Monthly Archives: January 2011

It’s My Motherfucking Birthday.

Older, better, wiser.

At 1:26p.m., I officially turned 30. It feels good, real good. Jacques bought me a drink. Dry, with a twist. Jacqueline made it expertly, so I only needed one. My Facebook page has been nonstop with the selfless goodwill of people who didn’t have to care to say “happy birthday”, but did. My heart is full. With happiness and gratitude and love. I honestly don’t want for anything more.

I’m not in any way afraid of “after 30”. And I don’t believe it’s all down hill from here. On the contrary, this is like the youth stage of fine wine. This is the launch pad; It only gets better from here, baby.

I feel like the “getting to know me” work of my 20s paid off. I feel like going forward, it’s about refining and refining and refining to make an elegant, one-of-a-kind piece. Today feels like the first day of that.  Only on a grander scale — a “no ceilings” kinda life. No boundaries, no “you can’t, you couldn’t, you probably shouldn’t.”

I’m usually a, “no,no. You go ahead” kind of person. I’m learning that it’s ok though to take a “fuck you, it’s my turn” approach from time to time. And so I look at what happens after the pomp and circumstance of today’s occasion, and I can’t help feeling like, in general, it’s my turn. Get out my way; greatness is motherfucking afoot.

And she turned 30 today. At 1:26 p.m.

In the spirit of Aquarius, I wish a very Happy Birthday to the fine folks who share this special day with me.

Y’all be good, now. You know how we do.


Who’s the Baddest? I am.

So I’ve been invited into a lil group where we ask pointed and salacious questions of one another simply for the benefit of wasting more time, in addition to sharing a few interesting stories.  The last question I answered had to do with high heels.  Folk wanted to know how I felt about them.

I answered like any person who loves women for their femininity would.  I mean, of course, I love them.  But I’m not just lovin em to be lovin em.  Not just any “heel” will do.  (Also, I prefer the term “pumps” but that’s just me.  All picky about the nomenclature and shit.)  At any rate, I love a woman’s confidence in heels.  Anybody can put on a bad pair of shoes, but the test is:  can she work em’ tho?  Can she walk it in em?  Better yet, can she rock flats or sneakers and still be the baddest woman in the room?  Because, you see, the shoes and the makeup and the handbag don’t make the woman.  You make alla that work for you.  Likewise, clothes don’t make the man either.  Dude himself must be more interesting than his cufflinks or unscuffed Js appears to suggest.  Sartorially gifted though one may be, the outfit isn’t enough all by itself.  The substance has to be there too. And confidence, m’friends, is the cherry on top.  Nothing worse than receiving a gorgeously wrapped gift, only to find out there’s a chia pet or a pet rock in that joint.  It’s false advertisement and there’s laws and shit against that kinda shit.

Quiet confidence is undoubtedly the quality I find most alluring.  It’s what piques my curiosity and keeps one interesting.  And although most folks who claim to have “haters” aint really got no damn haters, haters do lurk about looking for hater shit to get into.  They seek to tear down the crux of who you is, to make you believe that the way you do what you do isn’t the way it’s supposed to be done.  

It takes guts to march to the beat of your own drummer, and it takes confidence to address your critics’ naysayings with a non-negotiable “fuck you.”  Because ultimately, there aren’t many comebacks for that. Besides, we keeps it moving at all costs.

It takes work to get to the stage where you’re comfy in your own skin.  But, lord hammercy once you get there, once you really believe that “aint nobody dope as me,” the universe will reward you for it.  Greatness can’t flourish where fear anchors.  My girl, @shutupandsing taught me that.

Let your freak flag fly, baby.  Because if you believe it, then so will we.

I mean, yeah. But you get the picture.