Archive | June, 2012

Somebody That I Used To Know, the ICSWSS Remix.

30 Jun

Let’s say that there was a person you used to know – shout out to Gotye – and hadn’t seen in, oh, 15 years or so. You always found this person to be very attractive, and very tall, and very dangerous, and very interesting, but nothing exciting ever happened between you and this person for reasons that now seem so stupid, like you already having a boyfriend or being scared because you’d heard lots of sexy and wild things about this person or being very concerned about maintaining your reputation as a ‘good girl’. You certainly had your chance with this person, if your memory serves you correctly. (Sometimes you worry if it does, because things like the thing about to be described happened so long ago and don’t really happen anymore, unless you count marriage proposals from homeless and/or elderly men.) The way you remember things, this person expressed their desire for you from a payphone at the Long John Silver’s across the street from your dorm room after the two of you watched Master P’s “I’m Bout It”. This person offered to let you wear their leather jacket because you were chilly and said that you could hang on to it for as long as you liked. This person was hurt when you kindly (you hope) but firmly turned them down because you were loyal to your boyfriend, a boy who would grow up to be a confidence-shattering, lie-telling asshole that you will end up moving to a terrible place for.

After turning down the person that you used to know, you’d run into him every so often, usually when you were with some new and awful boyfriend. This person would make it clear that he still held a torch for you, but you’d just sigh and shake your head, thinking you’d always be thin and hot and have funky asymmetrical haircuts and wear brown matte lipstick. Then a time would come when you didn’t see this person anywhere. It was like this person had dropped off the face of the Earth. That was probably lucky for you, since in the 15 years after you last saw this very attractive, very tall, very dangerous, very interesting person, you managed to gain lots of weight and become super neurotic and discover lip gloss.

You recently became aware of this person’s existence again through social media, but were too embarrassed and proud to request his friendship. Based on the pictures you could see, this person was still very attractive, very tall, very dangerous, very interesting, and now, very married. You continue on your way, showing the world all the reasons why you’re single, until you discover that this person not only is very good friends with your very good friends, but has recently become single again. So, you take a deep breath and muster up your courage and send this person a friendly message. This person responds and sends you a friend request, while you panic about all the pictures that show that you are no longer the slim and trim girl with a sleek page-boy bob that he used to know. The friendly messages continue until they suddenly don’t, and you shrug and think “That was nice while it lasted.” You know that there’s a slim chance you might run into this person at some point since he’s very good friends with your very good friends, but you figure you’ll have plenty of time (and plenty of warning) to pull yourself together before that happens.

Your very good friends are very excited to learn that you know the person that you used to know. They think that this person is a wonderful person and that it’d be awfully cute if you and this person were reunited and a spark was still there. Even if the spark has been long extinguished, they think it’d be a very good idea for you and this person to become friends. You remind your very good friends that you don’t look anything like the girl who this person used to have a boo thang for and they tell you that same old lie that looks aren’t the only thing that matter and anyway, you’re still beautiful. Your very good friends want you to come to the beach where they have weekly family barbeques because who knows, maybe this person will be there! They want you to come this Friday, in fact. You ask repeatedly if this person is going to be there, and you’re repeatedly told that this person will probably not, as he has a child to care for and has never been to the beach barbecue before. They will warn you, say your very good friends, when this person will be making an appearance so you can buy a new dress and go to the gym that day and do something with your hair.

Friday rolls around and you wash your hair, but spend too much time playing “The Hunger Games Adventures” as it dries and it grows into an untamable ball of frizz. Eh, but this person won’t be there, so what’s it matter? You decide against the very pretty dress and high heels and opt for your own personal oxymoron: the baggy skinny jeans. You go to the beach with frizz-ball hair, pants that fit like and are about as flattering as a soggy diaper, and some random shirt you found on the floor because you don’t know how to be casual and this is your best attempt. But, you have not a care in the world, because this is a beach barbecue! You’re going to drink wine! You’re going to eat too much! You’re going to play with little children! You’re going to run right smack into the person that you used to know because he’s sitting on the deck!

Because spontaneous combustion is not an option, you spin around in an awkward circle and throw yourself down onto the nearest seat, somehow believing that if you can just stay there all night, you won’t have to face the person that you used to know while looking like an insulting parody of the awkward sixth grade version of yourself, only much, much larger. You come to your senses and eventually greet him with The World’s Stiffest Hug and proceed to ignore him for the rest of the night whilst simultaneously drawing attention to yourself with your loud squawking and generally bizarre behavior. Eventually, the person that you used to know leaves, giving you another hug on his way out, during which you’re certain you were able to hit him in the face with your shoulder. You spend the rest of the evening reliving the night’s humiliation, being teased by your very good friends, and receiving dating advice from adorable 18-year-olds who are far more experienced than you are.

You head home, listening to the classical music station because all of the songs with words in them manage to remind you of the person that you used to know and how you’re absolutely covered in lame sauce. You tell yourself you won’t log on to the social media site to see if maybe the person that you used to know finally responded to your last message by declaring that he still thinks you’re beautiful and would still let you wear his leather jacket for as long as you liked and wants to know why you were so shy but admits that he found the bits of your loud conversations that he did hear to be hilarious, but you do, and you have no new messages.

So you throw your poopie diaper jeans on the floor in anger, wishing you had bought them a size smaller, and hoping that you can shrink them in the dryer. You go to bed without doing anything with your frizzy hair and are proud of not crying one single tear about how socially inept you are, until you wake up the next day and relay the pitiful tale to a friend all the while salty discharge leaks from your eyeballs. After the crying subsides, you find the one bright spot in yet another murky tale from your life: you now have something to write about for your blog that has already significantly dropped in popularity since its inception only three days ago, which is sort of a good thing, as it practically guarantees that the person that you used to know will never read this entry.

Until you find out he does.

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I spell ‘sexy’ A-W-K-W-A-R-D.

28 Jun

God, I was such a sexy child.

From the ages of two to seven, I was serving fierceness on a platter of seduction. I had a male pediatrician and when it was time for a check-up, I couldn’t wait to strut into the exam room in either my strawberry or blueberry halter-top sundress. I knew that dress accentuated my figure the best out of any of my ensembles and was an automatic conversation starter. “Oh Ambrosia, what a beautiful dress!” my doctor would say. “And it’s covered in strawberries/blueberries! Do you like strawberries/blueberries? They are so good for you!” I’d be under the exam table, luring him in with a flirtatious game of “Hide and Seek”, coyly nodding my head, the beads and barrettes in my hair that perfectly matched my outfit click-clacking away. I’d play shy and ever so slightly hike up my dress in that way that little girls do, but I’m sure I did it as a silent signal to show him that my mother had taken special care to Vaseline my knees, just for him. And probably for me. I’m sure it’s every black woman’s nightmare to have an ashy child, especially in front of “mixed company”. The judgments on her parenting would be heard across the land!  Her tombstone would read “Here lays Ambrosia’s mother, who could not be bothered to properly lotion up her child before a doctor’s appointment, no less. And the doctor was WHITE. Mmm-hmm.”

I made sure to accentuate my sexiness with the height of 1980’s fashion accessories. I had a pink and black cross-body bag, covered in Playboy Bunnies. The logo of the rabbit wearing a bow-tie, not actual naked ladies. Please, I would put those bitches to shame with my white opaque pantyhose and black patent leather Mary Janes. I wore that joint everywhere, with every outfit. I knew before anybody that pink was the new black and that my embrace of a controversial brand was a sign to all that I was a progressive woman of our time. I would rock bikini tops and short-shorts in the summertime. Was my body bikini ready? Nope. Did I care? I looked high and low and could not find one single fu*k to give. My belly was round and brown and glorious. It hung just-so over my short-shorts with the cherry appliques (You see the ongoing fruit theme? I knew what I was doing.). I was a body-acceptance activist before it was mainstream. And I was fly.

Fast forward 25 years or so, and I’m pretty sure the circa-1980’s me would be giving current me some major side-eye. I mean, I’m not really aiming for sexy, usually, but that natural je ne sais quoi that oozed from my pre-pubescent pores seems to have dried up. I got glasses – big, Sally Jesse Raphael-looking mothertruckers – in the third grade which I think may have put a cap on the animal magnetism I had previously and so effortlessly exuded. I’d like to channel the sexy kid me. She was pretty dope. She put on elaborate variety shows at the drop of a hat and demanded her audiences’ attention, dammit! Her go-to facial expression for candid and casual pictures was a look that screamed “I can’t with you”. She had men of all ages vying for her attention and being very free and easy with their sugar-free chewing gum and breath mints. She wore lace and drank ginger ale from a cocktail glass, with a tiny straw, while on a Caribbean cruise. She’d probably have serious reservations about my Natural hair and acceptance of the leggings trend, though eventually, I think I’d get her to sign off on at least the hair. If I could learn to be more like Sexy Kid Ambrosia, I might have less of a reason to have a blog that documents the various ways one can see why I’m single. I think I know where I should start:

How much do you think a pink and black cross-body Playboy bag goes for nowadays?

Super Smart.

28 Jun

Interested in a synopsis of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina? You are, because it’s going to be a movie and The Intellectual Elite reads books before they become movies and you want to be a part of The Intellectual Elite and eat mesclun and quinoa and drink nasty-ass coconut water and claim you’re really torn about voting for Obama again because Jon Stewart offered some stark criticisms about his administration on that episode of “The Daily Show” you DVR’d because you were out hiking in your new Vibram FiveFingers. You want to read this classic because Oprah told you to YEARS ago and you want to be able to properly snark on Keira Knightley’s horse-toothed and extremely bony performance, but you’re intimidated by the fact that that junk is 742 pages long, including a motherf’ing glossary of Russian words and ain’t nobody got time for that. Fear not, for I can sum up Anna for you in three words (You should probably know that I did not read said book myself, but I did open it, flip through the pages, roll my eyes and loudly suck my teeth at its length, and then read the almost equally long synopsis on Wikipedia. I’m a lot of things and that includes honest.):

Bitches be trippin’.

You’re welcome.

I’ve gone and done it now.

27 Jun

Oh, hi. I said I wouldn’t do it, but I’ve done it. I’ve started a blog. Who wants to be responsible for deleting it should I face an untimely death? Don’t all volunteer at once.