Sincerely Ty

Woe is me. Today I got dumped by a janitor. The good news–we weren’t really a couple. He was just an annoying co-worked who adored me. The bad news–I’m gonna miss crushing his hopes and dreams of me and him together, sitting side-by-side, blowing kisses in the wind–I can only imagine what he was fantasizing. Nevertheless, he and I are no longer one.

Here’s how it went down: Usually my #1 fan strolls in with his industrial-sized trash can and comes directly up to my desk for some mid-day conversation. We chat about our weekend plans, then I kindly reject his offers for dinner, dancing, watching a movie or any other date he proposes. After the let-down, he heads back down to his office/electrical closet and returns the next day with the same routine. Not today. All I got was a “¿Que paso” and a head knod. I figure he must have finally grown tired of the rejection and decided to kick me to the curb. So yes, woe is me. I actually blame myself and the constant flow of mixed signals, but I like being extra friendly to “the help.” Now I’m back to square one. I wonder who’ll be my next victim?

In spite of today’s heartache, I did recently experience true love at it’s best. Taimak, aka Leroy Green aka Bruce Leroy, accepted my friend request (ala myspace). You might remember him from The Last Dragon and one of my favorite Janet Jackson videos, ”Let’s Wait a While.” Awwwww!!! I loved him more than anything…and then came Bobby, but that’s a different story.

 Sincerely, ty!

P.S. For the record, Bruce Leroy is still lookin’ good.

Photos courtesy of www.Taimak.tv

One of the things that can ruin my day is for me to run out of anything that I apply to my skin: lotion, eyeliner, lip balm, soap, deodorant, blush—you get my drift. For some reason, it drives me nuts!  Usually, I am obsessed about keeping stock of my toiletries and beauty supplies, but somehow, I must have overlooked something. 

Last Saturday, I composed a list of items I needed:

• Deodorant-check
• Lip balm-check
• Hope in Jar creme-check
• Body wash-check
• Soap-????

As you can see, there’s no check next to soap.  Some of you may say, “Well at least you got the body wash.”  Silly you, you just don’t understand.  Body wash means nothing to me in in my scheme of cleanliness. Let me explain the process:

• While in shower, rinse body with HOT water.
• Use soap and wash cloth to clean body.
• After body had been scrubbed with wash cloth and soap, apply body wash for fresh sensation.

Body wash will not rid you of any funk—it only covers it up.

So that night as I prepared for my evening shower, I remembered that I failed to buy any soap. ”Damn it!” Even though I had the body wash to tide me over, I just couldn’t put enough faith in it to remove all of Saturday’s scent. In plus, I don’t like substitues—nothing’s better than the real thing. Out of desperation, I searched throughout the house and just so happened to come across a pack of soap. ”Yes!” At least I thought.  The package read, Cashmere Bouquet, pronounced cazh-meer boo-kay. Who the hell makes Cashmere Bouquet? Although the name of the soap appeared to be French, I’d guarantee that the soap was no where near anything related to France. Side note: Why do people (mainly black people) think that anything with a French name makes it better, or to be valued, i.e. Lisa Bonet (real last name Boney, she’s not even French—not even on her white side), or any ghetto names with -ette (Angletette, Pleshette, Danette, Lavette, Passionette (sorry Tim), Quinette….).  For the record, I only made up one of those names. I usually never fall victim to Ghetto Frenchness, but for some reason I thought that it might be oquet (okay in Ghetto French) to use the Cashmere Bouquet. Obviously, I was wrong.

Have you ever used a soap, like the kind in a common hotel (Spring Break ‘01), that leaves you ashy as soon as you rinse it off? I know you have. Well, this was the exact process:

1. While in shower, rinse body with warm water.
2. Use Cashmere Bouquet and wash cloth to clean body.
3. Rinse Cashmere Bouquet from body.
4. Immediately begin to itch and feel extreme dryness of the body.
5. Use body-wash to relieve itching—doesn’t help.
6. Give up and dry off.
7. Step out of shower and notice that both your lower and upper limbs are extremely ashy, as well as your back that feels like it will tear in two if you make any sudden movements.

Fortunately, the dry discomfort was relieved with a mixture of thick, creamy lotion and body oil.

So what have we learned:

• If it sounds French, but looks ghetto, just say NO!!!
• Body wash only sensationalizes your skin—Doesn’t really clean.
• Always finish your ‘to-do’ list.
• If your name ends in -ette, then it’s definitely Ghetto French. Middle names count too. 

Sincerely, ty!

P.S. If your name actually does end in -ette, I truly do hope you weren’t offended. But truth be told, just because your momma thought the name was cute back in ‘79, doesn’t really mean it is. You’re still Ghetto French. Sorry.

P.S.P.S. If you’re interested in purchasing Cashmere Bouquet, click the link from above. It’s on SALE—-$1.59 for a pack of 3.

  Begrudgingly, I arose Sunday morning and forced myself to prepare for the weekly worship service.  My intentions were to wake up early enough to attend the first service at 8am.  This service consists of: no announcements, only one praise and worship song, no solo from the praise dancers, no choir, a 1-hour sermon, and then the offering.  Basically, the service skips over all the pre-holy ghost madness, and dives straight into the sermon–an hour and a half, and you’re done.  Unfortunately, I didn’t wake up until 7:55, and instead of rushing, I decided to drag around and prepare myself for the 10:30 service. 

Upon entering the church, I realized that the praise and worship singers had already begun their soulful and joyous renditions of popular worship songs.  Nothing unusual.  For those of you who may not be familiar with the term, i.e. those of who haven’t set foot in a church in years, they are a group of 4-8 talented singers who create a welcoming environment with a mini-concert as members arrive to serve the Lord.  Side note:  That description is good enough to be in Wikipedia—Yes, I am a genius.  The first selection is usually a fast-paced song purposely chosen to prepare the members for the joyous day, while the next selection is either a slow and highly emotional song, or an additional fast song.  Both of these B selections are meant to drive you into “the spirit.”  Either of these songs will lead to slow, wailing and tears, or quick-stepping and falling out.  This usually happens every Sunday. 

Sad to say, I am still a work in progress, so every now and then I’ll give an “Amen”, or a clap.  The farthest I’ll go will be a few tears (can’t mess up the eyeliner).  One day, I’ll be in the full-blown-shouting-Hallelujah-falling-out-over-the-pews stage.  I admire those who have allowed themselves to enter this stage of their relationship with God.  Because I am not quite there, every Sunday I have ample time to observe those who participate in the spirit to the fullest.  This Sunday was no different. 

After warming up the members with a lovely, fast-paced A selection, the octet of singers let us have it once again, but this time, harder and faster.  Side note: I am referring to the chords–faster keys, harder drums, more bass, etc.  Apparently, the selection was “my song” for many members.  The intro hadn’t even ran it’s course before people were standing up clapping and rocking.  I, of course, was preparing for what was to come.  Now the singing would begin:

• First verse
• Second verse
• Third verse
• Second and third verse again–this time with crowd participation
• Ad libs from the each of the singers
• Drum solo

After the first set of ad libs, the action unfolded.  By this time, various members of the congregation were sprawled out crying, wailing, or my favorite–dancing.  In particular, I had my eye on a woman who was dancing, and then suddenly broke out into a full sprint.  Yes, a sprint, and in the church.  Of course, this wasn’t my first time witnessing a runner, but this lady was an exception.  First of all, this lady was not equipped with the breasts of a runner.  She had breasts that women like myself dream about having until we talk to one of our girlfriends who hates her large breasts:

• Can’t work out–they get in the way
• Hard to find cute tops that actually fit
• Hard to find a good, sexy bra
• Back pain
• Sweat underneath—DISGUSTING, but I had to add it.

After watching the blur of hair and breasts pass me, I then noticed Sister Double D taking the curve and making a second victory lap for Jesus.  Two laps!  I wasn’t prepared for the victory lap and found myself in tears.  Trying to conceal my laughter, I noticed one of the ushers passing out tissues and thought, “What if everyone thinks the spirit has touched me and driven me to tears?”  Now I’d have to keep up the act, behaving as if I were on the straight and narrow.  Eventually, the church members would hear about my nights being posted up at the bar, cussing like a sailor, and would ultimately think I was double-spirited: Heathen Monday through Friday, Sanctified and Righteous on Sunday.  This is too much pressure.

 Overall, I don’t think anyone was really paying any attention to me at all. 

Sincerely, ty!

Yesterday, the Ides of March, literally swept away the Sweet Sixteen wishes and Elite Eight dreams of many NCAA championship hopefuls.  The bittersweet losses filled the airwaves with streams of commentary such as, “Well, we came out and did our best,” or my favorite, “If you’re in the tournament long enough, you’re going to go down…It’s not our birth-rite each year.”  The latter coming from Duke’s Coach K.  Funny how he attempts to ease the loss with the rationality of, “Hey, we can’t win every year.”

Now, as I type away, the top college teams in the nation are rebounding their way to the victorious dance.  Aren’t you excited?  You must admit you thrive off the roaring crowds proudly draped in their schools’ colors, the cheerleaders with sparkly outfits, the fans with body paint, and of course, Dick Vitale baaabyyyy.  Question: Why do the cheerleaders wait until March Madness to wear the sparkles?  Putting sequins on cheer-leading uniforms doesn’t make them better, just shiny.  Speaking of spirit, “Dick’s got spirit, yes he does do.  Dick’s got spirit.  How about you?”  For me, Dick Vitale is often times the highlight of the game—He might as well put on a shiny suit too.

The fact that you’re reading this paragraph lets me know that either you’re okay with my enthusiasm for the NCAA tournament, or you’re just as excited as I am.  With that being said, I invite you to keep up with my tournament bracket results.  This is considering that you 1)don’t have a life 2)don’t have crap to do at work–like me, or 3)actually think I really know anything about college basketball.  So far, I’m not doing bad at all.  However, my theory for choosing the winning teams is very unconventional: “UNC, that’s the team Michael Jordan played for. Guess I’ll go with them.  FSU? Oh yeah, the guy with the hair–I like him.  Guess I’ll go with them too.  Holy Cross? Sounds like a Christian college.  Oh well, God doesn’t show favor during the tournament, so I’ll go with S. Illinois.”  Hopefully this information has discouraged anyone interested in gambling from using my predictions.  

As you can see, when it comes to basketball, I’m really not an expert; I’m just an excited fan.  Don’t get me wrong, I do know a good team when I see one. On the other-hand, I am a woman and on occasion the outward appearance of a team, constitutes a win.  “Uhm! The team in the red is looking good.  Go Big Red! Go Big Red!”  That’s how it usually works, but I do have a few select teams in which my loyalty will never drift: Texas (of course), Duke (even though they lost), UNC (Mr. Jordan’s alma mater), and Maryland (the cute fellas).

So what have we learned today:

• Apparently, being in the Final Four 14 times excuses losing in the first round–according to Coach K.
• Sequins aren’t a good look for cheerleaders, nor Dick Vitale.
• The outcome of the tournament can be determined by how nice the players’ abs look.
• Michael Jordan’s attendance at UNC most likely has nothing to do with the team’s current standings in the tournament.

Sincerely,

ty!

Rarities of My Life: Let’s just say these things will most likely NEVER happen

1. Not pushing snooze
2. Cooking breakfast for the fam @ 5am on Saturday morning
3. Saying, “No thanks!” to an open bar
4. Experiencing comfort in a pair of stilettos
5. Completing my “to do” list
6. Not telling my girlfriends about the cute guy I met
7. Forgetting to put on deodorant
8. Not sucking up to my boss
9. Missing Grey’s Anatomy
10. Enjoying the “hip-hop persona” portrayed by white rappers

In most cases, the actuality of the above events happening is extremely rare.  Matter of fact, there’s no chance in hell that 6 out of 10 events will ever occur.  If my family ever expects me to cook them breakfast on my day off, they’ll have to wait until noon—-I could be persuaded to do brunch.  In truth, I am a sucker and could probably be coerced into swaying on most of the topics, except the free open-bar.  Who could say no to a free and unlimited supply of liquor?  However, #10 is on my list of no-no’s. 

When non-black people, or persons who are not characteristically connected or related to the black culture attempt to emulate hip-hop culture (whether successfully or not), I get a bit confused and often defensive.  “Why is this white guy sporting an iced-out Jesus piece?  Is he a super-christian representing JC to the fullest, or does he want us to think he’s down with the homies?”  I never know what to think, and I feel that in my approach to asking, I’d come off extremely judgmental.  It’s always tempting to say to a wigger(that’s not my word, I’m just using it this once…promise), “Why are you acting black?”  That would be really ignorant and disrespectful of me.  Especially being that I can sound a tad bit like a white lady….better yet, I always sound like a white lady.  Can’t help it, it’s just me.  That’s the exact comment that often comes from wiggers (sorry….that’s my last time). 

White people who emulate the grittiness of hip-hop flava try to convince nay-sayers (mostly black people and their disbelieving white homies) that they either grew-up around the culture and just absorbed all the gloriousness of it, or that they are just being true to themselves.  Ummmm…..I don’t think I’m convinced.  So how about a little research.  Where should I start?  How about watching every episode of the new VH1 comedy, The White Rapper Show.  Although the reality series is neither marketed, nor advertised as a comedy, I found the first episode to be nothing but a full-blown comical rendition of So You Think You Can Dance Rap meets The Real World in the Bronx.

Although I pride myself in my limited selections of tube viewing, I had to watch this massacre of hip-hop.  After watching I Love New York, I was already on my path to reality show hell?  Why not top off the night with a sprinkle of white chocolate? 

Sincerely, ty!

P.S. Correction: It’s Egotrip’s The White Rapper Show.  Also,  if you have some free time, and want a good laugh, take a look at the photo album.  Each rapper has at least 3 pictures a piece in their best hard-core, b-boy stances.  You’ll love it! 

P.S. ….again….sorry, but was anyone ever able to rationalize the whole concept of the Ghetto Revival?  If you could educate me on that, I’d be grateful.