A Meeting in the Ladies Room

Did y’all know that Questlove and Black Thought of the incredible Roots crew don’t really like each other? Yes, apparently Things Fall Apart was more than an album title – it describes their relationship. They got into a fistfight whilst overseas in like 1997 or 98 and have never been cool since. But obviously, professionally, they can come together to get the job done. And make that money, honey.

I thought of this when I was watching one of the greatest shows ever – aka Unsung! (On TVone for those of you who don't know). And they were focusing on Klymaxx, the all female band. Basically after years of struggling and putting out albums that went nowhere, they finally caught their big break, had some major hits and then…things fell apart.

There were hurt feelings. And backstabbing. And votes to kick people out the group being taken behind folks back. And people being put out the group. It was a HUGE mess. And it all boils down to the fact that women don’t like confrontation. Don’t want to be honest with each other. Can’t say to someone’s face, “I know you the lead singer, but your swole pregnant ass can’t be up here on stage with us anymore. And we definitely ain’t gon’ be totin no baby round on the road.”

Yes, it sounds harsh. But better to get it out now, instead of having things implode later.

So, admittedly, I have been watching Jersey Shore on MTV (well up until like two weeks ago before life got hectic). Yes, there will be time for you to judge me later. Anyway. One of the roommate’s on again, off again boyfriend who also lives in the house with them was going to the club and kissing other girls. Two other chicks in the house knew this. The chick kept asking them what he was doing at the club. They kept being evasive. And then came up with the brilliant plan to write her a letter detailing his transgressions. As if she wouldn’t know it was her.

But anyone with sense who was watching (but why would you watch if you had sense) was probably like me, screaming at their TV, and being like, “JUST BE A GROWN WOMAN ABOUT YOURS AND TELL HER THE TRUTH!” And then let the chips fall where they may. Let her pick up the pieces. Let her confront him. But be woman enough to have truth as the starting place.

I’m sure there is some research about women’s brains and biological make-up that I could find if it weren't so late that would say that we are “wired” to be more emotional vs. logical. And all that jazz. But I wonder how much farther along we could be as a gender if we put emotions aside, didn't take things so personal, and just got the job done.

As someone who works in an organization that is 99.9% (white) women, I've witnessed up close - the sidesteps, the pleasantries, the frenemies, the smile in your face talk bout you while you walk away, the under non performing co-workers who are kept on because managers are too nice and don't want to do the dirty work and fire anyone. And I've seen black women (myself included) try to take the more direct approach, to call 'em out on their bullish, only to be labeled as angry, threatening, non cooperative. And it's a frustrating existence filled with lots of what the fuss!

So maybe this is women's lot in life. To be too nice. To care too much about what others think. To be unable to dislike and still work beside each other. But I hope not.

I hope we can raise up a generation of girls who become women, who can look each other in the eye, speak their mind, keep it honest, and then either walk away or work it out - from the board room to ladies room.

That's my time y'all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

The Work Hearse

Ok good people. Let’s get it. Let me tell y’all something about Rum Punch. I hate work. Now this doesn’t mean that I don’t or won’t work – there was a time when my family nicknamed me 'Jamaican woman' cause I was working three jobs at a time. I used to go to one job. Take a nap at home, in the car, wherever. Go to my other job. Work the late night. And then be up at 6 in the am to do it all again. So I will work to pay for the lifestyle to which I have made myself accustomed– trips to fun places. Being able to purchase cute purses. Shoes. house. Working just enough so I can get just what I want, but don’t really need no extra. And by extra I mean that extra that comes along with the business of work.

See I just want to come in, do my lil’ job, eat my cheese sandwich © Bernie Mac, get my hours of sick and vacay which I will use accordingly thank ya very much, collect my bi-weekly check and be out. I don’t wanna hear bout yo’ kids. I don’t hafta to go to lunch with you. I don’t wanna work my way up and climb some metaphorical ladder. I didn’t come here to make friends – I have those in my real life. I don’t wanna go to no stinkin happy hours. Or schmooze with the bosses. I don’t want to exchange business cards so we can connect. Network. And build. And talk about work some more. I don’t wanna gossip bout other co-workers. Heh. No, I take that one back. But what I don’t wanna do is be pulled into co-worker’s mess and drama with other co-workers. I don’t need no extra.

And yet God stays having a sense of humor cause right now I’m going through it at work. With a co-worker who isn’t hardly pulling her weight. Who falls asleep on the job. Who has a laissez faire – which is apparently French for I don’t gives two fux – attitude. The managers are afraid of her. HR ain’t touching her. She is persona nom grata around the office and her lack of work is affecting my work. You see because we are a “team.” And we have individual goals, but an overall team goal and she ain’t doing her part. And I’m tired of her being so extra. Extra lazy. Extra tired all the time. Always ready to go home at 10 in the am – heffa you just got here! And I’m bout ready to whup some ass.

Not just cause she ain’t pulling her weight, but because our program targets and serves girls in underprivileged neighborhoods in DC. That’s why I took this job. And I’m committed to doing a great job and making sure they receive a great service.

But y'all know I hate work, right? Riiight. And yet at the same time I curse my mama and daddy for raising me to have a work ethic and to hate mediocrity even more! And this heffa ain’t even mediocre – she’s subpar! And while it grinds my gears that she gets paid for such – it annoys me even more that there are hundreds of little Black and Brown girls missing out on a much needed program cause she don’t feel like doing it.

And no one’s making her. And she’s ok with that. I mean I guess she’s made it this far in life - putting in little or not effort. Why stop now? But this behavior just baffles me. Do you really need a manager on your ass to encourage force you to do your work? I mean daggone it they gave us a goal to make for the year and I’m determined to make it. Maybe it’s the Leo in me. Maybe it’s the instilled values. Maybe it’s because the man has me brainwashed to want to eat dangling carrots. Maybe I’m becoming one of those people who actually likes their job and wants to be good at it. Sigh.

But watching her not work makes my teeth ache. And my skin crawl. And my blood boil. Makes me wanna holla, throw up both my hands and then use both hands to slap the mess outta her and say, “Get your old ass offa facebook and DO SOME M-IN-FIN WORK! And stop playin the scary big Black woman, got these lil white women shook, role and DO SOME M-IN-FIN WORK!” It makes me wanna do better. And sometimes it makes me wanna quit. But more than anything it makes me wanna get on my grind, and follow my real dreams, cause it reinforces what I’ve always known – this working thing is for the birds. And the horses.

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

Did I Do That?

Have you ever done something that after the deed was done you felt totally and completely horrible? Maybe it made you question if you were a good person ? I’m not talking about promiscuous sexual encounters or not recycling…I’m talking about making fun of midgets and two-leg dogs just because it’s Tuesday. And then you learn that the midget has dedicated their life to make tall people with short arms feel good about climbing trees, or that the two-leg dog loves to snuggle sickly babies. I mean it’s horrible to make fun even if it is funny…or worse yet, true.

Okay, so come go with me to last Tuesday in the workplace. But before I continue, I just have to say that no amount of schooling really prepares a person for the world of work. I mean there is drama, politics, and green (St. Patty’s day shout out) eyed monsters everywhere you turn. And to give ya’ll some back story (also read as my justification)-before Obama was President my mentor who I had worked with for nine months, learning the ways of the budget world, left my department for greener pastures. And since mentor and I were a team of two, as nervous as I was about assuming the responsibility, it seemed that the natural order of things would be that I would get the promotion into mentor’s position. Like I said no amount of schooling can prepare you…my manager’s solution was to give the job to her good ole boy (GOB) buddy who had been in my department for only two months and did not have budget in his background. Say whaaaaaaat? Yes. What. What he did have was whiteness, older age, and a brown nose. And since he was hired for an entirely different job initially what role was I forced to assume? That of the magic Negro with all the answers, and he was very appreciative, yes siree!

Cut to now in the midst of a bad economy and a company mandate to restructure. My new boss says there is no “I” in team and thinks that GOB and I are working together because GOB should be passing information and workload down the pipe…but my desk is looking clean, while his looks like a tornado hit it. I mean I have to get paper from the printer and scribble on it just to make it look like I’m doing something… And if I wasn’t bored out my mind it would be a good look, but I feel like I’m wasting my time, I'm upset because I'm being underutilized and becoming an angry black woman inside.

Okay, so back to last Tuesday-Amaretto was at her desk, after back to back meetings, and since she had no real work to do she had to work on her post because we here at the 5 spot also have deadlines. So whilst I was typing away…GOB comes over to Amaretto’s cube, walks next to her, leans in, looks at her computer, and asks what are you working on? Ummmm. Excuse me? Technically we are at the same level, though he likes to think he’s my boss (and most likely will end up being my boss). But it was just so rude in my book! Who does that?So as you know straws break camels’ backs, well this was my straw!

In my ire I open my outlook and I write an email about GOB. Did I mention that he is fat? Yeah he is. And I said that several times in my email to my friend. That he’s all sorts of fat, and I can’t believe that he’s so bold and brazen to look at my computer screen, blah blah blah. SEND!Um, word to the wise and foolish alike, don’t ever write an email in your anger, because it wasn’t until time passed and I still hadn’t heard from my friend that I realized, in the most horrible-Greek tragedy type way that I had sent my scathing email to GOB himself! And though I never used his name, I did describe the situation perfectly and like I said I called him all sorts of Fatty Mcfaterson! I.Felt.Horrible.

And so the great dilemma, after certain expletives were expressed, was what do I do now? I couldn’t recall the message. I couldn’t say it wasn’t about him. Like the devil, GOB had made me do it, by not sharing the workload and looking at my computer-as if I was doing more work he could take from me...so it served his sneaky butt right! But those facts are beside the point, I made a big ole stankin’ my bad! Do I let it ride out or apologize? What would you have done if this were you?

See You In Seven

The Entry Level Trap

Lawd! Someone done fell asleep at the wheel and given Vivica A. Fox her own reality show. Yes, you read that right. Miss Thang is the host of Glam God, a competitive “reality” show for aspiring stylists. And for more good news Laurie Ann Boom Boom Kat Gibson is back on Making the Band 4! Oh yes! Things are looking up in the world of reality television! Do I, Rum Punch really waste my life away watching this drivel? Yes, yes I do. Judge me all you like. I don’t mind.

One of my favorite reality shows at the moment is I Want to Work for Diddy. Oh the foolishness that occurs in a single episode. In case you are anti all things Diddy or reality, the show is a “competition” for a group of young and not so young, but all are plenty crazy, people who are trying to win the chance to be Diddy’s assistant. We all remember how Diddy made those fools walk to Brooklyn for some cheesecake right? So we can only imagine the fun tasks that are required of the special person who is fortunate enough to be Diddy’s assistant. Of course the recurring quote from the people on the show is that being Diddy’s assistant will give them the chance to get a foot in the door. Oh the old foot in the door line, eh? Now where have I heard that before? Oh yeah, from myself. Watching this show has me reminiscing on my days as an assistant. I don’t like to talk about it much, because it’s the equivalent of a Vietnam flashback, but I think I’m strong enough to share with the masses. Time and distance has healed the wounds, but the memories remain. Come travel with me…

So, picture it, Washington, DC 2007 (rest in peace Estelle Getty), I found myself starring in my very own The Devil Wears Prada in blackface. But without the fabulous wardrobe, cute boyfriend, trip to Paris, and gay man who let me cry on his shoulders. Scratch that, there was an awesome gay co-worker who constantly said that we were “too fierce for this madness!” Snaps!Oh how I heart him. And back to the story. I was executive assistant to a female CEO of her own company. She was well known and respected in various political, professional and social circles. But please believe me, she was no Oprah. But you couldn’t tell her that. Don’t believe me? Sit back let me tell you a tale.

And Chanel and Marc Jacobs and Dior and...

Ms. Scarlett* (as I liked to call her) and her daughter were taking a trip. Well they get to the airport and flights have been cancelled due to inclement weather. She panics and calls the office. On a Friday. At 5 p.m. When it’s quitting time. On a Friday. Ms. Scarlett informs me that she and her daughter are dressed for beach weather and it’s raining and cold outside. The taxi line is ridiculously long and so they can’t possibly stand and wait. She needs us to call for a car to take her home. Hmmmm…. “But there’s a metro station right in the airport,” I say to her former assistant who played the role of evil, backstabbing chick (think of the red head in the movie) all too well. “Oh honey, Ms. Scarlett does not take the train.” Two snaps and a neck roll. You don’t say? Mayor Bloomberg takes the train and he’s a millionaire. But ok.

Ms. Scarlett continues to freak out, she needs a car, she needs to get home RIGHT NOW! (Oh yes timeout, when she would send angry blackberry messages, she would TYPE IN ALL CAPS SO WE COULD KNOW THAT SHE WAS REALLY, REALLY MAD AT US!!!!) Now wait a minute. Boss lady has parents, a brother and a sister, all of whom live in the area. Couldn’t she call them for a ride? No, that’s too much like right. Hours are passing and night is falling across the city. I’m hungry and in need of a cocktail. We’re calling multiple car and taxi services, but nothing is available because everyone is freaking trying to get out of the airport!! More panic from Ms. Scarlett. More frustration from me and evil, first assistant who begrudgingly agreed to stay and help. Not that I asked her to. Ms. Scarlett suggests that maybe once we get her a taxi, she should get a hotel room nearby. Can we call her connects at the luxury hotels and see if they have anything available or if they will send her a car? What the hell? You haven’t even left the area yet! You live 20 minutes away from the airport! Take the train two stops to the downtown area of the city and then take a cab the rest of the way home. Too simple? Maybe. But it seemed like such the obvious solution. And that is when, right then and there at my desk, I said a prayer to the Lord above that no matter how rich/successful/powerful I ever become, please don’t let me lose all common sense. For real. Amen.

Did Ms. Scarlett eventually get home? Of course she did. We finally got a cab to come get her. But let me just say that the God has a sense of humor part of this story is that Ms. Scarlett’s blackberry had died, and she was using her daughter’s phone, but it had the child protection on it, so it could only receive calls from approved people. Of course Ms. Scarlett did not realize this. And so one cab had come to the airport and had tried to contact Ms. Scarlett when they were outside, but of course she couldn’t answer the phone. So they left. More phone calls to get another cab to come get her. Finally, finally, Ms. Scarlett and her daughter got into the right cab. And I got leave for home around 9 o’clock. Yes, four hours of what I thought and still do believe was unnecessary drama.

Yeah so forget about a foot in the door, my ass barely got a pinkie toe in that bitch. I suppose it’s about wanting something bad enough that you are willing to swallow your pride, suspend common sense and having a life, all to be at the mercy of someone else's whims, needs and requests. And clearly I didn't want it bad enough. Sure deep down I knew that there was a lot to learn from Ms. Scarlett, but I didn’t have it in me to cut through all the crazy to see the possibilities. And so I threw up my deuces the first chance I got. And I've been happy ever since. Except for when the nightmares come...

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

*Names have been changed to protect the crazy

Gotta Get Up

Hey everyone! If you know this song, then come on and sing along with me: I - don’t - want- to- go- to- work- today – I’d rather – stay home – and play – video games – I wanna chillllllllllllll. Bada dada dum. But I gotta get up.

Yeah that song has been on repeat in my mind for the past few weeks. Mainly because I literally can’t get up and get out of bed to go to work. And it’s not that hate my job. I prayed for a new job that would take me out of the hell that was my last job which was the blackface version of The Devil Wears Prada. Oh someday that story will get told.

Anyway. Back to my inability to get up. Out of bed. And onto a crowded train where I have to push people to get out of the door. And into my office where I sit in front of the computer and do mindless work and answer phones and talk to the public and realize that people need to turn off the radio (word up Dead Prez ) and the TV and the internets (but after you read this post) and do some research on their own, or at least read. And for the record Obama cannot pay off Clinton’s debt. Please tell your friends. And call Donnie Simpson and tell him to stop spreading that foolishness.

Anyway. Back to my inability to get up. And stay focused. I can’t figure out what it is. No, actually I can. I, like a majority of people hate to do work. In general. It doesn’t matter that it’s not hard work. It doesn’t matter that it pays well. It doesn’t matter that it will enhance my resume. I don’t want to work for someone else. I don’t want to be confined by walls, stuck in a building while it’s so daggone sunny outside. I don’t want to leave my house in the pouring rain to go to work! All I want to do is lay in bed. Or on the beach. Or sit in a café in Paris. Scratch that I don’t drink coffee. Or go shopping for shoes in Paris. And then look for purses in Milan. And then windsurf off the coast ofAustralia. And then travel to Seychelles. For what? I'm not sure. I don't know what's in Seychelles. Or hit up a bar in the middle of the afternoon. Well actually I could do that, but isn't it a little bit wrong to come back to work tipsy? I'm bringing three-martini lunches back! Yeah! That only worked if you sang it to the tune of the Jtims song...

I know what I’m saying is nothing new. One day while I'm on the train home from a long day of work, I would like to do what I've always dreamed of, stand up on my chair and yell, “WHAT ARE WE WORKING OUR LIVES AWAY FOR?!? SERIOUSLY PEOPLE! SERIOUSLY!” And while Amaretto has brought me down to earth and pointed out that security would quickly carry me away, I know that while they were doing so, even though some people might look at me like I was crazy, a whole lot more people would cheer me on. And then that would be the beginning of the fight, the revolution for European type six week vacations for all Americans! Yes we can! Change we can believe in!

Now I say all this and you might be thinking that I want to work for myself, that once I focus on my passion, I’ll be good. Nope. I don’t even want to do that. I don’t want to be a housewife. I don’t want to be a stay at home mom. I don’t want to start my own company and experience the joy of building it from the ground up and running it. I just want to sit on my ass all day long. Have you ever paid attention to the song from the Wizard of Oz when they arrive at the Emerald City? Probably not. Well they sing, “We get up at 12 and go to work at 1, take an hour lunch and then at 2 we’re done. Jolly good fun! Ha ha ha, ho, ho, ho and a couple of tra la las, that’s how we laugh the day away in the merry ole Land of Oz.” That is what I want, my own personal merry ole Land of Oz. As long as I can wear more than green.

I realize to do this I would have to be wealthy. Which means I would have to work. And even then there’s no guarantee that I’d be wealthy enough to just lay around all day. Yeah that’s such the major a flaw in my plan. Maybe I could marry well. Or hit the lottery. Or find out how many people’s wills I’m in. Ok I know that’s not right. But I just can’t wrap my brain around working for years and years and years. Whether it’s for myself or for someone else. Man, someone should have hipped me to the monotony that is adulthood. Oh well at least there’s a silver lining. IT’S FRIDAY!!!!

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

on the job

Have I told y’all lately how much I love my job? Cause I do, I do, I dooo-oooo. The idea that when you find your passion, getting up every morning and going into the office won’t seem like work at all is SO true.

Most days I’m in a hot smelly jail “multi-purpose room.” Little fruit flies buzzing around. Standing pools of water quite possibly generating malaria in the corner. Talking to people, mostly men, overwhelmingly black men, who have not showered, eaten or brushed their teeth in the last 24 to 48 hours since they’ve been arrested. I already understand the incompetence of management and I've listened as some employees constantly whine and complain about the incompetence of management. I laugh on the inside at the elitist mindsets of the self-righteous white liberal do-gooders who know what’s best for the clients and totally get the local legal system way more than the local judges and attorneys who have been grown up and practiced in this area for more years than many of these people have even been alive.

But I really love the work!

I'm exhilarated at being in the thick of my passion, frustrated at the inequities in the system and the challenges we have to overcome, and optimistic at knowing that I am here, a part of making the system work just a little bit more ______.

The other day, I shadowed one of my colleguges during her morning courtroom duty. Let's call her Donna. She is assigned to Judge Wackadoodle so she goes to court each morning to cover arraignments, parole revocations and whatever else is going on on that morning’s docket to make sure that anyone who is "on" for that day who does not have an attorney or is assigned to an attorney from our office will have representation. Donna warned me that Judge Wackadoodle was a true character. And by "true character" I mean she thinks that she can cure the drug addictions of those folks who come before her by locking them up in jail for a couple days. Yeah....and NO!

Let me paint the picture...

The court reporter calls the next defendants Betty Sue White and Amanda Mae Whiter up to the front. Two lanky white women arise in the back of the courtroom and slowly approach the bench. From the looks of them, they've been lightening it up on the regular for years and undoubtedly took a hit of something within the last 48 hours. Donna gets up, stands beside the two women and informs the judge that the public defender's office represents both women. The prosecutor formally charges both women with something like possession of cocaine or heroin and Donna enters their not guilty pleas.

As the women turn to leave, Judge Wackadoodle asks, are ya’ll using? What ya’ll using? Hmmm, ya'll using huh? Ok, go down and get drug tested and then come back up and let me see what your levels are.

It aint looking good for the ladies.

So Ms. White and Ms. Whiter go down for their drug screens and then come back nervously await their fate. Donna has already told them that Judge Wackadoodle has been known to lock folks up if their drug screens come back too high but the women are confident that the Judge will show mercy.

Finally, Judge Wackadoodle calls the women back up. Ok ladies, let's read the results. Now between O and 300 is somewhat acceptable but Ms. White do you know what your's was?

3000!

Didn't you know you were coming to my court today. And you still used drugs the day before, heck the day of coming to court? Why? Please tell me why?

Of course Ms. White just said she didn't know why she used drugs the day before court. But inside I wanted to scream, CAUSE SHE'S A CRACKHEAD, well an addict is more PC but whatever. She can't help it. She is clearly addicted to drugs. She has a drug problem. She can't stop using. So much so that the threat of getting locked up does not stop her from using. Yet you, crazy Judge, think that sticking her in jail for a day, a week, a month is gonna make her stop? Do you know any one with a chemical dependency Judge? Do you know how hard it is for addicts to kick the habit? Do you know how arbitrary it is to test her for drugs on random court dates? Do you know how rampant substance abuse is among EVERYONE in our society? So much so that I bet one of these prosecutors got high last weekend? Yet because Ms. White has the unfortunate circumstance of living in a neighborhood where police patrol looking for drug users and can't get high behind her gated communities walls like you and your friends can, she's facing a possession charge and is bout to be locked up for gettin high?

Hmmm, yeah I guess you don't. That's why I kept my mouth shut, or I'd be writing this post in my head from behind bars cause I'd be locked up for contempt of court.

But I still love my job...

to protect and serve...who?

I hate the police with a passion. I know hate is a strong word but they really just annoy the hell outta me, how bout that. I’ve yet to run across a cool police officer who I would want to be friends with, ask directions of, and God forbid I needed one to actually help me out of danger. I’d be SOL for real. I don’t know what it is about a uniform and a badge that makes the mf’er behind them act soooo cocky, smug, and all-around arrogant.

On the new job, I come in contact with sheriff’s deputies, court officers and police folk on the regular. And after only 3.5 days at it, I can say with confidence that my disdain for all manner of officers has grown by leaps and bounds in this short time. This morning I so wanted to punch one in the face for making me ruin my most beautifulist, favorite suit of all time.

What had happened was this…

Each morning and afternoon, I attend bond hearings at the jail. My colleagues and I interview people who have been locked up in the last few hours to see if they qualify for our services and also to help get their bonds set as low as possible so their families can bail them out. Usually when we arrive at “the detention room”, the officers have not yet brought out the clients so we wait around and shoot the breeze until they come in. The officers will try to make conversation as if they’re human and we’ll try to be socialable while avoiding eye-contact.

Now at yesterday’s afternoon hearings, we arrived to find that the detention room was going to be the set of some movie in the near future. The Dirty South: America’s Most Disgusting Prisons. Ok, yeah I made that up but it works if you saw this place. Anyway, in preparation for filming, a crew was painting the ceiling of the detention room yesterday. So this morning when we arrived, the ceiling looked to be completed.

Once the clients were brought in, we go about our business, interviewing them trying to get everything done before the judge comes on. I’d finished with my two interviews and headed to the front to help organize the client folders and take care of last minute paperwork. As I leaned away from this little stage platform thingy, I realized realize that gray paint had now attached itself to my beloved seersucker suit. THE uniform of the southern lawyer.

Awww hell naw!

And as I turned around, the officers in the back laughed (literally laughed out loud) at my predicament. Apparently they were waiting for us unsuspecting fools to fcuk up our clothes against the wet paint. All told, they got a good laugh out of 4 people from my office before I put up a bootleg wet paint sign. And of course as we’re leaving out at the end of the hearings, one of the officers says, how bout that paint eh? I got it all over me yesterday. Snicker snicker.

Bastard. Would putting up a sign have been to much to ask of your ice-cold soul?

I hate cops!

p.s. any tips on getting latex paint outta cotton?

why are you still single?

At a recent birthday dinner for a law school classmate of mine I stumbled upon the answer to why some black women who make six figures might be single.* Let me explain.

the place: A cute jamaican restaurant/lounge in the city where working class and professional black folks come after work to get a bite to eat, unwind and maybe meet a cutie or two.

the company: 5 black women, all young associates at corporate law firms in the city.

the characters: "The birthday girl" - late 20s married. "Ms." - on the verge of 30, been dating a guy who she complains about on the daily for the past few years. "Lauren from the black Hills" - late 20s single wanna be BAP doing way too much to seem high class and always ballin outta control. and "lil Pumped (full of water)" so named cause she's gained the first year associate 15 and then some eating way too many free late night dinners at the office also single mid 20s. and mint julep of course, but you already know me.

The birthday girl, being the happily boo'ed up black woman that she is, proceeds to ask the rest of us woefully (to her) un-boo'ed up black women at the table so how's the love life ladies? Any prospects?

*collective sigh*

Ms. throws out a cursory, oh Boo gets on my damn nerves and were gonna break up any minute now. For real, ya'll. Mint julep thinks, Yea Ms. we heard that shit before.

Lil Pumped: ughh I'm done

Lauren: I'm so over the whole thing. Enough!

mint julep: Well I for one am single and actively looking. and in my head i think: done? over it? stop playin bitches. mint julep aint goin down without a fight...i loves me some d... errr... never mind, tmi. instead i continued, ladies ladies it can't be that bad out there can it. There are good men! My homeboy, who happens to be once such good man, says he goes out all the time and never sees black women like us out. He told me black women oughta come out more. You know what I really wanna know? Where do all the good girls go? What club they be at? (c) Andre 3000

Lauren: where does he go? we try to all get together but someone always has to work late and can't commit to come out or cancels at the last minute because of work.

mint julep (in my head): Uhhhhh.... (1) we don't have to all go out together in a gang on the prowl and (2) tis why I giveth not a fucketh about my job because I will cut out on the work shit to go out and meet some men.

And when I replayed this convo over in my head the next day, I picked up on a collective theme, partly from the words spoken and partly from what I know about these women. like how they hardly ever go out except to the occasional birthday lunch/dinner, how they live in outrageously expensive apartments (it's the city, but still), buy fantabulous outfits, take trips with the girls and spend all kinds of money on hotels and dinners, and have basically washed there hands of being about the business of getting out there and meeting new men. they've given up before the race has even started. but i say contrary to popular belief, the 20s are when we should be out there meeting folks and enjoying life. that's what my mama did and she didn't have me till she was 34.

yeah i know times have changed. and in some interesting ways. from my humble perspective, these women are content with their money and their suckey jobs. they've made it in the traditional sense, making 6 figures, can live any where and go any place and buy any thing they want. so what could a man bring to their lives? they got they girls who are also single (or unhappily boo'ed up) and their nieces and nephews and their careers. hell, there aint no good men out there any way so why bother?

shhhhiiiitttt! i'm sorry, i like my friends, i like women but I NEED the comfort of a man (c) stephanie mills. i need a man up and through the mix sometimes, i need a deep bass voice, a husky laugh to give me that tingle up my spine.

of course, the ladies at the table laughed and smirked at my single and actively lookin comment.

mint julep (in my head): just keep laughing, especially when i send ya'll the wedding invite!

*this post is limited to my experiences with a small pool of black women who make six figures. miss me with the "oh stop generalizing" comments. thanks!

Steady on the grind...

It goes nine to the noon
Break
One to the five
Everybody say: wake up, work, sleep.

-Office Manager’s Anthem, The Remnant, aka my Morehouse brother and his friends

So I’ve been in the workforce for a whole two years. And I’m tired already. I mean, I'm wo' out. Ok before you think that I’ve never worked a day in my life, by workforce I mean a 9-5, gotta commute to work on the train at the same time as everybody else, get a real lunch break, an office (Praise Him!) and benefits job.

Prior to joining the workforce, I was a waitress and a bartender. I usually worked the night shift, which left me with mornings of watching Golden Girls, afternoons of going to the post office and the grocery store with the old people and days off in the middle of the week. Ahhhh the good life. But for appearances sake, (and my resume) I finally grew up and joined the workforce. And I don’t hate it. But I’m tired. Why? Because I have my own dreams and aspirations and it seems like there are not enough hours in the day.

For the first time in my life I am doing something for me. I have a dream that is all mine, and it’s not something that my parents “encouraged” me to do or instilled in me, like going to college or working. It’s what I want to do. And I want to see it to the finish line. But there’s fear. Which I’m working to overcome. There’s doubt. Which I’m not letting stop me. And there are not enough hours in the day. Which I have no control of.

I have two major goals for 2008, actually I have a slogan: Getting tight and committed to write. So, in layman’s terms, workout (consistently) and write my novel. Well it’s almost April and I’m proud to report: so far, so good. I’ve been doing boot camp at 5:30 in the morning and I am taking an African dance class with my sights on starting yoga in April. I am taking two writing classes and trying to become a more disciplined writer. I am steady on the grind. And I’m exhausted.

Cause did I mention that I also have to go to work? For 9+ hours a day. And be on time. And do work, work to get paid. And still find energy to do what I want to do. And volunteer at church. And make time to have some fun with friends. And get my eyebrows and toes done on the regular. And try to read this, so I can really start making moves. And try to find a husband. Oh wait that’s right, I’m supposed to be working on me, and my husband will come. I forgot. So, scratch that last part. But dang it, I still got lots to do!

In the song Office Manager’s Anthem (song quoted above), they also say, “clock in, you’re missing the best part of the day, clock out, your dreams get farther and farther away.” That pretty much sums up my feelings about where I am right now in life. Now that I’ve officially committed myself to accomplishing these two major tasks, it’s like now the possibility of completion seems wayyyy over there, like way past yonder and I’m wayyyy on the other side, looking through some binoculars, like I gotta go where? All the way over there? And I'm supposed to get there with just this flashlight and a compass? Lawd! And I feel like I’m making moves but am I moving? How long is this going to take? (Ok, yeah I know I really just got started-but I’m still wondering) And what if it doesn’t even work? I could be “mad” with no one but myself.

For the first time in my adult life, I am throwing everything I got into something, and for me this is a where the rubber meets the road type situation right 'chere. And I’m nervous. And I’m excited. And I’m hesitant. And I’m steadily moving. And I’m exhausted. And I’m slowly settling into (but not loving) the fact that I’m officially in the real world. Shriek! But since I know I’m not a behind the desk, in somebody’s office type for the next 30 years, I’m trying to pursue my own dreams. Squeal! And then shriek! And then deep breath. One day at a time, I remind myself. There are only 24 hours in the day. And I have to make time to work and sleep. But what I do with what’s left of that time is up to me. And I’m starting to see every extra hour as a blessing, and I’m learning not to let this time squander. Cause dammit, I got goals to attain! Steady on the grind…

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday