DC – No Pico, No Tenders
Hey, Readers! So sorry I’ve neglected you all. What am I talking about? I’m from Texas. I’ve neglected Y’ALL. Here’s the latest scoop on me.
- Finally settled in DC.
- Joined a running club about a month ago, but haven’t made it to any of the daily running meets.
- Can’t stop cussing in public. So embarrassing and unlike me. I’ve never been a cusser.
DC is fab – a little bit. The city is a total 360 compared to Funky Town. By the way, I miss you DFW! Other than wearing a coat everyday (Hated it!), and dealing with the slow ass drivers on the VA side and the shitty taxi drivers in the city, it’s the ish. Anyway, so I’m completely and 100% on love lockdown for the next few weeks. I’ve already encountered the, “Oh by the way, I live with my baby mama” as well as the “Well, my divorce is almost final.” Attention all men who think that a single, young, tender like me is an option for you, go back to the hell of a relationship you have and let me the EFFFFFFFF alone. Yes, let me alone, not leave – inspired by my most recent convo with my Granny.
In a nutshell, I’m extremely excited about being on the scene. There are so many beautiful men with that east coast sway. By the way, sway is the new swagger. The only issue is that you have to give these men (all men, black, white, old, young, etc) the run down. Are you gay, bisexual, married, a sex addict, living with your baby mama, in need of a Green card, willing to take an HIV test? Yes, all that on or before the first date. I prefer after so that I can continue to live by my #1 motto – “Free food, Free fun.” If any of the answers are returned unclearly, stuttered or stammered, RUNNNNN. Get to going and have yourself a lovely day.
So since there are actually people who continue to read this madness of a blog, any advice? Where does a young tender like myself go to have a good time in this effing city? Where are all my male counterparts? Oh, and where is the Mexican food? If I don’t get some pico de gallo, it’s going to be a really big misunderstanding. And the next waitress who recommends Pace Picante sauce is going to get scalped with a butter knife.
Sincerely,
ty!
P.S. I still love southern men. You guys need to give these east coast dudes a few lessons on chivalry.
Piccolos Make Me Sick
I’M SICK!!! The crud that followed me from Africa to Afghanistan finally caught up with me and made its plan of attack. I would (and should) be resting, but the natives who live in the ‘hood behind my room have decided to have a neighborhood feast. A feast so grand that is entails loud Afghani tunes that will eventually rock my throbbing head to sleep. What madness is this? And why is he playing a piccolo? I swear there’s an accordian out there too.
Anyway, all I can say is, “Lord, what hell hast thou brought me to?” Would this be a bad time to pray for a terrorist attack on the piccolo? I don’t want anyone to get hurt…except for the piccolo. And maybe the guy playing it will have a slight hand injury so he’ll be forced to no longer play that dreadful instrument again. I’m so hateful. I shouldn’t say such things, but did I mention that I’M SICK!!! Did I also mention that not only do I have the lovely Aghani beats to get down to, I also have to listen to my next door neighbor yell, “Turn it down!”, from her patio. Is this b**** crazy? One of these people might have a cousin or thug nephew in the Taliban. I may be pissed about the music, but I’ll be damned if I’m saying a peep. I can recover from a bad cold, but a bullet wound might not be so easy.
Please pray for me. I feel like crap and the piccolo guy is making me worse. He isn’t out of breath yet, so I’m gonna need to go for the heavy narcotics tonight. MAKE IT STOP!!!
Well, honeys, I still can’t believe you people read this mess. I’ve been traveling and haven’t really had a chance to ramble on about absolutely nothing. Glad I could be your pocket full of sunshine.
Sincerely, ty!
P.S. If my grammar is bad, forgive me. I’ve been speaking broken English and Franglitex (French, English, Texan) for the last few months and my English-degree-toting-self is just to damn sick and lazy to proofread.
Blood Diamond Barbie
YO!!!
I really wish you people would stop reading this madness. Seriously, please stop. Everytime I think of finally committing myself, I take a look at the blog stats and think, ‘Ahhh, someone actually gives a fat rat.’ But for real, for real – whoever is reading this madness, THANKS!
Anyway honeys, I am currently in Africa. Can’t tell you where and why – It’s on some ‘If I tell you I’ll have to kill you’ type of shit. But I am definitely here and it has been a great learning experience. The land is beautiful, the people are enchanting. I can’t think of a better place to be…other than America.
Being an American has never felt better than it has these past weeks. You guys at home are living th good life – Starbucks, stawberries, cupcakes, Taco Bueno, fresh spinach leaves, Secret Clinical strength. You think there’s any of that stuff here in Africa? Think again, suckas. I can’t get a cupcake or an acceptable pastry to save my life. I order the chocolate cake every other day or so just to see if it’s fresh. Wrong move! Same dry-ass cake everytime. And good thing I didn’t go with the Oh-I’ll-just-get-it-in-Africa approach. Let’s just say the healthy/beauty and feminine hygiene section is lacking. A girl’s gotta have options.
Back to my proud to be an American moment. These people are broke for real. Not the I-have-to-use-food-stamps kinda broke, or the I’m-a-single-mother broke, but the deordorant-and-shoes-are-optional type of broke. Now I know there are plenty of poverty stricken people in American, but I can do nothing but crack up when I even compare the two. Last week, upon my arrival to the airport, I saw a one-legged, one-crutched man hop full speed in my direction, offering (begging) to carry my luggage. How was he gonna do it? I don’t know. And then there are tons of paraplegic people here without wheelchairs. They get wherever they need to go the best way they can, which is usually by hand. So the next time one of DC’s finest asks me for change, I’ll say, “Two legs and a Nike shirt? Sorry, I’m not getting enough suffering from you.”
I promise I won’t get all righteous on you guys. And if I do, it’ll only last a week.
Pray for me while I’m away.
Sincerely, ty!
Burnt Weiners are the Best!!!
Happy Fourth of July!
Yes, it’s been a long time. Hopefully I can work the blog into my hectic schedule of working, drinking, and sleeping. Within the last week, I’ve also added eating into the scheme of things. So all 4th of July weekend I’ve been stuffing my face with whatever’s been thrown my way – grilled sausage, hotdogs, cake. All the things that I usually despise. I never really eat meat, but somehow the thought of slightly charred meat entices me. As a result, alike most of you, my fridge holds mountains of cooked, carnivorous flesh. Although day-old food is really not my forte, somewhere in America, I can guarantee that one of my dear, brown bretheren is thinking:
Tons of food in fridge –> Economy in recession –> Need to save money–>Bring leftover BBQ to work
This would probably be a really good idea if it wasn’t GHETTO AS HELL. I could just imagine the scenario in my office. All my non-ethnic co-workers would be ranting over the dreadful smell of bbq lurking in the office halls. All the while, the ethnic co-workers would just look at me with disdain, slowly shaking their heads back and forth.
Honestly, even though I am growing tired of eating my dad’s ribs and my mother’s beans, one more day couldn’t hurt and it would be unreasonable to let the food go to waste. However, I refuse to be the one who brought the bbq to work. My parents would not be proud. My co-workers would also hate me more than the lady who brought that stank ass tuna fish last week, or the unknown person (they never admit it) who keeps burning the damn popcorn.
Pray for me,
Sincerely ty!
P.S.
Dear non-black readers, please do not use this as your ploy to further convince the world that all black people love bbq. Take it easy - I hold no desire to bring bbq to work.
Damn thee, Mali!!!
I’ve been busy, damn it! Give me a break! Sorry about the loooong absence, especially since my previous blog made it seem like I was back to stay. Lies, lies, lies. Never believe anything I have to say when it has to do with a committment. But anyway, so what have I been doing? Well, the j-o-b has got me goin’ nuts. Sometimes I just sit at my desk, gaze at my neverending stack, and say, “Damn thee, ye wretched pile of work!”
Anyway, so I’m on my way home from work today, and I come to the realization that I’m probably going to need a new car in about 3-6 months. Random malfunctions keep occuring and the stress of it is making me want to throw the Mali (P.O.S car) over a cliff. It’s crazy because the items that have issues seem to be stuff that’s not supposed to break on a car .
First malfunction – Blinker: It seems to be that Mali seems to know the exact time to be uncooperative - lunch time. For the last two weeks, my blinker has refused to work during lunch. This is truly when I need it the most. People are relentless during the lunch hour and aren’t kind to people who just smash on their brakes and cut their way in. Sorry lady in the grey Tahoe. How does the blinker stop working anyway? Is that even something that can be fixed or replaced? Damn thee blinker!
Second malfunction – Lack of sun visors: About the first year of having my car, the sun visors decided to commit suicide. Yes, they jumped off their hinges and lept to their death. As a result, I can’t block the setting sun. Sun in the face is a bitch after a long day at work. Such a shame – picture me stylin’ in diva shades while blocking the sun with my hands. Shades help, but sometimes the sun is at a spot where you just gotta have a visor or a midget sitting on your dash blocking the sun.
Third malfunction – AC button: Apparently Mali’s AC needs to be convinced in order for it to cooperate. It takes about 10 violent pushes of the button to get it going. Although once it’s going, it’s good to go, but then it refuses to turn off. The Texas heat is no place for an AC with an attitude. So you have two options: 1) Work up a sweat trying to push the damn AC button, or 2)Freeze your ass of for the rest of the trip.
So that makes 3 strikes. It’s about time for a new car anyway. The Mali is being a huge asshole and I don’t have time for anymore of its foolishness.
Sincerely, ty!
Special Request
I know most of you are like, “I thought you were back?” Well, I am back, but I can’t give you all my goodness at once. I figured I would give it to you in doses. You know, like two or three times a week. BWW (Blogging While Working) is really hard, especially if your co-workers are nosy. I don’t know how many times a day I get, “Who was that” after I get off a phone call. Umm…it was none of your damn business, hence the soft tone and the silent chuckles.
My co-workers have no problem projecting all their personal information out into the workplace. Unfortunately, due to his lack of a inside voice, I now know that one of my coworkers is divorced to a crack-head who caused him to go bankrupt. TMI, homie, TMI. To make matters worse, a few days after being succumbed to the unwanted information, I felt sorry for the guy and asked him how everything was going. You know, the crack-headex-wife, being a single father, the lack of good credit, etc. He turned a response, which should’ve been, “Fine,” or “Taking it day-by-day,” into a long drawn out story that ultimately turned out to be a tale about him trying to buy a baby momma on the internet. Hey, those kids need a mother and if paying a one-time fee of $10,000 is all it takes to get those little hellions off his back, then I say go for it.
This week it was spring break for his little demons, and I swear I heard him cuss them out at least 10 times each day. They called him everyday for the dumbest sh**. Can I ride my bike? Can I have a banana? I’m bored. He hit me. Forget the internet baby momma! Sell their little asses to the Cuban mafia. I bet those little hands would be perfect for rolling cigars. All jokes aside, this guy is really sweet. He’s a hard-working single father who needs someone special (and sexy, per his request) to make his life grand. So if you are down for making sweet love to an over 40 stallion (so he says), and don’t mind being a mother to two little hellions, then leave your email address and a full length picture. All women should apply, especially Filipino, Thai and anything else you see for sale on the internet. Sorry, just being honest.
Sincerely,
ty
P.S.
Over it – Militant minister coverage
All about it- Media trying to dig up “dirt” on Ashley Alexandra Dupre and the ch-ching she is being offered to pose nude from the likes of Larry Flint and Joe Francis. Don’t you just love high-priced ho’s? The ho-locity just pulls you in.
I’m BAACK!!!!
Hey, Honies!
Back from rehab. Not like Brittany and the gang. Rehab like I-got-a-real-job-and-have-been-working-my-ass-off rehab. You know, the kind of rehab where you take a long trip from your normal life and end up becoming one of those people who has to force themselves into having a life outside of work. I can’t believe I have been so immersed in work that I almost became one of those “I don’t have time for a relationship” type of girls. Who the hell does that in real life? Girl, you better get your man! Save all that drama for Tyler Perry’s next movie because my biological clock does not have time to be turning down good, available men. See how I just went from job, to men, to Tyler Perry. Oh yeah, my new ability to multi-task my ass off has given me an extra boost of ADD.
So I’m back to bring joy to your world. I figured since I’m dating Dell, my laptop, I might as well spend some time with him blogging. We spend so much time together that I’ve been neglecting the people I love – family, friends (spoiled bitches who I hope will forgive my one minor outburst), and Ripsi. Despite being away from home a lot, the good thing is that Ripsi has learned to pee on the puppy pad while mommy (that would be me) works countless hours instead of anywhere she damn well pleases. That sweet bitch is fabulous!
Chow for now.
Sincerely, ty!
Guess Who’s Back ~ RAKIM
P.S. Can somebody please tell me the who, what, when, where, why and were they black (forgive me) of the story about the Kansas woman on the toilet for 2 years and the boyfriend who didn’t give a shit (no pun intended)?
Good Black Don’t Crack
“You know he smokin’ that stuff.”
This is a phrase that I have often heard whispered with seriousness by my parents, aunts, uncles–basically anyone 40 and up. I didn’t understand the significance of the phrase until a few months ago. The first conversation was between my mother and I. She’d been losing a lot of weight recently due to a healthy diet and exercise, and I was very proud of her. Being the asshole that I am, instead of congratulating her with praise I decided to make a joke: “Hey Mom. You lookin’ good. You not smokin’ that stuff are you?” The look she gave me took me back to 1997 when she jacked me up on the kitchen counter. That was one of the two times my mother ever got physical with me. I was so amazed by her quick ability to both jack me up by the collar and elevate me off the floor. Let’s just say, I’d never wanna cross her in a dark alley. Anyway, after the look everything went south, and I basically ended up in tears apologizing.
The next instance of me using the wrong choice of words was with my father. He too had lost a little weight. I’m still not sure how that happened because his daily diet consists of frozen pizzas, Bluebell Cookies and Cream ice cream, lunchmeat, and canned stew. Doesn’t sound like a healthly selection to me. Nevertheless, he lost a few pounds and asked if I could send a few of his pants to the tailor for adjustments in the waist. Okay, so when he tried on his newly altered pants, he came to me talking about (slightly bragging) that his pants were still a little big. My response, “Well dad, if you stop smokin’ that stuff, then you might be able to fit in your clothes.“ Then to make matters worse, I added, “You gonna start lookin’ like a crackhead soon.” Why did I have to say that? There were no flashbacks of violence involved, but he gave me “the look” too. From there he went off in a tangent about why drug addiction is a serious matter that shouldn’t be dealt with lightly. He also questioned my use of “crackhead” and wondered why I would say such a thing in reference to his weight. If you’re familiar with the relationship between my father and I, you know that I was thoroughly bored with the conversation and did everything to make him SHUT THE HELL UP feel that I had learned my lesson. Love ya Dad!
Was it me, or just my parents? I felt really bad for, in a slight way, calling my parents crackheads. My generation uses the term so loosely, so I figured they knew I was just joking. I thought about it for a while and realized that back in the day there weren’t a fleet of crackheads on every corner. These crackheads we have today are most likely people around my parents age, or slightly younger, that just got caught up. Question: How are these crackheads still alive? I’m convinced that crack has given a small amount of crackheads super powers. How the hell else are they still living? You never hear about them dying of anything other than an overdose or gettin’ shot or something like that. What’s going on with that?
Sincerely, ty
P.S. I love my parents.
Breaking Up is Hard to Do
Kicking someone to the curb is never fun. There is just no good way to go about it. You don’t wanna be the bad guy, but you’ve come to grips with the fact that the relationship is headed to hell. When you try to be nice and mature about it, the situation backfires and you eventually end up with a stalker. Your intentions are to be nice, but that only steers you into the “let’s just be friends” category that often leads to amicable conversations, which in turn cause the other person to believe your disdain for them has changed–and it hasn’t. Just as so, being mean and childish about a break-up gets you nowhere either. Your daily routine of ignoring their calls or having your co-workers lie for you can potentially lead to a stalker as well. Technology doesn’t make it any easier. Imagine dissuading yourself from using the IM out of fear that you-know-who will give you the usual “Hey”, or the ever so lame “W’sup. Where you been hiding?”
Face it, lust (distant cousin to love) makes people crazy and irrational. Why do these equations make sense to a person who won’t let go:
- she never calls + she never returns my calls = Maybe she’s just busy.
- she’s not answering the door + I can see her car in the driveway + I see her peaking out the window = I’ll just wait on her porch.
- she told me she wasn’t feeling me anymore + she’s dating other people = I still have a chance.
Crazy, huh?
When I was younger, I always wanted my mate to be crazy, head-over-heels in love with me. Not anymore. Crazy in love is great during the good times, but hell when you’re trying to shoot someone the dueces. Now this doesn’t mean I have a penchant for assholes, but I don’t have time to deal with anyone’s abandoment issues.
Sincerely, ty!
P.S. Assholes need love too!
It A’int Easy Being Greasy
Photo Courtesy of www.tunetimers.com
Lunch, which is usually the highlight of my work day, was filled with frustration. I started off on a good note by making an effort to actually accomplish my lunch agenda: eat, run errands and return for a quick cat nap. I had a to-do list and everything.
So I’m full speed ahead with my lunch plans when decide to run my errands first–I figured I could endure the hunger a moment or two longer. My new cell phone had been giving me some drama so I decided to stop at the carrier to have it fixed. Waiting patiently in line, I was quickly scooped up by a African guy who was delighted to help. He wasn’t bad looking at all, but I did notice that his hair was slicked to the highest level of slicketivity ever witnessed on earth. I can usually appreciate a good selection of hair products, but his usage was a tad bit excessive. First of all, his hair was short–really short like the average black man fade that is often adorned with a bounty of waves. It wasn’t anything a doo-rag or wave cap couldn’t tame. So why all the extra product usage? Second, it was extra greasy. I didn’t plan on touching his hair, so the greasiness really wasn’t a problem for me…or so I thought.
When it finally came time to trouble shoot the issue, the man had to man-handle my phone to find the problem. By the time I got it back, it was greasy as hell. Most people (well at least black ladies) are used to a little product build-up (via make-up or hair) on the ear piece. That’s nothing that a quick swap can’t take care of. Other than that, one doesn’t usually have phone keys so greasy that you have to balance the phone in both hands just to dial a number. I wouldn’t have minded all the greasiness, but as usual the employees in the store don’t know sh*t about the phones when it comes to technical issues. We sat online with technical support for about 45 minutes until I finally said, “You know what, I’m on my lunch break. I’ll just give it to one of the IT guys at work.”
For what it’s worth, the guy really did try to help me. Due to his thick accent, he had to repeat everything over and over again to the technician, who probably had an accent as well. So ‘Thank you’ African man at the ATT store on MacArthur. Thanks, not only for your assistance, but also for subjecting me to an afternoon of alcohol pads and windex. I tried everything and still couldn’t get that greasiness off my phone.
Sincerely, ty!
P.S. I love all my African brothers and sisters–greasy or not.
