him. I could never shake the high of him.

One more glass of wine and I'll get out. I'll change the music and check my email. I'll RSVP to that wedding before I forget entirely. Salmon for dinner. Cheesecake for dessert. I'll change the sheets and read before bed. It'll be dark. It'll be dark when I close my eyes and I'll try not to remember. I'll try not to imagine him or want him. I'll sleep. I'll sleep.

The water's cold.

Adjustment.

Sitting with my eyes closed. Its dark everywhere else and quiet everywhere else but I still have to close my eyes to drown it all out. The house creaking, someone shifting in bed under the sheets, a breeze whipping itself softly around the corner of the house- the quiet; its all too fucking loud. Because all that quiet only amplifies everything bouncing around in my head. Those thoughts that wake me out of my sleep or (like most days) keep me from sleep in the first place.

There's nothing worse than your own mind nagging at you. Not your parents, not your girlfriend, not your man. No, when you're own brain flicks on a whole hour and 23 minutes before you do and starts cataloging shit for you to do, all on its own- that's irritating. Now this may be a condition, that is, it may be temporary. Rather, I hope it's temporary. Just the result of something else I may eventually be able to fix.

In my mind there's a game plan. In my heart there's another. And like in everyone's life, there are good days and bad days. Good days occur when Game Plan #1 and Game Plan #2 cross, when they coincide (when everybody plays nice). Bad days occur when Plans 1 and 2 sabotage one another and are more frequent. And so I've arrived at that point in my life where you're supposed to splice all that together. Create a mashup of everything I need to do and what I want to do. That's it, that's the key to getting rid of this nag.

We'll see how this goes.

Yo.

For any of you who are new to this blog, just want to say welcome & thanks for stopping by.

This is an exercise for me- trying to get through some serious writer's block. Working through life with my words here, so any feedback is greatly appreciated.

Not sure what to read first? Here are some of my friend's favorites:
Child Theory
Gimmie.
The Recession is Real.
Boondocks.
Contentment.
Quality Children's Programming.
3x Factor.
BS

And please check out the other pages: Shoe Stop & Soundtrack

BS.

It would have been so easy. So very easy.

As a matter of fact I planned on it being very easy to be on complete bullshit this past weekend. I had plans, I was excited- hype even- I'm making moves. Or I was supposed to.

On bullshit, you ask?

The State of Being On Bullshit (TSBOB) can be negative, however in this instance it was the state of having certain intentions. Although not all intentions were "good", all intentions resulted in "good" things. Its usually a statement, at the beginning of the evening, weekend, party... whatever. You say it so that everyone knows not to halt those intentions and to (if they can successfully) move them right along in your favor.

TSBOB means lots of raised eyebrows, glossed lips and crossed legs. There's lots of communication being done between people without a whole lot of talking. Music, or specific songs rather, can be very suggestive. While On Bullshit you are extremely susceptible to suggestive songs and poor judgment. This is also why it is important to state aloud that Bullshit has commenced.

Friends will respond: "Yeah, you real OB right now."

Its sad, but still hilarious how certain things are excusable when under the premise of Bullshit. There's a lot of "SMH' going on and you smile despite yourself. Even if you know better... that shit was good.

100 percent worth it.

While On Bullshit reality can become real glossy. Its a montage of everything you want and a presentation of all the opportunities to have it. Then with the addition of said suggestive music, TSBOB becomes just like a music video. You're walking slow and sexy (so you think) and timing all your moves to the beat of the song: for example with Movies (by Ashanti) you have approximately 4 minutes and 14 seconds to float across the party and secure his attention.

TSBOB can be overwhelming at times. But most of the time its fucking great. That's why it is so overwhelmingly shitty when TSBOB goes wrong. Or worse, when its wasted. Or when some fucked up act of nature prevents you from sealing the deal on your SBOB.

Five Star Family.

There's something to be said about spending time with good people.

It is an amazing feeling when you walk away from your friends feeling refreshed and optimistic. Besides just having a good time with friends, you feel good after you leave them. You feel like you spent your day wisely for having spent it with them.

Had a crazy, busy weekend- Fabo. Every minute of it was Fabo. Me and my girl rent a car- nice lil whip with amazing mileage and hightailed it back down to University. Our annual tailgate is usually great but this year it was especially awesome. It takes us three hours to make it downstate in the Versa, arrive just in time for cocktails. Great friend number one, Christine has one of the best apartments on campus. With two full bathrooms and bedrooms, she's our number one candidate for a place to stay. Did I mention she's exceptional company? Always a story to tell, food and drink in the fridge, and new shoes to show off.

Great friends number 2 and 3 stop by after dinner. Two of my favorite men in the world, and BANG BANG fun has absolutely commenced. Every hour consisted of laughter on top of laughter. We did it up real Celebrity Friday & Saturday with five inch heels and round after round of champagne. Apparently we were just in the right place because we kept running into good quality people. You know those friends you don't see or talk to very often, but seeing them just adds to your buzz.

Oh and lets not forget Freshman patrol. Yes me and the girls were on massive bullshit. Keeping an eye out for all the cuties. I was surprised, I saw a good few of them. Just all smiles- real Chris Brown and shit. Adorable. Nothing better than a young man who knows you've got your shit together and admires you because he thinks you might some fulfill some high school fantasy of his.

We shut it down. All weekend.

But on the note of good friends. Just want to say, I love you all. Life is real short, but ya'll are making it interesting!

Quality Children's Programming.

At a time when there is usually nothing on there is always, Rocko's Modern Life. An animated series discussing the adventures of a twenty-something year old wallaby. Rocko and his friends were the friends before FRIENDS as far as I'm concerned. Rocko of course being the level-headed responsible one, Filbert (a turtle) the nervous wreck, and Heffer being the whorish idiot.

Doesn't sound like kid-friendly daytime tele does it? Well it was. On Nickelodeon, circa 1993. This radical Nicktoon was is what you might call "the shit". It was legitimately funny with quality characters experiencing fairly realistic day to day issues. Look at Rocko's relationship with his neighbor, Mr. Bighead. Not so far off from real life. I think its fair to say that a young man living in such close proximity to a couple in their fifties would cause some conflict. And of course Heffer and Filbert don't help at all. One or the other is always getting him into something ridiculous, some scheme, whether its to get rich quick or get the girl. And lets not forget, Rocko owned his own home. In a fairly nice neighborhood. There's an entire episode the 3 friends scramble to renovate because the town's aesthetic committee has threatened to kick him out. Real deal plot lines here. I don't know what the fuck kids are watching these days. Disney has gone off the deep end with their programming and Nick... well lets just say there's much to be desired. The last good shows I can recall were Angry Beavers and Ahh Real Monsters! I'd like to take a moment to reminisce:

• DOUG(Go ahead. Hum away. Everyone remembers that theme song)
• Eureka's Castle
• Legends of the Hidden Temple
• Daria (la la la la la- la la la la la...)
• SNICK
• Are You Afraid of the Dark? Midnight Society Bitches
• All That
• Keenen & Kel
• Ren & fucking Stimpy
• Rugrats
• Kablam (which was a nice taste tester for Robot Chicken)
• Alex Mac
• Rugrats...

I could really go on, but I think I've given you enough to remember.

True satisfaction.

Despite all the frivolous fairy mess, I am quite pleased with True Blood progress. Kinda sad that Franklin is gone, but its cool. Recently finished the last book...

Its lookin' good ya'll. Yeah... looking real good.

Contentment.

I couldn't see him when I woke. The room was dark-pitch black-which made the music seem that much louder. I found him. Seated on the floor, back against the dresser. I smelled him first then stared until my eyes adjusted and found the shape of him. He inhaled his signature exasperated drag and I watched as the embers illuminated the sweet portion of his face around his mouth.

It was then that I remembered his lips, felt the heat that still burned from his mouth on my skin. I could still taste the Wine taste in the back of my throat, could imagine the sweet smokey smell that lingered on him always. He was watching me now. Not sure that he could see me, but he watched regardless. I examined him as the embers once again flared, loved the way his long fingers draped magnificently around that cigar.

Out of nowhere I couldn't wait to taste him again. Out of nowhere I wanted to crawl into those strong arms and straddle those long legs and taste him. Taste the Black, German, Italian and Puerto Rican that made him so fucking fine. But Mama taught me that sometimes you gotta let a man have his moment and this was most certainly his. He looked so divine during his moments, when he thought I couldn't see or just hadn't noticed.

I let him be for ten minutes. Patiently I waited until the song changed and the Black & Mild between his fingers shortened. I loved this CD- the music suited the chaos that was ours and made us the superstars we just knew we were. Hendrix does something to me-makes me feel beautiful and my body fluid. I had been having an affair Jimi for years-with my dates in the room with me-completely unawares. Some people are brilliant on drugs.

Its only then, 18 minutes after I wake up that I move to entice him out of his 'moment'. I lick my lips and he fidgets. Definitely watching me now. I'll go up to him. Because he's sexy as hell I'll slide out of bed and walk over. Because he's not finished smoking that cigar I won't call him back to bed. Because he's a good man- I'll go to him.

-dedicated to a D.I.A.M.O.N.D.

Bond Girls.

British Yum.

Second running in the Fabulous Line behind drag queens are...

BOND Girls.

Little back story: Thirteen years or so ago my father purchased a VHS box set of James Bond, 007 movies. Because we lived overseas (OFF BASE) with no cable to speak of, 007 was pretty much a monthly thing. Despite the chauvinistic approach Mr. Bond often brought to everything and how predictably submissive some of the women were, you really have to love what they brought to the screen.

MayDay
Fatima Blush
Pussy Galore
Octopussy...
Jinx...

As if the names didn't say enough. Each Bond girl was decked out from head to toe fabulous whether it was an itty bitty bikini or a flowing evening gown. Big hair, great make up for the 60's and 70's, and an affinity for Sean Connery... these are women i could really bond with. Ha ha. I made a funny. No seriously, besides all that "Oh, James..." crap I could really rock that shit. As long as I don't end up like Jill Materson (Shirley Eaton) in Goldfinger, 1964. Although even in death she looked pretty damn good.

Lollipop.

There are some songs you hear randomly and you smile despite yourself because you just recalled some of the best memories of your life.

Weezy F Baby

Boondocks.

After that 2009 lukewarm BS I'd really like to make note of this beautiful summer Chicago is having this year.

There are very few pleasures in living with my parents again, but breakfast out on the deck under a bright orange umbrella is always enjoyable. The deck juts out from the second story so its like sitting in a tree house really with all the trees and plants growing high around me.

Does it make me more civilized that i drink my coffee from a cup my mother purchased 20 years ago as opposed to the "going green" Starbucks paper cup? Am I better off because my neighbors actually speak when they see me? That's suburb living for your ass.

Yes, I live in the Burbs. The Boonies, the sticks... Far & Away. I'm reminded every day by all my friends who live in the city. Why do you live so far? They ask. You need to move, they tell me at the beginning of every conversation. Not, Hello, how are you? or Just calling you back, what's up? No, its "You need to move" every time.

Now, I'm well aware of this need. Especially because I do the majority of the traveling. As I'm sure you learned from Train Theory, the conductors and I are on a first name basis. Milwaukee District North (Purple Line) yeah, they know me there. This summer in particular, I've spent at least a full week of my life riding the train back and forth. For the most part, I don't mind. Love the city, love to travel and see friends I don't often see. Nevertheless, I would like just once to do the picking up and dropping off. I'd like to play hostess once and a while. See, I'm having the hardest time getting any of my friends to come out this way. Had the house to myself for seven days last month and I barely got one stay-over visit.

In conversation with Loren, I tried to put a new spin on the prospect of her coming to stay. She was going on and on about how her job and friends were wearing her down. Things were bad all the way around- even her couch was rubbing her the wrong way. Dude! I said, Come visit me.

But you live so far. Like really, where do you even live? She says. It takes her 45 minutes to get home (from within the city!) and she's asking me where I live. Go figure. Its only an hour ride, you can read, write- all those things you say you need to do, but never do. She's still whining, still skeptical, but not as much. I decided then to put it to her a different way:

Come out to the country, I say. Like back in the day when women would swoon or men would go bankrupt; a monotone doctor always advises a stay in the country. The country air will do you good. Country living as a cure-all! Seriously, in the 1800's a woman could get into a little trouble with love; a nine month spell in the country and suddenly all her problems were solved.

How Dickens of me to present things to her this way. It works. She makes some awkward sound of agreement. I'll take care of everything, you just get on the train. And when I pick you up we'll do all those things you city people think we do out here in the burbs. Ironically, I do horseback ride and I have witnessed cow tipping.

I left Loren pondering all the wonderful things about the boonies. Shimmering lakes, breezes through the trees, perpendicular parking, Cracker Barrel...

Child Theory.

I believe a disclaimer is in order:

For starters, I have no children, so if I'm a bit harsh, feel free to skip this entry. Also, little bit of generalizing in this rant, but really only going over the few key instances that I have witnessed. Fuck it- free speech!!

Tuesday Afternoon after I sprinted my life away down the damn platform in pumps a size too small, I make it onto my 4:58 train. I have to walk the entire length of the train to find a seat but I do, and I sit then crack open my summer read. Paul Mooney's Black is the New White" is not for Too Self-Aware. Anybody who can't laugh out loud, long and hard by themselves on a train full of people should not attempt this memoir.

So I'm all engrossed in some druggy details about Richard Pryor and I see -no hear- my greatest nightmare board the train. And ironically enough I'm experiencing the same fucking thing right now as I'm typing this up.

It never fails.
It never fucking fails, I'm always on public transportation with a breeder. Always. Breeder, you ask?

Breeder: definition of n.Bree·der
1. Usually a young woman, but not always, with at least two misbehaved children in tow
2. Hogs sidewalk and rams your ankles with the Cadillac stroller
3. Usually unattended by a male; sometimes travel in packs

It's 4:57 p.m. and Breeders #1 and 2 come scrambling on the train with 3 kids A PIECE!

First, they sit behind me and I'm like, you've got to be shitting me. Not that there was anywhere else for them to sit. It's 4:57:39. The train leaves at 4:58:00. Breeder #1 instructs her little boy to sit in the empty seat next to me. I scooch over obligingly even though I'm really sour about this. This shit isn't supposed to happen to me, the cover of P. Mooney's book is supposed to be deterring any train pals.

Fortunately enough for me, the little boy dilly-dallies and soon enough two clean cut corporate frat boys give up their seats for the breeders. Breeder #2 piles in with her spawn, followed by Breeder #1 who violently (accidentally) bumps my seat in her desperate move. After quite a significant struggle with strollers, the Breeders all settle in. Not two minutes after the train begins to move, the moment everyone has been dreading arrives.

The little girl (well, one of them) erupts into a fit of the most furious cries I've ever heard. She's screaming- I mean screaming her head off. And because she's taken center stage in mommy's attention, all the other kids start whining and babbling louder than they already were. The screams are so bad that at one point I close my eyes and plug my ears. We're in a big metal box, hon. Sound has nowhere the fuck to go.

Still screaming.

People are starting to turn around and look. Now, I hate this, I really do because #1 I don't want to be that woman, that young sexy bitch with not kids and a cellphone and shoe collection as serving as her only responsibilities. I've seen them. They look back exasperatedly over their shoulders, or through the tint of their designer shades and judge. I don't want to judge. For all I know both breeders just lost both of their husbands in Iraq and their taking the kids to see Gramps in Wisconsin. So I don't judge. I don't turn around. I just read over Mr. Mooney's riff one more time trying to ignore the "Motherfucking" screaming.

Still screaming.

Well dammit, now I have to look. It's earsplitting, like she's being tortured. And everyone is looking thinking the exact same thing:

"Bitch, this is the 4:58. The fucking Corporate Express. You and you're kids could have waited and taken the 5:31"

Because honestly, who after working 8-9 hours in a box with overkill AC and fluorescent retina-frying lights and burnt coffee wants to sit in ANOTHER box with some kid's scream reverberating around inside their skulls?

Fuck that.

At this point, no lie, fifteen people get up and walk to the next car. Shaking my head I read more about Redd Foxx and Richard Pryor. Still screaming. I look back again, the Breeders are mortified. Both of them are rattled and flustered.

This helps.

Breeders Remorse. At least they feel bad about having subjected almost 100 people to this mess. Way better than those women who ignore it, enjoy it, or worse- participate. I really can't stand the mom's who egg their kids on, tickling them and indulging their high-pitched proclamations. I can't abide that shit.

Like this chick right now with her two toddlers. The kids have been shrieking since before we pulled out of the station.

"Where's your belly button? There it is!" Mom coos. "Look at the pretty trains... Let go of Mommy's hair-Jimmy. Jimmy. Jimmy!"

She's enjoying this shit. And Jimmy's getting louder by the second. Its like two squealing piglets knowingly being led off to slaughter. He's throwing a tantrum now. I don't get this shit. And it not just because I don't have kids. Well, I don't have kids, but I know kids, I've seen kids sit and play quietly. I've seen kids follow obediently and silently behind mommy. People turn their heads because that kid is so effing cute. Not because he's giving my ear a massive coronary.

Now I really hate to make this about race, because realistically, ALL kids cry. However, a trend exists among Breeders and their babies. You know the moms that plead with their kids- literally plead with a two year-old for a little peace and quiet.

I'm sorry, but I've seen it for over 20 years. Its usually the white mom with 2-3 kids running her ragged

"Shh, shh, shh... calm down Micheal" or "Sally, can you please behave while Mommy is talking to Daddy?"

For most black women this conversation never happens. It never even gets to this point. Its a look. Just a look and you know its time to shut up. That's if you're even crying. People my age remember. You don't cry in public- not in public! You have to be crazy to even whine in a grocery store. You could get popped just for pouting. And even if mom didn't get you right then, you knew what was coming later, at home, when she could really tear your little behind up.

These White kids are reckless.

Now honestly I can't generalize this. I used to be able to say only white kids fall out in public. However, that's simply not true. Latino kids will get away with shit too. They'll tear up a toy store or clothing store then fall out in Spanish. And I'll tell you, a month ago, I was proved so very wrong. I saw my first public Black-Kid-Fall-Out.

In the train station, a little boy, fingers in his mouth, bubbly drool and frothing snot. Just hollering. No tears! This is what it sounded like:

"Ehhhhhhhhhhhh!" (Takes a breath) "...Ehhhhhhhhhh!" (Takes a deeper breath)
"EHHHHHHH-AHHH!"

I was flabbergasted.

Now back to Train Theory for a moment. I'm still on the train now. The passenger in front of me has changed 3 times. The guy in front of me now is lounging, I mean hella-lounging. He's laid out sideways in the seat with his shoes off. I only notice him because I see his big toe up against the window. Now you know that ain't no home training. Just has his nasty, sweaty, funky toes on the window!

I'm sorry, but what gives?

Train Theory.

So this afternoon I get off work, power-walk underground, and catch the 7-dollar (each way) rip off that is Metra. I manage to get a ticket and board within a reasonable amount of time, so I settle in next to one of the two emergency exits. There are at least two emergency exits for every car, you know. At least that's what the automated voice keeps telling me after she rattles of ever intermediate train stop.

I don't know what it is (and maybe this is just Chicago) but you notice its always a white person's voice overhead? It could just be me, but its interesting that on Metra, and on CTA, and MTA and the rest of the TA's there is a lways a very content, very pleasant white man telling you where the exits are, that the door is about to close, and that "ASHLAND.Is. Next"

How do I know its a White people voice? Baby, I just know. Black folks grow up with an innate awareness of one-another. No matter how articulate or how slight the tone may be, you know a fellow when you hear one.

Every once in a while, you may hear a woman. Her voice is supposed to be soothing and informative,no matter what the fuck she's saying.

"Ladies. And. Gentleman. The bridge. Up. Ahead. Is. Out. Remain calm and. Brace. Yourself. For. Death..."

The whole time the train's crashing she's "soothing" everyone and letting them know where the emergency exits are.

"Thank you. For your. Cooperation."

Everything they say is broken, staccato like they're drawing from some mega vocabulary hard drive. So why is it that there are no Black voices contributing to this vocabulary hard drive? What they couldn't find a Black woman to run her mouth? I don't believe it. OR is it that the sound of a Black man's voice isn't quite as soothing as the white guys recording? I mean, there are plenty of articulate Black men and women out there.

What gives?

Its bad enough I'm a visual minority. Now I'm an auditory minority?!

They don't want to see us OR hear us.

There's a conductor on this train that sounds like Michael Wincott. Dude I'm serious, every day its a raspy:

"Tickets!" and "That'll be eight-fifty."

Sometimes you really cant' understand him because on top of the lack there of voice, he has the nerve to rush his sentences, so its...

"Waukeganstopisnext..." (rasp rasp)

or

(rasp) "Chicagounionstation,ladiesandgentlemen,Chicagounionstation..." (rasp)

The conductors make for reasonable entertainment. There's another one who works the late shift. I always see him when I'm coming home from a long weekend in the city. We chat.

This guy looks like a Greek Edward Norton. He's extremely matter-of-fact and rocks the hell out of that metal coin changer on his belt. He likes my shoes. His wife just had another baby boy (three total) so he's picking up extra shifts. We chat.

Its guys like him that allow me to forgive the 2-dollar increase in train fare this year. Somewhere down the line, my extra two dollars will help send those three boys to college. Let him and his wife take a vacation. Gets the other conductor a cough drop.

One thing I'm definitely miffed about is how fucking cold the trains are. You could get pneumonia and arthritis just from riding the thirty minutes to Ohare. AC overkill, I say. Although it keeps the smells down. Once you get a certain number of passengers on these vinyl seats, the air can get a bit ripe.

All in all most of the rides home are good for people-watching. I don't have to drive in traffic and every now and then I witness something genuinely funny. Time to go, the soothing white man is telling me my stop is next.

Got a Gig.

Darlin'... let me tell you- I'm allergic to being poor. I do not like it when the only people who get to celebrate every two weeks are the bill collectors. Yeah, i don't like them assholes. Since last January I've been job hunting, searching for that dream 35,000 just-graduated-need-my-own-apartment-grow-with-the-company JOB.

Well, when it rains it pours. Now its not the "35,000 just-graduated..." job, but it is three jobs. (smile) Ladies and gentlemen, I'm hustling here. On a grind-- got a six MAYBE seven-month plan and I'm sticking to it. I feel like, I'm 23 years old, I don't have any kids, no man, but I do have a horde of first-class friends. I should be able to go on vacation in February. Engage in first class shenanigans(t.y. Loren). Furthermore, I should be able to pay for a gym membership to keep all this svelte.

Plus... I'm trying to get the fuck out of Lake County asaptually (t.y. Kels). I am feeling particularly blessed these days. T

Thigh Highs.

Another late posting. Not much to say today. Please ladies and gentlemen don't be upset with me, I'll have more to say tomorrow I promise. Just been a pretty average day, took a long nap, did a lot of cleaning- in other words- didn't think about much today.

Although I will say that I think elbow-length gloves are necessary to life. As are corsets and peep-toe sling back pumps. Corsets... I could learn to live with them. As long as there's a pair of sweats for me to slip into after I undo my garter belts... Wish every day all day was fabulous, beautiful and over-the-fucking-top. You're probably wondering what I'm getting at here. Nothing really, just realized what I wanna be when I grow up.

A drag queen.

Black movies.

Posting a little late this evening.

Somehow after dinner of completely fried food, friends and I decided to have a movie night. Two classics: The Player's Club & Boomerang

Love boomerang-- shows a Black Corporate America (contradiction in itself), successful Negroes and Negresses in fly-ass (HUGE) New York apartments, good friendships, the makings of Halle Berry... Halle Berry and of course Eddie Murphy's laugh.

It was a good night. Good friends, good eats and good movies.

The Recession is real.

Today I attended an Online JobSearch workshop. My local library (which I cherish) has been hosting job and career-oriented programs for at least 2 years now. The facility was substantial, but the crowd was small. Plus I kept getting this feeling that this crowd is "The Crowd"- that is the same group of people who always attend, the guaranteed group of 10 people who are so frustrated but can't convince themselves to call it quits.

All-in-all it was a pleasant experience. Everyone had lots of advice, questions, and an optimism I honestly did not expect.

However, I couldn't help feeling out of place. For starters it took the hosts at least twenty-five minutes to get the projector/laptop/internet working. They had to call in the IT guy just to pull up an additional tab on Google. I got worried then.

I was even more worried when one of the library staff members recieved the shock of her life. Literally- the shock of her life. Somehow, in plugging in the projector, she shorted the entire system. Little amber sparks went flying everywhere and the whole room went dark. Fortunately no one was hurt. And with a little more technical difficulty, the workshop did commence. -- I tell you, you want job security- be the IT guy. Be that guy.

Really though, I felt out of place. I couldn't help thinking that this workshop was not for me. I'm going to make a BIG DISCLAIMER HERE: I am in no way "dissing" this workshop or all those hard working people who attend them. They do serve their purpose. HOWEVER, I feel like many of them are geared toward an older generation of job seekers. More specifically, our moms and dads.

For starters, almost every workshop I have attended (outside of college) has put a large emphasis on computer literacy, encouraged computer training, how-to courses & workshops... Like last week, I went to a (mandatory) workshop for my unemployment. Now I can understand why the government would insist upon job training for those on unemployment- can't have people just living on Gov'ment funds, but the whole experience really adds insult to injury. Not only do you not have a job, they send you a letter requesting your presence at this workshop because YOU MUST need assistance in finding a gig, you must not have a gig b/c you are NOT DOING EVERYTHING possible, you are inadequate somehow. So its 9:15 am at the local community college and a hoge-poge of people. They pass out pamphlets on computer literacy classes, keyboard classes, and refresher courses on MS Office. There's even staff to help you set up (mandatory) online profiles. My first thought is how do I get that gig. Helping 40-somethings master social media and search engines. I can do THAT for 40 hours a week.

My second thought is- I did this already. I've. Done. This. Nowadays you cannot graduate from college without the basic knowledge Illinois Unemployment Services believes is doing me a frikken favor by giving me. So I'm sitting there trying to pretend to absorb this "valuable" information that I would not have otherwise obtained unless I attended this (mandatory) workshop-supposedly.

Getting back on target: Where the hell are the workshops for people who JUST spent 40 grand on a couple degrees, or an MBA. All of us who need more than PowerPoint training to give us an edge in the workforce. Those of us who need experience to get a decent job, but can't get a decent gig to gain experience... yeah that shit. Let me know, where's our workshop?

An excersize.

This blog is no online journal. Rather, Stilletos, Lace & Sweet Cigars is an exercise for me and my favorite past time. Not too long ago I might have called myself a writer. However for the last 3 years I've had a vicious case of writers' block. At least, I've been blaming "the block" for almost 3 years. Haven't written a thing worth reading out loud or saving. Every now and then I'll set pen to paper and five pages will come out easy. Other times I fix a good pen in my hand and I sit there staring at the blue & pink margins. Even a blinking cursor can put me off.

So as long as I have this daily obligation, maybe I can work myself out of "the block" and get back to doing what once brought me peace of mind-that which is so hard to come by. I remember (you remember too Rae-Rae) when I could hole myself up in a room and write and write-just write. Instead of pages, I would tear through chapters. I could edit for hours too, almost always to a fault. The editing often prevented me from really finishing anything from being pleased.

Most of all I want this blog to help me find my voice, or at the very least settle on my voice.

Sundays.

Back in Lake County. As always on Sunday I high-tail my ass [and/or schlepp --> thank you Rae-Rae] back home from the city after weekend shenanigans [thank you Loren].

Saturday consisted of

1 Birthday Cookout
2 Bombs (one "Irish Car", the other "Jäger")
2 Successful Wedding Gift Purchases
1 Drag Show
1 Engagement

and 1 Black & Mild

Now usually... Sundays suck.
I get through them with comfort food and TrueBlood (HBO Series). If you're not addicted, shame on you- you're missing all the way out. For now I won't go into detail about my adolescent study of Anne Rice & Bram Stoker, but I warn you-don't go posting something stupid after this. My pitch for this show is so fucking good, HBO should pay me. Or at least give incentives- you know like credit unions: "For every person you get to open an account we'll give you 50 dollars on a Home Depot gift card ..."

True Blood: 5
Twilight: 0

Love you Lafayette.

Gimmie.

You know I could really screw myself for saying this out loud-well writing it out loud. I woke up yesterday morning and something kinda genius clicked. I'm sitting there under the covers, nodding my head and stroking my upper lip. Yes, this makes sense. Yesterday morning I woke up feeling particularly shallow.

Now calm the fuck down because this will be my standing condition for at least the rest of the summer. This I know. I want things. And unfortunately I want them now. See, now, I'm not supposed to say things like that. Among other things, I'm supposed to be practicing patience. However, I think I've been quite patient sitting here waiting for rain and getting sandstorms. I'm supposed to be grateful for those sandstorms somehow. Everything happens for good reason. But me wanting "things" is not all in the sense of some man giving me things (smile)-that's only part of it.

I want my goals and hopes to come to fruition.
I want to bust my ass and have it really and truly pay-the-fuck off.
I want it all to fall into place
be challenging, but worth it
be brutal and still beautiful.

See. My American Dream is simple: Become that self-made woman; building up my own brand, giving back, picking up the slack for all the fuckheads that are always in the way. And I'd like to haul some people up there with me. Gimmie that please.

Next gimmie another who can handle all that. That will accept the cranky but put a halt to the bullshit. I need support, but I also need someone who is going to demand the best of me. What the fuck do I want with someone who is fine with me staying exactly the same. Gimmie a partner IN LIFE, a man to grow with me, challenge me, upset me, and occasionally piss me off. The last thing I want is a bore. I also need to laugh, and frankly I like to be shown off. I like to be doted on and thought of. Gimmie that please.

Now gimmie my house, my crib, my space with the gourmet kitchen and the DEPARTMENT STORE CLOSET. Give me flowers in mason jars, biscuits and granite counter tops, bookshelves and paintings, pillows and showcases, photographs, post-it notes: "Cheese... Milk... Scotch tape...", a chaise and ebony hardwood floors. Give me closets. Give me closets. Give me CLOSET SPACE!

Next loud ass fucking kids, smart kids who dig in the dirt but know Cavali when they see it. Kids that respect their elders, love their nappy hair, but know bullshit when they smell it. Give me children that know I love them with all my being, that respect each other, go to bat for one another, embrace one another. Give me forts and midnight snacks. Movie nights and family field trips. Give me the Smithsonian and Mount Fuji and the London Tower with sticky juice-packs and "MA! My feet hurt...". Gimmie that please.

Most days I'm happy.
Most days I can remind myself to persevere.
...lalalalala ... patienceis a virtue... lalalala

Fuck that. Gimmie GImmie Gimmie.
I scream it to the sky, I scream it in my pillows in my phone in my-resume. Gimmie.A.Job.
Most of the time I'm screaming for this. For "things".
And all the time, its ME that I'm screaming at. Gimmie Gimmie Gimmie.

Introductions.

A friend told me the other day that I have too much to say. You need to journal she says. So here it goes.