KWANZAA DAY 5: Nia. Long.

This one...was a bitch.

Nia (NEE-ah): Purpose
To restore African American people to their traditional greatness. To be responsible to Those Who Came Before (our ancestors) and to Those Who Will Follow (our descendants).


I mean...what in the hell am I supposed to DO for this? What does that mean..."restore African American people to their traditional greatness"? In what context?

This is sorta like that part in (insert any movie here) where the ghost/spirit/mystical figure says some cryptic shit like, well... "Restore African American people to their traditional greatness"...and when (insert bankable Hollywood star here) yells in frustration..."What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean?!” the figure fades into nothing, leaving our star standing there looking stupid.

It's usually at this time in the movie when the phone rings...moving the story forward.

In my case, it was a text from my friend "A". He volunteers monthly with "The Momentum Project", one of New York City's largest organizations providing support and service to those living with HIV/AIDS. (Yeah, A's a unicorn ladies. My best friend and I plot weekly to knock off his mean-as-hell girlfriend. Pinky and The Brain style.)

He asks if I want to help hand out bags at a food pantry later on and BAM! There's my Nia! It's gotta be, right? I mean, why else would I get this offer out of the clear blue? You damn right I want to help A! 5pm? No problem!

But first things first. I have to do laundry. HAVE to. I mean, it's DefCon-5 type of laundry. The kind of build up when you're down to assorted items you wouldn't be caught dead in.

Case in point: "Special" thongs that are only meant to be worn for an hour, stretched out brown bra with a massive tear on the side, ill fitting expensive jeans I hate, but won't toss because I'll need to wear them the next time this happens and a Big Bird colored yellow sweater. No socks.

That kind of build up.

I have four bags, but I'm not going into "how did this happen." Let's just say, this task lasts for hours. I mean, FOUR HOURS. But that's cool. I've got my Nia covered. No need to panic.

So I take my time devouring my chick-lit novel, folding fitted sheets that eventually will end up in a frustrated ball no matter how easy Martha Steward says it is, and rediscovering my wardrobe. (Oh snap. I forgot I HAD this!)

Suddenly...it's 4pm. I've got one hour to be at the church and I've got four bags to get home. I'm starving and I look like shit. Ehh. Do I really feel like going? Can't I just skip this one?

As I text this as an excuse to A, I instantly began to feel like a jerk. Let's break down why.

I'm supposed to be helping the homeless with HIV/AIDS and I can't because my problem is...

I've got four bags of CLEAN clothes I've got to take HOME. I'm HUNGRY so I have to go HOME and EAT and I LOOK like shit.

Sigh...but if I don't, I have this sinking feeling I'm not going to fulfill my Nia. I look up the meaning again.

"To restore African American people to their traditional greatness. To be responsible to Those Who Came Before (our ancestors) and to Those Who Will Follow (our descendants)."

To be responsible. Hmm.

A texts back: Don't worry about it. It's over by 7pm anyway.

Whoa. I'm responsible for getting my ass to that church. I'm responsible for helping these people out...hustle Nye. Hustle.

I get home, wash down some chicken with a glass of apple cider, change clothes (Come on. You gottta give me that. What if I got in an accident? How would I explain purple thongs and a raggedy bra?), and I'm out the door.

............


A and I are in the main church. It's dark. It's quiet. We're alone.

We've just handed out countless bags of food and are both feeling pretty good about ourselves, so we snuck inside to reflect on our good deeds. I contemplate telling him why I accepted his offer. He's been getting on me every year about celebrating Kwanzaa and I know he'd be overjoyed, however, I've decide to keep this from him till I'm done. I don't know why.

"This place looks really modern." I whisper, marveling at the recessed lighting over the pews. "It's odd to see Catholicism look so...I dunno, new. "

"Yeah. I go to service here sometimes. I took my communion here." he says. And we both get quiet again. Not uncomfortable. Just...content.

Don't worry guys. I fully realize I'm fresh off of a chick-lit novel and this would definitely be a scene in a real life one...if we had any inkling of anything other than friendship towards each other. We don't. Operation "Boot the Bitch" is strictly to get him with my best friend, but that's another note altogether.

"WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I belt out to test the acoustics. He laughs.

Satisfied with the sound, I sing a scale.

"SNOOOW...UP....TOOO...MY...KNEEEEEES...."

We let the end of "KEEEEESS..." reverb a bit, and after a while, leave the church in peace.


We chat about various things, I politely ask about his own personal Devil Wearing Prada. She's fine. He plans on cooking her dinner for the New Year and chillin. All he asks is that she picks up the wine. Sounds fair, but we both know Selfish: The Raging Bitchzilla won't do it. He teases me about my love life and vows to get me married to one of his straggling frat brothers by 2010.

"You first." I smirk. He quickly changes the subject as I knew he would. The thought of spending a catholic eternity with Little Miss Drama-pants is just too much to digest during the holiday season. I mention my best friend's name for no reason at all. Just to see if he still lights up when I do. He does. Great. Just checking.

"Would you mind meeting up with my sister? I just have to give her something for my Dad."

Why not?

His sister is just adorable. Twenty years old, cute, with a college social life in full swing. She's just as joyful and positive as he is. She's the kind of giggling ball of happiness that's instantly contagious. She makes you want to hug her for no reason at all. I can't stop smiling at her, and silently hope she never falls in love with the wrong guy.

Big brother gives her something important to take to their father, compliments her, dotes on her, lets her know she's loved and protected. It's a beautiful thing to watch and I realize that dude just Nia'd right in front of me. He took care of his baby sister and his father in one shot. What really blows me away is... he wasn't even trying.

We send her on her way and head to Trader Joes on 14th for some Proseco and appetizers (Champagne is for Mimosas the next day we've long ago declared). We share a train uptown and part ways, wishing the other a great New Years and I thank him for just being awesome.

Then I call my best friend (...and I plant A's name... for no reason at all. ; )

Then I call my own sister and tell her I love her. And wish her a happy 40th (FUCKING OUCH!) birthday.


Then I open a bottle of Two Buck Chuck and watch Gladiator. (ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?)
I'm hoping the cheap Chardonnay will help me to forget that I didn't really Nia today.

I watched on the sidelines as somebody else Nia'd the shit out of today.

I was a Nia sidekick. I half Nia'd.

Damn. I Sommore'd.

(But if you squint and finish the rest of this bottle, it'll look a LOT like Nia.)

OK Kwanzaa. You've got to give me a break. What's next?

Kuumba (Creativity)
To do always as much as we can, in the way we can, in order to leave our community more beautiful and beneficial than we inherited it.

Ok...

KWANZAA DAY 6: How Nyree Got Her Kuumba Back

See kids? This is what happens when you get cocky.

Kuumba (Creativity)
To do always as much as we can, in the way we can, in order to leave our community more beautiful and beneficial than we inherited it.

I got stuck.

I fucking KNEW this was going to happen! On the one principle that I knew DAMN well I could handle with my eyes closed... suddenly, I sit down to my computer to write something fantastic...something incredibly Kuumba-like, and I turn to creative iron.

I..can't..move..my...arms...

Nothing...and I mean NOTHING would come out.

Ughh. If I hated Kwanzaa before, I REALLY hated it now.

Kwanzaa has managed to have the last laugh. Kwanzaa gave me writers block thus making it impossible for me to complete Kwanzaa. Oh...the irony.

And believe me...I tried.

I refused to open the novel I'm working on because I knew damn well I had nothing mind-blowing to add to it. (Fear.)

I also refused to open the screenplay I've been working on (or as I like to call it, the screenplay formerly known as a novel). I was stuck there as well and I had no gift to bring. Ba-rump-ba-bum-bum.

So what should I do? I HAD to get through Kwanzaa. I mean, now it's just about principal. (Well, not THE principle...I mean... (teeth suck) you know what I mean.)

Anyway, I decided to calm down. Got still for a minute and then, after a minute or two in the bathroom (think tank... ha-ha.) it came to me. But not exactly how I thought it would.

An inner voice told me to do something that made no damn sense.

It's something I don't mind doing, actually, I really enjoy doing...but couldn't really figure out how this was going to help me Kuumba.

(Another teeth suck.) Whatever inner voice. That's just dumb. What I NEED to do is sit my ass in front of my iMac until I get another chapter down thank you very much.

And with that, I tried to dismiss the thought again but it came back. It smacked me upside the head with the wedding-ring hand. (Remember that? OUCH. Why couldn't she ever knock you upside the head with the other hand? )

Hours passed. No Kummba. Just a blinking cursor. And there the word was again. Right in the front of my mind...

Inner voice: BAKE.

Yeah. OK. Whatever. Bake.

Inner voice: And don't just bake anything Nye. Bake a cake. Yellow cake with chocolate frosting. If you bake it...it will come.

Sigh. I know what you're thinking.

Who the hell bakes a cake on New Years Eve? I'm supposed to be deep conditioning my hair, prepping it for a festive curly fro. I'm supposed to be chilling pre-party Prosecco, putting on the good drawers, sliding on the heels, practicing the dramatic smokey eye, locking down my final plans for later on so when the clock strikes midnight, I'd be at the right place, at the right time, with no regrets and looking, smelling, feeling... head to toe...the fucking shit.
Just like... like...

uh... never.

Ever.

And that's when it dawns on me.

Not one year has New Year's Eve been "perfect" for me. Not one.

And believe me, it hasn't been from lack of trying.

Starting from my very first New Years away from home. (Story time boys and girls...)

...

I wore this dress that looked like... wait...let me draw it...

Artist rendering

Don't judge me. En Vogue was the shit back then and when I saw it, I damn near heard "MMMMMMMM....BOP!" in my head. Besides, my "something-Teen" body was CRAZY regardless of my strict "chicken wing & biscuit" diet. (And don't judge my parents either. When they saw the dress, they immediately made me go back into my bedroom and change. However, I just rolled it up and put the dress in my pocket. Shoot. I paid a good $60 for that dress with my own hard earned dough! I was WEARING that dress.)

Oh. One more thing. Before I launch into this story, you need to know that I had ZERO style. I only wore baggy clothes, kept my long hair in a permanent ponytail and wouldn't know what to do with mascara if you paid me. ...Then The Gays got a hold of me and got to work. (Sigh. God bless The Gays.)

So off to THE New Years party and my very first gay (that would kick off my illustrious hag career) informs me that the DJ is 1) cute as hell 2) a good friend of his and 3) hopelessly straight, to his disappointment.

"Go get him Miss Naomi..." he smiles, ordering me to do his bidding like his own personal Fem-Bot. He peels off my coat and takes a final look at his creation. (He was with me when I bought the dress. Of course he was.) He swells with pride and shoo. Go.

I strut into the DJ room. I mean, seriously. What dude could be THAT big of a deal? I remember DJ groupies parting everywhere like the Red Sea (Never underestimate the power of a gay man's ego boost. Ask Beyonce.)

I spot the table and stand right in front of it. Dress ablaze.

He's hunched over the one & twos, looking very "DJ". He's holding one side of his headphones up to his ear with his shoulder, manipulating the mixer buttons with one hand and dropping a needle with the other.

"Are you Corey?" I yell above the music. Very lady like.

DJ Corey B looks up at me, then down at the dress...smiles slowly and confirms that he most certainly is.

...And this is when my "shit-don't-stink" act totally backfires...because DJ Corey B is effn' HOT and I have not been properly prepped as to what to do next. Oh man..he's like.. 6'5, with long, muscular basketball limbs, looking like Leon...but even BETTER. Then, to seal the deal...he has the damn nerve to have THAT smile. Perfect. White. Straight. DIMPLES? Jesus.

OK. So long story short...in my mind, that night should have ended with DJ Corey B and I kissing at midnight, slow dancing to "Make It Last Forever” which would historically be "our song". We'd fall desperately in love and our children would make vomit noises whenever they saw us slow dance every New Year's Eve to Keith Sweat, recreating that magical night. See? Mommy and Daddy knew they would make you.

But what really happened is I got incredibly drunk off of Strawberry Cisco (aay..I know...) sweated my hair out dancing too hard to "South Bronx" when Brooklynites tried to get too froggy about "The Bridge" and the gay guy ditched me when he hooked up with a guy at the party.

Oh. Did I mention it had started to snow and the gay guy had my clothes at his place?

Oh. He also had my money & ID. (No pockets and no purse. Dummy move.)

I got a ride close to my neighborhood, but still had to troop it through a good portion of The Bronx on foot, in the snow, in heels...drunk off of liquid crack.

I arrived home in the dress, to a mother who was on the couch waiting for me.

Dress. Drunk. Cold. Sweated hair. Past curfew. You know what happened.

Oh. And I got the flu.



Quantum Leap through countless "Not as great as I thought they'd be" New Years Eve's and we now arrive at my neighborhood market, with our thirty-something heroine holding a box of Betty Crocker Butter Yellow Cake Mix.

Thanks a lot Kuumba.

But while I'm here...why not get some "brunch stuff"? So I do. Don't know why...but I do.

...........

Text 1: Are you coming to Brooklyn?

Me: Nah. The weather is crazy. I think I might just stay in.

Text 2: Hey..you hitting that party tonight?

Me: Nah. I'm...making a cake.

(Uh...no. Hell no. I can't admit that. Delete..delete...delete... )

Me: Nah. I'm staying in. The weather is crazy.


And so on and so forth.


So the mixer is on mid-speed, beating the shit out of the batter. (If you want to know how long four minutes is get yourself a hand mixer.)

I'm watching the churn and it's sorta hypnotic...and it takes me back to my Mom.

When she'd do this, like I'm sure every other kid did, we’d lick the beaters and the bowl when she was done. I'd get to frost the cake.

And then, we'd all eat the cake... GASP... ON NEW YEARS! Wholly shit! How did I forget that?

We had cake...and my parents would let us sip a little champagne in a paper cup. Man. We thought we were so grown up (not knowing it would knock us out in fifteen minutes). And Pop would buy noisemakers. We threw confetti at each other...and when the clock struck midnight we went apeshit. Wow. That was the best.

And suddenly, that's exactly what I wanted to do. No dress. No smokey eye. No snow. No bullshit.

I wanted to eat cake, drink Prosecco and watch the ball drop.
Then the Honeymooners. Then go to bed.

And I started to smile. Suddenly...it was back.

Inner Voice: If you bake the cake, it will come.

I sat down at my computer and thanks to that picture of the Mende mask I'd posted my sister reminded me of the DNA project I'd promised my family years ago. I'd traced our lineage back to the Mende tribe in Sierra Leone, and promised to present everyone with something they could not only own, but also pass down for generations. Something original. Creative. Beautiful.

So I started working on that and then it hit me. Oh snap.

I'd finally started to Kuumba.

Epilogue:

The cake came out great.
The Prosecco was perfect.
DJ Corey B and I dated for two wonderful months before I found out he had a girlfriend who'd just given birth to their first child.
The gay guy dropped dime on him and urged me to break it off with him. (Hater.)

As for the dress...my ex-fiancé found it. And promptly threw it away.

Happy New Year all!

KWANZAA DAY 7: IMANI - For The New Year...and Beyond

Well…I did it. I successfully finished "Kwanzaa".

Funny. I don't feel blacker. And I'm still not clear why this should only be done by blacks...but anyway...let me get into it.


Imani (Faith)
To believe with all our heart in our people, our parents, our teachers, our leaders and the righteousness and victory of our struggle.


Who actually sits up and asks themselves..."What do I have faith in?"

Have you ever done this? It's a hell of a question. If you've never done this...I highly suggest you try it.

Go into your bathroom or whatever room or space brings you peace and just ask yourself.

"What do you have faith in?"

The default answer for most? "God".

Yeah...yeah. But what else? Well I asked around.

Ready for some really depressing shit?


"Nothing."

"Faith is bullshit."

“That’s the problem with black people now. All this faith and no action. Faith is a concept. Used for control.”

"What do you mean...faith? I don't understand the question."

FAITH. Damn it! FAITH. You know what FAITH means, don't you?

"...No, actually I don't. What is faith exactly?"

Good question.

I knew it had something to do with belief, but after that, my personal definition breaks down a bit. So I decided to look it up.

(Glasses on... big dictionary out...flip, flip, flip... oh wait. I can't cut and paste from a book. OoooKaayy.... log on...Google... boom.)

From Wikipedia: "Faith is a belief in the trustworthiness of an idea or person. Formal usage of the word "faith" is usually reserved for concepts of religion, as in theology, where it almost universally refers to a trusting belief in a transcendent reality, or else in a Supreme Being and said being's role in the order of transcendent, spiritual things."

Let's just stay with the informal version. Religion has a tendency to turn great people into mouth foaming hate spitters, and I'm a love muffin.

Don't spit on my muffin. (Ahem. ANYhoo...where were we?)

"...Belief in the trustworthiness of an idea or a person." This is Imani.
"To believe with all our heart in our people, our parents, our teachers, our leaders and the righteousness and victory of our struggle."

And I hate to bring this guy in it, because he's running the risk of Jolie-Pitt overexposure, but I have to. Damn it...he deserves it.

Before Barack Obama's run for the presidency, I'd have to say my faith tank was running pretty damn low. It was almost like the world had gone stupid and that racist grandfather (pick one) was right. You know, the one you'd been trying to ignore. The one that kept telling you, "No we can't." Damn it... he might be right.

Public figures were bringing back "Nigger" like it was aight, the mocking misuse of hip-hop slang in your face..BY THE PRESIDENT, "nappy headed ho's", uh...HURRICANE KATRINA? I mean, I pretty much started to re-learn how to hum negro spirituals again and mentally started picking out potential owners just incase G.W found a loophole to reverse slavery.

Oh. But you think I'm joking.

Man, I sat in my office and watched while corpses floated down the street. The elderly dying on the side of roads in wheelchairs. Oh...it hurt so bad I moaned ya'll. MOANED.
I cried like a baby behind a closed office door, while everyone around me tiptoed, not knowing what to say. Shit. What can you say?

My Imani was pretty much gone. After I saw that, I decided to move to Costa Rica. France. Canada. Shit...anywhere. I had a full-blown case of "TBN". "Tired of Being a Nigger". Learning a new language was better than going though the rest of my life feeling like this.


(Wait a second. Time out. I just realized, I may have to explain "TBN" for those who don't understand. Feel free to skip this part if you've already suffered through a full-blown case of TBN. I don't want to trigger a relapse.)

..........................
For my not-black friends...(hmmm...how can I say this?) "Tired of being a nigger" isn't just about being called a bad name. It's sorta hard to explain, but I'm going to try. With a little help...and some pictures.

Here's BET's list of the top 25 events that Misshaped Black America. I won't go into them in detail, but feel free to do so on your own. I encourage it. And while you're at it. Try to imagine your family living through and rising above all this...whenever you're not getting followed around the hair supply store. (HEAVY SIGH.) Ok. Here we go...

25. The Jheri Curl
(Though I would like to say, if you have curly hair and use "Let's Jam", you can be misunderstood. Just wanted to put that out there.) Keep it moist...




24. Hurricane Katrina. Wade in the water...




23. The N-Word (Yeah. They annoy me too...)



22. CoIntelPro (This was BULLSHIT...but get a bigger sharpie next time.)



21. Elvis. Our "OJ".


20. Negative Hip-Hop (Heavy sigh...)


19. Bling-Bling. Because you don't shine enough.


18. Welfare. Not just for polygamists anymore.


17. The American Prison System. There's always room for one more!


16. Light Skin Blacks vs. Dark Skin Blacks (Talkin' bout good and bad haaaaair....)


15. Ward Connerly. (Thanks Ward. Nice try though.)


14. The US Supreme Court. I'm sure they were fair.


13. Ronald Reagan/ Reaganomics. And he TOTALLY has your best interests at heart.


12. The Burning of Black Wall Street. Look into it.


11. Soul Food. Pressure on a plate.


10. Gangs. (Learn to speak "Gang" in less than one hour!)


9. Hollywood. (Wow. How'd that MFA from Yale in Fine Arts work out for you?)


8. The Deaths of Malcolm X & MLK. (Still hurts, doesn't it?)


7. Blacks that glorify stupidity. (Teeth suck.) Be THAT as it may, we still say it for the simple fact that it's fun to say.

6. The KKK. Boys in the hood.


5. Apartheid/Segregation. (Sorry. Why don't you clench and keep it movin' till you reach the bushes. This is for OUR urine.)

4. Religion. "And God says, "Niggers get to be free in Heaven later! Serve your master NOW." It says so right here...in dis here good book. In pencil. Wit, I recken a few thans crossed out. But... since Ise can't read, Massa told me what it says, bless him. And thank Jesus for him!"


3. AIDS. (Still raw-doggin' it, huh? How's that working out for you?)


2. Drugs. (Killed us. On so many levels.)


1. Slavery. (...)



As a black person, it's just... (heavy sigh...) HARD to have faith in anything when you've got all this on your back. (And more, but I'll be here all day and I've got things to do.)

Try to erase one. Just one. Try to forgive it, let it go, and see what happens. You still have at least 24...and all of them have LAYERS. Understand a little better? OK. Back to Imani....

...................

So yeah, I was losing it. And then something happened last year...

And now, I'm going to say something that is going give some a rash, but hey...it's the truth.

You know who helped me this year with my Imani big time? (I'll get to Barack and Michelle in a minute. And my nephew too... who became a single teen dad, dropped out of high school, then returned to finish, picks up his son as much as possible and is now working his way through college. Big up to you for not giving up!)

You know who else stepped up big time?

White people. Millions of 'em.

When it came to this election, whites joined forces with the rest of us and were pretty much like...fuck that!

We all got hit by rising gas and food. We all got...tired. Let's try and put this bullshit aside and get better! And tell me you weren't shocked.

Tell me when Barack won Iowa... IOWA... you didn't look at white people like... SAY WORD?!

And suddenly, they weren't all "trying to hold a brother down" and we weren't all "not fucking with them cuz they're trying to hold a brother down"...and we both moved an inch. Not a huge distance, but it was a start.

Then, just when the machine tried to put everyone back in their respective corners... here comes Barack. And he reminds all of us that we're people. The man won't deny his African roots. He won't deny his white roots. I'm American. Fuck that. Deal with it.

And when we tried to act up and say he wasn't black enough, or white enough...dude writes a speech and verbally spanks us AGAIN. "There isn't a black America or a white America... there is the United States of America". In other words, ya'll have got to get over it. Seriously.


Then he started winning...and I started to feel something that I hadn't felt since I was a kid watching "Magic Garden", hoping Paula would see me through her magic mirror...

Hope.

We might win this. We might have a black president. WE might actually overcome.

I don't have to go into it. You were there. You cried for days like a baby just like I did.

However, as soon as he was pronounced winner… something in me just…just… changed.

Geek Moment: Know that part in “The Matrix” when Neo gets shot dead by Agent Smith ...then Trinity kisses him, tells him he's got to be The One cuz the Oracle said...blah blah blah? Then he gets up...and says, very quietly..."No."? Dude just stopped dodging bullets and just ...FUCK THAT. Pluck. Drop.

Yeah well...THAT HAPPENED.

Everything I'd lost faith in... dreams, goals, family, friends, relationships suddenly got a recharge.

I took a look at where I was and said, "Uh...I don't want to be here anymore." And EVERYTHING changed. (Katt Williams...) EV-ER-RY-THANG.

Back to Imani: To believe with all our heart in our people, our parents, our teachers, our leaders and the righteousness and victory of our struggle.

Yeah. I completed it. But I still have a problem with Kwanzaa because it's not just about OUR people... it's about all people.

Not just OUR parents, teachers, leaders. We need to have a little Imani in ALL of them.

I think we're ALL moving in the right direction and the struggle isn't just for blacks anymore.

So blacks, listen to me very closely. I'm only going to say this once.

Get your head outcha ass. Pull your pants up. Stay off Maury.

When an immigrant gets bashed by some ignorant jerk in a white-hood or not...that's YOU. When a gay person is denied rights...that's YOU. We didn't come this far to just sit on it and say, "Oh well. Ya'll should figure it out....we did."

Sure...we opened the door, but now it's our duty to help others walk through.

Sorry...I'll get off my soap box now. Where was I? Oh...yeah. Imani.

So...all that to say, I've had Imani since November 4th. It took some time to get it back...but I'd been working on it for the entire year and I'm glad it paid off...because my Spanish is still bootie and my French is just as bad. Tres mal.

And sure, Costa Rica's a nice place and all...but they ain't got shit on the Boogie.

(Insert "South Bronx" here...and pump it.)

I wish you all love, truth and prosperity in 2009 and beyond... thanks for going on this journey with me...I couldn't have done it without you!

-Nyree



P.S.

Did I change my mind about Kwanzaa? Absofuckinglutely not.
It’s still a bullshit ass holiday, however, I do realize that some people may just need it. Actually... a lot of people need it. Maybe I'll do it again next ye... no. That's a lie. I'm not doing it again. Sorry.

OK… I got some fun writing out if it too. And a cake. And some shea butter. So rock on with your produce and candles if you need to.

As for me… giving up my week between Christmas and New Years...AGAIN?
(Come one everyone, say it with me.)



Fuuuck that! : )

Besides, who needs Kwanzaa? We've got this.

Defend Sex And The City. (SATC2 Review)

(No Spoiler-o.)




Dating an obese man who won't change AND dating a man with kids whose mother prefers the ex.

These are the sole two topics my BFF and I figured out are the only two stones unturned in the franchise span of Sex And The City's six seasons and two movies. And until they cover that shit, we won't stop going to see anything Michael Patrick King dreams up for our four favorite heroines.

I'll have you know that I've gotten too much shit from guys about my love for SATC. Too much. Sorta sounding like this...

"Not YOU Nye!"
"I'm so disappointed!"
"Oh shit. You really ARE a girl!"

Yes...I am. Complete with a vagina and estrogen. Sorry to disappoint fellas.

Wanna know why women love SATC? (Well, aside from knowing there's nothing better than sitting on a couch next to your boyfriend and watching that shocked look on his face that says "Do women really think like this?!". Please resist the temptation to say "no". In other words...try not to lie.)

Real talk...SATC is our grown up version of the Disney Princesses thrown in a blender on high with some Barbie added in...all poured in a fabulous martini glass. And just like little girls like to dress up like the Princesses...well...you get the point.

The stories? Totally Princess. Strong female leads who don't fit in, ugly ducklings in their own worlds. They want more and live in a world that doesn't realize how fabulous they are until one day...

The fashion? Totally Barbie. I don't need to explain this, do I? The gazillion types of Barbie? A closet that never ends...and that was BEFORE the gays got a hold of her. And speaking of the gays...

This is my only beef with the movie. (Aside from the shock of how old everyone looked.) The series itself was gay and campy, sure. But that was balanced out with a healthy dose of a writing team comprised of women & straight men to tone down all that....ALL THAT. Because as we can see, Michael Patrick King, left to his own gay-vices, gives you Liza Minnelli.

Doing "Single Ladies" in a body suit.

At a gay wedding.

With swans.

I almost wanted to throw a football at the screen to see if it would burst into glitter due to the sheer force of the gayness radiating out of it.

But I digress.

My point is...SATC is not real. It's not supposed to be!

It's a comedy people...lighten up! And it's contributed a much needed service. Get women through the sheer hell of dating in your 30's with a laugh while vicariously playing dress up in some outrageously priced clothing. What? This is wrong?!

We know its fake...but those flaws and doubts and dating disasters are as real as they get. And for anyone who has watched an ex get married and asked, "Why HER and not ME?"....

For every woman who has found herself an unplanned mother while trying to maintain a career...

For every woman who has had to watch all her friends get married and start families while she seemed to fail at it over and over...

For every woman who saw a hot guy and wished she the had the balls to just...well...fuck him and forget him....

THIS show got you through it all....without wanting to off yourself.

As for the movies...with some schmaltz and a smile, they've answered the question we were dying to know after Big told Carrie..."You're the one." (..And we found out his name was "John". Eww...BTW. Just...EWW.)

That question being....umm...OK.....Now what?

Everyone is married...so is life over?

I mean...it took soooo much to get Bradshaw to Preston...now what? Huh?
What do we do NOW Carrie?!! ANSWER US!!

And that's the reason we needed the movies. Not wanted. NEEDED.

When the "Now What?" arises, we know that somebody...even if they are fictional...has been through it. ("it" being "marriage". Territory that the single woman finds dark and mysterious and frankly...wonders why the hell she's even heading towards it...)

And these fake/glammed out chicks will offer wisdom and calm your ass right down. And when you get through it in your personal life...ALL of it....you can pop in that DVD box set and laugh at their mistakes.... and yours.

Knowing where they've been...and how far they've come, you can DO that. You got through some of the very same bullshit. It's just not all wrapped up in a pretty pink velvet box set...(Thank GOD.)

I'm currently living season six...where the ladies are just a little older than me (Thank GOD x 2) but that's cool.

I like my Sex And The City ages decades from me. At least one decade to be safe...

And to be honest...I don't care what happens to them next. All I ever cared about was them up to this point. Especially since the "boring married couple scenario" has always scared the shit out of me. Almost as much as "I wanted a kid and now I hate it" fear. And now, as they told me before when I had my "I'm gonna get jilted at the altar" panic attack, they've calmed me right the fuck down with this movie. Right the fuck down.

"Life goes on. You will survive if it does happen. But please look fabulous while doing it. And when you go through menopause, get that Suzanne Sommers book.
-Love, The Girls."

And now...I can slip off their little tiny Manolos, and put the dolls back in their carrying case. There's nothing more to say. Life's training wheels are off....time to close the book and live it. I don't need another sequel. I get it...I know the last line of the book.

"And they all lived happily ever after...most of the time. And when they didn't, they survived anyway. ...In gold encrusted Louboutins. The End."

And yeah. I know it's not real. But it makes me feel better, OK? Lay off. It's my thing. And I love it.

P.S. BTW...Miranda DID date a fat guy in Weight Watchers after she had Brady. (Glazed donuts...remember? He kept trying to kiss her after he went down?)
She also dated the guy with the kid from the gym.
Charlotte dated Trey who had "Bunny"...the back washing mom.
I'm sure if we combined all three episodes, we've got some answers here.

P.S.S. Charlotte and Harry's baby is ugly. Sorry...but she really is. At least they kept that real.
There's no WAY Charlotte and Harry would make a cute kid. No. Way.

Cost: $12.50 for a ticket. But if you know some bootleggers... $5.
Black Factor: There are no black people in Sex And The City. I mean, the assistant was a cute attempt, but really... we weren't fooled. There are, however, plenty of brown folk in this one. Plenty.
Would You Do It Again?: Oh for the love of John James Preston...of course I would. And will. Over and over... and over ...


- Posted using BlogPress from my NyePad.

Location:A coffee shop. (How "Carrie"...I know.)

Run 10K's...Through The Effin Mud

Nah... we don't. Especially black women.

We don't run. Well not unless we have some sort of background in the military or some shit, and even then, we don't like it.

For example...

My older sister came home from the Army in amazing shape back in the day.
She was a cheerleader, but this took her body to a whole other level.
Cut. Ripped. Toned. She was Linda Hamilton in T2, with deltoids and abs not to be fucked with.

She looked nothing short of amazing and attributed her sweet...sweet..back to waking up every morning with her troop and running five miles.

Five. Fucking. Miles.

Running.

Every. Single. Morning.

"No, but it's fun!", she insisted. "We run to cadence so it makes it easier."

Now maybe it's just me, but when men, traditionally, had to make up songs to get through some shit, it wasn't pleasant.

Chain gangs...slavery... You get my meaning.

So there's no amount of sugar filled spoons that was gonna convince me running was a happy experience. I mean, of you look at the faces of people who run, they are, very clearly, the exact fucking opposite of joyful. They look like death.

Death with bad knees.

So no thank you Sis. You ran cuz the govt paid you. You want me to die for free? Nah...I'm good. Mama didn't raise no fool. Well, not more than one, anyway.

Fast forward twenty years. (Ouch. When did I become able to speak in terms of multiple decades?! Stay tuned for my Mid-Life crisis after these important messages.)

My body has decided to turn into Artex the horse in "The Never Ending Story". Wait...let me back up.

I broke my foot, couldn't workout or walk. THEN I caught a painful wart. Couldn't workout or walk. Seven months later....15lbs. Boom. I can't fit my jeans. Double boom. I refuse to buy new clothes. Pow. I retreat into the Swamps of Sadness. I'm gonna be fat...sigh. Let me just give up. Fuck it.

Then, the gays decided this couldn't happen. Not me. The gays. And once you get gay husbands, you are bonded for life.

"It's not cute." No, they didn't actually say this. Instead, they made suggestions...

"Hey...why don't you RUN the Army ten miler with us?!!"

...Run? 10 miles? Even with all the hot Army guys surrounding me, this seemed like a bad idea. I can see me now. On mile 4...looking like a big bag of what-the-fuck while a crew of tight bodied, buzz-cut army dudes cadence their asses right past me, chanting to the top of their man-voices about fat people.

(Oh yes. It's a real cadence.)

Needless to say, I passed. Even though the race would take place well after my foot was healed...still. No thanks.

Then they asked me to go to Hip-Hop dance class. Knowing I am a part of the Rhythm less Nation, I said no thanks.

And this is how weight gain happens. Suddenly, you find yourself saying no to anything active and yes to Hot and Crusty. And Cheeseburgers (but they're SLIDERS). And pizza. And garlic fries from Trader Joes.

...the whole bag.

Now, shit doesn't get real however, till you have to go somewhere requiring "dress up" clothes. Well, at least, that's when shit got real for me.

A healed foot, beautiful shoes...and a closet full of "a size too small". And for someone who was once "ten sizes too big" (and didn't notice till I was in a Vegas bathroom standing next to Playboy Bunnies looking like the "before" photo)...attention must be paid.

So that said, the next time I was asked to participate in something that would facilitate the shrinking of my ass...I had to say "Yes" to it. And that meant I would be participating in the "Down And Dirty" 10k in Philly, this July.

Where (in costume), I'll be running 10k....AND hurling myself over and through military obstacles, water crossings, cargo climbs...

I HAVE to work out. And run. Or go back to "before".

I'm presently on week 3 of training and it's ugly. Its reeeeeal ugly. Up to 4 miles run/walk...with miles to go before I sleep.

So...apparently, Momma did raise a fool. But this fool's body will be incredible...and back in a 6 shortly...or close to it, by race day.

(Oh...and I DID take that Hip-Hop dance class. That entry is coming. It wasn't pretty. Just gonna put that out there.)

COST: $60 (if you register before July 1st.)
BLACK FACTOR: Aside from my group? Ehh. We don't normally run and we DEF don't run in mud...or water. (Hair thing...helllloooo) but there are enough brown folk there to feel comfy. Besides...after the mud, everyone is brown.

WOULD YOU DO IT AGAIN?: Well...let's just see how it goes, shall we?

www.downanddirtymudrun.com

Know WHY Black Women Are Single...So Stop Trying To Explain It

*In this special edition of "Nyree Goes In", she's talking specifically to black men in her native dialect. Reader discretion is advised.*


Heavy sigh & eyeroll...

Oh will you brothers please shut the fuck up and grow a pair.

Yeah, I'm talking to you.

Steve, Jimi, Baisden and all the rest of you over 40 year old divorced/"used to live with a woman" whiners... may I offer you a big fucking plate of neck swivel and a piping hot side of teeth suck, all washed down with a big glass of "HOSITDOWN".

If I see one more bound in paperback "reason why black women are single" load of bitch-ass whinery, I'm going to slap somebody upside their head. (You know which hand. The one with the rings on it. )

Now, the reasons that are usually cited (in my highly unscientific and fed-the-fuck-up opinion) as to why black women can't seem to find a man are the following:

1. There aren't enough available black men to go around (in regards to numbers.)
2. We're too picky and have fantasies about "having it all".
3. They're gay.
4. We don't know "how to act".

There may be more, but I'm not writing a book. Just a Facebook note. I'd probably write one, but I never divorced a man or been a BM so I'm not quite that bitter yet. I just shook the one I was engaged to for cheating.





...But I digress.

Let's take a look at these four common reasons and if we need to go deeper in another note...come on Muthafucka. Let's go.


Mmmm. That's what I'm talkin' bout.



REASON #1

There aren't enough available black men to go around (in regards to numbers.)

- This is true. There are 1.8 million more black women in the US than black men.
So even if every black woman married every black man, one out of 12 would be assed out.
So there's that. But that still leaves 11 of us with a great shot, right? Wrong.

Fucking.

Wrong.

According to a study of marriage by race in the US,
Asian-Americans are #1 when it comes to marriage.
#2 European-Americans.
#3 Latino-Americans.

Coming up dead last are...you guessed it! Black folk.

And please remember. Tradition is, men have to ask women. Not the other way around. So cut the bullshit.

REASON #2

We're too picky and have fantasies of "having it all".

….Mmmhmm.

According to ABC News, out of 100 black men: By the time you eliminate those without a high school diploma (21 percent), the unemployed (17 percent) and those ages 25-34 who are incarcerated (8 percent), you have only half of black men, 54 percent, whom many black women find acceptable."

So…

YOU DAMN RIGHT! HOW in the hell is THIS picky?

I don't want a man who is in jail, unemployed or uneducated...and that's picky? C'mon SON! You failed at being a man...a provider, protector and HNIC and WE'RE the ones who are wrong for putting you in the reject pile? YOU chose to sling rock. YOU chose to sit on your ass and watch Sports Center all day instead of getting that 9-5. YOU chose to skip school altogether and "be a man" class. That's your mirror dude. Not mine.

Oh wait. We didn't even factor in the 10% who are gay (The ultra-fabulous REASON #3)....so that brings the numbers down even more to 44%.

90 women (taking down the 10% for lesbians) for 44 men.

Yeah. That makes things kind of hard.

BUT ...let's say that you actually beat the odds.

You kept yourself up.
You got on Kanye's workout plan, got your own paper, made you the best you EVER and, no matter how many articles you read in Essence saying it's OK to be Sanaa Lathan in "Something New"...you held out to be Sanaa Lathan in "Brown Sugar".

OK. So now that we've whittled it down to that 44%.… let's take on the last bitch-ass reason.

4. We don't know "how to act". Meaning ..."black women are too difficult" or whatever the fuck.

(Really? Have you SEEN an Italian or Puerto Rican woman lose her shit? Sorry..I digress.)

To this...I give you a hearty, and deep from inside my SOUL...HEAVY SIGH.


Listen. The reason why black women don't act right is simple as hell. And you can go around the block to cross the street all you want, but there's one verrrrry simple truth why black women wild out. But you dudes keep ignoring it.

There’s a very real number who don’t know how to put that dumb shit away, grow the fuck up and act right.

It's as simple as that. Some of you mutherfuckers are worse than "Mr." in "The Color Purple".



Why are you questioning me about Shug leaving me bootie pics on my Facebook page? That was done years ago. Why are you so paranoid?



This is a BLACK woman you're talking to! Did you NOT grow up with a black woman? Are you kidding me? Do you not know us? Do we NOT know you? More importantly… you think we don't know each OTHER? Cut it out.

Boy meets girl. Girl reminds him of home. His mom. His home girl. She's got a fat (insert body part you really care about) and makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. And it's all good until....

Boy meets another girl. Girl reminds him of home. His mom. His home girl. She's got a fat (insert body part you really care about) and makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. And it's all good until...

Boy meets yet another girl. Girl reminds him of home. His mom. His home girl. She's got a fat (insert body part you really care about) and makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. And it's all good until...

Boy slips up and has to get HIS boy to try and cover for him because Boy covered for HIS boy back in the day and “Yo Son…your girl just saw me at a bar…you need another cover…my bad…”

UGGH!!!...who wants to deal with that shit? Seriously!

And I get it. It’s tempting. There's like...double of us out there and some of us are straight skanks and hunt down dudes like zombies going after Will Smith in "I Am Legend".


So where your woman at?


But the thing is... there's ALWAYS going to be somebody else. Always.
That girl from back in the day from 7th grade who just hit you up. That girl you didn't meet yet.
That bootie call you lost touch with that can suck a golf ball through a hose and never told.

Always.

But some can't seem to get their grown man on and so...we leave. Or make you want to. And there we go. Single. Again.

(And I'm not saying that there aren't any good brothers out there. There are. Really are. They are SOOO GOOD! I happen to be dating one and I shouted you guys out in a note last year. I know some dudes who are so good to their women they should get an award. And you know I'm not talking about ya'll so sitdown. :)

I'm talking to these silly writers and the rest of those dudes (some who I KNOW are just silly)…who didn't step up to the plate or refuse to grow up.
Look. I'm not going to get into what drove them to write their wittle hearts out and thus, try hard as shit to make themselves look faultless here... but hey. Whatever the reason was...I'm sure it was a good one.

But please don't forget that finding, developing, and nurturing relationships are hard work and it works both ways. Just as I don’t believe all men are dogs (far from…) all women are not always on the prowl for something bigger and better. HOWEVER, “Bigger and Better” finds us when they notice a chink in your armor. Especially if we're the shit ourselves. (Shit...let Hov slip up. See what happens.)

So please stop writing books about us pointing out how hard this shit is.

We're fully aware...thanks.

And those of us who are respectful, who are doing the damn thing on all levels, who are GENUINELY good-hearted women... are really fucking tired.

Enough already. Pull your pants up, grow the fuck up...do what you're SUPPOSED to do... or move on.

And I'm sure there's some low self-esteem zombie chick out there that is more than happy to deal with you coming at her with ...

"I'm a good brother, but I didn't move out yet, because of the kids."

or

"I'm a good brother, it's just a bitch finding a job."

or

"I'm a good brother I just sling this rock till I get my record deal."

or

"We'll get married...sooner or later. We've only been together for eight years. Why now?"

What. The. Fuck. Ever.

Albeit all of us may not agree, but I believe I speak for the majority of "women about some shit" when I say... we would rather live with some cats, and be comfortable with the knowledge that we've been the best women we knew how...and you couldn't man up.

And if my man don't like it, he can get the fuck out too. (Shoe throw...)



You missed me bitch.

;)

Revisit Old Posts (Braces)

Before



After

So...two years ago, I was hemmin' and hawin' about getting braces.

I had this baby tooth you see and...blah..blah..blah.

Well, the point is... I did it!

Two years of hiding my smile, working on boosting that personality so that nobody could see that big ass gaping hole in my mouth where my baby tooth used to be.

And I know what I said, but really, it was worth every single penny. Dime. Dollar. Thousands of them.


Who give a shit if you're poor if you feel like a million bucks?

OK. I wasn't exactly poor.

I budgeted. Planned. And used the hell out of my Flex-Spend account.

The HELL out of it.

Cost: $8,000 for clear ceramic

And there's no "Black Factor" in this. Busted teeth are universal.

And yes, I'd do it all over again. Even the "rubberband stage", which, was a bitch.

However, the pain is lessened when you've got a stupid hot orthodontist.


I'd give you his info, but he doesn't practice anymore.

BUT I can brag because I got to look up lovingly at this for about two years...

IKR?!!

Cheese.

-Nyree