I Can't Stand The Rain

Okay here's the honest truth. I am getting older and my finger is increasingly growing more distant from the pulse of the youth. Keeping abreast of their interests and lingo is a bit more important to me now that I have a teenager living in my home. I rely heavily on my good friends who have been mommies for ages to clue me in.

That being said, it took me a minute to catch up to this whole "making it rain" phenomenon. Admittedly, like with most trends, I'm really late. Making it rain at the strip club? Um, Okay. I mean that's kind of what goes on there, right? I think it may even be better to throw money at a stripper than to put it in your mouth and place it where you want it, right?

If I am a stripper by design I have placed myself in a position where men feel very free to degrade me--for a price. If I am a stripper and you throw money at me I imagine at the end of my set I pick those bills up and put them in my pocket. That's just the way that game goes.

Making it rain at concerts and similar events? This is the one I really struggle to understand. What the fuck is impressive about one throwing a stack of singles into a crowd of hundreds? Bitch, if you want to impress my ass put some money in my hand!

Enter J. Brad Batteau who did the unthinkable.

He made it rain on the homeless.

Let me make something perfectly clear, I did not feed the homeless during Christmas this year. Nor did I make any Christmas donations to those less fortunate than myself. J. Brad Batteau did both. On the heels of an unsuccessful bid for a Houston City Council seat Mr. Batteau, age 38, cooked a pot of gumbo and took five hundred of his hard earned dollars to the streets of downtown Houston. I sincerely commend him for remembering those who are all too often forgotten.

A reporter chronicled the events for the evening news, one of those "feel good" stories we long for during the holidays. We watched as Mr. Batteau chopped and simmered his gumbo, placed money in individual envelopes, and got his red-suited ass in his car.

Something went terribly wrong in the midst of this good deed. The culprit? Poor planning. I am a planner, at times to a fault. Mr. Batteau could use a chick like me on his team.

All seemed to be well while he was serving the gumbo, but when he reached into his gift bag and began to pass out envelopes containing money, he got bum rushed (no pun intended). Becoming flustered by the encroaching crowd, Mr. Batteau grabbed a handful of money and tossed it in the air.

Damn. Homeless men and women scrambling for dollars falling from the sky. Not a pleasant vision.

Mr. Batteau you are a local hero in my eyes, and I honor you. However, next Christmas take a few helpers with you to help execute your mission. Give a sister a call, I would be happy to lend a hand. Hell, I even have a few elfs I can loan you!

My Elfin' Fantasy, Chapter I

'Twas the night before Christmas
And cold as a witch's tit
Moscado d' Asti flowing
So the Goddess was merry, jolly and all that other shit

I'm not going to lie to you all; there are no visions of sugar plums dancing in my head. Naw, not this chick. On this night, and untold others, I have some serious sexual chocolate dancing, shaking, and gyrating in my dreams. Yes, my dreams often come in the XXX variety.

Given I am a bit bawdy, when a friend sent me this dancing elf link I only toyed for a moment with adding faces of friends, pets, and the like. Uh-uh. Why not add the faces of a few at the top of my "He Could Hit It" list?

Hmmmm.

If only for a fleeting cyber moment, I could make them obey my will. I envision myself in a pseudo-santa, dominatrix get-up. Whip in hand barking out orders not to my reindeer, but my chocolate sex puppets. "Lick Djimon, suck Idris, nibble David, and Dennis!" If that's not the stuff of fantasies I don't know what is.

Fantasy. Inevitably you reach a crossroad in most new relationships where the man will ask, "Do you have a fantasy?"

Bitch, shut up.

The question is not do I have a fantasy. The questions are what is my fantasy, and will I share my fantasy with you?

Because I'm a lady, a goddess to be exact, I generally have two sterile responses from which to choose. How much I may like the new guy determines what response I will give.

Scenario A (I don't like your ass and discussing fantasies is absurd because you will never even touch my left titty):

New Guy: "Do you have a fantasy?"
[In]Urbane Goddess: "No."
New Guy: "For real? Okay, do you want to know mine?"
[In]Urbane Goddess: "No."

Scenario B (I am definitely interested in you, but not yet ready to bring out my latex and whips):

New Guy: "Do you have a fantasy?"
[In]Urbane Goddess: "Of course. Everyone has a fantasy."
New Guy: "True, true. So what is it?"
[In]Urbane Goddess: "I have this fantasy where I make love on the beach in the rain."

Okay, so you and I know that's a bunch of bullshit, but what am I supposed to say? In my fantasy I travel to a distant island where every man has a deep, heavy, melodic accent. One steamy night I take a stroll on the beach alone and strike up a conversation with Didier. Later, when it begins raining, I invite him back to my room - along with his boys Francios, Jean-Pierre, and Noel? Dammit, that's a fantasy. Fuck what you heard!

But alas, I cannot say these things because *mustering my best Sheneneh impersonation* I'm a lady. So instead I shall climb into bed with visions of my virtual, chocolate sex puppets dancing in my head. "Lick Djimon, suck Idris, nibble David and Dennis..."

Merry Christmas!

I Choose You

UGK & Outkast - International Players Anthem
Uploaded by blackdesperadoo

Gone are the days of holiday longing and despair
No emptiness
No sadness
No discontent
All I could ever want for Christmas
I choose you
Personifying the fruits of the spirit
You are
love
joy
peace
patience
kindness
faithfulness
gentleness
goodness
self control
I choose you
All I have prayed for
Placing family above all
Honoring mother and father
voice of reason
pillar to the weary
Friend until the end
I choose you
The kink of your hair
Fire glowing beneath bronze skin
Eyes weaving intricate tales which draw one near
Easy laughter tumbling from kissable lips
Intoxicating
Adorable
Sensual
Loveable
I choose you
Intelligent
Witty
Worldy
Accomplished
The world is your oyster
Your character the pearl
Gifted beyond measure
Many would stand in your place and
Condescend
Marginalize
Ostracize
Yet you remain
Grounded
Earthy
Compassionate
Advocating for those who cannot for themselves
Trading prestige for empowerment
An idol rising
I choose you
Personfying the fruits of the spirit
You are
love
joy
peace
patience
kindness
faithfulness
gentleness
goodness
self control
A Goddess indeed
I Choose You
[In]Urbane Goddess
I
Choose
Me

Kindergate

Barack Obama is closing the gap on Hillary Clinton's lead. Apparently he's getting a little too close to that ass for comfort. Clinton's crew dug around and discovered that contrary to what he states, Obama actually has aspired to be president for sometime:

In third grade, Sen. Obama wrote an essay titled 'I Want To Be a
President': Sen. Obama’s third grade teacher, Fermina Katarina Sinaga, "asked her class to write an essay titled 'My dream: What I want to be in the future.' Obama wrote 'I want to be a president,' she said." [The Los Angeles Times, 3/15/07]

In kindergarten, Sen. Obama wrote an essay titled 'I Want to Become
President': "Iis Darmawan, 63, Obama's kindergarten teacher, remembers him as an exceptionally tall and curly haired child who
quickly picked up the local language and had sharp math skills. He wrote an essay titled, 'I Want To Become President,' the teacher said." [AP, 1/25/07]

http://facts.hillaryhub.com/archive/?id=4468

I've often said I could never run for public office becuase there are things in my past I may not want to come to light, but this shit right here took the cake! Stop playing, Hillary!

Not So Funny After All

http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/law/12/11/lawyer.missing.ap/index.html

I was a little late hearing about the abduction turned hoax of Karyn McConnell Hancock. When my friend called to ask if I heard about it, we shared several laughs as we imagined what the "real" story was. Boy did we clown! Later when I read the story on-line and saw the file photos of this sister and her family, the photo of her looking worn down, and the anguish in the face of her father, suddenly the situation wasn't so funny anymore.

I don't know the Hancock family, never heard of them before this week. I am sure they are the salt of the earth, and have no desire to suggest otherwise. Without knowing Sister Karyn personally, I feel quite certain there is much I do know about her.

I know the weariness in that face with the dark, sunken eyes. I know the signs of exhaustion having visited them many times in the mirror. I know how hard it is to work everyday in a field where folks would like to disregard you, your hard work, and all the letters behind your name. I can only imagine how much more daunting it becomes when you must come home and care for a husband and young child - while pregnant.

I am single. Single as in unmarried. Single and free. I have not always embraced my singleness as I do today. I spent many years longing for a happy family of my own. A family much like the one in the Hancock family portrait. I spent many years using such a vision as the standard to which I measured my self-worth.

So many women live for the opportunity to say my husband, and to tell you just how richly the Lord has blessed them with a mate. You have no doubt heard testimonies of sisters who stayed on their knees praying for a mate, until one glorious day a man made them his wife. Perhaps, like me, you have heard sermons where you have been encouraged to remain faithful and steadfast, and you too may someday be blessed with a husband. Being "chosen" by a man is such a prize many smart sisters take great pains to differentiate the titles Ms. and Mrs., and will seriously set your ass straight if you forget their 'r'. I've seen some very sharp, accomplished sisters damn near break their necks rushing to trade the surname they have carried for damn near forty or more years, for that of their new husband. They do so as if distancing themselves from the woman who bought that house alone, raised those kids alone, earned those degrees alone, started that business alone, and lived a damn good life alone, is the most natural thing in the world.

There are so many ways I have been blessed in this life. I consider having devoted friends to be among my greatest blessings. One of the defining moments in my life has been a conversation with a dear friend who has been married close to twenty years - more than half our lives. While visiting with her family and solemnly reflecting on the empty home I would soon be returning to, she told me my life was to be envied and that she would gladly trade places.

I began to really listen to the sisters honest enough to share the "real deal" on love and marriage. From my grandmother to mother to countless friends, the message was the same - you often give up more than you gain. I had to read through the lines with some, while others made it unabashedly clear; marriage could be a whole bunch of bullshit. Even the better half of the better or worse was not always what it was cracked up to be. Liberation is a constant theme in my life and truly hearing this set me free.

In his statement to the media Bishop Hancock, Karyn's husband, stated his wife had been dealing with psychological issues for sometime and attempted to resolve them without professional intervention. Her plead to her husband in the call she made when informing him she had been abducted was to make certain her son remembered her. She thought she was going to die. We are well aware now that there were no abductors, but the sister felt she was dying. I suspect she had felt that way for quite a while.

My reasons for writing this post are three-fold. Primarily because I am so very thankful this sister did not die at the hands of an abductor or her own. I am sincerely praying for she and her family as they continue to deal with this personal crisis in a very public forum.

Secondly, I write to contribute to the debunking of the myth of the black superwoman. It's bullshit, let it go y'all. Please stop pretending to believe only white women have nervous breakdowns. Remember the time(s) your mind was racing, you couldn't focus, didn't know what your next move would be, couldn't see your way out of the storm, and the burden of life was becoming unbearable? Remember that shit? I know damn well you do! You were likely teetering on the verge of a breakdown, and but for the grace of God your mind could have snapped. Just that simple. In the blink of an eye. There are no dramatics like you see in an academy award winning movie. One of our first priorities must be to preserve our mental health, knowing when it is in danger is paramount.

Finally, I write this post not to bash marriage, but to instead encourage us to critically examine how we determine our self-worth. I believe in marriage, truly I do. My great grandparents were married for over fifty years. My parents have been married forty two years. Some of my best friends are married. Though I believe in the value of the institution of marriage, I would not trade my single life for any options I'm currently aware of. I am well aware marriage can be a blessing, but no more so than being single. Your blessing is living a happy, balanced life. The most idyllic marriage is tough at times. If you have no one to confirm that for you just look into the eyes of your married sisters. If nothing else remember Karyn McConnell Hancock, her story is not that unique.

Real Women Cuss

Cusswords, just let em flow

Motherfuckin shit, goddamn ass hole

Cusswords, just don't quit

Motherfuck you damn shithead bitch

-The Prophet Too $hort

I was speaking with one of my best friends today when she mentioned a recent conversation with her boyfriend. It seems he was disgusted by a female relative who has a penchant for cursing. "That's just not lady-like" he commented.

Interesting.

I consider myself a true lady, a Goddess to be exact, but I certainly do my share of cussing. However, I generally reserve my cussing tirades for times when I am in the company of those I love the most. I recognize exactly how threatened society is of a vocal, passionate, opinionated woman. Add to the mix a highly educated, big-bootied, nappy-headed black woman and folks keep their fingers flexed and ready to press the second '1' in 911. Open your mouth and start cussing in public and white folks will be all set to jump your ass like they did Ms. Sophia when she knocked the spit out of a muthafucka's mouth.

There. I said it. Muthafucka. Or as a dear West African friend jokes, "mudda-na-fucker". Yes, I said it and the shit felt good. I remember vividly hearing my grandmother, great-grandmother, and mother making reference to folks using the "twelve letter word". You know kids like cuss words, and to hear your elders cuss is quite a treat! I seldom heard mine do so, but to hear them elude to a twelve letter cuss word truly made my heart palpitate! I could use that shit in my vocabulary! At that point the longest word I ever heard was Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious , even as a second grader I knew that shit was corny and completely culturally irrevelant.

The promise of this pearl, this linguistic holy grail consumed me. What could it be? My young mind raced! "Goddammit? No, not enough letters and the context is wrong. You can't call a person a goddammit. Asshole? Shit! Still not enough letters." This task kept me busy for a good while. But alas, that glorious day did arrive. I don't know where I was when I heard the sweet melody the first time. I don't know what degenerate actually said it in the presence of a child. I do remember when I heard it I knew it was nasty and I began to count to the letters: M-O-T-H-E-R-F-U-C-K-E-R.

EUREKA!

I believe this was the first time I fell in love. I have encountered few words which have charmed me as much as motherfucker (though I have been charmed by more than my share of motherfuckers *mental note for a later post*.) Armed with this new word I had to practice it (in my head of course!) and make it personal. Motherfucker? Hell no, only white folks say it like that and the shit sounds antiseptic. Muh-fucka? No. Didn't work for me, too masculine. I settled into a comfy muthafucka.

I love to cuss. You see nothing can quite emphasize your point like a well chosen, juicy ass cuss word. The closer I get to forty the more I define who I be! I have become more and more comfortable with myself. So comfortable in fact, I can imagine myself a 70 year old woman walking around with long ass, random curly hairs on my chin, an un-filtered cigarette dangling from my lip (I don't smoke, but the cigarette is requisite for the crusty old woman persona), farting and cussing at will. A disturbing image in some respects, but quite liberating all the same.

I love to cuss. Contrary to the opinion of some, cussers are not necessarily ignorant or lacking a developed vocabulary. I can express myself in a number of ways, but I have found when you start cussing bitches take note.

I love to cuss. Any muthafucka who doesn't like it can kiss my stank black ass.

Spoken like a real woman.