The Exceptions.

"The guy I see for [Ella] is.... like... Mr. Big," Carl explained.

"Oh My God!! Yess! Like the movie!!" I squealed back. 

     Here I was, smiling into my phone, jumping up and down on a dirty Jersey City sidewalk outside a run-down nail salon. It was a Sunday and all the respectable nail salons were closed, so I was forced to walk around the city peeking in windows, seeing if I could spot a bottle of O.P.I --Essie at the least-- through the half drawn shades. 

   Sundays are "Me" days. Hair done; nails done. Fancy days. Sundays are also the days I can give Carl a quick call because I know we both "off that" working on the weekends thing. I called him to get his input on the whole "Step-Mommy" ordeal I talked about in my last blog. I call certain people for certain answers. My friend Ashley keeps me grounded. She makes me a better person --honestly. I call her to make sure I'm not being a complete bitch. This world tends to make me focus on things that "shouldn't matter" so I need insight from someone with a clear view. On the flipside, I call Carl to make sure I'm not  being a complete sucker. It balances out. I also call him because, for some odd reason, Carl thinks I'm a good person. And on the days when I'm not sure about myself and start to doubt my worth, I can trust that he sees me in the light I should be seen in. (He's seen allllllll sides of me so he knows!) And the only reason I believe him when he tells me "You're a catch" is because I think that he's a catch. I only trust input from people I trust. (I talk more on this theory in my post "You Probably Think This Blog is About You".)  

     I try my hardest to be true to my heart, but I also have to be true to the truth. There are men out there who love me. Truly love me. But I know that I can't pursue a life with them because, together, we'll never be able to amount to the levels I'd like to reach. I can't over look that. And sometimes, in the search for love, I find myself making exceptions for men because I'm so desperate for something real. I meet a guy who fits most of my standards and start thinking 'Well that's good enough'. In reality though, there are somethings I just shouldn't bend my rules for. Like this guy having a kid. On one hand, I shouldn't hold it against him... on the other --just like one of my readers commented-- am I really willing to split my time with somebody else when he "can't go out because [he has] the kids"?  Should I really be making exceptions?

     Sometimes you just need to open your eyes in look at what's in front of you. Literally --let me explain. After I got my nails done --and did a little shopping-- I had to walk my sister's dog. When I stepped out door and finished fumbling with my headphones I looked up the see the finest, most handsome brotha walking his bulldog up ahead. He wore (what looked like from a distance) a brown, tweed beret cap. He complimented a breezy black jacket with a pair of dark denim Citizens of Humanity jeans (FYI,  only thing I love more than Citizens jeans is a MAN in Citizens jeans). Ladies.... He is yum. Matter fact.. that is his name from here on out: Yum. 

       I've seen Yum before. He lives in my sister's building and is probably married (but there's no kids in the building... so that's a plus! I mean, the divorce rate is up, right? juusst kidding.. sort of...). I saw him for the first time while I waited for the shuttle on my way to work (He looks so good in his work clothes!) but he walked instead of getting on the shuttle. So even though I only saw him from afar this time, I've seen the brotha up close and, trust me, if he has flaws... they ain't on the outside. I have no hopes for Yum and I (Fantasies, though? Now, thats another story.) but seeing him simply reminded me: There are other men out there. Why am I making exceptions for this guy when there are guys like Yum outside walking their dogs?!?

      When you make exceptions, you settle for second rate. You let go of the things you once deemed necessary, leaving you without right to complain. You make an exception for how much money a man has... then don't complain when he doesn't take you out. When you make an exception for how a man dresses, don't complain when he doesn't dress to your liking. You can no longer complain... and booyyy do I like to complain. Rather... I'd rather not complain. So I want my man to be everything I need him to be. And a true exception means that there is one unlike the others. This is no such thing as two exceptions. They're just two niggas who aint what you need them to be. Like... B- men. And remember a C+ is average...Who wants that? 

      I need a Mr. Big. Like I told Carl, before Mr. Big there was Aidan and even Jack Berger --men who came and showed Carrie a good time, but in the end... there was Mr. Big. So... I'm going to go about living my life in hopes that he pops up somewhere, ready to wine, dine & love me.  Ella likes to be taken out. & Carl never fails to remind me of that. I'm not going to stop looking for love. But I'm also not against a free meal and some occasional company in the meantime. 

I mean... I'm in New York City.

       

Gay is the New Black.

     One time, my brother and I didn't speak for almost a month because he said something... anti-gay. I have no idea what he said, I just remember that it upset me and I called him ignorant. Him being 11 years my senior, I couldn't call him anything without getting body slammed. 


     I remember my mom saying something about gay people (don't judge my mommy. She's old-school Dominican and she's changed. Believe me.) and I asked her, "What if people treated me the way you treat gay people? You want people to treat your kids like that? You know some people don't like me because my skin is dark. What if they talk about me the way you talk about gay people?" She had nothing to say. I walked away.  I've always been a very outspoken person, but I was definitely worse as a child. It might have been rude coming from a teenager, but someone had to tell her & I'd rather it be me. 

    The first time I met someone (openly) gay, I was in high-school. It was a boy. But his boyfriend didn't go to our school so it was like a... you're gay but I don't have to watch you be gay. I saw them kiss at a dance once and... honestly, I still don't like what that looks like. lol.  This isn't to say that I wasn't accepting, knowledgable or conscious of the gay community. I just didn't personally know anyone who was outwardly gay. Gay wasn't exactly cool. & I don't think a gay person in my elementary school or middle school would have made it through the year, to be honest. We were ignorant little kids. And even though I saw nothing wrong with it, I was a kid and I did what kids do. If I had to, I'd have been cruel. I remember this one girl I went to middle school with used to poke other girls in the stomach... you know... like guys do? I got fed up when she did it while we were walking to lunch one day and I yelled out "_____________. Stop poking me. I'm not gay!" In front of everyone. She didn't sit at my table for a while after that. lol.

Pause.  You can stop judging.

       I'm delusional and think I'm the next Carrie Bradshaw, I LOVE gay men. Carl is my Stanford Blatch (Yes, bitch. You are MINE.)  While that was a little joke, it remains true (at least for me), that most girls want a gay best friend. Here's why I love Carl. He lives his own life. We don't double date or hook eachother up, but if I met a gay man who might be Carl's type, I'd gladly introduce them. Likewise, if he met a tall, athletic, rich super straight man, I better the first in line. Meanwhile, I don't have to worry about Carl taking my man and I don't want his. Anyways, the gays aren't collectibles. It was pure chance that brought me and Carl together, especially since I didn't like him at first. Luckily, I like him as a person. His good and bad qualities, because we all have them. The search for a gay best friend is what's bizarre. If you don't have one, you don't have one. Hunny, there's one sure thing with the gays, they either like you or they don't.  & They'll let you know it.  

      Maybe you shouldn't have stopped judging me. Notice that I only confirmed my "acceptance"  because I have a gay friend. Sound familiar? lol.

  

     I know that there's no age to figure out your sexuality and that it's different for every person, but I do wonder what the "right" age to expose a child is. (This is looking like another "Perfect Timing" blog.) The questions that run through my head are, are kids being forced to think about these things earlier than they have to? Can exposing a child to the idea of "gay" make them gay? What would I do if my child were gay? As kids start "deciding" earlier and earlier, I start to feel the same way about sexuality as I do about religion: There's no correct path, and you shouldn't go through with confirmation until you're sure and have lived a bit. But then again... I'm not gay. What do I know?

   Another "gay" trend I have a distaste for? Girls kissing girls just to kiss girls.  In high-school, all the girls were gay... or bi.. and then it happened again in college. & Now those girls are straight again. Many knocked up and nursing their babies (for those who don't know, 2 girls cant make a baby. Something else was in there.) Others are just sleeping with everyone. Last year, with a particular person, my only thought was... Are you really Bi or do you just want to sleep with everyone? Because... well. You know. If you're gay, you're gay... Cool with me. But if you just need some extra action, there's another term that suits you a bit better.  More than one, actually.    

   If I were to take part in gay activities, she'd better be one bad bitch. & my liquor had better be strong. Because if I went home to my mother, friends, family, employers... anyone, they'd all first think "Really?" Then, they'd see my girlfriend and say "Can I be gay, too?" That's the reaction I want.

    This post is totally random & have no idea why I got on this topic... wait. I do. All this BS in the news about kids being bullied and then harming themselves and others on account of their choice in sexuality. You know how people wonder if people are gay by choice or by birth? I remember hearing the argument of "Why would anyone choose a life this hard?" and that kind of stuck to me. "Gay" is not new. I'm not saying we have to obligate our 5-year-olds to choose a preference, but as adults, we need to be ready to handle our children's choices and help our children accept the choices of others. When I say gay is the new Black, I mean it in all forms: in terms of discrimination and in the fashion sense. From people being ostracized or pinpointed because of their sexuality. Our society and its bizarre love/hate relationship with the gay community (You know majority gay areas have the best schools, restaurants and show the most economic growth? I'm just sayin').  

       I once had a conversation with two "educated" black men about sexual orientation. They claimed that when gays start getting rights, that's how you know the empire is about to come crashing down, like it did in Greece. Their argument was that if you start giving groups of people rights for things they "can't change", you make too many exceptions to your laws. I looked at both of them and said "then you should be slaves." They went on to tell me that when I get older and wiser, I'll understand their point better. If that's the truth, I never want to grow up.  You can't expect your group to be accepted into society and then deny others the same rights. They can put their Engineering and Math degrees side-by-side and I'll stick to my opinion that they are the two of the most ignorant men I've ever spoken to. 

      My brother didn't have a degree when we had our argument. He also didn't bullshit his way to a moronic conclusion. He was smarter than that. 

     When it comes to homophobia, I pity Black people the most. I guess history books did the right thing in making "Slavery in the US" one 10 page chapter. Seems like most people have forgotten historical oppression and what that can do to a people.  I'm definitely not arguing that the gays have it as bad as Blacks did, but does genocide have to occur before we start fighting for the rights of others? 

So yea... Gay is the new black. 

My Boss Wears Prada; My Life is a Movie.

You see me Fashion Week, front row at all the shows. In your favorite fashion magazines, they feature the Queen. Lil' Kim - "I Know You See Me"

     For New York's Fashion Night Out 2010 I was lucky enough to be with women who could join me in silent meditation as we gazed through the windows of the Alexander McQueen store. The celebrities were picture perfect and the clothing was fantastic, but nothing was more beautiful than the friendships I made on the most basic levels. Good food. Good conversation. Good clothes.

     For four years, I was in a place and around people who I could have these conversations with. My mind has been molded to think... constantly. I have a hunger for conversation. A thirst for other's opinions. I share mine on here without fail, but hearing these people have genuine conversation on morality, faith, love, relationships and marriage --all in a matter of an hour --was and, and always is, fascinating. I get tired of talking about men --rather, talking about men in a base and/or sexual genre. And I love talking about clothes and fashion when people know the names. I didn't point out the Alexander McQueen store, so I admire the girl who did because she understood its importance. Fashion is simply a genre of my life. Now, I am no model --but I know some. I am no designer --but I follow their works. I am no courtier --but I try to make my way to the 12th floor of my building everyday so I can see them at work. God, do I love Fashion. More so, I love people who love fashion.

     Fashion is more than knowing a few designers. When you learn how society and economy effect clothing, there is a deeper level. For example, during the WWII, clothes were dark and had less fabric because materials were used for the soldiers and designers would be fined if they were making things too flashy, especially designers in Europe like Balenciaga, Dior and Chanel. Even now, with the Chloe's House is taking its much deserved place in mainstream fashion, as the modern woman (hard-working, practical, and strapped for cash) has to invest in clothing that can be worn over and over --the trouser. Working women will buy trousers because you can rotate shirts, saving you money and making it seem like you have more clothes than you do.

     My mother sews wedding gowns in our basement to make some extra cash. Have you ever seem someone sew? Put pieces of fabric together to make what you are wearing? Are you aware that there was a time when people had to make their own clothing? My friend Ashley started making pillows for our room once. She made enough for her bed & quit. So every time she says "I'm gonna make..." I say, "You?" It's not to disrespect her, but sewing, and sewing well are taxing disciplines. She knows this. The world wars, and the migration of people it caused, brought hard working immigrants onto American soil where they shared their skills and started up company (or their children did, like Calvin Klein, for example who was making his own coats when a Bonwit Teller buyer came across him.)

     There is more to fashion than the clothes. More places in the fashion world than just for models and designers. Me? I file folders. In 6-inch heels. And my boss wear Prada.

Call me materialistic or superficial... but you probably just don't know your shit. I'm thankful for the beautiful people I've come across who share this with me. MY Brother-In-Law (who's worked in fashion for years) once gave me Prada Anklets. "They're Prada," he said.  "I mean that doesn't mean anything but... it means something."

I know. I know.  & now I'm in the City of Dreams, searching for labels and love. 

If I Can't be Carrie Bradshaw, I'll be Samantha Jones.

My life's motto: Work it, Bitch.

     It's been quite a day for me -- quite some two days actually. I flew down to Baltimore, moved all my things out of storage and into a Uhaul. Then drove up to my sister's house in Jersey City to move  my things into storage here. I moved everything by myself --by everything, I mean everything I've owned, bought and used (or not used) for the past four years in Baltimore where I literally had an apartment while I stayed at Loyola (A+ dorms!). This means everything except furniture. BTW I LOVE clothes. Like, love love. By "myself" I mean, by myself. Yeah.

     So after after all the moving and hauling I joined my new roomies (I know I live in their house, but calling my sister & her husband my "roomies" somehow makes me feel less publicly pathetic) for yoga at SunMoon. At the end of yoga sessions, one lays flat on their back in a position of relaxation --exactly what I had been looking forward to. But the instructor did one thing that set me off track. "Take any extraneous thoughts," she said "and push them out." Really? How can you bring the term "extraneous thoughts" into my mind for me and then expect me to think of other things? When someone tells you not to think of what's bothering you, it's like a levy broke. Needless to say, a mental flood ensued.

    First, I thought of him. I thought of why he hasn't called. Of where things went wrong. Whether I should fix it of if it's his responsibility. If it'll ever come back. In one instant I thought of hate and of love as one; for me they are inseparable. I thought of my friends. The summer we shared. The trust we have. The test of time that we've endured. Of how much I'll miss them. I thought of my cousins who will be my new group of friends as I learn NYC. How much time will they expect from me? What if I don't have time? Will they even understand if I don't have time? Will I have time for them? For me?

     When the instructor told me to bring my mind back to the present moment, I thought of where I was. The move I had just made. The steps I'm making. The goals I have made and conquered in my lifetime. Of what is next. Moving is scary. Not just moving physically, but mentally, emotionally and professionally as well. Things are moving for me, but I can't quite predict what's next. It's like driving through new terrain and not knowing if there's a valley, hill or cliff up ahead.

     Tomorrow is my first real day of work. No guides. No shadowing. And... I am scared out of my mind. There are so many demands to meet. I'm going in at 8:15am (even though I don't have to be there till 9) and don't plan on leaving until 7pm (there is no "clocking" in or out here). It seems I've willingly given up my life. I'm going to work everyday for longer than most people. I'm going to pay rent higher than most people. Inherit more stress than most people. To top it off, I come home to my sister's family. When I get my own place, I'll be going home to myself. Yes, it's sad.

     Yesterday, my friend Ashely asked me what my timeline was. You know, for marriage and all that good stuff. This past summer, my friends (all of whom are mothers) asked me the same questions. I mean, my answers to these questions are always a rendition of the same thing: I don't even have the guy yet.  How can I plan the rest when the most important piece is missing?

      (Surprisingly) My mom asked me how many kids I wanted to have which I responded: "I'm 22, I'm more worried about how many carats are in the ring." Me contestaste bein, she said. That means, You answered me well. In the words of Beyonce (as if she's a philosopher), My momma taught me better than that. 

     Another rendition: "When I get a house to put the kid in and a husband to have the kid with."   

     Am I going to be a work-aholic? Perhaps, I've always known that I would and that's why I wanted to be in fashion industry. At least I'd be fashionable and be invited to the hottest parties where I'll show up wearing the hottest outfits. If I end up alone, I'll be a cougar. Some hot model's sugar momma, I suppose. I just saw pictures of  Calvin Klein  and his supposed "partner" Nick Gruber that give me hope that if I stay good looking and fashionable, I'll pull a 20-year-old when I'm 67, too. If I can't be Carrie Bradshaw, I'll be Samantha Jones. It's not that I want to be alone, simply that I can be alone. A man would make me happy, but I don't need a man to be happy. Much less do I need a child to do that. Men (who are men as I prefer them to be) don't cry.

Let me make this PSA:

I'm broke, yo. Right now, I can't have kids or a stingy man. In my ideal life, I want to go to work, leave work, go shopping, go home, put on designer shoes, clothes and accessories to go A) on dates with hot men who drive nice cars and take me to nice places where we eat good food and he surprises me with nice things he bought me or B) to hot clubs with tall drinks and much taller men.

For now at least. I mean... Hey, I'm a city girl :)  If there's still hope for Carrie & Mr. Big, there's plenty hope for me. 

Carrie Bradshaw, take a seat, Hunny.

If I could do anything in the world, I'd sit right here where I am.

It's 7:16 on a Sunday evening and my mother and I are lounging in the living watching One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest on AMC. (We watch AMC because "story matters here" as their advertising tagline points out.)  I've just started this blog but I want to have enough material for you, the reader, to be entertained when I decide to let people know I'm writing again.

I love to write. I love to watch movies and read books and buy clothes. I want to be Carrie Bradshaw --the Black, Latina, young Carrie Bradshaw. Someone just needs to pay me enough for my to buy my first pair of Louboutins. (My demographics lead me to prefer Christian Louboutin over Manolo Blahnik, any day.)  My fav shoe has been dubbed the "Lady Claude." The shoe, with its Kill Bill sexiness,  can make me the "new Black Mamba," says the company website. Fashion à la Quentin Tarantino? Need I say more?

Still, I don't doubt that plenty women out there want to be Carrie, and then there's the rest of us of different ethnicities, races and complexions that have to add an adjective before the name to make us feel like we have a running chance. I mean, the "black Carrie" in this article is a man. Do I have a chance?

If I did, Ladies & Gents, I'd spill all my dirtiest secrets to you if only you would read along. All I need is a closet like Carrie's and red on the bottoms of my shoes.   My life is a movie, I promise.

SOMEONE HIRE ME!!!! (I'm all for shameless self-promotion.)