Run 5K's: Komen's Race For The Cure

So, yeah. We don't run.

Not unless we're Kenyan. And if that's the case, this blog isn't for you.
Keep on movin.

I mean, we don't rush nowhere. Not to work. Not home. Not to the store. Dentist appointments...weddings...funerals. NO WHERE. Which is why running has never appealed to us.

But I'm dispelling that myth as well.

Last year, I did Komen's "Race For The Cure". A run/walk race benifiting breast cancer research and survivors.

Grandma died from it...I was out of shape last year, so I figured...eh..why not?

Here's how it goes...

You sign up via the web, or day of the race ($10 more.) You write about it in your blog hoping your readers will donate and clear up their bad karma for the year. (Cheese.) You show up at the Time Warner Center the day before to get your race bib (to be read as "sign with numbers on it"). Don your pink or white "Race For The Cure" teeshirt and head your ass down to Central Park to line up with the thousands of run/walkers who are AMPED to beat breast cancer. You feel superior to all the lazy fucks who are at home doing jack squat about important causes and nod to all your co-runners who feel the same way.

You make friends with people around you who tell you about why they are running. You learn this race is bigger than the memory of your Grandmother. The horn goes off, you run, want to quit when your lungs want to explode, but don't. Even when the smell of horse shit makes you wanna punch someone, you keep going.

You cross the finish with a leg cramp... desperately seeking hydration and willing push over survivors to get it. Your friends and family cheer congratulate you... you go get free swag (Sunchips, vegitarian cheese and shit...) ... call those who can't make it to tell them you did it. Take pictures as proof... then go home to die.

It's a beautiful day most likely...so you'll hang around, keeping your bib on (street cred) and feeling like you did something worthwhile.

..because you did.

But you don't have to run...YOU CAN DONATE! (CHEESE!)

http://www.komennyc.org/site/TR?px=1278907&pg=personal&fr_id=1130&s_tafId=8732

That's my race page. Donate and clear that karma baby! I'll be out there, without a doubt... catching a leg cramp for ya.


Cost to run: $25 Registration fee, $35 if registering day of.

Black factor: Hell. Tits are tits. Told you, Grandma died from this. Massa was in the slave house for sure, but she was a slave all the same.

Do it again?: And again...and again..and again...




http://www.komennyc.org/site/TR/Events/race2007-wide?px=1278907&pg=personal&fr_id=1140

Stray From Cheap Computers (PC's): The New iMac (Apple Store, 5th Ave)

I hate to tell you this...but you're just not that smart.

Sorry. But you just aren't. Neither am I.

Nor do I have a lot of time. Seriously...who does?

I'm not smart enough, nor do I have the time on my precious 48 hours off from my 9-5 to...

Buy a digital camera, find the driver, install it, hook up my camera to my computer, create a folder, load all my pictures in...

THEN..

Open Photoshop (assuming I've learned it), re size, adjust, trim, color correct...

THEN...

Hook up my printer, print out the correct size and shape of each...OR save it onto a disk so that I can take it to Kodak so they can print it out for me.


However, I am smart enough to plug my camera in...click "yes" and watch as it automatically loads everything into iPhoto, labeling all my new pictures with a new "event" tab and date...FOR ME. Then click "print". Done.


Sure, I'm learning Final Cut Pro...but when I'm not trying to be Spielberg and just want to do something simple... iMovie. (And if you don't know Final Cut...iMovie.)

I want to make a calender. Listen to music. Watch movies. Write this damn blog...
IT DOES IT ALL. And when you turn it on, it's easy.

Your iPod? Duh.

Look.

I'm not saying toss your PC out the window. But when it crashes and can't load anything (because it WILL crash...Macs don't, by the way...) you should seriously consider buying a shiny, new Mac.

GETTING ONE

When you walk into the Apple store on Fifth Ave. in New York City, the first thing you'll notice is the big ass glass cube with...that's right, the Apple logo on it.
It sorta looks like a scaled down version of that gaudy ass triangle thingie in front of the Louvre. The second thing you'll notice is that you'll need to descend a winding staircase, which makes you feel as if you're being lowered into the magical world of Apple. Which you are.

(OK...you COULD take the glass covered elevator, but that's just lazy.)

Then you'll notice the people. It's fucking crowded. Like...PACKED.

On every computer, every ipod, every iPhone...is in use. And why wouldn't it be?

You can access the Internet on any of the computers and play around with any of the programs that are loaded onto the machines.

You can plug into the iPods and play with them. Or, plug up YOUR iPod to recharge it.

You can make free phone calls with the iPhones on display.

It's a candy store for free communication...with no time limit.

The sales people are easy to spot. They're the ones with the green teeshirts and the "iPod" name tags. And they are eager to help.


"So, do you have any questions?" asked iPod Guy.

"Nope, I'm good. I want that." I said, pointing at the new iMac. I'd played with it for about five minutes and that experience changed me from being 88.9% sure about my purchase to 99.9%. (Nothing is absolute.)

"OK. Do you have any questions? Did you see the tutorial online?" he asked, concerned about my dropping hundreds of dollars without question. Awww. See? They care.

"Oh yes, I'm sure. I saw it. I played with it...it's coming home."

He smiled and commandeered the closest iMac to us, pushing a guy aside who huffily stated, "I'm thinking about buying this..."

"OK. Well, I'll put in your order next if you're ready. But she's ready now."

Money talks asswipe.

I get a discount thanks to my job...albeit, not a huge one, but hey.

Up to the counter, I tell them my name, and a few minutes later, out comes my baby.

I pay...(ouch. I'll get to it...) and begin to ascend the spiral stairs with the heavier-than-I-thought box. It's 20 inches and for some reason, fucking huge.

As I ascend, I gets nods of approval. She's done it. She's got the new iMac. Way to go. WAY TO GO. I almost expected a slow-clap to begin. It didn't.

OK. So I did have ONE tiny..."what the fuck did I just do" moment of financial panic, but that was soon quelled when I removed the iMac from the box.

My first reaction was...is this IT? I mean, for the money, shouldn't it come with...I dunno...MORE?

At the same time, I said..wow. This is...IT! That's all that comes in the box! Fucking COOL.

Then I peeled off the plastic protection...ooooh. It's..GLOSSY. Then I started it up. And it greeted me...and set it's own damn self up. WAY easier than any Mac I've had previously. (There have been two.)

Then I started up iLife 08'. This is when my life changed.

When I realized, I CAN finish my novel. I CAN organize my photos. I CAN finish the video of Las Vegas adventure. I can... watch a DVD and feel like I'm watching it on a screen that's BETTER than my HDTV. (Which kinda pissed me off a bit but hey.) I can create calenders. I can organize...MY FUCKING LIFE. And that's when I realized the money was worth it. So. Fucking. Worth it.

So I know that Dell desktop only cost you $300 bucks, but think about what else it's costing you. Time. Patience. A trip to the Geek Squad. Buying a web camera. Trying to figure out what a freakn' DRIVE is. Who needs it.

Get a Mac. Don't do it for me. Do it for your digital camera. Cuz you know damn well you're tired of organizing those photos. Damn well.

-Nye


Cost: 20" base model (which is really all you need) $1,299...plus tax.

Is It Worth It: I've successfully converted three PC users to Mac. And they all agree loud and clear...HELL. FUCKING. YES.

...Stray From Their Usual Hairdresser: Ouidad, NYC

Every black woman I know has at least three to four places to go when it's time to get their hair done.

The black salon
The "Dominicans"
The Africans
and the "Oh God, this costs a GRIP" spot but WOW my shit looks great!

Presently, I find myself at a crossroads.

Don't know if you know this, but black hair and water do not mix. Not sweat, pool, ocean... nothing. It just doesn't go well. It just...doesn't. And weaves, (for the last time people) are EVIL and should be destroyed. With that being said, here's my adventure for the month.

Thanks to my thighs developing dimples...(cute on the face, not cute on the ass) I decided it was time to hit the gym...and hit it hard. HOWEVER, the cut that I'd gotten for my birthday from "The Black Salon" wasn't equipped for my new work out.

So I decided to get my original hair texture back...which is half "Freddy" from "A Different World" half "Lauryn Hill" from "The Fugees". This, wasn't going to be easy.

Because what I learned is, as you get older, not only do you get grey hair on your coochie (it's the truth...trust me..) your hair texture changes. Along with your ability to lose the five pounds you just put on last week. (Summabitch...)

So. Since I'd rather be thin than have hair...(that's real) I figure, OK. It's time to cut the relaxer out.

(Play that dramatic chipmunk thing one more time.)

So anyway... I've got two options.

Extensions till my hair grows out... or cut out the relaxer all together, deal with the "Florida Evans" I rocked when I first did this, and keep my eyes on the "Scary Spice" prize. (Oh...Lord.)

I chose Flo. Reluctantly.

Thankfully, I'm in a different tax bracket than I was when I first did this, so I hit Ouidad.

If you've ridden the West Side Highway to the GWB, you've seen the ads. Women with insanely curly BEAUTIFUL hair on a billboard...looking stunning. Funny enough, the headquarters are based in NYC. So why not.

I book an appointment, and and at 5pm on a Friday, I head to the home of curly hair located on 57th Street, which means, yeah. I'm paying a grip for this. I'm fully prepared.

When you walk in, the first thing you notice is Ouidad, The Salon is pleasantly...sparce. I mean, there were clients in every single chair, but never did you feel croweded, or rushed.

I was greeted with the smell of GOOD hair product, not burned, over processed hair. Sade was singing "Paradise"...everyone was dressed in black. The earthtoned colored walls soothed me and every woman who paid her bill looked EXACTLY like the women in the billboard. Hell. Fuckin'. Yeah.


After donning my "Ouidad" smock, I'm introduced to Ana. A smiley Dominican woman who leads me to the back of the massive salon and asks me to tell my hair story.

Before I do, she stops me...

"Wait. I already know. You had natural hair, but it got too hard to manage, so you straighted it. Then you started to work out, and your style didn't hold, so you decided to grow it out again and your relaxed hair began to break off...so now you're here. Right?"

...Wooooow.

Ana then identified the PART of my hair that was corse...fixed it.
Deep conditioned it. Talked shit with me. Talked shit about everyone else.
Explained EXACTLY how to do my hair tomorrow. SHOWED me how to apply product.
Told me what I needed and what I didn't.

At 7pm, I was done...and fucking GORGEOUS. With HAIR knowledge. It was like paying for a hair class.
(Did you know you're not supposed to wash your hair for one week after relaxing?)


Sure, she cut off a couple of inches, but may hair is so easy to manage and CUTE. Sexy. Grown up.

And though you may only see white women in those adds... yes. There were a lot of them there, and they came out looking GORGEOUS. But don't get it twisted. Oh yes, they do the fuck out of some black hair. Curly that is.

Cost: (gasp) $300. (But that's for a cut, and two treatments. I don't regret it.)

Black Factor: Ana's Dominican. Do I need to say any more?

Go back?: Hell...yes.

-Nye

www.ouidad.com