'Nothing Even Matters'

'Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing'- Oscar Wilde

Andy was an assistant to the Editor-in-Chief at 'Runway' magazine. A Northwestern grad and journalist hopeful, Andy walked into the offices of the most notorious fashion publication with an invisible blindfold: her inexperience paired with no couture conscious and no idea who the heck Miranda Priestly, the Editor-in-Chief, was. To call her clueless would have been an understatement. Nevertheless, Andy was resilient and after a tumultuous first few months of insults, cold-demands, and snobby snickers from the 'beautiful' (and skinny) people, she finally got it.

Andy started to adapt and overcome- she put on some Jimmy Choos, cut her split ends and grabbed the reigns and made the best of her envied yet demanding position. Fetching lattes while walking a dog and picking up a sirloin-steak, all before 3pm were just small hurdles compared to the enormous payoff Andy foresaw as a result of sucking up the grunt work. The assistant to the Editor-in-Chief would lend itself to limitless opportunities in the publication world...if only she could just keep her skin-thick, her heels high, and Ms. Miranda Priestly happy, of course.

And that she did.

In spite of being overwhelmed, Andy was resilient. After laborious hours of catering to Miranda, being on-call, and late-nights, Andy had reached the peek of her career-year while simultaneously hitting a low-point in her social life. Every ounce of her being now revolved around Miranda. Her boyfriend was now second to her job, and her friends were next after Miranda's personal errands. While Andy's relationships suffered, her reputation at Runway, blossomed. Andy was selected to go to Paris for fashion-week with Miranda-which ultimately slighted the 'first-assistant,' Emily, who was literally starving in preparation for the opportunity. Emily's quality of work became unfavored in the eyes of Miranda and Andy had now taken her place. Andy had a choice-forfeit the opportunity of a lifetime for the sake of goodwill to her co-worker, Emily, or go to Paris as if she (Emily) was never in the equation. Although Andy was empathetic and meant-well, getting-ahead was now a priori. Her career above all, including personal feelings. So, off to Paris Andy went.

And then she made a realization.

After seeing Miranda get served divorce papers by her neglected and resentful husband and a loyal co-worker undercut by her, she had an epiphany-Andy did not like who she was becoming. In a limo ride chat, Miranda expressed to Andy that 'she saw herself in her.' Andy realized right then and there that she did not value the same things that Miranda did. Conniving others, being a bad wife and heartless woman was not who she was. Andy was doing what she needed to do to advance her career-yet, her character was diminishing. Andy lost focus and quickly saw that the life she was being warped into was not one she envisioned for herself.

So, Andy quit.

It didn't take very long before Andy realized that her choices and new career were out-of-sync with the desires of her heart. 'Runway' didn't even matter anymore. Turning her back on the Chanel collections, fabulous freebies, and the cold-couture lifestyle, was easy. Andy went back to who she was- the small-town girl who had a passion for writing, valued friendship with indifference to image-with an upgrade in her style.

As I watched the conclusion of 'The Devil Wears Prada,' I asked myself: how often does this story happen, in real-life? How many of us who somehow lose focus of what matters most to us? We become career obsessed, money-hungry, or simply take for granted the foundational people in our lives that will be there if our job crumbles like old-cake.

Like Andy, some of us are able to redeem re-evaluate and re-establish what matters most to us without completely losing it. Unfortunately, others continue to underestimate what's most valuable which results in loss. Balance is the key to life, yet many of us have so many different keys and are trying to unlock so many doors that we neglect the most important one.

I'm constantly evaluating if my choices are in accordance with my priorities. What and where shall I place the things on my list? What matters most? These questions are imperative, especially when it comes to living a balanced life. From personal experience in neglecting important people, I've realized I must make a conscious effort not to get so wrapped up in my 'gypsy-life' that the people or practices that helped make me who I am, suffer. My list of 'what matters most' looks like this:

1) Faith in God

2) Family & Friendship

3) Love & Happiness

4) Knowledge

5) Growth

6) Making Positive Change

7) Inspiring Others

Like Andy, we all have neglected at least one thing on our priority-list. But, that's alright-as long as we get back to that list and act accordingly. Everyday we have a million-and-one things that we have 'to-do' that probably have no association to what we deem most important in our lives: no real connection to our goals, dreams or family. We must remember that whatever we choose to devote our time, energy and thought to are value judgements.

So, before you embark on a career choice, new challenge, or even a small party-ask yourself this-

What really matters?

808's & Heartbreak-Review

'I'm a problem that'll never ever be solved'

-Kanye West

808’s & Heartbreak is far more than a rendition of Ye’s innovative sound, or controversial commentary: it’s a product of his heartfelt experiences: and it’s amazing.

The first listen to 808’s & Heartbreak will make you feel like a tourist being thrown into the Amazon rain forest, without a map. You will wonder ‘where the hell am I?’ And Ye will sadly respond: 'Welcome to Heartbreak.' Shock and confusion is what the new listener will experience, as Ye’s jungle can be bewildering at times; but amazement will prevail when the terrain becomes more familiar. You will have to get used to the new sound-but once you are, it quickly taps into the emotional core and an addicting yet depressing, Hollywood motion picture sound quality is revealed. Kanye has been a little cold and even brash on past hits (Can't Tell Me Nothing), but never this… sad. Nonetheless, the throbbing ache permeates throughout the entire album with a cinematic elegance. Ye seemingly borrowed Mr. Holland’s Opus, the Daft Punk dudes, and kidnapped a few Morris Brown drum majors and threw them into his pot of inspiration on 808’s & Heartbreak. The strong presence of synthesized voice seems like a guise which Ye explores to get the hurt out-yet, that ‘Yeezy’ factor is there. It’s unlike a typical ‘baby, baby please’ R. Kelly plea or the classic ‘Dear Mama’ ode as achieved by Tupac; but only the way that Mr. West delivers. And it’s unlike anything you will ever hear. Ever.

The mash-up of drums, synthesizers, singing and sadness are what gives method to the madness of 808’s & Heartbreak. Ye delves into a neglected emotion that he never fully explored on 'The College Dropout,' 'Late Registration,' or 'Graduation:' heartache. While all three albums maintained metaphoric and animated flow with tracks that tell his stories, boasting of victory, (Through the Wire) conscientiousness (Diamonds) or just plain 'Good Life,' Kanye's art always reflects his life. As we all know, life isn't always fun, fabulous and fresh-and 808's & Heartbreak is his testimony. He makes you feel his pain as he croons and speaks of his mother’s death in a synthed out, numbing rhythm on ‘Bad News.’ The production seems more emphasized as the track contains a lengthy break between lyrics and Ye let’s the beats linger on- like his pain.

A vision of Kanye sitting in a studio at a soundboard, depressed, warping away at a song in a confused daze is what may come to mind.

‘Heartless’ infuses rhyme over heavy bass, light flutes and a profound, sing-songy auto-tuned chorus. Ye goes through the motions of a shorty stomping all over his poor heart while attempting to maintain some manly pride in lines like ‘you need to watch the way you talking to me, yo.’ The hard-drums and TV-static on ‘The Coldest Winter’ are hard-hitting with a very melancholic feel as he morbidly sings a farewell to his mother: and maybe even his ability to love.

The overall sound is like a doomed journey. From the Jurassic Park quality of ‘Amazing’ where calm tribal-click-clacking, a soft piano with Young Jeezy’s signature ad-libs (that make him sound more Aztec-Indian warrior than dirty South rapper), to the dramatic-overpowering-woman who tries to strong-arm Ye, emphasized by sounds of robotic movements and heightened by symphony violins in ‘Robocop.’ It's hilarious hearing him compare 'the baddest girl he ever seen' to a killing machine- who's 'up late night like she on patrol' (It can only make you wonder about Alexis). Combining unusual sound qualities such as strings with gun blasts and Tyrannosaurus Rex noises makes for a surreal listening experience.

The cosmic-collegiate teddy bear persona went full fledged grizzly, especially on ‘See You in my Nightmare’ where he and Lil' Wayne lick their wounds and annoyingly growl out at the women who hurt them.

This album most definitely deviates from the fun-time, skirt-chasing, youthful Yeezy. He morphed his trauma into triumph amazingly.

'What's My Age Again?'

'Confusion is a word we have invented for an order which is not yet understood.' -Henry Miller

It amazes me how time passes. One second it’s the morning, you blink, then it’s dusk, you sleep and it’s day again. I know ‘time flies’ is very cliché, but it’s so damn true. Yesterday, I turned 23. Just 365 (yester)days ago, I turned 22-and I recall that ‘yesterday’ like it happened today. For some reason, I always come across a cloud of sadness when my birthday arrives. My twenty-second birthday was the loneliest birthday ever. A gloomy haze fogged my spirit. I felt like I couldn’t see where I was going, nor did I know where I wanted to go. As a result, I declined going out for drinks and rejected numerous dinner proposals. Feeling detached, my mental state, and irritable attitude would not have made me very pleasant company. It was like I put myself in solitary confinement but I couldn’t understand why. You may be thinking 'is she mentally ill?' I’m not…or at least I don’t think I am. Simply put, I wasn’t in the mood to ‘celebrate.’ Another year knocked off of my time on Earth, and I still couldn't pinpoint my purpose.

'Yay, 22 and I don’t know what the fuck I want out of life-Cheers!’ No thanks.

Perplexity was something I refused to 'toast' to.

So I drove aimlessly around Manhattan. There was a crisp wind and the sky was dim. I ended up wandering uptown and driving around the upper-east side. It started to rain and the sky faded into a gloomy darkness. The weather was a direct reflection of the way I felt-lonely, cold, and obscure. It was like that very wind was blowing right through the middle of my body. I felt like I needed SOMETHING to look for-something to fill that void I felt. SOMETHING to cover that gaping hole. To top it off, I was still not completely 'over' my ex at the time. The fact that he had not called me on my birthday was like a dagger in my stomach.
So, as a fix for my damaged spirit, I did what any diva-in-distress would do:

Go Shopping.

The shoe department at Marshalls on 125th Street on a Saturday evening was an eyesore. My brown Ralph Lauren loafers were run into the ground, so I thought a replacement pair would make me feel better. Typically I treat myself to something ‘new’ when the birthday rolls around. It’s not necessarily something big or flashy, but just something. When I came up empty-handed, I realized it wouldn’t. But I continued to search the women's shoes wasteland-lost and disoriented. My estranged lover finally reached out during my search for something to fill the gaping hole in my heart. Realizing that I would probably feel hollow and sad for the remainder of my birthday, I drove down Central Park West, parked my car, and sat there: crying.

Now let me fast-forward to THIS birthday.

All in all, it was better. Mentally, I’m in a better place this year. No more lingering emotions or heart strings tied up to be played like a guitar. With a new job and a new outlook on guys, I celebrated with a small housewarming party at my new apartment. Because my actual B-day fell on a Monday, the celebration took place on Saturday. The theme was ‘23 Shades of Pink.’ This was inspired by the idea of bringing in the ‘new’ (birth-year, dwelling, lifestyle) with the most important thing we have:

Love.

The décor was exactly the way I envisioned it. Pink-lighting, draping fabric, and carefully placed tea-lights gave it a sensual vibe: think Aphrodite in a Moroccan village. Yet, the chocolate cupcakes, shortbread cookies and pink-cocktail punch created the sweet and innocent balance. Cool people, candles and iTunes filled my space. My friends, my baby-sister, fraternity brothers and sorors all came to show me love. I got dolled-up in a black spandex-tank-mini-dress, fuschia Indian bracelets, baby-pink fishnets, and bright pink lipstick while I played hostess for the first time, in a long time. My hair was fabulous-I got some gift cards (greatly appreciated), had the most delicious red-velvet ice-cream cake, courtesy of ColdStone. People who came through also brought bottles so I ended up with a lot of extra liquor in my crib. The party was not the ‘event of the century’ however, it was enjoyable and relaxing. Definitely better than sitting in the rain, alone, crying and not knowing why.

And just when I thought that black rain-cloud that came on November 17th was left in the past...

It made a comeback.

I don’t know if it was the return of the ‘birthday blues’-the same gloom I experienced on my previous birthday or maybe it was just PMS. Whatever the diagnosis, I felt like shit. I took off of work, stayed home and got my house back in order with the help of my little sister, whom I affectionately refer to as ‘Onion.’ (To be pronounced with a French-accent) My annoyance began at midnight when my phone began blowing up with ‘Happy Birthday’ text-messages. I know this is 2008 and people type and send just about everything the mouth can say. Hell, I do it too-it’s convenient and talking on the phone for hours isn’t as fun as it used to be when I was 15. HOWEVER, ‘Happy Birthday’ is just not something people should express in a text-message. At least NOT TO ME.

I woke up disgruntled to several ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” text messages. The multiple !!!!!!!!!’s made me feel like I was being yelled at. I mean, is it that difficult to call someone on their birthday? I can READ-I know it’s my birthday, but what makes you think I want to read it? Certain things you just don’t say via text-message. It’s just bad protocol-for example, breaking up with your gf or bf … trying to explain why you stood someone up…wishing me a ‘Happy Birthday.’ It’s so lame. I just think that such a personal and supposedly ‘special day’ deserves a phone-call. Even my three-year old niece can just type a message. Maybe I’m crazy, but I found myself getting angry with every ‘Happy Birthday’ I read. Some people didn’t even get a response.

Am I wrong for feeling 'a way' about getting corny text-'happy birthdays?'

I don't know. Perhaps it's anxiety that naturally comes with age. Maybe it's just me busting my brains to figure out if I'm where I should be in life. Maybe it's my internal fears and issues with separation. Or maybe it's the fact that everyone hypes up birthdays and I just don't understand why. Maybe I'll never understand why. But, whatever it is-it always turns out fine and I can only be grateful to see another year.

Thank you Mom for birthing me. Thank you God, for making me. And thank you all who called me and said something to bring some sunshine to the black, birthday-rain-cloud.

And a special thank-you to Shambo. She saved my birthday. Slate+ Home+White Zinfindel+ a good ass DJ= Good times..

Cheers!

11.5.08

We wonder why things are not en route.
So we rush and we fear, question and doubt.
But, when we further examine, it’s a simple fact.
Patience is a virtue-the ability to step back.
Let time take its course and we’ll discover what we lack.
Don’t be deceived by the unchanging tide.
Life is but a journey - a momentary ride.
If Change hasn’t come,
Than it’s bound to arrive
It may not be tomorrow or when you expect.
The chime of the clock, we can only respect.
If its not here, than it’s not time-yet.
Just wait a little longer, maintain a faithful stride.
And before you realize it, in the blink of an eye.
There it is.
The tide has turned and brought about a new win.
The painstaking wait has come to an end
An undiscovered path is clear in our lens.
And a new begins.

'Thoughts on Obama'

The superior man is modest in his speech, but exceeds in his actions.

-Confucius

So, I'm not going to tell any of you to 'vote' because I'm sick and tired of getting text-messages, seeing buttons, and being pressed by others to 'Barack the Vote.' I AM DAMNIT! I swear, if one more person tells me to 'vote' I just might swing on them.

But, let me not be so negative.

Today is indeed a historic day and I truly hope that Senator Barack Obama does win this election. Aside from his prestigious degree, political credentials and undeniable swag, that man has soul. Even when he's just sitting there, his whole aura is ridiculously cool. Not even DIDDY was able to sell people on voting with his 'Vote or Die' slogan, circa 2004 (probably because nobody REALLY knew what the hell it meant).

Obama on the other hand, has a message with meaning. Even more impressively, he has built about as much brand equity and global recognition as Nike. EVERYBODY knows his name, his face, and his message. Any media outlet that you can name has Barack Obama covered in it. He's like the new, Black Che Guevara: iconic.

The refreshing thing about Obama is the positivity attached to his image. No matter how many slanderous things are said about him, or how many punches are thrown, his supporters recognize his resiliency. This brother simply brushes the dirt off of his shoulders and sticks to the script. When you're a man on a mission to repair a damaged nation, who has time to entertain the haters? Not him. He has broken the poorly characterized prototype for the Black man- a segment of people in our society that has carried a negative stigma since our people were enslaved and brought here. But Obama is not the typical modern Black icon. Embodying honesty, ethics, practicality and power with modesty and graciousness is a rarity. He is an anomaly in his own right, being a Black man who has become a role-model for the youth, outside of the sports & entertainment industries. A politician-a change agent-an intellectual. He has glamourized politics and made it irresistable: sexy even (ladies would agree).

Listening to his interview with Ed Lover yesterday morning, I realized why people take to him-he simplified and identified with the people. Period. He is someone we can all relate to and we feel we can trust. His candid answer to the 'why should you become the next US president' question revealed his clarity on the real issues at hand. No samba-dancing around the questions and no political garble thrown in to confuse people. Obama said 'I know how to bring people together'-and that's no lie. He has raised the most money in history, registered the most new voters and built a brand name for himself while running a flawless campaign in a matter of months, to prove it.

There is no doubt about it-from Jay-Z to Julia Roberts, this man has a nation backing him: supporting his philosophy, believing in his promises, and rooting for him to succeed in re-Uniting the States with the rest of the world, who have probably outlawed red-necks and apple pies by now. In the global scheme, even foreigners who don't speak a lick of English, want him to win. This morning in the Metro NY daily paper, statistics showed over 80% of foreign people support Obama.

He keeps it real, he keeps it simple, and he relates to us all. He has established emotional connections with people by reaching out and he knows how to provide logical solutions to big problems. The courage, the charisma and the humanism he has exhibited is why he has quickly become a world favorite. People have faith in him and truly feel he has the ability to bring about CHANGE.

I personally like him because he is human and puts it on the table. He brings out his family, he plays basketball with his boys, and he is unapologetic about it. People sense the realism and although I'm sure he has a flaw or two, he's the type of man that would have the dignity to be honest about it. It is what it is when it comes to him. And even he experienced the unprecedented death of a loved one-his grandmother. My grandmother died too, but I wasn't trying to win a presidential election the next day. That, his little girls, and his genuine and open display of affection for Michelle all contributes to his humanism. It shows that 'he's one of us.'

So, why am I REALLY voting for Obama? Because he's Black, of course! Na, I'm joking. The color of his skin is only part of the reason. And yes I emphasize that his racial background is part of the reason. It's only natural to identify with someone who knows your struggle. But I wouldn't vote for any-old Black person just because they're Black-because some of us are just downright ignorant-especially when in a position of power. Jessie Jackson is a prime example. He says some dumb things and his actions are not characteristic of an effective leader-and I felt this way long before he made that embarassing comment about 'chopping Obama's n*ts off.' Such a damn fool...

McCain's team has exhausted their options. The commercials they've been running on Fox, BASHING Obama by showing clips of Pastor Jeremiah Wright, was living proof. Again, focusing on irrelevant shit which Obama did not say. From the last time I checked, Obama was not openly endorsing the racial comments made by his Pastor. And Obama has no control over the next man's mouth-no matter how much influence he may have. McCain is pathetic and so are his ads. They have all been so 1990's with his whole angle-even his production was trashy. I mean, if you're going to spend all that blasted money on anti-Bama ads, at least have better substance than 5-month old news. We already know what Wright's senial behind said-THANKS! And even with the Republics coming at him from all of the negative angles, Obama maintained his composure, never changing his modest and positive position.

And as for Sarah Palin...? The real question is who or what actually lives in the State of Alaska besides baby seals? I saw that chick in OK! Magazine with her signature 'rimless frames,' her Paul Mitchell-hair and...wait, let me compose myself. Some GOLD-EARRINGS IN THE SHAPE OF THE STATE OF ALASKA!

Just when you thought Tina Fey was enough.

She ain't no different from a bird from East-Flatbush wearing a name-plate that says 'Keisha' if you ask me. This is the very reason why politics have to be so stern-or else you give people petty things to talk about in their blogs. The earrings were 'cute' and would have been acceptable if she was applying for a job as an Art teacher. But, VP? Of the US? Come on Sarah-that's way too ghetto..

That's all I have to say. May the best man win...

'Out of Spite'

'When we see men of a contrary character, we should turn inwards and examine ourselves.'

-Confucious

Let's face it: we can't like everybody. I'm sure there's at least one person that you can't stand . They get under your skin and you want to slit their throat; or hit them with a big-yellow-bus; or smack them with a sack of nickels. You don’t wish death upon them (I hope) but you just want to do mean things to them sometimes. They are annoying, spiteful and you don’t like them. There is always tension when in their presence. I’m sure you remember the movie ‘Aladdin’-it happens to be my favorite Disney movie. It's the tale of the young, vagabond Arabian boy who has a reverse in fortune, stumbles upon a 'magic lamp,' gets three-wishes and falls in love with a Princess, but not without a struggle, of course. Jafar, the evil 'royal advisor' to the King, did everything in his power to try to kill Aladdin. Jafar was a deceptive, sly and crafty hater and Aladdin the hero-just trying to survive and do the right thing. Like the naive, good-hearted hero We all have, or will encounter a 'Jafar,' or 'enemy' at some point in time.

The building I work in contains a few prominent company's offices. The lobby is beautiful: it has marble floors, Romanesque pillars and towering ceilings-like a New York version of Aladdin's palace. Upon entering this ‘palace of work,’ the guards (doormen) check the servant’s (employees) ID’s. Many ‘Kings’ (CEO’s, CFO’s) are housed under the palace, so naturally, it is their duty to ensure that only loyal servants and welcomed visitors are entering (gotta protect the Kingdom from ‘intruders’).

This is understandable-but what I do not understand is why they feel the need to re-check every freaking time the same people who have been working here for the past 20- years, comes in and out. Gotta smoke a cigarette? ‘ID please.’ Going to grab a turkey sandwich? ‘ID please.’ Going out to breathe air? ‘ID please.’ Your computer caught on fire? ‘ID please.’ Do people just change identities every time they step through the revolving door or what? What is the big deal? I mean, they don’t even really ‘check’ the ID. It could be stolen and they wouldn’t even know. It’s a half-a-second interaction when an employee walks in and flashes it to the doorman. So, why am I making such a big deal out of it? Because-it’s annoying. I have to slow-down, search through that jungle of a purse of mine and recover the little ‘ID holder’ from the deep crevasses, messing up my manicure. I would like to just walk straight to the elevators. Commuting to work in the morning is already a grueling journey-so why add more complication?


There happens to be one doorman, in particular who irks my nerves. He actually looks like a fat-Puerto-Rican version of Jafar, minus the Arab-garb. His grim nature, his abuse of fake-ass authority and even his dark eyebrows all scream vindictive. If I had a magic lamp, I would probably ask the genie to turn him into a little bug so I could step on him. He epitomizes the word ‘jerk.’ I don’t know his name but in my mind, he will always be Jafar-the spiteful doorman who hates on the FreshPrincess.

I often venture out for lunch with my co-buddies (very cool co-workers-actually they’re more like friends now) and I tend to leave my ID in the office. Not always on purpose, but sometimes it is. I just don’t feel like carrying a damn ID with me all the time. It’s stupid.

One day, we happened to be coming back from taking a 30-minute walk around Tribeca and I didn’t have it on me. This has happened several times, and he always says, ‘you need to always have your ID on you’ as if he would execute me the next time I didn't. If he wasn’t such a dick and didn’t take walking around with an ID so damn seriously, I wouldn’t even be telling this story. If he was a little more polite and showed more humility, I would have no problem bringing my ID with me. But he’s not nice, so, I always ignore him, or make a cutting comment and fill out the ‘visitor pass thing’ which takes longer than just flashing the ID. But I don’t care. Who is he to tell me that I HAVE to walk around with a picture of myself with the company’s name below it? He’s not the boss of ME. Not even my mother is the boss of me. So, after filling out the pass he had the nerve to say ‘if you don’t have it one more time, I’m going to tell your supervisor.’

EXCUSE ME???

So, the inner-rebel reared its ugly head just because he thought he had dominion. ‘Oh PLEASE,’ I said while storming off and ripping up the visitor pass and tossing it on the lobby floor- similar to the scene in 'Aladdin' when Princess Jasmine refused to marry Jafar. I guess it’s the ‘I’ll show you’ subconscious way of striking back. ‘Who does that bum think he is?’ I asked my co-buddies. A Princess shouldn’t have to carry around ID-for what? I couldn’t believe the nerve of that guy.

So now, when I walk in the doors, and Mr. Jerk-in-a-box happens to be there, I don’t look at him, or if I do, I make sure I look at him like he is the scum of this Earth and cut my eyes extra-hard with my nose in the air. I also make sure I conveniently drop pieces of paper as I’m walking past him as well. Is that petty? Yes-it is. But, again, I don’t care. Ever since he made that idol threat, he has become my unofficial enemy.

And I think I will continue to battle with this.

Confucious, the great Chinese philosopher challenged me today. Seeing the flaws of 'Jafar,' and evaluating the way I respond made me realize something. Don't be like Jafar the doorman. My 'mini-retaliations,' no matter how small and short lived they are, are not who I am. Actions speak volumes about who we are as individuals-and I'm better than that. I actually feel a little embarassed for letting him get to me-but it's ok. I accept my imperfections and I forgive myself. In the same token, I also recognize it's the inner-strength, and the recognition of his 'Jafar-esque traits' which put me on the defense. I was taught to be a respectful, humble, and socially responsible woman. But war-mode is when my formidablly cunning, zealous and arrogant alter-ego surfaces.

But, let's be realistic.

There are only about two people in this world who I 'don't like.' (Ok, maybe about four) Nevertheless, I pray for them at night too. I'll even pray for Jafar and ask God to bless him with better people skills. Wishing bad on people is something I never do: spite is never rewarded.

However, I'm only human-fully equipped with mood swings, bad mornings, monthly cramps, and other little issues. So I probably will continue to leave my ID whenever I fucking feel like it, and continue to roll my eyes here and there, and drop trash in front of him on occassion. But I will make a concious, Confucian effort to not let him effect my being; and carry myself like the Princess that I am.

Lord, help me...

'Cut-Friends'

'Who you lovin' who you wanna be huggin?'

-Lil' Kim

Friends. How many of us have them? No no no..not ‘Nikki, Lil’Reg, Lisa, or Kim and them..’ Nor your poker buddies or your club-crew. I mean the ‘other’ type of friend. The friend that pops-up after the club and disappears before 8am. The friend that remains nameless; the friend that you keep to yourself..and you may only tell Lisa about because Kim talks too damn much. Yea. That friend. The call them when it’s 3:35am, you had several Tequila shots and you realized you have no one waiting for you between the sheets. The fun friend. The jump-off. The slide. The mistress. The mister-ess. The mystery. The side-piece. The d*ck-in-a-glass. The piece of ass. The ‘lil thang.’ Or, dare I say it? The ‘bust-it-baby?’ (Lord, help us).

'When the starting line-up ain't playin right, I come off the bench wit' her.'

-Fabolous

They may be special; they may be worthless; but they equally serve their purpose: and it isn’t your man and it’s not your lady. It seems like a universally accepted notion in the modern adult-world. When I was a little younger, and naive to the harsh realities of modern sexuality, I used to think sex without being emotionally and romantically tied was crazy. No ring? No-thing. ‘Friends with benefits? Huh?’ Yea. People do it: (literally) all of the time. I never knew a woman with any type of self-respect would accept a man under those terms. Just get it on and chit-chat and that’s that? Yup. That’s it. As I got older and more exposed to the ways of the world, I realized that people DO engage in those type of arrangements. Having friends and hearing their stories, hearing rumors, and even seeing my Uncle 'creep' with his mistress behind his wife's back. Side-pieces and sexual friends are as common as regular old bf's and gf's.

‘I’m not tryna’ give you love and affection..I’m tryna give you sixty-seconds of affection.’

-Jay-Z

This is nothing new. For centuries, concubines, mistresses and sexual 'flings' have been around. Now, it's just openly accepted and gives people a little more comfort in participating. Even musicians have been crooning about jump-off’s for a while now. ‘Secret Lovers; As We Lay; I Need You Tonight; Me and Mrs. Jones’-any of those ring a bell? While we have those traditional love songs about monogamy, matrimony, break-ups, and make-ups, it isn’t always so ‘picturesque’ in the world of romance..or should I say: sexin.’ We all are guilty of it-having that animalistic attraction to someone, while in that commitment to another, and having to fight temptation. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Some people deviate outside of their 'commitments' to get whatever they are not getting at home-be it affection, attention, or just conversation. Any need can be easily be taken care of by another. Those of us who don’t have that special someone, yet have those ‘gaps’ to fill, will venture out in search of the ‘quick fix.’ But, not TOO quick-because there are also songs about the disappointingly short ‘rendezvous.’ (Minute-man?)

‘If he knew the things I did, he couldn’t handle it.’

- TLC

There are ways of categorizing each and every person we have in our social circles. The 'cut-friend’ category was created for those somewhat significant people who we have some type of attraction to and take some liking for-but, both parties know that going past anything physical, just won’t work. One or both 'cutters' may already have a stable relationship; or, a cut-friend can literally be a good friend but there’s no desire for deeper commitment; you just have sex on occasion-and go about your business, living a single lifestyle-maybe even confiding in this person about other romantic interests. It's amazing. Mind body and spirit are separated in these arangements. There is the primary component of the physical and it may vary from case to case if the ‘mind’ and ‘spirit’ are intertwined in the mix. The other factors may complicate things-especially if one participant experiences the mind or the spirit more strongly than the other. Better known as ‘catching feelings’ -which can ruin the entire arrangement.

'Keep it on the down-low, nobody has to know'

-R. Kelly

So who does it? Who actually has ‘cut-friends?’ I sent questions out to a few of my close friends to get their take on the ‘cut-friend.’ Here is what they had to say:

What is a ‘cut-friend’?
‘In most cases "cut-friends" are 2 people who are afraid of having the boyfriend/girlfriend title. In turn, that relationship (cut-friends) becomes exclusive'

What’s the difference between a ‘prospect’ and a ‘jump-off?’
'Well a jump is someone u jus wanna mess wit but wouldn’t consider them ever to be a girl..whereas a prospect is just that'

‘Ummm well a jump situation is usually both ways..people who wanna fuck wit no strings..'

What is a mistress?

'A mistress is Delilah. She provide’s what Delilah gave Sampson-when a nigga want to just talk- she just listens. A main chick trying to build with you..like..let’s buy this house.. A mistress make it uncomplicated-it's more just sensual..let' talk. or let's suck... It's very to the point'

'They only the same as a mistress if u have a girl at the time...and they cool..u would mess wit them but never wife them up..'

Damn, is fidelity just non-existant? These responses made me wonder: what happened to honesty and true love? Commitment? I know the concept of creeping has been around since Biblical times, but I don't think it was this bad. Things have definately changed.

People just do whatever the hell they want to, and it's generally OK. From sexually exploring other guy's girlfriends to getting pregnant by married men: what a wicked place the romantic world can be! Just think about potential consequences. AIDS is a killer, Karma is a bitch and even R. Kelly got his ass whooped and stranded in the desert for 'jumping-off' with Mr. Bigg's girl.

Is it worth it...?

'Know Your Role.'

'Do you want some fish and grits? I'll hurry and go get it'- Jill Scott

Sunday is the day of rest. We recline and relax while reading or doing family activities. Some go to church and give thanks and praise to the Creator, while others go to ask for forgiveness for all of the sins committed the night before. While walking down Ashford Street, the wind blew and gently flounced my black ballerina skirt around my knees. The gusts threw the leaves like calm tornadoes. Brown, auburn and faded greens formed mini-wind-tunnels, like the ones from the movie 'Pocahontas.' A group of five little girls were playing near the curb and waiting for their mom and dad to cross the street. They had pretty little pig-tails and innocent chuckles which blew in the breeze. I soaked in the sun, the breeze, the trees and the people of East New York-and everything seemed so blissful. I continued my stroll and a group of adolescent boys in soiled football gear made their way towards me. It was a perfect Sunday for pop-warner football in one of the local fields. While walking, I smiled at the sight of two-Black families, unloading their cars and making their way into the housing-projects. Seeing a traditional family doing regular 'family-things' was a beautiful sight-even if the kids were getting yelled at. Everyone fulfills their role within the home.

On Sundays, I renounce my title as the 'Brooklyngypsy'-instead, I'm the ‘domestic diva.’ Stopping at a local grocery store to pick up a few items, I decided to cook dinner, do my laundry and tidy up my place. I actually felt an internal need to do the cooking and cleaning yesterday-even if it was only for myself. Growing up, this was a daily routine which I did not particularly care for-but now being a single-woman, I see the value in it. In casual conversation with male-friends, when I bring up the fact that I’m cooking myself dinner, I get gasps. 'You can COOK??' They ask in deisbelief. 'Of course I can cook. Ain't I a woman?' They respond as if I'm speaking Mandarin. I've even been accused of ‘lieing’ about it. I can’t tell you how many of my guy friends tell me that just about every woman that they meet nowadays, have no home-training. Not home-training as in ‘etiquette’ but literally, they don’t know anything about domestication. 'Really?’ I ask them, in bewilderment. As I‘ve spoken to more and more guys about it, I’ve noticed this pattern. From dirty apartments, to binging on fast-food because homegirl can’t even crack an egg. Hearing their horror stories actually made me feel sorry for them. ‘What is wrong with these chicks?’ I thought. But, slowly and surely, in 2008, women are breaking dishes, buying McDonald’s and living like bachelors. And men don’t like it.

From picking multiple-man brains, they feel the same about us women. Knowing how to cook-up a meal and how to keep a clean home is actually pretty important to men-not ALL, but MOST. Being a traditionalist at heart, I view it as a trade-off: if a guy can’t pay for my meal and hold the door for me, than he’s not going to be a good provider-and he's not worthy of my love. If a woman can't play her 'role' and do the things his mother can, than what type of wife would she be? Simple things are crucial. For instance, the minor actions such as pulling out my chair and paying for a nice dinner speak volumes about his character. Even if he isn't making a ton of paper, it shows that he can take-on manly roles, such as:

1) The PROVIDER-(making sure I eat and he has the means to pay for it)

&

2) A GENTLEMAN-(treating me with respect and making sure I’m safe is classy)

The simplistic gestures in the courtship process make up the bigger picture. A MAN will naturally do those things. It is standard protocol if you ask me. If you’re any type of ‘lady’ than you should have the same expectations. However- to you over-zealous, over-independent, controlling women out there, let’s not get it twisted. Having those expectations does not make you a ‘gold-digger.’ We all know that women (especially Black women) are making more money than many of our suitors, so if you think that it’s about spending another man’s money, you’re missing the point.We know we can pay for our own shit AND his if we had to-but, if men demonstrate their feelings/desires through actions (taking your independent ass out to eat) than we need to let them do that. The principle of sacrifice is important here. Real men also hate to feel emasculated. So if he offers to 'take you out' don't be a prick, pull out your debit card and over-insist on paying for the damn dinner. Don't fight with him to satisfy your ego-if he insists, kick back, and keep that fifty-dollars in your account girl! Let that MAN feel like a MAN; it's actually important to him. As women, we have so many roles to fulfill this day in age-hell, it’s the least they can do.

Given that, it is only fair that a man seeks out similar things in a woman. If a female can’t feed herself, make her bed and cross-her legs in public, than how is she supposed to be able to nurture a family, take care of the home-duties when that time does come? The courtship process is ephemeral. A man is showing you his worthiness-and once you get together and he locks you down…well, we all know how that goes. Things naturally change (sometimes for the worse). Nonetheless, a good MAN will always treat you well and value you, however, there aren’t as many ‘courtship activities’ like Red-Lobster four times a week. The woman begins to take on more relationship responsibility. And even if you're not ready to cook or wash dishes for the guy you are dating, having the skills are still essential: at least for yourself.

Personally, I won't do domestic things for a man unless he is MY MAN, a very-close friend or family. A home-cooked meal is an expression of love- I swear, when you cook with joy, the meal comes out tasting the way you felt when you made it. Yes, we are ALL 'busy' these days with work, school, partying and bullshitting. But come on now-even Beyonce makes time to cook for Jigga! And I don't think anyone has more shit to-do than her. Cleanliness should remain a priority-especially if you're inviting a man to your house. 'I don't have time to clean..' yea, whatever. Don't make excuses. We all make time for what we feel is important, and if you think a clean toilet and fresh panties are not- than you need to do some re-prioritizing. For real.

Why would any MAN want a woman who can’t put on her apron and fulfill that traditional role? Or a woman who can't work some pumps, with her head-high and feminine grace? It’s about reciprocity. The same way we want men to be have a job and provide, we have to be fabulous, too-(even moreso because MEN are biologically more visual creatures). I’m not knocking you sisters who don’t have cooking skills, or don't own a pair of high-heels. If you don't have at least one pair, I would strongly suggest that you go to Zappos.com. If you can't cook, you need to learn. Seriously. Go cop a Jill Scott CD, Youtube the 'Crazy in Love' video, and go watch your mother fry some chicken for a little modern-woman-inspiration. Just watch, listen and learn.

Guys...of course not ALL of you are 'up-to-par.' Many men that I have met don't know how to do a lot of 'manly' things, either. I remember I had to teach one of my fraternity-brothers how to PUMP GAS! The cheapness, the disrespect, the entitlement, the bitchassness, the laziness and the egos many of you throw at good women, are sad. If a man can't fix my flat-tire, or at least go get it fixed, he looks like less of a man in my eyes. At least take some initiative! I can understand why women wouldn't want to do anything domestic for your bum-asses. Some of you are just fucking losers. No, it's not your fault in entirety. Like women who don't know about 'catering to their man', guys who act like they can't respect a woman or hang a picture frame, were probably just never taught. How can you know your role, if you never learned it? So, I'm not judging you.

BUT, I will show you how.

Send me an anonymous e-mail, and I will personally respond to you with 'tips for a FreshPrince &/or FreshPrincess.' Free of charge. Anything you want to know about the opposite sex that you are romantically pursuing; from approaches, to dating advice, or if you just want to learn how to make fish-n-grits. I'm resourceful and will definitely give you a legit and true answer. I don't have a degree in this shit, but I'm here to help.

'Type-Itis'

‘Ooh you’re just my type-everything so right’- Lloyd

What’s your ‘type?’ Are you attracted to the intellectuals with a degree and professional clout? Or does the shy and sincere kind of guy tickle your fancy? Are you a leg man? Or are you drawn to dangerous curves on a splendid body? Perhaps, you prefer the domestic diva with a heart as warm as her fresh apple pies. Whether it’s a big butt and a smile, or an outgoing trendsetter who looks like they walked off of the pages of Vogue, there is something you like-your ‘ type.’ My rough definition of a ‘type’ is a set of characteristics that a person possesses that normally sparks our romantic curiosity. Most of us have a general idea of what we normally go for in man or woman. Some like them short, some prefer tall, some are infatuated with big-boobs while others are suckers for a beautiful face or a glorious mane of hair. Whether you consciously realize it or not, there are a pattern of traits which all people that you take or have taken interest in, possess. Take me for instance. I’m attracted to short-stature guys. YES, I’m serious. I’m about 5’6 and I prefer my men to be less than 6’0. Why, you ask? I don’t know. It’s just what I like. There’s something undeniably attractive about short, stocky well-dressed, chocolate complexioned men with dark features. I find myself breaking my neck to look every time I see a guy who fits this profile.

When you’re intrigued by your ‘type’ you just can’t help yourself. Your ‘type’ will stop you in your tracks, and tug on an inner-curiosity. The world seems to slow-down while you scope your ‘type’ in wonder. I’ve seen guys who have looked so good, that I found myself at a loss for words. It’s like being slapped in the face with honey and cotton-candy-that sweet and sudden shock triggers something in you that can't be explained. Guys tend to trip on sidewalks and embarrass themselves when a fine woman unexpectedly catches their attention. I even remember a guy getting into a fender-bender from looking my way a nano-second too long. But when you see your 'type,' you gotta look. You may be in a cocktail party, walking into McDonalds or driving to the corner store-they spring up at any random time, in a variety of places. You blink and all of a sudden all you can see is the sexy body, the school-boy grin, or the ‘je no se qua:’ you have been momentarily plagued by 'type-itis.'

I fell victim to the 'itis' this morning as the 3-train approached Utica Avenue. He was waiting for the 4-train on the platform, standing near the garbage can. Like a chocolate teddy graham in a bag of flour, he stood out. I knew immediately I was smitten with ‘type-it is’ when I began eyeing him like a sirloin steak. I exited the 3 train and stood diagonally across from him. The train was still not there. His skin was like Hershey’s milk-chocolate; his eyebrows were full and his lips thick like a milkshake. His hair was jet black and lay perfectly to his head with a clean-edge up. This attractive young man had every element in place to perfection; the mini-checkered hunter-green and white dress shirt covered by a brown wool argyle three-button cardigan vest and topped off with a crimson colored tie. His dark denim pants were fitted with the perfect amount of spacing that a hetero-sexual man should have, and he had a one-inch cuff at the bottom. He completed his look with brown leather shoes and an espresso colored shoulder bag. His style was reminiscent of Ralph Lauren with an Andre 3000 twist- very dapper and well-put together. After closely noting all of the detail, I made my ruling: MY TYPE. Not only was this man physically fine but he was also very stylish-and didn't come across as gay. He retained an aura of sophisticated masculinity, that most men just don’t have these days.

The one-morning that I happened to see Mr. Debonair, I was looking like a dried-up piece of crumb cake. I had my hair in a tight, little bun, with a blue puff-sleeved shirt, some gold-dangling earrings and a black and white checkered scarf. I actually felt self-conscious while I was noting the magnificent details of this fine man. ‘I could have at least put on my eye-liner!’ I thought to myself. ‘He probably thinks I’m some average chick.’ I quickly erased the insecure thoughts and maintained my swagger. What you wear, no matter how superficial this may seem, does speak a lot about who you are as a person-in the same light, self-assurance, confidence, and elegance will always outshine any get-up. I concluded that the guy was ‘polished, stylish, and sophisticated’ all from his attire and his demure. Could I be wrong? Of course. However, the detail and color-combinations of his rig showed that he had an eye for styling, even if he was a jerk.

The 4-train finally approached Utica Avenue, and I glanced at him. Not catching eyes with me, he looked briefly and continued to look straight ahead. We boarded and he was standing by the doors, in perfect eyesight. Despite my disdain for my Wednesday ‘get-up’ I decided to look continue to try to make eye-contact with him. ‘I don’t look THAT bad’ I thought while checking my face in my little pink mirror. I noticed he was holding a book at his right side- which made him that much more alluring. A handsome, short, sharp brother with good skin who reads books?! I had to get his attention; for ego’s sake.

And then, it happened, at Franklin Avenue. The train stopped, the angels started singing, the bells started ringing and the train doors were dinging.

We caught eyes.

He looked at me and I was already looking dead in his face. I don’t know if the moment was suspended in time or if it really was as long as it felt. But, the way my ‘type’ gazed at me, while licking his succulent lips made me think that maybe, I was his ‘type’ as well. I felt butterflies going full speed in the pit of my stomach for a good five seconds when we caught eyes. I got the chills and finally looked down like a school-girl, while he was still looking at me. ‘YES!’ I thought as I felt my heart skip a beat and my pulse rise. I kept looking up at the train map and glanced consistently in his direction. Passengers who got on at the stop were obstructing my view. I watched even more intently. ‘Is he still looking this way?’ I wondered. ‘Damn, I wish they would move,’ I thought as everyone seemed to cover him from eye-view. His neck was turned back towards me and I saw his neatly tapered hairline facing me. Fighting back a girly grin, I was blushing with that nostalgic feeling that my second grade crush had given me 15 years ago. He was definitely looking my way.

Atlantic Avenue was where this fantasy ride ended. I was hoping that he was getting off to let people behind him off but he had reached his final destination. Damn. New York is a very large place- but I'm sure I'll experience 'type-itis' once again.

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...