... is someone who loves this song as much as I do.
Jessi Klein waxes nostalgic at the Daily Beast over the greatest, most wonderful, awesomest Christmas song ever and the only one I play in the middle of July with the windows rolled down just because I love it that much.
Says Klein:
Most Christmas songs are about one of three things: Jesus, weather, or gifts. But there’s a less frequently played collection of songs on a more taboo fourth topic: wanting to get laid on Christmas. Um…this is my category.
The latest technology on the doll front seems to have been projected onto this monstrously scary creation called a "Baby Alive" doll.
The thing actually poops and smells and creates stains and does all manner of things that an inanimate object should never do.
I mean honestly, you can give your Sims free will, but you can be sure that they will never actually jump out of the computer and poop on you.
Add free will to this child-of-Chucky manifestation and you'll end up with mushed-up "green beans" in your lap.
*Shudders*
"For us, the peeing and pooping is pretty magical," said Kathleen Harrington, senior brand manager for Hasbro's Baby Alive dolls. "As adults, we might be a little grossed out. But it's so magical and so funny and so silly for these girls. This little doll is coming to life, so the little girl doesn't believe it's just a doll. It's her baby." Harrington calls it part of the doll's "Wow!" factor.
I wonder if it will steal your car keys and scream, "I hate my life!" if you keep it around for another 16 years?
Oh, and another question, though it's one I think we already know the answer to: why aren't any of these ridiculous toys marketed to boys?
Perhaps a G.I. Joe who shits his pants and bleeds when he gets shot is in the works. Who knows?
It was a little before 8 at night when the breaker went out at Emily Milburn's home in Galveston. She was busy preparing her children for school the next day, so she asked her 12-year-old daughter, Dymond, to pop outside and turn the switch back on.
As Dymond headed toward the breaker, a blue van drove up and three men jumped out rushing toward her. One of them grabbed her saying, "You're a prostitute. You're coming with me."
Dymond grabbed onto a tree and started screaming, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy." One of the men covered her mouth. Two of the men beat her about the face and throat.
As it turned out, the three men were plain-clothed Galveston police officers who had been called to the area regarding three white prostitutes soliciting a white man and a black drug dealer.
All this is according to a lawsuit filed in Galveston federal court by Milburn against the officers. The lawsuit alleges that the officers thought Dymond, an African-American, was a hooker due to the "tight shorts" she was wearing, despite not fitting the racial description of any of the female suspects. The police went to the wrong house, two blocks away from the area of the reported illegal activity, Milburn's attorney, Anthony Griffin, tells Hair Balls.
After the incident, Dymond was hospitalized and suffered black eyes as well as throat and ear drum injuries.
Three weeks later, according to the lawsuit, police went to Dymond's school, where she was an honor student, and arrested her for assaulting a public servant. Griffin says the allegations stem from when Dymond fought back against the three men who were trying to take her from her home. The case went to trial, but the judge declared it a mistrial on the first day, says Griffin. The new trial is set for February.
"I think we'll be okay," says Griffin. "I don't think a jury will find a 12-year-old girl guilty who's just sitting outside her house. Any 12-year-old attacked by three men and told that she's a prostitute is going to scream and yell for Daddy and hit back and do whatever she can. She's scared to death."
Since the incident more than two years ago, Dymond regularly suffers nightmares in which police officers are raping and beating her and cutting off her fingers, according to the lawsuit. Griffin says he expects to enter mediation with the officers in early 2009 to resolve the lawsuit.
We've got calls in to the officers' lawyer; we'll let you know if we hear something.
Update: This is from the officers' lawyer, William Helfand:
Both the daughter and the father were arrested for assaulting a peace officer. "The father basically attacked police officers as they were trying to take the daughter into custody after she ran off."
Also, "The city has investigated the matter and found that the conduct of the police officers was appropriate under the circumstances," Helfand says. "It's unfortunate that sometimes police officers have to use force against people who are using force against them. And the evidence will show that both these folks violated the law and forcefully resisted arrest."
You know, you have to love California, if only because it's a repository of crazy zaniness that never gets old.
For example, Rep. Loretta Sánchez (D-Calif.) has released her latest Christmas card.
As if last year's wasn't cukoo enough.
What is it with her and that damn cat?
Of course, I got Loretta confused with her sister, Rep. Linda Sánchez (D-Calif.) who has been in the news 'cause she'll be the first Congressional singleton to pop out a kid while in office.
What was really funny though, was the outrage this seemed to spark with one Post reader who found it necessary to pen this hilarious letter to the editor:
Can You Say 'Illegitimate'?
I am outraged about Amy Argetsinger and Roxanne Roberts's Nov. 21 Reliable Source item "Oh, Baby! Big News for Sanchez."
What the heck is this world coming to? Not only are "celebrities" making news on a daily basis, but now we have a member of Congress having a baby even though she is not married.
Wake up and think before you glamorize unwed pregnancy. Is it any wonder our young people have babies while they themselves are still babies?
Rep. Linda Sánchez (D-Calif.) should be ashamed of herself. Sex is private. Having babies out of wedlock is wrong. Stop giving these people attention.
-- Lynn McDonald
Alexandria
Outraged! How about that! Usually people are outraged over, I don't know, people dying or babies going hungry. But this broad wants to pick a fight because a 43-year-old woman got knocked up by her boyfriend (who is really her partner, because honestly, "boyfriend" should be reserved for boys and "man friend" just sounds creepy).
Regardless, the Sanchez sisters make for endless entertainment, and hey, who doesn't appreciate that?
And weirdly enough, it seems to know exactly what I should be doing with my life just by the way I clicked on a bunch of colored squares.
Veronica and our friend Marcus jumped down my throat when he came to visit at Halloween and I unabashedly proclaimed that yes, looks, among other things, do matter, and yes, I’m picky.
I'll spare you the specifics.
Evidently they require a longer time to figure out whether or not to throw back a fish. Me? Not so much. It’s either there, or it ain’t, and if it ain’t, well, I’m not wasting my time and you shouldn’t waste yours.
I’m not forcing the ball to T.O. when Witten’s wide open in the end zone, so to speak. I happen to be a fervent supporter of check downs. Lots and lots of check downs.
Anyway, my obsession with aesthetics has a valuable place in society. See:
The Dewey Color System is the world's first and only validated, color-based personality career testing instrument. Based on our experience and your interests, your best suited occupations are listed below.
Best Occupational Category
You're a CREATOR
Key Words:
Nonconforming, Impulsive, Expressive, Romantic, Intuitive, Sensitive, and Emotional
These original types place a high value on aesthetic qualities and have a great need for self-expression. They enjoy working independently, being creative, using their imagination, and constantly learning something new. Fields of interest are art, drama, music, and writing or places where they can express, assemble, or implement creative ideas.
CREATOR OCCUPATIONS Suggested careers are Advertising Executive, Architect, Web Designer, Creative Director, Public Relations, Fine or Commercial Artist, Interior Decorator, Lawyer, Librarian, Musician, Reporter, Art Teacher, Broadcaster, Technical Writer, English Teacher, Architect, Photographer, Medical Illustrator, Corporate Trainer, Author, Editor, Landscape Architect, Exhibit Builder, and Package Designer.
CREATOR WORKPLACES Consider workplaces where you can create and improve beauty and aesthetic qualities. Unstructured, flexible organizations that allow self-expression work best with your free-spirited nature.
Suggested Creator workplaces are advertising, public relations, and interior decorating firms; artistic studios, theaters and concert halls; institutions that teach crafts, universities, music, and dance schools. Other workplaces to consider are art institutes, museums, libraries, and galleries.
2nd Best Occupational Category
You're a RESEARCHER
Key Words:
Independent, Self-Motivated, Reserved, Introspective, Analytical, and Curious
These investigative types gather information, analyze and interpret data, and inquire to uncover new facts. They have a strong scientific orientation, enjoy academic or research environments and prefer self-reliant jobs. Dislikes are group projects, selling, and repetitive activities.
But how the hell did they figure this out by which squares I clicked first? Especially the bit about group projects, which I detest.
SSA #1: Aww, is _____ (insert SSA #2 spouse name) beating up on you again? Looks like she clipped you with a stiletto. You really gotta leave that woman.
SSA #2: No. Someone was throwing shoes at the POTUS.
SSA #1: What?
SSA #2: Some pissed-off person took of his shoes. And threw them at Bush. And it hit me.
SSA #1: Man, that sucks. But you know, at least if you're still around to guard Obama, you'll probably just get hit with a pair of panties. I'm sure _______ would like that.
It's the eyes and the hair . . . mostly the hair-- that manages to trump his perpetual scruffiness.
But this makes him even dreamier: his house is green! And purty. It's so not bachelor-paddy.
So girls, how much effort/care do you put into decorating your own house? And how much do you care if the dude you're seeing has no real taste aside from owning the requisite bachelor black leather couch and abnormally large television?
I have a confession to make: I am dreading the week of Jan. 20th.
Whatever feelings I might have had about the actual inauguration have been gripped by other worries: namely, navigating large swaths of people who don't know where they're going so I can get to work.
It does seem, as Salon points out, that the D.C. government has thrown up its hands and is content to let whatever happens happen.
In the mean time, I'm beginning to just wish I could leave for the weekend and go someplace warm and sparsely populated where everyone knows exactly where they're going and how to get there, where no one is getting sworn into anything.
But you know, that sounds mean. How about this: If any of you, or enough of you come to D.C. for the ceremony, let us know in the comments and we'll organize an A&F happy hour.
Otherwise, I will be snuggled under the covers, staying warm.
Times is hard, as Lynnette would say. And some of my sistafriends are going through it with their hair. Relaxer touch-ups can cost anywhere from 50 bucks on up, so the decision can often come down to choosing between groceries... or a perm. I can't say I'd blame a chick for picking up some ramen noodles after a fresh press, but shit -- these days, a well-balanced meal is hard to come by.
But just because the economy is in a craptacular state doesn't mean your hair has to be too.
Now's as good a time as ever to start experimenting with DIY hair. Thanks to this thing called the interwebs, there are a wealth of resources to guide as you forgo the salon chair and become one with your tresses. It'll be a good thing for your hair too, as going the DIY route has a magical way of teaching you about what is or isn't healthy for your locks.
I'm a naturally curly girl (3c, if you know what that means), so I've been on this DIY kick for a minute. But lately I've been wanting to experiment with new styles -- without experimenting with my (non-existent) money. Thank god for YouTube and the bevy of beauty bloggers all over the web.
Today I'm rocking something called a "bantu-knot out," which I learned how to do in this video. (I made the knots significantly bigger so my curls would be looser.) And a few months back, I also tried the "curly 'fro," inspired by this YouTube natural hair guru.
(P.S. Doesn't my picture look like something out of some professional directory? Or like, a profile in Essence or something? That's that cameraphone photography right there, son!)
If you're not natural, don't fret. Bloggers like Wes at Spiced Honey and Kai at Mane and Chic are good for posting super-cute, super-simple styles that can work on all hair types. You can also do the old-standby style that my roommate lives by -- dampen your hair and put into large cornrows or flat-twists, and wake up the next morning with lots and lots o' texture. And you can never go wrong with a good ol' roller-set.
So friends, I'm curious... when you can't afford to spend your Saturday morning in a chair, how do you keep your locks in tip-top shape? And what creative ways do you keep it looking cute?
Now, I'm no theologian or biblical scholar... but I have a serious problem with this.
Yes, that's a church. Yes, those are SUVs. Yes, they're parked on a pulpit... with a pastor praying over them.
Yes. That just happened.
The New York Times and Reuters both ran stories today about yesterday's service at Greater Grace Temple church in Detroit. Three vehicles were rolled in for the pastor's sermon, "A Hybrid Hope," in which he urged the congregration to pray as Congress decides whether or not to give the Big Three automakers billions of dollars in bailout money.
It's a scary situation for folks in Detroit, to be sure, as many of them depend on their jobs in the industry for survival. It is a time for people of faith (myself included) to be in prayer for those struggling in this economy. The Times article said that the pastor "encouraged the congregation to pray, not that Congress would 'do the right thing' and approve loaning money to the car companies, but that Detroiters would 'make it' through these tough times." Understandable.
But... you still have union officials coming to address the congregation (which seems exploitative to me); you're praying for an industry whose leaders led it into the tank long before anyone started talking about a recession (and then flew private jets to Washington to beg for a handout); and you're instructing parishioners to approach a trio of shiny new SUVs for praying and annointing with holy oil.
Does this bother anyone else?
The whole thing speaks to a larger issue I have with the entity known as the black church, especially the "mega-church" (a subject for a whoooooole 'nother post). The theatrics, the "prosperity gospel" and attempts to appeal to people have gotten in the way of the message of the Gospel.
I mean, seriously... what are we really worshipping here?
Today's edition includes an outline of services for those in need of food, shelter or healthcare. It explains how to find food pantries, cautions that public housing may be scarce, and outlines options for those without medical insurance.
I gotta admit, dialing 211 is new to me. But the fact that a newspaper has to explain what Section 8 is, to me at least, a little amusing... but more so sad.
Maybe it's the reality I grew up in. My family, thankfully, was relatively stable, but we had plenty of friends that relied on public assistance. They had to figure out the system long before any newspaper would publish a guide to help them.
So you may understand why I read the article with a little bit of a smirk and lot of cynicism. Now it's important to explain how people can get help. Now it's necessary because that magic demographic known as "newspaper readers" suddenly needs to figure out how to survive.
I'm not making light of anyone's misfortune, but sometimes, you just can't help what you think.
I'm something of a beauty product junkie. Liners, shadows, luminizers, glosses... you name it, I got it. And I got it bad.
So bad that I bartered my soul the first time I stepped into Sephora. Now I'm indebted to the Bronzer Gods to use my powers for good -- hence, the Weekend Gloss. Here I share with you, my dear friends, the product I've been loving for the last week, and that I'd recommend everyone to go try. (I'm not saying buy it... just try it. That's what the testers are for anyway.) And then you can tell me your reaction -- or if you know of a similar product that's just as fab.
This Weekend: MAC Lipglass in Pink Poodle.
Who said you couldn't wear bright colors? Your mom? I mean, Moms is cool and all, but she's tragically misled.
For far too long, women of color have been told (and some actually believe!) that they can't rock bright colors. Too loud, some would say. I say... pshaw! Why shouldn't you be vibrant? What's so bad about being bold? Nothing, which is why this little tube is my flashy new best friend.
Pink Poodle is a hot, blue-based pink gloss with just a touch of shimmer. And the picture really doesn't do it justice -- this baby is bright. But it's sheer enough that you can control the intensity by applying it in layers.
The best part is that it's flattering on a range of skin tones, as you can see above on me and my guinea pig girl Lynnette. The trick is finding a neutral lip liner to bring the whole look together, and BAM! A fresh pop of color on your face.
So friends, y'all have an assignment for the week: Go ahead and test out Pink Poodle at the MAC counter (or any similarly bright gloss from any other brand) and let me know what you think. Or, if you already have your own favorite bright gloss, share it below.
But I do hope Pres. Homeslice remembers that intellectual elites don't just come from the Ivy League.
They come from Georgetown, and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. From Duke and Emory and the University of Southern California. From Stanford and American and Berkeley.
And they come from Howard.
It's a school with a list of cherished and proud alumni that any institution would be proud to have, and he'd be a fool to ignore the academics from it.
We don't just produce entertainers (Diddy, Phylicia Rashad). We produce our share of talented intellectuals too (Toni Morrison, Thurgood Marshall).
We produce more black people with graduate degrees than any other institution in the world, and let me tell you, it's not because they're all getting easy rides.
There are many who harbor the belief that HBCUs such as Howard, Morehouse, Spelman, and others are somehow inferior to other insitutions. That the graduates of Howard could not possibly be as gifted as those from Harvard.
Obama's been to Howard. We gave him an honorary degree. In a month or so, he'll live right down the street from it. He would be remiss to ignore the products of one of the nation's greatest institutions of higher learning, and it would mean so much if he would recognize them.
Because while most people in the DMV, regardless of race, recognize and understand, at least on a rudimentary level, the legacy and historical significance of Howard University, few non-blacks outside the area do.
A couple of high-level, merit-based appointments could change that.
Cough, cough, Shirley Franklin, cough, cough.
I won't call Howard the "black Harvard," as it's been called before, because it's a backhanded compliment if there ever was one, as this Morehouse grad attests in the New York Times, which labeled his institution as a black Ivy League school.
Howard isn't the "black" anything. It's just Howard.
Latoya Peterson over at Racialicious poses the question of whether it's easier to deal with overt or hidden racism, something I feel like I've been tackling ever since living in two places, post-college, where I thought I'd go nuts.
Growing up in a small town in North Carolina, I was always readily aware of overt racism, particularly if I happened to be walking with both of my parents. And I thought that would drive me nuts. I vowed to leave the South and never come back.
But the sort of insidious, institutional, hard-to-put-your-finger-on-but-you-know-it's-there racism is so much worse.
I dealt with it in Kansas City, Mo. and in the consumerist, overpriced, materialistic mecca that is Orange County, Calif.
People have so many other different ways of communicating to you that you do not belong, and believe me, they are effective for all their subtlety.
It's crazy-making, because it encourages so much self-doubt, and it strips away at your confidence. You're unable to defend yourself because you're not sure if you should be, or if it's all in your head.
My black father understood perfectly. He never questioned me when I told my parents of something a teacher or a stranger said or did that set off my "this is not-quite-right" barometer.
But my Dutch mother, raised in Amsterdam, was not so keen. Simply said, she just didn't get it.
Commenter Atropa says it best:
It really bothers me when progressives do stupid shit like say something that sets off my “that’s sexist/racist/classist/etc!” alarm, but isn’t immediately obvious because how do I articulate that? Especially to people who are operating under the assumption that intent matters?
Unless people have already reached the place where the ends are more important than the intent behind it, that’s not even a conversation worth having. It is my breaking point, where I decide to walk away and burn the bridge with precious few exceptions. But, that’s not really productive, now is it? It’s protecting myself. I don’t know what to do with that.
Alex Chadwick of Slate and NPR had the pleasure of interviewing a MILF in his last segment for the Slate, who frankly, came off just as creepy as a 37-year old man screwing around with his neighbor's 17-year old daughter.
As much as Lew Ashby tries to make an endearing case for this, it's still creepy and gross.
But for the most part, there's a huge double standard.
When old men date young women, as they've done centuries, no one calls them a lion, or a tiger, or a bear. There's no special name for the lecherous brand of man who preys after youth like a vampire risen from his coffin, seeking out fresh necks to bite.
Although you'd better believe the woman in the arrangement immediately gets stuck with the "Gold Digger" moniker. And what? Hef gets stuck with "Playboy?" Even though he's clearly "Play senior citizen" with one foot in the grave?
And yet, older women get stuck with "cougar," which makes me think they would have gotten stuck with "praying mantis" if it was two syllables, the idea being that women are predators who catch young men and then eat them.
Even though there's this seeming acceptance of women as cougars (I really hate that word), it's just as limiting as any other label. We think of them as plucked and Botoxed and lacking self-awareness, showing way too much cleavage and trying too hard.
At this point, does anyone actually know the cost, in toto, of Sarah Palin's aesthetics to the RNC?
According to the New York Times, there's the initial $150,000 for clothes from Saks and Needless Markup, another $165,000 for hair and makeup, plus another $23,000 worth of new receipts for crap the RNC is still tabulating.
Which so far totals $338,000 just for the way this woman looks.
You know, I must have had it wrong, somewhere along the way.
I thought the whole point of being the "Hottest Governor From the Coldest State" (can you feel them? can you feel my eyes rolling in unison with yours in disgust?) was that you didn't need to pay anyone all the money to make you look good because it's already built in.
I swear, if Talking Points Barbie somehow develops a convincing patina of intelligence strong enough to wipe away the memory of that horrid, insipid, make-me-wish-we-didn't-both-have-ovaries Katie Couric interview, and actually becomes the Republican nominee for president in 2012, I will shoot myself in the head.
Note to Palin: "What newspapers do you read every day?" is not a gotcha question unless you don't fucking read.
Please drill it baby drill into your head that Africa is a continent, not a country, and that in order to be president of the United State of America, you must be smarter than a fifth grader.
So please, tell us what you'd like to see, what needs to go, to make your experience with us that much more Awesome and Fabulous. Oh, and keep in mind that we have day jobs with not-so-friendly on-the-job blogging policies. So be patient with us.
By the way, we're going to start giving away useless (or not so useless) free shit to the best commenter.
In an effort to glean whatever information we can about our new president, some of us, (cough, cough New York Magazine) have taken to scrutinizing the HNIC's choice of gym clothes, electronics, date spots, etc.
I mean, we know he's dorky and a little cheap, and he's trading the hybrid Escape for a motorcade and a limo with windows five inches thick. He used to decline chauffeur service while serving in the Senate, choosing to drive himself.
That's all well and good. (Although I don't care if he rides in one; you will never catch me turning over my hard-earned money for an American-made car.)
But now we've discovered that HNIC listens to a Zune.
This is not exactly the arugula of MP3 players, Mr. President. What gives?
Evidently the Zune was a stand-in, and an Obama spokeswoman told MSNBC that President Homeslice uses an Ipod like all normal people.
There's something about singing of McDonald's that just isn't right.
We've already had to suffer through watching this guy whine during commercial breaks. Now... Keith Sweat is singing about Mickey D's too.
Come on, Keith. Don't do it dog, it's just not worth it.!
Alas, it's too late. Keith Sweat's new joint is an ode... to McNuggets.
No, I'm not even close to playing.
Keith's song is essentially a 25th-anniversary gift for the little fritters made of fowl. You can hear it on Keith's web site -- the web site page where you, too, can proclaim your love for the nuggets.
"From now thru December 19," the site says, "Keith Sweat invites listeners who share his passion to join the McNuggets Lovers Club and post their testimonials."
Da fuc? Testimonials? For... McNuggets?
*sigh*
I'm past through. There are so many things wrong with this and the whole "R&B-urban-hip-hop" McDonald's thing that I don't even know where to start.
Though I will say... I'm starting to believe that the Golden Arches are in on that massive government conspiracy to do away with black folk.
Does Barack know about this? Someone send him a memo.
Neither Veronica nor I are married, and only one of us wants to get to that vaunted state at some point in our lives.
Well, considering that 50 percent of American marriages end in divorce, it was only a matter of time before someone came up with this nifty device, so at least you can get your affairs in order and assets hidden before the (halfway) inevitable occurs.
It amazes me how simple this calculator is. There are only five questions, and none of them are, "Have you ever cheated on your spouse?"
Maybe someone should show this to those uber-annoying Eharmony commercial couples.
So pony up. What're the odds you'll get divorced?
And just in case you were wondering, I ran the data on Michelle and Barack.
I think Malia and Sasha are good.
People with similar backgrounds who are already divorced: 15%
People with similar backgrounds who will be divorced over the next five years: 3%
* In general for the five-year divorce prediction rates, those with less than 3 percent are at lower risk, 3 - 7 percent are of average risk and more than 7 percent are at higher risk.
Barack is 'bout to be president, and the hustlers are out in full effect. And when I say hustlers, I'm speaking of those folks who collect dollar coins, dip them in the magic Barack potion and sell 'em on T.V. for the price of a KFC family meal.
Now, the real U.S. Mint has issued an advisory about the coins, warning consumers that the coins aren't official government tender, but merely plastic coating on real dollar coins.
Dang. So these cats are basically selling us chocolate coins. Only they're not chocolate, they're actual regular-ol' coins. The only thing chocolate is the guy in the picture.
These items are not official United States Mint products. Furthermore, these products, businesses, and advertisements are not approved, endorsed, sponsored, or authorized by the United States Mint, the Department of the Treasury, or the United States Government.... The United States Mint does not encourage, endorse, or sponsor products that alter the fundamental images depicted on its coins.
Now, it's been pretty well known for many years now that I am a feminist. Today, I met a girl who I have not seen in 4 years or so and who knew me when I made the two month size jump in 7th grade. At the time, she went from friend to instant enemy simply because I had an added few pounds to the front of my body. I had on a t-shirt that said "Women belong in the house... and the Senate." when we spoke. The major first thing I noticed was that she had had serious augmentation done to everything she had, from breasts to lips to ass implants (totally don't get those). She kept telling me how much work she had done, so I mentioned that I wanted to get a reduction. She quickly said "You just want one because you're feminist. You don't want to look like a girl."
Well clearly, with my 36 Umms (yes, I need to get measured, shut up Veronica!), which I love and cherish, I must be on the wrong team!
I had no idea being a feminist and owning boobs bigger than a B-cup were mutually exclusive.
This just uproots my entire life!
*proceeds to shave head ala Britney Spears, just to keep it from exploding*
Straight from the Outlook pages of the Washington Post comes an argument (actually two) that I've been wrestling with for quite some time.
The first: why do we call Barack Obama black when it so clearly excludes half of his heritage?
And second: this society is no more post-racial than I am the child of alien purple people eaters.
Earlier in the election season, I found myself arguing to an audience of black journalists that Obama is biracial, and that's what we should call him. As a product of a biracial marriage myself, I hated the idea that I had to choose sides.
But whether it was a box on a college application or my classmates forcing me to do it, I always had to pick a side.
In high school, I finally just threw my hands up and cast my lot with the other "tragic mulattoes" who were either too black or too white, and figured we could just make our own jacked-up group.
As I recall, all of us had closer relationships with our white counterparts, and to some degree felt shunned by our black ones.
Clearly Obama's white mother and grandmother were highly influential in his life, and his father was largely absent.
But before he was a well-known senator from Illinois, much less POTUS, he was still a black man just as likely to get pulled over for DWB. And hell, why don't we get to claim him? The man smokes menthols for christsake.
And that's what white people don't understand. Barack maybe biracial, but he, like me, is UCM: UnderCover Mixed. No one assumes he's anything but black unless he tells them otherwise.
When I step into the world, I'm just another black woman. The only people who have been able to discern that there's a variety of cultures running through my bloodstream without my saying a word are my hairdressers.
Strange, but true.
There is no distinction for UCMs. We face the same racist bullshit as other black people, and that puts us in the same boat. As a black woman, I face the same smorgasbord of racist/sexist/collossally-jack-upedness crap that some ignorant folks think is ok to level at Michelle Obama. And I'm sick of white people who think they're paying me a compliment when they tell me I'm "not like other black people."
But many black people simply want to claim Obama for them/ourselves, spouting the argument that white people didn't want to claim him until he actually looked like he could win the whole shebang.
Obama self-identifies as black. So is that what we should call him?
I'm not sure.
I mean, Ted Haggard self-identifies as straight, and well, I don't think we want to go down that road.
"There is a black president and it's time for there to be a black Bond."
Oh yes, folks. Your boy Diddy has his eyes on the prize. He wants to be Bond -- James Bond. And he wants to be Bond so bad that he's dropped £500,000 -- damn near 800,000 dollars -- to film an audition tape in the South of France.
... I mean... it's Diddy. King of Conspicuous Spending. Are you really surprised?
You shouldn't be. Black folk got all kinds of audacity now, aiming to become big-screen superheroes. (Superheroes whose names we already know. So Hancock doesn't count.) Beyoncé already called dibs on Wonder Woman, although, some people think it's a bad idea. But hell -- did you see Bey perform on the Today Show? I'd pay just to see her in that costume, and I'm totally hetero.
Anyway, back to what I was saying -- Diddy. As Bond. The thought doesn't really terrify me. Shoot, just the other day, I was thinking it's about time for a female James Bond -- and she could be played by me. So let Diddy dream.
You may remember Shane Mercado. How could you possibly forget him? The blogosphere won't let you.
Awhile back, I was scrolling through Towleroad when I found a discussion about Mercado, when I saw this from commenter Noah:
Damn, what is with the hate for someone because he's effeminate? Get over it. Your just gay bashing.
Newsflash: A LOT of gay men are effeminate! Right?
Imagine if some gay kid who is being bullied at school for being effeminate read your words. Nice way of making him feel accepted.
Up until the 1960s there were some organizations within the African-American community that only allowed those who were the color of or lighter than a brown paper bag acceptance. A little internal institutionalized racism/colorism that said some African-Americans were better than others.
And, here we have the gay version.
You know, black people do not like to have our dirty laundry tossed in the air and left to oxygenate and really create a stink.
And there it was in plain sight. And Noah was right.
I used to live with a Columbian gay man. He had been raised Catholic. He was oh, about 53 years old. And he still hadn't come out to his extended family.
He was one of the most unhappy people I have ever encountered.
We went to some big box store one afternoon, where he encountered someone who was either a trans man or a really butch lesbian.
When he walked out of the store, he was whispering in my ear, treating her, or possibly him, like a freak.
"Soraya, did you see that woman in the line behind me? I don't understand why women want to dress like men . . . she looks like a freak. That's why people don't like gay people. I'm gay but I'm normal."
I just stared at my housemate, unable to say anything. Who was I, some clueless straight girl, to be advocating for drag queens and lumberjacks and bears and trannies (pre-op and post-op) and flamers and tops and big nellie bottoms and leather daddies and the whole spectrum of the LGBT community that Housemate obviously had some problems with?
And yet, here I am.
He went to his first gay pride that summer in Long Beach and he'd returned to the Orange County condo we shared looking shell shocked. Evidently the dancing drag queens had not tickled his fancy but had induced his horror.
Meanwhile, I was the one trying to make plans to drive to San Francisco for the Folsom Street Fair. (Blame it on Dan Savage)
We may not have a paper bag test anymore, but the ugly demon of colorism is still alive and well, and it's transcended into other forms of self-loathing for different minority groups.
"Masculine" is no better than "effeminate" and "light" is no better than "dark."
Dear person (you know who you are) who sent me that XXX-rated (oh yes, it was a triple X-er) Honesty Box message stop torturing me and reveal yourself!
Oh, and stop torturing Veronica, who is suffering due to my inability to shut up about this until I know who you are.
I hate technology.
Thank you, Mark Zuckerberg, for inventing the 21st century modern torture device that is Facebook.
I can't let today pass without calling attention what happened in the early hours of this morning -- two years ago.
Hours before he was to be married, a man leaving his bachelor party at a strip club in Queens that was under police surveillance was shot and killed early yesterday in a hail of police bullets, witnesses and the police said.
While everyone is riding high from the election of this nation's first black president and swooning over his utopian multi-culti cabinet, let's not forget a family that's about to go through its third holiday season without its father, brother, husband, son.
Let's not forget, while a black man is about to be leader of the free world, millions more feel trapped by a society that sees them as threats; as predators; as savages to be controlled, and, in some cases -- like Sean's -- to be taken out.
Before I rejoiced over Barack, I wept over Sean. Because in Sean (and in Amadou Diallo), I saw my father, my brother, my cousins, and the men I have loved in my life. In Sean Bell, I saw man who was valued by his loved ones, but seen as nothing more than disposable by cops and many in the wider society.
Let's not let this election season keep us from acknowledging the societal hardships that black men still face. As my friend said to me the morning the Sean Bell story broke -- "Good to know I can still get popped for walking out on my front porch." It's a sarcastic quip, one meant to draw a chuckle or a cynical smirk, but his tone of jest was simply a sheer veil over the pain, angst, and uncertainty that comes with being a man of African descent in this country.
Yes, a black man can be president. But he can still be a statistic too.
Tara and I were in New York, browsing the Bergdorf Goodman beauty department, when she started pulling me toward the Bobbi Brown counter, singing the praises of her ever-faithful shimmer brick.
"Just try it," she said as a makeup artist coaxed me into a chair. But I was trying my damnedest to resist. Because me trying makeup usually ends in me buying makeup, and feeling bad that I don't feel bad about dropping more than 20 bucks on a lip gloss.
But I was cornered. And five swipes of a makeup brush later (eyes, cheeks, and a little on the chin), the artist handed me a mirror so I could take in the freshly-applied apricot glow.
I was sold.
Now Bobbi is coming for me again, at full sparkly force, and just in time for the holidays. It's a brand-spanking new shimmer brick, called Copper Diamond -- a compact so pretty, so sparkly, so decadent, I want to reach through my computer screen and cuddle it to my face. (Yes, I'm that obsessed.) The only thing stopping me from heading over to Macy's after work is the fact that I have a boot I need to get off my car.
Damn you, DMV. Damn you.
But, boot or not, I'm getting little square of gilded giddiness as soon as I can. Because it's limited edition, and if I miss out, I might cry harder than the Christmas when I didn't get my pony.
Okay... I totally made that up.
But, as The Enabler Tara just pointed out... Black Friday is right around the corner.
You think the powers-that-be will give this to me as a post-Thanksgiving treat?
"I got an STD; you might have it too. Please get checked out."
InSpot.org is an STD awareness site that's come up with a rather, well, forward-thinking idea for informing people that you may have contracted an infection: an e-card.
Now... I'm all for letting people know your status. In fact, I find it to be nothing short of necessary. But for some reason, I'm not sure if an e-card is the way to go. It just seems a little... oh, I dunno... impersonal.
And if that person happens to check their e-mail at work or in a campus computer lab... well then, it's just kinda wrong.
But maybe that's just me being Prudy Rudy. There's always a differing opinion. Via CNN.com:
It may not be the most personal way of delivering the news, but researchers say it beats not saying anything at all.
"When you weigh the importance of getting people notified, that's ultimately what needs to be done," said Jeffrey D. Klausner, director of STD Prevention and Control Services in San Francisco, California's Department of Public Health. "By notifying them -- even if it's done anonymously, even distantly, even with an e-card -- the benefits of getting someone diagnosed and treated outweigh the concerns of insensitivity."
Point taken. And I have to say, I do appreciate that the e-card links the recipient to up-to-date information on sexually transmitted infections, and, depending the city they're in, information on testing sites in their area.
Besides, what does my opinion matter? Clearly it's working. More than 50,000 of these things have been sent out since InSpot made them available in '04.
I'm just one of the people who'd rather find out over the phone. *shrug* Sue me.
When it comes to growing that glorious, luxurious crown of tresses, dudes have the game on lock.
Wes points out Lloyd, Snoop Dogg (obviously), Katt Williams, and faux-celeb Real, from VH1's "Real Chance of Love," who could be easily be mistaken for Pocahontas on testosterone.
(Seriously. I know he looks a damn fool, but what woman wouldn't kill for that hair? With that Pantene Pro-V, blowing-the-wind shit. I hate him. Thoroughly.)
Still, this patently unfair quirk of the universe was something I was fully aware of well before the arrival of the press 'n curl posterboys. I went to high school with plenty of boys who spent their weekends sitting between some girls' legs (not in that way), getting their middle-of-the-back-length tresses braided to perfection. And then, at 19, I met my Dominican crush -- whose curls were shinier, bouncier, more well-behaved than mine will ever be.
(I was so, so jealous. And smitten at the same time.)
So you know what? Screw it. No more trying to figure it out myself. The next time I want my hurr did, I'm finding the number for the person who does Snoop's roller set.
Until then ladies, answer me this... could you get with a guy with prettier hair than you?
There are any number of reasons why I could never be a political wife.
Growing up, I never wanted to be first lady of anything. I would have scoffed at such a proposition. I wanted to be president. I wanted to be in charge, and even as a 14-year old, I had the chutzpah to think I was the sort of smart person who should be telling other people what to do.
So Cherie Blair’s advice to Michelle Obama struck a chord with me. Because while homegirl'sNarciso Rodriguez dress communicated that she is no shrinking violet, Blair (wife of former British PM Tony) pretty much said “Elevation to vaunted First Lady status = back seat for you. Yes, Even you, Michelle.”
Sigh.
Before America got swept up in Obamamania, Michelle was an executive. With a life. Obama wrote in his book about the evil looks Michelle was flashing him when she had Malia and here he was, able to just walk his two legs out the door to work. And when he wanted to run for Senate, post-birth-of-Sasha, woooo boy. I like to think the Michelle Side Eye isn’t all that different from Soraya Side Eye, and I know just where it was coming from.
While I respect Obama’s decision to be Mom-In-Chief, it seems there wasn’t much else she could be. Not without being mercilessly hounded for it.
She’s our third first lady with a graduate degree.
How long before we have a first lady with a job? When does the first lady get to be herself, instead of just an extension of The Office of the POTUS? When do we get our Carla Sarkozy?
Boy, these conservatives are really something, aren't they? They're all in favor of the unborn. They'll do anything for the unborn. But once you're born, you're on your own.
-George Carlin
Not in France.
You know, there are myriad reasons why I have no desire to reproduce. I'm not really into the prospect of swollen ankles, an aching back, and all of the farting that comes with gestation. But I also know that where we are in this country is not conducive to my having a child, because, no matter how far we've come, the impetus to give up stuff for the sake of the child, namely a career and a life, is still placed squarely on the woman.
Honestly, we live in a country where more companies than not are still hostile to the idea of giving a new mother someplace to pump breast milk at work.
"If I had been obliged to choose between working and having children, I probably would have chosen children," Guiraud-Chaumeil said in an interview at city hall. "But I didn't have to choose."
The family-friendly measures -- including long maternity leaves, child-support payments, public schooling for toddlers and even nanny subsidies -- have become a heavy burden on the French budget as they have expanded over the years. They have grown increasingly expensive for businesses as well. But even in this time of financial crisis and economic slump, when deficits are growing and leaders are looking for cuts everywhere, no one in France, from the left or the right, has proposed reducing government expenditures to promote childbearing.
When the Socialist mayor of Lille, Martine Aubry, recently suggested that President Nicolas Sarkozy's government might consider a reduction in government spending on day-care centers for children younger than 3, conservative Education Minister Xavier Darcos responded, "That's an absurdity and a gross distortion of the truth."
You want me to reconsider popping out a baby?
Subsidize my child care and don't make me sacrifice my brain for my uterus and maybe I'll reconsider.
I make this PSA roughly once a month, so here it go:
Go get fitted for a bra.
Somehow, even the almighty power of the O can't convince everyday women to get bra fittings.
And as a result, we all become victim to droopy boobs, overfull cups, or the ever-unflattering Chicken Cutlet Effect.
So I'm here to help her.
Get fitted for a bra.
I had my life-changing experience earlier this year. And what they say is correct: There's an 80-percent chance you're wearing the wrong size. Most likely, the band is too loose (find yourself trying to make tighter, don't you?) and the cups are too small. (Spillage much?) And if you're curvier like me, you're probably subjecting yourself to straps that dig into your shoulders and leave grooves in your skin.
Think about it... ain't it worth having support that'll let you roam free and -- dare I say it -- jump up and down without repercussions?
(Don't act like you don't subject new bras to the Jump Test.)
The best way to find what fits is to... well... get fitted. And a fitting won't just tell you what size you really wear; you'll also learn what to look for in a bra, how the band should fit (snug), how the cups should cover (no bagginess) and where that little panel between the cups should fall (flat against the rib cage).
So again, I say... go get fitted for a bra... just not at Vicky's. They'll sell you whatever is on the floor.
Slate has a super-cute piece about the power of The Michelle in Washington. And not just that Michelle (shoot, she ain't even here yet!), but a number of Michelles that can be counted among the Capitol's movers and shakers.
I've met three of the Michelles (shoot, I work in the same building as two of them), one of them comes from my alma mater, and a slew of them are fabulous women of color, so I gotta say... Slate definitely got it right. Michelles rock.
Of course, there are a couple of Michelles on the short list that I'm not necessarily fond of... but that's neither here nor there. I just wanna know one thing...
...I have decided that Plies consists of one huge penis. This is what he is made of: penis. He has no heart, no mind, no soul, no spirit, just pure, unadulterated penis.
He makes all his songs according to what his penis has to say. He makes all his decisions based off what his penis told him.
... When you are listening to Plies, know that you are really listening to a penis.
And just in case you're wondering who Plies is... he's the genius behind the phrase "Bust It Baby."
Ok, so right away, before we get into this conversation, full disclosure: Veronica worships at the Church of Latter Day Beyonce. She buys all her albums and has the DVD of her concert performances. She does the dances.
I am a little more ambivalent. And while I like some of her music, I won't actually spend money on it. But somehow, it magically shows up on my I-pod. *wink*
I will admit, sometimes I think I sell Bey a little short.
But she makes it so easy when you see her interviews. Because everyone who interviews her has the same observation: she's had a lot of media training, and she won't reveal jack shit.
So it's a little difficult to gauge who the hell she really is, which has led some of us to believe that she's not too bright. (I used to say I'd like to have an intellectual affair with Jay-Z because really, what the hell do they talk about???)
Except once in a while, she'll drop a little gem like this one (because if anyone will get it out of you, it's the almighty Oprah):
"The most important thing is to make sure you have your own life before you're someone else's wife."
*wipes drool from chin*
See the entire interview (which is about as hard to find as Tupac's killer, because you know, Oprah has taken over the Internets too in her quest to rule the universe) here. Even when I replay it, I get a big grin, and I want to just reach out and hug her.
But sometimes I think she has, or at least promotes, a very narrow interpretation of what it means to be an empowered woman, and Salon breaks this down a whole lot better than I can by offering opinions on the messages in "Single Ladies" and "If I Were A Boy."
Sometimes I feel as though Beyonce has a man-bashy, neck popping, eye-rolling sort of idea of what feminism is, i.e. "Bills, Bills, Bills," "Irreplaceable."
But hey, clearly the woman's evolved. "Suga Mama" will always be one of my favorites.
And now we know where Jigga's Hamburger Helper reference in "Party Life" came from.
V?
Veronica says: You are now beginning to understand my devotion. Like every other woman who has walked this earth, Bey is simply complex -- only for some reason, the public seems to feel entitled to know about all her complexities. (I say, if she wants to keep it to herself, good. Oversharing is overrated.) And when it comes to her music, it resonates with me because it reflects the many things I want out of my own life -- I'm more than looking forward to being someone Mrs. Carter, but I'ma handle my business (and tell him about himself as needed), too.
Beyonce puzzles people because she refuses to stay still -- and that's the number one reason I love her.
Soraya Says: I get that. But I think the problem, particularly for music critics, is that when they're reviewing an album, they look for originality and growth. And part of calling yourself an artist is that you put yourself in your art. It makes it resonate. It makes it real, and kind of raw. That's why good art sticks with you. And I think Beyonce frustrates them, because even the "real" part of her reflected in "I Am" is still wrapped in cellophane, and well, not all that real.
Don't get me wrong, she puts out some good music. It just seems that her deepness ain't all that deep.
But hey. People say the same thing about Mariah Carey. And I love her anyway.
I always feel a little offended when I hear experts talk about how my generation is the "Everybody Wins" generation. You know, every kid gets a trophy, a ribbon, a little certificate that says "You're a winner because you tried." I'm always like, "Hell NAH! I'm a winner because I'm the best! There's no faux congratulations for me!"
Until I saw this message from Gmail:
Congratulations on creating your brand new Gmail address, awesomeandfabulous[at]gmail.com!
Wait a minute.
Gmail's giving me confetti and glitter because I signed up for an addy?
In fact, I didn't even sign up for an addy! Soraya did! She just tacked my e-mail on the sign-up form so I'd get a notification too.
And yet, I'm still congratulated. It makes me wonder why Google didn't send me balloons for creating this blog. (And if you know my history with blogs, you'd know I've earned a shitload of balloons.)
Alas, for all those quack psychiatrists who say that me and every other 20-something have become a generation wimps because we're coddled to and congratulated for even the most insipid of achievements...
So, awhile back, during episode six of the second season of Mad Men, Paul proposed an idea: that all women were either a Jackie or a Marilyn. I don't want to get into the whole virgin/whore dichotomy conversation.
"I thought everyone wanted to be Claire," Veronica said.
I shook my head. I mean, Claire's cool and all, but Claire's got five kids. I think I'd maybe be Claire before Claire met Cliff.
So I thought a little more, and basically decided, after some contemplation, that I was Rudy. Initially, I thought I was an amalgam of Vanessa and Denise, but nah, I'm Rudy.
By the time Rudy grew up a bit from the cute little girl who started the show, she had quite the personality. I think she was quite the feminist badass. Because Rudy had no problem putting "Buuuuuuuud" in his place when he said some bogus mess about how women were only good for housework.
But you know, I think Cliff was pretty much exactly the sort of man Linda Hirshman proposed women should get with in Get To Work in order to you know, preserve having a life.
Roger Stone is one of the last guys on Earth one would expect to feel guilty over an episode of rough and tumble politicking. As a self-admitted hit man for the GOP, Stone has had a hand in everything from Nixon's dirty tricks to Eliot Spitzer's resignation to spreading discredited rumors of a Michelle Obama “whitey” tape during the 2008 Democratic primaries....
The capstone of Stone’s career, at least in terms of results, was the “Brooks Brothers riot” of the 2000 election recount. This was when a Stone-led squad of pro-Bush protestors stormed the Miami-Dade County election board, stopping the recount and advancing then-Governor George W. Bush one step closer to the White House. Though he is quick to rebut GOP operatives who seek to minimize his role in the recount, Stone lately has been having second thoughts about what happened in Florida.
Stone, in fact, shared those second thoughts over a slice of pizza:
"When I look at those double-page New York Times spreads of all the individual pictures of people who have been killed [in Iraq], I got to think, 'Maybe there wouldn't have been a war if I hadn't gone to Miami-Dade. Maybe there hadn't have been, in my view, an unjustified war if Bush hadn't become president.' It's very disturbing to me."
Aww. The hack with the heart of gold. I gotta say, no matter how hack-y you are, I'm a sucker for a good redemption story. Until...
Stone still offers his services as a no-holds-barred strategist to domestic and foreign politicians alike, and claims his client list is full.
Chicks. Brown people. Non-brown people. Politics. News. Pop Culture. Feminism. Beauty. Hair. Men. And boys.
Whatever you're thinking, we're probably gonna write about it.
Or not. We reserve that right too.
This Week in Michelle
She is a goddess. And if you say anything about her...
we'll cut you.
Sooooo, yeah. We want this dress too. In fact Michelle, why don't you just hand over your entire wardrobe of once-worn dresses because we would love to have them despite the fact that neither of us will do your arms justice and our boobies take up significantly more square inches.
If you're a conservative and you care about this kid, you don't give him a public forum. You give him your card, and you take his e-mails. You give him a list of books that he needs to read. Then when you see him, you quiz him on those books. You tell him that you're glad he showed the initiative to write and publish himself, but his thesis is actually banal. That if he's going to play in the big leagues, he should expect to get hit and prepare himself thusly. You warn him away from sideshows, and teach him to pride hearing over being heard. You teach him that these are his weapons and his shield in the great war of ideas.
Of course if you did all that, you'd risk turning him into liberal.
--Ta-Nehisi Coates, referring to the newest -- and possibly youngest -- act in the GOP's dog and pny show, 14-year-old Jonathan Krohn.
