Tag You're It: No TouchBacks

Ok, so I now realize that joining this blogging world comes with games and rules that one should play by to keep readers reading, and commenters commenting. But anyway, in the spirit of congeniality, and in hopes of getting more folks to read my blog, I bring to you: Tag--The Blogger Edition. I think I'll call my local Congressman to help me sponsor a rally to drum up support for my blog. Come on you didn't really think I wasn't going to be able to work that in somehow.

So here's the rules:

A). Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog...
B). Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself...
C). Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs...
D). Let each person know that they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

And we're off:

A. Thank you Maddy for giving me a random reason to blog...ok that was easy.

B. Seven random facts: Drum roll please.
1. I may be a narcoleptic. I can fall asleep anywhere and I wake up and act like nothing ever happened. It makes for odd sleeping patterns. To friends and folks chatting with me on IM, especially at night, this can be quite annoying, but hey it's me, so deal with it or don't IM me.
2. I'm deathly afraid of pigeons. I swear they don't even try to move out the way when you walk by. When I have to walk past a large flock, my heart starts racing, and I be all moving extra fast. I always feel like they're flying directly at me and I'm afraid that they're going to relieve themselves on my head.
3. I really like cheese. Right now I'm going through a pepper jack and provolone phase. They just make everything taste better. Oooh I just saw a Checkers commercial for a new cheesy double burger, with pepper jack and a spicy cheese sauce. Gotta try that! Sounds yum-o!
4. I was A Pimptress Named Candy for Halloween.

Inspired by my new favorite Boondocks character: A Pimp Named Slickback. It was great. I went to a couple of lounges and even got some male hoez to kiss my ring.
5. I'm addicted to wedding stuff. I'm no where close to getting married. I don't even have a boyfriend, or anyone that I'm seeing seriously, but I love thinking about what my wedding is going to be like. My Friday isn't complete unless I read the By Invitation Only, wedding announcement column in the Washington Post's Express. Don't tell anyone but in my head, I draft out what mine would say for the person I'm interested in at the moment.
6. I like my underwear to match my outfits. I know this is completely ridiculous, seeing as how hardly anyone ever sees my undies, but somehow it just makes my outfit more complete.
7. I like looking at pictures of myself. I just scrolled up to look at my pimp picture three times, while writing this. Call me vain, but I think I'm quite photogenic and I'm in love with my smile.

C. Well here goes the 7 random folks tagged by me: Mr. Fresh to Death, Baby Daddy Diaries, Kolossol Imperial, Thic Flair, ummm...three more Tenacious, Ms. Sula, and....Curvydva.

D. And with that I'm off to post these comments. I make no promises about them keeping up the game. Ciao.

Slow Your: Roll

I hate kids who wear those effin sneaker skates and the parents who buy them. They be just rolling around the damn stores and ish. Get on my damn nerves. Sit yo big Roll Bounce ass down somewhere.

I saw this one guy in the dollar store trying to get his kids in line, after they'd turned the store into their own personal roller rink. It's too late. No one told your ass to buy them the damn shoes, but you wanna get mad because they use them? I just be waiting for their lil tails to fall and bust they head open.

Apparently it's happening all over the world, but I haven't seen it yet. Got doctors all up in arms cuz these lil bad asses rolling around are breaking their wrists and ankles, dislocating shoulders and cracking skulls and what not. One kid tripped up on a piece of gravel in the driveway, fell and broke several fingers and wrist bones. See no good can come of these shoes.

Whose bright idea was it to make these damn things anyway? There's a REASON why skating rinks are made out of a different material than the regular ass ground.

You already know I'm calling my Congressman to get these shoes off the market. If these damn things are still a craze by the time I have kids, they bet not even think about asking me to buy them. Its bad enough that kids wanna make everywhere they go an instant playground, but you wanna give them a license to do so. No sir ain't happening under my watch. I mean Bush ain't even trying to expand the State Children’s Health Insurance Program, and I'll be damned if I hand over a co-pay cuz you wanted to reenact ATL at Wal-Mart.

Why Don’t You Just: Wax That

I’m weirded out by oddly shaped eyebrows. There I’ve said it. It’s one of the first things I notice about people and the very thing that has me shaking my head in disgust in most cases. There was this chick in undergrad that had eyebrows that didn’t go all the way across her eyes. Every time I saw her in the cafeteria I lost my appetite, which was great when I was dieting, but I shouldn't have been subject to that type of eye molestation. Only thing worse are the phantom eyebrows À la Whoopi Goldberg.

Which brings me to my rant: I cannot understand why people shave them off only to pencil, marker, or tattoo them on in odd shapes. Tattooing on makeup is the worst. I mean I get that it's supposed to be convenient and you never have to worry about doing them again, but a slip of the needle, or inaccurate measurements and you're walking around forever looking like you've seen a ghost. That's enough to make me hand over my $10 for a wax job every few weeks.

But back to the odd shapes. Yes, God made all of us differently, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t design any of us with eyebrows that:

a. grow in a straight line
b. curve down to your nose like Capitan Hook’s metal appendage or
c. look like parentheses trying to bump each other out the way

Having said that, if you are going to reconstruct your eyebrows, remember placement is key. Never should you be walking around looking like you’re in shock all day long. Also be sure that they are at the same level above each eye. Don’t be walkin’ round looking like you are trying to figure out what the Rock is cooking. Please bring (both of) them down a notch. Now on to color. There is no reason to look like you’ve taken a piece of charcoal and smeared it along your brow, when your hair (read weave) is honey blonde. I mean I know you’re not a natural blonde, but this confirms it. Try using a softer brown shade.

This is just one girls plea for you to do your part in making the world a better place. I think I’ll call my local Congressman to see if he can hold a town hall meeting on proper eyebrow arching techniques.

Culinary Delights: I've Got a Knife and Fork Where My Heart Used to Be

Men aren't the only ones who want to come home to dinner on the table. I work hard. Slaving over a keyboard five days a week, chasing down information that people don’t want to give me. When I come home I want to eat a home cooked meal. The problem is I’m so drained that I can barely lift a pot, skillet, or any other cooking apparatus.

So I eat like a broke bachelor: lots of PB&J (reduced fat and sugar free) and cereal (Special K and Curves) and lean pockets—hey I’m also tryna watch my girlish figure. But this has to end. I wants me a cooking man. Forget coming home to a back rub, foot rub, or any other kind of rub (well let’s not go too far here). Still I need a warm meal to help me mellow out.

Back in my collegiate days, I joked that I was going to stake out culinary schools in hopes of accidentallyonpurpose stumbling upon my dream cooking man. The plan was to walk around with my arms full of culinary tools, and conveniently drop them at the feet of potential suitors. Maybe I should have called my local Congressman to see if he could have drafted a subsidy program to help my potential mates go to culinary school. Either way I never made that happen, but that means you’re in luck fellas.

I’m now accepting applications. Here’s a quick breakdown of what I’m looking for:

Culinary artist with at least five years experience specializing in healthful Soul, Italian, and Mexican cuisine. BBQ and grilling skills not required but highly favored. Must be trustworthy as you will be provided with a key to my house, to prepare home cooked meals for me. Attention to detail and excellent time management skills are a must. Ability to work efficiently, facing a daily 7:30 p.m., deadline required.

Send your resume and cover letter to *cookforaqueen@blogspot.com. Please provide samples upon request.

*no actual emails were harmed in the making of this blog.

Training Tuesdays: The WMATA Workout Plan

With seven years of metro riding in the Chocolate City urea under my belt, few things surprise or phase me anymore. Not the Asian guy on the blue sometimes red line, singing Jesus's praises in the morning, nor the grown ass man who stuffed an entire double cheeseburger into his mouth and then proceeded to suck his thumb. Dude with a masterlock for an earring--no biggie. That's all commonplace.

But today I was intrigued. The object of my fascination caught my eye at the bus shelter at the Silver Spring Metro Station. (Z11, stand up! No really...ain't no more damn seats on the bus). The vagabond started out, much like the rest of the crazies that I share public transportation with. Cigarette in one of his latex-gloved hands, singing Negro spirituals. But as I continued to watch him (I had 20 minutes till the next bus came, and the batteries in my MP3 player died), I realize that he's--aside from the cigarette, a health conscious nomad.

Decked out in his gym gear (well, really it was jeans, but he was wearing a nike shirt), I realize he's warming up for a workout. He stretches out on the bench inside the bus shelter, and even attempts a few pull ups on the top of the structure. The bus pulls up and he takes off for his jog, leaving his bags behind. I kept craning around to see how long, it would take him to lap around, but the bus pulled off before he made it back to his starting point.

Now, I'm all for getting a good work out in where ever you are, but the metro is THE last place, I'd ever think to try and work up a sweat. Foolish me, I've been wasting my hard earned money at Gold's Gym. Sure they've got all this fancy smancy equipment, treadmills, and elliptical machines gallore, but really I could just save my $37 a month, for all the free stuff at the metro. Thanks Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority! I'm gonna call my local Congressman and see if he can get a moving sidewalk installed that can dub as a treadmill.

Trojan (Wo)Man: Mmmmm Hmmmm

I'm a loyal chick, so when my friend asked me what my favorite brand of condom was I quickly rattled off Trojan, and sang the little ditty from the commercials. I'll always heart men who need, and can properly work equipment that goes in, gold wrappers, but I'm also quite fond of the trojans in the bright green pack, the twisted pleasure ones. At the time I couldn't remember the name of them, so of course I googled it and ended up on their fantastical site: TrojanWorld. A few clicks and I'm in unchartered yet fascinating territory.

Imagine my delight, scrolling over all the pretty packages and reading through the descriptions when I come across this: Trojan Vibrating Ring. Not only does this thing vibrate, but like any other penis ring, I can only imagine that it's supposed to prolong erection. They even have double ended vibrating ones. Two for one! Score! And it comes with a condom. Talk about bang for your buck!

Only drawback is that, according to the site, the small battery only lasts for 20 minutes. They should make one, that you can replace the battery in, but I guess they were going for the whole disposable thing. Besides, I don't think, I could get anyone to use one of those, much less get them to stop and switch batteries. They should have used a lithium ion battery, that could've been good for like an hour of tingling fun.

I wonder when these came out, not that I make it a habit of scouring the condom aisle, but I've never seen them in stores. Further investigation of this wonder product, tells me that it's "Available wherever quality TROJAN® Condoms are sold*" except in "Alabama, Colorado, Georgia, Kansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Texas or Virginia. GREAT! That's where I do all my travel fucking. Hmmm, I wonder if those on the TSA's carry on-approved list? I'm so adding this to my arsenal.

Still it seems strange, because there's gotta be a lot of good loving going on down south, but my girl tells me, in that in the M-I- crooked letter, crooked letter, they've outlawed the sale of anything that stimulates the genitalia. Really, so you're telling me that if I go down to the SIP that I can go down to the local Wal-mart and get guns and ammo, but I can't get a vibrating ring. That's some BULL! I'm glad I live in a "progressive" state.

But apparently, my hometown, Georgia along with Texas and the rest of those states have similar laws. But guess what lobbyists and adult store owners aren't taking it lying down. LMAO (ok...bad pun, but whatever). Seriously, there's a non-profit organization fighting against these laws. They call themselves the National Alliance of Activists and Trade Organization, and they're fighting for our sexual rights. Join the fight, call your local Congressman today.

Bar Fights:MusiqSoulchildEye

Last night, after a shopping trip for a grown and sexy alumni boat ride my girl and I are going on in a couple of weeks, we decided to hit up Fridays for a couple of drinks and appetizers. It was jumping, even out in Laurel. So after snagging some prime bar real estate, we chat up our cutie bartender and he hooks us up with his specialty drink. So we're feeling good, feeling great. I'm cheesing hard and my jaw is slackening, the sign of a really great drink for me.

So we're chatting and drinking and what not, getting our economical buzz on (a few drinks and appetizers at the bar are like half priced after 10). The new cast of Grey's Anatomy is to our right, and we've donned the black dude "Jerome O'Malley." They exit stage left and then enters this dude wearing his "stunna shades." At Friday's? Really? I abhor people who wear sunglasses (for other than medical reasons) inside...at night...no less...in a dark ass bar.

But as I said we were feeling good, feeling great, and in a chatty mood. So my girl
strikes up a convo with him, telling him he's brave for leaving his drink unattended. So we're all talking, exchange names (some were changed to protect the innocent). Apparently he's feeling my girl, and he has the audacity to ask me to get up out of my seat so he can sit closer to her. I look at him like he's done lost his damn mind. He laughs it off, like he was just joking, but I know he was just serious. Call me a cockblocker if you want, but no real man is gonna make a woman get up out of her seat at the bar to chat up her friend. If you really want to talk to her that damn bad, go stand your ass on the other side of her. So this, in retrospect, is sign number one that things are going to go downhill real fast.

I'm irritated with him at this point, but I let it slide. We find out he's from N.Y. and my girl has a moment with him, since she's from Strong Island. We play a round of "Guess what branch of the military he's in." He tells me, since I'm sitting closer to him, that he's Air Force, which confirms for me why I'm irritated with him. He's a crazy ass military dude. But I continue to let it go, cuz my girl is having a seemingly good time chatting this fool up. Not that she was interested in him or anything, but she really just likes talking shit to random ass niggas. Tonight was no different.

Shit started to hit the fan when my girl asks him, "I'm not trying to be rude or funny or anything, but what's with the shades in the bar? Can you even see, or do you have the MusiqSoulchild eye, you tryna cover up?" I bust out laughing. Seemingly he takes it on the chin, knowing that it was all in good fun, and responds, "Actually it's not dark when I see through them...I can see where the Chinese lady cut too much off your left eyebrow and didn't take enough off of the right one." DAMN! But my girl is a sport and takes it all in stride. She's like aight, I can take it, I guess I deserve that for the Musiq comment. But then homie gets all serious and retreats to his part of the bar. Then he comes back and says, "See you shouldn't use people's physical disabilities as a joke." DAMN!! Homie really did have the MusiqSoulchildEye! LMAO. He continues his bitch moment, and says "See this is why I don't even like Maryland. I just come here and make my money and go."

Now I get irritated. And in case you don't know when I have a lil likka (yea i said it) in my system I can be belligerent, but only when provoked. So I go off, probably dispelling Bill O'Rielly's moment of clarity and furthering racial stereotypes. But at this point I don't care. So I say, "You know what don't even talk to me anymore." He's like, "Don't even talk to me anymore?" He bitches some more about how he doesn't know why I'm carrying on because even my girl said that she was wrong, and I'm mad because you're sitting in between us. *RECORD SCRATCH* He went back to his drink but I went off!! I was like I knew you were an asshole, but I didn't know you were that much of an asshole. I got LOUD! I string off a bunch of expletives. That's some bullshit, some muhfuckin' bullshit. This asshole...yada yada yada. Really the only cuss word I didn't use was bitch. And really, had my girl not been trying to calm me down saying its not worth it and what not I'd a called him a bitch ass nigga. Cuz that's what he was. MusiqSoulchildEye's food finally comes and he's like I can't sit here anymore, I need a booth. These two guys sitting in the booth behind us, offer up their seats in favor of the bar and he moves on.

I keep going off so much so that our cutie bartender comes from behind the bar and is trying to make sure I'm ok. He was all sweet and consoling and what not. Then he makes us this fantabulous pineapple upside-down shot and all is good with the world. We end up chatting up the guys that replaced MusiqSoulchildEye and they redeemed the night. Cutie bartender tells us we need to come back and all was good in the hood.

Do Not Call: Me

So Congress is all worried about people having to re-register on the national do-not-call-list, by next September. As much as I hate telemarketers, even more annoying is being on the receiving end of an undesired late night booty call. Even telemarketers stop calling by a certain hour.

So Congress: I say you refocus your efforts to create a new registry for daters. You could call it the do-not-booty-call list. Hell if telemarketers should have to check their call lists against a registry, I should be able to register my phone number to protect me against unwanted, unsolicited booty calls. I mean here I am in my peaceful slumber and your horny ass just had to wake me up tryna get some. Problem is, I don't want your ass, and all you've done is made me want someone else.

So back to this registry. It should totally be linked to your cellie. These days cell phone manufacturers are pretty crafty. If they can make a phone that locks down when your blood alcohol is at a certain level to keep you from drunk dialing, surely the can lock up your phone from calling certain numbers after a certain time.

Really, I just want to be taken off your 2 a.m. list. Seriously, if you're not tryna holla at me at 2 p.m. to go to a movie, or lunch or bowling, or for a walk in the park, don't call me at 2 a.m. for a romp in the hay.