Category Archives: Having fun yet?

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 tip. But I am definitely here and it has been a great learning experience.  The land is beautiful and 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 the 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!

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Say What?

Oops

I think I’ve reached my limit of inappropriate office antics. Somehow, every time I make a snide/explicit comment, the CFO of the company happens to hear me. How does he do it? I don’t know. It’s inevitable! Anytime I wanna cut loose, he’s right there. Today the phone rang, and I noticed the number was that of a co-worker. Since I knew who it was, I really didn’t think it was necessary to go through the whole, “Blah, Blah, Blah. This is Ty. How may I help you?”  So I decided to go with this one instead, “Sambuca’s Sex Shop. This is Ty.”  Why did I say that? And why was I so loud? Meanwhile, the CFO (aka the signee of my checks) was in a meeting across the hall and suddenly stopped mid-conversation. I’m still not sure if he stopped speaking because he heard me, or because he was done. I’m scared! I just know that at the end of the day I’m gonna have one of those conversations that starts out with, “Hey Ty, can I talk to you for a second?”

Update: Don’t think I’m in trouble. Yea! At least not that bad. After the meeting, they (the CFO and the other important people) offered me their delicious, over-priced desserts from the meeting. I know I shouldn’t get excited over their left-overs, but the pastry spread from La Madeleine is DEE-LISH. 

After stuffing my face with a slice of cheesecake the size of Texas, I received the most random phone call. Apparently someone charged some hair extensions to my boss’ an un-named employee’s credit card, and the company was calling for verification. So I’m on the phone like, “Now, what did you say Mr. So and So ordered. Hair extensions? Umm…I don’t think he would need those.” From there, I put the person on hold and had to call  my boss’ the un-named employee’s assistant to fill her in on the details. Imagine trying to explain to someone that their boss needs to verify credit card charges for some hair extensions. I don’t think I’ll ever get over that or if I’ll ever be able to look at my boss the un-named employee the same. I just can’t get over that fact that somebody (either that un-named person or somebody in the household) ordered some weave. Wonder what kind it was? Didn’t know you could order weave? Anyway, that was the highlight of my day. My side is still throbbing from the pains of laughter. Now my neck is starting to hurt too. You know like when you can’t laugh aloud, so you have to do that I-sound-like-I’m-choking-on-Menthols laugh. That’s me right now.

Sincerely, ty!

P.S. I’ve been over-analyzing the whole pastry spread donation situation. My mind wonders if they (the important people) offered me the pastries because  a)I was probably gonna be the one to clean up that left-over sh** anyway  b)I looked like I could use an extra meal  c)they witnessed me drooling when I saw the delivery man set-up the luncheon.

Do You Have Some G-U-M?

BrooklynDon’t you just love surprise parties.  The lying.  The scheming.  It’s such an evil trick for others to make you feel like no one really gives a s*** about you, or your raggedy birthday.   Then suddenly, “SURPRISE!!! Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you……”  YEAH!  Everyone loves you.  Unfortunately you also feel like an idiot because of the lame excuses you fell for.  You should’ve known something was up when your best-friend said she couldn’t celebrate your birthday because she had a date….you usually are her date.

Saturday night I attended a friend’s surprise party at a local jazz cafe.  For some reason, I don’t even remember hearing any “Live Jazz Music,” and I bet no one else does either.  As I sat and waited for the guest of honor to arrive, my bladder began to get heavier and heavier.  Not wanting to miss the big “Surprise”, I forced myself to “hold-it.”  Holding it, holding it, holding it, holding it—-“Surprise!!!”  Damn!  I thought he’d never get here. 

ME: “Excuse me guys.  I have to pee.”  Not real lady-like, but hey, I was on a mission.  Random guest at party: “Watch out on your way to the bathroom.   Some dudes were trying to fight.”                                                                                                                  

GREAT!!!!  So on my way to the bathroom, not only do I have to strangé pass the bar——that is without falling and while at the same time attempting to look flawless, but I also have to avoid a pack of heathens trying to romp.  So much pressure!  Make it stop!  Luckily, I made it to the ladies room safely.

As you could have guessed, Saturday nights mean long lines in the ladies room.  However, I didn’t mind waiting because I was in store for some classic entertainment.  Like most women, when I wait in the line, especially at a club, my eyes instantly go to the outfits.  This is for two reasons only: 1)To go tell your girlfriends how horrible the girl in the red dress looks in the light, and 2)To steal a really cute style, ie. “Excuse me, where did you get that belt?”  Sad to say, I didn’t steal any fashion tips that night. 

I stood in line between a woman that was sloppy drunk and an older lady, probably around 45 or 50.  I could tell she didn’t go out much by her outfit: black, crushed velvet skirt and matching shirt, black church hat with pink flower, and a gold-lined tooth.  You know what I’m talking about.  Only the exterior of the tooth is outlined in gold—not completely, just the outline.  We all stood in line, silent—that is until I got nervous and had to say something.  Note to readers: Silence in public places makes me uncomfortable.  So I pulled out my wild card, a compliment: “Wow, I love your…..”   thinking, thinking, thinking…..   “your necklace.”  Everything else was just too horrible to compliment.        

Ms. Crushed Velvet: “Oh really! I made it myself.”   

ME: “Oh, okay.  It looks nice.” 

Ms. Crushed Velvet: “Yeah, this piece used to be my mothers and then I just took one of my necklaces and…BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH…. and I could make one for you too.”      

Why did I have to say anything?  Now I had to pretend that I was actually interested in the conversation.  I hoped that the torture would end, but then I noticed that the damn line wasn’t moving one bit, and so did drunk girl behind me.   

Drunk girl: “Oh, Lord I can’t make it. I gotta go!”       

A lady at the front of the line informed the rest of us that there was only one stall working.  Drunk girl, in her disbelief, opens the vacant stall and surveys the damage.  

Drunkgirl, “It’s only some tissue.  They got a plunger right here.  I bet I can fix this.” 

Why do drunk people always offer assistance and advice?  Better yet, why are drunk people so confident?  So Drunkgirl tested her plumbing skills, and of course failed.  However, as soon as the next stall opened up, she cut in line and finally relieved herself.  Drunkgirl: 1 point  Everybody else in line: 0. 

Now that drunk girl had made her way through the line, I was stuck next to a girl who started rambling on her cell, and Ms. Crushed Velvet who continued to add in bits of unwanted conversation.  Mid conversation, Cellphone girl looks at me, while still on the phone, and asks, “Do you have some g-u-m?”  ME: “No.”  Then to Ms. Crushed Velvet, “Do you have some g-u-m?”  Why didn’t she just say gum?  Why did she have to spell it out?  Irritated, I just stood in the line listening to Ms. Crushed Velvet ramble, while I  replied, “Oh really…Uh huh…What?!?!…Girl, stop!” 

Finally, I made it out of the ladies room, strangéd once again pass the bar, and joined the party.

So what have we learned today:

  • Crushed velvet should only be worn in two cases: 1)If you’re auditioning for the lead role of the Wicked Witch of the West, and 2)If you’re a pimp
  • If your best-friend says she has a date and you’re usually her date, then she’s probably lying and is up to something.
  • Strangé is not a real word, not even if you spell it “stranjay.”                              
  • Drunk people are not good plumbers.

  • The restroom in no place for a spelling bee.

Sincerely,
ty!

P.S.

Thanks to T and F for being such gentlemen to all the ladies.  Your mothers taught you well.

P.S.P.S.

After reading the blog, two people who also attended the party have been hounding me about the fact that they did indeed hear the live jazz music.

Did She Touch My Boob….Again?

Too much MerlotCorporate parties are the perfect time to experience camaraderie among co-workers.  The event also gives employees the chance to get closer to their bosses (without getting a sexual harassment case), and to enjoy the limitless food and open-bar.  The guys arrive wearing their best dubs, with female companions in tow.  “Bob’s engaged?  He should be single the way he gets around this office.”  And all the ladies bring along their husbands and boyfriends that you are forced to hear them complain about week after week.  Finally, everyone gets to see all the excitement that the Party Committee has been raving about for the past 3 months.  “This year’s Casino Party is going to be so much better than last year’s Cowtown Hoedown.”  When you arrive you don’t notice anything different, other than the fact that the menu includes fish instead of chicken.  Doesn’t really matter to you as long as the liquor is still free.

As you sit and make frivoulous banter with your co-workers, you finally convince yourself to participate in the planned activities.  Whether it’s Casino Night or not, gambling with fake money just isn’t your thing.  So how do you make the evening more exciting, “Hit me!”, as in “Get me another shot.”  The drinks continue to come and suddenly, you realize that Carlos from the mail-room doesn’t look so bad at all.  Just as well, your co-worker Samantha doesn’t think you look so bad either, and for some reason she keeps “accidentally” touching your boob and running her fingers through your hair.  Now your plan to make Carlos your man for the evening is ruined because you have to spend the rest of the evening dodging her crazy, drunk-lesbian (different from a real lesbian) ass.  To make matters worse, you realize that Shannon from the third floor really is the “office slut” because she’s been winking and blowing kisses at the fellas all night.  See what free liquor does to people.

Finally, the best part of the evening: Door prizes!!!  Actually the second best—open bar was the first.  You sit and wait for you number to be called, but all you win is another “accidental” rub-down from Samantha.  Before you get the chance to cuss her ass out and ruin the party for everyone, Samantha screams when she hears her number being called.  So now the drunk-lesbian (remember, different from a real lesbian) doesn’t even want you anymore….now she’s got a brand-new camcorder to fondle.

Just when you thought you had enough, the waiter who has been serving you drinks all night, casually asks you for your number. 

  • Waiter: “So uhm, you look real nice tonight.”   You: “Thanks”
  • Waiter: “I noticed you had a lot to drink.”         You: “Uhm Yeah, you were pouring them.”                                                                                                                                   

            You can imagine how the rest went.  Sorry homie, no macking on the job.

Sincerely, ty!

P.S.   So what have we learned:

  • A drunk-lesbian is different from a real lesbian.
  • Drunk-straight women do not like cock-blocking drunk-lesbians.
  • The waitstaff is available to help with ALL of your needs.
  • Being the office slut will not get you fired. 

P.S.P.S.  Samantha is really not a lesbian.

I Make it Rain

Club survival kit

  • Purse–Preferably designer. 
  • Gum/Altoids–For obvious reasons.
  • Lip gloss–Touch-ups are necessary
  • Cellphone–For some reason, people feel the need to be accessible at all times.
  • $20–Parking and drinks.
  • Credit card–Just in case you put too much thought into your hair and makeup and don’t make the “no cover” deadline, and of course, more drinks.
  • Camera–Why not be ghetto like everyone else? 
  • Raincoat–Yes a raincoat!
  • Umbrella–Uhm yeah, in case raincoats aren’t your style.

To celebrate the destruction of a marriage, my closest girlfriends and I decided to paint the town red, in honor of my friend “calling it quits.”  Divorce should not be celebrated, but being that liquor would be involved, why not?  The night consisted of the usual–hair, makeup, wardrobe, trendy club, sexy people, and getting liquored up.  Or should I say, getting liquored down—you’ll catch my drift in a bit.

The scene was hot.  I was extremely hot…literally.  Note to self: Don’t wear that jacket to the club again…black folks radiate too much heat.  Continuing the celebration, my girlfriends and I merged into the sea of gyration with drinks in tow.  All was well.  The music was Jammin’ On the One(had to put that in Tim), and uhm, I think I smelled some weed.  Just thought I’d add that interjection.  Suddenly (here comes the clincher), a nice young, lady tall, lanky, set-ponytail wearing girl decides to split the sea of gyration.  All I heard was “Blah, blah, blah Bitch!”  Then, “SWISH!” Set-ponytail girl poured a perfectly good drink (probably actually water) on one of the cutest, most chocolatiest, scrumptious guys at the club.  To make matters worse, he was standing next to me–I didn’t get wet.  To make matters even more worse, her aim was bad and she poured the drink on the wrong guy.  To make matters better (for me), Mr. Cutest Chocolatiest Scrumptious took off his shirt.

We never got to the bottom of the fiasco.  Matter of fact, everyone actually forgot about it when a ball player showed up.

 So what have we learned:

  • Divorce can be a joyous occasion
  • Weed is legal, but only at tsyrT
  • Set-ponytails are trying to make their way back in style
  • Professional ball players automatically avert one’s attention away from the situation

Sincerely, ty!

P.S.  Kudos to Mr. Cutest Chocolatiest Scrumptious for keeping his cool.