Although I enjoy the perks of the current situation, the minuses far outweigh the pluses. I do not work for YOU. And I would appreciate if you would stop speaking to me as though I do. You have already crossed the line by going to my real boss and telling her that you feel like you’ve done something to me, and you don’t understand why I am giving you a “vibe”. Now this morning here you come with your bullshit about how you feel like you have to tiptoe around me and you can’t ask me to do anything…how when you asked me about toner for the printer, the answer I gave you wasn’t the one you were looking for. What the hell is that? I DON’T WORK FOR YOU. I don’t have to answer any questions from you concerning things I am doing for other people who are not you. Don’t call me aside like you’re the school principal. And then you ask me if something is going on? You know what’s going on? The fact that I don’t like you and I want you to mind your own business. The fact that I’m tired of being volunteered for the shit you don’t feel like doing yourself. The fact that you walk around like your shit doesn’t stink. I’m tired of being your lackey, your errand girl, your bitch. I’m tired of not standing up for myself and saying “fuck that” when you ask me to do your b.s. tasks. But I tell you what, this next event is my last damn event because I’m sick and tired. There is such a lack of respect in this office and I’m sick of it. If I don’t do certain things, they don’t get done. Even the courier who came in the other day said “Wow” when you asked me to do some bullshit you could have done yourself. If other people who don’t even work here can see the lack of respect, what the hell am I still here for? I have a B.A. A B.A. that I’m still paying for, and you have me doing the work of an intern. Water plants. Fix this. Do that. No, fuck you. I’m so tired of kowtowing to you because you’re the boss’ little favorite. The only reason I’m still here is because I haven’t found a new job yet. But as soon as I do….

So, it’s probably not work-appropriate, but I really could care less. This is just about the only song that helps me get through my work day.

So…let me get this straight. The older you get, the more likely you are to say whatever pops into your head with no regard?

My grandmother turned 80 this January. Since that point, she has agreed that my cousin is “stupid”, asked me if I am pregnant, shamed me for not going to church, called a gift from someone ugly; told me that vegetarians are prone to grey hairs, asked me if I am a Muslim, told me that Muslims kill people, and has looked at my big, fat, stomach in disgust. Oh, and that was all on Saturday.

I truly wonder what goes through her mind when she says these things. How does she connect the dots and figure that since I have a nose ring, I must be a Muslim? “Oh, so you got another one. In your nose now?” “Yes Grandma.” “So are you a Muslim now?” “No Grandma, but I do like some of their principles.” (I knew that would bother her) “What principles?” “Well, I like that they pray five times a day.” “And kill people ten times a day.” “Oh, boy. And what if I did become a Muslim? I could go to the mosque with Aunt Aneesha.’ “Then I would have to pray. Pray and fast.” And then she wonders why I’ve started “rebelling” against going to church.

I’ve basically been raised in the church. Service on Sunday, choir rehearsal with my mom on Thursday s, youth service and choir practice on Fridays, special programs on Saturdays. In all honesty, I’m tired of going to church. Tired of hearing the people on the train tell me that Jesus is coming and I’d better do something before he gets here. Tired of hearing about all these pastors who solicit prostitutes, turn over children to be married, or beat their wives. I’m tired of Christianity-not tired of God mind you, just tired of all the foolishness that goes along with it. I’m tired of people expecting me to behave a certain way because my grandmother’s a reverend. I think that’s why I’m doing the things I’ve been doing-growing my hair, piercing my nose, etc. I’m just sick of the whole charade.

Oh, and I can’t wait until I’m old. So I can “sass” people and get away with it.

I guess I should post more often. But you know what? I really don’t have that much to say. No funny stories, no “i’m so mad” rants…I just live my normal life where funny things sometimes happen, but not every day.

Last night, the man and I went to a play/reading by the Negro Ensemble Company. It was pretty good–it was about the differences between Southern blacks and West Indians. Since we’re both born of West Indian parents (well, my dad’s American), it made for an interesting discussion about Caribbean men and marriage.

I called myself picking up knitting. I can’t get the hang of it, and it frustrates me. My needles and yarn are sitting on the bookcase, mocking me. Laughing at me. I keep telling myself I’m going to ‘Stitch ‘N Bitch’ in Harlem…and then I remember…it’s all the way in Harlem. So my godson and “nephews” (boyfriend’s nephews) will have to wait on their sweaters and hats. And I was so sure I’d have a little cap for the baby when he was born.

My hair is coming along, says everyone. I don’t see it. I watch the women in the street with their long locs and get envious. I see men with their long locs and wonder how long mine will take. I know it’s all about patience, but man…patience is a virtue I’m definitely lacking.

I guess when I post, I should have a concept in mind…my thoughts jump from topic to topic. I think I have ADD sometimes.

Remember back in 2001 or so when Rupee came out with the song “Insomnia”? And it was all fun and games, chipping down the road with drinks in hand…mine is nothing like that.

I’ve been having insomnia, or something closely related to it, for the past couple of nights. I start feeling sleepy around 9:30, 10:00. I doze off, only to wake up around 1AM, only to lie awake and stare at the tomfoolery that comes on television at 1AM. Usually, I’ll go make a cup of chamomile tea  and drift off at 3 or 4, and then wake up at 7 for work. It’s a stupid cycle.

Last night, I had what I guess could be called a nightmare. I don’t remember all the details, but I know I woke up scared. So scared that I turned on almost every light in my apartment just to make cup of tea. It involved a man who I guess was my husband, and my father–who had a scheme going with my husband to kill me and collect the insurance money. I was running through the back stairway of my church (which you wouldn’t know is there unless you were a nosy kid like me) and climbing up a fire escape to get away from him (I don’t know which him it was). Somehow I ended up in a kitchen and he was right behind me…and I remembered the words of Madea and threw a pot full of hot grits on him, making my escape. Thank God I don’t have an insurance policy. Or a husband.

My name is BROKE.

And it is not a game. Why does the IRS feel the need to separate  me from the little bit of money that I have? I heard that if you made less than $54,000 annually, you could file for free. So I checked out the IRS website to make sure it was legit, found a company, and started to complete my info. At first they told me I could expect $1013 from the federali, and $9-something from the state–ok, sounds good. Sounds great, actually. I continue inputing my information, and the amount starts to drop. We start getting to 8. Then 3-something from the state. What happened? You mean to tell me because I live in Brooklyn, I can’t get money? I enter some more information, and all of a sudden, the color of the state amount switches to red and tells me I now owe them. Granted, it’s $53, but still! So I re-enter stuff until I get an amount that isn’t red.

I continue on with the process, and get to the “Alerts” section, where they tell you anything that could potentially mess with you getting your money. Now they’re telling me I can’t file as “Head of Household” because I have no dependents…and the federal amount slips to $453 when I change my status to “Single”.  I’m about to start popping out some kids. Maybe get a husband–but who knows, that will probably lower the refund amount too.

I think I’m just going to go to my guy from last year (a college roommate’s friend). He got me a nice amount last year–so nice, in fact, that I looked at my ATM receipt and wondered whose bank account I was looking at. So I guess I’ll just give in and pay him the $140 fee. It’s worth it if I can get back to the $1013 they teased me with.

*I’ve never really “done” Lent. Never knew that much about it until La Salle, the good Catholic university. Never got the ashes on Ash Wendesday. I’ve only taken communion once in life. Anyway, there was a girl who got on my nerves a lot. I told her I was giving her up for Lent.

*I think that people should be forced to dance to the music on their Ipods. If I have to hear it over my own music, you should have to dance to it.

*Listening to soca can be quite dangerous. I often find myself wanting to bust a wine on an unsuspecting man on the train. Attractive unsuspecting man, of course.

*I wish people would understand that this is New York City. We walk fast. If you want to walk slow, move to the side. Don’t try to text and walk at the same time if you don’t know how.

*The whole snowboarding thing in Union Square? I’m over it. It blocked the normal path I take to get to the office, and caused a lot of that “staring in the street to watch” kind of thing.

*I’m over Valentine’s Day too. Show me you love me every other day. And if you really want to show your love for me, buy me some furniture. Or another Target gift card.

And not because I was scared of P. Diddy, either. I believe that as an American citizen–as an African-American female American citizen–that I do have a right to vote. People fought for me to have this right, and I fully intend to use it. Don’t tell me about the electoral congress~I still got to have some sort of a say. They used to tell us when we were little that our one vote could make the difference, and maybe it can.

 I watched the junior high kids standing in the school yard and realized that with my vote, maybe I was helping to shape their future. It made me stand up a little straighter, walk a little taller. To know that people fought for me to be able to walk into that little booth and pull that lever. To know that I have a small part in what goes on in this world. Maybe you don’t believe that, but I feel like I’ve accomplished something. I watched the Will.I.am video with Common and John Legend and the rest of the celebs, and I really did feel like I was making a difference by voting.

Yes, we can. Maybe we really can.

Power of positive thinking, my arse.

Yesterday was a bad day. Like that book you read when you were little about the kid having the no good, very bad, horrible day. that was me yesterday. I was that kid. I woke up late. I really just didn’t want to get out of bed. I couldn’t figure out what to wear and changed about 3 times before finally deciding on something. I missed not one, but two buses while waiting for the light to change from “don’t walk” to “walk” (and those lights are pointless in Manhattan, you just walk when you don’t see cars.) I got to the train station, and the train kept being “delayed by a train in front of us.” I got to work late, and the day went downhill from there.

The only upside was getting tickets to see Cat on A Hot Tin Roof. Feeling better about the purchase, I decided to excercise. I got winded on the treadmill and then hit my knee on the metal part of my dad’s weight bench. Guess it was just meant to be a bad day.  

“This must be what crackheads feel while holding that rock in between their grimy fingers after selling their kid’s last item of clothing.”
-Tanya

Seafood bisque is my new crack. Seriously. I don’t care that it’s spicy as hell and burns my throat. I don’t care that I can’t identify some of the things floating around in there. I mean, I see the little lobster and crab pieces…but I really don’t want to see the little calamari bits, so as I near the finish line,  I look away. It’s starting to become a habit now, this seafood bisque. No other soup quite satisfies me in the way that seafood bisque does. Well, maybe cow heel soup, but only because of the dumplings…and maybe the carrots. I can’t believe this post was almost entirely about soup.

I’ve discovered that I truly love having locs. Dreds. Whatever you want to call them. I started my “journey” about 2 months ago. My mother told me I wouldn’t like them and that they would have to cut my hair incredibly short to start them. “You’re going to have those wormy looking twists, “she said. “You going to put sugar and all kind of thing in them?” my grandmother asked. The question I got the most was why. Why? Why would I want to cut off my long, permed, blonde/brown, thick, “good” hair? They told me I changed my mind far too often to do something so permanent. “I’m going to start a facebook group called ‘How Long Will Tiffi Keep Her Locs?” a friend said.

My reasons are many. Far too many to type out (cause I’m lazy). Personally, I find locked hair has always made the wearer look like royalty. My research tells me that the Egyptians wore locs. Thick, ropelike…they look like vines. They are so beautiful that I can’t help but to stare. This is black hair in its natural state. No hot comb, no perms that make your scalp burn. I permed my hair from the age of 12 to 25. I know what it’s like to have a scab on your head because you scratched before going to the hairdresser. I know what it feels like to have perm drip onto your ear while the stylist frantically rubs it off. Anyway–the whole locktician experience is totally different. She greets me by name, asks me about my week, the condition of my hair, and just takes care of me. She offers me water, tea, juice, veggie burgers. The vibe is warm, friendly…welcoming.

However, I don’t yet feel like I’m on that “level”. The whole consciousness movement seems like it skipped me over. But I want to be that “earthy” type. I want to send my children to African dance classes, and celebrate Malcom X’s birthday, and truly enjoy soy. I want to have that inner glow, that special light. My hair is growing, but am I?