Straight from the Streets: Big Apple Edition

After the Bestest Christmas Ever, I hopped on a bus and headed to New York City to see my sister, Russatta. The following are a few tips and tricks I learned during my visit to the Big Apple - Enjoy!

*Do enjoy the show with your ride. The New York City Subway system is a variable smorgasboard of shows, acts, panhandlers and entertainers. Instead of gluing your Ipod to your ears, enjoy the talents of those around you. While my sister and I were on the 2 train, she was serenaded by a man with a guitar and an amp. I'm talking classics like "My Girl," ya'll. It was a hoot. On the A train, two kids got on and started break dancing. Of course, you get the youngsters trying to sell you candy for a $1, too, but for the most part, the train entertainers are just trying to make a living. Support them.

*Don't look for people you know on the NYC subway. You'll never find them (trust me, I know). But sometimes it's still fun to look, though.

*Do make a native New Yorker act like a tourist with you. It's hilarious. Here, my sister's Brooklyn-born friend, Naima, is pointing out one of the many landmarks on Madison Avenue. It's fun that way. Point out all of the landmarks. Make them stand in the middle of the sidewalk to gawk at the height of Trump Tower. Take pictures of them in front of the LOVE statue in Manhattan. Help them enjoy all the great things about their city that they walk by every day. And don't forget to laugh when the other New Yorkers storm past you, latte in hand, grumbling, "damn tourists."

*Do get your money's worth. And understand that college student ID's are the gift that keeps on giving. Take that validation sticker off and no one will suspect that you graduated and already have your degree framed and hanging in your living room. I got that good $20 student discount at the bus station in Providence, taking my ticket from $70 to $49.99. Take that FAFSA! Then, when I got to NYC, we ventured to the New York City Theatre to see the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. Not only did I get to see these amazing dancers for the first time in my life, I got to see it all for $10 on the student rate! Sure, I was in the balcony, but the performance was that much sweeter with the extra cash in my pocket. But the performance brings me to my third point...

*Do only make one call to invite someone in on your scams. Trying to be a good friend, I called one of my exes who lives in New Jersey to see if he wanted to get in on the student rate for Alvin Ailey. Now, this ex knew I was coming to town and asked me to call so we could hook up and chat. Cool. I call when we're about to go get tickets because he would have had time to take the train up and meet us there. Ring, ring, ring. No answer. I hung up and that was it. There would be no return call because why? He's my ex for a reason.

*Don't drink mojitos at 3 p.m., no matter how much you love them. We went to a Latin restaurant in Manhattan while we waited for the show to start. I LOOOOVVVE Mojitos, so when the waitress told me they had them I had to get one. (Notice my mojito - the glass with the sugar cane sticking out of it to my left - in the photo.) Now, I can hold my liquor, but I hadn't had anything to eat all day and by now it was early afternoon. So, I ate my ropa vieja with black beans and spanish rice to coat my stomach while I sipped on my drank. We got ready to leave and I didn't want to waste money, so I went ahead and handled my drink. I was good for a while, but after a while, my head started to hurt. I was very thankful to get to the theatre so we could sit down.

*Do get some culture in your life. NYC isn't all about fashion and parties, there's a lot of great culture and history there. For our part, my sister and I went to see "Malcolm X: A Search for Truth" at the Schomberg Center for Research in Black Culture in Harlem. Very enlightening.

*Don't feel the need to buy everything just because "It's NYC." We went shopping in Fort Green and Park Slope on Thursday before I left and went to this fabulous boutique called "Flirt." Now, ya'll know I'm fairly thrifty with mine, but I decided to try some things on anyway. This festive number (right) looked AMAZING in person. The picture just doesn't do it justice. The floral print made it nice and summery, while the satiny material made it suitable for evening. It was a wrap dress, so it covered the parts that needed to be covered, while leaving just enough skin showing. Talking bout stuff was lifted and tucked and draped just so - I looked like a million bucks. And it was reversable. The price tag for this find? $287. I left that joker in the store. However, I did manage to find another beautiful dress in the same boutique that made me look like the grown woman I am while flattering my assets. Price tag? $118 after tax. I bought it ya'll. Now I gotta find somewhere to wear it. Anyone want to take me out for mojitos? Anyone?

The Bestest Christmas Ever

I marked my first Christmas away from home by beginning my life as a common criminal, all thanks to my girl, Jessie.

Jessie came up to visit me in the Ocean State for the holidays for some southern cooking and good-natured shenanigans. And as we all know, I aim to please, so we embarked on what would henceforth be known as "the Bestest Christmas Ever."

The crime spree started in the wee hours of the morning on Christmas Eve. Jessie, my friend Lyndsey and I were driving back from a party in Boston when I told them about the Christmas tree. I'd never gotten a real tree - we always used the plastic and metal trees at my house - so Jessie wanted to make sure we got one this year. Being that she was getting in so late, we expected to get a Charlie Brown Christmas twig, which added to the charm. So, for the weeks leading to Jessie's arrival, I'd been scoping places to buy a conifer.

The place, I'd decided, was the Broadway Mart up the street from my house. For much of December, they'd had a cache of trees wrangled in a corner of the parking lot, near the pay phones. Each day, I saw the stock of trees get smaller and smaller until they disappeared. Or so I thought.

On the way to pick up Jessie from the airport, I spotted three small trees thrown on a snow bank near the dumpster in back of the store. One of those trees, soon, would be mine.

So, as we drove down I-93, we plotted our strategy: I'd creep into the parking lot, pop the trunk and we'd stuff the tree inside. I'd then drive away inauspiciously and we'd cart the tree into my living room, where a tree stand was waiting at the ready.

We got to my house covered in pine needles, trying to quiet our laughter as we entered my building. We erected the rescued tree, a 5 foot tall scrawny thing, and dubbed him "Rufus." Once we decorated him with bulbs and lights and placed a homemade star atop, Rufus was a bad mofo.

That caper set the stage for the rest of the weekend, which included a rainy Christmas-night trespassing excursion to the Capitol building where we got some great pictures of Providence at night.

Another highlight was touring the Russian Sub Museum with our guide, Doug, a former sailor. We skirted up to the entryway at about 4:20 p.m. Christmas Eve and persuaded the people to take us on a tour.

"My friend is leaving on Monday," I told them, "we REALLY want to see the sub." Doug - bless his heart - agreed to take us on the final tour of the night. After we watched the safety video "what not to do on a Russian Sub" - off we went.

Five minutes into the tour, Doug, begins explaining the barracks and torpedo shoots therein. Jessie wondered aloud if the torpedos were still live.

Silence.

Doug looks at us and you could see the wheels in his head turning. "Oh, no, we don't want to, like, blow anything up," I offered. "She's just asking because she's curious." That was enough to ease Doug's nerves for the moment. We shimmied through port holes and gawked at the Russian lettering on the steering mechanisms. We emerged from the belly of the sub with a new found appreciation for our country's sailors and tasty little tidbits of information. Did you know the sub only had three bathrooms to service 88 sailors? Eighty-eight!

We capped the weekend off with a lazy Christmas day (save for our trespassing excursion to the Capitol) of movies. After the Disney Christmas Day parade, we watched Elf. We merged our Christmas traditions for dinner: I cooked greens, smoked turkey legs and spaghetti salad; Jessie made mashed potatoes (she's from Idaho). Hotel Rwanda played on my television as we ate.

I took Jessie on a rainy tour of Federal Hill and the newsroom, then decided it would be a good idea to go to the Capitol building. We tiptoed across the ice and peered into the windows to see the State House Christmas - err - Holiday Tree. Then we went to the movies and saw "The Family Stone," after which, we went to a club with Lyndsey. We drank martini's and rum & coke. We recoiled at the skimpy outfits. I taught Jessie how to wind. A good time was had by all.

The next day, it was time to say goodbye. We arrived at the airport and Jessie gathered her bags as the rain beat down from above. We hugged one another and went our separate ways - armed with memories of the Bestest Christmas Ever and grateful we had friends who could double as family in times like these.

(Captions, from top: Jessie and I at Roger Williams Memorial Park in Providence - the skyline of the city is in the background; me hugging Rufus just before we hauled him out to the dumpster; Jessie checking out the torpedo shafts as Doug points out some interesting fact.)

The color green, Lunchables and Miles Davis

After Christmas, I hopped on a bus and trekked it to NYC to visit my sister, Russatta. Anyway, during the course of the trip, she misplaced her phone - leaving her incommunicado until the early part of next year (when Sprint will send the replacement phone). We're walking down 5th avenue and she starts talking about how her hip feels empty without her phone and how she feels she's missing out on important things. I turn to her and say: "Just enjoy it. You're not tied down. No one can interrupt your day. Just enjoy this moment."

She looked at me like I was crazy - one of those, "yeah, you say that but you HAVE your phone" kind of looks. But she knew I was right. Ironically, my phone didn't ring for the rest of the day, so we enjoyed our outing interruption free.

I had such a good time, I've decided to make that my theme for 2006: Enjoy the moment.

For so long, I've been working toward a goal - graduating from high school, getting out of Flint, passing my courses, graduating from college (with honors), finding a job - that I've let some things in life pass me by. Now that I have a job and I'm relatively stable - at least for a few years - I'm going to start enjoying myself and living life to it's fullest.

So, what does all this mean? I'll tell you.

Among other things, in 2006 I will:
~take salsa lessons
~get a full night's sleep (on a new mattress)
~learn how to walk in heels so my feet don't get tired (a la Sex in the City)
~forget about color schemes and what's "in" and decorate my house with things I love
~sit on the waterfront and enjoy a lazy afternoon breeze
~change my hair (maybe go natural)
~learn how to put together an outfit
~buy a banging overcoat
~spend good money on quality items more often
~splurge on something for me every month
~volunteer and give something back to the community
~eat more things that will keep me healthy
~eat more of the things that make me happy
~take better care of my body
~find a church home, attend regularly and tithe correctly
~speak proper English - or at least a less broken version
~read more good books
~listen to good music
~add onto my jazz collection
~go to art exhibits, plays and other cultural events
~visit a foreign country (Canada doesn't count)
~be a tourist in any town that I'm in and not care that I look like a tourist
~take my "pictures"
~visit my friends and family more often

This upcoming year is going to be all about the things I love, the things I wish I could do and the things I want to do. And if you haven't guessed it, the title refers to some of the things I love.

Enjoy the Moment.

Yeah, 2006 is going to be a good one.

"Be Happy for this moment. This moment is your life."

It's the Small Things

Instead of New Year's resolutions, last year, I started giving myself a theme to live by.

Last year, No one could steal my sunshine. That meant all of the things that brought me down in 04 - worry, peer pressure, confidence, whatever - weren't going to have an effect on me. For the most part, it worked. I had a good year.

So, I'm talking to my girl, Delilah about my theme for next year, being that we're grown women (ha) now and all.

Me: "Yeah, so you know how last year no one could steal my sunshine?"
Delilah: "Yeah."
Me: "I think I got my theme for this year."
Delilah: "What is it?"
Me: "My theme for this year is get a new mattress and a couch."
Delilah, cracking up laughing: "So you went from having sunshine to just wanting a decent place to sleep, huh?"
Me: "Times be hard these days. That's all I really need right now. A good mattress."

But for real - I do need to get a theme for next year as January 1 is rapidly approaching. What's your theme for this year? Any suggestions for me?

213 to 542, them

I knew I shouldn’t have, but the way this game was going, I needed all of the help I could get.

It was getting close to the end of our hand of spades and, for some reason, I still had an ace of clubs in my hand. And there was just one person standing between me and this book.

"Lord, please let this boy have a club," I prayed. "Please let him have ANY club."

I was in Medford, Mass., at a friend of a friend’s house playing spades – the universal game of black people everywhere. I ain’t no slouch, so my partner, Andrew, and I had started off well enough. We won our first hand 80 to 30. I thought it was going to be a good game. Then, our luck turned for the worse.

I don’t know how it happened, but in a matter of three hands, we’d gone from winning, to betting blind six, just to get out of negative numbers. And, no offense, but our opponents weren’t that good. I could pretty much predict how good her hand was because of the smile that would creep across her face. The guy wasn’t as easy to read, but he often had to pick up the slack for her. But not even Nostradamus, himself could have predicted the cards we were dealt that night.

If my partner and I weren’t bleeding to death, we were trying to recover from the cuts our opponents were dealing throughout the game. If he wasn’t cutting, she was cutting. Every time I thought I had a book, here they go, slapping down a spade. To make it worse, people kept coming by periodically to look at the score.

“93 to 207? Damn, ya’ll getting whooped!”
“120 to 375? Talia – that ain’t Hampton.”
“176 to 402? Ya’ll still playing?

I tried to explain that we’d come from a -30 deficit, but they weren’t trying to hear it.

That’s why this hand was so important. If we won this hand, it would give us a fighting chance at winning and saving at least a bit of face.

That’s why I decided to pray.

Now, I know you’re not supposed to pray for selfish reasons, but I figured, hey, the way the score was looking, things couldn’t get too much worse.

“Lord, please let him have a club,” I prayed silently.

I stared at his cards as my opponent tried to decide what to play next. He pulled one up, hesitated, and then placed it back into his hand.

I readied the ace in my hand, preparing to slam it on the table with a monstrous “boo-yah.”

Ever-so-gently, he took a card and placed it onto the pile in the center of the table.

Time stood still as I stared at it in disbelief.

I threw down my ace, disgusted.

Foiled by a three of spades.

**After our whooping, Andrew and I coaxed our opponents into a redemption game, where we were able to walk away with our dignity after winning with a score of 297 to 101.**

Customer Service

I swear I'm about ready to stuff all the money I have into a mattress just so I don't have to deal with banks anymore.

It all started last week when I went online to buy a gift card for my sister. Visa has this nifty thing where you can just put money on a card and the recipient can use it as a credit card. So, instead of me having to wire money to my sis for our mother's present, I could just send the gift card at minimal charge. Sounds good, right? That's what I thought. Then, I get an e-mail from the bank saying they needed verification of my address - a utility bill or license.

Are you serious? I called the customer service people.

Me: "Hi, I ordered a gift card and now I'm getting this e-mail requesting that I fax verification to ya'll? For what?"
Service lady: "I'm not sure ma'am. It just says that before it can go through, you have to send verification."
Me: "It ain't enough that I'm calling you to verify my information?" (by now, I'd given her my address and everything)
SL: "No, it says you need the documents."
Me: "Well I don't want to do that. Can I cancel it?"
SL: "Yes, but there'll be a $15 fee."
Me: "For what? You know what, let me speak to a manager."

By now, I'm heated because cats is trying to charge me money that I don't have for a card that I didn't get to use. So, I speak to Olivia, the manager on call. I tell chick the scenario and Olivia tells me that there would be no charge because the card hadn't been authorized yet. I'm like, cool, let's cancel the joker then. I get a confirmation number and I think everything is lovely.

That was Saturday.

Tuesday, I go online and check my balance and I see a $100 deduction from the gift card people. Say what? So now, I'm irate. But I'm at work, so I gotta chill. I didn't get a chance to call them until Thursday, when the conversation went something like this.

Service Lady: "How can I help you?"
Me: "Yeah, I canceled this gift card on Saturday, ya'll took the money out of my account on Tuesday and I want to know what's going on."
SL: "Let me see if I can figure things out."

Chick proceeds to tell me that they deducted the money and have cut a check in the amount of $85 that is in the mail as we speak.

Me: "$85? Why is it $85? I bought a card - that I cancelled - for $100; not $85."
SL: "Well, there's a $15 charge for cutting the check."
Me: "Oh, I see. Let me talk to the manager. I know you've done all you can. Let me talk to a manager."

So, this chick finds Iris, the manager from hell, to speak to me. First thing comes out of her mouth:

Iris: "Hi, we've already sent your check for $85 and we can't refund your $15 because the notes in the account say you refused to send in the verification."
Me: "Hold up. Why are you being so rude to me."
I: "I'm not being rude, I'm just telling you that we can't override the fee because you refused to send in verification."
Me: "I didn't refuse, I asked what the information was for which ya'll couldn't give me a vaild reason for. If I knew I'd be charged, I woulda sent the stuff in. When I spoke to Olivia on Saturday, she told me there wouldn't be a fee because it was still waiting approval."
I: "Well, the fee has been charged and it can't be reversed."
Me: "well what's the $15 for?"
I: "We already cut the plastic for the card, so that fee is for the reimbursement for that."
Me: "How were ya'll already cutting plastic for my card if you were waiting on verification of my address before you put the order through, Iris?"
I: "We've already sent the check in the mail. You should be getting it in a couple days."
Me: "Alright, Iris, is that your name? Is there someone else I can talk to - someone higher than you?"
I: "No, I'm the highest manager on duty right now. But you're welcome to call corporate."

Don't test me, Iris.

I filed two formal complaints with the corporate office, one for Olivia and one for Iris. Then, I filed a grievance with the company to get my $15. I also plan on writing a very strong letter to the people at the bank telling them about my situation. Hopefully, they'll see my side of things and refund my money. Maybe I'll even get a free giftcard or something. Whatever happens, I know one thing - next time I need to send money I'mma just buy a money order cause this ain't worth the hassle.

The Joys of the Job

I'm sitting in my bureau, watching the time roll away. I turned in my story an hour early and I'm waiting to see if the desk has any questions.

Tonight, I covered a meeting about the changes to the Medicare system and sat next to this elderly guy in a room full of other elderly people. He was nice - I even used him in my story.

But every time he coughed (and it he coughed alot), his breath smelled like vomit.

Maybe he had acid reflux or had just gotten over a bad cold. I just know the smell almost made me throw up in my mouth a little bit.

Luckily, I was able to restrain myself.

I would just turn my head, hold my hand over my nose and try to breathe through my mouth every time I heard a cough coming on. Sometimes I still caught a wiff though. It tended to linger. The thought of it still grosses me out.

I think I'm going to spray down my coat with Lysol when I get home. Because whatever it was he had, I don't want to catch it.

I hope they finish with my story soon. I'm ready to go home.

Straight from the Streets: Nor'easter Edition

A quickie for ya'll:

On 95/I-195 - I thought I'd experienced the worst drivers in America when I lived in Virginia. Va drivers don't hold a candle to Rhode Island motorists. I've been cut off, tailgated, boxed out, and just all around motorally assaulted (yes, I made up that word) by these drivers. They're not rude, they just don't care. It's like they all got their license yesterday and are still learning how to work their signals and master the art of staying in one lane.

everyday round 9:30 a.m. and 6:30 p.m. - Sometimes I wonder how the DJs in Rhode Island keep their jobs. No matter what time of day I turn the radio on, I hear the same songs: Chris Brown "Run It," Mariah Carey "Think About Us," or Jeezy - anything he's got out now. I'm saying; I understand the songs are hot, but can I get a little something called variety and a little bit of innovation. Can I hear Jamie Foxx's "Unpredictable"? What about the new Floetry joint, "Superstar"? Is that too much to ask? I will, however, give them their props for playing my joint - "Stay Fly" by Three 6 Mafia. But I can't get crunk to one song and one song alone.

Friday, Dec. 2, round 9 p.m. and 4 a.m. - Somebody needs to do something about the signage in Boston. Twice, I got lost following the detour signs for I-93. Each time, the path led me right to the exact spot where I started from - with no instructions about where to go from there. A couple of wrong turns and one notch less in my gas tank later, I finally made it to the expressway.

Friday, 10 p.m. - So, I make it to the "grown and sexy" party, looking fly. I'm comfortable and I look good, ready to mingle (shout out to everyone who tried to help me with my fashion dilemma - your advice was much appreciated). I walk in the door and was disappointed. Many of the people weren't dressed by my definition of "grown and sexy" - they were more "Hampton casual." For those of you who didn't have the pleasure of being a Hampton Pirate, let me explain. It's not club, it ain't casual, and it's not as formal as business attire. It's a wonderful hodge-podge of all of these things, complimented by the perfect accessories. It's classy, sophisticated and confident. But, also in the Hampton world, there's a thing called "grown and sexy," which is used to describe attire for a caberet or dressy party. Grown and sexy could include jeans, but more likely involves a skirt or a nice pair of slacks and banging heels. So, when I step into the hall with my green pants (yes, green and they are FLY) and black sparkly halter top and see people in jeans, collard shirts and sweaters, I felt mislead. Hoodwinked. Led astray. But I still looked good regardless. But now I know: I can get away with Hampton casual for almost any event in Boston. And knowing is half the battle.

Fashion Non-sense

I was never really good at the whole “girl” thing. In fact, besides cooking, I pretty much suck at being a girl.

I’ve worn my hair the same way since 11th grade.
Even at 22, most makeup techniques remain a mystery to me.
Days in heels are spent looking for a place to sit down and take them off.
And I can’t put together an outfit to save my life.

Never was that more clear to me than last night as stood in my closet trying to figure out an ensemble for a party Friday in Boston.

Should I wear pants or a dress?
What can I wear with my gold heels?
Can my Gap tee be considered grown and sexy?
What about the cream pants – can I wear those after Labor Day?

It’s times like these I wish I had a girlfriend here with me.

My friends have always been my enablers; doing my hair and makeup or helping me decide what to wear for a night on the town. In high school, it was my girl, Sisco, who could take $10, a jar of hair gel and black eyeliner and make you look like a million bucks – or at least any chick from the videos. In D.C., Louise, my friend who could navigate the hills of Howard in three inch heels without missing a step, kept me looking fly on our semi-regular jaunts to Dream. At HU, Delilah helped me navigate that fine line of what’s sexy – and helped me showcase my femininity with sophistication.

When I don’t have the luxury of a personal dresser, I tend to stack the deck. On trips, after packing my chosen “outfits,” I turn to Plan B. It’s simple really. I go to my closet and chuck a few extra shirts and pants into my suitcase - just in case. The plan B pieces usually never match each other or are very simple, safe pieces. I figure if push comes to shove, as long as it fits well, doesn’t have any holes in it and is clean, I can make it work.

But, as I stand before the growing mountain of clothes on my bed, I’m not so sure.

Here’s the problem: I can conjure in my head what I think the outfit should look like, but when I put the clothes on, it never looks like my vision. Maybe I’m shaped funny. Maybe my clothes don’t fit well. Maybe I just can’t match. Who knows. But I know that when I look in the mirror, about the outfit, something just ain’t right.

So I take off the failed outfit and throw it in the heap with the others. Maybe I’ll just wear a white tee. Being a girl is too much work.

They say beauty runs in the family

I think they're right. This is my lovely sister Russatta. Don't be mad because you ain't us. :-)

The Sisters take Magic City

Somehow, after the spaghetti dinner and episode of "House," the conversation between my sisters and I turned to ghetto strip clubs and the employees therein.

"The strippers at Magic City have stab wounds and scars," Dani said.
"Stab wounds? Are you sure? I don't believe you," Setta said.

This is what happens when you get bored in Flint.

I wasn't even supposed to be here. My plans were to be in Rhode Island, writing it up and preparing to spend Thanksgiving with my sister Setta and one of my friend's families in the Ocean State. A call and text message last Thursday informing me of an unexpected death in our family changed all of that. By now the funeral was behind us and we were spending as much time as possible together before we were forced to go back to our lives in separate area codes.

So here I was, in the fourth most dangerous city in America, sitting with two of my sisters, discussing the attributes of strippers. And the strippers at Magic City, nonetheless.

Magic City is the epitome of your stereotypical ghetto strip club. Every night, the parking lot features pimped out rides, hoopties and vans of all sorts. The dress code might as well mandate du-rags, bubble coats (or shearlings) and fresh Timbs or AF1's. It's situated across from a soon to be defunct Buick Assembly Line Factory, and adjacent to a liquor store. Classy joint, this place.

"Stab wounds? Are you sure? I don't believe you," Setta said.

So we decided to show her. And just for good measure, we invited our other sister, Ramona.

"Ramona, do you want to go to Magic City with us," Dani asked Mona on speakerphone.

The laughter was almost deafening.

"The strip joint," Ramona asked. "Naw I don't want to go there. Why ya'll going to Magic City anyway?"

Even after we explained that we wanted to make this a family bonding experience, Mona decided she didn't want to go. So, we ventured to the North Side alone.

The parking lot left much to be desired. When we pulled up around 12:30 a.m., there were maybe 8 cars in the darkened parking lot. We walked up to the door, piping hot chocolate and cider from Tim Horton's in hand, and paid the $5 cover.

I think I want my money back.

We expected to see girls dancing on poles, guys throwing dollars at the stage and a good time being had by all. Instead, we saw an empty stage, some thugs playing pool and one girl hugged up on a recliner with a customer. Setta questioned the door man.

"Why do we have to pay - is there going to be any action tonight?"

Armed with promises that someone would be coming to the stage soon, we made our way to a trio of plushy recliners in the corner and tried to look like we belonged there. We talked about the decor - mirrors with dirty handprints, and a poster featuring a woman's butt being cupped by two other women adorned the walls. Instead of soft core porn on the TV stations, we watched the game. Across the room, the DJ let the CDs ride - not even attempting to do any real mixing.

Everyone was staring at us - especially the doorman. He eventually sent a girl over to us. I suppose to give us "some action." Too bad we punked out.

"Hi, my name is Leah," the girl in the black-net dress said. "How are ya'll doing tonight?"
"Hi, Leah," we answered. "We're doing well."
"Do any of ya'll want a dance," she asked.
"No, we're alright," Setta answered, and with that, Leah was gone.

To my right a few feet away, an older white man in shorts sat down and ordered a lap dance from one of the other girls. It was hard not to look, since they were right next to us, but it felt wrong watching as this man grabbed her butt and rubbed his grubby hands all over her body. It was almost like we were adding to her degradation by sitting in our sweaters and boots watching her drop it like it was hot. The guy kept looking over at us and smiling, like we shared some sort of twisted connection. I would look down and glance away, suddenly ashamed of where I was.

We decided to play a bad game of pool to help pass the time. I was waiting for Russatta to get back from the bar when some guy approached me.

"What's your name?" he asked.
"T-Dot."
"Don't you have a sister?
"Yeah, why? Who are you?"
"My name is Dionte. I used to go to church with your sister, Kinra. Me, her and Sylvia (my cousin) used to be over ya'll house all the time. Ya'll still stay on Bishop?"

I tried to keep my composure, but I'd been outed. We chatted for a bit and caught up. He had two kids. Kinra had two. I had none. He still stayed in Flint. Kinra was in Detroit. I was in Rhode Island. Then there was an awkward pause. I told him I'd tell Kinra he said hello. He walked away. I got back to the game.

About 5 minutes into the game, Magic City started turning the lights on. They still had to clean, so we finished our game. The DJ, whose booth was right next to the table, apparently took a liking to us. He even gave me a free CD and some flyers to pass out. We finished the game and grabbed our coats. Doorman walked us out.

As I drove Dani and Setta home, we talked about the experience we'd just shared. It was oddly anticlimactic, we all agreed.

You can bet that'll be the last time we sisters go to Magic City. Next time maybe we'll splurge for Deja Vu or Nathan J's.

Then again, maybe not.

It's my blog, I'll quote who I want to...

So, I'm in Flinttown. I'm sitting at my sister Dani's house, watching CSI:Miami with my other sister Russatta. We're talking about the situation on the show when this gem comes outta my mouth:

"We give people too much credit. People are stupid. I see it everyday. If people weren't stupid, I wouldn't have a job."

It's a little harsh, but, hey, it's true. Ahh well.

Ain't nothing going on but the rent

Things to do when you're working a Saturday shift and jack-squat is going on:

1. Check your e-mail 1,000 times
2. Read the paper
3. Do Cop Checks
4. Start writing that story about that meeting you went to Thursday for Monday's paper
5. Check your Facebook account
6. Watch "Sleepless in Seattle" on TBS
7. Go to the bank only to find they can't cash your check and have your money available ASAP (Bank of America bastards)
8. Call a friend
9. Be sad when they hang up because they have something to do with their lives and you're stuck in the office
10. Watch B.E.T.
11. Turn the scanner to Foster/Glocester to see what the country folk are doing
12. Check Facebook
13. Blog-surf
14. Do a soft shoe routine in the middle of the office
15. Spin around in your chair thinking about things you could be doing
16. Check the clock - too many more hours till quittin' time
17. Make green tea
18. Follow up on an overnight fire in a neighboring community
19. Contemplate cleaning your desk
20. Decide against it
21. Work on that story about Thursday's meeting for Monday's paper
22. Read stuff hanging up on other people's desks
23. Sing a song and perform a jig to accompany it
24. Lotion your hands for the third time that day and wonder what you're doing that makes them keep getting ashy
25. Read a book
26. Finish writing that story about Thursday's meeting for Monday's paper
27. Write a blog entry about your day
28. Call the police to see what's popping (and just to chat)
29. Check Facebook
30. Loathe that your work week is Tuesday through Saturday

What's in a name?

My girl Jessie lives her life as a question on a daily basis. This is one she asked me the other day:

"Why are they called collard greens? It's because you have to "collar" them, right?"

I'm dumbfounded. Speechless.

Then the laughter comes. After I explained the difference between collard, mustard and turnip greens (I also threw in kale) and debunked the myth that there was some mysterious "collaring" process to cooking the vegetable, she replied:

"Oh, well, they should pick a different name for them, then. It's kind of confusing."

I'll send that request in to the greens-naming police for you, Jessie. I'll send it in.

Wesley, Deuce and new Zip Codes

First, a ginormous shout-out goes to Sherlon Christie, who helped me battle a temperamental moving truck up the East Coast AND helped me move all of my furniture in the freezing rain. Sherlon, I will dance at your wedding.

All the way from Hampton to New Jersey, Wesley, as I dubbed my moving truck, was doing fine. We were hitting 70 on 95 and cutting corners like any sedan I've ever whipped. But when Sherlon and I headed out the next morning to go to Rhode Island, something went awry.

Full disclosure - somewhere about the NJ border, the service engine light came on. I figured no biggie, I drive with my service light on every once in a while. Sometimes it's just a fuse. Lesson I learned: when it comes to moving trucks, it's never just a fuse.

So we head out and Wesley starts sputtering like he just doesn't want to go. I finesse the gas a bit. Ease off of the brake. This truck doesn't want to do over 50. Then, we head to the NJ Turnpike and as we go uphill, Wesley decides he doesn't want to do over 30. And starts jerking. So we pull over and call the emergency number. They tell us we have to bring the truck to them. I'd hate to see what would've happened if we couldn't get the car to move. So, we head into Jersey City to find some random U-Haul place. It's Saturday morning and packed. We get bad news. There are no trucks available for one-way moves and the mechanic isn't on duty today.

Are you serious? They give us this advice: "Just try and make it to Providence. Don't go over 60."

You've got to be kidding me. But, we don't really have much of a choice, so we head back into the truck. Over time, we discovered that if you shut Wesley down every 90 minutes or so, he's fine. So, we're trucking along and Sherlon and I decide to have the most random conversation I think I've ever had on a cross-country drive.

I don't remember details, but I believe it involved discussing which black actresses had breast implants. Please don't make me relive it.

So, we get to Providence and move all my junk - in the rain - into my new apartment. Halfway through the night, I realized I live in Rhode Island now. Reppin' 02914 these days. Bananas.

Anyway, the next morning, I spend too much money on bacon and eggs at the local Kwik-E-Mart and shuttle Sherlon to Dorchester - a detour on his way home. I learned so many things in Beantown.

Like, I make dogs horny.

Especially ones like, deuce, G. Lee's hyperactive ADD pup, Deuce, who's deathly afraid of paper towel.

So, we're all chilling at G.Lee's house in Dorchester and Deuce comes up to me while I'm talking on the phone with one of my friends. I pet him absentmindedly, talking about the great things in Binghamton, N.Y., when I hear an outburst of laughter. Apparently, my heavy petting got little Deuce a bit "excited" and he was ready to make me his lady. I move my hand and Deuce jumps on my leg. I vow not to touch deuce again, but he kept giving me the eye all night long anyway.

Other gems of the night include (yes, I was taking notes):
"Homeless people look better than him." - G. Lee on Ricky Williams' facial hair
"I spent enough money on CDs over the years, I'm entitled to steal." - G. Lee on pirating
"You gotta lay some seeds." - G.Lee's advice on what real pimps do

Other shout-outs of the post go to G. Lee and Darren, who fed me when a sister was oh-so-hungry. G.Lee - good looking out; those little chicken poppers were off the chain. D - tell your aunt that I want a couple bags of whatever crack it was she put into that barbecue.

Straight from the Streets - Homecoming Edition

***So, what Homecoming was October 20. I'm a little late. Sue me. Here are some tidbits from my first Hampton University Homecoming as an alumna. :-) ***

Around 8:30 p.m. Friday, Oct. 21: Me and my girl, Delilah go over JM's house because we hear he has some libations. Plus, I haven't seen him in forever, so we go to chop it up for a bit. So, it's me, Delilah, JM, Coleman and eventually, JM's old roommate CH comes through. We're all sitting around the dining room table talking about some shenanigan that happened earlier that day when I see something out the corner of my eye. I glance to the right and CH is thoroughly scratching his balls - so much so that he's somewhat juggling them. My jaw drops. He sees me looking and gives me the most sincere apology: "My bad, Talia. I didn't mean for you to see that. I'm sorry." All I could do was laugh.

10 p.m., Friday, Oct. 21: We go to the Soiree. I'm not going to spend that much time on it because it's not worth the real estate, but the party was nothing compared to the one last year. There was so much pushing and line cutting and rudeness going on, I considered just going home. But I'd paid my money and was going to party. At security, they threw away all of our ink pens. Don't ask me why. Also, I didn't agree with some of the outfits (including a few girls who decided that a shirt could double as a dress), but whatever. What made me upset was that just after we got in the door and to the dance floor, they stopped the party so that they could have a fashion show. What the heezy? I didn't pay for a fashion show. I paid for a party. But I had fun, saw some folks and looked good doing it.

Saturday, Oct. 22: I'm all about free food, but for some reason, we kept missing the vittles this weekend. Delilah and I head up to campus looking for the Scripps Howard tailgate. We search the Convocation parking lot. Nothing. So, we're making our way over to Scripps to see what's popping. Along the way, we see some people, chop it up and in the process, miss the food. So, I'm like, 'hey, the Script is having a function. They probably have food, plus I haven't been to the office yet." So, we go to the Student Center and I head to the 2nd floor. The office was good, dark and locked when we got there. Damn. So, by now, it's like 2 p.m. We're like, let's call Earl. Earl is a professor in Scripps who loves to chat and eat with students. He agrees to take us to lunch, so we all head to this Japanese restaurant in "Downtown" Hampton. He orders a bunch of sushi, soups, chicken and tea and we catch up. Then Earl decides it's a good idea for us to take some shots. Mind you, it's like 4 o'clock in the afternoon. So what will our poison of choice be? Tequila? Vodka? Mad Dog 20/20? Oh, we would have been so lucky. He has the waitress bring out a container of sake - some dreadful liquor the Japanese drink for fun. If you never drink sake, it will be too soon. But, hey, it was homecoming weekend. How often do you get to drink with a professor? Bottoms up.

Around 5 p.m., Sunday, Oct. 23: I'm making calls to set up my U-Haul for the trek up to Rhode Island. I call the office on Mercury Blvd. "Blah blah blah security," the person answering the phone says. Me, all confused like: "What? Is this U-Haul?" The person answering the phone: "Yeah, this is security, they're closed." Since when did security guards answer the phone for the places they're guarding. And since when did U-Haul start having security guards? I think she was trying to give me the okey-doke.

Early afternoon, Monday, Oct. 24: So, I'm staying with my boy, JM. Using up his electricity, eating his food, shuffling through the CDs on his dresser, and I realize, "hey, it's getting late. I need to get dressed for the day." So, I gather my clothes and my overnight kit and head to the bathroom. I come back to the living room where JM is sitting.
Me: Do you have a towel I can use?
JM: No.
Me: What do you mean, "no"?
J: I don't have any towels.
Me: You don't have any clean or you don't have any towels?
J: I don't have any towels.
I sit in the chair dumbfounded. This cat ain't got no towels and doesn't care. He doesn't have a face towel, a hand towel, a body towel, not nan piece of a towel. The only kind of towels he has are paper and I ain't really trying to go there.
Me (my voice going up like 3 octaves to show my emotion): How do you just not have any towels, Jarrod?
J: I just don't. I got my loofa, my body wash and my robe. What I need a towel for?
Me: Why didn't you tell me that before I came, I would've brought a towel.
J: I don't know. I didn't think about it. You better air dry.
So, over the course of the week, I learned that it only takes four pieces of the "select a size" paper towels to dry off after a shower. You can get it down to three once you've had some practice.

Early evening, Monday Oct. 24: I get a call from Delilah, who's made it back to Cali. I answer the phone and one of the first things to come out of her mouth? "So, you going to Homecoming next year?" I'm saying, can I LEAVE this year's Homecoming first?

Mondays with Brian

***I'm catching ya'll up on my life. This happened October 17. Enjoy.***

Monday night I had tea with a Buddhist monk and almost died of asphyxiation in the process. I was visiting a former professor in Connecticut as a part of my week-long jaunt to the East coast and had accompanied him to a class on Buddhism.

Well, it wasn't so much a class, but rather a conversation with a divorced Roman Catholic priest turned Buddhist monk named Brian. My prof told me I didn't have to go, but I figured how often do you get to go to a Monk's house and chat? So, to Brian's house we went.

As we're getting to the door, my professor says, 'oh yeah, he has a cat.'

I stop dead in my tracks. I'm allergic to cats.

"A long-haired cat," I ask. "I don't know," he replies. "A cat, cat. Regular."

As we walk to the door, I pray I don' t have a reaction to the cat, because its the kind of allergic where my chest closes up, my eyes water and my throat grows thorns. But I figure I'll take my chances and I'm glad I did.

As soon as we walk into Brian's house, I felt a wash of calm come over me. Maybe it was psychological, but I felt it. We take our shoes off at the door and as I'm taking my jacket off, I get my first glimpse of a Buddhist monk: a 60-something white man, shaved head, khaki pants and a bright yellow pull-over. Not exactly what I expected, but we greet nonetheless.

He leads us in stockinged feet down a short hallway to his living room. A small prayer alter sits on one side with a statue of Buddha and some incense. A few strings of prayer beads hang on hooks nearby. Three bicycles, two in one corner, one in another, hang from hooks on the walls. A small plant stand next to a wooden desk is adorned with flashing Christmas lights, giving the entire room an oddly warm feeling. In the middle of the floor were two sisal mats topped with a puffy circular pillow; and in the corner was that cat, all black and grayish-like.

We sit down to drink our tea and at first, I think, "Okay, this won't be so bad. I must not be allergic." Then, the sniffles come. My nose began to run as Brian explained meditation. My eyes watered as we talked about prayer and thankfulness. But it wasn't until I went to the bathroom to blow my nose that my chest started to close up. I tried to fight it, breathing deeply and concentrating on opening up my lungs, but it wasn't working. Brian asked if I was okay - I said I'd be fine. So, we moved to the floor to practice some meditation.

Ting, ting, ting went the bell as Brian "willed it to speak."

We closed our eyes and sat cross-legged on the sisal mats. I was doing better, just a few sniffles, until that blue-grey feline decided to get friendly. Not only did he swish his tail all in my face as I tried to meditate, he decides to lick my hand - with the same tongue he used to "clean himself" with just moments earlier.

Five excrutiating minutes went by. I'd given up on trying to focus because it was taking all that was in me to suck air into my lungs. Brian brings us back from the meditation and apologizes for his cat - he'd seen him get close to me during the quiet time. We chatted for a bit and Brian gave me a book to read about what it means to be a Buddhist. I thanked him for allowing me into his home and for everything I'd learned, then my professor and I left Brian. I promised to come visit him again.

On the car ride home, my chest finally started to open up. I rolled the window down and inhaled that sweet glorious oxygen; glad that I'd taken the chance to meet Brian and that I'd survived his cat.

Straight from the Streets - International Edition

*Friday, about 10:30 a.m. I was making some calls on Friday, my last day of work and I heard this on the answering machine of one of the Downriver cities I covered.
"Hi, you've reached the city of Southgate office of the city clerk. If it is after hours and you have found a lost dog, please call the animal control office. Please leave a message after the beep and someone will get back with you. Thank you."
I like to have died laughing. Not only does the clerk handle elections, they also field calls for the dog pound. Classic.

*Friday, about 11:30 a.m. - I'm compiling a list of election candidates and getting photos for everyone running. I speak to this one woman - nice lady, had a good conversation and all. I ask for her picture and give her my e-mail address to mail it to me. I get a call like 20 minutes later, Talia, I need your fax number. I'm not sure who it is, but I give it to her anyway. I come back from lunch, it's a fax from the lady. She's faxed me a dark photo of herself - all I can make out are her teeth. You don't really want me to put this in the paper, do you? Do you? (She later had her husband drop off a photo for us to scan in. It worked better.)

*Sunday, about 4:30 a.m. - My mom is in the kitchen, chopping apples for me to take on my trip to Rhode Island. I stumble upon her clandestine activity and tell her to stop - I don't want any apples. "Well, I'll just cut up one and you can eat it if you want," she says. "Fine" I reply and go about packing my stuff in the Cavi. Later, I pull out the bag o' apples and find that she's cut up like 2.5 apples and stuffed them into a ziplock bag. I call my sister - "Tell ma she ain't slick - I know she cut up more apples than I asked her to. But I ate them anyway." Kinra just laughed.

*Sunday, around 6 a.m. at the Blue Water Bridge in Canada - I've just crossed over into International Territory. I stop at customs looking a little homeless - hair wrapped, NY Times hat, Michigan hoodie, car full of crap - and start talking to the border guard. I expected to be asked a few questions, I didn't expect the 10th degree. The conversation went something like this:
Guard: Where are you from?
Me: United States. Michigan.
Guard: Where's your car registered.
Me: Mississippi.
Guard: Who's car is it?
Me: My stepfather's.
Guard: Why are you driving it?
Me: Because he gave it to me.
Guard: Then why isn't it registered in Michigan?
Me (getting kinda irritated): Because he's still paying for it.
Guard: How long will you be in Canada?
Me: Just driving through.
Guard: Where are you going?
Me: Rhode Island.
Guard: What's in Rhode Island?
Me: A job.
Guard: What kind of job?
Me: I'm a journalist.
Guard: Where are you exiting Canada?
Me (fumbling through directions): Queenston?
Guard: Alright, go ahead.

I'm saying... I know it's his job, but did it have to be that hard? Ain't nobody trying to sneak into Canada anyway. I think he was just bored and wanted to have someone to talk to. But what was even weirder was that it was so easy to get into America. I come to customs, the border guy asks me where I'm from, how long I was in Canada and if I bought anything and asked for my license and birth record. Then, I'm on the road again. I guess it's kinda unnerving when you think about it, I suppose.

I'm staying with a former HU professor in Connecticut (shoutout to Sean P.!) before I make that trek to Providence to find a roof to put over my head. Wish me luck ya'll!

Happy Birthday to ME!

As I celebrate my 22nd birthday, I felt it appropriate to think about my life thus far and reflect on what I've learned.

My conclusion: It's been a crazy ride up to this point.

I've given a speech in front of a large crowd, been speechless in front of a guy, done unspeakably crazy road trips with my friends from D.C. to New Orleans and learned to look good all the while. I've matured from ponytails and oversized jeans to well-fitted khakis and a well-coifed shoulder-length wrap. I've gone from a girl who stared at her feet as she walked to a young lady who can balance books on her head as she floats across a room. I've learned to love me.

I've studied past midnight, partied until dawn and slept until noon. I helped fight the repressive culture of my college and, in some aspects, won. I've walked through a room full of people who don't like me and yet still held my head high and greeted everyone with whom I locked eyes with a genuine smile. I've been awarded many awards and plaques, but the thing I'm most proud of is my college degree. I've sunbathed.

I've laughed so hard I cried. I've healed my pains with laughter. I've learned that crying isn't a sign of weakness - it's a signal that I'm only human. I've made great friends with great people, many with no titles behind their names and no money in their banking accounts. I've become a better person just from knowing them.

I've fallen in love hard and had my heart broken just as tough. I've forgiven and befriended people others say I should have never spoken to again. Though I value my friendships and the advice of those around me, I've made most of the decisions in my life on what would make me happy, not them. I've made a lot of mistakes, but I've learned from each one and become better for it. I have no regrets.

I broke past my fear of being stuck in my hometown and traveled to 14 different states. Next week, I'll uproot my life once again, leave everything and everyone I know behind and move to the smallest state in the union. I turned down a job at one of the best papers in the country to go to a job I'll be excited to wake up to each morning. I've made many of my dreams reality - and I'm not even close to being done.

If the next 22 years are like the last, I could actually get used to this whole "being an adult" thing.

Don't blame Bessie the cow for your BGs

Lawsuit seeks warning labels on milk

WASHINGTON (AP) - Ten Washington, D.C. area residents filed a class-action lawsuit against milk suppliers and retailers Thursday, asking that labels be required on milk sold here warning consumers of the effects of lactose intolerance.The Washington-based Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine, which advocates a vegan diet, is paying for the lawsuit.

The 10 plaintiffs claim they have suffered cramps, diarrhea and other gastrointestinal problems from consuming milk. Lactose intolerance is the inability to fully digest lactose, the sugar found in milk.Among the plaintiffs recruited by the Physicians Committee are seven African-Americans, who tend to have higher rates of lactose intolerance.

The group includes a 7-year-old African-American boy. The lawsuit names the Giant and Safeway supermarket chains; Horizon Organic; Dean Foods; Nestle Holdings; Farmland Dairies; Shenandoah's Pride; Stonyfield Farm; and Cloverland Farms Dairy. They all declined comment or did not return phone messages Thursday.

"Lactose intolerance is very prevalent in persons of color," said Milton Mills, a black physician who is lead plaintiff in the suit. "As a physician, I see people who are dealing with conditions related to their inability to digest lactose. They're led to believe they need to include dairy for health benefits. That is not true."

Mills, 47, said that when he was in his early 20s, he got sick every afternoon after consuming frozen yogurt. He thought he might be seriously ill, until his mother told him he just had a problem digesting milk. Susan Ruland, vice president for communications at the International Dairy Foods Association, ridiculed the suit.

"It's just another attempt on the part of an animal rights group to attack dairy and milk products," she said. "They're trying a new strategy of suing people right and left. It's unfortunate to see that when it has to do with an issue of nutrition."

"Obviously, I don't want to see people beat up animals, but animal rights is not my motivation for being involved," he said.

Mills said he became a vegetarian at the age of 16 because he was convinced that was a healthier way to eat. Ruland acknowledged that minority groups have higher rates of lactose intolerance, but said that often a person can overcome the problem by gradually increasing dairy consumption. She said that was a worthwhile goal, because of the healthy ingredients in milk such as calcium, protein and Vitamin D.

The lawsuit was filed on behalf of all people who buy milk in Washington, D.C., seeking a required label such as: "Warning - If you experience diarrhea or stomach cramps after consuming milk, you may be lactose intolerant. Check with your physician."

The suit asks for no more than $100,000 in total damages for the 10 plaintiffs.In June, the Physicians Committee filed a suit claiming the dairy industry and several food companies were falsely claiming that dairy consumption can help people lose weight. That suit is still pending.

*Copyright The Associated Press*

I'm being lazy, but...

My friend, Soraya, had this on her site and I thought it was pretty cool. Here's my seduction style:

Your Seduction Style: Au Natural

You rank up there with your seduction skills, though you might not know it. That's because you're a natural at seduction. You don't realize your power! The root of your natural seduction power: your innocence and optimism.

You're the type of person who happily plays around and creates a unique little world. Little do you know that your personal paradise is so appealing that it sucks people in. You find joy in everything - so is it any surprise that people find joy in you?

You bring back the inner child in everyone you meet with your sincere and spontaneous ways. Your childlike (but not childish) behavior also inspires others to care for you. As a result, those who you befriend and date tend to be incredibly loyal to you!

What Kind of Seducer are You?

Quote of the Week

This morning, Jarrod gave me this gem:

"Slavery was some bullshit. If you really sit and think about it, slavery was some bullshit."

Straight from the Streets - Flint edition

But, first, a public service announcement:

My birthday is officially 10 days away. I take cash, checks, credit cards and money orders, but all I really ask for is a phone call or e-mail to let me know you're thinking about me. BUT, if you really want to show me you care, I take cash, checks, credit cards and money orders, I wear a size 8 and my favorite color is green. :-)

Now back to our regularly scheduled blog entry.

So, I went home to Flinttown this weekend. The entire trip was a big reminder of why I worked so hard to get out of there in the first place.

All of these events happen on Saturday, Oct. 1, unless otherwise indicated.

As you can see, it was a long day.

*around noon - I go to Target to return some Dreft my sister had bought earlier that day. I have the receipt, the detergent is unopened, I think I'm all set. I get to the customer service counter and chick tells me that she can't issue a refund without the credit card it was brought on. I'm trying to get her to explain how they can pull up people's account and charge things but they can't pull accounts up to give customers money back when another sales associate comes and stands next to the first clerk like they teaming up on me or something. Second chick proceeds to co-sign about how I'll just have to come back later in the day with either the credit card or my sister's ID (all the while telling chick #1 it's time for her lunch break). I'm calm, but the whole time she's talking, I'm like, 'when did you get in the conversation? This was between me and chick #1.' I just say forget it and go about my shopping. My sister is highly pissed when I call her and tell her about Target's shenanigans.

*3 p.m. - I go to the hair salon to pick my sister up. The receptionist is outside taking a smoke break as I'm walking up to the door. I smile and before I can even say 'hello,' she says to me, "I'm not even going to tell you who you look like because I know you get it all the time." I stop dead in my tracks. For some reason, everywhere I go, people seem to think I look like Kyla Pratt. When I was in the Chicago airport the other day, the dude at McDonald's swore upa nd down I was her. I'm like, would I really be pulling my own bag and flying coach if I was her? He didn't have an answer. Anyway, so when chick says this, I just start chuckling to myself. We banter a bit about how I always get mistaken for her and I go inside to get my sister. I'm talking to my hairstylist who also works at the salon when the receptionist pops into the suite and proceeds to point out how much I look like Kyla Pratt. She then decides to call me Kyla throughout the conversation she's now having with everyone in the room.: "Girl, you should put some streaks like that in Kyla's hair. " I just sink into the corner and drink my Slurpee. It woulda been nice if she had asked me MY name. :-(

*4:30 p.m. - My sister and I head up to Birch Run so I can get some shoes and stuff before I leave for Rhode Island. Why did we spend three hours at the outlet, trying on clothes and shoes and didn't walk out with a single purchase? I swear, outlets are not for people with any kind of curves. Everything I saw was a size 0, small or was just ugly. To cheer ourselves up, we got Halo Burger. Mmmmmmmm. Best thing to come out of Flint besides me and Mo Pete, I tell ya.

*10:15 p.m. - My sister and her friend, both mothers of two, decide they want to go out on the town. I'm like, cool, I'll hang. We get ready to leave her friend's house and her mom jumps in the car. I'm thinking we're going to drop her mom off at her house on the way out. Maybe I should just stop thinking because clearly I'm always wrong. Her momma was coming to the club with us. Ain't nothing wrong with older people getting their party on, but I'd just rather it not be with me. It just made things uncomfortable.

*10:30 p.m. to 11:45 p.m. - You never realize how crappy a city is until you try to go out and have some fun. During this hour and a half, we went to 5 - FIVE - different clubs looking for someplace to go. Each one was slightly worse than the last:
-Purple Moon - there were, no lie, at the most 15 cars in the whole parking lot;
-Crusin' 50s - it was packed, but they play music from the 50s, 60s and 70s - plus, we were dressed up and everyone going in was in dirty tennis shoes and t-shirts and had mullets;
-J.B.'s - also known among my crowd as "Jay Bullets" - again, too few cars in a club that should be packed - plus, we weren't trying to get shot up;
-"No name club" - I had never heard of it and it was really dark, and there still weren't that many people there when we pulled up - we decided to keep it moving;
-Oman Temple - We get out like, okay, we'll settle. It's in the hood (near my crib), but by now it's getting late. We get to the door and it's locked. Wha? So we ring the doorbell. This dude older than my daddy answers the door. "All ya'll over 25," he asks. We hesitated. That was the mistake. My sister says, "Everybody except for one." Old man replies, "You gotta be 25 or older to get in here. We don't want that type of crowd in here." Rejection. My bad, Father Time, for being born after the Great Depression.

Oh, and in the midst of our mess, we got pulled over by the cops. We're busting a U in the Navigator - at a red light - when I look over. "Ain't that the police behind you?" Nobody wanted to believe me. So, I watched as the cop, who was right behind us in the turning lane, makes a u-turn and puts on those red and blues. My sister's friend had to talk her way out of it - much easier because she was cute and the cop was a middle aged black guy.

*midnight - We make our way to The Palm Tree Lounge and pay the $5 cover. We take a seat in a corner booth. I look around and wonder how this place got it's name. It's smack dab in the heart of the ghetto (someone got shot at the now closed club across the street last month), and the brown wood paneling just doesn't scream "tropical" to me. The night is punctuated by such classics as Nelly's "Tip Drill," Luke's "Scarred," and "Do It Big (I Smoke, I drink) by the Body Head Bangerz.

This was one of the moments that reaffirmed I wasn't supposed to be there: my sister and her friend go onto the dance floor (I watch the booth with mom dukes) and the DJ says, "Fellas, it's some fine ladies in here tonight. You better get some of this pussy." My mouth dropped to the floor, I kid you not.

*The other moment: I look at the table in front of us. Some girls, 20 to 25, drinking, having a good time. Looked a little hoodrat-ish, a whole lot of weave and clothes with cut-outs, but they weren't bothering anybody so we're cool. One of the girls, gets up because her jam comes on and starts dancing. This child had on what looked to be two handkerchiefs, one white, one black, tied like panties; fishnet leggings, a black bra with a bolero, a rhinestone tie necklace and some rhinestone 4 inch heels. Are you serious? I didn't need to be here. (For the record, I had on a black wrap dress with some gold pumps - and I still looked good without letting all of my goodies out of the jar.)


Ya gotta love Bedrock.

Git'em, girl!

It's so good to see people succeed.

That's why when I glanced at the TV and saw Alison Stewart on MSNBC questioning some analyst about William Bennet's racist comments, I felt a tinge of pride go through my body.

I remember the days she covered MTV's "Choose or Lose" campaign, breaking in with the news I could use between videos from Nirvana or Tupac. Then she dropped off the face of the earth, or so I thought. Apparently she was doing a lot of stuff - I just didn't know about it. Now, she's a political analyst for a respectable news station.

I'm glad to see she's doing big things. Still on cable, but doing big things nonetheless.

Makes me feel like anything is possible. :-)

A thought...

Being poor sucks.

That's the conclusion I came to as I dug through my purse around 3 p.m. to find enough change to buy something to eat. The cafeteria was closed, therefore, I couldn't use my debit card. And my tummy would start to rumble soon.

So, I counted.

In my wallet alone, I found $2.70. More than enough bounty to buy a Lunchable (yay!) or some other high cholesterol treat from the vending machines upstairs. I could drink water, but I needed something of substance in my belly.

I wish I was the new girl again. Then I could just have someone buy me lunch. But I'm an old intern, so for me, it's off to the third floor.

Being poor sucks. *Sigh*

****UPDATE****

On my way upstairs, I got a hankering for a brownie - and I had just enough to get it, so I thought. I get to the vending area and not only are there were no Lunchables in sight, there's not a brownie to be found anywhere. I had to settle for the Maruchan Instant Lunch (Roasted Chicken Flavor) and a huge cinnamon roll. That completely made being poor more sucky. Dang, I wanted a Lunchable.

Now, back to work.

An Intimate Subject

My 25-year-old sister, Kinra, and I share a lot of things, more so since I've come to live with her during my internship in Detroit. She'll borrow my shirt, I'll take her Kanye West CD. She'll take my watch, I'll borrow her belt. It's all love. But there are some things that even family members can't share.

Like underwear.

I ain't talking about bras and slips and stuff like that. I mean UNDERWEAR -- panties, knickers, drawes.

"I don't want to wear your drawes, Talia," Kinra said into the phone with some exasperation. She had called me at work to see if I had mixed my underclothes in with the dark colors in the washing machine.

I had. Now, there was a problem.

Underwear is probably the most intimate -- if not sacred -- piece of clothing a person can own. Why do you think Victoria wanted to keep them a secret? At the laundry mat, I turn my back as I fold my jimmies so no one can see. So, the thought of having someone else, even a blood relative that I eat and drink after and share a bed with, wear my drawes wasn't going to cut it.

I could understand my sister's frustration. The one and only time I ever borrowed someone's underwear was out of absolute necessity. I felt horrible the entire time I was wearing them. Even though they were clean, I just couldn't bear the thought that the panties belonged to someone else and had been in their nether-regions probably in the last two weeks. I felt even weirder giving them back. But I digress.

"Just wait until I get home and I'll pick mine out," I told my sister, halfway trying not to laugh because she was really about to have a conniption about these panties.

"Do you have some black ones," she asked, ignoring me.

"Yes, Kinra," I replied. "Just wait 'till I get home."

"Medium or large," she continued.

"Medium," I said. "Kinra - just wait 'till I get home."

"I can't tell which ones are mine," she said. I could imagine her frowning on the other end. I couldn't blame her though. Like I said, there's just some things you don't share.

"I know, Kinra," I said with a sigh. "Just wait 'till I get home."

Straight from the Streets - Coast to Coast

* New Smyrna Beach, Fla. - Driving down the street in the fat Taurus (yeah, I had the big body rental) I look to my left and what do I see? Two crinkly senior citizens in full leather garb riding a Harley. (That kinda rhymed, lol.) Grandma even had her belly showing. Just too foxy for their own good.

*Cincinnati, Ohio - I go into a bar to get a sandwich during my layover. The bartender was new and slow taking orders. I saw he was having trouble, so I waited. And waited. And waited. He took the guy in front of me and the waitress came over to tell him about my order. I'm thinking everything's cool. I wait. Wait some more. An older guy comes up behind me with some coffee or something. What does the bartender do? SKIP OVER ME and ring old guy up behind me. I'm like, wha? But I don't want to act ignorant and by the time I get ready to say something, he's already giving old man his change. Cool. He's finna get to me right? WRONG. Random guy walks up to the bar and starts trying to give an order. I 'bout lost my mind. It took me and the waitress to get his attention and let him know that I'd been waiting more than a minute. He finally rang me up and I took my sandwich to go. Should it really be that hard?

*Detroit, Mich. - I didn't see anything, but I was talking to my friend and found out something disturbing. We were watching "106 & Park" and David Banner's new song, "Play" came on. I'm not even going to post a link to the lyrics because needless to say, they weren't what I thought they were. Now, every time I hear it I just feel dirty inside.

* Other random thing: the whole concept of booty-clapping annoys and disgusts me. It always has. But yet and still (as if my happiness dictates what they make music about), rappers still insist on asking girls to make their butts clap. My thing is, if you have enough junk in your trunk to make it clap, you should probably run your behind to a gym or plastic surgeon cause that just ain't healthy. But then again, maybe it's me showing my butt envy. Whatever. I still think it's nasty.

Fly the Friendly Skies

I hate talking to people in confined spaces and I don't really like strangers sitting next to me. As luck would have it, I got the best of both worlds on my flight to Daytona Beach on Thursday night: two lovely seatmates and a talkative traveler.

"Where you guys going," the guy in the aisle seat asked us.

"Daytona Beach," I said. The other guy was going to Atlanta. Aisle guy took this to mean that we wanted to talk, so he starts going on about layovers and first class and a whole bunch of other stuff I've blocked out by now. I tried to be friendly. I smiled and nodded my head. Then I buried my face in "Things Fall Apart," hoping he'd talk the ear off the guy in the middle seat and forget about me. He did.

After reading for a while, I remembered why I love airplanes. No cell phones. No worries. Just you, the sky and a little bag of peanuts.

Outside of the tiny airplane window, the whole world beckoned me.

When I was younger (read: 17), I used to think about how cool it would be to live in the clouds. From my seat in 2A, they always looked so full and soft - like big piles of cotton. Back then, I'd spend the entire flight thinking about how the clouds would feel in between my toes. Then I'd snap out of it. I could no sooner live on a cloud than I could touch the sun - the billowy pillows would send me plummeting to the Earth the moment I stepped on them.

As I stared out into the atmosphere, I had no idea what the next day would bring. I'd spend the day sitting around a teeny newsroom waiting for people to interview me. I'd eat lunch alone in the cafeteria because no one "had time" to take me to lunch. I'd finish my story test in an hour and spend most of the day catching up with my friend Seth, who works at the paper, because I had nothing else to do. At about 6 p.m., I would be offered the job, even though I realized I couldn't take it somewhere around 3:30 p.m., when I got a call from my first choice in New England.

The flight attendant comes by with refreshments - I get some Sun Chips and a ginger ale. Aisle guy is asleep so I tuck my book into my carry-on bag. Outside the window, the clouds are little islands; the blue of the sky becomes lakes, rivers and streams.

I close my eyes and wiggle my toes.

I can feel the billowy white air between them.

Tryna help a brotha out...

So here goes:

To all of the single ladies who read this blog, my friend Jarrod is taking applications for a girlfriend. I figured I'd help him drum up some business.


He's funny, college-educated and (he says) disease-free. Send all applications (and mugshots) to him - not me -please.


Jarrod, consider that my public service announcement for the year.

T.G.I.F.

You ever have a day so good that nothing can change your sunny disposition?

I have and that glorious day was today.

By all accounts, today shouldn't have been as great as it was.

I woke up and my throat was (and still is) really sore. I couldn't find my birth certificate this morning, which I need in order to go to Canada for a story. I think I forgot to put on deodorant because I was rushing (but I don't stink). I forgot to get gas before I left (because I was late) and realized I now only have a ¼ tank of gas in Dee Dee, which will get me to work and back with a notch or two to spare. I was stuck in traffic forever today and got to work late. The photo assignment I scheduled for the Canada thing got cancelled, forcing me to reschedule (I guess, was a good thing). Not to mention that my cell phone got cut off around 2 p.m. for late payment

But still, I'm feeling good. Probably because it's Friday. Most likely because it's Friday. Hallelujah, it's Friday!

On my way back from an assignment, the radio was jamming. I'm talking "People Everyday," by Arrested Development, "Hail Mary" by Tupac, and my favorite record of the moment, "Golddigger" by Kanye and Jamie Foxx. Trust and believe that I was dancing and singing at the top of my lungs in the company car. Now, I've filed my story and I'm just surfing the Internet, waiting for my shift to end and the weekend to begin.

Don't you love Fridays?

Oh, and my phone should be back on sometime this evening.
Feel free to give me a ring in about four hours.

Betta check your Moo Goo Gai Pan...

Chinese eatery sold donkey in tiger urine
SHANGHAI, China (Associated Press) -- Sept. 8, 2005 -- A restaurant in northeastern China that advertised illegal tiger meat dishes was found instead to be selling donkey flesh - marinated in tiger urine, a newspaper reported Thursday.

The Hufulou restaurant, located beside the Heidaohezi tiger reserve near the city of Hailin, had advertised stir-fried tiger meat with chilies for $98 as well as liquor flavored with tiger bone for $74 a bottle, the China Daily reported. Raw meat was priced at $864 per kilogram.

The sale of tiger parts is illegal in China and officers shut down the restaurant, only to be told by owner, Ma Shikun, that the meat was actually that of donkeys, flavored with tiger urine to give the dish a "special" tang, the newspaper said. The report didn't say how the urine was obtained.

Authorities confiscated the restaurant's profits and fined Ma $296 it said. It wasn't clear what Ma was fined for. Selling donkey meat is not illegal in China and it is widely consumed in the northeast. Ma had initially claimed that the meat came from dead tigers sold to him by the management of the Heidaohezi reserve, but later changed his story, the report said.

While Heidaohezi's director denied that claim, the reserve, with about 150 tigers, has been involved in similar controversies in the past.Until China outlawed the trade in 1993, the reserve received most of its revenue from the sale of tiger skins, bones and other body parts, which are believed by Chinese to imbue vigor and sexual prowess.

*Copyright The Associated Press*

Straight from the Streets #2

Sept. 6, around 6:37 p.m.--Driving down the Lodge freeway, I see a luxury car with the license tag: ILIENEM. You lie in them, huh? For real, brotha? Did he just put all his bidness out in the street, or is my mind just in the gutter? Just asking.

Sept. 3, sometime past a decent hour -- I'm living it up with some friends at Floods Bar & Grill for the Football Classic weekend. The cats we're hanging with, some of my boys from Flint, order some Moet. I get my glass filled and I'm like, "This is cool. We're all together, having a good time, drinking champagne. Life is good." One of the girls I was hanging with, the Detroit friend of some friends of mine, turns to me and says with a giggle, "White Star, that's the cheap champagne." Excuse me, honey - you didn't have to pay for it and you still downed your glass, didn't you?

Sept. 2, around 8:56 p.m., almost pitch black outside-- Why am I hearing the Ice Cream man riding down the street in my complex, with the jingle on blast like he's got some knock or something? I bet firecrackers and crunch bars wasn't all he was selling. My sister said it best: "Who the hell he selling to? I know I ain't letting my kids buy no ice cream from him."

Like Ice Cube said...

...Today was a good day.

I had a Lunchable. It made me happy.

It reminded me of a simpler time, back when I was a child and didn't care about eating processed meats and cheeses with high amounts of sodium.

Those sandwiches were six little artery-clogging slices of heaven.

Hurricane Katrina

Dozens of residents move to higher ground Monday, Aug. 29, 2005, in New Orleans as rising waters flood neighborhoods off N. Claiborne Avenue in the Orleans Parish as a result of Hurricane Katrina. (St. Petersburg Times/Douglas R. Clifford)


It's weird how history happens. We study it in school, but we never realize that someone, at sometime, had to live it.

As Hurricane Katrina ripped through New Orleans and the gulf area of Mississippi, I knew that the days that followed would be ones that we would never forget.

Now, as I sit in the newsroom, every television glued to either CNN or MSNBC for round the clock coverage of the disaster, the devastation that lies in the wake of Katrina becomes more than just the latest news story - more than another chapter in the history books. It becomes real.

When I think of New Orleans, I don't think of Mardis Gras and colorful beads. Instead, I remember the time I traveled with a friend to the Big Easy for the Bayou Classic two years ago.

We drove down Elysian Fields, drank hurricanes on Bourbon Street, and visited her family in the West Bank. Her family opened up their homes to me and gave me a real Creole Thanksgiving dinner, complete with seafood gumbo and stuffed bell peppers.

Last year, I went to Baton Rouge for a conference and caught up with a lot of friends from my first excursion to the Big Easy. We danced the second line, ate King cake and danced the bunny hop.

I always planned to go back to the city I call my second home. I'm an adopted New Orleanian. Now, my heart yearns for those who have lost their homes and, in some cases, their lives, because of Katrina.

Over the past few days, I've been calling my family and friends in Mississippi and Louisiana to make sure everyone is okay. Some tell me that everyone escaped, but what they will return to remains uncertain. Others say they haven't heard from family members and just pray that everything is okay.

Things in New Orleans and the surrounding areas will get worse before it gets better. Today, there were reportings of rapes and other crimes as the people who have been stuck with very little help from the government over the past four days reach the ends of their ropesFamilieses are being split as evacuees are bused from the city to Texas, Baton Rouge and other places around the country willing to help in any way they can. Gas prices climb past $3 here in Michigan, but the cost is higher in other parts of the country. The lawless streets of New Orleans are almost uncontrollable as people raid grocery stores to get the basic necessities to survive. Bodies of those who didn't make it sit along the sides of roads.

It remains to be seen what will happen once New Orleans dries out and the people there try to resume something resembling a normal life. No matter what happens, our country and all the people old enough to remember this event, will never be the same. It's weird how history happens. I just wish, at least in this case, we didn't have to live it.

My prayers go out to everyone whose lives were touched by Hurricane Katrina
and my sincere thanks to those who are working to help those in the area.
To donate to the victims of Hurricane Katrina, visit the American Red Cross.

Challenge!

So, this show, "Battle of the Network Reality Stars," just dumbfounds me.


They take stars from Real World, Road Rules, America's Next Top Model, Survivor, American Idol, the Bachelor, Average Joe, Joe Schmo, Amazing Race and the Apprentice and have them compete in wild and crazy games for viewers' entertainment. I was sitting there watching these "celebrities" scurry around an obstacle course when I realized something:

If I become a reality TV star, I never have to work another day in my life. I can just do challenges against other has-beens instead of holding down a regular 9-5 like everyone else in the world.

And here's the best part: people like me, with nothing else better to do, will actually watch it.

I'm not against reality shows. Sometimes they are actually good. I hardly ever miss America's Next Top Model. But, what I am against is people deciding to make their living by sucking the life from people like me who just want a little bit of quality television on regular basis. Real World/Road Rules challenge was cute - the first time they did it. Now, there's all these spinoffs and all the networks have gotten in on it. MTV, Bravo, VH1 - Boys vs. Girls, Inferno, Surreal Life, Celebrity Fit Club - and now this crap. I mean, for real, what would The Miz, Jackee, Omarossa, and Richard Hatch do if they couldn't do challenges? How crazy would it be if they had to work at, like, a fast food restaurant instead to pay their bills.

"Hi, this is Coral from MTV's The Real World. Welcome to McDonald's. Can I take your order?"

Oh, and if I see one more reality star hosting a television show I do believe I'll just break down and cry. Yoanna on Bravo's "The Look for Less." Melissa on Spike's "Girls Behaving Badly." Even Kit from the first Road Rules was a reporter for like Entertainment Tonight or something like that. When did letting someone tape your life for a few months equal instant stardom? What ever happened to hard work, preparation meeting opportunity and all of that jazz? Where is the justice in all of this?

There are some things, I guess, we'll never know. I guess we can all take comfort in knowing we help these "stars" pay their rent each month. Ain't that about nothing.

Chilaxin

I'm sitting here on a Sunday afternoon in my pajamas watching a bootleg copy of "Four Brothers" sipping on some orange pop.

Life is good.

Straight from the Streets #1

I'm going to start doing periodic posts about the randomness I see, hear and experience on the streets of Detroit. Bear with me here, we're going to delve into the dark underbelly of the city we call Motown.

• I was at the gas station with one of my friends from Flint buying some pop. We walk in the door and who do we see? Some guy with a smedium yellow University of Michigan shirt and some tight jean shorts. Rolled up. To the middle of his thigh. He was reading USA Today in the gas station, chillin.
• At this same gas station, we go up to buy our pop. The store has one of those bulletproof glass windows up. We pay and she asks if we want a bag for our purchases. Then, she stuffs the bag underneath a slit in the window so we can bag our stuff. I don't know. It just dumbfounded me. I lightweight expected her to bag it for me. I sat there bagging my pop all confused.
• A couple of my friends came up from Flint for my girl's birthday. After some wrong turns, we end up in Greektown. We're walking near Fishbones when we see this guy, swinging a loaf of white bread in a clear white bag. He was just having a jolly old time as he swung the bag in between his legs and did a little jig.
• I swear I saw a Cavalier with some gold rims on it. They weren't spinners, but they were shining oh-so-brightly, tho.

Mr. Pinstripe

Do you ever just wish you could rewind some moments in time and do things differently? I met this fine dude today and if I had a little remote that controlled the clock, I'd have his digits right now.

After I got off from work, I took my niece to go get some shoes at Foot Locker. Since I am looking for a job, I figured, while I'm out, I might as well stop by Office Depot and pick up some envelopes to send my packets out in. So, I walk into the store with my niece in tow, looking for the paper goods.

I find them and I stand there for a good 10 minutes trying to figure out which is the best deal. Around minute number 11, this fine brotha walks by in that good Office Depot pinstripe blue. He's moving a handtruck to the back, so I step out of the way. We exchange glances and a hello. I watch him walk away for a second before going back to the task at hand.

Should I get the open 100 pack for $5.99 or the closed 100 pack for $11.99?

I'm still pondering when Mr. Pinstripe walks back my way.

"You finding everything okay," Mr. Pinstripe says. I give him a glance over. He can't be over 22. Light skinned. Thin build. Close cut. Employed. Just fine.

"I'm cool," I say, "but actually, can you tell me if these are on sale?" I ask, pointing to the higher priced 100 pack. He scans the box. They're not on sale. I already knew that though. But I'm trying to figure out a way to keep talking to him.

"See," I begin, "This box is $6 cheaper, but it's open. I don't want to pay for it and there not be 100 in there. But the other box, I get 1/2 inch more, but it's $11. You think they'll give me a discount?"

"I don't know," Mr. Pinstripe says. "Their pricing doesn't always make sense. So you're worried about there not being 100 in there?"

"Well, yeah," I say.

"How about I count them, then," he says. "We'll see if there's 100 in there."

You should have saw the grin spread across my face. I was just about to ask him if he was serious when he popped the box open and started counting the envelopes out in groups of 10.

Either this guy took customer service to a whole new level or he was trying to figure out a way to keep talking to me, too. So, I did what any good girl would. I let him count.

"That's 50 right there," he says, holding up a handful of envelopes. I started laughing. I couldn't let him keep counting.

"Well, look," I reasoned as I took the envelopes from him, "If this is 50, let's hold them up to the rest and see if it's the same amount." So we measured the envelopes against one another.

"You might be a couple off, like maybe 97 or something," he said, smiling.

He had a cute smile. With the slightest gap in the middle of his front two teeth. Damn.

"Well, I guess that'll do," I said, doing my best to smile and look him in his eyes. "Thank you for counting them for me, I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome," he said as he handed me the box.

I pivoted to walk away. He was going to try to hit on me, right? The dude in Foot Locker tried to get my number while he watched me put shoes on my niece's feet. And he wasn't even cute. Surely, Mr. Pinstripe would at least ask me my name, right?

I took a half step and turned my head back toward him. "Thanks again for helping me," I said. This time I had to walk away. I grabbed my niece's hand and we walked down the aisle. Even as we stood in line, I thought, maybe Mr. Pinstripe would come find me. I even kept hope alive as I paid for my envelopes and walked out the door. But as I put the key in the ignition, I realized that perhaps Mr. Pinstripe wasn't checking for me. At least not today.

So, I drove off, thinking about all of the things I could have said, the number I could have gotten and the fun we could have had.

Then I remembered: he works at Office Depot. I may not have a remote that controls the time, but who's to say I can't shop for office supplies?

Come to think of it, I am running dangerously low on pencils these days...

Drunken Calls

Secretly, I think I love random phone calls in the middle of the night. They make me feel loved. It's sort of like someone thought enough about you to call you when they were out having fun. Of course, every so often, you get the unsolicited booty call, or the ever popular drunken declaration of love, but for the most part, late night phone calls are the best. And drunken late-night phone calls from friends you haven't seen in a while, like the one I got last night, can't be beat with a bat.

John (aka John-Boy), Jessie and I all met at the Poynter Reporting and Newswriting Program for College Grads this summer. By the end of the program, we were road dawgs. But since we all live in separate states- I'm in Michigan, Jessie's from Idaho and John is in Oklahoma - for any of us to be together is definitely cause for celebration.

John: "Why aren't you up?"

Me: "Um, it's 4 a.m."

John: "No, it's 3:39 a.m., Talia. Don't exaggerate. That's a perfectly legitimate time to call because Jessie Bonner's here!"

Jessie was in the middle of a cross-country trek from the land of potatoes to the Sunshine State, and tonight, she was smack dab in America's Heartland. John was showing her around Oklahoma City and taking her to all kinds of festivities, which included a party, family reunion and apparently a few drinks. Somewhere in the midst of it all, they decided it would be a good idea to call me in the middle of the night.

(John passes the phone to Jessie) Jessie: "Were you asleep?"

I fell into bed around 1 a.m. after my sister and I drove from a wedding in Flint with the rat pack (read: my two nieces, ages 6 and 2.5 weeks). Not to mention the fact that I was slightly drugged up on Tylenol, trying not to get a hangover from the cheap rum I drank at the reception. Clearly, I was too tired and it was too early for me to be sarcastic.

"Yes," I said.

Jessie: "Then why'd you answer?"

Me: "The phone is right near my head because I get random phone calls from people like ya'll at 4 a.m."

We chop it up for a bit. They tell me about their adventures. I ask them what in the world they're doing up at this ungodly hour. Then, John decides he's hungry.

"We're going to IHOP, Talia," John says. "You should come to breakfast with us."

Good idea, John-Boy, except for the fact that I'm in my bed, 1,000 miles away. I thank him for the invite and make him promise to buy some crepes the next morning in my honor. Our declarations of affection are intoxicated - mine with sleep and his, most likely with SoCo. We hang up and I try to wrap my head around the randomness that just happened.

Drunken phone calls from friends. Ya gotta love them.