Life's Not Fair.

'It’s All About the Benjamins Baby’-Puff Daddy

There is a magical website where you can find ANYTHING that you would ever need: Craigslist.com. You can buy a house, a car, a dog, a new wardrobe, an iPhone, a cheap prostitute, combat boots, dirty mop water, a clown, a sandwich, a personal trainer; whatever your imagination can conjure up...it's most likely on the craigslist. Close your eyes, point and click, and *poof* there it is. Isn’t that great? Shit, if he could, I'm sure Craig would probably let hit-men post their ads on his site.

Personally, all I need is a decently priced apartment (in Brooklyn, please. Thank you.)
So, I’ve been searching through the postings for the past two-weeks. And guess what? I found the PERFECT place!

Monday after work, I hopped on the 5-train to take a look at it. It was a one-bedroom spot in East Flatbush. After speaking with the owner, it seemed like more than I expected. ‘It has more of a condo feel to it’ he claimed. Hmm. I knew not to get my hopes up too high-this place couldn’t have been that nice for a price that low. No way.

Wrong.

Once I reached the last stop on the 5, I made my way up the street. From the looks of the houses and the neighbors, I felt good vibes already. The place had to be at least habitable.
I walked up in front of the house and the owner greeted me. I was surprised that he was Black. Why? I don’t know-he didn’t sound like a Black man on the phone- and even if it was a racist observation, so what. Deal with it.

The house was very nice-not a typical ‘Brooklyn’ home. It looked very suburban. We made our way up the driveway, to the side entrance and walked down into the apartment.

WOW.

I had to blink twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating-this place was gorgeous! The décor was lovely: fresh paint, stable floors and an updated kitchen. The appliances were stainless-fucking-steel! The bathroom, although it didn’t have a full bathtub (who cares) had the flyest sink I've ever seen in my life: a clear glass bowl with a fancy silver faucet. Even the bedroom was sizeable. The kitchen had drawers and a modern glass sliding glass cabinet. Envisioning myself in this place- the feng shui, the pumpkin-colored walls and that bathroom-sink had me totally sold. It even SMELLED great in there- I'm a very scent-conscious person. The current tenants had some caramel-spiced oil burning. They also had a tasteful chocolate-brown leather sofa with a matching ottoman. How sexy is that?

‘It’s so nice. I mean, it’s so well kept and modern for a basement’ I complimented the owner. ‘Yea, I’m in construction and remodeling’ the owner interjected. He seemed like he was a good business man and I got a professional yet cool vibe from him. We chopped it up and I immediately filled out the application. There was an 80-dollar application fee-which I didn’t mind paying. In my mind, this was about to be MY PLACE.

While mentally comparing it to my current basement apartment in East New York, I felt like smacking the shit out of my landlady. Look what I was missing?!?

And I will continue to MISS it. I got an e-mail from the owner this morning:

Hello the apt. is taken. I thank you for trying to follow up with me. They put half of the cash up and the rest when they move in. If anything bizarre happens and you are still looking I will let you know.

Damnit. And I thought we bonded! As much as I hate to admit it, I do understand his position. Money talks. My sweet-face, curly hair, full-time job and friendly conversation wasn’t enough for this one. I hate whoever that guy is who got the place over me.

Now, I’m not one to complain, but I just had to express my pain. When things like this happen, it confirms the over-used, abused and applicable universal quote: Life isn’t fair. Since that guy put up half-a-years worth of rent than maybe he should be buying his own fucking house- and not hogging up affordable, beautiful basement apartments with awesome glass bathroom sinks from poor, working class gypsies like me!

I have faith that everything will be alright (still an optimist). I’m just hurt right now. Plus, I’m out of my 80-dollars. Puff- you were right.

Fuck.

The Pink Syndrome.

'The Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living'-Socrates

Today, I noticed that there is something special about the color ‘pink.’ As a society, we view pink as the ultimate 'feminine color.' An object, person, place, or thing with any hint of ‘pink’ has a touch of femininity- girl, woman, lady or maybe Goddess like. Pink is a feel good color. There is nothing threatening, harmful, brash, or violent about it. I mean, even hearts are always ‘pink’ on Valentine’s Day. I asked my co-workers what comes to mind when they see the color 'pink.' 'Girly, gay or a faggot,' was one response. The other was 'Babies and Pepto-Bismol that’s about it.' I also asked 'do you like, pink?' One said 'it depends on the pigmentation.' I found this fascinating. I didn't expect those responses, but it was a subjective question. For some reason, I saw much more than babies, gays, or piglets when I reflected on the color 'pink.' Aerosmith has a song entitled 'Pink,' and I think that their lyrics convey 'pink's' message best (You should go Youtube it if you've never heard it: great song).

'Pink it's the color of passion'- Aerosmith

When I was a little girl, and when I saw the color ‘pink,’ I saw myself. My absolute favorite colors were 'pink and blue.' The two colors complimented each other-they created balance. Too much 'pink' was overwhelming and bratty, but too much 'blue' was just plain boyish. And I was by no means, a 'boy.' Pink and blue was like yin and yang. Hence, a man wearing 'pink' is considered gay, (according to my co-worker and other manly, 'blue' men). Yet, 'pink' can also be artistic if a guy is stylish and confident enough to pull it off- while maintaining his masculine disposition, of course. Normally, I receive my share of stares, catcalls, and roaming eyes when I’m out in Manhattan: on the 3-train, walking to lunch, or just frolicking about the busy city streets. But yesterday, it was different. The double-takes lasted longer than two seconds-the glances were more intensified, and even the number of consecutive catcalls and ‘how you doings’ were astronomical. 'What was the big deal about today?' I thought. I literally had gotten dressed in ten-minutes, so there was nothing spectacular about my outfit. The night before was long and I thought I appeared as run-down as I felt. I threw-on a pair of dark-blue strait legged jeans, a wrinkled, stretch cotton-T-shirt, and a multi-colored floral headband around the front part of my untamed hair. I soon realized that the shirt-although a regular, old short sleeve‘t’ had special powers. It was feminine, simple, and elegant. It was light pink. After paying close attention to 'pink’s' effect on men, I am convinced that Pink is a very powerful color. Pink is Love. Is there anything more powerful than that?

I probably would not have had on this ‘pink’ shirt had it not been for the mad dash to put on something quick and to get my ass to work before I got a ‘pink’ slip. The previous night was full of sweaty dancing, energy and urban tunes with my home girl T, and two of her Caucasian buddies, in a party in the meatpacking district. Having to be up for work at 8am, I had a strange feeling that getting home at 5AM would lead to a disastrous three-hour rest. It was-and those 'three hours' which I could have had without penalty, turned into four. Rubbing my eyes at 9:40 am-I got to work at 10:30am. And there is nothing pretty about being late to work.

Something told me to just stay awake and go to work early-but I didn't listen to that 'feeling.' I’m discovering more and more about this little internal guide. I don’t think much about it-I just feel it. This little 'thing' is something like a navigational system. Like a little bell that goes off in my head. Although I do not always follow it to a T or understand why it’s telling me to do certain things, it never seems to be wrong. It’s intuition. That little voice that speaks to me and I don’t know where it’s coming from. It cannot be rationalized because it is beyond me-but it never fails. I’m learning to trust it and to let it guide me. Someone once said that intuition is 'that tap on the shoulder when God is trying to tell you something.' I wondered... In essence that seems to be exactly what it is. It’s God’s spiritual form of guidance. And one thing is for certain: since God cannot be rationalized, neither can intuition. I guess I'm learning to trust it.

After finally getting home from work, I was beat. I took off my pink, attention-grabbing 't,' laying it on top of my hamper instead of putting it inside. For some reason, I knew I would need to put it back on. I lay down but I couldn't relax. There wasn't enough oxygen going to my lungs. My throat was swelling up and breathing was difficult. It was like I could get the air but I wasn’t getting the full amount. My legs, arms, and neck muscles felt like tension rods and breathing just got more and more difficult. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ I thought. This was not the first time that I felt this breathing malfunction-just two-days before, I was telling my mother that I felt like I wasn’t getting enough air while walking home: but it was never this intense. I got up and stretched my body to the heavens-still, no relief. I lay back down but continued to experience faulty breathes and my esophagus seemed to be closing up. Finally, I decided I would go to the emergency room.
Something just wasn't right.

I was right. After text-message deliberations with my mother, I reached for the pink 't' and my skinny jeans. I found myself in Brookdale Hospital 30-minutes later. This has to be the most disgusting, filthy, unprofessional and unkempt medical environment that I have ever seen. From the reception, to the Triage room, this place screamed under-funding, underprivileged and unconcerned. The nurses and aides had bad attitudes and talked to people like they were their enemies and not patients. Even the sign-in sheet was sad to look at. There were literally 20 people waiting. Being that I had a breathing problem, I was able to walk strait to the triage. ‘Which way is the nurse?’ I asked the woman in Triage. ‘Over there,’ she said in a heavy West-Indian accent. I looked and realized I did not know where 'over-there' was, so I asked the aid in front of her. ‘Where is the nurse?’ She looked at me like I was an idiot with the nerve to re-iterate: ‘she said over-there.’ Looking back at her, in utter disbelief, I said ‘OK, well I don’t know where ‘over there’ is.’ (Bitch) After being re-directed and pointed in five-different directions, I was told to take a seat. The triage was right next to the ambulance entrance where people with fresh gun wounds and slashes were dropped off. A younger nurse walked to where another patient and I were sitting. Of course, another BBWA-Black Bitch with an Attitude. ‘Why are these patients back here? Who is just letting them walk back here?’ She asked with rhetorical attitude. Meanwhile, my chest is heaving, and can barely speak, but I’m being made to feel like I’m not even supposed to be waiting for fucking treatment. I could have snatched that tacky horsehair right from the roots of her nappy head. (Bitch) I looked at her and was about two breathes too short of addressing her unprofessional-ass when the nurse finally came to the area. He was just as disappointing-he had a thick, Haitian accent and was very brief and lacked social skills. Finally, I sat down about to receive some treatment. When asked my name, I couldn't respond. I felt like I was choking and my chest started heaving. Tears were swelling up in my eyes and I was frantically searching my purse for my driver’s license and insurance card because I couldn’t get a word out of my mouth. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ He asked. One would think the heaving chest and crying would show signs of a respiratory issue? Unbelievable. I struggled to explain how I felt with each short forced breathe. ‘What happened?’ How does your throat feel?’ Now normally, I’m very healthy and I can't even recall the last time I’ve visited a hospital; or primary physician-but hey, my motto is if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. After taking my blood pressure, temperature and O2 levels, he concluded I was fine. ‘Your bweathing is vewy, vewy guud’ he said. It seemed as if I was just going crazy or being a hypochondriac. Prior to coming, I text messaged my mother and she pushed me to go. But, I hated to seem like I was ill and was really, perfectly fine-it made me feel like a fool. Now, Mr. Haitian nurse was making me feel the exact way which I was trying to avoid-dumb. Why the hell did I even come? He told me he would have a Doctor see me anyway because it could be something else. This made me feel a little better, but not much. ‘Maybe I should have just sucked it up and stayed home,’ I thought. But, again, my initial feeling was right. I waited in the waiting area for about 45 minutes. I was in Triage while Barack Obama was giving his Democratic nomination speech. The CNN post-analysis was going on and I was able to see re-runs of clips from his address. Sitting to my left, there were two-young girls who looked like they were strait from the hood. One was fair-skinned and the other was a hazelnut-brown complexion. They appeared to be delinquents-like they were there because they had got into a fight and bruised a rib. I was heavily engaged in the political program, and I saw them looking at me out the corner of their eyes. With the exception of about three elders, none of the young people seemed to care about watching the coverage. Maybe that’s why they were staring at me-because I was so in tuned and they couldn’t figure out why. A Caucasian man hollered my name from the doorway to come to the back rooms. I followed. Finally, at 12:45am, after a few questions and routine doctoral checks, he gave me an answer. The doc finally diagnosed me: ‘It’s anxiety.’ I couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. ‘Is he freaking serious?’ I thought. ‘Well, how? I don't feel anxious.’ I asked, beyond perplexed and completely thrown off. He was Russian or something, and from my experience with them, they can be really rude-downright nasty. (Rougher than the most ghetto of Black people) That is one really aggressive culture. They actually like pain! He must have been offended, but I was merely seeking an explanation to his prognosis. Again, I was made to feel like I had no right even inquiring. ‘Look, you can argue all you want, I’m giving you my opinion, I’ve’ been doing this for..’ blah blah blah. What a jerk. As an inquisitive soul and a Scorpio, I like to get to the bottom of things, and I really didn’t understand how the hell I had anxiety when I wasn’t even anxious. You would think I asked him to cut his tongue off with all of the attitude he gave me. I then text-messaged my mom: ‘I’m so out of here. This PA is telling me I have ‘anxiety.’ This is ridiculous.’ When I left the ER my mother told me that my Aunt Cynthia had anxiety as well. The PA who checked me also mentioned that anxiety runs in the family.
Maybe he wasn’t a crock of crap after all.
My mother told me ‘you need to loosen up-you were tense when you were here.’ Sometimes it takes someone from the outside looking in to examine things going on in your life that you may not see. So, Socrates was right. The unexamined life is probably not worth living-and if we fail to put ourselves under the microscope, or allow others to look deeper, we may miss valuable lessons to learn. We may even die if we don't find our issues and solve them. Be it the powerful effects of a favorite color, or the problems associated with underlying stress-a little cross-examining can be beneficial. Looking a little closer will always give us clarity. The thought of me having anxiety did perplex me at first, but with the headaches, the shortness of breathe, the rapid thoughts, the nausea, and irritability, it was starting to make sense. Doctors, and philosophers, are among the best examiners of humans-he confirmed what my body had been
telling me all along.

When I arrived back home, in my claustrophobic little basement room, I couldn’t have been more relaxed. After undressing, I put my poor little, soiled pink 't' into the hamper this time. Lying down, I reflected on the two things that I learned. I had anxiety and I need more 'pink' in my life.

Bliss.

'Happiness depends upon ourselves'-Aristotle

When I was in the third grade, my younger sister and I used to wait on the porch for the school bus, every morning. Number 23 school was all the way on the other side of town. There were closer schools, but this was nothing like a regular public school-it was a 'good' one. The education was exceptional and I loved my school. I was happy there. I think my mother used my grandparents' address just so we could attend that one and avoid going to the nearby public elementary school (for the obvious reasons that most parents avoid 'public' schools) My Mom, 26 at the time, was working the grueling seven-to-eleven shifts as a Licensed Practical Nurse. My sister and I had to wait an extra-30 minutes after my Mom left, for the bus to come. Ulrica, Mom's long-time friend, who was more like an extended Auntie, lived in the first-floor apartment. Sometimes, she would let us watch The Power Rangers in her living room, until the bus came. Other time we just sat on the porch.

Waiting...

My sister and I were latch-key kids, living in the Northeast part of town, in a hood' laden with crackheads, fatherless kids, adolescent criminals etc. I was 8-years old. The porch room that my sister and I shared was a haven. It was narrow and cold, yet, cozy. My sister was only six-years old and slept in the bed with my Mom still, so I had that little area to myself (although, I'd sneek into bed with my Mom sometimes). In spite of the roaches and occasional mice, I actually loved being in the small, two-bedroom apartment on Hollenbeck street. I felt safe; but only inside of the house. One day, while I was riding my big-wheel in the abandoned parking lot, two houses away, I was stopped by two Puerto-Rican boys who lived in the neighborhood. They were around 10-12 years old. One of them opened his hand right in front of my face and said, 'hey, you wanna try...this?' I was stunned at the sight of the green herbs in his hands. He shoved it into his pocket, they both laughed at me and then walked away. That disturbed me and I think that was when I officially started hating my neighborhood. Somehow, as an eight-year-old girl, I found it embarrassing: embarrassing that I lived in a place where ten-year olds toting weed was even considered 'cool.' Drugs were bad-and back then, weed was no different from cocaine in my youthful eyes.

My mother smoked weed at the time as well. I hated it. I used to hide her joints-sometimes, I would wrap them up in foil and push them down into the garbage can when I knew her home girls were coming over. In my mind, it was oppressive, uneducated and it seemed like only low-lives smoked it. Like those stupid Puerto-Rican kids in the street. So, for it to be associated with my mother, it didn't sit well with me. 'People with sense shouldn't be putting drugs in their body-period,' I thought. My mom was a great mother-ill-tempered and mean at times, but she took good care of us. Ironically, I despised the fact that she brought herself down with the alleged 'mood elevator.'

Anyways

203 Hollenbeck was the very-first stop that the bus made each day-my house. The driver was a mean-black lady with long nails, a full-weave and a bad attitude to match- always yelling at somebody. She was pure-evil and actually scary to look at. The 'bus-matron,' was a dark-brown skinned lesbian, with little doo-doo dreads, and a fat round face. She dressed in baggy jeans and over sized shirts and wore the bright-orange vest like a crossing guard. The 'matron' was nicer than the driver, but the driver was prettier. My sister and I would laugh at how fat, sloppy and gay the matron was. We both thought she looked a mess and was not a 'lady' in any capacity. We were obsessed with 'booty, titties and feet' and at the time. Those very natural things, were the subject of raucous, six and eight-year-old girl laughter. The fact that this woman was so unwomanly, with a very big-bust, was ironic-and really odd to us. Not only was this woman an eyesore-but she made me sick-literally. The funk of 'Vanilla Fields' perfume was something I had to bear EVERY DAY. She would dowse her entire body in it and walk up and down the isles of the bus, permeating the air with this disgusting fragrance. As a result, I would leave the bus nauseated, dizzy, and disoriented, EVERY DAY. I DREADED the 45 minute bus ride. I would have rather done math-homework than sit through the ride to and from school. (and I HATE math) The sight of the bus just pulling up in front of my house brought a queasy feeling to the pit of my stomach. When we would finally arrive in front of my school-there was a change: a sense of overwhelming relief would come over me. My heart jumped and my entire mood altered-I was...happy.

I loved school. I loved Miss Gourdine, and I loved learning.

My little discomforts, I almost always ignored. My mom was very strong, and I had to be strong too. (No choice but to suck it up) Always the 'mature and responsible child' I took my age and allegiance to my mother very seriously (probably because I was by my mother's side since she was 18-years old). Yet, my sister was more light-hearted and she balanced out my intensity. Dae-Dae was always joking and she took life with a grain of salt. She and I had fun making fun of the things we didn't understand at the time. Sometimes we got cursed-out for being too rowdy, or even whooped. I hated seeing my sister get in trouble-even when she was dead-ass wrong. Dae-Dae's pain was like my pain and mine like her's. We were each other's source of laughter. We brought each other happiness. We brought my mother happiness, too.

Yesterday afternoon, I was on a bus coming back to New York from D.C. I felt sick as soon as I set foot aboard. I had some pancakes a little earlier which were not agreeing with my stomach. I felt like I was back in the third grade, going to 23-school with the lesbian bus matron and that repulsive aroma. Before we pulled off, the driver took a vote: 'who wants to watch a movie?' Most hands went up, including mine. The movie was 'The Pursuit of Happyness' with Will Smith. This was a movie that I had intentions on watching, but never got around to.

That had to be one of the best movies that I have ever seen. The struggles that Will Smith experienced as a man trying to make it; a father; an honest, and diligent hard-worker. It epitomized the term, 'the beautiful struggle.' It really made me appreciate what I have and how God allows us to go through some really tough times-which we never understand while we're going through it-but, with some faith, persistence, and a little patience, we always seem to overcome. We will always find happiness: as well as appreciation. He will always see us through. The 'bus-ride' feelings brought me back to my childhood: the nausea, the dread-but I knew what to expect. It's crazy how some things never change-but once you have experienced something ill-it becomes easier the next time you have to deal with it. And like the daily third-grade bus rides, although Will Smith's journey in the movie was far from a cakewalk, he prevailed. He reached his destination: happiness. He kept pursuing what was important and he finally found joy.

The most amazing thing about happiness is that it dwells within us.

We can all reach happiness. But like Aristotle said, it is something we must attain on our own. Sometimes it takes a rough ride or a few failures to find it. Yet, if we continue to look..and if we can just make it through that journey-that rocky, rigid path- those hurtful rejections- those strenuous situations- or even that sickening bus ride- it's there. Pleasure, joy, delight, fruit, fortune or whatever you want to call it. Waiting for us to arrive...

My First Post.

Happy Friday

'Don't talk about what you're doing; just do it..and after you do it, don't talk about what you did.'

We were in the back of a limosine, cruising down the Henry Hudson Parkway; sipping champagne and exchanging friendly laughs. It was an unseasonably chilly, October night. While the wind was bitter and biting, the back of the limo was warm and wonderful. The destination: Morton's Steakhouse. The occassion: my ex-lover, was treating his co-workers to a fancy dinner in Manhattan to show his appreciation for them. October was an incredibly successful month for his whole team. Everyone was beaming, borderline tipsy and seemingly in pure bliss over the occassion. I shared this same bliss, but not because of the new money rolling in: I was in love for the very first time. The ride uptown was memorable, full of laughing, cuddling and bonding. Akon and Snoop Dogg's 'I Wanna Love You,' was the new song out and he must have put it on repeat 22 times during that ride. He was singing it to me, with a seductive smile-while screwing up the lyrics. I blushed in delight while laughing at how he had 'remixed' a new version. These were the days of suspenseful romantic candor. The present was a gift and we were anticipating a promising future together. But, those past thoughts of a unified future are presently non-existant. (We broke up last year)

In between sips of champagne, Barry, his co-worker, began to sing praises to him; and then the choir joined in, upstaging him and speaking of his phenomenal success with securing insane amounts of new business. Everyone went home with fat-checks for the holiday season. This made him 'the man' of the hour. And that, he was. More importantly, he was MY man. I chimed into his ear, loving words of approval and encouragement, while slipping kisses on his lips and exchanging multiple love gazes. I laid my head on his chest, reclining on him and rubbing his leg. We couldn't keep our hands off of eachother. In the midst of the praise-talk, he and I began discussing people who 'talk the talk but can't walk the walk.' Those people who discuss their plans over and over again, and never make a move. The owners of the defered dreams that Langston Hughes so eloquently described. After exchanging laughs and exchanging some disdainful commentary on folks that 'talk a good game,' we came up with our motto. It represented the importance of action; execution; making it happen. We slapped eachother up in agreeance, and said it in unison: 'Don't talk about what you're doing; just do it..and after you do it, don't talk about what you did,' and then exchanged smiles. For months on in, we would re-affirm eachother with that same quote: using it as the ending in multiple e-mails. This little 'quote' was a special way that we shared our ambitions. This quote reminded the both of us to be 'doers' of our words. He, a young, Black man doing big things in the mortgage finance world; me, a promising student on an unchartered path to success. We both knew the signifigance of the statement. It was poignent, yet really simple.

The ex I speak of, broke me into many of my very 'first' romantic experiences. He was my first love, first sexual partner, my first time being nervous about 'meeting parents,' and even my first designer handbag was from him. And my first heartbreak. He had me completely open, in every sense of the word. I never knew the same love that felt so good to my heart, could hurt me so deeply. Being that he was my 'first' and this is my first-post, he segwayed into it pretty nicely.

So, finally, no more bullshitting.

When I thought of our 'quote,' and the importance of this blog, many commonalities arose. The same time, dedication and effort I put into my first relationship, I am putting into my first blog. As I type, at 11:09am, I'm making it happen, and I am ready to share. For the past four months, my 'outlet' has been Microsoft Word on my work computer. The 'Manifested Thoughts' folder has an overflow of...well...manifested thoughts. But, not just thoughts-feelings, emotions, obervations and experiences. For the past three months, I've been 'brainstorming' titles, tag-names, ideas: setting the framework for this thing. It feels so damn good to sit here and actually put thought into action. It feels good to 'just do it.'

Final thoughts:

'You will always forget what a person says or does, but you will never forget the way someone makes you feel.'

I read that in a random e-mail my mother forwarded to me a few months back. It struck a chord in my heart. As I reminisce, I feel myself reliving that conversation in the back of the limosine with my ex-love. And, in spite of the pain and pitfalls that man put me through...that magical night still brings back those good feelings. Am I living in the past? Na; just taking a mental step-back in time. Nothing wrong with that.

Every 'ex-perience' does serve it's purpose.