So it was my birthday last week, right? And being new in town I thought it would be a quiet one. If you have a man or something close to it, they probably at least buy you dinner on your birthday and maybe even an old school gold name plate chain as a gift. Probably not a good trade considering the other ridiculous drama they put you through about which they take absolutely no ownership or have any overstanding, but a girl’s gotta eat. And rock the fly gold jewelry.

I digress…my girlfriends and gays came through and took me to an adorable spot here in Miami with the Best. Name. Ever: Dolores but you can call me Lolita. Add this place to the list of reasons I love being back along with the fact that there were no heat lamps necessary for our meal on the terrace. There were 8 of us total, part of an eclectic collection of friends that I’m busily curating with gusto and gratitude. Note: post Art Basel I now use the verb “curate” when I’m not talking about art necessarily…perhaps it’s pretentious but it really works for me right now, please don’t judge.

For a while lately I’ve had a bit of writer’s block thinking to myself that I had run out of amusing dating stories for which I will not get sued. After all, I don’t get that much play and I’m not a loose woman. But this dinner reminded me of a story I had forgotten to tell because it happened before I moved to New York! Unlike my other stories, this one takes place at the end of my BJ period.

Get your mind out of the gutter. BJ = Before I became Jaded.

You see, Dolores but you can call me Lolita used to be a gastropub (whatever that is) called Firehouse IV. The last time I was in the building was in spring 2002, very very soon after a break up with a fella we’ll call Batman, because I discovered he had a bat phone which he used to curate with gusto, his own very special collection of friends.

So this evening a decade ago at Firehouse IV I was with my good girlfriend previously referred to on this blog as JLo. She along with the entire universe wanted me to meet a nice guy ASAP, probably because at that point my eggs were still fresh enough to make a nice fluffy omelet. I however, was not concerned about my eggs per se at that particular moment in time.

We spotted a tall mandingo across the floor. He was 6’4″ of chiseled chocolate, bald head, smooth skin, amazing teeth. A physical specimen to die for. The buns on this dude, omGAWD LAWD A MERCY! However, he was also a paper bagger. Not in the light skinned/dark skinned sense – that’s not an issue in this particular story – but because his face was so busted. The kind of face you’d put a bag over to hump. You know the kind of busted that at first sight you know the guy can never ever be your man because what if your kids turn out looking like that, and even worse, what if you have a little girl that looks like him? Because the world ain’t a safe place for an ugly woman. And I’m cute enough most days I guess, depending on the lighting, hair and makeup…but certainly not cute enough to pull a poor innocent child through all that ugly.

Anyway, I really needed to get back on the bike after my 3 1/2 year tour as Batman’s butler, chef, personal valet, rent free landlord and occasional ATM. Therefore when the Eagle approached I gave up the digits because why not?

So this cat worked for UPS. In fact, he was a pilot for UPS (hence the name Eagle). Um…hello? Maybe he wasn’t so ugly after all. I think flying planes is pretty cool and he got to travel all throughout South America doing it. And it occurred to me that this man might even pay his own damn rent, or even own a place perhaps. He also had a boat and a yellow Corvette. I foolishly decided to overlook this yellow Corvette situation. And the fact that he invited me on his boat like day one, but fortunately that never happened.

For a week or so we chatted each other up. Blah blah blah where are you from, this and that, what kind of food do you like. We had one date which won me over almost all the way because for like the first time ever, I didn’t pay a dime. And it wasn’t at Pollo Tropical either, which was Batman’s version of fine dining. I still couldn’t kiss the Eagle because there was something weird about his lips that turned me off, but I was getting there. I was ready to be wooed by someone with good credit. He must have smelled this on me or peeped my Baker’s shoes.

But the story ends here! Our relationship wilted as quickly as it started when he invited me to hump in the back of the SUV I was driving that week while my car was in the shop. Hump after only one date!? HELL NAW. The southern belle in me was horrified. I hadn’t even cursed in front of this guy. Insulted and disgusted, I lost his phone number and I’m sure he moved on to some girl who was pretty enough not to worry about the kids.

This is the precise moment when the BJ period ended. No, it did not end when I found the Bat Phone. Can you believe that? Maybe that is the real trippy part of this story.

It was actually the Eagle who ushered me into the DS (=Don’t be Stupid) era, which was a couple of phases ago. Now I’m in the EJ (=Extremely Jaded) era. But 10 1/2 years ago I was only as far along as DS.

It’s what they call a flashbulb memory. It was a sunny spring day and I was on my cell phone with him, warming up to him, forgetting he was ugly. I was driving that rented red Mitsubishi SUV south on Biscayne Boulevard in North Miami past US1 Fitness (my former home away from home) and Publix. I was wearing a black mini skirt suit from the Limited and a light blue tank top underneath. The jacket was lying on the passenger seat because it was at least 90 degrees outside.

The moment he made that lewd comment (with an appalling lack of game and grace may I add) after I had been the vision of virtue and class, I realized that ALL straight men – young and old, pretty and ugly, fat and skinny, broke and wealthy – only ever care about getting into your knickers. And they’ll do or say or buy almost anything to make it happen.

This revelation really took the fun out of things.

Another Eagle epiphany: never wear cheap shoes. They attract the wrong kind of man.

Recently I came across a quote by Assata Shakur, a Black Panther who was convicted in the murder of a New Jersey state trooper back in the day. She is the aunt of the late rapper and my would-have-been baby daddy, Tupac Shakur. May he rest in peace.

Did I ever tell the story of me seeing him perform live at the Ritz in DC back in the day when I was in college? I was *this close* to him and his teeth sparkled and he was amazing. He performed “I Get Around”. Heart be still, I almost died. Anyway, back to the topic at hand.

So his aunt, Assata Shakur, was a Black Panther. And she once said, “A revolutionary woman can’t have no reactionary man.” Despite having read her autobiography many years ago I don’t remember this quote. But the other day when I saw it posted on a friend’s Facebook page, I had an Oprah “aha” moment.

A couple of things: 1) Is it egotistical to call oneself a revolutionary? And if not or even if so, am I one of them? 2) Can I be bougie and be an activist at the same time?

I argue that one can, and in fact it’s a very practical way to approach the revolution these days, since you’re more likely to effect change from within the system than by staging a coup (at least in the US). So, I don’t think that designer shoes or Mizani butter blend disqualify a person from radical or progressive thought and agitation.

So let’s for the sake of argument say, that I am a revolutionary. Why and how is another topic. Let’s just give me that, because I kind of think that I am. And that is the reason why the reactionary men I’ve dated haven’t become men I’ve mated. (I couldn’t resist the rhyme, in honor of Tupac.)

This is the story of Superman. A lovely, intelligent, amazing, sweet boy whom I liked and who liked me, but ultimately bored me to tears until I found a way to blow the whole thing up and send him on his way. I may have also done it for entertainment. Don’t mistake me for a drama queen (or rather, this isn’t what makes me a drama queen, it’s something else altogether) I just literally was so bored by this man I used to cry about it.

Superman and I met several years ago when we started working at the same company at the same time. He was super cute, looked a little like this guy must have looked 30 years ago:

Lots of folks don’t know there are a lot of Chinese people in Jamaica, and obviously that means a bunch of mixed race Jamaicans with Chinese ancestry. That explains the curry goat/fried rice spots in the hood. In case you were wondering.

Superman was the ultimate gentleman and had an impeccable resume. Ivy league educated, nice to his momma, refused to let me pay for a thing, and he took me to great places. For a second there I thought I could really be into him and that I could fix his nerd fashion because lots of men need a wardrobe makeover and if they let you do it, inept dressing and tightey whiteys (which I didn’t learn about until the absolute END) shouldn’t be a deal breaker. Right?
But here’s the thing. I realized over time that I did all the talking and he did all the laughing. So I said to myself, “Self, you gotta stop running your mouth the whole time and let this man speak. He’s smart!” So I did and I PROMISE you…he had very little to say. Maybe his mind was tired from his 100 hour per week job (some folks roll like that, and he was one of them) or maybe it was just empty or maybe, he just didn’t care to share with me. That’s all possible. Unfortunately that created an experience wherein I was just bored to tears.

We casually dated on and off for like a year or so, and this man was literally so passive he never even tried to kiss me. I finally kissed him like six months in. After chewing on this for literally months I actually don’t think it was because he wasn’t interested in that – me in particular or women in general. I sincerely think he was just that passive, at least with me. To encourage his man mojo I told him his nickname was Superman, because he worked so hard and was so smart and still found time to do other things. I hoped this would help him to live up to the moniker. Unfortunately what it did was embolden him to reveal his collection of super hero figurines to me, which decorated his apartment all over. Very 40 Year Old Virgin. And to make it worse, he was really a Spiderman fan but I just couldn’t bring myself to call him Spiderman even though really, Spidey is more exciting than Superman…

So all the ideas I poured out and thoughts I expressed, were met with an amused chuckle to the point where I wanted to stab him in the neck just to get a reaction. I didn’t do this and of course never would, but you know…something has gotta happen, sometime. It was all very whatever kind of music you like.

We fizzled. Actually, we blew up. Fizzle doesn’t describe it. In my extreme frustration with his missing personality, I seized an opportunity one fateful September night in 2008, and picked a blow out fight with him on some corner in Chelsea in front of quite a lot of people, and that was that. We spoke once the next day and I did apologize for what I said. But I wasn’t sorry, because I didn’t care one bit. Existentially I cared, but not about him aside from caring about his general humanity, which we all share.

It is so tempting to settle into a relationship with a malleable and agreeable fellow who has enough of the right characteristics to please the crowd. I’ve met so many and had a shot being with more than one of them. The truth however is that a man with nothing to say, who does nothing, who protests nothing, who agitates never, is a total bore. And even worse, a man with no ideals or principles, a man who just occupies himself with the daily grind, is a bore and at the same time heartbreaking to walk away from, because these are the men who change your oil, ask about your day, rub your feet and may even be faithful. The ones you should be taking home to mama. Well not my mama because she likes interesting men too. THANK GOODNESS she doesn’t like foot rubs or else the pressure would be overwhelming.

How do I find a man of action and progressive thought whose money isn’t funny and won’t insist I wear my hair natural and tolerate living in some shitbox? Which I have and would, just not as directed. The hair part. Not the shitbox part. That aint gonna happen again if I can help it. So is this guy on OKCupid or Match.com? Is he at the club, at the financial services professionals networking function, or is he one of my mother’s friend’s sons? Is he at Homecoming for my alma mater or the Alliance Française French film night? Is he chasing white girls like the Black Panthers or sweating NQW chicks like Kanye West? Is he white, brown, yellow, Puerto Rican or Haitian? Is he at the liberry?

Where does a smart woman with an active mind and a lot to say, find her match? Or should I just shut up and focus on becoming a better cook and get some fake boobs along the way? Sure would be easier…

Maybe I’ll just get a dog.

Note: I am design challenged when it comes to this blog. Be prepared for different looks to cycle through, perhaps some of them ratchet, until I figure it out. I’m on a journey. Any tips on how to make these Blogger templates look good, lemme know! Now back to our regularly scheduled program…

Like I said last week, this new-in-town situation has resulted in different inventory. On a macro level the quality has been an upgrade. But my personal pipeline upgrade has been mainly in terms of quantity. In b-school (men:women::2:1) we used to say, “the odds are good, but the goods are odd.” So if you can believe it with less than 60 days on the ground and a dozen of those away, I already have a nutso bizarro story to tell.

My dear friend JLo (seriously, that’s who she looks like) is a part time realtor. She diligently shepherded me around town to help me find a place when I first got here. In fact, she even offered her 2nd bedroom to me for as long as I needed and cooked me dinner to boot! And a whole lot of other above and beyond awesomely nice things, plus a lovely crystal pitcher with matching glasses as a housewarming gift, so this is a shout out to JLo, you’re the best girl!

Anyway, I digress. We had a couple of days of looking that were pretty discouraging until one day, we happened upon the palace where I currently reside. Let’s call my new residence, Villa Vizcaya.

I took it on the spot.

It needed a fresh coat of paint and my new landlord graciously offered to do so. Since that was happening, I asked if they would let me choose the color, and I (rather, JLo) provided the paint I chose.

When I arrived to move in on Mon Aug 6, the paint job was done but it was mad sloppy. The contractor wanted to touch up the paint so I left my FIVE LARGE suitcases and air mattress there and took an overnight bag back to JLo’s house. 22.2 miles away. Let’s call this so-called contractor, who is actually not licensed as a contractor in the state of Florida but refers to himself as such, “Home Improvement”.

Home Improvement is a somewhat vertically challenged skinny Caribbean fellow. Not particularly handsome. Let’s give him a five for fitness. I know he’s fit because the first thing out of his mouth was how he competitively does xyz sport. zzzzzzz Sorry, were you talking? I dozed off for a second.

Anyway on that Monday he asked to meet me the following day at the new apartment to discuss the paint job and some additional clean up details that were left undone as of my move in date. When I arrived at Villa Vizcaya on Tuesday, he started running lame game. First, he pointed out how crappy the paint job was and said, “I’m going to do the whole thing over”. Which meant, because he thinks too highly of himself to get dirty and plus didn’t know how to actually DO anything, that he would hire another crew. He actually had the face to mention how it was going to cost and he would lose money on the job. I’m thinking…um…didn’t you get paid $1600 for 1100 square feet and mess it up the first time? In Miami? #Jussayin. Anyway I said to him…as long as you’re in here I’d like to paint accent walls here and there, and do a couple of other things, install a deadbolt, fix the curtain rod, etc. How much $?

“I’ll let you know how you can pay me.” I SWEAR. Bible, as my girls (in my mind we’re friends) like to say. Skeevy.

I thought to myself…awesome! He’s gonna wish he took a check after it’s over. For a few reasons. One, if I were the kind of girl who charged for that sort of thing, the value of a few handyman tasks would be worth like 1 minute of my time not because I’m Sunshine from Harlem Nights but because it’s a gross way to earn a living. Two, more importantly, I wasn’t interested. Remotely. Three, just how lame and gross is that, for the guy with the keys to your new crib to be hitting on you after he botched the job then has to do it over and acts like he’s such a great guy, doing this awesome fantastic thing and deserves some applause. And he wasn’t even finished with the work before he asked me to write him a reference/recommendation! (Excuse me while I throw up in my mouth a second.)

By day two of this ordeal, he was up in my face asking me personal questions, making comments about my color palette, my wardrobe, my perfume, a scar on my arm, tagging along and ruining my serenity at breakfast, telling me to take off my sunglasses so he could look me in the eyes (which annoys me IMMENSELY), opining unsolicited on my wall plate selection, and just generally pressing up on me in the most totally unprofessional and inappropriate way. One night I got home from a day of errands to get my overnight bag to drive the 22.2 miles back to JLo’s…and he was jamming with his iPhone on my Bose speakers talking about, “I hope you don’t mind”. YES. I do. It is 7pm. Get the f*ck out! Home Improvement often seemed to come by after work hours because oh yeah, he’s in charge of finishing properties at the Taj Mahal down the street mainly, and doesn’t deal with anyone who has a property value less than $400k. That’s a parking space in NYC boo, don’t try to impress me.

Mind you, I was still living out of a tote bag 22.2 miles away while PAYING RENT at Villa Vizcaya. As he leisurely or perhaps just incompetently, dragged out this job because he was thinking with the wrong head, delusionally, and didn’t get any of the additional stuff I asked for done at all. Like the lock. Or the curtain rod (rather, he did that halfway and another handyman, a cute one, fixed it after). Leaving things like his sunglasses in my apartment so he’d have to stop by and pick them up. Oy vey. Just go away.

My blood pressure continued to percolate over the course of the several days it took to repaint and do virtually nothing else in my place. One day he sent me back to Home Depot for new dimmers when I had the right ones all along because he didn’t know wtf he was doing. It took him five evenings in a row caulking the baseboards to sort of get it right. I reminded him daily to secure the closet shelves because I had a whole lotta clothes coming. The closets didn’t get done until the last second. And various other little things that I’ve already forgotten about.

Finally, on Sat Aug 11, I was able to inflate my air mattress and sleep in my new abode. 5 nights I was homeless because of this clown. But I was happy at last. The new paint job was great even though the painters messed up the curtains themselves and I ended up replacing them. My closet shelves weren’t wobbling. I had a new lock and Home Improvement no longer had a key. It was all gully until I unpacked a suitcase and hung up 20 items. Just 20 because that’s all the hangers I had, because I bought them that day. Lightweight dresses. Blouses. Tank tops. Nothing heavy. Then…

So I kirked out. Loudly. In his ear. Apparently Home Improvement is not familiar with the concept of anchoring shelves in wall studs. Because he’s a minimalist as he told me about himself along with a bunch of other crap I gave two snits about. NO, I do NOT care about your relationship with your father or your former fiancee…I’m just being polite because you put me on the spot asking me to breakfast and then didn’t even pay! Violating my serenity as mentioned above. Boo hiss.

About the apartment…the owner’s realtor made everything ok. She’s awesome. The handyman she sent was much easier to look at, had his own tool box, and fixed everything just perfectly in one day. Yum. And to be fair, the 2nd paint job is really quite good. Not that Home Improvement touched a brush.

Ok so, the end. Right? Nope!

This Wednesday I got a call from a Private Number. This is after the flirty text I had gotten from Home Improvement after I moved in but before the closet died. I shut that exchange down by replying, “who is this”? I had deleted his number. Anyway, since I use this phone for business I answered the blocked call.

I-think-it-was-Home-Improvement: Hey is this Black Swan? [mispronouncing my government name the way many Anglo Caribbean people do including Home Improvement.]
Me: Yes this is she, who’s speaking?
I-think-it-was-Home-Improvement: This is your secret admirer [sounding just like Home Improvement]. Are you going to be home today?
Me: Who is this? Who gave you my number?
I-think-it-was-Home-Improvement: I don’t think I should reveal that now, are you going to be around?
Me: If you don’t tell me who the f*ck this is right the f*ck now I’m f*cking calling the f*cking police. [I learned a lot on the trading floor.]
I-think-it-was-Home-Improvement: What? Huh? Doh! *click*

Seriously? Does he not know how incredibly creepy and weird it is to call a woman who just moved to town and lives alone and ask her if she’s going to be home? And how transparent it is because only a couple of folks even know where I live and everyone else has an alibi? But also how incredibly scary because what if it’s NOT him and it’s some pervy creep I don’t already know who was looking at me through my windows while Home Improvement couldn’t fix the curtains, and now is gonna come get me and feed me to the gators on some Dexter sh*t?!?!?

I called the police and my cell carrier immediately. And notified my management office/doorman that if anyone wants to see me they must call first and show identification. And real talk, I’m thinking about a gun. Don’t worry, I’ll learn how to use it.

My last secret admirer was a guy named Golden Crews in the 11th grade. He used to slip me little notes in my locker written with perfect penmanship in purple marker, my favorite color. But then his father wouldn’t let him take me to the homecoming dance because he said I ugly because I was too dark. Or maybe that was before and Golden only liked me in rebellion against his father, who was married to a white lady/Golden’s mom. Golden ended up dating my NQW** good friend but I didn’t care because we all dated each others’ boyfriends back then. Today I’d stab a beeyatch in the neck for that. But that’s another story.

Two take aways:
1) Men. Please think with your brain and not your other brain.
2) If I disappear, Home Improvement did it!

**New to the vocabulary along with ratchet. NQW = not quite white. Replaces the old school and frankly clunky “light bright almost white” in my lexicon. Thanks to one of my guy friends for turning me on to that one. Ratchet = wack or raggedy.

SHAMELESS PLUG: Please follow me on Twitter. I only have 14 followers and I only know who like three of them are. I’m starting to get depressed about this. @blackswan305. thx! xo
When I moved back to Miami from New York in July, I changed the zip code on my OKCupid profile from 10019 to 33137. I promptly got a flood of Bienvenida A Miami messages, in a quantity that was like whoa. Their algorithm must float people who are new in town to the top and put them in heavy rotation. In fact I have 162 notifications waiting for me right now. One. Hundred. Sixty. Two. I KNOW! That’s cuh RAZY right? It’s never ever happened before, I’ll tell you that much! I mean, I never had more than five before and three of those were Quiver matches who never ever ever ever messaged me. I could get used to this new in town thing.

Anyhoo, the 2% of my brain that is quantitative decided to write a chart about it comparing NY and Miami men on a few dimensions on a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being the highest: Intellectuality, Physical Beauty,and Game. To make the data set more representative of the population I did not limit my observations to OKCupid. This also applies to the fellas trying to holler at Home Depot and Publix.

For those of you who think it’s obnoxious of me to rate men, this is a scientific endeavor. Sometimes science has to ask tough questions in the pursuit of knowledge and enlightenment.

Intellectuality: A completely made up term referring to the author’s estimate of the respondent’s IQ and general sophistication or worldliness. More objective data contributing to this measure include grammar, spelling, professionalism and education level. You can also measure sophistication or worldliness by a passport inspection but I haven’t gotten that far with anyone yet.

Physical Beauty: This refers to facial beauty (a term I learned from watching Toddlers & Tiaras), an eyeball estimate of body fat percentage, and height.

Game: A rating of the balance between attire, aggressiveness, appropriateness, specificity, and creativity. Also, whether or not the guy pays for the first date.

Note: I can’t figure out where to put cool accents on this axis because they really belong half in Physical Beauty and half in Game. Maybe a little bit in Intellectuality if it’s a British accent, which always makes folks sound really smart. Anyway, for the purposes of data integrity I left it out but a hot accent will always catch my attention. You get great accents in both places anyway so I would call it a draw.

Please see below for the results of this very scientific study…which took me forever to figure out how to paste into this interface because you can’t just copy a joint from Excel for Mac (which SUX) and click control-v to paste, you have to command-shift-4 the thing as I found out on Google, so I hope you appreciate it, because I almost had to have a drank for breakfast cracking my head on it:

As reluctantly expected, NY men easily edge out Miami guys with respect to Intellectuality. I was totally ready to say that men in Florida are just as smart and urbane and sophisticated as men in NYC but it’s just not true. Perhaps normalizing for the tremendous demands of and opportunities available in life in NYC they are equal but the first impression is that on average the fellas down here are scoring lower on that dimension. But you know, sometimes super intellectual guys are too damn emo.

Also as expected, Physical Beauty far favors the Miami crowd. NY has a very serious epidemic of skinny fatness affecting all genders. Men here generally tend to work out and most have learned to show it off in a not cheesy way. I haven’t seen a muscle shirt yet. The fact is, a nice pair of shoulders is gonna peek through no matter what you’re wearing, and a soft chin is also evident no matter what you’re wearing. And guys, I see that gut and your muffin top. Pretending it’s not there doesn’t make it go away. This is a welcome change and a motivator to take my personal fitness to the next level. I have begun training for a 10k.

Game is where it gets tricky. Miami men tend to be more aggressive and want to meet right away if the introduction is online. They are also much more likely to approach you in the grocery store, in Home Depot, in the parking lot…in fact I met my late 90s/early naughts boyfriend at a gas station down here on 119th street when I was buying a bag of ice one night in 1998. This like, NEVER happened to me in NY. Maybe once in 6 years did I get approached by a legit person when I was out and about. So, while the fella following me around Publix the other day may have been creepy, the fact is that I’d rather get too much attention than too little.

Regarding the other aspects of Game – creativity and wardrobe and all that – it’s hard to tell. There is so much to do in NY maybe men aren’t really being creative but instead are going to UrbanDaddy.com and doing as they’re told. Or maybe they just read Time Out NY. I mean, at least guys in NY know what Zagats is. Here, the opportunity set is more finite so it’s hard to ding fellas for a lack of creativity. And as far as fashion is concerned, I have seen heinous offenders and super fly dope boys in both places so that’s a draw. However, you CAN ding a man for not paying for your date. This hasn’t happened to me yet but I’m on the lookout.

Overall Result: Miami 7.3, NY 6.3. I upgraded! Yayyyyy! Miami is the Champion!

On a related side note, can someone tell me why people post such flattering pictures of themselves online when they hope to meet someone in person? If a guy is concerned women won’t accept a date if he doesn’t describe himself as athletic, what does he think will happen when he shows up looking all unathletic? And no, big biceps and a big belly is NOT athletic. Especially if your boobies are bigger than mine. Perhaps online dating sites should provide guidelines as to what they mean by body type.

I think this would be helpful.

Maybe you know, or maybe you don’t know…the term “yellow wasted”. It is a quote specifically from Daughters of the Dust (a film by Julie Dash, 1991), spoken by the character Viola Peazant in reference to a light skinned woman who didn’t quite look European. Meaning, a waste of light skin on black features. This term has history, and it’s foul, but beyond the scope of this post, mostly. Kinda.

Well now like I said, color isn’t the subject of this post per se. It is about a man who happens to be light skinned and who also happens (really, happened…more explanation on the tense change later) to be good looking. But his fineness is wasted on his inferior personality; he is utterly bereft of empathy and social skills. Let’s call him…Boris. No offense to the real Boris and btw your wife was brilliant in Streetcar.

So, I met Boris a little over four years ago in Manhattan at one of those “all black people who can read are here” parties. Actually it wasn’t quite that crowded but that was the concept. He stepped to me quite definitively and got the digits, and we went out a few times. He was technically quite proficient with dating, because he’s a systematic and meticulous fellow. But, there was no art. I mean zzzzzzzzz….plus just a lot of dumb comments about my skin color, one of his favorite obsessions being a light skinned man and all. I got the feeling he thought he was doing me a favor since he repeatedly reminded me none of his friends likes dark women. 

It fizzled but with no drama so eventually, like maybe a year give or take later, we went out again, several times. This time, a little more in earnest. But just a little. At least on my part because I was definitely evaluating the relationship potential more seriously. After all, it was a remix so attention had to be paid. And also like a remix, probably a bad idea.
Every year Boris has this ginormous event at his house and say three years ago I rolled through with a large crew of my girls. Because, being the pig that he is, he is on that “bring lots of girls” tip. Now, at the time we were dating or something like that. Maybe dating overstates it. We were in a period where we went on many dates in a row, with regularity, over a period of a few months. So I erroneously thought this may bring me some sort of “status” if you will, at the party. I wasn’t expecting to be frying up the chicken on Sunday while he and his boys was watchin the game but when there was a line at grill I asked him if he would get one of my girls a hamburger (I was and still am, a vegetarian) he pointed and said, “there’s the line”. 

Hold. The. Phone. I thought I would at least get a burger without a wait. Is that a lot to ask? Just sayin’.
Ok so, next, I observed him very openly flirting with many many of the very pressed chicken heads at the party. Pressed because he’s a Black Person Who Can Read/BPWCR (plus has no babies and no record) and has a lot of accoutrements associated with that. Plus there is the resemblance to Boris Kodjoe. So, you can see where this is going…

My crew and I decided that this treatment was unacceptably rude to and beneath me as a woman of class, culture and such and forth, so we bounced. Somehow we ended up on the LES and had a rager of a night that culminated in me receiving some bizarre texts that my friends inform me were from a cute South American tourist or something or other…and even an injury! It was a fun night I’m told. Maybe not so classy tho…

Ok I don’t look anything like that but my knees did. Plus this is a multicultural blog anyway.
Back to Boris. I subsequently sent him an email, almost 3 years ago to the day. I’m not trippin, I only remember this date because I looked it up in gmail and I never clean out my box, so it’s still sitting there in “Sent Items”:

After several months of dating there appears to me to be little chance of any mutually fulfilling intimacy developing between us. I have really tried and am somewhat disappointed to come to this conclusion but I can’t ignore clear signals indefinitely. I wish you luck finding someone you think is worthy of your affection, attention and kindness.

He honestly seemed impressed that I dumped him over email and wasn’t a jerk about it right that second. He might have even squeezed out something like, “you’re a great girl”. What? No “even though you’re dark skinned”??? We went our merry ways and I proceeded to then date a monkey, followed shortly thereafter by a sadist. Because I have very bad taste in men sometimes. But great taste in shoes! So it all balances out. Anyway all of that about the monkey and the sadist may be too personal to disclose here. Suffice it to say that Boris and I never had any drama because neither of us cared enough to, and we kept in touch kinda loosely because we are both BPWCR and know everybody in common and such and so forth.

As I reflected recently on my departure from the Big Apple and the guest list for my going away, I reached out to invite him. Because I’m a masochist (see above reference to dating a sadist). And he came and ate some chicken and otherwise had nothing nice to say. Meaning, “you look thinner/better”. Whhhaaattt? Go away. 
To reinforce the concept of why one should let sleeping dogs lie, I made the mistake of friending Boris on FB somewhere along the way. Earlier this week I posted something about trying to get back into shape…it was a very tv focused winter/spring in Manhattan for me. As my status update I put up my workout summary, admittedly kind of embarrassing but there is a whole thread to it, a narrative if you will. Anyway I wrote “baby steps”. To which he replied, “premature baby steps maybe”. To which I replied…on my wall, “Boris don’t be an asshole.” And tagged his a** so that every other BPWCR who knows us in common could see it. He was offended, got his panties in a bunch, and un-friended me on the spot. After all his comments about my skin color, weight, and not giving me no hamburger!? The nerve.

He got the wrong one. BLOCK this person, is how it is done on FB. And then, I’m putting you on blast over here but with a nice alias so you can pretend that you’re the hotness and be flattered I took the time.
To all you Borises out there who don’t know when to shut the hell up or perhaps have an undiagnosed relational disorder, keep your opinions to yourself and/or see a shrink or life coach. I don’t care how fine you think you are or how much money you have: ugly on the inside = ugly on the outside.
What a waste of good looks.

Betcha thought that when I moved to Miami it would be all sunshine and roses, huh? Well, it’s too damn hot in Florida for roses.

Disclaimer: I am going on day 30something without my TV and my ice maker doesn’t work. Anyone who knows me well understands this is a lethal combination. I’m on the warpath and good luck to whoever gets in my way.

Ok…what pisses me off???

1) Moving companies. When the moving company says it’s going to take 3 hours to move you out of your 535 square foot one bedroom apartment that’s already been purged/plucked clean like Pamela Anderson’s eyebrows, don’t believe them. It’ll take 4 1/2 even though they already came over and saw all your stuff and did an estimate and know exactly how long it should take. Not saying they wasted a single moment, but then again, they were an hour late getting started. Which brings me to my next pet peeve…

2) Airline gate and baggage agents. Perhaps I did show up 35 minutes before my flight with five suitcases but you could have a) let me on the flight anyway with the bags and/or b) not charged me $350 in excess baggage fees. It wasn’t my fault! (see #1). Hook a sistah up! Delta Airlines, you’re on thin ice boo, especially since you have no direct flights anywhere from Miami except for NYC.

3) Car rental companies. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT, act like you’re giving me a free upgrade and flirt with me with your short self and crooked little teeth then stick me with the rental that smells like hot wet piss at 1am when I’m too tired to go back in there and fuss. DO NOT. Avis…it’s lights out for you.

4) LA drivers. Do people in Los Angeles not see the lines in the road indicating the division between lanes? Just curious.

5) Airline gate agents. Again you power hungry little minions, don’t get an attitude that I missed my flight due to a tight connection and mother nature calling! At least be compassionate and don’t roll your eyes and yell at me like it’s my fault. And then, don’t put me in a hotel with ROACHES named RODNEY who are friendly and want to hang out on the nightstand and talk all night. Boo hiss. Delta Airlines, see above. But thank you for not losing my bags.

6) Miami realtors. If the apartment has carpet say so. Don’t waste my time. And who puts carpet in a new apartment in Miami anyway? Ya cheap bastard…even Don Bailey focuses on Wood. Laminate. Tile.

7) Mosquitoes. Do I have “BITE ME” written on my legs? I just may die of West Nile Virus.

I feel like a fairy in Bontemps.

8) “Contractors”. Some short cocky obnoxious and totally 100% inappropriate jack leg buster responsible for painting my apartment and doing minor repairs took a leisurely five days extra to do so because he’s so busy finishing build-outs at The Marquis blah blah blah (guess I’m supposed to be impressed), causing me a huge pain in the arse and lots of extra gas money (not a game at $4/gallon) while depriving me of the use of my apartment for several days after my lease had already started.

What’s with me coming home at 6pm to find you chillin’ playing music on my Bose speakers talking about “I hope you don’t mind”. No I don’t care to hear your opinion about what I should or should not throw away, my perfume, my outfit, how high my heels are, or anything else. Wait, are we going out all of a sudden? Wait, did I say it was ok for you to chill in my apartment? Wait, did I ask you what the f*ck you think? Wait, do I want you at all or do I just want my apartment painted and my curtains hung and I’m being polite because you have a key? Oh and you didn’t manage to get that lock changed or that other thing taken care of huh? Are my curtains hung yet? NOPE. How many visits does it require you to just caulk the damn baseboard? Every day, really? Uh…yeah. Beat it. Keep the key btw, it doesn’t work anymore.

9) Moving companies. Of course, my contract says you have 12 days to deliver from the start of my lease. Of course, I agreed to this. But now you have my stuff, and you’re charging me how much extra ($400) to deliver it 8 days after you’re ready even though that’s still less than 30 days of storage that is “included” but oh….that’s only included in places where you have your own storage facility, which isn’t Florida, got it. So I have to pay more for you to come when my building has an available moving in slot, after I told you a half dozen times I needed more notice than four days? And you have an attitude because I didn’t pay $25k for a point to point delivery? Yes, I understand, you snotty little beeyatch.

For future reference don’t use Oz Moving for a move outside of NYC. They have a scathing Yelp review coming to them after my stuff arrives. I should have known better. I really should be angry with myself for such a rookie move.

Wait, did I say moving companies already? My TV arrives in a short nine days. And I only have to pay an extra $400 to get it. Did it even cost that much?

10) North Shore Miami Beach Library. Whycome the librarian is the loudest person in the building? And why can’t they build a new door when the library is closed (half the time)? And why on earth do they charge $100 for a library card? They don’t got no damn books!

Ah man, it’s good to be back in Miami. Stay tuned for an update on my first OKCupid excursion down at the bottom. No helicopter but it was still pretty trippy.

Well now. I did promise to resurrect this blog and I am, and I promise to write more often (ok I will try). Today marks the countdown of 11 days left in NYC. I am moving back to the Sunshine State, where I spent many formative years of my life. But for the record, Miami is not my original hometown. My original hometown, where I was born and learned the three Rs and developed most of my issues, is Washington DC. But Miami is my “adopted” hometown. So I am returning, mostly triumphantly, to start the next chapter of my life and leave winter behind forever.

I figure this is a good time to think about the top ten things I will miss about the Big Apple. Here ya go:

1) Seamless Web. This is just brilliant and if you don’t live in Manhattan and understand the necessity and beauty of food and other sundry delivery at 3am, to your door, well, you just haven’t lived.

2) Cab Drivers. I fight with cab drivers regularly. This is every New Yorker’s right and obligation, and I engage in it with gusto. I will miss this privilege. “NO, don’t take PARK! Take LEX! It’s much less congested going downtown.” OR, “NO, I don’t want to go to 26th to go east to 25th, I want to take 24th and walk that little block you fare-hiker-scammer-no-respect-for-women-having-bad-smelling-idiot.” Or, “What, you don’t want to take me to Brooklyn? I’m calling 311…what’s your medallion number? 1X123? Here I go!” etc…

3) Rooftops. Because outdoor space is so rare here, having a roofdeck is amazeballs, and we all agree, across most of the five boroughs. At least in Manhattan and Brooklyn. Perhaps in Queens, the Bronx and Staten Island they agree but I’ve hardly ever been there. See below, my actual rooftop!

4) Museums and Shows. I have only been to the Museum of Sex but I promise I will use my Met Museum membership at least once before I go. I haven’t been to nearly enough shows but I saw “Streetcar Named Desire” last week and a few more are on my list before I leave.

5) Online Dating. Here, this is a totally legit and not-at-all-embarrassing way to meet people. And meet people one does, and they are interesting and most are actually not quite as crazy as you would think.

6) The Hot Stink Of Garbage In The Summertime. There are no alleys in most of Manhattan. The garbage sits on the curb. It’s picked up efficiently, but if it gets hot before that happens, you have a constant reminder of what you did last night. What everyone else ate last night. It keeps you humble.

7) Sample Sales. I think this does not require an explanation. And FYI, everything is NOT a size 0/2. The clothes at sample sales come in all sizes, and it’s a beautiful thing.

8) MTA. Riding the subway or even better, the bus, is the most magnificent people watching I have ever experienced ever. Sometimes the journey is better than the destination.

9) Cheap Stuff. Although living in Manhattan is ridiculously expensive, just a five minute walk from my house is the most glorious raggedy farmers market in a tent in a parking lot (really, this isn’t a joke), where I can get an avocado for $1 and 7 limes for $1. I can get a liter of extra virgin olive oil for $8. A big bag of pasta for $1. Everything is practically a dollar. I don’t ask where it came from. You can also get your eyebrows threaded for $8, but not at that particular farmers’ market. I actually don’t do this. I pay $45 for my brows. But that’s a whole ‘nother story that is a bit sad… Anyway you can travel anywhere in the five boroughs for $2.50, less if you have an unlimited Metrocard and use it wisely. And Central Park is always free!

10) Arbitrage. If you move somewhere after living in New York, you’re all of a sudden rich, beeeyatch!

So. I’m leaving this city (more on how, and why, later) and resuming my life in another. It is bittersweet. My loving cat is on her last leg and she may not make the move, and it’s crushingly sad. But I am looking forward to another new beginning. It won’t be the first and I hope it won’t be the last.

Stay tuned for more updates on The End of THIS Era!

When I was a little girl I used to love love love love me some Wonder Woman. You can ask anyone who knew me then, especially my mother since this was before VCRs, that missing that show on Friday night was not an option. I could be a bit of a toddler tyrant sometimes. But seriously I think she liked it too so maybe it wasn’t that big a deal to make sure I didn’t miss it.

Now this is not problematic for a little girl in general unless she has daddy issues and therefore comes to think men are completely superfluous idiots, or unless she happens to not be thin, blue eyed, long haired, white etc. I used to put a towel on my head – the closest I have come thus far to a hair weave – and spin and spin around until I was dizzy. Funny, I never turned up tall, long haired, big boobied and white at the end. 

Recently I discovered, on DVD, the pilot movie and complete 1st season of Wonder Woman at a Cracker Barrel while on a road trip. I brought it home, popped it in, and immediately became re-obsessed. In a big way. So I googled it and found Seasons 2 and 3 on Amazon.com and ordered those too. As I write this I am on the second side of the 1st disc of Season 3. Episode 4 of 22. And then I’m done and can go watch Captain EO or the Wiz or something.
What I had forgotten, what explains a lot, is how much of a feminist Wonder Woman was! Girl power and sisterhood to the nth degree. And she never wanted to kick those dudes’ arses – which mainly amounted to shoving them or picking them up and throwing them into a corner – they always gave her no choice. But she was also fine in the process, like her armpits were shaved and she never sweat a drop. That’s how I feel in life too. Like, I don’t want to rough beeyatches off but sometimes ya gotta. And always, you must look good doing it.

There are so many charming/quaint things about this series, like seeing the same set with a fresh coat of paint (or not) in the next episode. I would be specific about that but it’s a bit too nerdy even for me. Then there are the shots of her jumping over the same thing in episode after episode. And funny how I never noticed when I was five how much shorter and more muscular her stunt double was…although Lynda Carter did that hanging from the helicopter scene herself to get the shot right.

The little robot Rover had the same beep-beep sound as Road Runner…they’re both Warner Bros produced. Sometimes those fly red suede white trimmed boots switch between flat and heeled in the middle of a chase scene. And then there were guest stars who would come back and play a different role – a Nazi one week, a Hollywood producer the next. Not to mention that cute little Mercedes that got blown up one week but was perfectly intact the following episode. Perhaps my favorite special effect was her Invisible Jet which disappeared along with the captions as the show got more sophisticated in later episodes.

What I didn’t appreciate then but do now was her amazing fashion sense in Seasons 2 and 3 (in Season 1 which took place during WWII, she almost always wore a uniform as Diana Prince). She wore these great little wrap dresses in Season 2, very DVF, and more slacks and drapey silk blouses in Season 3. There was also a dramatic costume upgrade from Season 1 to 2 (see above). 

Wonder Woman was created by a psychologist during WWII and was female at the behest of his wife, as legend has it. The DC Comic series adapted to the tv series, jumping ahead 35 years to present day 1977 from WWII (although there were already some present day adventures in the comic series) when the show moved to CBS from ABC in Season 2. The comic book also adopted the famous spin for the changeover from Diana Prince to Wonder Woman. That was suggested by Lynda Carter, who had been a dancer, and the flash of light was added when producers decided the original slow-motion wardrobe change was too expensive for weekly production.

So instead of reporting on my lively adventures in this lovely burgh of Manhattan this fair Labor Day weekend, I am paying homage to Wonder Woman because I have had a marathon going all weekend save one or two very short excursions including a 3hr hike in the Palisades in NJ. Note to aspiring NJ Palisades hikers: moderate = hard. I’m just saying. So anyway I have exercised, overeaten, socialized little, partied none, drank zero, and texted excessively this weekend. Maybe Mr. Right was out there waiting for me but I’ll have to meet him at a Wonder Woman convention or something. 

Not to be mean or anything, because I’m not really mean, really I Am. Not. Mean. But some things are a red card offense. If you don’t know soccer aka football everywhere else because you play with your FEET and not your HANDS…it’s when a player gets ejected from a game for being a total d-bag. Here I present a blatant red card offense by a player who frankly had one too many yellow cards (those are like the warning penalties) to begin with – one for dumping Shar Jackson for Britney Spears when she was like 7 months sperminated with their second baby and the other for making a career as a gigolo. And others for that wack rap album effort and for popping bottles in Vegas on his woman’s Black Card and driving poor Britney coo coo for Coco Puffs. She still ain’t right…in her concert there was definitely a bit of listlessness. But she still gives good face. Anyway back to the topic at hand. See below.
BEFORE

AFTER

If you’re going to be a gigolo, can you at least earn your keep and look like it?

Boo hiss K Fed. Go to the gym. Step away from the chicken wing.

So last night as I mentioned Wednesday, was one of those evenings chock full o nuts. I actually ended up with five things on my calendar including a rooftop thingy in Brooklyn that would have been a serious rager, but I’m trying to slow down and keep it clean these days. I made it to three things with a minimum of cab fare, just one to start and one to finish. I am trying to economize because in Manhattan dollars have wings. Just fly right on out of your pocket and you’d be surprised the folks who make mad loot who are broke as a joke. Trying to become the former not the latter, right now too close to the latter not the former.

Interestingly about this full social calendar thing. I’ve realized one can fall into the trap of thinking a full social calendar is a fulfilling social calendar. Not so. Now this isn’t in reference to anything I did last night but just in general, I have had moments here where my calendar was full and I moved from thing to thing with no fulfillment or real enjoyment. There is something to be said for going through the motions just to stay alive but occasionally going through the motions feels just like the opposite. See “A Sad Day In Gotham”.
Well I don’t know why exactly I thought of that since I didn’t feel that way last night. In fact I felt great although I had a headache because my hat was tight. I don’t usually wear hats but it’s touch up time and my hair was in need of some lovin, but I needed to be cute, so you know, I built an outfit around the hat. Have you ever done that? And WORSE, have you ever had so much new growth your hat was too tight? That was me last night.

Anyway I went to this going away drinks last night which is becoming a frequent event. So many friends are leaving the city having lost jobs in finance here and found meaning elsewhere. Each one of them is moving someplace warm making me so jealous. I wonder how many more winters I can take. But I’m so in love with Manhattan, I can put up with almost anything. Walking in was a little awkward though because I wasn’t sure about the outfit I had built around said hat, and my ear was kinda hurting because the hat was rubbing, and at the last minute I thought – “this t-shirt kinda makes me look like I have a soft belly, which I don’t, it’s just the fabric, but I’m wondering if anyone is looking at that” – and I only recognized the person who is leaving when I walked in.
You know how you are sort of not in the mood and you walk into a room of folks you don’t know? It’s immediately like, where’s the bar? But I’ve lost the taste for alcohol after that run in at MSG* (Britney) the other day so it may be a minute before I really get back into recreational use. Ok, so back to that icky feeling you get when you walk into a room of strangers not feeling like you have any mojo. I looked around, smiled thinly at a few folks who all seemed super nice, but I just didn’t know them and sort of didn’t feel like being all greeting committee with it. After a few weird moments I made my way to the guest of honor, kee kee’d for a few minutes, got introduced to a few people then bounced. I’m gonna miss that guy, he’s definitely one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met.
So this was all the way on the west side at the southern part of Chelsea, and I needed to get to the LES* after that for karaoke at Sing Sing which is kinda trashy and hilarious because the song videos are like stock 80s footage or melodramatic Chinese movie clips. I am so proud of myself for walking two whole blocks west and a a few south, and grabbing the train. I took the Hipster Express, aka the L, to my next destination. A few things about that: 1) Seriously, what is up with this Hipster Express? Why was everyone on the train dressed so ironically? Is this attire required to live in Williamsburg? Is it in the lease terms to wear designer clothes like a homeless person and to forgo all hair removal techniques? I felt excessively clean and hairless and sparkly; 2) Have you ever been to karaoke with professional singers? It’s kinda soul destroying but kinda like going to a concert; 3) Why are so many guys on the LES so achingly cute yet kinda dirty?

I took the train all the way from the LES, I mean like Alphabet City, ALL THE WAY to the upper UWS*, I mean like almost Harlem. Despite my late arrival no one had yet left the event, a birthday dinner. This was all warm and fuzzies and fun all over the place. PLUS, I knew folks and in a bizarro small world moment one of the people I met at the first going away drinks thing was there too. A completely different social circle. Go figure! Also, I had sort of eased into the hat headache, just was rolling with the pain, plus this crew was way more clean and hairless and sparkly than I, so I felt more at home than on the L train madness. What’s crazy is they continued the party beyond 1:30am but I had to go home and sleep because mama is gettin’ old and needs to get her rest.
Today the weather is not going to cooperate with my grand plans. The sky has been heavy with the threat of a serious storm named Danny since yesterday morning so I think this Michael Jackson birthday celebration in Prospect Park is a no go. I also cancelled a half day trip out of town because I really need to give some home things serious attention. Like laundry, organizing, cleaning. And frankly I’m going back to bed. I’m up mad early out of habit but since it is Saturday I should probably take advantage and catch a few more zzzzsss. I’m supposed to go to a party tonight, even got an outfit picked out but it’s looking like a low probability event at the moment. I’m actually a seller in size (to borrow the phrase from a friend) of the parties by this promoter so wondering if I need to take a bow on that.

Am I getting like, boring? Well, I’m Brunching tomorrow so there’s hope.

Glossary of terms and acronyms:MSG = Madison Square GardenChelsea = Known for being a fashionable gayborhood, 34th st south to 14th st, west of 5th avLES = Lower East Side, east of Broadway and below 14th st, includes East VillageWilliamsburg = Arty farty Brooklyn neighborhood that’s just as expensive as Manhattan but still across the damn riverUWS = Upper West Side, above 59th st to ~105th st, west of 5th av