Spring has finally arrived! I am experiencing seasons for the first time since I was 13, and I have come to the conclusion that I'm not a big fan of Winter, but I love me some Spring.
Goodbye long red, mohair coat that Missmo bought me when I was in college and I used to wear once a year but is now so worn that it's developing bald spots! Hello denim jacket!
Goodbye forlorn-looking naked trees! Hello little white blossoms that I don't think are cherry blossoms but are pretty nonetheless!
Goodbye knee-high boots that my mom bought me in December because I did not own footwear that was appropriate for winter and now have the nail sticking out of the left heel! Hello open-toed sandals!
Goodbye metro ride to the stop five blocks away because it's too fucking cold to walk that far in my boots with the nail sticking out of the heel! Hello mid-day refreshing city strolls!
Goodbye heavy pant suits! Hello skirt suits, although panythose suck!
Goodbye black and grey and maroon and dark and heavy! Hello pink and blue and yellow and orange and light and airy!
However, I must admit, I am still craving the sunshine on my shoulders. Two more weeks!
Friday, March 30, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
a dear sir letter
Dear Sir,
Sometimes, like today, I get to thinking about you and I get so mad that I want to spit. That was really helpful of you to totally throw me away when I was 16 just because my teenage angst was a little more involved than other's. Just so you know, a lot of that angst was your fault anyway. Also, it was extremely helpful the way you made a cameo appearance back into my life when I was 22. And to think, I got all excited over a fucking breakfast and some greasy ass diner at 6 a.m. As if that would erase the years of damage you had already done. It didn't matter anyway, because as soon as the issue of money came up, even though I wasn't asking you for anything and I've never asked you for a goddamned thing (I can't help it if my mother wants to stick you for everything you've got - must be some shit that goes all the way back since before I was born and has nothing to do with me), you disappeared out of my life again. For good this time, I presume. It was also very helpful the way you've managed to make your other children, with whom I grew up and knew since they were babies, disappear from my life as well. All of these things were very helpful to my healthy development into a young woman.
Asshole.
Other times, I just get too tired of being pissed off any more. Fuck it. Being angry never got me anywhere. Also, I take great pride in knowing that I am so much more than you ever were or ever will be. You're nothing, brother. A nobody in this world, and you'll never be anybody. And me? I made it. I'm educated. I'm fucking brilliant, actually, and the future's so fucking bright that I gotta wear shades.
But then I'll have a day like today, when I looked at recent pictures of your youngest daughter that I found on myspace, saw her looking healthy and smiling and pretty. I regretted that my bond with her is so broken because of you that I couldn't even e-mail her to tell her how pretty she is. But most of all, I wondered, how come you love her but not me?
Funny how I'm the most successful out of all your children, yet you couldn't even give a shit.
Funny how I'm not sure I will attend your funeral.
Sincerely,
The Biggest Mistake You Ever Made
Sometimes, like today, I get to thinking about you and I get so mad that I want to spit. That was really helpful of you to totally throw me away when I was 16 just because my teenage angst was a little more involved than other's. Just so you know, a lot of that angst was your fault anyway. Also, it was extremely helpful the way you made a cameo appearance back into my life when I was 22. And to think, I got all excited over a fucking breakfast and some greasy ass diner at 6 a.m. As if that would erase the years of damage you had already done. It didn't matter anyway, because as soon as the issue of money came up, even though I wasn't asking you for anything and I've never asked you for a goddamned thing (I can't help it if my mother wants to stick you for everything you've got - must be some shit that goes all the way back since before I was born and has nothing to do with me), you disappeared out of my life again. For good this time, I presume. It was also very helpful the way you've managed to make your other children, with whom I grew up and knew since they were babies, disappear from my life as well. All of these things were very helpful to my healthy development into a young woman.
Asshole.
Other times, I just get too tired of being pissed off any more. Fuck it. Being angry never got me anywhere. Also, I take great pride in knowing that I am so much more than you ever were or ever will be. You're nothing, brother. A nobody in this world, and you'll never be anybody. And me? I made it. I'm educated. I'm fucking brilliant, actually, and the future's so fucking bright that I gotta wear shades.
But then I'll have a day like today, when I looked at recent pictures of your youngest daughter that I found on myspace, saw her looking healthy and smiling and pretty. I regretted that my bond with her is so broken because of you that I couldn't even e-mail her to tell her how pretty she is. But most of all, I wondered, how come you love her but not me?
Funny how I'm the most successful out of all your children, yet you couldn't even give a shit.
Funny how I'm not sure I will attend your funeral.
Sincerely,
The Biggest Mistake You Ever Made
Saturday, March 24, 2007
runnin' through the ghetto
Today is the National Marathon. I didn't know it until I woke up this morning and it was all over the news, and all of the sudden, I saw my neighborhood on t.v. Turns out that as part of the H Street Revitalization Movement, the last two miles of the marathon are through my hood.
Being the novice runner that I am, I felt compelled to get dressed and go outside and cheer them on, especially when the newscaster was like "It's the spectators that are on H Street that are really helping these runners get through the last two miles." So I went outside at 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and screamed and clapped at each runner who went by. It was fun. I yelled things like "Go 'head girl!" and "Welcome to H Street!" and "Lookin' good! You're almost there!" and "22 miles down! Wooooo!"
There were hundreds of H Street residents on the sidewalks acting as spectators. You could tell which ones were the newer residents and which ones have lived here for decades. The new ones, like me, were cheering. The long-time residents, those who lived in this area and saw it under siege during the riots of '68 and called it home despite the violent reputation it maintained for years, stood there baffled. I caught a piece of a conversation between two long-time residents that I think summed up their sentiment: "They got these people runnin' through the ghetto."
Ghetto or no ghetto, this is my neighborhood now too, and I never knew it before this morning, but I'm growing kind of fond of it. "Welcome to H Street," I told the runners. And I meant what I was saying. I was truly welcoming them to my neighborhood.
Being the novice runner that I am, I felt compelled to get dressed and go outside and cheer them on, especially when the newscaster was like "It's the spectators that are on H Street that are really helping these runners get through the last two miles." So I went outside at 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and screamed and clapped at each runner who went by. It was fun. I yelled things like "Go 'head girl!" and "Welcome to H Street!" and "Lookin' good! You're almost there!" and "22 miles down! Wooooo!"
There were hundreds of H Street residents on the sidewalks acting as spectators. You could tell which ones were the newer residents and which ones have lived here for decades. The new ones, like me, were cheering. The long-time residents, those who lived in this area and saw it under siege during the riots of '68 and called it home despite the violent reputation it maintained for years, stood there baffled. I caught a piece of a conversation between two long-time residents that I think summed up their sentiment: "They got these people runnin' through the ghetto."
Ghetto or no ghetto, this is my neighborhood now too, and I never knew it before this morning, but I'm growing kind of fond of it. "Welcome to H Street," I told the runners. And I meant what I was saying. I was truly welcoming them to my neighborhood.
Monday, March 19, 2007
he's straight hood, yo
Yesterday, I was sitting outside with Dougie, talking on the phone, when all of the sudden he thought it appropriate to charge a man walking on the sidewalk, jump up on the fence separating him from the target of his barking attack, and hop up and down. This happens sometimes, I guess when there's something about the person that he doesn't like, but I don't condone this behavior at all. As a matter of a fact, when he acts like that, I scream at him and clap my hands and demand that he "GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!" and he always quickly complies with my orders.
So last night he started with the charging, and I started with the screaming. Usually the person he is harassing will throw his or her arms up and make a bee line across the street whilst yelling something along the lines of "You betta get yo' dog," or "HELP!" But not this particular man. This man reached into his coat pocket, presumably grabbing his gat because I live in a neighborhood where it would be expected that many people pack, and screamed right back and Dougie. I was actually really pissed. Like, what the fuck man? You're gonna shoot my dog? And his screaming at Dougie only further aggravated Dougie who continued to bark and ignored my orders. And the man just stood there with his hand in his pocket, bellowing at my dog. So finally I was like "Dude, don't encourage him," and the guy walked off, and Dougie finally got back on the porch, wagging his tail and totally oblivious to the fact that he just almost got a cap in his ass.
Dougie. Almost getting shot in NE DC. Because he's hood like that.
So last night he started with the charging, and I started with the screaming. Usually the person he is harassing will throw his or her arms up and make a bee line across the street whilst yelling something along the lines of "You betta get yo' dog," or "HELP!" But not this particular man. This man reached into his coat pocket, presumably grabbing his gat because I live in a neighborhood where it would be expected that many people pack, and screamed right back and Dougie. I was actually really pissed. Like, what the fuck man? You're gonna shoot my dog? And his screaming at Dougie only further aggravated Dougie who continued to bark and ignored my orders. And the man just stood there with his hand in his pocket, bellowing at my dog. So finally I was like "Dude, don't encourage him," and the guy walked off, and Dougie finally got back on the porch, wagging his tail and totally oblivious to the fact that he just almost got a cap in his ass.
Dougie. Almost getting shot in NE DC. Because he's hood like that.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
ode to pop-pop
Lately I've been pretty emotional about things. I don't know what it is. I'm certainly not unhappy. My 2007 Action Plan is working out marvelously, and my horoscope keeps telling me that great things are going to happen soon in my career and love life. But things like a discussion about walking a ten-minute mile will make me irrationally pissed off* and reading this this 93-year-old man's blog post about his grandfather makes my heart totally break in a thousand pieces. Perhaps it's because it's the middle of the month, or perhaps all this exercise and organic food is making me a bitch/crybaby. I'm not sure.
*Special note to she on the other side of that discussion: I Googled it the next day. Irrational, I know. But seriously, you should start training for the Olympics because there is actually an event called racewalking and they walk 6-minute miles. Also, I love you.
Anyway, that blog made me start thinking about my own grandfather, Pop-Pop. And how he would sit in their old boxy Cadillac in the Marshalls parking lot while my grandmother, Mom-Mom, would spend five hours inside, carefully selecting ankle-length prairie skirts that she would ultimately never wear and sandals that she would complain irritated her hammer toes* until she retired them three years later. Sometimes he would sleep, sometimes he would read the paper, sometimes he would just listen to Frank Sinatra and probably reminisce about when my Mom-Mom was a hot young blonde with Angelina Jolie lips and Hollywood dreams, before the kids and the mortgage and the alcoholism.
*Not even sure what hammer toes are and not sure I want to know.
I'm sure those five hours were always incredibly boring. I'm sure he would much rather have been fishing, or watching the 9-inch black-and-white television in their kitchen, or playing with his grandkids. But he never complained. Not even once. And she shopped a lot. He did it to keep her happy, even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness, because she was his wife and he was her husband.
I think he spent their entire marriage keeping her happy at the expense of his own happiness. And I don't know if I could really say he was a better man for doing it. I really would rather him have been happy himself. But maybe he was. Maybe just seeing her happy made his world.
I'm sure that Mom-Mom would have never have made him sit the car again if it meant that he didn't have to leave her on May 6, 1994. In her last few years, everybody could see that she really missed him and didn't really know what to do with herself without him. When she left us ten years after Pop-Pop, I knew she was ready to find her husband, who was probably somewhere in the afterlife, sitting in a boxy Cadillac listening to Frank Sinatra, quietly waiting for her to finish what she was doing so he could take her home.
*Special note to she on the other side of that discussion: I Googled it the next day. Irrational, I know. But seriously, you should start training for the Olympics because there is actually an event called racewalking and they walk 6-minute miles. Also, I love you.
Anyway, that blog made me start thinking about my own grandfather, Pop-Pop. And how he would sit in their old boxy Cadillac in the Marshalls parking lot while my grandmother, Mom-Mom, would spend five hours inside, carefully selecting ankle-length prairie skirts that she would ultimately never wear and sandals that she would complain irritated her hammer toes* until she retired them three years later. Sometimes he would sleep, sometimes he would read the paper, sometimes he would just listen to Frank Sinatra and probably reminisce about when my Mom-Mom was a hot young blonde with Angelina Jolie lips and Hollywood dreams, before the kids and the mortgage and the alcoholism.
*Not even sure what hammer toes are and not sure I want to know.
I'm sure those five hours were always incredibly boring. I'm sure he would much rather have been fishing, or watching the 9-inch black-and-white television in their kitchen, or playing with his grandkids. But he never complained. Not even once. And she shopped a lot. He did it to keep her happy, even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness, because she was his wife and he was her husband.
I think he spent their entire marriage keeping her happy at the expense of his own happiness. And I don't know if I could really say he was a better man for doing it. I really would rather him have been happy himself. But maybe he was. Maybe just seeing her happy made his world.
I'm sure that Mom-Mom would have never have made him sit the car again if it meant that he didn't have to leave her on May 6, 1994. In her last few years, everybody could see that she really missed him and didn't really know what to do with herself without him. When she left us ten years after Pop-Pop, I knew she was ready to find her husband, who was probably somewhere in the afterlife, sitting in a boxy Cadillac listening to Frank Sinatra, quietly waiting for her to finish what she was doing so he could take her home.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
another douchebag story
When I was 17, my "boyfriend" (notice the quotation marks, please) waited for me to leave the room and asked Missmo for her phone number and suggested they hang out sometime sans me. Of course, Missmo immediately alerted me to the fact that I was dealing with a douchebag and that was the end of that. Because that, my friends, is a line that is never to be crossed. Lord hath mercy on he who crosseth that line.
It's not crossed very often, save for the few poor slobs who seriously think that there is a real possibility that Missmo and I are closeted lesbians, or worse, girls who kiss girls for attention, and have the audacity to seriously suggest a threesome. In the ten years that we've been friends, however, we've learned to shake that off. I mean, she's a good looking girl, and some like to say that I am as well. As they say, hate the game, not the player.
Recently, though, that line was crossed again by a guy down home with whom I made out like a year ago. We ran into him again at Benny's over Christmas vacation, and as is always the case, we threw a little afterparty at Missmo's place with a few of our friends. We invited him along for old time's sake, for him to promptly pass out sitting up in Missmo's chair, baseball cap and sneakers on and everything. Figuring that this was a good sign that he was too intoxicated to drive home, we left him to sleep it off, and when everybody else left, we went to bed and slept it off ourselves.
Now, anybody who is or knows a girl knows that girls have no problem sleeping in the same bed together. I even know some heterosexual men who have no problem sleeping in the same bed together, but I won't go there. I don't see really what the big deal is. When we woke up in the morning, the dude was gone, but he wasted no time sending us a text message (to Missmo's phone because mine was dead) that went like this:
"Hey - were you guys sleeping in the same bed last night? I should have jumped in between you guys."
Wha?
Not yet sure of the level of creepiness this text achieved, I responded sarcastically:
"Naw, then you would have interrupted our spooning and we would have been unhappy."
To which he responded:
"I wouldn't have interrupted! I luv spooning! Especially with two girls who are bringing sexy back!"
To which there was absolutely no response. "Luv?" "Sexy back?" For real?????? I wrote him off as a tool, and that was that.
Christmas vacation ended, and I went home. Missmo saw him out a couple weeks later, and being the polite and cordial girl that she is, said hello. We figured there was no harm in being friendly, so she would chat him up when she saw him out and we thought nothing of it.
That is, until one day, she received this text message:
"Anybody up for a mustache ride?"
Wha??? Is this even for real???? WHO SAYS THAT????
Needless to say, that was the line, he totally crossed it, and she hasn't seen or heard from him since. However, the text did land him a spot in the elite group of men that I will blog about, those who are such douches that I have no shame blathering their business to the internet.
So there you go. Another douchebag story. About a guy who once asked my best friend if she was up for a "mustache ride."
It's not crossed very often, save for the few poor slobs who seriously think that there is a real possibility that Missmo and I are closeted lesbians, or worse, girls who kiss girls for attention, and have the audacity to seriously suggest a threesome. In the ten years that we've been friends, however, we've learned to shake that off. I mean, she's a good looking girl, and some like to say that I am as well. As they say, hate the game, not the player.
Recently, though, that line was crossed again by a guy down home with whom I made out like a year ago. We ran into him again at Benny's over Christmas vacation, and as is always the case, we threw a little afterparty at Missmo's place with a few of our friends. We invited him along for old time's sake, for him to promptly pass out sitting up in Missmo's chair, baseball cap and sneakers on and everything. Figuring that this was a good sign that he was too intoxicated to drive home, we left him to sleep it off, and when everybody else left, we went to bed and slept it off ourselves.
Now, anybody who is or knows a girl knows that girls have no problem sleeping in the same bed together. I even know some heterosexual men who have no problem sleeping in the same bed together, but I won't go there. I don't see really what the big deal is. When we woke up in the morning, the dude was gone, but he wasted no time sending us a text message (to Missmo's phone because mine was dead) that went like this:
"Hey - were you guys sleeping in the same bed last night? I should have jumped in between you guys."
Wha?
Not yet sure of the level of creepiness this text achieved, I responded sarcastically:
"Naw, then you would have interrupted our spooning and we would have been unhappy."
To which he responded:
"I wouldn't have interrupted! I luv spooning! Especially with two girls who are bringing sexy back!"
To which there was absolutely no response. "Luv?" "Sexy back?" For real?????? I wrote him off as a tool, and that was that.
Christmas vacation ended, and I went home. Missmo saw him out a couple weeks later, and being the polite and cordial girl that she is, said hello. We figured there was no harm in being friendly, so she would chat him up when she saw him out and we thought nothing of it.
That is, until one day, she received this text message:
"Anybody up for a mustache ride?"
Wha??? Is this even for real???? WHO SAYS THAT????
Needless to say, that was the line, he totally crossed it, and she hasn't seen or heard from him since. However, the text did land him a spot in the elite group of men that I will blog about, those who are such douches that I have no shame blathering their business to the internet.
So there you go. Another douchebag story. About a guy who once asked my best friend if she was up for a "mustache ride."
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