Brave New World

Immortal Beloved Show, Photo by Alexis Glenn

I honestly can't explain how surreal my life has become in a short amount of time. Back in April, I had just taken a break from the blog because my medication wasn't working and I was struggling just to function. Then I went on a whirlwind road trip to Boston, NYC and Washington, D.C. with my friend Dorothy -- right after getting out of the hospital, of all places, and flung myself right back out into the world, sink or swim.

I have to admit. I'm a little surprised.

More after the jump.

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A Season of Dressing Like Crap

For most of my life I've considered myself to be a pretty decent dresser except for that dark period known as "the last four years." Some people dress bad because they don't know any better, others are being "ironic," some are anti-fashion, some dress for comfort only and then there was me -- someone who took "dressing like crap" as a big, giant "fuck off" sign to anyone who dared to try to make eye contact.

For four years I didn't want to be pretty or funny or bubbly or friendly. I was angry. So I dressed angry. And sloppily. And like I didn't give a shit. Because I didn't. But now, for whatever reason -- perhaps those meds finally kicked in -- I'm back to wanting to be pretty and girlie and fashionable.

That's part of the reason why I write about clothes and hair so much because I just didn't care for so long. I was rebelling against ... well, nothing actually. I just knew I didn't want to be bothered and I wasn't bothered for a very, very long time.

Of course caring about what you look like comes with its own baggage. Like now I have to budget things I used to ignore, like the dreaded hair salon. I went on a mission to find a stylist who could do my hair in a reasonable amount of time. I could not and would not spend all day in a salon. I can understand it taking nearly four hours to twist up my hair when it's natural, but a friggin' blow out and flat iron shouldn't take seven damn hours. Fortunately, I discovered New York New York Hair Design here in St. Louis and stylist Debra Small who got me in and out and "fabulous" in two hours.

I honestly don't understand why more salons like hers don't get with the program and get more efficient in how they budget time. Time management is usually the main issue I have with most salons. There have been times I've shown up, on time, and been told I had a three hour wait and to come back. I mean, if I made an appointment at 3 p.m. I'd like to be seen somewhere around 3 p.m. My time is valuable to me. I have other things I need to do. What's the point in making an appointment that no one is going to honor? Debra was ready for me the minute I got there. There was zero wait. She did my hair without going into the whole "don't you want a perm" speech. (I've met more stylists who look at my natural hair like it is a foreign object. I mean, you'd think black people would know how to do black hair, but shockingly, that is not always the case.) She was highly knowledgeable about natural hair and came with tons of tips and advice.

As for clothes, that was another story. Why clothing stores can't agree on what a size 16 is drives me nuts. Like a lot of women, I'm bottom-heavy. My rear and hips are way larger than my waist which makes pants near impossible to buy. I go to one store and I wear a size 16-18 in pants. I go to another and I'm a 22. Plus sizes are more like guessing than actual sizes and Lane Bryant has this magical way of making me feel like a whale (even though I'll occasionally like some of their clothes). This was probably another reason why I stopped caring how I dressed for so long. I'd gained weight and didn't feel attractive. After I lost some of it, just like that, clothes didn't seem as terrifying anymore. Since then I've been a bargain fashion hunter.

I think depression had A LOT to do with how I dressed. Who feels like looking cute when inside you're miserable? I dressed how I felt and I felt horrid. My hair was constantly one step from becoming matted because I wore it in the same pulled back scarf/headband combo everyday. I wore tennis shoes with everything and black was the primary color in my wardrobe. It was a stark contrast from the bright colors and great care in being overly matching I did in high school, or my discovery of how to dress like "a woman" once I got to college.

Now I don't think fashion is the end all, be all. Clothes are just that, clothes. To me it's still far more important as to what's going on in your head that what's on your back. But clothes are a form of self-expression and I'm glad my expression is now that of a happy and healthy person, not of a moody, malcontent.

Talking While Someone Sings "Can You Woo Woo Woo" Very Loudly Is Hard

Alderwoman Kacie Starr-Triplett and myself at her fundraiser."You were acting like you were shy!" complained my BFF Tiffany.

Tiffany, who has known me since high school, knows that I am not a shy person, but I did feel rather awkward at Tuesday night's Fun-D-Raiser for St. Louis sixth ward alderwoman, Kacie Starr-Triplett. Everyone was nice. I actually knew a few people there besides my friend, her hubby and my sister who came with me. I felt amazingly adorable in my outfit, so confidence wasn't the problem. It was just so hard to talk to people when you can't hear them. The band was awesome, but loud, making all my conversations sound like the teacher from Charlie Brown.

Also, unlike in say, back east, where it delightfully meant something to be "The Black Snob," I have no kind of rep at all in St. Louis. (Although I was told by someone that might be a GOOD thing.) I mostly got some blinks and polite smiles upon telling people I was a freelance journalist and blogger. The highlight of the whole evening came at the very beginning when I ran into my old co-worker/friend, David, from The Bakersfield Californian who now works for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He was just driving by the restaurant and we ended up having a convo, catching up, in the middle of traffic. Love that guy. He was always a good sport about all my ribbing.

That said, the food was awesome and Kaci was as tall, gracious and lovely as ever. She's a great person with a bright future in STL politics. The restaurant, Smoking Joes at 1901 Washington Ave., was gorgeous and I told the owner I would be back. Maybe I'll drag Big Sis out again or Baby Snob. I think Baby would like the place A LOT. Maybe we'll go back on Friday when they have live music.

Anyway. My shoes were awesome and my hair looked nice and that's really all that matters, right?

The Black Snob Goes Back On The (Meet) Market

A few years back I went on dating strike. It wasn't that I was upset with men. (I love you all appropriately.) It was more that I was really angry and in no position to be dating anyone. I'd gotten out of a bad, long-term relationship with the starter husband and was ready to lay waste to anyone who dared to look upon me. But now, after mellowing, learning, loving and some self-discovery I have finally stamped myself with the label "No Longer Too Angry To Date." Meaning ... Lawd, I'm going back out there again.

Out there is out into the big wide world of menfolk in search of someone to spend time with. Out there can be fun (Yay! I love going to the zoo!) or horrifying (Boo! All you want to talk about is your stupid car.) But it's worth it. (I think.) The only frustrating thing about all this is that I have been off-market/on strike for so long (about five years), that I no longer remember how to do things like flirt. It also dawned on me that I'd woefully "let myself go."

After all, me, all Z-Phi n' cowrie shell adorable pre-starter husband glory:

And now, me in a too small jacket post-starter husband, circa 2005:

I'm not even the same person! Who is that chubby woman with the terrible highlights!?

Anyway. I'm slowly rediscovering that I actually don't like looking like crap, have lost 10 more pounds to add to the 40 lbs I lost last year and remembered that I enjoy being pretty. Who knew? I've also learned that giving up is not an option or excuse. Sure. Sweatpants were a great buffer to scare off anyone who dared to flirt with me, but I needed to go back to my closet and get back to dressing like I give two shits.

Now, I did attempt to date last year, but found that I had forgotten how to A) flirt and B) express my interest or disinterest properly. Basically, I'm a rust bucket of emotions. I do a lot of blank stares and "huhs." I plan on going to an event tonight where men may actually be in attendance to do some practice flirting (God, this sounds sad) as well as some networking. So, um, I ask of you ...? Tips? Suggestions? I'm NOT tossing my hair and giggling like a 16-year-old and I refuse to be pushy or blunt. There must be SOME subtle form of cute communication I can use. God, what did I used to do? Touch a guy's arm and say funny things?

Well. At least I have my list of what NOT to do ready:

1. Don't mention awful starter husband.

2. Don't mention not knowing how to flirt.

3. Don't mention not dating for almost five years.

4. Don't be bitter.

5. Don't get drunk.

I think I'm good. And I'll take pictures so I can share this all with you if it goes well. And ... I'll tell you about it anyway even if it doesn't.

Fear of Commitment (To A Hairstyle)

I have never been able to decide between "curly" and "straight." Even when I had a relaxer I still would spend hours putting my head in spiral curls longing for the natural look. Obviously as a wee Snob I rocked the 'fro. Then as I came of age my mother attacked me with the pressing comb. Eventually I graduated to chemical straighters at 13, but quit them cold turkey at 22. I chopped off all my hair and went au natural. But after going curly I found myself wanted to see my hair straight at times. So it was back to the pressing comb. I've had a ton of other hairstyles not pictured in-between curly and straight (braids, cornrows, dreds, an afro, twists, spiral locks, a bob, etc.) but I mostly flit between long and pressed straight or short and curly.

I have no idea what's my best look. The best picture I ever took is that one on the right bottom corner with my hair nice, natural and curly. But I just recently had the mane pressed straight and cut (because the ends were gnarly and my hair looked disastrous), and I'm once again smitten by rocking a long swishy ponytail. (Which I am as I type this morning.)

My hair is the one thing I will admit to absolute vanity about. I have hair complexes. So many complexes the complexes have complexes. Years of everyone making a fuss over it, including yours truly, have caused me to tie about 80 percent of my appearance into my hair. If my hair looks cute I think I'm gorgeous. If it looks bad, I think I look horrendous. There's no in-between. No matter how embarrassing I enjoy the attention I get for it. Although I do get annoyed by the hair fetishes of some menfolk. Nothing is worse that a dude who acts like long straight hair is magical then whines when he finds out the magic happens with a lot of moisturizer and a doo-rag. I am not white. This shit does not do this by happenstance, Mr. I Wanna Girl With Swishy But Non-Oily Hair. And I refuse to get another perm so you'll have to live with me occasionally smelling like someone set a jar of Dudley's on fire.

My mother enjoys attacking me with a pressing comb from time to time because, bless her heart. She kinds of hates the natural. She loves me, but she always thought my hair looked better straight. The constant lie she would repeat was "It's easier to maintain." Um. No. I have a ton of hair. It's a bitch no matter what I do with it. Unless I rock a baldy, this shizz is going to be work. The reality is she gave birth to a child with a lot of hair. Fell in love with it and how it looked and can't bear to see it any other way than straight. It just "looks better" in her opinion. I'm poor and she'll chastise me for a 99 cent Blockbuster Video rental, but will encourage a $70 visit to the salon. She's got a bad hip and if I so much as look like I'm going to flat iron it, she runs and heats up the hot comb for old times sake. She was enraptured seeing my hair as it is currently in those top three photos. Her hair work from when I was a tyke had return to her in all its straight glory. Hilarious.

It'll be an afro again in two weeks. Hope she takes a lot of pictures.

Tales From A Multi-Culti Life: The Fetishizer

Years ago when I was still living in California I was having lunch with a "black-curious" friend of mine. I say "black-curious" as unlike my other non-black friends she had some weird psycho-sexual obsession with black people.

At the time, I'd brushed it aside as a mild curiosity, but that lunch really put into perspective the difference between someone fascinated with black culture and someone who just really wants to fuck a black person so bad they can taste it.

I should have known something was wrong early on when I noticed this friend could not say no to a black man, any black man, it seemed. Not her trainer. Not her borderline verbally abusive friend. Not the strangers she met on the street. This was a woman who was otherwise assertive and all too in control of her life. So I was shocked when I would learn of how she would pretty much let a guy disrespect her if he happened to also be black.

Then came that conversation about the first time she went to Washington, D.C.

FRIEND: I got off the bus and I saw all these beautiful black men EVERYWHERE! They were all so gorgeous.

ME: Mmm hmm.

FRIEND: I mean, their long, sinewy muscles and white teeth and God damn, black men are gorgeous. Don't you think they are just beautiful?

At this point, it all clicked for me what she was doing, and I gave her the following response.

ME: Well, yes, but I mean, my dad is a black man and so are my uncles and cousins and friends. Black men are just men to me.

I wanted to add "AND NOT MAGICAL SEXUAL BEASTS!" But I didn't. Between Hottentot Vensuses and Big Black Mandigo Bucks, I just didn't feel like going down black hyper-sexuality lane with her no matter how much she wanted to go there. It goes without saying we fell out of touch and I don't think she ever figured out my point. That I'm a person, not the personification of your sexual taboos and fantasies.

Keep it in the pants, please.

Do you have a good story, a funny story, a sad story, a bad story about life in a multicultural world? Share it with us on The Snob! Just email your tale at blacksnob@gmail.com.

Poem: I Miss You (2004)

I miss cornrows and cornbread
Nappy heads, tender headed become hard head
And them ends were dead
Because you put in the perm too long
Can’t grow long
Got a weave from Koreans and its strong
Got a Now-Later and it last all day long
In the middle of my pickle, throat tickle
From the trickle of the juice
He only drinks 40 proof
Rolls joints till he goes poof
Like puff the magic dragon
Days drag on, summer’s endless
Season change like skin tone
From dark to light, dark to light
Can’t stay out past 10 most nights
Better be in before you see the street light
I miss jacks, gum packs and hot wheel tracks
Click-clacks, Thundercats and Miss Mary Mack
All dressed in black with the buttons down her back
Hair straight, ass fat
Wearing one glove like Mike
Jerry Curl with a wiffle bat
And a 10-speed bike
At school pledge allegiance to the USA and MLK
Booker T and JFK
Heroes got shot down
Boy next door got shot down
Now he’s up state doing a bid
He cry, she cry
Cause she’s starting to get big, gonna have his kid
Said he didn’t mean to do what he did
Daddy ran all the mannish boys away
In the backyard my Mama told me to stay
Can’t walk on streets without sidewalks
It was the 80s, wish I could make like Flock of Seagulls and run so far away
Sister, all she does is Talk Talk, she wants her MTV
Wants her BET
We dance the Robocop, we hip hop, we Planet Rock
Daddy says when I go out I’m not just repping myself but repping 30 mil black folks strong
I’m only 6, now I’m 26, that shit still sounds wrong
Got my people on my back
I spend a lot of time looking at the ground
Hump so high they call me Quasimodo
Chasing me around with books, got my head in books
People give me dirty looks, cause being Einstein ain’t cool
Ain’t shit about me cool
And nobody likes me, but I gotta represent
We ain’t all ignorant
We ain’t all degenerates
We ain’t all arrogant
I’m going to college, gonna get a degree
We ain’t all miscreants
We ain’t all belligerent
And I’m so innocent
I believe all this shit
I’m gonna save the world by acing Algebra
They gotta accept us now
Anything the white kid can do I can do ten times better
Not because I want to, but because I have to
Daddy says that it’s true
Ain’t nobody gonna help pull us up
You gotta be tough
I just want love
Maybe love I’ll get
If I can keep the whole ship from going down
If I don’t drown
Though they turn their back on me
The pain will go away with age like acne
At least that’s what my mama said
Say my prayers before I go to bed
And if I die before I wake
I pray the Lord my people he’ll take
And save them from themselves
So I don’t have to do this shit by myself

I don’t want to go to school anymore
So I bust it out and graduate in three
Kids drop out, kids quituate
I got my four year degree
Went to the graduation, saw my family in the stands
I’d just straightened my hair
I looked out in the crowd for anyone
But there wasn’t a brown face there
Didn’t want to believe that this was the plan
Me versus “the Man”
I ain’t the US military and this ain’t no army of one
Still I’m done
My friends cheer me on
Say they ain’t gonna do shit but, me, I gotta future
They tell me to represent, I’m gone
If I make it, it’s like they made it
Even though that shit didn’t occur
Took the walk in 99 and I walked alone
Took the job in the double-o and I worked alone
Moved to Cali in 02 and I lived alone
All the blacks turned to Mexicans, I’m all alone
No more Mama jokes, no more rap songs
No more college, no more sororities
No more gospel, no more spirituals
It’s just me
And I just want to know
Where the fuck did everyone else go
Life picked them all off like flies
Shot for the skies, fell some place between hell and shit
Why did they get to quit
And I had to slug on
Why’d they get to get gone
And I’m still holding on with Barbie and Ken
Dating white men cause I haven’t met a single brother who didn’t have a record in four years
Silent eyes watching waiting on me to fail
And I’m in some limbo, racial hell
But I made it to 25, I’m still alive
I talk right, but can still talk jive
Dress like a herb and drink with the girls at the dive
Own a bunch of cats and only cry on the inside
Mama never said joining the struggle meant struggle of one
Best and brightest and now I’m a one woman revolution
Warm up my dinner in the microwave
Time to take the cat to get spayed
Sew that shit up, salt the earth so it never grows back
And keep to myself that I miss being black

Forever Young

If my generation won't mature and the Boomers won't grow up, who's going to be the adult around here?

I still remember the awkwardness of it, the overall feeling of wanting to take a shower ... or vomit. It wasn't so much from the repulsion, as I was repulsed, but it was the feeling of betrayal and surprise. I was 18 and in college. Adults had always been my mentors and friends, guides and caretakers. I was not prepared for a world where people who looked and were the same age as my parents and grandparents would lustfully leer at me without shame. I definitely wasn't prepared to be seen as a sexual object by someone who I'd admired and saw as a father figure, but somehow I found the strength to politely decline his offer and walk away without throwing up on his shoes.

More after the jump.

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Happy Daddy Issues Day

Whether you have a father in your life or not doesn't spare you from "Daddy Issues."

I think everyone has them whether their father was home every night for dinner like mine or a ghost who wanted nothing to do with their kids. It's just unavoidable. The severity of the issues depends on the father.

My father is a good father. He worked hard, he held down a great job, we were always well taken care of and had everything we could ever need. But he is also emotionally withholding and stoic. He's the strong, silent-type, which is both a good thing and a bad thing. All my childhood I've been obsessed with getting him to do the one thing he can't -- open up.

More after the jump.

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My East Coast Tour (Slideshow)

Photos from New York and Washington, D.C.

See all the pictures from my trip, including the Boston shots, here. Will post individual stories from the trip about the photos throughout the week!

Another slideshow after the jump!

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The Bubble Tea That Almost Killed Me (But Not Really)

It looked so innocent and delicious, but yesterday as I was drinking this yummy strawberry bubble tea it tried to take me out when one of the beads of yogurt became lodged in what I think was my trachea. (It was like choking, but I could still breathe.) I kept trying to swallow, but it wouldn't move from its spot. Finally I figured out it was stuck in the "air hole," not the "food hole" and began coughing to get that sucker dislodged and moving on to my tummy.

I'm fine, but for two seconds I was highly perplexed, wondering, (while still breathing fine, mind you) if I could die by Bubble Tea and what a lame freakin' death that would be.

"Black Blogger Dead By Bead In Bubble Tea" is not a cool headline.

Oprah's Mane Versus Mine

It's ridiculous. See video of Oprah talking about her natural hair here.

Danielle, Dorothy and Lindy's $8 Sierra Mists

Really. $8 friggin' dollars. And the $20 sandwiches came without fries.

We had lunch at Ray's Pizza instead. Soda was $1.75 there.

My First New York Meal

Breakfast of Champion (Bloggers)