memoir

next semester, i'm taking a memoir workshop. i'm trying to come up with a good title for my collection of memories. oh, and i'm also trying to determine which period of my life to chronicle. i'm not being modest when i say that my life up to this point has been fairly unremarkable. i mean, the era of Professor Love Muffin was fun and all, but no one's going to want to read about that...

(Heroin) Lean

so, i was in fells today doing some specialty shop shopping. warnings of freezing rain this morning didn't really materialize. it's a balmy 40+ degrees, so i took to the streets (which means i got in a taxi) and hit Su Casa, Ten Thousand Villages, and Sound Garden for a few presents i knew i wouldn't find anywhere else.

in an effort to save some cost, i vowed to take the bus back home. after stopping off at teavolve for a 20 dollar bill breaking latte and mini scone, i headed to the no. 11 stop.

i saw him from a block ahead. from that distance, this man was apparently defacing the posted bus schedule. when i got closer, i saw that he was trying desperately to read it. as soon as i showed up, he asked for my help. once we assessed the current time, i was able to let him know that it would be a mere seven minutes before the next towson bound bus showed up.

on time for once, the 11 pulled up right at 2:23 and i boarded. what luck! the till was busted, so i was able to repocket my 1.60. my obviously high fellow stop waiter boarded after me. the driver had to tell him three times that he didn't need to pay.

then he sat down. it wasn't long before he was nodding off, nearly falling all the way to the floor several times--but he always managed to pull himself up before reaching the point of no return. i'd been making a game of guessing what drug he must be on up to that point.

the lean paved the way for my a ha! yes... the heroin lean.

it's christmastime in the city...

Christmas Time Is Here (Oh that we could always see such spirit through the year)

you cannot live outside of your truth

this sentiment has flown back to me like a prodigal pigeon in the last few days. the question is what is my truth? well, i have a few lower-case ones to consider, such as the fact that my hands are rejecting the powder gel nails i've been sporting since late july. in two weeks i've had as many near misses: the tip of the prosthetic has been clipped in both instances, but my own nail [bed] has been spared. this, i believe with all of my heart, is a warning--one i will heed. i have already made an appointment for tomorrow morning to have them removed.

sarah was not so lucky this week. In fact, when i heard about her misfortune it all became very clear. my soul raised up and said to me "oh, you are SO getting these taken off."

other truths... let's see. going to grad school part time and working full time, this time around, is not really manageable. i cannot stop working, yet at the same time, i am concerned that i need to start thinking, seriously, about what's going to be true for me at this time next year.

it is true that i want to teach at the college level; it is also true that i like my current salary.

here's an uncomfortable truth: my apartment is too small for my life. my sister is an ideal roommate, so there are no "personality problems," but it's impossible for my room to stay tidy. my closet? forget it. it's a mess b/c that's where i've stuffed the guts of my existence.

we had to buy a 2-foot christmas tree because there was no way to accommodate my artificial 7-footer. the upside? the little one is real and immaculate in her fullness. so lemonade from lemons and all that...

so, i need to not have nails; i need to decide to put my money where my mouth is with school and work and live out my articulated priorities; and i need a bigger place (my ability to procure this extra space may be largely determined by career choices and changes/reductions in salary).

in addition to these facts, though, is the one that i can do little about. i am feeling an urgency to get real about my romantic prospects, which are nil at the moment. i feel like i really need to enhance my life with a suitable partnership with the right guy. yet, i'm kinda apathetic about it, too. i guess the term for this is ambivalent...

it is my truth that all hopes aside, my book editing gig did not lead to a reconsideration of a past romantic one. Mr. CE was ultimately not interested. i didn't ask him, i just know. (these kinds of things are real obvious, especially if the guy's already rejected you once.)

now that aside, his book is quite good, and i'm anxious to give it another read once my semester ends (he sent along draft 3, at my request). but i know that there is no credible extension of the metaphor of his narrative to the narrative that was that anemic storyline between him and me.

i dream several nights a week about facing facts. and the thing is, i haven't even been aware of fighting them. but i guess i must be on some level.

finally, my pants are tight. it is an inconvenient truth that i've gained back the weight. demoralizing, but completely my fault.

these are the facts as i understand them.

Thanksgiving Dinner

Thanksgiving so far

6 for Joy (Tag! You're It)

Myndi passed the baton to me, so I am running with it.

The assignment? To:• List six things that I do for joy• Pass the award on to 6 more creative bloggers• Link back to the person who gave you the award• Link to the people you are passing it on to and leave them a comment to let them know...

Here are 6 things I do for joy:

1. make iTunes playlists. i love making soundtracks for novels i read. i love making soundtracks for life.

2. drink wine. it's soothing and sensual. such a simple way to unwind.

3. kiss the dog. she's so unbridled in her affection that i come unhinged with delight.

4. listen to audiobooks/podcasts. being an auditory learner and having a need for relentless stimulation by way of new information/something to react to means i subscribe to a lot of talk shows and check out a lot of books on disc from the library. leaving Enoch Pratt with a stack is good for a week's worth of happiness.

5. make my sister fancy dinners. cooking is one way i express my creativity, and my sister is such a willing, grateful [guinea] pig. ha!

6. go road tripping with Sarah. The Sarah-one is the queen of the long drive. And she understands, better than anyone, how to make the perfect road-trip music experience.

I hereby pass the baton to

Sarah of Always Greener
Veronica of The Encyclopedia Veronica
Catchka of the Indomitable Optimist
Kim of Jackson's Mom
Joyella of Snippets
Barefoot Puzzle of Living Life Barefoot (no link to protect her desired anonymity)

On Dayquil & Theraflu Cocktails

So, i emerged from my slumber fog at about 16 minutes to 10 this morning--far beyond the parameters of "sleeping in." I had been, as the title suggests, taking regular doses of dayquil and theraflu all day yesterday, but took Nyquil before bed last night. I knew that would mean a definite case of medicine head today.

Because the Maryland Transit Administration has proven itself to be unreliable once again, I have been working from home more often than usual. This bug has not been so debilitating that I cannot work, but bad enough that I absolutely cannot go out. My appetite is fine, but I have no taste for coffee (which is always how I know when I've got something).

I'm trying to pull together some threads of thought to make a real, final essay. I stupidly chose to tackle the intersection of race and gender in my own life.

meanwhile, my sister is in a budding romance with a sweet guy. it brings a very nice energy to the apartment, but of course makes my coupleless situation stand out in sharper relief.

Silent Churn

I know I've been MIA since the day after the election, but that's not because of election withdrawal. It's just that the election result coincided with an increase in school work. Being more than half way done with my current semester means I already have my eye on the spring. I've registered for two classes: a memoir workshop and electronic publishing. I also took the step to set up an Indedpendent study for the summer (with my personal essay/memoir workshop instructor).

More exciting, perhaps, is the fact that I've already started to think about my final program project (2 1/2 years before it's due). I'll talk about it here as it starts to take more shape.

An integral part of this mfa is bookmaking--meaning physically making the shape/skeleton of the thing that will house the pages of one's writing. Dogged by a lack of manual precision for the whole of my life, my most recent project in the Creativity: Ways of Seeing class had tried my patience. The books I made (we had to do two) stretch the definition of "book" significantly.

I have already asked about pursuing a digital presentation for the final program project.

In an effort to take some pressure off myself, I ordered my Thanksgiving dinner from Wegman's grocery store. I haven't told my mom because if she thought I didn't have time to do it, she'd insist on doing it all herself, and I want her to take it easy.

Wrung Out

Monday night was like Christmas Eve. I dreamed of nothing but Electoral College maps and Internet Headlines...

I was useless at work all day Tuesday. Like couldn't eat, couldn't focus kind of useless. should have taken the day off after I voted kind of useless. by the time i left my hhg appointment (where we practiced unconditional love qigong, and then he gave me a massage), i was centered and calm, because it's damn hard not to relax after someone attentively rubs almond oil into your skin and tells you "there's nothing you have to do, nowhere you have to be..."

E and Catchka-bell joined C and me for dinner/dessert (election cupcakes) and election coverage. I flipped between stations, but preferred CNN (ABC was a close second). The broadcast was crisp and vibrant. NBC and CBS have this weird matte look that I always forget I hate...

All day, long before there was news, I was frantically dogging all the well-worn Internet paths. I tried to work, but I was seized with the incongruity of my own unstoppable hope and the paralyzing fear that I was going to have to philosophize about the symbolism of Obama's candidacy, and comfort myself that we "came so close..." on November 5th.

E had gone and the three of us continued to watch. None of the Western states (or Hawaii) had come in. Barack was significantly ahead, but McCain was performing, too, so I couldn't get unagitated (I was way worked up again and that blasted number wasn't climbing to my satisfaction). Then the polls closed on the left coast. Wolf Blitzer was all "Obama won Virginia," then he went right into "Barack Obama is the President Elect." Catchka, C, and I just looked at each other. I proceeded to stammer some crazy weird utterances. I think I called/texted some people that I thought would actually be happy...

we took pictures, kissed the dog, and I made cocktails.

McCain's speech was gracious, Obama's speech was just so Obama... Jesse Jackson, someone who's made me a little bothered by some of his comments lately, cried. Seeing Jesse cry, well... Even my annoyance with and at him for some of his more thoughtless remarks melted away.

Car horns blared and honked in celebration as they whizzed down St. Paul Street. I changed my facebook status to tell the world how happy I am.

This campaign took a cynic and made her hope for something different. So, today's challenge is going to be not being useless at work for a whole different reason. If I can't cope, I might just have to cut myself some historical slack and go home.

Victory!

Cast!

Yes. We. Can.

Companion piece to yesterday's post

Swagger!

Open Letter to Barack Obama

Whatever this nation’s reality on November 5th, you have changed something for me. It’s a symbolic change, a socio-psycho-political change that did not begin with your landmark bid for America’s highest office, but that has been better fulfilled by it.

I was put off by you at first—not by you, personally, but like so many, by your youth and your oft-cited lack of experience. That I have pulled the lever or tapped the screen for as many republicans as I have for democrats also meant that my support of your endeavor wasn’t a given.

I am a black woman who has survived, largely, in spite of black men. I have had to define myself outside of the societal parameters that have been imposed on them and that they have imposed on themselves. No one has ever had any real hope for them, it seems. Least of all, me. When I’ve sought validation of my personal worth, I sought in academia, in Faith, in a strong group of women friends, and in myself, but some obscured part of me wasn’t buying it—couldn’t be fully persuaded until I made peace with my loathed counterpart.

Maybe, like me, you have had to deal with people outside of your family who have been surprised or threatened by your intellect, and didn’t want to allow you to think your success was eminent. Or, maybe you weren’t aware of that at all, because it never occurred to you that there was anything about your or your life that was prohibitive. Maybe that is what made you audacious enough to hope.

You represent a real chance, not just for this country in its entirety, to embrace that wonderful, inspiring audacity, but for me, specifically, Mr. Obama, to have my political and personal paradigms shifted.

The way you love the women in your life simultaneously breaks my heart and emboldens my expectations for what I can have. That you were raised and nurtured by white women—that these were the first women you loved back, but that this did not preclude you from loving and choosing a woman who looked nothing like them has healed me. That you picked someone to stand beside you who looks like so many women I grew up knowing and loving has made me believe for the first time that anything has something to do with me.

I have tried and failed numerous times to explain with any modicum of incisive eloquence why I am voting for you without reducing myself to a statistic—just one of the millions of black Americans who are making the same choice (some would presumptuously and wrongly say “thoughtlessly" making the choice). Here is my attempt: You have engaged me in this country’s political dialogue—something I’ve never actually been. Your ideas have forced me to examine and reexamine my own. You have helped me to determine a truth I suspected all along—that I’m neither a conservative nor a liberal, but a moderate. Our views on all the issues are not simpatico, but I’m looking at the bigger picture of who you are. Our views on this much line up: I am concerned about our fatally flawed economy and I am troubled by this war. The cornerstones of your platform at this cross-roads of history and current events have intersected with my deepest worries. I think your policies deserve to be tried and to fail or succeed on their own strength, but they must be given due diligence as much as has been extended to any other presidential hopeful who made the transition to the Oval Office—as I hope you will.

It has everything to do with the fact that you are black. How could it not? Of course this campaign is about race. How could it not be? It cannot only be about this, but the context of our country’s history is inextricably linked to all of the seemingly race-neutral topical points. Why wouldn’t we want to acknowledge that? If your counterpart, Hillary Clinton, had won the democratic nomination, the race would have to be, in part, about her being a woman. And women everywhere would have the inalienable right to count her victory as theirs to share. It is obvious that our nation was finally ready to consider one of these possibilities, or neither of you would have had a real chance. It’s dishonouring to everyone when pundits are either surprised that race is an issue or when they assert that it shouldn’t be. Why shouldn’t it be given a place of honour in our dialogue?

You would not have my vote if I didn’t think you could do it; however much your being a contender might mean to me, personally, I would not be reckless. But I’ve factored everything in, and I actually believe in your candidacy. That makes this election emotional for me.

It’s been hard for me when I’ve encountered those who have indicated that they are voting for you, but who imply that they are doing so grudgingly. I have had to make myself remember that your candidacy doesn’t have to mean to them what it means to me. They don’t have my experiences, haven’t inherited the same broken concepts I have; they don’t have my particular wounds, and you haven’t inspired them as you have me and so many others. For some people, it’s just politics. Had you not won the nomination, I’d be feeling pretty lukewarm about our prospects for governance, so I understand their position, intellectually, though it is counter-intuitive for me.

Whether you win or not, Mr. Obama, you have done more for black women who feel emotionally disenfranchised—for me—than perhaps you intended or will ever fully comprehend. It is not an articulated errand of your campaign to give us as a group a sense of worth, but that is what has happened. You’ve done this on the strength and authenticity of your emblematic life. You have brought dignity and presidential bearing to America’s image of black masculinity and have given me a reason to know that I’m not invisible—that someone like me can be adored from a pure place—that I am not dispensable—that my vote can mean something for the first time in my adult life.

You have not pushed yourself forward as a president only for Black America, only for the disenfranchised minority groups, or for the liberal contingent alone—but as The Person for the Job—who is the metaphorical trope for marrying seemingly opposing factions and producing one whole, integrated, cohesive sense of integrity.

Thank you for believing you had every right to put yourself forward as a worthy statesman—even when I doubted that you were.

close encounters in my pajamas

Crystal and i hosted a game night at our place this evening. about half of our invitees ended up canceling, but our small group still deserved the best hostessing we could provide, so we planned to go to the store for some last minute stuff...

we decided to take babygirl with us. there was no specific plan. after a morning of tidying up, puttering about, and watching Gilmore Girls, I decided it was time to head out. Once outside, we decided to walk up St. Paul and not cross immediately over to Charles. We took some time to discuss it before Settling on our route.

Before leaving, Crystal asked "aren't you going to change your pants?"

I was wearing hot pink, flannel pj bottoms with coffee cups and saucers all over them. On top, I had on a jersey grey long johns top and a bright red t-shirt over it. My jacket? tan corduroy. On my head? a slate grey bandana. In other words, I was not of a mind to put my best foot forward. Obviously, I didn't expect to need to care about my appearance.

There he was. On the corner of St. Paul and Read. I saw him a full block ahead and waved. It took him a second, but he saw me and waved back. He headed over to us.

Yesterday, we made plans via e-mail to get together on Wednesday. He couldn't make game night because of work...

When he got to where we were standing, I looked down at my pants and up at him and shrugged. I didn't look great but I didn't care.

Earlier this week, my hhg told me to invite him into what I want from him. I know that running into him today could be chalked up to probability. we live in the same neighborhood. though i've gone entire years never runnng into him, eventually, because of the few blocks that separate us, I did. I know that.

But I've also noticed that I run into him when something in me summons him up. When I pray to be open to whatever wants to happen...

Helvetica

There was a free showing of Helvetica at the Charles last night. This typeface is so much more fascinating that I ever knew...

Sometimes I don't know which is worse...

I know I told you "regular blogging" would return shortly. This is not it. If like many, you're sick of the election/debate stuff, be forewarned: this is about that.

But, I urge all of you to read and respond to this post. I am pasting two comments (one long one that was continued in a second) from NPR's Web site in response to its "Bradley Effect" item. It is a comment from a supposed Obama supporter, but that is not why I'm posting it. There's so much wrong with it, I'm not even sure where to begin. I'm not posting it because it's an example of ignorance (though in many ways it is). I'm posting it because it gets at the crux of the subversive text of our national conversation on race.

Actually, I don't care if you are sick of the election. You need to read this and get back to me. This is the very thing we should be talking about. You do not need to be an Obama supporter to care about this issue. And if you don't find anything amiss with the sentiments the comments contain, you, especially, should write to me.

Jeff Murphy's NPR comment (Part 1):

This is going to sound mean. For all you black folks out their giddy with the prospect of an Obama presidency, please remember a few things: One, Obama is whiter than most white people. He grew up in freakin’ Kansas with his white grandparents and white mother. Culturally speaking he is white. Two, he was educated in elite, predomninately white schools. Three, Obama’s quest to get in touch with his black side was a calculated step to the presidency, he moved to Chicago to legitimize his blackness, evident in the choice of his black wife, because he knew full well America would not elect a mixed race couple to the presidency. In college, Obama preferred white women but suppressed it. Four, Obama doesn’t give a crap about blacks as a group that need the protection of society. Deep down, Obama has contempt for many blacks who profit from a protest culture manifested in white guilt. He will govern by filtering out all the petty bickering between blacks and white, he will actually be less tolerant of ‘needy’ minority groups seeking special consideration, and only he can tell this groups to take a hike. Fifth, whites can vote for him and feel safe that they are, in fact, voting identity politics. Obama’s midwestern, white family, is the connection that makes whites feel safe in voting for him. And many whites believes Obama’s midwestern rearing has had more of an influence on him than his basic training in Chicago politics and his absentee father. Sixth, everything Obama has done to this point has been calculated and programmed to win the presidency, and he has avoided the Al Sharptons and Jesse Jacksons because he doesn’t like them, not because he’s scared of being labelled too black. Obama has racial bias against post reconstruction blacks they way many immigrant blacks do. Immigrant blacks have nothing but contempt for post reconstruction blacks and hold the view that homegrown blacks choose the excuse of racism to negate responsibility to their families and themselves. Obama’s symbolic carpet bagger status steals the thunder from race baitors who hoped the first black president would be a son of post reconstruction. Obama’s mother took the blue-light special to get Barack birthed on American soil. Obama is a son of the western united state, not the post reconstruction south. Seventh, Obama’s black identity left of a plane to Jakarta when he was a little boy, so his biggest connection to being black is manifested in abandonment. (Con't) [sic]

Jeff Murphy comment part 2:

Don’t be fooled by Obama’s black preacher and his brown skin, these were mere props in his journey that have brought him this far. He will most likely draw on his midwestern roots and identity when he becomes the 44th President of the United States. I, for one white person, am voting for Obama because he appears tired and drained from racial politics, I’m sure he hates it. This is what resonates with white people the most about Obama’s candidacy, we see his apathy about race and it is quite refreshing. He doesn’t give a crap, and this is what endears him to whites. Black pundits fail to understand this because they remain lost in the wilderness of the victim culture. Too many of us are sick and tired of the victim culture, white guilt, and endless racial politics, and this is what will piut Obama over the top to win the presidency. Vote Obama [sic]

Open Salon Article

I appreciated the observations in this piece.

(Regular blogging to return sometime in the near future.)

Green Baltimore

Eco Map

This Just In...

From the Baltimore Sun.

Op Ed piece calling out irresponsible campaigning.

Barack Obama for president, in spite of smear campaigns and lies

Friends, I have, for years, kept this blog from commenting, overtly, on much in the way of politics. It has become increasingly difficult for me to do that during this final stretch of the 2008 election. The video below is one that resonates with me on a number of levels for a number of reasons.

It is no surprise to any of you, by this time, that Barack Obama is my candidate of choice, though I am registered as a Republican. I have always considered my politics to be right-leaning moderate--though for the first 7 years of my voting life, I was a registered Dem. I have always believed that both parties have something to offer. This time around, I am invested in a new vision for this country. I am invested in the furious meeting of history with the future, and if Barack Obama gets elected, I will be able, finally, to fully embrace that dream that was launched on the Capitol steps.

More importantly, whatever happens in early November, I am not going to the back of the bus, either.

"First Black First Lady"

At the Show: The Lady Tigra [Obama-rama in Spaceland] - "First Black, First Lady" from Spaceland Recordings on Vimeo.

end of the season

beach season is over and so is our vacation. this is the last day of waking up in a four-story condo, and trekking down to the sea whenever the mood strikes, and of heading down to the outlets to get good deals a la end of season sales (in the land of no sales tax).

the encroaching chill in the air means fall. and while i am glad to pack up my things and head back to the city i love--the city in which i chronicle my life--i am a little wistful, too.

can i do all the things i have to do? will i be able to bear the cold?

Nor'Easter

our small beach town is drenched. sarah's mom (her parents, as planned, came to join us yesterday) is preparing dinner while sarah does homework and i blog. we're past cocktail hour, so an ambient buzz and my fall 2008 mix are the muses behind this blog post.

today's big activity? soggy shopping (more outlets).

the Internet has been dicey for the last day and a half, so now i'm riding the coattails of some unsecured something or other that is worst than an inconsistent lover. you just can't get it when you want it.

i've been checking in with work e-mail here and there. no catastrophes, thankfully.

here's the truth i'm hugging tonight: getting what you want means you can't play it safe.

where's the line between what is true and what could be true?

Shanty: Goin’ Downy Ocean

Like many Marylanders, I grew up going to Ocean City. We didn't "summer" there yearly, but I've been more times than I can count. That being said, when I think of beaches, I think of kitschy boardwalk attractions, bright pink t-shirts with airbrush designs, and white people sporting mullets who may also be wearing t-shirts that brag their love of the confederate flag/being a redneck. Throw in some seagulls and Thrashers fries and you have Ocean city. It informed my concept of "going to the beach."

Sarah and I drove down there today because she had never been. Nothing has changed.

Rehoboth, where we are staying, is upscale by contrast. Still beachy, but clean. All the usual suspects—The Candy Kitchen, Kohr Bros., etc. are present and accounted for—but they've thrown in a legitimate British Fish & Chips spot, cafes, bookstores, and sushi, all while paying legitimate attention to the overall design of the store fronts. There are a variety of accessible, appealing sit-down restaurants; there are a good number of less casual dining options, and enticing beach hut establishments, too. There's also a boardwalk (not as long as OC's), so you do get the full beach experience. But I didn't expect to be charmed, to find it devoid of every less than desirable element I listed above. Hell, I haven't even seen those scavenger birds about…

I don't know if this has always been the vibe at Rehoboth—I've only been one other time in my life—but the town has stayed ahead of the money curve. Fresh, modern rental properties are going to draw better-heeled summer tenants, I suppose. Better-heeled renters and summer residents will mean the town has the means to pay better attention…

But, it's not like Ocean City is any less expensive. I'm sure those ramshackle motels built circa 1940 go for hundreds a night during high season, but may or may not be air conditioned and may or may not smell like mildew. Sure, I saw some newer looking places, but not enough. That strip of highway that leads "downy ocean" as Baltimoreans say, is stuck somewhere in 1970. The view from my car window looked just like it did when I was 10. And it already looked sad then.

Gambling & Outlets: Moneyletting

When Sarah and i originally conceived this vacation, we thought we'd take one of our days and ferry it to Atlantic City for a day at the Tropicana. Expensive boarding fares forced us to reconsider. We drove to Dover Downs instead. Our rule: Spend a total of a hundred dollars between us. If we won anything close to a thousdand dollars, we'd pocket 900 and keep rolling with the other hundred. If we approached 10,000 (i know. i know. you can stop laughing anytime now.), we'd be out of there, no questions asked.

Everything at Dover is electronic, so that was a bit of a bummer. Here's what was striking. It was Monday morning (obviously) and the place was packed. I know some people must have been on vacation (like us), but some were clearly just having a typical beginning of the week gamble fest. Like a "using my unemployment check to make a miracle" kind of thing.

Here's what I learned/confirmed: I'm better at games of chance than those that require strategy. I won 30 bucks on the Lotto Machine (and lost it at the Penny Slots). Sarah won all our money back (we were playing together) at Black Jack (then lost it). We made a comeback at the Roulette Machine, before we proceeded to suck.

all in all, we lost 110.00 (we made a last ditch effort with some slots).

So, after you lose your money to the devil, there's nothing better than retail therapy. no, in all seriousness, we planned to take in the outlets because you get so much more bang for your buck. i got some fun stuff, some necessary stuff (like frying pans from Le Gourmet Chef), and some literary stuff ( The Boy Detective Fails).

In other news, i began thinking through the concept for my Fall 2008 mix. It's trippy. It doesn't care what you think about it, which will make you want it.

We're opening a bottle of wine now. Perhaps, The Black Chook.

Vacation, all i ever wanted

Vacation, for me, has never meant leaving behind my connection to home. in these days of encroachingly encroaching technology, it certainly doesn't mean putting my phone on mute or refusing to check my e-mail. the sweet spot is staying plugged in, yet totally disconnecting. Sarah and i are both grad students, so the laptops are out and powered up--but even if we weren't, we're both techies, so... and hey, now we've both got these phones that check any number of e-mail accounts you want, all day long.

this morning, while i made coffee, the sarah-one (as shown above) was hard at work keeping her blog updated so you'll know what she's (and I am) up to.

i relax more when i have the option of checking in with the world as i know it.

Vacation, for me, is about the comforts of home. It's about having home with me, wherever i am.

it's hazelnut creme coffee first thing; it's pictures of the people and the dog i love; it's my iPod faithfully streaming the playlists i've created for every mood.

that's why renting someone else's home in a strange place appeals. during the day, i go out and explore what i don't know while having the familiar niches of my own life. Vacation is a context in which to more fully experience what i know and to puzzle out what i don't.

the city, late september, at night

We saw him while we sat on the corner of St. Paul and Eager; he was headed to the City Café to meet us. He seemed to be looking at the car, but we couldn’t be sure. He seemed to recognize us, but again, I couldn’t be certain.

Crystal dropped me off in front of the restaurant and went to find parking. I was standing there in what is arguably the most flattering shirt and the most flattering black, flare-legged pair of pants I own (they create the illusion of a longer, more lithe look on me), cutting a striking figure.

Once it was established that sitting outside was not going to happen (who can resist sitting outside on these gorgeous, fading summer days?), we settled at our table and put in an order of Calamari and a bottle of Australian Shiraz. I noticed him admiring the shirt and that was it right there. All the payoff I’d ever need. For the rest of my life, whatever else happens, I’ll know that I made the right decision about that blouse.

Not having seen him since the last real day of August, I was just a bit nervous, and there were one or two moments of not having much to say, because the only thing to say, really, is: I want you. Do you want me?

And I wouldn’t have said that, because there are a few conversational footbridges between where we are and that declarative/interrogative.

Lovely buffer and all around charmer that she is, my sister breezed in and regaled us with tales of all the men that hit on her yesterday—all owing to the classic red scoop neck sweater of mine she borrowed. Once the Shiraz was uncapped, there were no more slight snags. I had to remember to keep my hands to myself, not touch his arm to punctuate too many sentences. At the same time, it was important to not be so over vigilant that I came across stony. The goal was to be real and keep it real, but to never let that make me sloppy with desperate energy.

So. When our legs touched briefly under the table, I didn’t fight it. And I allowed myself one unapologetic arm touch.

The appetizer and wine portion of the program was smashing. To keep our progressive dinner progressive, we made quick work of the check, and headed across the street to Sushi at Minato.

During this briefest of jaunts, he complimented me on the wine selection and touched my arm/back as he did. There was such a current.

I should mention here that C kept pointing out how lovely I looked, kept asking Mr. Close Encounters if he liked my hair cut, and didn’t he love my shirt. At one point, I said “She gave me this shirt for my birthday.” He smiled, understood her compliments of me in the context of her own self-perceived fashion genius. Actually, he didn't smile. He laughed generously.

I knew I wanted a Zentini (green tea martini), so I ordered one promptly. C and Mr. CE shared sake, but he thoughtfully asked our server to bring a third cup in case I decided to join them. I did, eventually, and it was so much sweeter than the last time I had some.

He seemed amused, happy to be there.

As we reached the car, the lingering hug I’ve come to anticipate from him began on cue. A friendly kiss on the mouth, then he folded C into our embrace. And we didn’t let go for a long time…

Oh, Mr. Bra and Panties, how you do go on!

i'm keeping this bastard around, i've decided, because he is literature fodder. More IMs today. More invitations to have sex with him (after a cultural outing to a museum, naturally). Poor slob. My favourite was the admission (after I'd asked him what his glitch is) "I dunno. I'm a mess."

Oh. He also wants me to edit his book pro bono. Apparently, there's a new trend in my life whre this kind of thing is concerned. I informed him that I'd be needing cash if he wants a copyedit, that fact-checking is extra, and that no, being "immortalized" in his book by way of some flimsy acknowledgment does not count. He then suggested that he might perform a... um... "service" for me on the regular as payment. I informed him that as I am not a whore, I have a different pay scale than that.

Wednesday night's outing was okay. I knew the conversation would be good, but as I suspected I would, I remain unmoved. If he'd be up for just being friends, I could do that, but that's just the kind of bait-and-switch maneuver I'd hate if someone tried to pull it on me.

I've decided to really buckle down this weekend and do my homework. i need to buy a sketchbook for my creativity class. and finish reading a couple of books and tweak this essay that's due next week.

this weekend the dog will be arriving and staying for the foreseeable future. next week, in addition to being the one before my vacation will be one of major adjustment.

eating the last of my birthday cake

tomorrow is my middle sister's 25th birthday, which means that it is officially no longer my birthday. so, i have yet to wrap her presents or do some of my homework, even, because i am overcome with some weird lethargy. it is exacerbated by the fact that i have social plans that i feel ambivalent, at best, about.

a few weeks ago, i went speed dating, as all of you know. oh! before I forget, The Litigator from said speed dating outing IM'd me today with the following lead-in: Hi babe!

Que?

that's his thing now. IM'ing me sporadically and asking weird, one-off questions and then getting off line. My nonchalant reply to his brush off worked. Mental note: Try this on a boy I actually care about sometime.

anyway, i have plans tonight with the other attorney i met at this venture. i remember distinctly following up with both of them because i was trying to stay engaged. now i feel that the moment has kind of passed and whatever. perhaps i'll perk up when that martini hits my blood.

confidential to my cyberstalker: You are on here too much and should heed my warning. You know who you are and you know what I'm talking about.

thirty five years

so, i write to you from what is almost the other side of 34 years of existence. the day i was born "Let's Get It On" was No. 1 on the Billboard charts. this fact confirms something fundamental about my life, though i can't exactly say what. all i can tell you is that i've come out on the other side of some stuff, am still wading through some other stuff, and am trying to embrace stuff other than that.

here's what i know: i've found more strength when i've embraced my femininity than when i've tried to wear a cloak of masculine detachment; i'm happiest when i'm not hiding my light under a bushel; i like to take care of people i love; my right side is my good side; i still love words so much--they are still my doorway into the heart of things; and having a problematic relationship with my dad robbed me of some things. Forgiving him before he died healed some things.

i like being in that place between buzzed and drunk and more than anything, i want to collapse into the right man's arms...

In Progress

Mr. Close Encounters came to pick up his edited manuscript on Saturday afternoon. C and I spent the morning in Hampden after dropping by my office briefly so I could drop off my laptop (I worked from home on Friday), and then came back to the apartment to drink mimosas until Catchka's Johnny Depp Movie & Tacos night (affectionately referred to as "Depp and Tacos").

I'd e-mailed him on Friday evening to let him know I'd finally finished, but as we were on the cusp of the long weekend, I thought it entirely possible that I wouldn't get a response until today. I knew he was getting anxious, though, so when he called on Saturday after reading my note, it made sense.

The last time I saw him was at the then new Starbucks in Mt. Vernon. This was back in January and I was 30 pounds lighter than the last time he'd seen me. I hadn't yet gotten into the MFA program, the big, consuming project at work wasn't yet over, and I was so rigid during our interaction because it was about me feeling like I had some control, me letting him know that I'd be the one walking away this time. And for as much as I walked away with some semblance of my lost dignity back, I also knew he knew I couldn't sustain eye contact with him. And I knew he knew why.

This time, the distance of months and the process of having read his book smoothed my sharp edges and it was easier being caught up in his prolonged hug, easier to look at him.

I made him a mimosa, sat beside him on the couch, and we hung out with C, watching a movie for the better part of an hour. When time dictated an organic end, he stood up. So I stood up and handed him the box that contained the pages that dominated my life for nearly a month. I dreamed in its narrative; I weighed every word.

Just before he walked back out of the gate of my apartment building, I was caught up again in his embrace. I must have tried to pull away, knowing me (I always try to end things first), but he held on longer. Then he took my hand. He looked me right in the face.

This morning, he wrote to tell me he'd immediately read the more lengthy edits and grew "on the spot" because of them. He called my effort an "incredible tool"--one that he's already started to wield to the end of satisfactory revision results.

I told you once that you can't always guess who the hero of the story's going to be.

The Best Weekend Ever!

As the photopost from Monday suggests, my sisters and I took in the annual Native American Pow-Wow in Patterson Park on Saturday. We'd never been able to go in previous years for one reason or another--usually because both of the girls would be heading back to school after their summers off by the third weekend in August. This event was the lynchpin of Caryl's birthday as it was the first of the weekend festivities to be planned.

Serendipitously, I found out about a concert on Friday the 22nd at the Recher Theatre in Towson. Rock/blues singer Danielia Cotton was headlining and Theresa Andersonn and Blue King Brown were opening. I'd recently shared some of Cotton's songs with Caryl because I think they have a similar vibe (Caryl's a singer), so it was a very happy stroke of luck. Little did we know that we'd all end up leaving wowed by Andersonn, Swedish-American singer from New Orleans who had more soul and the true spirit of Rhythm & Blues in her little finger than most people have in their whole bodies. I bought her CD and I don't buy CDs anymore...

Saturday night, because I wasn't sure I could find live bellydancing (another passion of my sister's), we took in Bare at the Baltimore Theatre project. A musical about some Catholic teens with various kinds of angst. The singing was pretty sub-par, but it was still entertaining.

Sunday was lunch at Mari Luna--the Best Mexican restaurant in Baltimore--in Sarah's neighborhood. I'd gotten Caryl a cheesecake the day before from Whole Foods, so we all came back to my place for an impromptu b-day party. May I recommend the game 'Apples to Apples'? It's so much fun! Rounding out our fete was Catchka, whom Caryl adores. There's a highly-embarrassing video of one of our activities, but I'll save that for a day when the blogging well runs dry.

a more indepth post to follow, but for now...

we embraced our [inter]tribal roots...

big weekend!

For months, i've been planning a weekend-long birthday celebration for my youngest sister, who will be 23 on Monday. Crystal and i won't get to see Caryl on Monday, though, so we went to get her and the dog last night for two days of uninterrupted fun.

This morning will be leisurely, but Caryl and i will head to meet Crystal for lunch this afternoon--then we head to my nail appointment (i'm going to treat our birthday girl to a manicure). we'll also likely go shopping before coming home to walk the dog.

tonight's festivities are a surprise, but I can say that it will appeal to my sister's music sensibilities. because i don't want to chance her reading my blog on her Internet perusals. i'll provide more information after the fact.

OMG, Y'all!

so, i think i've learned a thing or two about being breezy with men. i've learned that i can only be casual when i don't give a rat's ass, and my feelings for the gentleman with whom i was supposed to eat sushi tonight are pretty much on par with my feelings for a rat's hindquarters. it's not personal, i just didn't know him enough to be invested.

on Monday, during an IM date planning session, he embedded a link to Victoria's Secret and asked if he could buy me "a new bra and panties" so he could imagine me in them during our date. I'd stepped away from my desk before he made the query, so there was a lapse in my reply. He took that to mean I was offended and "withdrew" the question. i was surprised, to say the least, but not really put off. He self-corrected, said it was inappropriate, that he was having a "dull day." i thought my e-mail was great. i basically told him that he could not buy me underwear "at this juncture," but that i would be happy to let him buy me sushi and cocktails.

he replied in this cold, flat way: "fair enough," he said.

i sent a confirming e-mail today and he was suddenly "not really over [his] divorce," and just looking "to have great sex on a regular basis."

i laughed out loud because as soon as this man said he wanted to buy me a bra, i knew that he was hoping for a very specific kind of affiliation. i'm not stupid. i'm also almost 35. i know that if a relationship progresses, sex is on the table for consideration, but Good Lord!

men are really just not making any bones about the fact that that's it for them. you're smart! you make me laugh! oh, you don't wanna have sex with me right away? sadly, this cannot go anywhere.

really, it's such stupidity and they're getting in their own way.

so, i laughed because i am breezy, and one look at this guy and i knew he wasn't my destiny. i did something that was socially evolved of me. i wrote him, let him know that dinners, movies, and sex (the only things he wants to do with a woman) were all on the table for discussion, without the parameters of a relationship construct, because like him, i didn't want anything deep. i stressed that i didn't hope he'd change his mind, and that i respected the honesty. i also let him know how transparent (how laughably transparent)he is, and that i regret nothing except the fact that i won't be getting any sushi tonight.

quick & DIRTY

i have two dates: one tomorrow and one next wednesday. my holistic health guru (hhg) cooked for me tonight.

Confidential to Mr. Obama

i have such a crush...

"It's time to switch..."

i had something of a meltdown yesterday. i can question everything sometimes, second guess what i want, and what i'm doing. yesterday morning was one of those times; i worried that it was, well, a sucky way to go into speed dating. if i was actually going to go through with something so outside the realm of my usual, i was going to need my game face and some accompanying lightheartedness. once my sister, C, and i worked out what we were going to wear and at what time E would be picking us up, my equilibrium returned.

Two men approached us while we stood outside our building waiting for E to pull up. One of them had just moved into our apartments and wondered when he might secure a tour. C, in mock flirtatious banter, said "well, maybe we'll bake you a pie as a welcome gift or something..." We told them we were going speed dating, to which one of them replied "I saw that in 'Hitch'," to which I replied "Yes, you did."

As soon as we were in E's SUV and pulled onto St. Paul Street, she pulled out a present. A bottle of Jamaican rum from her trip there a couple of weeks ago. I was all smiles already. Though I wouldn't be opening up this particular spirit, the plan was to have a couple of drinks before the proceedings began. i loathe small talk and can't always engage without the aid of a little something. That little something would be a vodka martini. up w/3 olives.

We all had these sheets on which to jot relevant details and names of the people with whom we talked, and on which to indicate inerest or the lack thereof.

The Firefighter, early 40s was a salt of the Earth type. Second generation Irish. We covered quite a bit of ground--mostly because we started talking before the official first 6-minute block.
We were off to a good start. When the little buzzer sounded we'd just explored the psycho-social, social psycho strata of something or other...

The House Painter, already drunk, told me (at extreme close range) about how much women care about these subtle differences in colour that men just cannot see. He also said to me before it was time for him to move on "I'm going to mark you down as very interesting..."

I should mention, for clarity's sake, that the women (who outnumbered the men) got the benefit of staying seated while the men bore the burden of rotating tables.

The Doctor in the Pink Shirt asked me what sports I like. "Football," I said. "The drama! The pathos!" He was all manner of intrigued after that. He said "So that's going into your next book" I, on my second martini by this point, replied "You know it..." The DPS kept alluding to some side business which I strongly suspect has something to with porn or some other illicit practice. He was being all vague about it.

(NB: The Doc was very appreciative of the intentionally consistent design elements of my outfit. I wore silver hoops in my ears and a loopy necklace that was meant to resonate with the swirly cirlces of my dress pattern. I believe he told me I had an elegant bearing. I was all ears. I mean, there's nothing happening with this guy, but it's not every day that someone pays such specific attention to my attire. Made me want to dress up every day. I need more clothes!)

There were two lawyers, both of whom gave me their cards, both of whom have promise. I can honestly say that I wouldn't mind if either of them got in touch. One of them, in particular, was unabashed. Before it was time to rotate, he looked down at his little recorder sheet, looked at me, then said "Fuck it! Here's my card."

I should explain here that C and I were at the same table. We played a little game with all the guys. I don't know if they were trying to flatter me, but every guy consistently guessed that I am the elder by only two or three years. I loved watching their jaws drop when I revealed that an entire decade and one week separates us.

Anyway, when Mr. Here's My Card was forced to rotate to my sister, he said to her (she shared with me later) "So, you're not here to meet guys are you, because I just want to talk about your sister." According to C, he pumped her for information about what I like, what I don't like, what to say to me on a date, etc., for the full 6 minutes of their allotted time.

There were a couple of guys from Long Island, NY. Fun fact of the night: Neither of these two can distinguish the accents from the other burroughs. Except for Brooklyn. One of them told me that people from Brooklyn talk like they have marbles in their mouths. I shared that it is my personal goal to learn to differentiate these by ear.

By night's end, I was on my third drink, and C and E and I all agreed that food was in order (none of us had really eaten all day), so we headed over to Sammy's for the best Italian in all of our humble city. E called ahead and put in an order of Calamari for us... The man himself was there, so we regaled him with our anecdotes. My oh so subtle sibling told the man no fewer than five times that he should take me out... He and the staff were all intrigued by the way we'd spent our evening. S and our server (also named Sam) thought they might like to join us next time. The jokes were flying.

OH. oh. To go back briefly to the cast of characters from the speed dating venue. A real estate mogul whose info C and I took because we already feel cramped in our new digs. In a year, we might want to acquire something roomier. The Mogul had a very defined sense of style that we both found suspicious. He was too fashionable to be straight. This was beyond metro, even.

Back home by 1 and ready for bed, I kicked off the masochistic heels I had on and called Sarah for a debrief. Sure as hell beat watching back to back episodes of Alias season 4.

donning a pair of chunky mary jane heels and heading north

this post is lovingly dedicated to B, who told me that of all Jane Austen's heroines, i am Emma. in answer to your question, lovely B, yes. the nails have slowed down my typing, but it is my experience that once i get used to them, my speed will increase to the normal rate.

it's 5:48 a.m. and i am mostly ready to leave my house for the second of two business trips this week. thanks to a slight funk i entered at about 8 o'clock last night, i got plenty of sleep. i am now, as they say, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. save for the one meeting that is to bisect my day, i'll have plenty of time to think and edit the novel. i'm taking only a fraction of it with me because know i'm not going to make it through a mark up of nearly 400 pages no matter how relaxed i am.

i've got to find something to wear speed dating on Saturday.

Nails!

Possibly, Maybe

Yesterday afternoon, I went to visit my good friend, F, who's recently given birth. I held her little one and rocked him back and forth. And in that moment, I found myself thinking 'I can do this; someday I want to do this…'

In the interest of closing loops, I'll share that I took part of my afternoon off to get those augmented nails I mentioned wanting.

When I haven't been working, I've been lost in the newly-emerged narrative. I am editing a book Mr. Close Encounters wrote.

Steeple Chasing

In the fall of 2001, during the aftermath of September 11^th, Sarah and I drove the New England Coast. I was terrified. The world felt precarious. Loving people that it seemed to me might die at any moment, felt precarious. The only thing that kept me grounded was looking for steeples—insisting upon themselves in the landscape—poking through amber-golden and scarlet foliage. Touch points. Counting them meant I was alive. This recollection precedes the beginning of this blog. A backward movement. For some reason, tonight I thought of those heavenward pointing domes and the smell of October—so sensuous and homey—reckless and pandering—full and simultaneously wan. I was 28.

untethered

i had no moorings today. something wants desperately to be unearthed, but i use all my energy, always, to keep from flying apart. i swear, sometimes i feel like i'm still 6. all morning, i felt unsafe and afraid of deep places, of falling off edges. it takes me so long to recover from disappointments, to stop smarting from them.

so now there is a novel in real time. a novel within a novel. i hope the construct won't be my undoing.

late summer, 2008

Poetry
The latest issue of Urbanite features a piece on the resurgance of Poetry in Baltimore. Or, perhaps more accurately, discusses its current iteration in Baltimore. Academic poets and slam poets unite! One of the faculty of my program states that she believes there's no more turf wars where poetry is concerned in our fair city. The language poets, the spoken word people, the formalists, and the free versers are all sat down at the table of images and metaphors. The article made me realize a couple of things: I don't know the Baltimore poetry scene at all (I think spoken word artists and poets of the academy are two very distinct camps), and that I'm not sure I'm a viable poet when all things are considered.

I submitted poetry to Urbanite quite recently and heard nothing from them. I submitted poetry to Smartish Pace (another local outfit) and was rejected. I submit to numerous online journals and print journals that would be appropriate venues for the kind of poem I write. I always hear something like this: "Interesting, but not right for our publication." Then I go back and reread the content of the periodical (whichever one it happens to be), and I really cannot discern any credible difference between my stuff and what they deem worthy of print. Or, I read the winners of their contests, and I don't see what it is about those prize-yielding poems that made them such.

People whose assessment of these matters I trust have told me that I'm a good poet, but at what point do I accept that my stuff just isn't publishable? Okay. I have been published. Three of my poems were picked up by the Little Patuxent Review a year ago. Until then, I'd only had a little nonfiction article published in an online men's forum. Still, I have to ask if I've been wrong all this time. I'm starting to feel like I have no place in this literary conversation. Should I be fighting for more visibility among my peers?

Wine
Sarah and I had a wine feast with our favourite couple--the former Baltimore Sun journalist who interviewed me about my blog back in '06 and his wife--at Wine Me Up! in Westminster. The effortless, fluid conversation lasted four hours before I even knew that a minute had passed. Two bottles, one Rock and Vine, the other The Black Chook, aided and abetted this communion. They are the kind of people that you just love fiercely and immediately. Halfway through the evening, I decided that I wanted the husband of the couple to walk me down the aisle someday. If there's ever an aisle to walk down, that is.

I Spy
Thanks to Catchka's generosity, I am more than halfway through the Alias series. I am nearly done with Season 3 and am ready to borrow her Season 4 disks. I have been dreaming in spy vernacular and I love it.

My Holistic Health Guru is in Costa Rica Surfing
and my eating has been out of control. But I spun twice last week. Gosh. I have to get a grip.

Other stuff
I want nails again. I mean like salon nails. Like augmented nails.

Stay tuned.

Tactical Attacks on Obama's Perceived Arrogance

http://www.salon.com/opinion/greenwald/2008/07/31/mccain/

Another Perspective on 'Black in America'

Rebecca Walker responds.

The Value of a Dollar

want to know what your salary would have meant as far back as 1913?

Finally Feeling Better

after doing some work this afternoon (to the backdrop of Alias season 2) to compensate for my lack of productivity on Friday afternoon (started to feel really bad), I went to the market to buy myself a mess of drugs (and a few groceries, too). The coughing fits are tough to take; hopefully, they'll subside soon.

I'll be taking the equivalent of a drug store medicine aisle with me to work tomorrow, and I won't be working out (in spite of my expanding waistline). I can't risk a coughing fit mid-excersie routine.

Industry

At the risk of obsessive blogging, I wanted to report that in response to my rejection from the Sow's Ear Chapbook Contest, I have submitted to another contest—just a few moments ago. Additionally, I circled two other contests to which I'll be submitting over the course of the next month. Beyond that, I will also be tossing my hat into the ring for another chapbook prize. I won't hear about the Maryland Individual Artist Grant for several months now, but I'm committed to figuring out a way to make my art lucrative.

As I'll be concentrating in Literary Nonfiction in the fall, I'm also going to start entering essay contests.

Homebound and Disappointed

I have some sort of low-grade bug. More than anything else, I feel run down; I have a cough, too, but for the most part, nothing very much is wrong. I'm trying to get a lot of rest (sleep is so often the cure for these things), but also to use the free time to accomplish something.

This bug is the reason I'm not getting together with friends this afternoon, and my sister is out of town as she had already planned to be. It's a good time, then, to finally finish watching Catchka's Alias season 2 dvds; it's a good time to catch up on laundry; to bake the yams I bought weeks ago, and to crack open The Woman In White by Wilkie Collins.

I checked the mail, too. I heard from one of the literary journals to which I submitted a poetry manuscript for chapbook publication consideration; I did not win the prize.

In happier news, an old friend has found me. When I was 12, this girl was my closest friend. Now she is happy and in love with one of my closest guy friends from high school. Life has a beautiful way of working out sometimes.

Oh, and speed dating is so on!

Black in America

Soledad O'Brien's two 2-hour "Black in America" documentaries proffered another serving of the obvious truths: Poverty and socio-economic disparity, education gaps, the lack of fathers/stable home lives, and a legacy of racism have all put black Americans at a disadvantage.

I had been looking forward to the profiles because I thought there would be some attempt to probe the way blacks are perceived by those who would consider themselves socially and politically evolved--or the way blacks perceive themselves. The first installment "Black Women and the Family," might have been less superficial if, in the context of the public's reaction to Michelle Obama, there had been some honest dialogue about the way educated, evolved, successful black women are critiqued for that success.

I have read numerous Op-Ed pieces about the Obamas. When these pieces are negative, they often focus on what the writers believe to be Barack's elitist bent and his wif'e's inaccessibility. If you're not sensitized to the issue, you probably cannot hear the subversive question: Who do those Uppity Niggers think they are? But I do.

A recent piece in the New York Times criticized Barack Obama for not providing enough fodder for comedians. Jimmy Kimmel called it "reverse racism" that white comedians have been made to feel that they cannot poke fun at the candidate without being accused of being racist. That issue aside, the complaints are that his bearing is so dignified, that he has no weird conversational or syntactical ticks, and that he simply does not invite, by way of stupidity, being aped. The writer of that piece suggested that this lack of humour (note: the fact that Maureen Dowd did not make a real distinction between Barack's having a sense of humour and not being one that is easily made fun of should have been caught by some editor at the NYT) could backfire come election time.

The Jack and Jill Politics blog entry written in reaction to this article addressed the "Mr. Bojangles-Step-N-Fetch-It" paradigm the article exposed. The writer said, in effect, "No, White America. It is not our job, as black people, to entertain you."

The criticism of Obama that he is too serious and an elitist seems to me to be the cry of discomfort with a black man who is not succuessful as a result of athletic prowess or some peddling of pedantic rap music. The public--blacks included--are only prepared to accept certain images of black men and women. If we're making you laugh, clowning and tomming, or bowing and scraping in some fashion, then white people can feel okay about their place in the world.

Sure. It's fine for Blacks to grasp the American Dream, as long as we remember who we are and what our place is. Oh, and another thing I would like to ask us all to consider: When you're black, you don't have the luxury of tomfoolery, being the class clown--not as part of your public image.

When, as a black woman, I see any action performed or hear any statment made by another black person that seems to confirm the worst of what people believe about African Americans, I feel the impact of it as deeply as if I had said it or done it. Every member of the race has to answer for that jack-assedness.

An inherent part of white privilege is that no matter what any member of the race does--the race, on the whole, does not have to bear the burden of the action.

While I would not presume to speak for Barack Obama, or his wife, I understand what I know they understand: if you are black, you must be above reproach. If you are going to pervert every preconceived notion and implode every stereotype, nothing can get by you. One instance of anything prejudice expects, and that is how you will be known.

One of the sisters of Having Our Say fame once commented "If Dan Quayle was black, he'd be somewhere washing dishes."

But when we, specifically black women, do what we must in order to be considered viable contributors to any enterprise, it does backfire. Consider this piece from the Washington Post. I've written about this before: strength in me so often gets misinterpreted as arrogance or anger.

So, yes. There are gaps in standardized test performance between blacks and whites; yep--economic disparity; absolutely, a lot of black men are in jail; and while we're at it, let's acknowledge that we don't keep our legs crossed often enough, and therefore create more economically, educationally, and socially depressed people.

But what about the other battles you face after you charge and clear those hurdles? What do you do when you get the distinct impression that all those rabid liberals who would be hard-pressed to consider themselves anything but socially and politically evolved, still want to know on what authority you dare to be--or even think--yourself worthy of being the President of the United States. And your wife? Well, someone should tell her how lucky she is.

hodge podge

thanks to Catchka, C and I are absolutely hooked on this. for the last two nights, we've watched all 12 episodes of season 1 and cannot wait for the season 2 premiere this sunday night.

we sisters have also been exercising in the morning every day for the last two weeks and eating brie and jam for snacks. these things might seem to be at cross purposes,but i assure you: they aren't.

yesterday was such a happy mail day--while i got my fair share of bills, i also finally received my 100-dollar Rent.com bonus (I found my apartment as a direct result of an e-mail they sent me). decisions, decisions. should i buy a vacuum? art for the pumpkin-coloured wall? groceries?

also on the planes of my life is the resurgance of the blowpop. oh. and i think i'm going speed dating in a few weeks. gawd.

Um....

people, people, we're all the same... (no, we're not the same because we don't know the game)

there's no use crying over spilt hazelnut coffee...

this week's big news is that C joined my gym. This means workout solidarity and a ride to the gym. i see plainly now that my lack of motivation of late had more to do with not wanting to cart all my gym stuff (and whatever else i might need for the day) to the light rail stop at an hour of the morning that is dicey at best. anyway, during our drive this morning, my coffee spilled. it tumbled right out of the cup holder and saturated C's car carpet. Well, at least she'll have the essence of hazelnut with her for years to come (or for the life of the car).

once at the gym, i discovered that while i had the requisite blouse; underwear; shower things; and shoes for work, that i did not have any pants. well, i was not going back home and missing the workout, so that meant that i was either going home afterward (and would be late for work) or that i would be wearing my workout pants with my work stuff. this idea was distasteful (to say the very least).

it didn't get to that, though. one of my gym friends is in the habit of carrying an extra pair of pants in her car in case of spills. problem solved.

after spin class this morning, several regulars hosted a shower for our instructor (she's getting married in September); I didn't know about it. I would have loved to participate. The month that I was M.I.A. from class, she e-mailed me just to make sure I was all right. And this morning during the missing pants debacle, she offered to drive me home after class to get some.

there's no use crying over hazelnut coffee when the people at your gym and your sister have your back.

speaking of sisters, we have a new motto: Size 8 Or Bust.

That is what is giving me the strength to say no to the Dunkin' D Munchkins one of my coworkers brought in.

It's a Family Affair (it's a family affair)...

So, we're 4 hours out from the Cookie Lee Jewelry party my sister and I are hosting at our place. Would you believe I've been to the grocery store three times for this event and still managed to forget something? My short-term memory sucks right now. Fortunately, Sarah agreed to pick up the two items and bring them with her when she comes...

Crystal is picking up my mom and the dog to bring them for the festivities. That should be interesting. My mom will bluster in like a hurricane with all her props and upset my apple cart. In any case, i'm alone in the apartment--something that's rarely ever the case--and it feels strange. I've realized something. I am motivated by sustained solitude. Being with another person for long periods of time is immobalizing. My sister couldn't be a better roommate, but I living with her (as would be the case with anyone) has crippled some basic part of the way I function.

I've got to get back into some sort of groove. Grad school is around the corner and this lethargy just won't do.

Am hoping the hhg can help; I've agreed to pay the fee to leverage his services to help me reach my goals. Remember how I said I thought I was developing a Middle Class (Bourgeoisie) paradigm? I think I've officially shifted. You know, the last thing I wanted was to be completely uninteresting. Here I am.

my meeting with a holistic health guru and a black cat who tried to show me the way

for about two months now (more?), i've been trying to meet with a licensed holistic health specialist for an initial consultation. he gave a talk at my gym some months ago now called "sugar blues," which i attended. i've had a remarkable lack of motivation for fitness and healthy eating for the last 4 or 5 months, so i decided that arming myself with more information (a stimulus for me), would give me the internal nudge i need.

one scheduling misstep and mishap after another (on both our parts) meant that hhg (holistic health guy) and I did not meet until today. i arranged to leave work a half hour early so I'd be on time. i didn't realize the meeting would be at a residence--his, to be exact. i knocked timidly when i arrived, about a half hour early. when i got no answer, i resigned myself to just waiting outside.

i should mention here that there was a rotund, pearl-black cat, sitting fatly on the porch. i'm not categorically superstitious (I walk on cracks, my mother's back is yet unbroken), but black cats give me pause. anyway, it saw me and went scurrying. that's when i initially knocked, got no answer, and then promptly left the porch area when the cat came back... intentionally, and sat at the front door and meowed (as if to say helloooo, company). no one came to the door. the cat looked at me as if to say hey, i tried, then unceremoniously shat in the yard.

at around the scheduled time, one of hhg's housemates came home and let me in. a few moments later, firmly ensconced in the guru's private lair, i told him what i'm hoping to gain (and lose) and what i'd like to work on. as i knew he would, he mostly listened, stressed balance as the antidote to dysfunction and unrest, and told me what all comes with the sessions (should i decide to put myself in league with him). it's actually quite exciting. there are cooking classes to attend, metabolic typing (the particular program i'm interested in), and support for 6 months.

i just have to decide if it's in my budget. okay, i know it's in my budget. i just need to eliminate some meals out and i'd have a windfall of resources. this seems like the logical next step, so i believe i'm going to take it.

will keep you posted.

coffee & pie for breakfast

my cloudy day fourth of july plans with Sarah involved one of my favourite things--a carpet picnic. a carpet picnic is basically eating food that one might eat at a picnic, indoors. we enjoyed crab & artichoke dip on toasted sesame crackers, crispy wings, and leftover pizza. we got a wildberry pie (with a buttery, flaky crust) to enjoy for dessert. i was a little too stuffed to enjoy my slice last night, so this morning i indulged (with a moat of whipped cream on the side). mmm. a holiday week.

birthday week

i've been with the sarah-one for the last day and a half celebrating her 33rd (dinner out, a couple of movies we'd been meaning to see, and just generally cavorting). otherwise, holding it down at the office, and trying to get back into a reasonable exercise routine. next week, i meet with a holistic health guy to discuss what i should be eating for optimum metabolic performance. other than that, Sarah and i have been trying to nail down early fall vacation plans. i think i've officially become part of the bourgeoisie. i was totally surprised when i realized that i am, in fact, middle class. my parents never made into that tax bracket or mindset. this may be bad news. antithetical to artistic hunger.

the kitchen

fireplace view

doorway

colour palette

Of Blueberry Cobbler Coffee and the Unexpected

During the course of my second, somewhat inorganic stint on an online personals site, I came across the profile of a man I'll call Jarvis St. Croix, and was intrigued. Intrigued enough, anyway. I wrote to him. Then I met the nudist-oh-i'm-also-into-soft-core-fetishes guy and my second go 'round on the "find a date" wheel ground to a halt. The nudist provided clarity. I was trying to force something that did not feel natural. What is more, I wasn't really over Mr. Close Encounters.

Fast forward to today: The day on which my dining room wall was rescheduled to be painted pumpkin (not pumpKING as I errantly typed a post or two back), and the day on which some computer issues at work made it infinitely easier for me to come home and work, the day on which Jarvis St. Croix instant messaged me.

Months ago after my "Who am I kidding, exactly?" moment, i wrote to Jarvis St. Croix and told him the truth. The truth being, that my overture toward him aside, I was begging off dating and perusing the personals for a series of practical reasons. The timing was off and didn't want him to think I'm simply dropped off the face of the Earth. He appreciated my candor, and let me know that if I ever found myself wanting to grab a coffee, he'd be up for it.

A door that was never fully closed, but that I, in any case, did not care to test by pushing, is now ajar. He said he'd call sometime. Could be fun.

Oh, and I'm drinking blueberry cobbler coffee while I write. Sarah is sitting across from me diligently attending to her homework.

what i've been doing

1. watching many, many episodes of the "Dog Whisperer"
2. trying desperately to believe that my dining room wall will actually be painted tomorrow
3. getting acquainted with my new laptop
4. reveling in the new flex time schedule at work (leaving an hour earlier has yet to get old!)
5. planning a jewelry party
6. mentally preparing for grad school