THIS is what I’m talkin ’bout. I ♥ her so so so very very much. 

Our First Lady’s Official Portrait

I just ended one of those weeks where my outlook calendar has more blocks than lines and now, at the end, I am awake as usual at 5:40am, but on a Saturday unfortunately, and with a slightly upset tummy just from all the movin and shakin. I wish I could stay right in this spot for the next 24 hours and not move but I’m going to have to get out of the way at some point because the cleaning lady comes today. Which is ordinarily a good thing but today not so much because I just want to hide under the covers, I don’t care that it’s sunny out.

See below for how a wannabe-wishIwas-fabulous-but-I’m-ordinary New Yorker’s calendar can get. Often. And people wonder why we look so old. Of course that part I will fight with potions and needles and scalpels, forget what they say about black don’t crack. It can and does so I’m on the case. And it melts too! Anyhoooooo..let’s run through the schedule of the past week. Assume a 6:15am work start time each day ending around 5ish but including all manner of appointments and client lunches during the day. And this is real talk and all happened this week. I just pulled this out of my Blackberry.
Sunday: 2:00pm Brunch with sorority sisters at the marvelous ‘Cesca on the UWS. Delish.
Monday: 5:00pm personal trainer followed by 7:00pm show at Caroline’s Comedy Club
Tuesday: 4:15am wake up for 60 minutes of cardio before work 6:00pm dinner at Spice Market for which I was 30 minutes late due to C train

Wednesday: 5:30pm gym (6:00pm trainer) followed by a fundraiser at Essex Restaurant
Thursday: 6:30pm spin class followed by dinner which was mercifully cancelled, substituted with Ugly Betty and Real Housewives of NY (on dvr)
Friday: 5:00pm gym for 60 minutes cardio followed by dinner at Asia de Cuba

A noble goal
Yeah I’m bragging on the great gym week I had but what had happened was, I bought this new scale that doesn’t lie and the truth hurts. I need to get on it because all those client lunches and dinners and brunches with girlfriends and whatnot add up around the waistline and bootie areas. But not the boobie area unfortunately. The whole thing can really compromise your sexy if you don’t watch it.

In Manhattan everyone I know is always like, “Oh, I’m having dinner with friends” or “I have drinks with colleagues/a client” or “I’m on my way to such and such fundraiser, I’m on the board”. Or even better, “I got invited to this sort of secret party at this loft in Tribeca” and stuff like that. It’s like, a competitive sport which perhaps deserves its own Olympic medal. If ping pong has one then New York socializing should too. The one-upmanship at the water cooler and/or on Facebook is astonishing! 
At work the morning question, “What did you do last night” is inevitably answered with something like, “Oh I went to the Vampire Weekend concert got trashed backstage and woke up in a panic at 4:30am next to a stranger thinking I was in Katmandu.” or “Oh I had dinner at [insert fabulous restaurant needing a reservation 10 weeks in advance] with my friend who’s friends with Kate Hudson and she stopped by. NOT cute in person.” This ritual reaches its zenith on Mondays with the “What did you do this weekend?” but is only surpassed when someone returns tan, always tan, from vacation and you say, “Where did you go?” None of this Disneyland or Bahamas mess. It’s always like, “I went to Mauritius to observe the last dodo bird on the planet while hanging from trees upside down and performing cleft palette surgeries on the natives.”  “Oh, I didn’t know you were a surgeon.” “Yeah I was a plastic surgeon before b school but I got bored with it, I just do it as a hobby now.” Whenever I overhear or even worse, participate in a conversation like this I just wanna be like, “You’re such a liar. You saw that in a movie.”

But seriously though, to reference my earlier post “A Sad Day In Gotham” if you don’t mention Brunch on Monday morning people will look at you funny. No joke. Gotta do Brunch. 
Of course all of these reports have to be delivered in a blasé tone so as to disguise the speaker’s utter delight in one upping your frozen dinner at home in front of the dvr story. Which I frankly tell with relish since I love watching TV so much. And also too, it is VERY important not to be late to work as a result of your social life. It’s a rookie mistake and very very bad form. At least on the trading floor. You will be shamed.
So I’m working on a point system to propose “New York Socialite” to the IOC (=International Olympic Committee). There will be three categories of judging: Stamina, Status and Style:
Stamina+1 point for every half hour less than 8 hours you sleep due to the event+1 point for every cocktail/glass of wine pounded+2 points if you make it to work before 7 am the next day+2 points if you squeeze in the gym (min 30 minutes) the day of event+2 points if you make it to the gym (min 30 minutes) the day after the event-5 points for coming into work late the next day, whatever the time is
Status+1 point if the event is a fundraiser+1 point if you are on the board at the organization hosting the fundraiser+2 points for the event being a secret+2 points for location being membership only (i.e. Soho House)+2 points for every A list celebrity you see-2 points for every C or below list celebrity you see+4 points for every photo published of you at the event in the media+5 points if you spend over $1000 in one night+10 points if your name is mentioned in Page Six or any other legit gossip rag/blog
Style+1 points for every designer piece of clothing you wear to the event-1 points for poorly manicured hands at the event+2 points if you get your hair done just for the event-2 points for looking a mess the next day-2 points for coming in smelling like booze+3 points if you get your makeup done just for the event +3 points for waking up next to a stranger, bonus +2 if he/she is hot

Under these criteria I get like 1000 points for this week but I’m not a world class player. I’m a small potato, an amateur, not connected, a little fish in a big deep pond. I don’t have membership in a fancy club, designer clothes or 1000 bux to drop in one night but I do go to fundraisers and hope one day to sit on the board of one. 
Anyway I’m going to give this point system more thought and continue to refine it. And type it up and send it in. Because if badminton is in there, this should be too. And it’s infinitely more exciting.

I have a sickness. They say for certain sicknesses the first step to recovery is admission so this shall serve as my admission. Wait, is that the right word? I’m admitting my sickness. I confess.
I’m addicted to drawers.
So today is one of those come-to-Jesus laundry days where I have five loads and tons of folding and some hard decisions to make. I had been robbing Peter to pay Paul with respect to my underwear storage situation. Meaning, some quantity always had to be dirty or else I wouldn’t be able to put it all away. But thanks to my brilliant upstairs neighbor who left his tub on all day which then flooded my bathroom and bedroom (my loo is ensuite) earlier this week, I had a massive pile of dirty beach towels to wash. So I figured I’d get up early today and wash EVERYTHING and handle this drawers business. By the way the neighbor apologized with a box of tasty treats from Kyotofu, a cool Japanese bakery nearby…which only kind of annoyed me further since I’m trying to get back in top shape. That’s bitchy, huh?

What idiot does this? I lost two hours of sleep to the dripping. 

Does this make up for my lost sleep and disfigured wall?
Anyway so at this moment (I’m taking a break, my hands are chafed from all this daggone folding) every single panty, bra and lacy thing I own is clean and dry. Except of course the set I am wearing. This fact forces me to confront an ugly but common truth. I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH ROOM! This is the perpetual New Yorker dilemma which makes us disconnect ourselves from our worldly possessions even though the world out there probably thinks we’re hopelessly materialistic. We just want the few things we have space for to be really fabulous. Gotta make that one little closet count.
I’ve just purged everything that has become undesirable for one reason or another. Wires poking out, saggy elastic, bought in a moment of insanity, wrong size, bad fit, muffin top creation…etc. And guess what? I have just enough room for my bras, which take up effectively two drawers. Two drawers of drawers. But wait, that’s just the bras not the panties. For every single bra I own I have at least one pair of precisely matching panties. Then I have additional panty inventory coordinating (gotta co-oooordinate) with my bras, for when I shower and change and keep the day going after working out at the gym, and just to have extras, cuz you never know. One thing you do not want to run out of is clean panties.

On the way to the trash since you can’t sell it on consignment.
Let’s discuss the actual quantity. I have exactly 78 bras exclusive of sports bras of which I have six. This means I have AT LEAST 150 panties of which only 10% are butted (as in not thongs). Maybe I have 200 panties because I really take it seriously when Victoria’s Secret says 5 for 25 bux. In this count are only three white bras which for some reason strikes me as odd. Lots of black (12 black only, several more black and something) and nude/mocha/brown. But also lots of purple – 9 bras are lavender or purple, and 8 are pink or mostly pink. Only one navy blue. Actually if I include the navy/white striped one that’s real old but holding it down like it’s new, I have two.
The predominant brand is Vicky’s, obviously, because that’s good cheap stuff that you can run for about a year. Plus let’s just say I don’t fall in the category of needing a serious bra for support’s sake, so Vicky’s is fine. I also like Calvin Klein, DKNY, On Gossamer and Cosabella. Cosabella is more a panty thing for me because their bras suck. DKNY can be a bit pinchy sometimes. No La Perla or anything über fancy in there yet but maybe one day. 
This count was taken after the purge (see above) and does not include any formats outside of the range of bra and panty, ie tank top/panty sets and other stuff for very special occasions. Which I hope to have some of sometime before the decade is over. That stuff is hanging on padded satin hangers in my closet hopeful to one day get some attention again.
I’ve been this way for years and years and years. I wonder if it is an odd obsession.

This is so bad it just can’t be true. I’ve heard it really references an event where a chimpanzee mauled a woman in Connecticut recently. Alternatively it means the stimulus package is so bad monkeys (plural as in not just Obama) could have written it. I mean, it’s not like it is a monkey caricature of Obama. Still, really? Don’t people remember what happened with that AT&T long distance commercial back in the day when they showed people on every continent talking on the phone but in Africa it was a monkey? That was seriously bad PR for AT&T. 
Smart people draw these cartoons and edit these papers. They had to know it was gonna kick up a sh*#storm. Whoever let it run did it on purpose. The New York Post needs to increase its circulation in order to sell more advertising. It’s a recession I’ve heard, so ad pages are down. Am I the only one noticing how many two-week issues the New Yorker is doing, and how much thinner Time Out is? Times are rough for print media and so they’ve stooped to this level. They knew if they pissed Al Sharpton off it would be worth money. My boy Al should get a cut.
Anyway interested in comments on this. What do you think? Post below.

I had the weirdest day out on Sunday. It started fabulously with me engaging in one of Manhattan’s favorite pastimes – Brunch. The end…not so much.
If you don’t live in NYC you may not understand that Brunch is a verb here, not just a noun. Saturday and Sunday Brunch is kind of a big deal. A way of life. A movement. Brunch foods are foods you don’t eat at breakfast or at lunch (such as crab cakes topped with a poached egg) and of course it’s the only legitimate occasion to get drunk at 11am or 12 noon. Of course said drunkenness may be induced only by Mimosas or Bloody Marys. Any other drink would be tacky. I guess you can also drink a Bellini or good wine. But no Cosmos or Gin and Tonic at Brunch. And definitely not dark liquor, that just makes you an alcoholic in need of an intervention.
So this Sunday I Brunched with friends from a very Upper East Side volunteer organization I recently joined. (Sidebar: This has been such a great way to meet a whole new group of people. Luvs it!) These ladies Brunch. Alternatively you can “do Brunch”, depending on which syntax you prefer. We went to Gascogne, a super cute little French bistro with a fantastic garden in Chelsea on the recommendation of one of my foodie friends. They do a $20 prix fixe three course meal including a drink (ie Mimosa or Bloody Mary). Great deal right? NYC is full of these types of deals especially these days. Of course you end up spending a lot more than that because it’s a small Mimosa and everyone is going to order at least one more round. As we did of course. I mean, a sober Brunch is just breakfast.

Gascogne
Brunch was fabulous. I wore a to-die pair of pointy toed 4-inch burgundy suede ankle boots with some skinny jeans and this great Ralph Lauren Black Label purple cashmere kimono sweater. I was feeling quite the New Yorker since who else would wear 4-inch heels with jeans to boozy breakfast? No one else does that but people here, because you can, but it’s actually a bit stupid and over the top. But fun.
Then I called a friend to go ice skating because I’ve been dying to go for like, two years. One of my Brunch companions had given me the skinny on two straight bars in Chelsea so I thought me and this other friend would go ice skating at Chelsea Piers then go for a beer at one of these mythical straight bars. But the stars conspired against us a little bit. Plus it was February 15th and really, what kind of desirable person goes out on the day after Valentine’s Day? Or does it matter? Hmmm….

First the Chelsea Piers schedule didn’t work with ours so we went to Rockefeller Center since it’s closer to Chelsea than Central Park and Bryant Park is Fashion Week right now. Rock Center is actually beautiful and fun and we had a great time once we got through the torture chamber where you pay and rent skates and change your shoes. My personal trainer was texting me about my cardio homework (she assigns me homework expressed in terms of calories to burn between torture sessions) and informed me that one hour of ice skating burns 400 calories! Which is worth almost six vodka shots. We bonded and chatted and laughed and didn’t wipe out once. Had the afternoon ended with some hot chocolate at Dean & Deluca and a kiss kiss goodbye at the Subway, it would have been a perfect New York winter day. But no, we went chasing the high. Generally a bad idea.

Dr. Debi Thomas
First stop was The Half King which is a pub/restaurant in Chelsea with a somewhat artsy writer-type straight-ish crowd. But no crowd Sunday night except people drifting in and out to pick up food, and couples with babies and just nothing interesting going on. I guess people didn’t have the day off Monday as I did. Or had a Love Hangover from Valentine’s Day. Or are economizing because of the recession. At any rate we ate at the bar because we were starving, a game time decision that worked out OK but not great, and then decided to go down to the Meatpacking District to start a ruckus. I would not ordinarily choose this path but we were making spontaneous decisions and I didn’t have anything else planned so why not?
Second stop – Spice Market. We sat at the bar next to a very handsome if anxious South Asian gentleman who as it turned out was meeting friends in town from Vancouver for dinner, who were late. Lateness and being made to wait alone apparently bother this guy a lot because he was making love to his Blackberry, like calling his florist, making dentist appointments, checking emails for the tenth time and web surfing, as he waited. No Brickbreaker though. Despite great eye contact and world class flirting and witty chat he didn’t bite. His nerdy friends arrived apologizing profusely for being like a half hour late, and off he went. *sigh* Really it was no loss – South Asian men quite rarely marry black girls anyway, so no point in taking it beyond a polite chat at the bar. Wait, that sounded like I’m looking to get married which isn’t quite true. In fact it sounded just plain weird and a little too deep and quite awkward but I’m leaving it in because IT’S TRUE. What I mean to convey though, is that no significant relationship would ever develop so the flirting at the bar was plenty. Entertainment.

Spice Market, the section where our gentleman friend and the group of sisters were (separately) seated.
We also saw a group of about eight beautiful sisters (=sistas, ie they weren’t necessarily related) all dressed up for a date at Spice Market with each other. Something about that made us both sad. Maybe because they weren’t smiling and laughing as though they were each others’ date by choice. And also because they had clearly tried (successfully) soooo hard to look pretty. For like, each other or an unknown man or two or six who would rescue them from their suburban solitude. You could tell they didn’t live in Manhattan by the big night outness of their vibe. In fact there were a lot of suburbanites and other undesirables – victims of violent fashion crimes (I tried to take a pic but my phone wouldn’t pick up the detail), high school d-listers, tourists, ugly people and nerds – because it’s Restaurant Week and Spice Market participates at DINNERTIME too. Quel horreur. In so many, many ways. I’m not the biggest fan of Spice Market because the lighting is too dim to see your food or get a surreptitious camera phone pic of anything interesting. I bit into one of those crazy Southeast Asian peppers there once and almost had to be resuscitated.
We next strolled over to Pastis, where I have previously only Brunched, to see what was happening there. Just curious. All the New Yorkers are like “OH NOOOOO!” right now. The crowd was a cliché, as you would expect. A lot of hipster trust fund baby model wannabe types dressed to the nines. Since I’m none of those things and was wearing a J Crew sweater and puffy vest (remember I had just gone ice skating, forgive me) and cowboy boots (the one touch of fabulous, because they’re bronze), I wasn’t dressed for the occasion and certainly didn’t feel the energy of these pathetic fashionistas and divos. My girlfriend and fellow victim of this deteriorating day was decked out a très cool shirt/jacket hybrid thingy covered in zippers and showcasing her enviable decolletage. But that wasn’t right for these folks either. Plus those beeyatches were way too ana* for us.

Some ana beeyatches we saw at Pastis
By this point we had long since realized we were chasing something that wasn’t there but for some reason we kept going. I don’t know why because I know better and really I’m not that desperate girl. I rarely torture myself like this. Maybe I needed something to write about because I am 99% of the time the kind of person who’s like, “OK the vibe isn’t flowing for me tonight, I’m going home and getting some beauty sleep.” But onward we went. The next stop was Revel which is generally reliably packed with a good not self consciously hip but not B&T** crowd, but that night was a ghost town and really just sad and pathetic and depressing. We walked in, I used the loo, and we walked out. We should have called it a night but still, we soldiered on.
The FIFTH STOP was Tortilla Flats, where apparently everyone from NYU had agreed to meet. On a weeknight the crowd has a much better age mix, like at least a couple of grad students, but since we were clearly not in age range there we walked in and right back out. It’s a fun place, though, I’ll go back on like a Wednesday after work.

Tortilla Flats
We finally found refuge across the street from Tortilla Flats at Barbuto which had a more low key and adult crowd. Low key and adult because they were ALL MARRIED. Nothing but couples having dinner with their couple friends there…and all the husbands were sooooo hot. Hmph. A total tease. A friendly barkeep with great tats, and a so-so glass of Syrah kept us posted up at the bar where we engaged in extensive girl talk and then went home. I was sleeping by 11:15pm and dreaming about moving to London to find another Sting (see: The One Who Got Away posted 2/15/09). London is the only other place I could live except maybe Paris, but neither place has ubiquitous late night delivery so maybe not.
What’s the moral of the story? Trying too hard is decidedly unfabulous, a little (ok a lot) pathetic, and can make you fall a bit out of love with this place. Also NYC is not a bar hopping place unless you’re barely drinking age. You have to know your spot in advance and commit, and if it doesn’t deliver on your expectations, leave and try another day. And also don’t go out on Dec 26th, Jan 2, or Feb 15th. It would appear that is a loser move.
GLOSSARY:*Ana = Anorexic**B&T = Bridge and tunnel, ie from Jersey or an outer borough. Connotes gaudy and uncool. Acrylic nails and big hair and fake tans and what not.

In honor of Valentine’s Day and for the single folks out there, I thought I’d write this one about a lost “love”. Everyone has at least one really amazing relationship (of any duration ranging from a one night stand through marriage) that for some reason or another, slipped through their fingers. I have my share although I don’t regret a single one because without them, what funny stories would I have to tell? But if I really explore my soul deeply, there is a hook up that I didn’t have that if I could turn back time, I would totally totally have. I coulda woulda shoulda.
A couple years ago I had a New Year’s Eve party. I threw it together last minute and hosted it alone so I was anxious about whether or not it would come together. But don’t you know it did? So many people came! It was really really an awesome time. Somebody in my building called 5-0 so it musta been good, right?

A (male) buddy of mine from college came through with a bunch of British friends. Uh oh. I didn’t know it at the time but I was beginning to develop a soft spot for the Brits. I just love the accent, it sounds sexy…what can I say? Anyway he walked through the door with this smashing fella who was tall, slim, with prematurely salt and pepper hair and the most adorable dimples. That and his charming accent really got my attention. Plus he was the life of the party which I really like in a man since I have a strong personality myself. I like a man who can keep up! Let’s call him…

Apparently this feeling was mutual so not long after that my college buddy invited me out to meet them one night down in the Meatpacking District. We ended up at APT because I think it was a weekend and there are very few “safe” places down there on a Saturday. You just may end up in an uncool place if you choose unwisely. But APT is reliably Eurotrash upstairs and downstairs the spinner keeps it just obscure enough so the place stays über chic. We met up with a couple of other friends of mine and Sting and I stared into each others’ eyes tickling fingers in the candle lit back room until 3am. So intense. My friends were buggin’ out…like yo she’s into this dude? I think most of my friends have the wrong idea about what I like these days.

(The inside of APT)Leaving the place, he invited me home with him. I remember it so clearly….Sting: Come be with me tonight. [holding me close]

Me: I can’t, I just met you, I don’t know… [turning away]

Sting: Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. [gently cupping my face]

Me: I’m not that type of girl. [wrenching away]

Sting:Don’t be silly, come stay with me! [hand reached out]

Me: I’m sorry, I have to go. Call me? [escape in cab]

This scene literally took place at that crazy intersection in the Meatpacking District in front of Pastis, so imagine it like in the movies because it probably looked like it.
Why didn’t I go with him? So many reasons, not the least of which was it was laundry day and also too I hadn’t shaved my legs. I remember being concerned about the morning – if I would sleep and wake up pretty, thinking that I needed to floss, and wondering if I had a brush or any eyeliner in my purse. Of course I don’t travel with my do-rag and what would he have said about that anyway…or the possible hair disaster the next day? Plus I was feeling pretty fat that day as I recall. It certainly had absolutely nothing to do with him!

I later tried to recreate the magic via some subtle flirting but to no avail, the moment was lost. Now I’m permanently in the friend zone and he calls me “dear” or some other such nonsense. He has a girlfriend too, but I hold out hope that he’ll come to his senses and dump her one day. Then I can be like, Trudie Styler. It’s been two years but I’m still waiting!
What’s that saying? It’s better to regret something you did than something you didn’t do.

So it’s Sunday night and it’s been a lovely weekend. I am so sad to see it come to an end. I wish I lived in Europe and had the Monday off too. Europeans take Friday and Monday off for Easter because they know how to relax. A three day weekend is great, a four day one remarkably restorative. It’s almost a whole week off! And days off are great whether I co-sign on the reason or not. Shooooooot….

So yesterday I co-hosted a lovely party for a friend’s birthday and it was great! Lots of beautiful and fabulous and fun people, friends from school and work and other parts of life. Although what’s up with people calling to say they’re on their way and not coming? Somebody did that last night. I think that’s weird. Anyway we had good vibes, good booze, good food and it was an all around good time. And more importantly, my frenetic search for the perfect outfit bore fruit (although it cost me). I LOVE Saks Fifth Avenue. In fact it’s my favorite department store in Manhattan methinks. And I’ve convinced myself the cost is ok because I WILL be running that outfit at this other party coming up with a bunch of different people and can think of other occasions I can run it since I have a few different crowds. Amortizing the cost over the number of wears I will get it was a good investment. Sadly I am kind of shiny and boozy looking in many of last night’s pics (guess I was hot and didn’t realize it) so the photographic record doesn’t do me any justice at all. The glare from my forehead distracts from the faboo a bit. When I rerun that outfit I am going to 1) wear a bit of powder, 2) fast for one full day beforehand, and 3) not drink so much! Maybe I’ll even invest in some lashes (the extensions not the falsies, I don’t want my eyeballs to go completely bald). That will take my game up one more notch, not that it was quite off last night…just trying to take the level to a perfect score. Ha! I wish. 🙂
Since it’s Sunday night, the saddest time of the week for me even though I love my job, I don’t have a lot of time to pontificate or reflect deeply or even shallowly on much. But…I do want to know what folks think about the new blog burning up the Internets featuring groupies’ stories. I have posted my own brush with groupieness on here, in “Datin’ Ballers” dated February 1st, about a pro ball player who tried to holler and whose advances I spurned for fear of The Herps. These stories fascinate me for obvious reasons. I’m not very pc and try to avoid judging other people since I’m no angel, but curious to know what others think. Warning – it’s so NSFW. So very not.
About Allen Iverson. Poor guy! How tragic. I think they have operations for that, wonder why he hasn’t gotten one. Doesn’t he know women kiss and tell? How is he gonna have the nerve to put his wife out in the cold, nekked, with that going on? Or not going on. Ha! Do y’all remember that? It was a scandal. Another sad one is the answer to why one groupie didn’t ever spend the night with Jay-Z, “I didn’t want to wake up next to him. He’s ugly.” Ouch! Check it out at http://talesfromagroupie.blogspot.com.

Thoughts?

Instead of the post I was planning to put up, I decided to interrupt that programming with this special announcement. Stay tuned for the other one in a few days. This one is time sensitive in case any of the fellas are still shopping, on special request…you know who you are.

Everybody has things they love so much or would love, if they could have them, that they think about them distractedly or obsess over them at night before they fall asleep because they just want them so badly. Please tell me I’m not the only person who does that. Not that I’m materialistic or anything, because I’m not really THAT bad, but I do have my fantasies and they are not all about Taye Diggs. Plus all my things I love aren’t necessarily things. But this list is mostly things and expensive ones too cuz I already have all the cheap junk I could ever want.

As each holiday and gift giving occasion passes that I pick out and then purchase (or worse, defer the purchase of) a lovely gift for myself…I have an even fuller inbox full of emails that say, “Black Swan thought you would like this item from [insert high end brand here]”. Here’s a random sample from my long long long a$$ list…
The Cartier Love Bracelet. The day someone locks this on my wrist I will be over the moon. I don’t even have to love him back, I just want somebody to buy it for me since I’m unclear on the protocol of purchasing it for oneself even though I’m in a life long relationship with me. Preferably the version with a little bling. I just think it has such caché. Very classy as they would say on the Real Housewives of Atlanta.

Almost anything by Chanel. This is a massive void in my life. At the moment not even a Chanel lipstick or nail enamel graces my purse. Much less an actual purse. Anyone buying anything for me ever can just go to that boutique on 57th and Madison and handle business.
A six pack. They are so hot on both men and women. I used to have one I swear. I’m still basically holding it down overall but the level of definition I had what seems like moments ago, no longer comes to me after a day fasting. But no worries, I’m on my way back. My trainer is just sadistic enough to bring it out of me. By Spring Break it’s gonna be on like Donkey Kong. Too bad I’m too old for Spring Breaking. Anyway you can gift a six pack, Equinox sells gift certificates.

(Note: This is NOT me)
Red roses. I may be unconventional and non traditional and what not, but I am a sucker for a bouquet of flowers. Preferably delivered to my office so everyone can see. Plus roses are fragrant. Actually they stink once reproduced in perfume and candles and such (like doo doo if Andre 3000 tells it) but in real life they smell spectacular and few scents are more lovely or remind me more that someone cares.

A Mackage coat. I will be scouring Filene’s and Loehmann’s and bluefly.com and netaporter.com to find one of these super warm super fly joints on sale over the next few weeks. Apparently I’m late to the Mackage party but better late than never. If it persists in being insanely cold (and I am not fooled by this 51 degree BS that we got here today in NYC, the wind was a dead giveaway that winter isn’t over) then I need to do a better job of looking pulled together when the hawk is in effect. Plus they’re cheaper than fur which will be on a future list. Yes, I am a fur wearing (or wannabe wearing) vegetarian. I just don’t like meat but fur is the greatest when it’s 11 degrees out.

Expensive perfume. It almost doesn’t even have to smell good as long as it cost too much money. No seriously, it has to smell delicious. I hate the set from Macy’s or Lord & Taylor’s. I want the good custom mixed stuff or barring that, something that’s exclusive to like Barney’s or Bergdorf’s or Neiman’s. In my inventory now is a bit of Creed, a bit of Hermès, a bottle of Hanae Mori and some other obscure scent…Etro I think. Even that begs an upgrade, I don’t have anything customized just yet, but I’ll get there.
Alright fellas you have a list that should get you started. Happy Valentine’s Day and do the right thing by your loved ones, lest you find yourself asleep on the couch for a week or so.

I usually would wait to post again until Hump Day but I am totally obsessed with this Ike Turner version 2009 ish that is going down. Especially since the market is totally pooping the bed today…I need a distraction. I was glad to see I was wrong and stocks rallied on Friday after that ugly unemployment number…but I thought investors wanted to see the stimulus package passed??? Bad economic figures and the market goes up. Good legislative progress and the market is down. I’m throwing away all my econ textbooks. This bear market is so scary.

But back to the topic at hand. Chris Brown is so over. Like, I don’t even think he’s cute anymore after how he did my girl RiRi. Messing up her face so bad she had to cancel a party over a week from now! He knows her face is money so he was being vindictive because a lotta times when a dude wails on you goes with the body shots so no one will know. He was trying to ruin her life. I heard a rumor it was over cooties but if that’s true he got the cooties AND no career. And his groupie quality is going to seriously deteriorate so he’ll have a hard time rebounding. On the other hand RiRi’s career is going to get a serious sympathy bounce. And if Paris Hilton can still pull em she certainly won’t be slowed down by any health concerns given her status. He’s not only a degenerate for hitting her, he’s an idiot. What a tool!

I’d like to think if a dude put his had on me both of us would end up in jail for assault but perhaps I’d just cover my face and cry and be like, “oowww please stop!”. Like maybe I’d be scared and totally punk out and forget I went to public school and have been threatened with a knife before. (Actually I never saw the knife but this crazy chic named Scarlet yelled at me out the school bus window when I was getting off at my stop one day with these bright pink earmuffs on, “Girl in the earmuffs, girl in the earmuffs, I’ma eff you up.” I was totally scared cuz she was Puerto Rican meaning she CLEARLY had a knife. Plus I hadn’t provoked her which is even scarier. It never happened tho.)

Anyway back again to the subject at hand…what would you do ladies and gents? If your super fine girlfriend burned you with a nasty one would you wail on her and try to mess up her face? Ladies if your man wailed on you because you cheated on him, would you take it and cry or stab him in the eye with your car keys? And afterwards would you nail him in court? Or would you refuse to testify? And PUHLEEZE don’t say you’d take him back. Would you believe, one of my guy friends’ reaction to this event was, “Yeah he can’t ever take her back”. AS IF she would want his douchebag behind. Ok, so…chime in on this one in the comments section. Inquiring minds want to know.

Guess who is back! Still in Manhattan, still on the grind. I have a totally kick butt amazing new gig that doesn’t require a daily dawn wake up call, and loads of new adventures. More to come later, after the jump. Or maybe later than that.

I won’t bore or excite you with the details of the last two plus years yet. Some was totally ridiculously awesome and some was totally ridiculously awful. Of course there are some funny stories too which may find their way on here somehow. No helicopters though. That was a one time thing methinks…
Anyway, today in the shower I was inspired to dust off this old url and say a few things, about a thought and idea and feeling that’s been marinating for a really long time, since high school. That makes decades by now since I just celebrated 20 years since that particular graduation. I’m hoping I will have the opportunity to do something about it because you know, “Don’t talk about it, be about it.”
So. Here is what is on my mind. And it is so appropriate that my last post, in Dec 2009, was about a superhero. Because that is exactly what I am not. What we are NOT. I’m talking about the myth of the Black Superwoman. The Strong Black Woman. The Angry Black Woman. Who and where on earth are the people we are talking about? I rebuke these expressions.

or maybe….

Trust me, I am an expert. I can speak with authority on this matter because 1) I am a black woman; 2) I am from DC and went to public school so I know lots of other black women; 3) I went to a black women’s college so I know even MORE black women; 4) I pledged DST so I know a whole other gaggle of black women. I know us. And lemme tell you: we are not superheroes. So stop piling stuff on our plate!

Where did this mythology commence? During slavery I suppose. The colonizers and traders had Africans all messed up in the game and because the men were physically stronger, they had to break them down and literally physically restrain them from a natural born uprising so we women had to take up the slack. We had to endure the transgressions of curious capturers who snuck into our huts and shacks at night, uninvited (even if on the rare occasion, welcome) and head our families because we stayed with the children more often than the men were allowed to, and we basically just had to hold it down. And I am not blaming the men. This is about women so brothers don’t get defensive just listen. What happened to the brothers was equally messed up but that’s not what I’m talking about right this second.Over time this reality created a set of behaviors and ways of relating to the outside world that required us to develop a tough exterior and then, interior. Sort of. We embraced God collectively, and Food. Over time. Because both of these things are powerful medications. Maybe even better than Klonopin.

Fast forward to now. At least here in the US, we don’t have to pick cotton or endure any of the horrors of our foremothers. But what we endure can be torturous nonetheless. On a relative basis of course.
What am I talking about? I am talking about articles that exalt black women eschewing relationships for their careers and piling themselves like a coven into houses with a bunch of cats and Cheese Whiz and giving up on romantic love. I am talking about our own PR machine that screams at the world that we are fine, just fine, with our Ivy League degrees and Jimmy Choo shoes, when really, the kids are not fine. At all.
Click Here For Ridiculous Washington Post Article
What I know about that from anecdotal evidence and personal experience, is that careers are far more reliable and easy to achieve for those of us who can become educated, than relationships. The media, courtesy of us and maybe, guilt, has that causal relationship all backwards. And so do we, because we are the biggest perpetuators of this myth. It is really twisted that we can’t be honest with ourselves much less the outside world, about the toll it takes on us, to go to work every day and experience new age racism and sexism in HD technicolor and then go home alone or to a phone that didn’t ring because our man was off galavanting in Anguilla behind our back with a yoga instructor…who looks white, which really is ok but really is not.

I am talking about an undiagnosed and untreated epidemic of depression and dysthymia (Google it) that is self medicated with Food (seriously, we need to do something about that) and Church on Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Sometimes alcohol or drugs or reckless irresponsible humping and babies by the absolutely positively wrong Negro(es) because he/they happened to be there. Not criticizing Church, just challenging the notion that it keeps you warm at night. Night after night. After night. For like, a reallllllly long time.

I am talking about delusions projected outward that we don’t need what we desperately crave, which is to be loved by a partner as every human being was designed to be, but the outlook is bleak so we say we don’t want it. “I don’t need a man to justify my existence.” <= That is one of my personal quotes from back in the day before I knew what it felt like to be mutually in love with someone. And that statement represents an existential misunderstanding of what is really going on.
I am talking about feeling unwanted and uneverythinggoodwhatsoever and that turning into a bit of an attitude from time to time…but really who wouldn’t be a bit pissed off about that? Did you know only 9% of black women marry outside their race compared to about 18-20% of black men? Beyond that statistic black women are the least married group of folks in this country. Go to match.com and see how many white/Asian/Hispanic men check every single race but “Black” when describing their ideal match. Numbers don’t lie. Google it!

Ok so um, what was my point? My point is that I am here to debunk this myth. Black women don’t have the luxury of vulnerability. We don’t even allow it to our own selves. To cry when injured is to sin. To have to take a knee because you got the wind knocked out of you, to act a little bit crazy, to consider suicide when the rainbow is enuf…is to be crazy. Other women get away with this by the way. But lose your cool and you’re fired, or you are dealing with 5-0.

Because 1) Angry Black Women are REALLY REALLY scary and people feel threatened. We’re combative. We make people feel uncomfortable. We just might kill you. Right? (uh, wrong) And 2) Strong Black Women are normal. When we are weak, when we cry, when we say we can’t take another moment we are crazy, unlovable, unacceptable, unstable, and inexcusable. God forbid we should get our feelings hurt and show it. We need “help” and that puts us in the reject pile. Because our role is to be strong and keep together and help everyone else like Oprah or Michelle Obama or Maya Angelou. Not that I don’t love them, but man do they perpetuate this stereotype. I feel a bit conflicted about them as much as I love them all, to be honest.

Newsflash: black women are just like white women but we don’t go to therapy or take Prozac. Or Cymbalta, nowadays, in the 21st century. We are not allowed. We don’t allow ourselves and no one else allows us to either without the shame shame shame of failure and inadequacy. We must change this because WE need a break. Stop doing whatever you feel like, saying whatever you think no matter what, stop trying our patience, stop doing things that would make lesser (whatever the heck that means) women break and expecting us to shake it off, keep it moving or pray on it. Just be NICE to us dammit. Stick around. Let us cry on your shoulder. Call. Stop cheating. Stop getting incarcerated. Stop treating us like we don’t deserve a seat at the table. Stop acting like we’re dumb when we are smarter than you. We may appear strong but we all have an Achilles Heel, a crazy button, whatever. We break. We DO! Don’t push it please. We’d appreciate it, thank you. (Yes I am speaking for the collective.)

Ok whew. I had to get this off my chest because it’s been there for like, ever, but today I got a moment of inspiration to speak on it.

I plan to tell another funny story soon if I can get the releases signed by the parties involved. 😉 Now I’m off to live my life like it’s Golden or some other such bullsh*t.
Good to be back! Stay tuned. xoBlack Swan