Hey there, Black woman. Since the media refuses to allow you to live your life without picking at your emotional scars and waving a spinster flag in your face every other internet post, let’s revel in our society-induced anger and focus on an all too important part of our lives – cosmetics.

1. Nothing says “f**k you, pay me” like a bold eyeliner. While you’re out being totally unapproachable (you know, sitting at a party, smiling, making eye contact, wearing appropriate-length attire, sans desperation, being normal), line those lids with Tarte’s…whoops, you blinked and that potential suitor has been snatched up by a woman exhibiting all of the behaviors your mother warned you about. Better luck next time. That product was Tarte’s Indelible Wink Liquid Liner.

2. Red. Ah, the color of the coveted bottom of that Christian Louboutin heel that you’ve been accused of using to step all over a Black man’s heart. Lavish those mouthy lips with Covergirl Queen’s Paint the Town. It’s a lovely red lipstick that isn’t too virginal or too “hot whore on a Saturday night.” It’s perfect – just like you’re expected to be.

3. Of course you’ll need a flawless face to compete with hoes, whom I’ve learned, “be winning.” Try Natura Bisse’ C+C Vitamin Scrub to get yourself photoshop ready. Your natural, human features won’t be tolerated.

4. You’ll need an aggressive, bright nail polish for those nagging, finger-pointing hands. Ginger + Liz’s “Swagger” nail lacquer perfectly accommodates your self-righteous attitude, which you cleverly mask with confidence, self-worth, hard work and love. You little trickster, you…

5. Lastly, you absolutely must have a line of magical hair products in your torture chamber (home). Whether you’re natural or relaxed, you must remember that it should always blow in the wind like you’re belting out “Dangerously In Love.” What good is your hair if it doesn’t look like it came from someone else’s scalp? Seek the power of Jane Carter Solutions. Magic wand sold separately.

Paid for by the sponsors of Suck It, Society.Inc.

~Kimberly

‘This is too ironic for it to be a coincidence,’ I thought as I flipped through my camera phone and stopped at a picture of myself…and Amber Rose. Yes, Kanye’s former flame pursed her lips as her publicist immortalized our meeting. The irony comes into play as we rewind just a few hours prior to ATL’s La Bella Vie boutique. In my customary writer’s pose, I stood with my blackberry shoved in the face of author Helena Andrews. She’s the irresistibly witty D.C. writer who just recently released her first memoir, Bitch Is the New Black.

It was like I took a trip to bizarro world (See: Seinfeld). Did I really just interview what I would consider to be the oil and water of Black femininity? One famous for being smart. One famous for being sexy. To each interview I brought my pre-conceived notions. Some good. Most expected. Helena, a tall, beautifully brown-skin beauty, delivered exactly what I already expected from her. She was funny, confident, well-dressed but not style- consumed, easy-going with a lingering claw waiting to scratch if provoked, and overall, a pleasure to speak with. We talked with ease. After all, I’m a part of her audience – a special little audience of Black women that “get it.” We get the media. We get the men. We get the agenda. We get the patriarchal slant (of everything). We get the afro. We get the lace front. We get it. Got it? Of course her following spans across many cultures, but there’s always something special about us big-brained brown girls. There’s a common ground that is unspoken and unshaken.

Now as for dear Amber, I honestly felt unprepared. ‘What are we going to talk about?’ I was writing the piece for the BET Beauty Lounge so it wasn’t brain surgery. Blonde hair, pink lip gloss, Louis Vuitton shades. Mission accomplished. After sauntering around the hot box that was BChic’s shoetique (I’m sure it’s cool now), the store’s owner paraded Amber through the store and straight over for photos. She was dressed in a tangerine orange dress that hugged her body so tight I could see her belly button. Janelle Monae has her uniform and Amber does too. She’s a beautiful girl. Nothing to hate about there. Not just “on camera” beautiful, but ‘Seriously, you just wake up looking like THAT everyday’ beautiful. I suppose that I understand the weird fascination with her. Her melding of ethnic backgrounds (she told me she was West Indian) renders her face a racial mystery. Like an alien, you’re going to spend half of your time visually poking and prodding her face for some kind of cultural response. You won’t find one.

My “Kamber Rose” impersonation later that eve.

And the interview begins. She’s pleasant. Her thick Philly accent seems weird considering how she looks. You can practically smell the cheese steaks when she speaks. But I dig accents of all kinds (except for Sprint employees), so I appreciated the East coast flavor.

The entire time she was in the store, along with the time she stood outside – at night – she rocked a pair of designer shades. I inquired why and she said that they made her “feel protected.” She likened the sunglasses to a “wall she could always keep up.” As I removed my blackberry from in front of her glossy pink pout something strange happened. She hugged me. Genuinely. She wanted me to like her. A few moments after the interview she walked back over and said, “Please don’t write anything bad about me,” in a pleading tone. Because when you feel – no scratch that – when you know that the weight of your celebrity status  is solely measured in how fly you can look from day to day, you become very vulnerable. Helena, neither arrogant nor presumptuous, could have cared less if I liked her or not. Her self-worth wasn’t vested in my opinion of her. She’d already created her identity. You see, that’s the stark difference between the Ambers and the Helenas of this nation. Both time and “fans” are thieves of beauty. Just as soon as they endow you with their adoration they remain in a position to snatch it right back. As for the bookworms? Well, being smart just requires you to open your mouth every once and while to reaffirm what you’ve already established. And I prefer lyrical longevity to tickling unfamiliar fancies just waiting to give me the boot.

Til we read again,

-Kimberly

Today’s emoticon: Chillin…

I’d love to claim that I’m completely right-brain functioning – you know, one of those dreamy artists living in this laid back, hippie world. I’m not. I analyze everything.

Everything.

This whole era of social media doesn’t help, either. Between Twitter, Facebook and Skype, I get physically sick to my stomach being inundated with the opinions of people with whom which I don’t have real relationships. Everyone is a virtual therapist, preacher, teacher, sexpert, life coach and motivational speaker. In reality, everyone is just narcissistic. Including myself at times. I think we’ve all fallen victim to this idea that in order to be living a successful life, you should be “on the clock” at all times. Daydreaming is a sin. Taking a break is grounds for castration. Dare I even utter the word sleep and one of @iamdiddy ‘s Twitter minions will surely come after me.

A friend and I discussed this generation’s need to make themselves look like their life is so progressive. So shiny. Everyone wants everyone else to believe that they’re living these fantastically charmed lives. Don’t get me wrong – we are a bunch of hard workers, indeed, but this contest to live the best life is not benefiting anyone. In the midst of updating our fabulous statuses, we are really lethargic, tired, slightly broken and out of creative juices…at least I am.

Enter Jamaica.

I could barely get excited about my freaking best friend’s wedding because of all of the crap I loaded on myself. (This was nearly two months ago and I’m still daydreaming about Jamaica like I was there yesterday. Back to the show.) Although I brought my trusty laptop (Like VISA, I can’t leave home without her) the astronomical internet fees caused me to keep her shut. My lovely Sprint coverage wouldn’t allow me to call anyone and text messages  were like $146.00 a pop, so that was out of the question. There I was – Brenda Busybody without her connection to everything that stressed her out on a daily basis.

Bliss.

“No problem, mon,” is the Jamaican motto we were told to immediately adopt by the friendly attendants at the Breezes Rio Bueno resort. Amidst the humidity that turned my once crisp curls into a softer bigger ‘fro (even my hair was commanded to drop its ‘tude), your worries melted into the backdrop of palm trees and crashing turquoise waves. My cynicism was gone after one sip of my strawberry daiquiri (there were many more to come). Gmail was not harassing me for once. I was actually given a little peace. All was still. Jamaicans move slow. Candice and I walked to one of the bars one night and unknowingly scared the crap out of this poor lil bartender. His eyes widen as he asked us what was wrong. Confused, we responded, “Nothing, why?” He then proceeded to imitate our hurried walk and explained that we appeared to be in distress the way we marched over like irate soldiers. Sadly, that was our relaxed trot. Guess it’s the American way. Always in a rush.

Our very last day on the beach, we walked to the shore one last time and just stood there in silence. As the waves crashed, I thought about my life. I’m moving 1,000 miles a minute, but am I really going anywhere? How much of my time do I spend being busy, when really, if I took the time to slow down, I’d actually gain some clarity on a few things. My car’s oil change is overdue by a month, but I’ve been to about ten events since the month began. Priorities, people…priorities. I teared up on the flight home thinking about leaving my best friends…the ones I truly feel safe with, and having to get back to the craziness of it all. Don’t get me wrong, I am blessed and appreciative, I just need to rearrange a few things.

Fast forward.

I came home. Sad. Wondering why I came home. It had less to do with leaving Jamaica, but more about what I had to come home to. I thought to myself, ‘I’m officially in a rut’.

How severe is it, you ask? Not to the point where I’m passive aggressively rubbing a butter knife over my wrist, but more so just not generally feeling as happy as I normally do. I’m in a constant state of “what am I doing with my life?” Funny because that’s the central problem of one of the characters in one of my screenplays. She feels aimless. Hopeless. Steadily working, yet not making any emotional progress. A friend and I pinpointed the issue as only “living in the future.” When you’re so consumed with tomorrow, you can’t even fathom enjoying the fruits of today. There’s too much work to be done to acknowledge progress. Even if you have achieved something miraculous and wonderful (not saying that I have), you shouldn’t actually stop and smell the roses that you’ve spent months  planting and nurturing. Preposterous. There’s a whole garden to conquer, right?

Wrong. You will lose your mind, people. This whole idea of the “grind,” which is really just an over-publicized term to describe good ‘ol regular “work”, should NEVER compromise your mental health. Take it from someone who is shooting for the stars, reaching for the top and trying to make a laughable dream come true..

1. You should sleep.

2. You should eat breakfast.

3. You should actually sit on your couch from time to time.

4. It is ok to look away from your computer to day dream off into the distance every now and then.

5. It is perfectly fine to make friends with no intentions of creating some business partnership with them. Be IN the business of making fabulous friends. Those are the folks who will invest in your future spiritually, emotionally and financially.

6. Pray.

7. Pray again.

8. Eat Coldstone icecream frequently.

Am I saying that you shouldn’t make sacrifices to make your dreams come true? Absolutely not. There will be many late nights and moments of exhaustion. But if you’re doing it just to be able to embellish your tweets..go sit down somewhere.

Until we read again,

~Kimberly

Today’s emoticon: *Side Eye*

A friend and I were having this convo yesterday. I was discussing an issue I was having with a guy. Not quite a romantic issue, but parked somewhere closed to that area. I’ll skip all of the banter and just get to the good stuff:

Me: It’s just funny because I feel like I’ve always been the chick that men like to have these intellectual convos with, but not necessarily date. Almost like…I’m their ‘Intellectual girlfriend’.  Some of the guys are in a relationship.

Friend: I’m the chick that’s normally in the relationship, but can’t get my man to have those convos with me because he saves those for you.

Me: lol

Friend: lol

I started to think about it for a moment. I suppose that I would define this idea (just an idea, guys) of the ‘Intellectual Girlfriend’ as this: the woman that a man calls just for stimulating conversation. He doesn’t necessarily have any desire to date you. You just generally provide good advice and intriguing concepts. Note: This should not be confused with your great male friends, of which, I have many. This is that one guy that after you hang up the phone, or finish sending that last text, you think, ‘Um, I feel a little used and a tad bit drained.’ They don’t add anything to your life except the opportunity to school them every once and a while. These are the men that I’m referring to. Oh, and fellas – the ones that actually read my blog- I completely agree that it goes both ways, but I’m only speaking from the woman’s perspective today….Ok, and every other time, too. Sorry. <—– I’m not really sorry.

I’m in a current situation where I feel like I may have been cast as the ‘Intellectual girlfriend’, and I guess it bothers me because when you’re in a relationship, you should be able to have those convos and enlightening discussions with the woman you’ve chosen, not me. I’m not into social polygamy and I’d prefer to save my verbal romp for the man who will appreciate my smile as well. Again, let me proclaim that I’m not putting hits out on your real friends that call for your wonderful advice and you quickly oblige. You should, for sure. I’m just talking about the guy who makes you feel like he’s pimping your brain.

Is it a real problem, you ask? Not necessarily. There are some women that unconsciously “take what they can get” and gladly accept any position on the team to maintain a male presence in their life. Or, other women will say, ‘It’s not an imposition on my time. I enjoy stimulating conversation as well.’ You are also right. Oh, and let me deal with the ‘You complain when we only want you for your body and then when we appreciate your intellect, you’re mad about that too?’ people. Touche, imaginary group of people I just made up, however what I’m tackling is greed. You can’t combine Weird Science and the NBA to create a starting five of fabulous women to meet your individual needs. Well, actually, you can. I’m just not suiting up to play.

Til we read again,

Kimberly

Today’s emoticon: “Over It”

Articles like “Are Those Extra Pounds Hurting Your Dating Life?” really piss me off. Not because there’s no truth to the idea, but because they are ALWAYS directed towards women. This is an article currently posted on Essence.com. It details how the extra pounds that we (African-American women) tend to carry are further hurting our chances of finding love. Because the entire population of African-American men is comprised of Tyrese and Will Smith clones, right? I already know what you’re thinking? “She must be fat, which is why she’s decided to get on her Crisco covered soapbox.” By Hollywood standards…sure, I’m fat, but so is a size 5.  In real life, I go between a 10 or a 12 and I’ve been bouncing between these sizes since the beginning of friggin time.

The struggle I’ve had with my weight was more mental than anything else because the actual numbers didn’t change too much. I’m finally at a place where I’m confident in my size and although I’m trying to go down a few sizes, it has more to do with a health goal. I’m 5’1 and I believe that I should be a slightly lower weight for such a small stature. I’ll be more agile and finally able to stunt on those Russell Simmons’ carbon copies in my Bikram yoga class.  I’m looking to get down to a size 8; a goal that realistically, I’m not too far from.

Now that I’ve detailed my stats, let me move on to why this article angered me so. Anyone who knows me knows that this topic is sensitive for many women and I typically…alright, fine…I ALWAYS side with my sistas. The area in particular that really puzzled me was nestled within this quote right here: “There are very few successful fit Black women available. People talk about this high ratio of single Black men to women, but it is a myth. If you exclude fat women, it is 1 to 1.” This was a comment from a guy. A Black guy. Seriously, sir? First of all, you’re wrong. MOST of the successful Black women I know are gorgeous from head to toe, and boast slimmer waistlines. Aside from that, are we really adding to the monstrous pile of “another reason why professional Black women can’t catch a man.”  So on top of being too successful, emotionally unavailable, aggressive, too powerful, not needy enough…I’m also fat? If we really look at the issue critically, it has more to do with the pitiful state of the Black man than my love handles. (see: next post) Furthermore, all professional Black men are not Billy Blanks approved. Can I get a sugar-free amen? Since I should be watching my diet and all.

The media has also done a fabulous job of vividly portraying this ridiculous idea that wives and girlfriends should be waifs, while it’s perfectly acceptable for the boyfriend/husband to tote his big belly around as a badge of honor. Let me give you a few shows – Fresh Prince of Bel Air, King of Queens, The Honeymooners, According to Jim and Family Matters (yes, Harriet was a normal size, but Carl was still a porker). Anybody remember when a plump, post-pregnancy Tisha Campbell resumed her role on My Wife & Kids? Several episodes detailed her “weight-gain” because it absolutely had to be addressed in the storyline. Why? Was it really necessary to deter the storyline to fatsville? We all knew that she recently had a child, which accounted for the extra pounds.

Don’t even get me started on the stupid idea that Tyler Perry’s House of Payne promoted obesity because it featured an overweight couple. (Cassi Davis – “Ella” LaVan Davis – “Curtis”) I guarantee you that if Ella’s character was played by a small Black woman we wouldn’t have heard a peep from anyone, but because a plump Black woman is shown on TV all of a sudden we’re pedaling “fat-pops” on every hood corner? Stop it.

Pastors, I’m coming for you too. Standing in the pulpit preaching that same old tired sermon directed ONLY toward the women of the church. “Men are visual beings…he wants something nice to come home to.” True, but can you please plant that same seed in the ear of the men in the church who can barely button their shirts and can be heard breathing in the next room. All I’m saying is that this is not a one-sided subject. Stop…I repeat, STOP, treating the issue of weight like it’s a woman’s thing. Weight, just like whore and nurse are not gender specific terms. Never have been.

Just so you know, the size of the average woman is between sizes 10 – 14, and yes this excludes video models, actresses and anyone affiliated with the entertainment industry. Note: I am not advocating having a lack of concern for health. I’m slowly becoming a health nut. Being that our ethnicity suffers greatly from preventative diseases, we definitely need to clean up our diets and maintain a vigorous exercise regimen. But we also need to renew our minds…especially my generation. You know, us young, fly and flashy folks. We perform so well at being superficial we’d probably take home a gold medal at the Olympics. I know uplifting each other is so “1965,” but we ought to try it every once and while. Lastly, sistas are under enough pressure – like raising your children alone. Strike a nerve? Good.  *Drops mic, exits stage*

Til we read again,

~Kimberly

Read the Essence article here.

Today’s emoticon – “Mercy & Merlot”…Because sometimes you need a little of both.

In the words of Chrisette…”And then it comes to me, like an epiphany”…

Don’t you just love those “a-ha” moments that come along and knock you on your arse at the exact, appropriate moment. Normally, those “a-ha” moments aren’t “a-ha” at all. You’ve known this seemingly new jewel of information all along. You just repressed it to suit the moment. Kind of like when you figured out that eating healthy might actually be a good idea. Broccoli’s always been nutritious, you just wanted that beef meximelt from Taco Bell at 2:35am. It is what it is, people.

My pastor once told me that a woman should never have her heart broken. I didn’t even chuckle at the notion. Instead, I thought to myself…I agree. What he meant is that women (and men) were never meant to be involved in this relentless cycle of failed attempts at love. Society paints the picture that after 50 tries or so, you finally get it right. My dear friend always tells me that I might have to kiss a few frogs. Well, I’m not into inter-species make out sessions.

You’ve seen He’s Just Not That Into You, right? My entire frame of thinking is in the “exception” zone. Why? Because I am the exception. I refuse to wade head first through a sea of BS to achieve the elusive “dream”. But, seeing as how I really just started dating like two days ago, my approach to this whole corrupted dating game was ridiculously skewed and quite far from what I had outwardly voiced for so many years. The other night I sat down and had a serious urge to cry and write. I did both.

In my journal I wrote, “I want someone who is in persistent, perpetual pursuit of my heart. The earthly representation of God’s love. And, His love doesn’t make you wonder. It doesn’t leave room to create crazy scenarios because it’s so over-powering, so all-consuming and so reassuring, you have an unyielding peace and safe haven to love freely.”

I thought to myself, “Will I ever truly have that?” Nothing to date has been consistent enough to make me feel like anything even close to this is possible, but, then came the “a-ha” moment. You’re always going to have occasional doubts about a certain thing. It’s human nature. What you can’t do is allow your doubts to guide your decisions. I was allowing my fear to cripple my true desires. When your desires are crippled, you begin to bend your standards until they fit into the zone of “comfort”.

To take a cheesy line from Grey’s Anatomy, that I literally just heard as I’m sitting here writing this blog, “When you feel frightened, get inspired”.

When you get frightened thinking about how hard it is to uphold your standards, thinking that you might be missing out on something, get inspired thinking about how you’ll be happy….and not just comfortable.

So…I urge all of you to create a “love mission statement”, and stick to it because you deserve to get exactly what you want. Nevermind the picture that’s been painted for everyone else. You’re not that artist, and it doesn’t fit into your frame.

This message has been brought to you by the sponsors of GROWTH.

Till we read again,

Kimberly

This week’s emoticon – Kimmy’s gone Euro (My stylist and I actually renamed ‘Euro’…’Brazilian’ …It has more of an ethnic edge to it.

Here’s how were gonna start this off. Stop, I repeat, stop, trying to hook up your Christian friends by using the old, tired ‘He’s Christian….and he’s saving himself’ bit. Don’t get me wrong, these are both wonderful attributes that I would love for my husband to have (Well…Christian is absolutely mandatory), however, give me the common courtesy that you would give a so-called ‘regular’ person.

Let’s say you want to hook Jane up with someone. You would say, ‘Jane, I’ve met this great guy…He’s an engineer who loves to cook Mexican food. Your fav! He also loves horror movies just like you do! He even has a penchant for random trivia. Oh yeah, he has a dog named Pete, and eventually he wants to settle down in California. I remember you saying that you wanted to settle down in California too. Well anyway, I wanted you guys to meet because I think you might like him.’ <—-You see how much detail this imaginary person that I just made up took when looking for a mate for imaginary Jane? She listed his career path, similar hobbies, pet-friendliness and future plans.

You know what people give me? ‘He’s a Christian and he’s saving himself….he’s perfect for you!’ So because he supposedly loves God and has un-touched loins…I’m supposed to automatically swoon? Does he have a college degree? Is he artistic? What are his hobbies? Has he ever willingly bought a Plies cd…because that’s something that I definitely need to know. Stop the madness, people. Give us the same respect that you would give your promiscuous friends! It’s only right! Do your research before approaching us.

We definitely appreciate you having such pristine aspirations, but it’s almost offensive to assume that we don’t want to have a man who’s not only saved, but funny and successful as well.

Alright, now that I’ve said that, let’s move on to the next level ‘hooking up’….(What I’m about to say is just for fun, so don’t get offended. If you do, one of the ushers can kindly escort you off of this blog)

ARE YOU DENOMINATION COMPATIBLE? (Questions you should ask to find out the TRUE scoop on your possible mate’s church) Brought to you by Kim & Allison.

1. Does your church have chairs….or pews?

If you partner chooses pews, chances are the church has a steeple and a multi-color stained cross behind the pulpit. Best believe ‘white Jesus’ is somewhere posted in one of the hallways leading to the Pastor’s office.

2. Do your Ushers wear regular color-coordinated clothes or mandatory white gloves, black bottoms and white tops?

If it’s the latter…you already know what it is.

3. Which is longer…the sermon or praise & worship?

If praise & worship is longer, you have most likely entered a Baptist church. Welcome. You can find your Martin Luther King Jr. fan placed directly in front of you.

4.  How long is the acronym of your church?

If it’s more than 8 letters, please believe it will be dark when you leave.

5. Does your church currently have any of the following? – Nurses Guild, Mother’s Board (That’s sits in the upper left hand corner of the church and wears all white)

If yes, Pastor will most likely be wearing a black and purple robe with a receding hair line and a perpetual asthmatic, bronchial huff to signal the MOM (Minister of Music) to get back on the organ for the end of his sermon.

6. Are your church’s digital announcements as jazzy as the graphics at a  Beyonce concert?

Yup, non-denominational. Service should be about 1.5 hrs thanks to the gargantuan time clock in the back of the church keeping everyone in check. Not a minute past…they got thangs to do. If you miss your complimentary ‘shout time’ during the beginning of service, come back to the next service. There are four.

Ok…I’m done.

Till we read again,

~Kimberly

Chrisette Michele tweeted last week about the grand opening of CamiCakes cupcakes here in ATL. I desired to know more of this new Buckhead treasure. So, upon driving around the city looking for a new Panera to go and write, I spotted the cutest little pink (I actually hate pink) sign. Oh, yes… I’ve decided to work at every Panera bread in the city of ATL. Such interesting characters frequent Panera, and the bums sitting outside are not as aggressive as they are downtown.

Anyway, I walked in and my eyes immediately went to the never ending rows of cupcakes. I imagine that this is what heaven will feel like…’Kim, you’ll be seated next to Taye Diggs a la “Dre” from Brown Sugar…Oh, and yes, the cupcakes are complimentary.’

Don’t they look like little blessings sent down from heaven, baked at 400 degrees? So, I locked eyes with the cupcake man…yes, I’m naming this stranger the cupcake man. He was cute, so I guess I could call him the cute cupcake man? I didn’t have time to get his name because my stomach was on a covert mission to consume some unnecessary calories.

Cute cupcake man suggested something that had nuts in it and I told him that I have nut allergies. Then, a woman popped up from the back and suggested that maybe I shouldn’t eat anything because everything was manufactured near nuts. I quickly said, ‘Nope, I’ll be fine.’ A few hives, swollen throat and piercing stomach pains were not going to keep me from the chocolate wonder that would soon inhabit the jiggle in my thighs.

I purchased the ‘Classic Cami’ which is a chocolate cupcake with decadent chocolate frosting. Father God…Peter, Paul and Solomon. DELICIOUS. Get chu one.

Check em out – CamiCakes Cupcakes <—-Kim approved.

I’m going to start including these retarded pictures to accompany my blogs. Today’s emoticon is: confused.

Let me start off by saying…Kimmy is not cut out for love. (As you can see from the pic above. Yes, I referred to myself as Kimmy. Due to the recent influx of folks calling me Kimmy, I’ve decided to accept it. But, Kimmy is a bad girl. She eats cookies in grocery stores without paying for them. Her hair is Wednesday black and ferociously wild. She is indeed bad. Re-define Kimmy.) Anywho, I am not cut out for this whole love thing that the motion picture folks and Sandra Bullock are so dead set on shoving down our throats.

I found a guy. Excuse me, he found me. Not a perfect guy, but a sweet, attractive fellow that liked (well, he still does so I guess I shouldn’t use the past tense form of the word)….um, likes me. Remember when I told you guys that I was going to ‘experiment’ and actually accept the advances of a man? Well, I cleverly hid my fangs and went with the flow. It was fun, I’ll admit. I was even able to get past the fact that he’s never seen The Color Purple. His blackness is definitely still under investigation, though. Celie is a household name, negro. *sigh* I digress.

Well two months later and we’ve entered relationship purgatory. You know…that place where there’s an option to go through multiple doors and your hand is on the knob of the door that says, ‘To hell.’ There are multiple reasons as to how we got here, but I’ll just liken it to how I severed ties with my last company. ‘We had creative differences concerning the future of the company.’

What worries me is that I just got started and I’m already exhausted. Between arguing with people on a daily basis about the stupid social constructs that define love, and trying to keep in tow with guide lines set by my cute little brown and cream ‘Biblical Instructions Before Leaving Earth,’ I’m beat. Why are we a culture that makes it so ridiculously hard to fall in such a simple thing as “like?” I’ll write about love when I actually make it to that lap in the race. I’ve pulled off to the side to sit in a lawn chair watch the others dash by while I drink Gatorade and tan.

I have friends in every major metropolitan city in the nation. Here’s the scoop I hear. “If you move to LA you’ll never get married because the men are horrible and the Black ones only date white girls.”

“If you move to New York you’ll never get married because the women are all loose and there’s just too much competition.”

“If you stay in ATL you’ll never get married because the ratio of women to men is 14:1 and EVERYONE else is gay”

“If you move to Mars you’ll never get married because Martians have an aversion to dating outside of their species”

You get my drift, ladies. I’ve heard the same for cities like Chicago and Miami too. Should I pack up and move to North Dakota now?

What’s wrong with our culture? (I’m speaking to the black generation ages 25 – 34. The folks whose families are hounding them for grandbabies). It appears that both Black men and Black women have lost their minds. A friend remarked to me earlier that she was having ‘man issues’ and that something must be in the water. Yes, prescription drugs. Every time I turn around I hear another foolish theory about how to date. The latest one was a morning personality who said, “Professional Black women should study gold diggers’ tactics on getting and keeping a man. They need to learn how to be more needy.” Sir, kindly kill yourself.

Silly and uneducated statements like these have sent our demographic into a state of perpetual questioning and theorizing. Folks are no longer listening to their mates or even themselves. They’re following the idiotic social standards that are being set by well, idiots. Michael Baisden said that ‘all men cheat,’ so that’s what I’m supposed to do, right? Even if I’ve found the person that I feel like I could spend the rest of my life with, there’s always a better option somewhere…right? Wrong.

I’ve said all of this to say, it saddens me that I can’t even enjoy the very superficial period of “like” without the ridiculous rhetoric of my culture making something as simple as hanging out as complex as a Rubik’s cube.
Trying to date in these times is like putting together a 40 piece shelf with German instructions.

Or even worse, trying to have a convo with customer service rep, Salim, who’s posing as ‘Tom’ for Sprint. Meaning: You don’t understand me and I darn for sure don’t understand you.

Till we read again,
~Kimberly

I’m just going to jump back and in and not even address the fact that in the time since I’ve last written anything on this blog, my hair has grown three inches. I’m back blog world. Did you miss me? A little? I’ll take that.

I’ve posed a simple question and the answer is…they don’t. I’ve recently come to learn the hard fact that cynics don’t fall in love. At some point, we are forced to unthaw our cold, icy hearts and go through the semi-painful process known as “getting to know someone.” Cynics are asked to be slightly vulnerable and share hopes and fears that they’d much rather keep hidden behind their mighty shield of sarcasm.

Example A – “Some days I just want to jump in the deep end, and other days I’m afraid to dip my foot in the shallow part!”  This is what I blurted out over the phone to him in reference to my feelings now and days.  Apparently “falling in like” is a bipolaric (yes, I made this word up) wrestling match between your heart and your mind. What ultimately wins is determined by what leads you on a daily basis (and how cute he is). The problem? Cynics typically let their brains do about 95% of the leading. Our hearts are just a means to provide blood to our vital organs and sustain life. To attribute some kind of real emotional power to it would just be silly.

Asking a cynic to be vulnerable is like trying to persuade a republican red neck to put a President Obama sticker on his pick up truck, ‘Betty.’  Ain’t happenin’. So, where am I am in this equation? I am somewhere between awkward and downright ridiculous. He complimented me today.  I replied with a suspicious “thanks.” Like I didn’t spend all afternoon, “veeting,” lotioning, shimmering, patting, tucking, sucking, pinning, ironing & smoothing just to receive that very statement. Instead, barely make eye contact and continue eating my chicken hunan. I have a thing about making eye contact, like I’m afraid that someone will accidentally get a peek of my soul – only to find that it’s been replaced by an ice sculpture of a middle finger. Weird, I know.  

I said all of this to say…well, nothing really. I am a work in progress. What I can say that I have learned thus far is that you can not be a cynic and try to fall in love. Just as you should not workout and follow it up with Coldstone. Kinda counteracts the whole, “I don’t want to be a beached whale anymore” thing.  I can only hope that this guy is patient enough to peel back my crusty layers to get to the hard center where he’ll have to drill through that to really begin the scavenger hunt to find capture my heart.

All you saps out there, please send your tips to: justkiddingidon’treallycarei’mneverchanging@gmail.com < sarcasm.

~Kimberly