Voodoo, Love Spells and Chicken Bones

I swear I am NOT making this up, ok.

First, hey everybody who's still reading this blog. Sorry I've been M.I.A....but, yeah, I've got a doozie of an update.

On Valentine's Day I went to an art gallery opening/exhibit about Mexican hookers. Lots of nudity and lots of liquor, so it was my kind of party.

Near the end of the exhibit, a fat Mexican woman dressed in what looks to be a red wedding gown with yellow flowers pinned all over starts wandering around the gallery.

In between the flowers are hand-written notes. I inquire. She tells me to write a love wish on a piece of paper and pin it anywhere on her body.

I write, "I want a man to want me and love me and for me to love and want him back the same way."....or something to that effect. I'd been taking FULL advantage of the open bar all night.

Giggling, I pin it to her butt/hip area and she gives me two small charms in return: a kneeling man made out of a bronze/copper material and a silver heart-shaped charm with the world "LOVE" on it.

"Pin it anywhere on your body," she tells me. I do.

Later that night over my homegirl's house I finally meet her new housemate. She's been telling me about him for a few weeks. She said he was cute. She was right. Chocolate-skinned with light eyes, dreads, nice lips, slim frame. He was cute....but he talked waaaay too much.

I finally wrangle in a comment or two. He looks awestruck.

He'd brought a "date" home with him but soon forgot she was there and shortly after escorted her out of the house.

He and I go on a beer run. He won't stop staring at me and hugs me hard and tight in the liquor aisle at the local Ralph's grocery store.

By the time we come back to the house everyone's asleep. We keep drinking. Talking on the stairs he rubs my hand and won't unlock his stare from my eyes.

"This can't be the last time we see each other."

...he invites himself to church with me the next morning and actually comes.

We've talked every day since then.

I like him, but I'm not as struck over him as he is with me. I can't help but think that it's the charm.....seriously! Don't count me crazy.

Since that woman gave me those charms (she called herself Santa Pervasa, like the Saint of all things perverse....yeah.) negroes have been falling out of the woodwork.

For instance: Texas is coming out to L.A. and says he misses me and wants to try and make "us" work; Shonathan started calling every other day and even "coincidentally" ran in to me walking down the street on my way to class; Valentine dude wants to see me every day; the guy at Submarina today was making eyes with me and gave me extra cheese on my sandwich; my ex-boyfriend from Shreveport started calling waay more frequently and this guy from Tampa popped up to proclaim his love for me....all of this in a little more than a week....

Then, and this is just a random ass L.A. thing, today I was driving home from Wal-Mart when a chicken leg bone plopped down on the hood of my car at a stop light. Hand to the sky, this happened. I drove and drove and drove and the damn thing wouldn't get off my car.

Bart Simpson was wrong

I'm either officially old, officially grown, or just plain smarter than I was in elementary but just as militant.

I know that a sentence like that needs some explanation, so let me start.

I'm applying for a teaching fellowship. My affinity for kids and their welfare, their education and their future has been growing exponentially for the last few months.

I just want soooo much more for them than they want for themselves these days. And I've got to find a way to change that so that they want it for themselves just as bad as I want it for them. I want to help enable their success, not push the idea on them.

But I digress. So, I'm walking through Sears to try to find a cute scarf or shirt or something for my in-person interview for this teaching fellowship when I see a shirt with Bart Simpson on it. It said something to the effect of "Disrupting class is what I do."

It broke my heart.

It also took me back to third grade at Hazel Grove Elementary School. The school banned Bart Simpson shirts and especially took issue with the one that read "Underachiever and Proud of It."

Even as a third-grader I thought it was a violation of the students' freedom of speech.

Now, I realize why they were so concerned.

Age has pushed my militant nature in a different direction and while I always knew I had more in common with Lisa Simpson, I can now say that Bart Simpson is a bad influence.

I'm grown, still militant, and thank God, smarter than I was in third grade.

Oprah dethroned

As a middle schooler, I didn't eat for nearly two months because Oprah lost weight that way.

Like all other Americans, I had no idea she'd lost weight the unhealthy way, until she told us all much much later…..but that was my encouragement.

She was bigger than me. Much more powerful than your average adult and, according to me, then AND now, the Queen of America.

When she did her big reveal, I remember her being happy, and sexy and proud. I wanted to be that too. So I stopped eating. Well, I allowed myself a few Gummy Bears and an occasional Pepsi, but mostly, just water….and air.

If Oprah could starve herself, I could too. And I did. I hid out in the bathroom to study during lunch and, despite my mother pleading for me to come to dinner, attempting to entice me with my favorite meals, I starved…and I lost 30 pounds.

I did my own Oprah-esque reveal by wearing a skin-tight green turtle neck and a pair of black jeans to school on St. Patrick's Day. Everyone said I looked great.

That was self-hate.

Now, at age 27, and probably nearly 190 at a mere 5 feet 4 inches, I feel the best I've ever felt in my life.

Wait a minute, though. Don't get me wrong. I want to get fit, and with 2009 came a new resolution for me to get fit and stay fit and do it the healthy way. I stopped smoking after nearly 10 years of doing so and more than two dozen attempts at kicking the habit and I've decided to live a better, healthier, thinner life WITHOUT hating myself as a jump start to it all, without hating my image or doubting who I truly am (sans weight). I'm setting myself up to lose weight, the healthy way, just the same.

And despite the extra pounds I still feel fantastic! Proud. Sexy. Confident.

This kind of self-assuredness took a looooong time. Trust me.

But, and this may sound crazy, somehow, it all comes full circle by going back to Oprah.

She just started this "Living the Best Life" hoopla on her show. I could only watch about 20 minutes of my idol before I literally felt sick with pity for her…..Me! A broke-ass college student who got laid off from her "dream job" feeling sorry for multi-BILLIONAIRE Oprah….let me explain.

To me, and many countless others, Oprah is the Queen of America, and maybe even the world. She's touched so many people and done so much with her life.

For me to see this powerful, uber-woman of the world talk about herself like a dog because of gaining 40 pounds, was astonishing.

"Really?! Seriously, Oprah?!!?" I said it out loud.

All the money, all the influence, the houses, the impact, the life, the mission, the accomplishments; if you put all of that on the opposite end of a scale with the 40 pounds that you've gained in the past years, the 40 pounds out weigh everything else and nilify the wonderful you that IS you?

I know I'm a journalist and so I don't like numbers and numbers don't like me, but seriously? I don't think that equation would make sense to even the most able-minded mathematician.

It saddened me beyond belief; the idea that 40 pounds of weight gain could mentally cripple Oprah.

But it empowered me as well. I am faaaar from happy about the weight I've gained over the holidays. But that extra roll here and there and those additional pounds on the scale do not make me or break me….because I'm so much more than that.

It took me 27 years to figure it out. So, as strange as this seems, I hope Oprah can learn a lesson from me.

Best Birf-day....EVER!!!!!!!!!

Twenty-seven is the perfect age.

It's just far enough from 25 and 30 to be officially "grown."

And that's exactly how I feel: grown, powerful, confident.

But let me tell you about my birth DAY yesterday. Best ever. But then again I find a lot of joy in the littlest things.

To start off, I drank-in my birthday.

When I woke up I barely had a hang-over (Yay!); went and got some chili pepper and lime fruit from the Mexican on the corner under the umbrella. He almost gave it to me free because he didn't have change for a $20 but I went and broke the $20 by buying some gum. (If I'm not going to smoke anymore I've got to keep my mouth involved by doing something with it.....gum might as well be it.)

The fruit, as always, is the BOMB!

My girlfriend Tia and I decided to go to the movies. We went to see Cadillac Records. It was my second time, but I didn't tell her so. I did! tell her that it was my birthday before we got to the theater and she paid for my ticket.

Yay for free birthday shit!

The movie was better the second time around and Tia's great company.

I got a Subway sandwhich and a double chocolate cookie.

I thought about putting a candle in the cookie but was running late for the Ledisi concert.

After four outfit changes I decide on this black and white dress with a big pattern all over it.

Feeling fierce I arrived. Paid valet and got a double shot vodka and cranberry for half price from the gay bartender because it was my birthday.

Ledisi must be a dykeon because the El Rey Theatre was PACKED, wall to wall with lesbians and gays.

"You betta sing bitch! Ooooo, that's my shit!" said this little chocolate-skinned gay man holding on to his partner's waist, eyes shut tight and hands in the air, swinging his hips from side to side.

I just had to laugh.

Some time between drink number two and drink number three, a chubby gay man with cool glasses, a hat and a cute shirt approached me and just started talking. His name was Uree and he's from Chicago.

By the end of the concert, Ledisi had taken us from the bedroom doing the hoochie coochie to church for a little shoutin' and praise and back.

In between flirting with Ledisi's bass player while standing outside standing in the valet line, I started talking to a lesbian couple. One of their birthdays is Dec. 11. (I met another birthday person inside the concert too).

We talk and chill and they know Uree. All of them tell me to come kick it with them at Roscoe's House of Chicken & Waffles. The night was still young so I said what the hell, and rolled to the spot.

So it's me, Uree, the lesbian couple, three other lesbians and two other gay dudes.

I sat at the head of the table. Our waiter's name was Dwight, a yellow-skinned muscular dude with a goatee. Dee-lish! And Uree thought so too. We were both such whores; flirting our asses off.

Dwight gave me some free cheesey eggs because it was my birthday.

Yesterday, my birthday, was supposedly "Day Without a Gay" across the nation, and there I was at the head of the gayest table, after the gayest concert. HIGH-larious! They talked about which one of them didn't "call in gay" to work that day and Uree and I kept sexually harrassing Dwight.

Poor thing. (lol)

On the way home I had the urge to smoke "just half" of a Black & Mild, but didn't. I just went home where I found a Grade A partking spot right in front of my house.

See, the perfect birthday....told you I find joy in the small things.

IT'S MY BIRF-DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

With that being said, I am at liberty to say and do what the fuck I want to.

It's just now 9:30-ish on the West Coast but trust and believe that I am already celebrating.

Been celebrating since about two weeks ago. It started with a trip to Macy's to get some new clothes and, get this, to Lane Bryant, to get some jeans. I am a size 1 according to their standards.

Watch out for the big girls!

lol.

Right now I am enamored with the bubbles in my champagne. Yes, I bought champagne from the Korean grocer.

And it is oh soooooo tasty!

Tomorrow I'm going to see Cadillac Records for the second time with my homegirl Tia. And, if the tickets haven't sold out yet, I'm going to go to the Ledisi concert.

I can't help but think of lil' Dewon in Tampa, one of Meka's kids. When he found out that our birthdays were a few weeks apart he played me a song called "It's My Dawg's Birthday".

Ghetto as hell, yes. But oh so sweet.

I think I'll make it a part of my midnight on my birf-day ritual: playing R. Kelly's "Step in the Name of Love" and drinking and dancing by myself.

Hey, I'm a maverik.

LOL!

Oh, and I forgot to tell y'all about the craziest shit that happened to me over the past few days.

It involves two very "special" people.

On my way back to L.A. from the O.C. I decided to make a stop by the Watts Towers. Uh, yeah, unfortunately, it was during a fucking parade and I was stuck in traffic like a muthafucka until this nice big black man in a tripped out SUV told me, "Hello beautiful. I'm sorry to tell you this but you're not going to get through. There's a parade. I just got out of it."

I turned around and at the next crosswalk I saw a woman who had a butterfuly tatttoo on her chest.....not so shocking, right? But here's the kicker: it was a KELOID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The whole entire fucking chest tattoo was a big ass keliod!

Ewwwwwwwwwwwww.....I threw up in my mouth a little. And the thing that I still don't get is why in the hell she has that shit out in the open like it's ok.

lol.

THEN! I was going on bad date number umpteenth when I stopped at the McDonald's up the street to get a chocolate milkshake, (I Irished it up in the car with some Kaluah. Yay for the Korean grocer!) when this random black man waiting on his order told me I "reminded him of Angela Davis". Hilarious....but it gets better.

He comes closer...."No makeup," he says. I actually DO wear makeup but not a lot.

"Are your eyelashes real?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say.

"Do like this for me," he says while presenting his hands.

With a look of confusion on my face, I do it.

"You've got your real nails!"

"You a Queen. You know that right? Lemme ask you this, do you think you could handle the struggle? The persecution back in the day?"

I tell him, "Naw. I know I couldn't have because I would've got shot."

"Fight the power."

WTF?!

Whatev's.

I felt special.

Not to mention that it's almost my birf-day!!!!!!!!!! I wasn't too excited about an hour or so ago, but there's just something about YOUR birf-day that makes you wanna skip and jump and tell people it's your birf-day and dance to R. Kelly....and "It's My Dawg's Birf-day"!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you Jesus! I'm still alive!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A question and an answer

Just about 12 hours ago, I was asked the following question: "How can I convince you that I'm the one for you?"

Perhaps it was hypothetical.

But I asked if he wanted an answer and he said he did.....this is what I sent to him:

Honestly, you kind of threw me with that question. But I've been thinking about it sporadically throughout the day and this is what I've come up with....take it for what it is, I guess.

lol.

While I was in Tampa, I heard a lot of stuff about you. I heard that you're kind of in love with the idea of being in love and not really realizing/looking for THE person you can actually love.

I'd need for you to tell me what makes me so different from the other girls you've dated.

Throughout relationships and life, I've realized that, like Jill Scott said, "everything ain't for everybody." Being "the one" for someone requires a lot of similarities -- in life goals, in the way you want to raise children, in faith and in morals just to name a few.

I'd need for you to tell me your beliefs. For instance, if you couldn't find work, would you slang or "do anything" to make a buck? Or would we struggle together until we came out on the other side?

Sometimes, people think they know people when they really don't. Can you honestly say that you know "Amber"? And I'm talking about the real insecure, self-doubting, angry-at-times, pessimist, cursing, drinking, vindictive side as well as the real loving, caring, do-anything-for-you, optimistic, happy side too?

I'd need for you to show me that you can deal with both sides of me and all sides in between.

Personally, I don't think you can really know a person until you know where they've been, what they've been through, their friends and their family. That is definitely not to say that a person should be totally judged by their past, the company they keep and/or the family that they were given, but it says a lot about a person.

I'd need to know your past, your friends, your present and your hopeful future and your "folks" and I'd need you to know mine as well and accept them all as I would need to accept yours.

And, finally, I'd need for you to give me your definition of "love"....maybe it's not the same as mine....how it feels, what it is, how it's expressed/how you'd express it...

.....and......well.....that's just about it.

~A.

Single for a reason

I cooked chicken spaghetti.

It was one of my old boyfriend's favorite dishes that I made....so I called him to talk.

The food put him on my mind.

I'll call him Bama because he's from Alabama.

We usually have fantastic conversations. This one, started off wonderfully....it ended dreadfully.

In between talking about Michelle Obama's booty, the election, school and the non-profit that he's founded in Birmingham we fell into the topic of marriage.

"My mama's always asking me when I'm going to bring home her daughter-in-law" he said.

"Tell her she's in L.A. and she'll just have to wait," I said only half jokingly.

That opened up a whole kitten-caboodle of shit.

He's still mad that I "judged" him for selling drugs "when that was the only option he had at the time".....uh, wait a minute.

I won't get into the entire conversation, but this is the Reader's Digest version: He feels that I was being judgmental of him when, nearly four years ago, I learned that he was dealing drugs in order to "feed his family" which consisted of his sisters' four kids and his mother who is on a "fixed income." I, he said, don't and never will understand his struggle because "of the way I grew up" which was in a "middle class home with two parents."

Uh, talk about being judgmental. As if two parents is a ticket to wealth, stardom, fame and a care-free life of skipping down roads planted with daisies.

I'm not saying I grew up tough. I didn't. But I did grow up with morals that are, for the most part, a bit uncompromisable.

Regardless of my situation, I told him, I would never see selling drugs as an option. First of all, you could get killed. Secondly, you could go to jail which is expensive to get out of (court fees and ass rapings) and will also negatively impact the rest of your life. I'd rather flip burgers, mop floors and sell wicker baskets out of my house. Basically, I'd do anything WITHIN the realms of the LAW to feed my family....but drug dealing would never be an option. (Not to mention that studies have shown that drug dealers make minimum wage anyway....why not work at McDonald's instead?)

That, he said, is the reason we could never get married.....uh, okay.

"Marriage," he said, "is about being with someone through thick and thin."

Yes.....the one point we agreed on.

But it also involves me, as a wife, knowing the type of decisions my husband may make as the head of my life and my household. And, I am not sorry about saying this, which is what I told him; if the man I was INTERESTED in marrying was the type of man who saw that as an option, I would NOT choose to follow him.

Somehow, Bama twists this into me being judgmental.

"You've never been in my shoes," he says, because, OF COURSE!, "you had two parents."

Wow....where'd the logic go? Did it just disappear that quickly? I think it did.

Uh, yeah.....He called my logic of "you don't have to slang rocks to get by" a "sermon that can't feed the kids."

Excuse me for having ethics.