Sunday, March 31, 2013

Looking for Azz...

Seems like half of the people that come to the blog are looking for some variation of azz:

I find this interesting.  Especially this "ass woman" search and the arrangement of the words.  Why our peeps from overseas love searching using this term is beyond me. 

And you know what's really funny?  Most of the visitors who search for this are from Pakistan where the women are covered up.  Now they make such a big deal about women exposing themselves or showing too much skin, but then get on the internet and look at naked women anyway.  Now ain't that some ish?

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Friend Turns Into Foe?

It's funny how a man can come between friends. 

Instead of being mad at the dude for his "ideals" and his "fuckery", your girl gets salty at YOU and cuts YOU off because that's its a way of convincing themselves that they are taking ACTION.  Frankly any ACTION taken should involve dude, not your damn friend that's been riding with you way before he walked onto the set.  Someone usually gets cut off, but is it the person that was the source of their whole misery?  Nope.  It's the easy targets that get the cold shoulder.  The friend that will probably forgive and forget will get the ax because they know you "will take them back" when it's all over.  So because they aren't quite sure if their boo-thang will do the same, they ride that crazy train until the wheels fall off, all the while saying "I need to focus on me" when really they are focusing on HIM.  They lick his azz and cheer him on, trying to everything they can to stay on his good side.  What "side' they are on with you don't matter anymore. 

I tell you dyck is like a damn drug. 

It can make us irrational, lose weight, lose sleep, and lose those in your corner.   All at the same time. 

I know because I have been there. 

And for what?  Why do we do these things? 

For a fairy tale? Yep a muthafuccin fairy tale that we create in our own minds when in real life dude is nothing but a damn nightmare.  

Yep, dyck is a drug.

I say that because isn't it funny how all of sudden you become the one that's getting on their nerves? They ain't got time to hear about anything that's going on with you and they get annoyed when you talk about 'your stuff'.  Notice how they don't even ask anymore what's going with your life.  That's because....

Dyck is a drug.

Before it was dude that was not making sense and talking crazy - now it's you that becomes the one that ain't making sense and talking crazy.  Yep!  Now something is wrong with you?  When the tide shifts this way, you might as well stop trying because...

Dyck is a drug.

I've learned that any "friend"  that's shifted the "problem" as being you instead of him is probably too far gone to save.   There is nothing you can tell that person.  If you speak too frankly to them about dude you're hatin'.  If you don't say enough then you don't care enough and are selfish.  They somehow try to bring the things that you have told them about yourself to rationalize whatever they're doing.  It's hopeless.  You just gotta let them ride that wave and pray that it is worth the sacrifices that they have made to keep that dude by their side. 

Because dyck is a drug...You become unnecessary. 

U.NECES.SARY.  Even if your friend won't admit that to you, that's probably what it really is. 


"You're gettin' in the way....of what I'm feelin."  

So if you are in "dyck's way" ...ahem I meant "love's way" , then just move.  Just get out of the way and be done with it.  And maybe then I...I mean YOU can stop asking yourself what in the hell happened to your friend.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

I Killed the Baby G

Hallelujah!  Hallelujah!  If I had a tambourine I would run up and down the aisles of this crappy New York City library right now.

(Sniff.  Sniff.)

 It kinda smells like the Funky People been sitting at this table.  Whew!

(wrinkles nose)
Oh well.  Let me just try to focus.   Everyone else seems to be okay.  Maybe they are used to it??? 

(Wait.  Interruption.  Someone comes up to talk to me.) 

Ok so my scarf was on the floor and the library security lady with the 40DDDD breasts just told me to pick it up because, as she put it, "Things might grow on it from these people that be in here.  You know what  I'm saying?"

I quickly picked it up and we chuckled quietly together.  

(Sniff.  Sniff.)

That security guard has been boozing it up somewhere in this library.  I could smell the liquor wafting in the air as she passed.   The smell was strong too.   I bet she probably takes shots between the stacks of books.  LOL.  Man I tell you, New York City is a trip.   Everybody is a damn character.

Anyway....back to work.

So I was sitting here in the library working on a different post and I just ran my fingers across my upper lip.  And I'm smiling wide because it's as smooth as Tyrese's head right now.  After a month.  I  repeat...AFTER A MONTH.   For me this is some real shyt and a definite reason to celebrate with a blog post! 

I'm telling you this is BIG!  I don't know why it took me so long to get this right, and lawd knows it has been practically a lifelong struggle dating back to puberty.  I was probably 12 or 13 years old when one day this boy in grade school got in my face all close up and personal, squinted, and screamed, "You got a moustache!"   Of course his loud ass got the attention of the other kids, and they started pointing and discussing me like I was a science fair exhibit.  I'm sure that I only had a few baby sprouts on my lip at the time, but it was enough to cause a stir on the schoolyard.  It was terrible and I will never forget that day.  Kids can make you feel like crap.  I quickly slapped my hand over my mouth and screamed, "So what!  So what!" until the teacher came by and broke up the scene.  Back in the classroom I sat with my hand over my face for the rest of the day suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome.  After school I ran home humiliated with my hand over my mouth the entire way.  After I was able to pull myself away from the bathroom mirror, I went to tell my mother about the situation.  I figured that she would know what to do, because she was a girl once (I think). 

Her solution:

That's all she said, and went back to cooking dinner.  I stood there waiting to hear more, but there wasn't anymore.  

Don't touch it?  Did you say don't touch it?  That's all you got Ma?   You're supposed to be all knowing and have the answer to every problem!   So how am I supposed to get rid of it if I don't touch it?  I wish I didn't even ask because all you did was just scare the shyt out of me with that advice. 

Now I was humiliated AND mad.  She didn't get it.  She had no clue that the schoolyard incident signaled the beginning of my bout with self-consciousness.  She didn't understand how The Hairys just added to the other things that I was already becoming insecure about at that age.   Now fast forward to high school where by then I had transformed this insecure, crazy head trip that lasted pretty much the entire four years.     The boys were cruel.  The girls were bitches.  Light skinned was in style and I wasn't light skinned.  All the praises went to people with  "good hair", Guess Jeans, and Coach purses....and I had none of the above.  I wasn't hearing enough good things about myself.  Not even from my parents.  I swear if it weren't for the random boy who dared to show interest in me every now and then, I probably wouldn't have heard crap.

Ok, ok  I'm getting off track.   The point I'm trying to make is that I didn't listen to my mother about how to handle The Hairys.  She was buggin' if she thought I was gonna sit back and do nothing about a hairy f*ckin' lip. 

So despite her advice... I touched it anyway. 

And that's because I still wanted to put up a fight.  For maybe 20 years that fight has involved me using almost every weapon and method out there from chemical warfare (Nair), physical torture (electrolysis), to bulldozing them (shaving).  You name it and I have probably tried it.   When I was dating my Latin Lover aka Chipotle, he tried to be encouraging by saying that the faint moustache made me look intelligent.  LOL.  I would just laugh when he said that.  Only Chipotle could come up with that weird azz compliment.  He said women with moustaches were "muy intelligente" because they are too intelluctual to be concerned with vanity.   Double LOL.  Nice try Chipotle, but I wasn't buying it.   I told him that when I see a woman with a moustache, the only thing that it says to me is either "Shave me" or "I don't give a f*ck."

And speaking of not giving a f**ck, I have a new found respect for the old ladies that have The Hairys and the Baby Gs (Baby Goatees) on their faces.


For years I have always wondered how any woman could let things get to this point, and now I think I know why.  It's because they have grown tired of trying to keep up with these muthafuccas!  The older you get, The Hairys become almost like roaches.   You kill one and three come from the command center ready to take its place.  The Hairys usually stay winning on Grandma probably because 1) she probably can't see them anymore because her eyesight ain't what it used to be, or 2) she can't grab the tweezer to pluck the shyt because of her arithitis or her "nerves are too bad".   I realized that at some point she finally said, "F*ck it.  Let the shyt grow."  I can most certainly respect that because imagine going thru a LIFETIME of waxing, tweezing, and plucking?  Anyone would get tired of it, hence the reason for the pic above. 

Then you got that other group of women who say "F*ck it".  The lip hair ain't no big thing to them.  Some even think it makes a statement. 
Like my girl at the bar where I work.  She proudly sports her peach fuzz and has no problem with it.  Dudes are still checking for her hard and it's not affecting her life in any way, so her philosophy is "if ain't broke don't f*ck with it".   She is a thick and shapely chick that commands a room when she enters it anyway, so her hips and thighs more than make up for the shadow over her lip.  She just has that ghetto fab swagger that will stop traffic (in ghettos) and the guys just eat her up.  And I do mean...Literally.  Eat.  Her. Up.  Overall she just carries it well, and if I could rock a 'stache like her I wouldn't be writing this.   But I know I am not about that life.  I'm too self conscious about it, and I'm not quite ready to have the lunchroom lady look with the red lips and moustache.
After trying almost everything I had found that threading has been the most lasting solution for me, even though it hurts and makes my eyes water most times.  I have been ten years strong going to Bita and 'nem at the threading salon, but the thrill is fading fast.  As each year passes the hair is growing faster, wilder, and meaner.   I can't keep up!   It's to the point where I find myself plucking wayward chin hairs while sitting at a red light in my car.  I carry tweezers like I'm packing a pistol.    Then shyt got real when I saw an old boyfriend one day. 

It was a BRIGHT, SUNNY WEEKDAY MORNING when he came up and surprised me.  I was waiting for the train to the city staring at my cell phone. 

I looked up at him startled.  He looked good.  But my lip and chin didn't.  In fact his face looked smoother than mine! 

And to make matters worse, it was way too sunny out for him to be rolling up on me like that anyway.  It was the type of sun that puts a spotlight on every line, blemish, pimple and hair from a mile away.   Even though I had my makeup on and I was dressed for a NYC day, I hadn't been by Bita and 'nem in about 2-3 weeks.  I didn't have the time, and I didn't check the Baby G that morning because I was running late.  It was no way I could pull out the tweezers and perform an emergency beard removal.   He was already upon me flashing his million dollar smile.

For 45 minutes I rode the train next to him in anguish.  We chatted away about all types of things, but when I spoke I wouldn't make eye contact with him.  I kept fumbling around in my purse trying to avoid giving him a full frontal view of my face.  I'm sure that he peeped that I was acting weird, but I couldn't help myself.  I was mad uncomfortable and he was just too close to me.    When we got off the train and parted ways, I was mad as hell and told myself that was it.  I was tired of The Hairys and tired of the Baby G making me uncomfortable.   I had had enough.  I immediately went on the internet and researched electrolysis and laser hair removal and made some appointments.  My game face was on!

First I tried electrolysis and that was a beotch.    <<<<It hurt like hell>>> and left sores on my skin from the electric pulses from that dagger probe she was using.   You have to put electricity on every single f*ckin hair, and I had way too much fuzz for that nonsense.  It was pure torture.  I think the Polish lady who did it knew she had jacked me up too because she had this apologetic look on her face and gave me an awkward smile as I studied my face in the mirror.  When I left the place I was even more pissed than before, because although the hair was gone I had a bunch of red damn marks and sores all over my fkn lip!  It defeated the damn purpose of why I even went there. 
Next I tried the laser removal thing.  I was worried because I read that it wasn't a good method for brown skin, so I looked for places that supposedly specialized in laser work for Brown Girls.  I bit the bullet and paid the astronomical $79 for the session - a session that lasted all of two minutes.   But to my surprise it worked!   Well.    I noticed results right after the first treatment.  The hair barely grows back and I only have to go to a session every few weeks.   I went ahead and bought the package deal and after five sessions the hair is almost all gone!  I did get two small surface burns once and it freaked me out, but they went away in less than a week.   I just used makeup to cover them up and it was all good.  But there is never any pain, and that was important.


So Hallelujah!!!  Although from what I read, no method is guaranteed to remove all hair, but if it takes 90 or 95 percent of it that is totally fine by me.  That's better than looking like a furry spider.  So no more Baby G.  No more dealing with The Hairys.  I was finally able to fix something that had bothered me from my days in grade school and I feel good!  If I see that ex boyfriend again (and I'm sure I will) I'll look his azz dead in his face, bat my eyes, and pucker my lips so they look extra sexy.  
So add the laser removal to my toe surgeries, correcting my teeth, and fixing my ear lobe - which is all part of OPERATION STAYIN' MARKETABLE.   I'm actually proud of myself about the actions I have taken over the years for myself.  I'm even thinking about another surgery this year.  Why?  Because I ain't got no babies and can spend the money on upgrading myself.  As women get older our stock drops in many men's eyes, and that's why you see these old cats hawking the young gals.  I can't go back to twenty, but I can try to make sure everything looks right and tight.  And yeah I know it may appear that I am "into" correcting cosmetic things or that I may seem vain, but addressing these little things really has helped my self-esteem.   I don't think that is a crime, especially not for a chick who went thru a mental hell and a lot of negative bullshyt during her early to mid-teenage years.  With everything else that is going on that is really f*ckin' with me right now, this was the one happy thing that was worth writing about.
Now back to regular programming.