Nothin but love.

When I was little, I used to think all white people were happy. I mean, you have to understand where this comes from. I was the only black person I knew- well besides my dad. My mom was white, both of my big brothers are white (and for anyone who has an older sibling, you know that they hold the "infinitely more cool" status, simply for being older) all of my classmates were white, everyone on tv- you get the picture. As far as I was concerned it just seemed like life was easy for them. They never got ashy knees or had to have their hair relaxed. They didn't have expectations put on them of how to act or speak, what they're supposed to wear- they just smiled and laughed, their hair fell onto their shoulders in easy ways; they had jewel colored eyes in greens and blues; they had to be so happy. In fact, even further, I thought that if anything went sour in their lives, that in the back of their minds they must have thought "Well- at least I'm white...." Yeah, I thought that.

Needless to say, I've had a troubling relationship with my race.

I'm not like my Father. I wasn't there for race riots or Martin Luther King. I didn't see schools get integrated or witness the Montgomery Bus Boycott- I didn't have that rage or pride that seems to naturally come to other black people. Wait- ok, that's not exactly true. I do- and I stand by the theory that this is an inherent occurrance in all black people- get like, a deep, sort of animalistic rage whenever I hear (or read) the N word. Well, by a white person. (sorry).

But, okay- have you ever spent time with a Mormon? Actually, no, a whole group of Mormons? (Go with me on this) It's like- they have their own language, like a jargon. Sister this, elder that- Mutual, Family Home Evening, G's, Temple Recommend. Like a little club. I spent a good part of my adolescence wanting to be a part of that club. Nobody wants anything more, when they are a teenager, than to belong to something. That was it- I just didn't have anywhere to belong. I was accepted, but I didn't belong. Like everyone was having a dinner party and they set out an extra place setting for me at the last minute. I was there, but not entirely.

My adult life has been different. Now I look at what my father went through, what his parents went through, etc, and I think, this is an incredibly rich history. I sit with a group of black people and I think "I actually do belong to something." It's been a long time coming, sort of like falling in love, but I've fallen into step with it. Why wouldn't I want to be a part of that? Look at what we've done, look at what we've come through. I wasn't there, but- I'm a part of something. I do belong. I wear it on my skin.

I guess what I'm trying to say is :


Yup that's right. Ha ha ha! And proud of it!!!

*steps down from soap box*

And uh, there ya go.

Myself In Sixty Years (part deux)

For reasons that would be take far too long to explain, I found myself in the mall this morning around 11am, stricken without my trusty watch to cover up my tattoo. Behold:

Fierce, no?

However annoying, because I'm forced to wear unusually large watches to work everyday. So imagine me, decked in my OG tie, ill fitting slacks and name tag, flying about the mall for a cheap accessories store. If had the time or funds, this would actually be fun- as I did not have either it was more of a nuisance. So I fluttered into this chotchky shop pouring through racks and racks of crazy lame bangles (Btw, please, PLEASE don't bring the eighties back- I know, I know they're already back. Just, please stop this in it's place and do something like bringing the 1920's back or something. Imagine, flapper dresses and garters!!! ) Anyway, in walks this woman- this fantastic, vision of an octogenarian in a floor length fushia dress, heels, at least (AT LEAST) ten necklaces, just as many rings and a white feather boa.

Yes, yes- a BOA.

She was also wearing an extraordinary amount of make-up- I mean Bugs Bunny in drag make-up. And I thought to myself "Yes. YES, exactly." This is me! That is what I hope to be when I'm well into my eighties. I mean I can just imagine this woman digging in her closet this morning thinking "Ohhhh DAHHHHLING, what fabulously glamorous gown can I wear on this horribly BLUSTERY day? Oh, this dress is just DIVINE, I must, MUST get Murray to pour me another scotch before I do my shopping!!!" She's still got the jazz playing from last night, there are bizarre things strewn about her bedroom like fuzzy kitten heels and designer stockings and maybe, just maybe, there is a robe hanging over the chair by the vanity that is long and satin with a fur collar- you with me? She probably gives toasts to her cats with the finest champagne,and forces her mail man to do the foxtrot with her at like 9am, a long cigarette in one hand and her seventh cocktail in the other. I mean, what kind of woman not only owns a feather boa but wears it, as an accessory not as a joke or a costume piece but in all seriousness?!?! I mean, yes. Oh, yes. On all accounts, yes. She is the right amount of glamour mixed with batshit crazy. Brava. Oh, spot on, dear. SPOT ON.

Tweet Tweet. . .

I've discovered a strange, new, unabashedly self-involved pastime.

Now- let me just say for the record that I don't necessarily recommend this website for everyone. It takes a specific person to get involved with this sort of thing. The kind of person that sees a new nighttime soap opera by the creators of 90210 based in Orange County and says "Yeah, ok. I need to check that out." The sort of person that buys a purse from Lauren Conrad's website, because, why not? The kind of person that not only reads celebrity gossip, but is just dying to know what bitchy things the celebrities themselves have to say- someone like yours truly.

So the first time I logged onto Twitter, it seemed incredibly pointless. You know when you log onto Facebook and type what you're doing, about to do or thinking in the little status window? "Jenn is....." That's what Twitter is, basically. You log on and you change your status. there are no pictures, no bulletins, no surveys, no games, just "Jenn is...". BORING!!!

Then I started looking for other people. Leave it to me to not even think about finding my friends. No, I immediately went in search of B-D list celebrities. Sure enough, there's Kristen Stewart, John Mayer, Lacey Schwimmer, Michael Buckley- all Twittering. (actually, they call it tweeting.) So, if John Mayer wants to make a snarky comment, I see it. Kristen Stewart wants to comment on Robert Pattinson's breath? BAM there it is. Oh- and is Samantha Ronson Tweeting on her break up with Lindsay Lohan? You bet she is!! Ok- that's fun. A little voyeuristic but fun.

Then- I added it to my mobile. Yeah, that's right. I could tweet without having to be online. I didn't need to be a phone petter to put a deliciously random update on my Twitter account.

So now all of my friends need to get Twitter accounts. Oh, I know, blah, blah, it's not fun, blah, blah whatever. Get over it. If we all do this together, it will be awesome, I promise. As fun as an OC party, well, no nothing is as fun as an OC party (cuz an OC party don't stop...)but almost as fun, promise.

And I know you're not registered yet because I've already gone looking for you. Jump on the bandwagon, people!!!!