Life... Full Out

Return

2010-02-08T00:13:00.001-05:00

If I'm honest with myself, I'll admit that standing in the middle of a room -- surrounded by the truth of mirrors, absolutely exposed -- and asking body to move is simply... terrifying.

Yes. Terrifying.

It sounds odd to be terrified by something that you love so much, that you've loved for a long time. But I've become ever more aware that yes, it is absolutely possible. The very thing that gives you joy and freedom can also scare the shit out of you. Or out of me, at least.

So what do you do with that? You don't hide, because then you suffocate. You don't pretend to be invincible, 'cause that makes it easy to become wounded. You take then, I think, a measured approach; you honestly assess your fears, your strengths, your motivations and your reason for being in the first place; you acknowledge that your evolution is different from that of your friends, and that's okay; you acknowledge that your goals for dancing are different from those of your peers, and that's okay, too; and you realize that all these factors, once you confront and work through the fear, will lead you to a personal freedom that you may have never imagined before.

And then... you move your body.

The BADdest.

2009-07-05T14:54:00.000-04:00

What Are You Still Doing Here?!

2008-09-19T17:07:00.005-04:00

I told you I moved!

No worries though. I'm glad you stopped by. This way, I can remind you to update your blog links to

veronicamarche.blogspot.com

That's the new, *official* spot. So do it. Update. Thanks!

Also, I'm continuing my dance blogging with Examiner.com. Yes, I'm officially at the helm of the DC Dance Examiner blog. So check that out too.

And remember....

UPDATE YOUR LINKS!

Much obliged... :o)

Alright...

2008-09-03T11:40:00.010-04:00

This is the last time I'm doing this, I swear. :o)

In an effort to consolidate all the varied things I write about (and to brand my name... I'ma be famous!), all my musings, observations and random thoughts will now be written here.

I think I may still post my class videos on this blog. I'm not ready to fully give it up yet. But all my writing activity will definitely be taking place at the new (re-claimed?) spot.

So... UPDATE YOUR LINKS! :o)

I May Not Be Able to Post My Political Views...

2008-08-31T11:57:00.007-04:00

...but I can post my 13-year-old sister's. :o)

Big V: "So what did you think of Obama's speech?"

Mini V: "I thought his speech was EXCELLENT! He better be president... he's going to make it easier for me to go to college."

Yes, she can. :o)

Wow.

2008-08-29T13:04:00.001-04:00

A chick with five kids and the governor's seat.

This is going to get interesting.

No Excuses

2008-08-28T23:50:00.004-04:00

I gathered the girls at the house. Sent text messages to my parents. Told my sister to turn on the TV. And called my brother while he was watching football with his friends.

I wanted everyone to see.

There's a particular reason he strikes such a chord with me. He's the same age as my dad, but I look at him as my peer. We were both born into circumstances that, according to conventional wisdom (or census numbers), should have rendered us statistics. We've had to battle our own that said we weren't authentic enough, and others who believed we weren't capable enough. And yet, somehow we were taught to succeed, in spite of any obstacles, in spite of any doubt, in spite of everything.

And I wanted everyone to see that.

Seeing him in the midst of thousands reminded me of something my favorite colleges professor, Dr. Kaggwa, who told us on our first day of class. Sternly, he peered at each one of us over his glasses and said, "Your color is no excuse to be mediocre. You're expected to be excellent in spite of it."

Tonight, finally, completely, and fully, I internalized those words.

It may have been harsh, but I think Lynnette said it best: "He had a single mom who was on welfare. He met his dad, like, once. His name is Barack. Hussein. OBAMA. And now he's might be the president of his country. Ain't no more excuses for black folk. No excuses."

Which is why I made sure everyone I loved was watching. Because I wanted them to see... this is where "no excuses" can take you.

*

A little bit fun after the speech...

"We had to stop Pat Buchanan from gushing over Obama's speech for the sake of time. Perhaps that will tell you the story better than we ever could."

-- Keith Olbermann, MSNBC

Marketing 101

2008-08-25T22:28:00.005-04:00

As an aspiring (and as of yet, unproductive) author, I'm fully aware that it will be mostly up to me to promote, market and advertise whatever book finds itself with my name on the cover.

Book signings... you got it. E-mail blasts... of course. Book release and promotion parties... Tara's already got it under control.

And if all else fails, I can do like a local author who handed me two sheets of paper tonight as I sat in my car at 12th and U. I can pass out flyers that say

Order my books now from my website
or for ever be stuck in the devil's evil Matrix.
... I swear, I can't make this stuff up.

Life Lessons... Courtesy of Bravo

2008-08-24T12:00:00.013-04:00

(Disclaimer: This post is yet another installment in a totally unintentional, purely coincidental series of Quarter-Life Questions and Musings by Talia, La, and myself. I guess life is kicking everyone's ass right now.)

I have profound revelations at the most random times.

Like the other night, catching up on Project Runway. The show goes to commercial, a break that includes a promo of yet another Bravo spin-off reality show, Tabitha's Salon Takeover.

Now, I have limited interest in watching the show. Like Style's Peter Perfect and some new Fox show with the nutter from Hell's Kitchen, Salon Takeover involves sending an abrasive reality "celeb" to revive a faltering small business -- a process that often includes a smattering of condescension and few sprinkles of sarcasm.

But there was something in the promo that caught my ear. Tabitha was kvetching about the sad and rather disgusting state of one unfortunate salon, when the salon owner, fed up, looked her in the eye. "I do the best that I can," he said.

Her response?

"No, you don't."

No. You DON'T.

Damn.

And a little 15-second commercial for a TV show about hair salons made me start thinking about life as a whole. Am I doing the best I can? At all times? Or am I just coasting, doing the bare minimum, while trying to convince other people that I'm putting my best foot forward?

You can probably guess my conclusion.

I'm starting to think that being a smart, overachieving kid of the '90s is catching up with me in the new millennium. As many overachievers will tell you, school was a breeze. Concepts came easy. Teachers loved me. And so at some point I learned the art of B.S.-ing my way through life instead actually making a concerted effort. And who was going to say anything? I was the model, straight-A student. I could do no wrong.

But it's the real world now, and I think that's what kicking everyone's ass. People just don't want to see the end result anymore, they want to see the effort behind it. And as watchful eyes become more and more keen, it's getting harder to tell people you're doing your best when they can see that you're not. They can see that you're just doing enough to get by. Essentially, they can see your B.S.

And nothing in life is ever going to progress if all I do is B.S.

So as of today, a I have little personal mantra to use whenever I feel a lull coming on. I'll pause, take a breath and think myself...

Right now, at this exact moment... am I doing the very best I can?

And if Tabitha were nearby, she wouldn't be able to tell me no.

O'Biden in '08... O'Biden 4-Eva!

2008-08-24T10:32:00.013-04:00

Calm down, journo friends.

I'm in no way stating my support for any presidential ticket.

In fact, I ain't even talking about the guys. Who cares about them?

I'm talking about these two:

Potential first and second wifeys, Michelle O. and Jill Biden. I know Jameil practices her exercises in fabulosity on the regular (hey girl!) but this is some shit to aspire to.

At yesterday's rally in Springfield, Michelle was easy breezy (even in a strange print, she looks great), while Jill arrived suited up and ready for business (gotta love that tailoring). And I've been spending the better part of the past hour scouring the interwebs for a closer look at Miss Jill's shoes.

If you have any leads, that would be fantastic. I might even go as far to e-mail Claire from The Fashion Bomb; she rocks at unearthing such things.

And these two just rock in general.

Wonder what's making Chelley laugh so hard?

"IDK, my BFF Jill?"

(Pics from AP, AFP and Reuters via The Black Snob)

Everybody's Doing It

2008-08-23T17:56:00.004-04:00

Omg. OMG.

How much do I love this? HOW MUCH DO I LOVE THIS?!

Oh my gosh. I can't stand it. I'm cheesing so hard right now. Love it. LOVE it.

"Boom boom, HA!"

Ha ha ha! YES! Y'all betta EAT!

Get it, grannies. :o)

Generation Gap: Veronica's Unsolicited Analysis of Black Women and Pop Culture Over the Span of a Decade

2008-08-22T13:10:00.024-04:00

You can learn a lot from pop culture.

Thanks to The Mack, we know that pimps were the definition of cool back in the '70s.

Thanks to Michael Jackson, we know that dancing wasn't at all frowned upon in the '80s.

And thanks to Terry McMillan and scores of R&B girl group anthems, we know that women in the '90s were, well... desperate.

*ducks*

You done throwing stuff? Okay, now follow me here.

Exhibit A: En Vogue. The hottest group on the scene when they came out. And yes, "Hold On" is a venerable classic. But let's take a closer at the little gems in their discography...

They told us you've got "sacrifice and show how much you care" to keep your dude around ("Hold On")...

They asked, "What must I do to make you stay?" ("Don't Go")...

And then there's the first verse of "Don't Let Go," (different song, they added the "Let") where they declare: "I live in misery when you're not around... and I won't be satisfied 'till we're taking those vows..."

Says Errin: "Did we miss something? Was this the stalker group? These chicks had a lot of issues with keeping a dude, didn't they?"

But I don't think it was just them. At work today, some of us took a well-earned break to reminisce with some music, and "He's Mine" came on.

"MoKenStef?!" I exclaimed. "Really?!" I hadn't heard the song in years.

Then she drops the opening line...

"He might be doing you but he's thinking about me...."
Whoa. Wait. Honey...? We need to talk.

And the last example almost explains itself: Waiting to Exhale.

I've seen the movie a fair number of times, and every time, I could only be sympathetic to Bernadine (Angela Bassett) and Gloria (Loretta Divine). Robin (Lela Rochon) just didn't know what to do with herself. And Savannah (Whitney) was only eclipsed by her mom...

"He's a good man, Savannah. A good man."

A good... married... man....

Whatever.

Fast forward about a decade or so. Ain't nothing wrong with a little "Cater 2 U". But if dude is being less-than? "To the left, to the left," says Beyonce.

And Janet? (She gets counted here because she's ahead of her time.) She'll flirt with a cute guy and tell him what she'd do if she was his girl... but she's not... so she can't... and she won't.

So... sorry. *shrug*

And as hood as Keyshia Cole can be, "I Changed My Mind" fueled me through that storied Break-Up. Particularly the bridge:

"I'm so over you,
got no more to give
I gave it all to you
and you couldn't handle it
and I don't care
if you come back to me on your knees
I just don't love you no more
I changed my mind...."
Suffice it to say, I think I'm glad I came of age later, rather than sooner. Folks can dismiss music and culture all they want, but you gotta be honest... the messages they send are internalized. And we're influenced, to a degree, by what we see or hear.

In fact, I was influenced to write this post this morning, after hearing the Russ Parr Show play its '90s mix.

They spun SWV's "You're the One for Me"...

...followed by New Edition... "Sorry, You're Not My Kind Of Girl."

Ouch.

It only makes me love Beyonce's "Green Light" even more.

"You're holding up traffic, green means GO."
And you see... she got her a man. :o)

Beyonce - Green Light [NEW]
Uploaded by lilmarcus

Discipline

2008-08-21T10:53:00.007-04:00

I need a schedule.

I need a schedule and I need to stick to it.

I don't know what variation of the time-keeping gene I have, but mine seems to have mutated. "Schedule" is foreign concept to me. I do things on my own time, when they make sense to me.

Which explains me vacuuming last night at one in the morning.

(Seriously, who powers up a Dirt Devil after midnight? Besides me, I mean.)

I'm pondering all this as Tara and I are talking about the need to get our lives together. (Ugh... dammit, Lynnette, there goes that dreaded phrase again.) I was telling Tara how we all marvel at my friend. Cherryn. Cherryn moves like clockwork every evening. She comes home from work... changes... actually cooks her dinner... eats it with a little television on the side... and then packs up the rest for lunch the next day.

Like clockwork.

Cherryn's nightly routine also includes a careful regimen of grooming, hair-wrapping, flossing and taking-of-vitamins before she slides on her sleep mask and puts herself to bed.

And she somehow makes enough time in the morning to actually eat breakfast before she heads off to work.

It's friggin' amazing.

(Cherryn's cracking up right now, I'm sure of it.)

Me? I wish I had that discipline. Not to say I don't practice good hygiene or anything, because I do. (I mean, come on, that would be just nasty.) But nothing I do is like clockwork. I wake up with just enough time to shower and get cute. I eat when I get hungry. I take vitamins when I can remember. And everyone knows I'm a lightweight insomniac who can't put herself to sleep. I only slug off to bed after dozing off on the couch (and realizing I napped through yet another rerun of "The Fresh Prince.")

I do things on impulse. I move with the wind (or maybe water, since I'm a cancer). Most times, it isn't a bad thing. But I think I need some more structure in my daily life, because bad habits can develop without it.

Not giving myself time to eat means I'm spending mucho change-o on breakfast, lunch and dinner. And not cooking for myself means I'm not eating as healthily as I could be. Refusing to go to bed may mean I can catch that classic episode where Will is the victim of a hex (Will: "Who are you supposed to be?" Carlton:"My idol, McCauley Caulkin!"), but at the expense of a few precious hours of beauty sleep (not that I need that much... but I'm just saying).

So I know what I need to do to add to my quality of life, but I'm wondering... It's already hard to break a bad habit... is it harder to create a good one?

Shine

2008-08-20T00:49:00.009-04:00

What do you do?

Finally, you're under those lights. Thousands cheering, flags waving, a couple of cameras in your face. You're on.

Four feet in the air, on a platform just four inches wide, you're confident. Most others would wobble just from looking at the apparatus, but you've trained for this. You've already tripped, already lost your balance, already had devastating (and hell, wholly embarrassing) falls. Been there, done that, got the bruises to prove it. Fear, at this point, isn't in your vocabulary.

You mount, and there are cheers. Execute your first tumbling pass... more cheers. Pose, twist, leap, switch leap, with applause punctuating each move. It's almost too easy.

Halfway through, you're smiling, steadily breathing. Just one more pass after this turn. Simple turn. Up on releve, toes pointed, you push off and...

And...

No...

No...

I can't be on the floor.

There's no way I'm on the floor.

Bulbs are flashing as tears sting your eyes. The crowd gasps, loudly, and you feel your face flush. In a split second, you went from being four feet above to the top of world to being splayed out on a mat that's supposed to shield you from injury. But it can't protect you from the pang in your stomach.

All eyes are on you. Your coach is grabbing his hair. Your family is at once devastated and mortified. And your teammates look so, so disappointed.

What do you do?

What do you do?

Simple.

You get back up.

You get back on top of your beam.

And you shine.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

2008-08-19T00:10:00.012-04:00

(Yes. I'm really sitting here shrieking. Loud. And jumping around. Basically having an all out coniption fit. Because this is my own personal wet dream. So....)

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

*passes out*

Target Must Die

2008-08-18T14:55:00.005-04:00

It happens. Every. Time.

I go in for deodorant. Or tissue. Or, like today, lightbulbs and hand soap.

An hour later, I emerge with four or five bags, a latte and a hundred-dollar dent in my bank account.

Target must die.

I knew my life was over the day Target opened in Columbia Heights. Sure, it's bright and inviting and offers everything from underwear to shoes to Freschetta pizza, but it's all an obscenely effective artifice designed to siphon money from right under your nose.

Don't believe me? Ha. Their marketers and floor designers are geniuses. If you go for clothes, they only put out one or two items in any given color or size, so you just have to get it. Hands getting full from carrying a few items? There are strategically placed baskets all over the store. And once you have a basket on your arm, there's no way you'll be able to resist picking up more stuff.

Target should really be called The Black Hole of Doom.

Because I get sucked in every time.

Help me.

Ante Up

2008-08-16T00:50:00.004-04:00

More blog laziness, I know. But this shit is just ignorant.

I'm laughing so hard I almost forgot that I'm supposed to be in pain. (Anyone wanna bring me some Breyers? Chocolate Crackle, thanks.)

Back to my blanket....

Ask And Ye Shall Receive

2008-08-13T23:51:00.005-04:00

What's better than getting into the studio and dancing through the night? Doing it with your friends, of course.

Kelly, Boogie, John (aka Jailbait) and Boris joined me for my second class for The Blend at Contradiction Dance (Kelly's studio). Of course the goal for any class is to have a lot of people come out, but the five of us had more than enough fun to keep ourselves entertained.

Plus, teaching an adult class gives more leeway for some sessy (read: "sexy") choreography.

Me with Boris (white shirt) and John (aka Jailbait)...

...and then with Boogie and Kels...

And just for kicks and giggles... "No Air"... one mo' 'gain....

Fun times. Fun times. :-)

Short Circuit

2008-08-13T13:21:00.005-04:00

I need a makeover.

Maybe not a makeover. Maybe a lifeover.

Whatever you want to call it, I need something to get me out of this unwelcome rut. I can only pretend to be happy-go-lucky for so long until before break down and say, "Eff it. I'm in a sucky-ass mood that I don't know how to get out of, and frankly, it's pissing me off."

So I need something to make me feel better. Something new. Fresh. Errin suggested a new haircut or a massage. I thought a facial may be a good idea too. What I'd really love to do trespass into Kelly's brand new lab and get her to help me create. (Because Kelly rocks, her creations rock, and I want to learn how to create like her. Okay, end lovefest. :) )

I guess what I'm really looking for is to be energized. Yes, that's it. I need to be energized. Beyond anything cosmetic, I need a new spark. Something that will inspire me.

Any suggestions?

Another Reason I'm Over New York

2008-08-12T19:20:00.005-04:00

I forgot to mention this one...

"Hey mama, can you hook me up with a peso?"

No.

"Well, can I have some of your iced coffee? You got me, right?"

Sir...?

"Where you going? You getting on that bus to DC?"

*sigh*

"I can come with you, if you got someplace for me to stay... I'll treat you real right...

"I'll break out the rose petals and massage oil, just for you... mmmm...

"I bet you taste like a Reese cup...

"I love my African queens...

"...what nationality are you?"

Corner of West 33rd and 7th Avenue.

Red light.

I ? New York

2008-08-10T16:46:00.006-04:00

You'd think after spending five days in the Big Apple, I'd have much to share.

But I don't.

That's because I'm kinda over New York.

Well, more than "kinda." I'm closer to "definitely."

Don't get me wrong, some of my favorite people live up there (and I got to see most of them, so yay! fun times!), but the city is just too much for me.

The commutes are too long. The streets are too crowded. And there are WAY too many tourists. (I guess I should mention, I have a special place in my heart for tourists... a special place of hate.) Tack on bus drivers, cops and newspaper sellers trying to find their way to your apartment and into your pants, and you get the idea. Too much for my soul.

That's not to say there weren't great parts of the trip. We saw Kanyeezy for the third time, AND I FINALLY SAW LUPE!!! AHHHH!!!

(Sorry. I'm easily excited.)

Central Park is lovely. Bergdorg Goodman's beauty department is a little oasis of calm (and compulsive spending). And I had a ball taking classes at Broadway Dance Center. (That, in fact, was the highlight of my trip.)

Oh, and there was this great "apple" poster, which only a select few will really, truly appreciate:

But the overall verdict: Five days is too long to spend in the City. Especially when a) you don't exactly have a detailed itinerary, and b) it takes an hour and a half to get wherever you want to go, provided you've actually decided where to go.

Does that mean we're never going back? Of course not. We're young and cute, so we have a few more times to dabble in the cosmopolitan lifestyle before we truly get tired of it.

All I'm saying is that next time, we're finding a way to stay on the Upper West Side.

Ain't no tourists there.

I'm A Writer, And So Is She!!!

2008-08-07T10:17:00.003-04:00

Well... now my piece on TheRoot.com is one of the top five viewed this week.

Fan-friggin-tastic. :)

And to only prove that it all runs in the family... my little sister is going to have one of her plays produced by Pittsburgh's City Theatre!!! AHHHHH!

Kelsey is 13 and in the creative writing program at her middle school. She (along with kids from all over Pittsburgh) submitted plays for the City Theatre's Young Playwrights Festival, and yesterday she got a call saying that her play was chosen. So in January, the city will get to see the fabulousness of my sister's mind acted out on stage.

GO KELSEY!

Oh, and because she saw mine, she done went ahead and created her own blog (changing the spelling of her name in the process). Now I just gotta school her on what not to put on the Internet. :)

I <3 my baby girl.

Second Time's a Charm....

2008-08-05T01:34:00.002-04:00

...and that's a good thing, 'cause this was a hot mess last week. Lol.

Also... why I was ever so resistant to having a kids' class? I get to jump around like a five-year-old for an hour.

And yes, that's me dancing like a Peanuts character. But hey... it's pretty friggin' great. :-)

I'm A Writer, I'm A Writer!

2008-08-04T14:36:00.003-04:00

... who has been published on TheRoot.com.

Go, take a look! And leave comments! (You didn't think I wouldn't ask, did you?)

:-)

How Grown is "Grown"?

2008-07-30T09:33:00.013-04:00

I finally did it.

I finally bought a new bed.

But only because the other one broke.

And not just once. But several times.

It took a third collapse (and the searing heat of embarrassment -- The Boo was visiting that weekend and saw it happen) for me to finally say, "You know what V? You're too grown for this twin-sized Ikea bed."

Yeah. I know.

Get that look off of your face. I've already gotten it from Talia and Lynnette.

You've got to understand, when I moved into my first (read: tiny, studio) apartment, the bed made sense. I was a (virtually) single girl with a lot of stuff. I was more concerned about storage than sleeping space, so I bought a bed just big enough for me, but with three roomy, convenient drawers underneath. (Seriously, you should have seen the ~~rat hole~~ closet in that space. I needed those drawers.)

My needs didn't change much when I moved into the current apartment, and hey, the bed still functioned, so why spend money to replace it?

Because you needed a big-girl bed, dummy. That's what the Veronica Inside My Head is saying.

But of course, it takes me a while to come around on some things. That moment finally happened as Lynnette and I were dismantling the old bed to install the new one last night. I looked down at the sad, chipped Sultan bed slats (the third set I'd bought), and sighed.

"I am too grown for Ikea furniture."

Lynnette looked confused. "Why?" she asked.

I forgave her for being young. "Because, it's Ikea furniture. Shit falls apart. I should have good, sturdy, grown-woman furniture, not stuff that falls apart if you move it to the other side of the room."

(Let it be known that the bed, to be honest, put in work for an Ikea product. It lasted three years, through two apartments, two floods (one minor, one major), a serious battle with mold, and, of course, those collapses. So, actually, when I was making those comments, I was looking ruefully at my pitiful three-year-old dresser and the leaning bookcase I bought less than a year ago. Both from Ikea.)

My lamentations made me wonder though -- can I really say I'm grown if I'm still furnished by Ikea? I mean, I got the apartment, the car, the jobs and the student loans that I'm paying for all on my own. So my bank account thinks I'm grown. But there's something about an Ikea bedroom that makes a 25-year-old feel, well, pre-pubescent.

"So, why not buy new furniture?" you ask. Have you talked to the economy lately? She's a raging bitch that just found out her husband is sleeping with a one-legged midget prostitute. She ain't trying to hear anything from me. And of course there's Dad who's always offering -- "If you need anything, let me know," he says. He'd make a weekend trip for the sole purpose of getting me a new bedroom, and I wholly appreciate that. But wouldn't that call my "grown-ness" into question too?

*sigh* I guess I just want to know... If your parents are still lending a helping hand... or if you're still sleeping on things assembled by little hexagonal rods that someone dared to call "tools"... are you really grown?

Or are you just at a rest stop on the highway to actual adulthood?

Until we figure it out, I'm taking donations for my next big-girl purchase... the lovely, six-drawer, under-bed-storage-replacement from West Elm.

"I Think I Like The Way You Move..."

2008-07-18T10:47:00.002-04:00

Lazy post, I know. But this video is TOO cute.

KANYE AND ANDRE! AHHHHHHHHHH! :-)

"Flyer than the rest of them..."

2008-07-15T22:22:00.002-04:00

Don't sleep on DC, son.

I'm in no way involved with this one, but a know some of the people performing in this clip. And they're easily some of baddest a$$es in the Urrea.

All I can say is... DC is the sh*t.

The end.

"Do Some Hoe Shit."

2008-07-14T10:18:00.005-04:00

So I've forayed into the world of hoochie-scoochie, super-short dresses.

Why? No real reason. Other than that I found myself in Papaya with former wifey this weekend as she was looking for an outfit (read: strip of cloth) for a white party.

I usually withhold any interest in budget-trend stores like Papaya (and Level X, and Forever 21, etc. etc.). I'm healthy size 12, so stores with sizes that only come in S, M, or L don't seem to have much to offer me. A lot of the items can barely cover my nips.

Yes. My nips.

But as we perused the store, things started catching my eye. Things that, by golly, might actually fit. I grabbed things that struck an interest. In purple. Pink. Turquoise. And a whole lot of black.

And so began the dressing room montage.

The first "dress" (more like a hot pink tube sock) was met with two sets of eyes. Lynnette's peepers said "Me likey!" Cherryn's said, "Oh... wow."

Lynnette was cheering for the little hot pink number, but I couldn't ignore Cherryn's look of concern. "It's just... this is a new look for you. I'm not used to it."

Neither was I. Said "look" was a little bit of spandex holding up a lot of boob, a lot of butt and a whole lot of thigh. Almost like I was a video extra for En Vouge, circa 1992. We decided (against Lynnette's protests) that this one was staying in the store.

But the montage continued, and I began emerging with things that won unanimous approval. And they all had the same basic features: Easy through the bodice (to play down the boobs), clingy at the bottom (to play up the rear). Oh, and they're all short. Real short. So there's still a whole lot of thigh going on.

"So, Veronica," you ask, "what's really good with this new... 'look'?" And all I can do is shrug. Really... I just wanted some hoochie dresses. (Classy hoochie, mind you. Classy hoochie.) I'm young and I like my legs. So why not show them off every now and again? That's the best answer I can give you.

That and the fact that it's totally unexpected from me, so my friends are gonna trip. (Oh, Veronica, always going for the shock factor.)

Said Tara: "Please make sure I'm with you whenever you wear any of those....With all that T&A you are undoubtedly going to get into someone's VIP for free... with a few bottles comped and all..."

See? Hoochie-ness does have its privileges. Just ask Erykah. :-)

After the Rain

2008-07-09T01:13:00.006-04:00

For five days I went through the motions. Going to work, chatting with friends, only kinda-sorta clowning around. I was there, but I wasn't. For almost the entirety of those five days, my mind wasn't present. And save for my eyes, which welled up with tears each night, my body felt numb.

Until Monday.

The kids. To make it even funnier, the kids that I didn't even want. I had asked not to be given any classes with little ones, assuming my lack of patience would get the best of me. Boy, how wrong was I?

They're not St. Louis transplants with penchants for grossly over-price designer bags (name the movie!), but these kids helped bring me back to life. And with such simple moves. Raise your hands, side to side, jump up and down, now just dance. I wasn't numb anymore. And I was back to clowning around at full throttle.

And just an hour later, I was dancing (for real) for the first time in a week.

Everyone hates Mondays. I think they just my be my new favorite day of the week.

(P.S.: Thanks to everyone for your kind words. Seems like Howard wasn't the only place where A.B. left his mark. )

.... (pt. 2)

2008-07-04T09:04:00.009-04:00

Aaron passed away just after midnight yesterday morning.

The news came just I was getting calls from friends trying to be the first to wish me a happy birthday.

I couldn't answer some of them. I was curled up in Lynnette's arms, sobbing into her chest.

But somehow, even in my tears, I was able to separate the two. "I'm sorry this had to happen today," Lamont said to me as he made his way up to see Aaron's family in Ohio. I told him it was okay. Devastating as the news was, I didn't feel my birthday to be spoiled or ruined or something inappropriate to celebrate.

I had to celebrate. I made it to 25. Aaron would have been there on December 9th.

Part of my day involved gathering at the Alpha Phi Omega plot with my fraternity brothers on campus to remember Aaron. One of the newest members, who will meet Aaron for the first time when he goes to his funeral on Tuesday, placed 10 roses on the plot -- five painted blue, five painted gold -- to represent Aaron's line number.

Somehow that number now seems incredibly appropriate.

I was the one to lead the prayer circle in which we each talked to God about Aaron, his passing and what his life gave us. And it was weird standing there, being the leader and comforting some of my brothers. I guess because just a dozen hours before, Lynnette was the one that had to hold me up.

There was a breeze that rustled the tree next to the plot and blew through my hair. And as I turned my face up to the sun to feel the wind, I couldn't help but think that it was my friend telling us that he heard us... that everything will be okay... that he loves us too.

My boss was kind enough to give me the day off, which I would later find that I definitely needed. The boyfriend was here, and between his arrival and the annual roommate cake ritual at the end of the night, I had things to smile, giggle and laugh hysterically about. I was simply able to enjoy some of the people I love most. Other everyday cares of the world now seemed incredibly trivial.

But now I'm back at work, left alone with my thoughts, knowing already where they're going to wander. Since my last post, I've prayed, fasted and talked a lot with friends, and I have more peace. Yes, I still get upset. My friend is gone. And so, so, so many people are hurting right now. But I'm not questioning God anymore. Because now I know there's a bigger picture that I just can't see yet. And I can't cry for Aaron any more, because even though I wish he's beaten his disease, he was already incredibly at peace about whatever divine decision would be made about his life.

He had a tattoo on his left arm. It read: "Lord, I'm ready when you are."

Maybe he really did win.

....

2008-06-30T23:56:00.009-04:00

The one thing I've noticed is that every picture of him makes me laugh. There's the one where's he's giving the gangsta face with a silly little hat. And the one where's he's posing in some god-awful costume that consists of short shorts and aluminum foil. My favorite is one taken at our fraternity potluck -- where I'm pretending to pole dance on a wobbly floor lamp, and he's holding out a crisp dollar bill.

The pictures makes me chuckle, and some make me cackle hysterically. And then... I can't help but think that's what makes this whole thing even that much more cruel.

My friend Aaron is dying.

He's been battling cancer for as long as I known him. When I met him, he'd already fought through one episode. A year or so later he'd be fighting through another. And it went back and forth, this tug of war with a ruthless disease that refused to concede. I've seen Aaron go from toned to emaciated, rocking a head full of curls and then no hair at, running around and cutting up, or slowly moving about because he only had only so much energy to spare. The only constant: the light shining from his wide grin.

And that's the only comfort I have now as I cycle through pictures on Facebook. I'm thinking about all the times he's made us smile (and "us" includes a lot of people, because at Howard, Aaron's a popular dude), and hoping he's at least finding something to smile about while his family makes plans to move him to a hospice.

This. Is not. Fair. I don't want the world to lose that smile. I don't want us to lose that laughter. And I certainly don't want him to have to fight this nasty, relentless and cruel disease alone. Yeah, his family is with him and his friends are on their way, but his body is the only one struggling to live. And he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve it at all.

So why is it happening to him?

This is the first time I've ever questioned God. And while everyone else is sending up prayers and making plans to fast, my own faith is being tested. I want to pray, but I don't know what to ask for. Naw, scratch that. I know exactly what to ask for.

I want Aaron to win.

But that's not up to me. So what at this point can I do?

All I want is to make it go away. And I can't.

I just can't.

I Really Should Be Working....

2008-06-27T10:33:00.021-04:00

...but I can't. I'm distracted.

By what, you say?

Hair.

Big, puffy, soft, curly, textured hair.

This month, now that I think about it, has been all about the hurr. In the first week, I ended six years of being a faux-redhead and dyed it a natural-looking brown-black. Now it makes SO much sense to me. I look younger (I think) and more put-together now that my strands are all one color. So I've been all about it.

Meanwhile, after reading this tutorial on roller-setting natural hair, I ran out to CVS and bought a whole package of mesh rollers, hoping that they'll be easier to handle than the mass of magnetic rollers sitting unused in a bedroom drawer.

And today, I've departed from my usual (read: tired) curly 'fro and tried the new "goddess braid" trend, modeled here by Eva the Diva. One difference: my style is made more casual with a curly-puffy ponytail in the back.

(And, yes, I do have the Puerto Rican baby hair tendrils by my ears. Lol.)

So what's next? A haircut. Finally, this afternoon, I'll have my hair cut and shaped by a stylist that specializes in natural curls. And finally, my massive mane will make sense. (As I told Tara, a straight layered bob does not translate into anything remotely coherent on curly hair.)

And so I sit here, at work, waiting for 3:30 to come so I can bolt out for my 4 p.m. appointment. I'm excited, in case you couldn't tell, and instead of working, I've been perusing the internets for more hair-spiration. And I've found a lot to be excited about.

First... if those rollers can transform me in to "Joan," they'll be my best friends forever.

Rachel True's cut is the look I want for everyday wear....

...but the loose, messy wave is perfect for my occasional "rock star moments."

Meanwhile, I'll be finding reasons to channel my inner new millennium Supreme. (This chick, by the way, is just simply fierce).

And I don't know if I'm this bold yet, but I think the haute faux-hawk is pretty damn fly.

What can I say? I've fallen in love with the curl.

Even more hair-spiration....

Ya Damn Skippy.

2008-06-26T11:26:00.007-04:00

Yesterday was sunny. Hot. Perfect conditions for spending some girlfriend time with former wifey in downtown DC.

We were strolling down G Street, past the MLK Memorial Library laughing heartily about something. I can't remember what. That's when an older gentleman rolled up on a bike (the jury is still out on whether it was a Schwinn or a Huffy) and slowed to a halt beside us.

Then he turned up his face.

"I changed my mind," he scoffed. "Y'all uppity."

...

...really?

REALLY?

Wow.

And... do you want me to feel bad about it?

I'm just sayin.

Till the Cops Come Knocking....

2008-06-25T11:59:00.007-04:00

It's a bit comforting to know that I wasn't the only one rendered incoherent when Maxwell strolled out on the BET Awards stage last night. Apparently, women everywhere lost their damn minds -- and documented their mental breakdowns with comments on the promptly-uploaded YouTube video:

"I screamed like a school girl when he strolled his fine ass on that stage!!! Then I watched mesmerized as he sang that there song...Whew, I miss him. Nobody does it better, so sexy. He could get all the time."

"When I had heard his name, I screamed like I was a damn groupie."

"I'm glad I wasn't the only person screaming like a school girl in my apartment for this man. My neighbors must have thought I lost my mind....lol"

"My neighbors came knocking to see if I was alright because I screamed so loudly."

"Lawd, PLEEEZE have some MERCY...I nearly passed out as I watched that beautiful and melodious speciman of a man stroll out onto the stage."

"I phucking died when he came on stage. I could not take it."

"I screamed so loud I scared my daughter. I love Maxwell so much people. I didn't want him to leave the stage. Maxwell please bless me with your beautiful voice and you fine ass again PLEASE!!!!"

"I think my nipples may have stood up when he walked onto the stage I don't know if my husband noticed!"

"I hung up on my mama when this man hit the stage."

Ah. You gotta love the Internet.

Pleasantly Surprised.

2008-06-24T23:24:00.000-04:00

Well I'll be John Brown.

The BET Awards were really good this year.

Like seriously. Good music. Good tributes. And Maxwell. Yes. Maxwell. *swoon*

So now that BET has shown that they can identify good music for an awards show... can they do that on a regular basis now?

I'm just sayin.

The Metaphor My Kitchen Gave Me

2008-06-17T14:08:00.012-04:00

I stopped cooking.

My chef's hat was one of the first things to go as I found myself navigating through the storied Break-up. I curbed the trips to the grocery store, the picking out fresh veggies and meats, the pulling pots and pans out from the cupboard underneath my sink. Because once I measured the water and seasoned the chicken and put the beans on to boil, I'd look down at the stove and suddenly become sad.

Because there was only one serving of rice cooking in my little pot.

So I stopped. It was too depressing, watching the tiny pot rattle alone on the stove. What was the point of perfecting that blend of spices if only one fish filet was going in the oven? My big baking sheet became a counter decoration, my large sauce pan ended up with a cobweb in it. And the stirring, sprinkling, adding just-a-little-dash-of-that -- just became too much. Too much work, I thought, for a meal for one.

So I stopped. And lived off of food that I had to buy from other folks.

And all my pots went untouched.

*

"I made pasta and my own garlic sauce last night," I told Tara. "And a spinach, pasta and ricotta dish the night before. What am I doing tonight?"

"Salmon?" she suggested.

I turned my face up. "Ew."

"Oh, that's right," she laughed. "You only do fish sticks."

I was racking my brain here. Two days after a trip to Trader Joe's, my freezer was full of meats, my cupboards full of spices and potential side dishes, and I could not figure out what to make. I could kick myself for letting my mental cookbook flitter off into oblivion. Brainstorming ideas for dinner tonight was turning out to be unfruitful, and I'd be left hungry (at least for a little while) because of it.

"Do people keep recipe boxes anymore?" I asked Tara.

"No," she said. "They keep recipes files on their laptops. But most things we had were memorized. Granny never referred to a book, and after cooking with her for so long you just know what goes where and how much."

"Yeah," I said. "That's what I want to be able to do. I need to get back to that."

"Well," she responded in her matter-of-fact way. "Have you just tried? Most of the time, when you're there in front of the food, it comes back."

Hmm. A novel idea, I thought. No recipe books, no meticulous directions, no worrying about another person's tastes. Just me, the ingredients and my imagination.

I couldn't wait to get home and pull out my little pots.

Text Mania, Volume 2

2008-06-17T12:14:00.003-04:00

On my travels between Virginia and D.C...

Me: I just passed an establishment called Sambo Restaurant.

Lynnette: Well... there is a Cracker Barrel...

Laura Edwards is a beast.

2008-06-15T23:22:00.001-04:00

Who?

The blond girl from the group Fysh 'n Chicks on MTV's America's Best Dance Crew.

Took workshop she was teaching today. This is the combo she taught:

Yeah. She's a beast. End scene.

My dancer crush just got bigger.

Questioning Happy People

2008-06-14T19:07:00.002-04:00

Meh.

So he got off.

Fan. Tastic.

Personally, I really have no hatred toward R. Kelly. But as I've told a number of people, I wanted him locked up. Why? To be an example. For what? Well... my buddy Chris articulates it so much better than I can right now. So I'll just share what he's written. You can show him some love here.

In the meantime, I'm going to share some long-distance quality time with my Mini-V.

It's a sad sad day in Black America when folks actually rejoice when a man who has a history of pedophilia walks the streets like someone was REALLY out to get him. Why no venom for Michael Jackson, you ask? Oh no, I think Mike is a perv too, but he's got issues from way way back...and he made Thriller. Thriller. Seriously, Mike is wrong as well, but the fact that black folks have supported and enabled R. Kelly to get off for crimes against little black girls is disgusting and sad. It's an unspoken code of ethics in the black community unfortunately that because our girls develop fast in the body that older men feel like it's cool to pursue anything with these still obviously young girls. Uh...no. We can laugh and ridicule white molesters, but shelter one of the biggest ones walking planet Earth because he's black AND taught the world how to step Chicago style? Come on now.

And then you can hear the obviously misguided and baffling comments when people say "she wasn't doing x, y and z like no 14 year old girl," "oh, she wanted it, he didn't hold a gun to her head" or "the man just wants R. Kelly in jail." The man, huh? Well I haven't gotten to The Man yet, but give me a few paragraphs.

When is it o.k. for a young girl with a developed body to be sexually objectified and cast in a slutacious (thanks, Mo) light by her own damn people? I'll tell you when -- how about never? The less care and protection we give our girls growing up, the more likely they are to become adult women with a childish mentality, and they pass it down to their kids and so on. It's a ridiculous chain of events that has to cease. If R. Kelly was Joe Johnson and he worked at Pizza Hutt, y'all would be calling for his neck and in some cases even going for it! Instead, because he's R. Kelly and he makes what y'all think is good music (most of his sound is crap, you can't tell me otherwise), he's above the law. That's not cool.

This is part of the reason we're so fired up when we see Barack and Michelle Obama (two people Chicago can actually be proud of) displaying true love. It's so absent in our communities because we don't give black girls time to grow and mature to become great and desirable women like Michelle Obama. Then we wonder why black women are so mad all the time...uh hello? We keep stunting their growth, especially with grown men trying to bed them at the first sign of a C-cup and/or shapely-ness. If we're ever going to get ourselves back on track in the game of love, folks need to stop enabling molesters to do what they do. It's not right and it doesn't help in the long or short term.

Now, as for The Man...I know Michael Vick is sitting in his prison cell in Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas like "Ain't this about a bitch?" They gave that man a GOOD year in federal prison for dog fighting, but a dude who is recorded on video camera urinating on a girl that couldn't even take driver's ed walks free? Wow. Society as a whole (read: White America) also has a role in this case because they've pretty much turned a deaf ear to the fact that R. Kelly, regardless of race, is a child molester all the same. This heinous, sick act affects people of all races, ethnic backgrounds, religions and genders. Yet and still, there was more outrage over Vick's lying about his involvement in the dogfighting game than there was about a young girl being violated. However, I shouldn't expect any different. White folks care more about dogs than little black girls. Then again, if black folks don't care about our own daughters, why should they?

Coming to the Stage

2008-06-09T21:14:00.001-04:00

The video finally uploaded! Yay DJ!

(And that's Josh providing the commentary. He's too much for me. Too much I tell ya.)

And a Little Bit Of Guilt

2008-06-08T12:03:00.004-04:00

Roommate: "They like, loved us!"

Me: "I know!"

Teammate: "Yeah, they kept coming up to us and saying how much they loved it..."

Me: "Crazy, right?"

Roommate: "Yeah. And the one lady said she had to cover her kids' eyes."

Me: "Wait. What?"

Roommate: "She was right in front too. When we started 'How Many Licks?' she covered their eyes."

Me: "Wait! No...! Now I feel bad. And we weren't even that bad, it was the boys who were being nasty!"

Roommate (laughing): "No, she said it was cool. They were laughing about it in the ladies room. She enjoyed us though."

Me: "Okay..."

Roommate: "No really, she said it was cool!"

Me: "So why do I still feel bad?... Dang... the kids, man...."

The Other Best Moment of the Night

2008-06-08T11:51:00.003-04:00

Respected Friggin' Genius Dancer Friend: "Yo... that last piece...."

Me: "You liked it?"

RFGDF: "Yes! Was that yours?"

Me: "Yeah, I choreographed it."

RFGDF (making the stank face, putting hand up in the air for a high five): "You betta DO IT."

ME (giggling, returning the high five): "Yay! Thanks boo."

Feedback

2008-06-08T01:08:00.005-04:00

They screamed. Loud.

I was not expecting it.

I was on the floor, trying to catch my breath after what was quite possibly the hottest (literally, HOTtest) five minutes of stage time in my life. The six of us had just done our final move -- a collapse to the floor -- on a temporary stage in a sweltering loft, when the unexpected came.

The audience screamed.

Loud.

I don't know why the eruption was such a surprise. We'd been on more than enough stages and performed in front of all kinds of audiences. But for some reason this was different. These were people that we didn't know and who were exceptionally talented in their own right. B-boys that spin on their heads, flip onto their backs, freeze in mid-air. Would they be impressed with our choreographed moves?

Apparently they were. Because they screamed.

Yeah. Loud.

And as I laid there, at first trying to catch my breath, I found myself instead trying to soak the moment in.

They're screaming? For me? For us? Wow.

It was almost overwhelming.

And it felt incredible.

I was the last one to get up, and Cherryn poked fun at me later for it. ("I mean, I was wondering if you were gonna just stay there!" Whatever, roommate, it was HOT!) She was right, it took me a second. But I needed it. Because I wanted to keep this moment.

It just felt so good.

Marry a Black girl, stay out of jail

2008-06-06T15:39:00.005-04:00

This is possibly the most ig'nant thing I've seen all day.

And I LOVE it.

The Secret Council of American Negroes (shit, how can I get down?) is on a mission. They're out to let men know that they should get them a black girl.

Why? Because...

"If you marry a black women you're 86 percent less likely to end up in prison."

(Hey, they said it.)

Just look at part of the infomercial they came up with:

Script for infomercial #001

TITLE: "Why not a black woman?" (Re-branding Campaign)

EXT. A busy street in the city

MUSIC (upbeat, light and peppy)

A white man is hurrying down a busy street dressed for work

NARRATOR: (booming male voice) Hey you!

The white man stops and looks around curiously.

NARRATOR: Yes, you! The one with no wedding ring!

The man looks at the camera sheepishly and looks in closer.

MAN: Yeah?

NARRATOR: You looked like you were in a hurry?

MAN: Yeah, um ... I was just ...

NARRATOR: Hey, how's your love life?

MAN: It's great, I guess.

NARRATOR: So, you're seeing someone?

MAN: Not really. I guess it's been awhile since I went on a date. Work keeps me pretty busy.

NARRATOR: Is it work or are you just striking out with the ladies?

MAN: I mean, I try to find a girl, but all the women I meet are either married already or bland and unsatisfying. I'm really lonely, but I don't know what to do.

NARRATOR: Have you ever considered a black girl?

MAN: (Nervous laugh) What? No!

NARRATOR: What? Are you some kind of racist?

MAN: (Embarrassed) No! I think I have a cousin who's married to some black guy or at least I think he's black. Wait. He might be Puerto Rican. Are Puerto Ricans black?

NARRATOR: Don't think about it too hard, you might give yourself a headache.

MAN: (Smiling) Oh. OK.

NARRATOR: But seriously, why not a black girl?

MAN: I don't know. I just find them kind of intimidating. I don't think they would like me. And aren't they really loud and pushy?

NARRATOR: (Hearty laugh) Oh, Jim.

The narrator goes on to school Jim on how wonderful we are -- "Black women are spiritual and loving who are talented in music and the arts. They’re intelligent, sensitive and thoughtful. [They] laugh 25 percent more than white women and smell like cinnamon and cocoa butter. They shit rainbows and have posteriors so lovely that if you tossed them up in the air they would turn to sunshine."

And you know Jim is ALL about it. Hell, who wouldn't be?!

Go see for yourself, here and here. I think SCAN might be onto something... :-)

First Daughters' Club

2008-06-06T10:44:00.002-04:00

(Also posted on the new project.)

I'm watching Barack Obama on television, speaking from the Nissan Pavilion in Virginia, being his usual inspiring self.

On Hillary Clinton, he remained classy of course, saying his daughters now see themselves in a different light because she ran for president.

...at which point I couldn't help but imagine a meeting between the girls and the grown up Chelsea Clinton -- walking up to her, crossing their arms and rolling their necks...

"Our daddy beat yo' mama's ass. So boom, ooh."

Oh, it would be so delicious.

Woosah....

2008-06-05T14:21:00.007-04:00

I know, I know, I shouldn't be getting political or militant, but...

People are batshit.

Officially.

An excerpt from here:

Barack Obama may be the only male politician of any significance in the past, say, one thousand years who is faithful to his wife. Does anyone doubt Obama's fidelity? Now that it's near certain he will be the Democratic nominee, I've been trying to sort out why I don't think this is a good thing. It's not that I'm pro-infidelity, mind you. As a psychologist who has seen many couples torn to pieces over it, I know how corrosive betrayal is to a relationship. Yet, Obama's certain fidelity is somehow troubling me.

[...]

Now, to many of you on this site who have seen my postings before (and I want to thank you for the bodyguard I felt the need to hire), you know that I am a Hillary Clinton supporter. Perhaps I was more drawn to her to begin with because of her fierceness. It made me feel safe knowing there'd be this big, strong bear of a Mother in the House protecting her children at all times, ever vigilant and ever ready to do whatever it took to keep us out of harm's way. On the other hand, Obama's monotonic calm admittedly kind of scares me.

[...]

Because what Obama seems to lack is what makes these powerful guys sexy: comfort with his aggression. He's just not comfortable with all that macho, aggressive, puffed-up-chest-capable-of-surviving-torture-ready-to-do-battle-if-
necessary kind of thing.

[...]

Which brings me back to Obama's irksome, wholesome, certain fidelity. It's actually not the fidelity that bothers me. I know that's a good thing. It's that shrinkage factor that has me worried. I think if it weren't for Axelrod, the Karl Rove of the Democratic Party, Obama may indeed be out there quietly making his case that nice guys really, really, really can finish first. And he'd have lost a long time ago. But Axelrod is no Obama. Axelrod knows and knew from the get-go that Obama had to at least try to appear like someone who could take a swing every now and then.

Now give me a second...

Is this bitch SERIOUS?!

(Yeah, I said it. And to steal a line from a fellow blogger... "before you even try to brand me a sexist, I’m a gender neutral bitch basher.")

I'm blown. Like literally, blown. Obama loves, respects, and is faithful to his wife, and somehow that translates into him being a meek, powerless leader?

Seriously though? Seriously?

To make matters worse, the woman writing this is a clinical psychologist, a psychoanalyst AND she's on the faculty at NYU.

So she's teaching such cockamamy shit to young, impressionable wannabe therapists.

My only solace... every commenter on the post called her out on her batshitness. Every. Single. One.

So at least I have some comfort in knowing... people know crazy when they see it.

So now I say to myself... woosah... woosah....

(More reaction here, here and here.)

"My Dawg."

2008-06-04T10:36:00.004-04:00

Seriously, how could you NOT love these two?

List Installment

2008-06-03T12:07:00.005-04:00

Talia did hers, so now I'm doing the one she suggested...

Up with Lists!

* * * * *

Things I Still Don't Understand About Myself

This ice thing. I don't know what causes it, why I have these cravings, or why I'll munch on a cup full of ice when I'm already cold because of the overzealous office air conditioning. Lynnette says it might have something to do with an iron deficiency. And I am anemic, so... who knows.

I don't get why I can't focus. I have the attention span of a snap pea.

Okay, so it's not that I don't like doing chores. It's just that I'll make a mental note to do them (i.e. wash the dishes, clean the bathroom), and then I'll forget (that attention span thing again). It's not until I see my roommates doing the chores I should have done that I feel a sharp pang of guilt.

The frosting thing. I'm sure I'll need rehab for it.

In every other aspect of life, I'm a pretty poised, even-keeled chick. But when I get into a relationship, I become a little girl again. I giggle a lot, and I whine too. Now, while the giggling isn't much of a problem, I try to be mindful of the whining. (You know, "I miss you, I want to see you, whine whine whine." It can become a bit much.) Boyfriend has (so far) been plenty gracious in dealing with it, but I'm making it a point to try to keep it in check. Because sometimes I get on my own damn nerves.

I don't know why I think I'm tanner than I really am. Wishful thinking manifested, I guess.

Half the stuff I say is for shits and giggles. Just because I feel like amusing myself. Why is that necessary? I have no idea.

You know how people turn of the TV, turn out the lights and put themselves into bed to go to sleep? I can't do that. I can't put myself to bed. I just stay up all night until my body says "Eff it" and passes out on its own. Often without my consent.

I love to color. I could color ALL the time. Three or four times a day, if possible. And I feel like I'm somehow abnormal because of it. But I won't apologize for it. Because for me, coloring is so much fun. :-)

I like football. I know the rules, I like to watch, and I love to play. But I am clueless when it comes to the actual goings on in the sport. "The Steelers made the playoffs? Word? Sweet."

And in relation to the previous item... I love horseplay. I've been known to attack boys just so they'll chase and tackle me. But even then, I won't surrender like some wounded antelope. I fight back. That's my favorite part. And if someone refuses to play with me... well, then, I get upset. I guess between that and the coloring, I haven't really grown up yet. Lol.

* * * * *

*Ahem* Chris, Jameil, Soraya AND La.... you negroes STILL owe me lists. Get to it.

The Real

2008-05-29T11:12:00.007-04:00

I have more in common with Alice Walker's daughter than just fair skin and curly hair.

Like Rebecca Walker, I question some of the tenents of feminism.

Even more like her, I question my relationship with my own mother.

This... complicated... relationship is something I've mulled over writing about here for a long time. Intuitively, this space seems to be the most appropriate forum. My words. My friends as readers. A relatively public site that, in reality, only few people know about. It feels safe here.

And yet -- I can't bring myself to do it. Because that would mean facing that there's more pain in my life that I'd like to acknowledge. That I don't have everything as figured out as some folks might think. And that I'd have to face the guilt that comes with having ... complicated... feelings toward the woman who carried me.

More than that, it means taking the risk of hurting her. And admitting that there's all this stuff in my life -- baggage, if you will -- that I really, honestly, rather not have. Heaven forbid I actually admit that it exists.

I'm not that brave yet. But Rebecca Walker is. Which is why her essay in London's Daily Mail struck such a chord with me. Maybe I'll get there one day. Or maybe my protective nature will prevent that. I don't know yet.

But in the meantime, I'd like to send a message to one of my friends, should she read this.

Kelly, Kai is so blessed to have you.

List-mania... It Continues...

2008-05-28T16:38:00.007-04:00

So I owe some people some lists, right? Okay, so here's my first payment, to La, with a little twist on the title...

* * * * *

Things I Learned... Way Too Late (Yet Still Just in Time)

You can't change people. You can't make them see things the way you want. The only thing you have power over is how you act and react. As for those around you... maybe they'll figure it out one day. And if they don't... oh well.

A box of blond hair color and Monday afternoon boredom do not mix.

Being passive aggressive is never the way to go. (You happy now, Soraya?)

To get birth control pills at Howard's health center, you have to get blood drawn.

I become pale and dizzy when I get my blood drawn.

If you allow someone to treat you a certain way, don't twist your mind up over why they won't treat you any better.

The play-play boyfriend/girlfriend thing doesn't work. Ever. At all.

No one should ever be able to make you question your own intuition. Because instinct has a valid purpose: survival.

Still, I should take my time assessing situations before reacting.

You can't make someone love you by "proving" how much you love them. Either they do or they don't. Be prepared to accept it either way.

Mixing half a dozen lights and darks, clears and opaques, shots and martinis within the span of four hours isn't a good idea... at least not for me.

And if you're that drunk, don't get in a vehicle with your crush.

...and don't let your friends put you there either.

And if that crush still takes you out afterward, don't lose your car in a garage.

For heaven's sake, do not lose your car.

* * * * *

La wants a list... Things You'd Have a Clone Do for You...

And so does the Matchmaker... Things that Really, Honestly, and Completely Tick You Off.

Chris, Jameil, Soraya... y'all still owe me! :-)

Tunnel Vizion

2008-05-27T23:55:00.004-04:00

Yeah, I have nothing to share as far as words go this week. Vizion (or what's left of it now that it's summer) has a performance in exactly 11 days and we just started practicing... yesterday.

Yeah. Hectic.

So if it doesn't have anything to do with my teammates or Artomatic, I haven't been exactly interested in it. I got work to do, particularly because signing up to perform was my bright idea in the first place.

*Exhale* Everything will be back to normal on June 8th.

Until then, here's a sneak peek. If you're in the DC area, you should come check us out on the 7th. There will be a huge freestyle battle too. Very "You Got Served."

And yeah, we took it back for this one. :-)

OMG...

2008-05-23T13:51:00.009-04:00

... I was in high school 10 years ago.

God, that's unsettling.

Clearly, I don't have the perm any more. But I do still have a thing for white shorts.

(BTW... the silly looking boy in the blue shorts? That's my brother. He's now 6'4".)

(And I'm still 5'5"... hmph.)

Afternoon Epif'fanie

2008-05-20T14:25:00.005-04:00

...my butt is a little bigger than I thought.

Not that that's a bad thing.

(Video courtesy of Avril, my student in the all black. Thanks boo!)

Our First Dance... and 5, 6, 7, 8....

2008-05-20T10:32:00.022-04:00

I'm almost ashamed to say it... but this is something I've actually considered doing.

But I mean... is that really a surprise to anyone?

The final answer will probably depend on whether the lucky guy will let me or not.

And if not... Vizion is always on standby.

An excerpt from the New York Times:

Couples add choreographic flair to weddings

by Claudia la Rocco

It’s wedding season, and with it will come countless awkward first dances, featuring sappy songs and nervous newlyweds gritting their teeth through boilerplate waltzes. But for contemporary choreographers and dancers like [Alexx] Shilling — as well as nondancers savvy enough to employ an atypical professional service — the traditional first dance is anything but.

“I’ve been a dancer my whole life,” Sara Juli said, explaining her decision to choreograph for her wedding in 2006. “If this day was really going to be about us and the rest of our lives together, it was literally a crime to not have choreography at my wedding.

“I’m a solo performance artist. How can I not have this crazy, ham-it-up dance at my wedding?”

For choreographer couples like Lori Yuill and Brian Buck, who drew on a variety of movement techniques to create a duet for their wedding in March, partnering can serve as a rich metaphor for the push and pull of marriage. But not every solo performance artist’s partner wants to take part in a crazy, ham-it-up dance in front of hundreds of friends and relatives. (In this day of digital recorders, the possibilities for blackmail are endless.)

Ms. Juli’s husband, the writer and director Chris Ajemian, wanted nothing to do with her idea. She spent months cajoling before deciding, tradition be damned, she would do it without him, as a surprise. Using one of Mr. Ajemian’s favorite songs, Britney Spears’s “Toxic,” she created a routine with her bridesmaids, all adept dancers.

Then, a month before the wedding, Mr. Ajemian had a change of heart. Ms. Juli, not about to abandon “Toxic,” ended up with back-to-back choreographed pieces to start the reception. After she and her husband surprised their guests with a silly duet to Stevie Wonder’s “I Was Made to Love Her,” she and her bridesmaids surprised him with a sexy, absurd mix of modern-dance moves, lip-synching, improvisation and, of course, suggestive gestures.

Choreographers, after all, “know how to work a crowd,” as Ms. Juli put it. “We’re taking the skills and talents we have as dancers and creating a magical experience for everyone.”
Full article...

List-eria (wait, that's a germ....)

2008-05-15T11:41:00.007-04:00

I came up with this idea while perusing Urban Outfitters during my lunch break yesterday.

There's a book called "Listography Journal: Your Life in Lists," and it's a... journal where you record your... life, in... lists.

Yeah.

So I thought I'd write a little list to start a little game. It'll work two ways:

1) I'll tag others with lists that I want them to make, and

2) I'll ask you guys to leave suggestions in the comments about other list you think I should write. (Almost kinda like the questions game.)

You down? Then proceed...

* * * * *

List things you've learned about yourself in the last year

I have a penchant for ice. I have no idea where it came from, but now one of my favorite snacks... is ice. It leaves me rather cold.

I'm quite protective... and possessive.

I'm not as even-keeled as I'd like to think I am. Truth is, I fly off the handle when the appropriate button is pushed -- but I've learned how to edit myself. And if that fails, I'm lucky enough to have friends that will edit me when I can't.

My insecurities are my kryptonite. Which is why I take great pains to make sure no one knows what they are.

I reeeeeeeeeeeeally like my hair.

I'm among a small minority of people who still believe in fairytale endings.

I am a feminist. Or, I have feminist tendencies.

I have gigantic boobs.

Though I'd like to think otherwise, I only just stopped caring about what other people think... for the most part.

All the people at my table don't necessarily warrant a place here.

If I've turned cold to you, there's pretty much no turning back. Even if I wanted to.

Still... after all those years of being called "too nice"... I can say it's pretty much worked out for me. :-)

* * * * *

And I'm tagging....

Chris. I want you to list things that make you smile in your everyday life. (Note: Answers referring to women's body parts will not be accepted.)

Jameil. List the best, most funnest (yeah, I said funnest) moments of your life.

And Soraya. List the things you ARE willing to do for that special someone.

(She's going to kill me.)

Remember, leave more list ideas in the comments! :-)

They Grow Up So Fast!

2008-05-13T13:42:00.007-04:00

Who ever said Pittsburgh has no talent?

(Oh, wait... that was me... but I was talking about the wannabe rappers...)

Anyway, two of my little "sisters in the Lord" (shout out to Rodman Street!) are doing big things back home in the 'Burgh.

One, Charmaine, won this year's Miss Black Teenage Pageant (a staple in Pittsburgh's middle class black community).

GO MEEZIE!!!

And the adorable ~~little girl~~ young lady below is Jazmine, a finalist -- FINALIST!!! -- in a teen talent search being held by gospel singer Vickie Winans.

WE LOVE YOU JAZZY!!!

Now we're rooting for Jazzy to be chosen as part of a teen group that will be signed to a major label. (Yes, it's very Diddy, but exciting nonetheless.) She'll have to meet with Vickie and some record execs before a final decision is made, so cross your fingers and send up a prayer. In the meantime, get a little taste of Jazzy below...

And just when I couldn't possibly feel any older... Cara and Katrina are now college graduates, with degrees from Johnson C. Smith University in North Carolina.

I feel like a proud mama. Now excuse me as I fetch my Geritol....

Text Mania, Volume 1

2008-05-12T16:14:00.017-04:00

Lynnette, returning to D.C. from Pittsburgh...

Random observation: why aren't state welcome signs parallel to each other? Theoretically, if u leave one state you enter another. The md and pa signs are roughly 300 yards apart. What if I built a house there. Am I a pa or md resident?

The Boo on what should happen if I'm ever approached by a Chilean guy....

U would politely decline telling him u have an insane, mentally unstable boyfriend who has u bugged.

And if that doesn't deter him?

Then I blow the two of u up. The bug doubles as an explosive.

WAIT! Why do i get blown up? I didn't do anything!

Collateral damage.

Gotta Go, Gotta Leave...?

2008-05-11T03:54:00.005-04:00

When is it time to re-evaluate a friendship?

I suppose what I'm really asking is... is it possible to break up with a friend?

In many cases, it's easy to break up with boyfriends. They do something, it pisses you off, you're done. (At least in theory, it should be that simple.) But for some reason, it's different with your girlfriends. There's a loyalty. A shared history. She, like the boyfriends, may piss you off... but she's your girl. And you don't diss your girl.

And yet, you can't help but feel suffocated inside the sister circle.

I learned sophomore year in college that you can't take some people with you. Meaning, when you change, or when your life changes, some of those who were there before ain't gonna want to be around after. But naively, I thought that would be the last time I had to deal with that.

I guess not.

What do you do when you feel a friendship has become more of a strain than a support? When conversations, as little as they've become, drain you, and when, honestly, you're okay with the fact that communication has lulled? Do you point to the elephant in the room and pointedly say, "Look, it's time I move this pachyderm out of my space"?

Or do you just sit and wait, hoping it will remove itself -- so you don't have to?

Gimme My Money!

2008-05-08T11:23:00.008-04:00

WHOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOO!!!

I am unreasonably happy right now.

My stimulus check comes (or will be deposited) tomorrow.

I'm kinda surprised, because I sent in my taxes at the super-last minute.

And I also feel a bit vindicated, since I kinda neglected to do them last year.

Whoops.

But, boy, what a way to get people to file those pesky forms. Just think, if Wesley Snipes had known that he'd get a check for sending in a stack of papers, he probably wouldn't be packing for three years of sleep-away camp with BoBo and Friends.

And yes, I know all about the income stipulations and how the checks are supposed to boost the economy. Trust me, I wrote it to death. But I'm just saying... the government could be unknowingly on to something here. Tell people they'll get paid for filing taxes. Then you wouldn't have to send a SWAT team to a solar-powered ~~fortress~~ house to arrest a batshit New Hampshire couple.

(Best. Story. Ever.)

Uncle Sam would just have to triple-check that everyone gets their slice. Or else all hell would break loose.

Wondering where your stimulus check is? Click here.

(Thanks, brother. :-) )

Seven 3, Eight 3

2008-05-06T09:43:00.007-04:00

Passing time before a 10 a.m. interview... I stole it from Stace, who originally did it, like, a year and a half ago.

They Come in Threes....

3 names you go by...
V, Vicki V, and of course Duck.

3 parts of your heritage...
Black, Jamaican, Indian (as in the country in south Asia).

3 things that scare you...
Flying, dying young, losing someone I love.

3 of your everyday essentials...
Technology (yeah, as a whole), Neutrogena Honey Rescue, a bottle of water.

3 things you are wearing right now...
An opera mauve lace tank, Samara's denim jacket, and a 36F harness.

3 of your favorites bands/artists...
Just three?! Ugh... Beyonce, Amel Larrieux, Janet.

... and Danity Kane!

3 favorite songs...
"Always and Forever" (Heatwave), "We Can Be New" (Amel), "Tenderoni" (Bobby Brown... BobBAYYYY!).

3 things you want in a relationship...
Love, honesty, willingness.

3 physical things about the opposite sex you like...
Mmmm... lol... Lips, smile, and strength (that counts as physical, right?)

3 of your favorite hobbies...
Writing, making jewelry... and of course, the obvious...

3 things you want RIGHT NOW...
Okay, I promised myself no sweets... I'll be in the studio tomorrow... and he's too far away for me to curl up under him right now, so... pshhhh....

The Doctor Is In

2008-05-04T04:25:00.009-04:00

There must be an aura around me. Some sort of cool, tranquil, seafoam (yes, seafoam) haze that draws people near and entices them to ask me about one of the most pressing issues in their lives.

Their relationships.

It's weird. Co-workers, relatives, people who I, by no means, speak to regularly -- shoot, even total strangers -- come to me for relationship advice. Often. I'll get frantic instant message or fall into the trap of a watercooler conversation only to hear the inevitable.

"Veronica, what do you think I should do?"

Most of the time I want to say, "The hell you asking me for?" but that would be kind of rude. Plus it wouldn't serve much to comfort the inquiring mind, and, let's face it, I am a comforter.

So, I put myself in the shoes of both people involved (as much as I can with the information given) and supply an answer that's (hopefully) logical and fair to all parties.

Yes, you should tell him how you feel. No, she's not as interested as you are. No, I don't think you should show up at his house unannounced. Why? Because it's past midnight. That's a bad idea. Go to bed.

Do they actually listen to what I have to say? The numbers are debatable. If they do, I'll get an "I did what you said," followed by "Everything's fine now" or "You were right." If not, I usually figure it out after they stopped talking about about their S.O. (who has since disappeared) or after seeing fraught Facebook statuses that reveal waaaaay too much information.

(Sidebar: Why do people do that anyway? Give updates on their emotional status on Facebook? This is not e-group therapy. Stop it.)

At times, I felt like some sort of fraud, doling out relationship pointers when I wasn't in a relationship myself. I told Tara I'd write a book (since apparently what I had to say was in high demand), but I was concerned that my street cred would be shaky being that I didn't have a man at the time. She told me I was crazy -- but I suspect that's because she wants to kick off her event planning career with my book release party.

(But come to think of it, why should being bunned up be a requirement anyway? Question for a different conversation, I suppose.)

Maybe it runs in the family? My dad gets the same thing, only his seekers are looking for advice on life in general. You know, the light stuff -- babies, careers, death and whatnot. It's gotten so bad that he has to close his office door when he's trying to get some work done.

And it doesn't work. Because people know how to knock.

Anyway, it's not that I have a problem with being an ear for people. I'm more than happy to give someone some peace of mind for their day. All I'm trying to figure out is -- why me?

Sigh

2008-04-28T14:02:00.002-04:00

Some days, I can't help but love working in news.

Man mistaken about robbery injured running into door

...ah, such joy.

"I Came to Clap My Hands!"

2008-04-19T10:40:00.004-04:00

Kelly is napping, but her radio is on Praise 104.1, and I'm sitting on "my" couch getting my contemporary gospel on.

Then a song comes on that I vaguely recognize. Where do I know this song? OH! We sang this is in our annual summer workshop back home in Pittsburgh! Chuuuch. I used to love this song.

So I start to sing along. But then I realize I don't remember the words. So in an effort to jog my memory, I try to listen to the lyrics... only...

Why is that you can never make out the lyrics of gospel songs?

Is it that the words simply become muffled between all the voices in the choir? Or do the songwriters squeeze in so many words that they just sound like mush (melodic mush, but mush nonetheless) when they come out?

It's especially frustrating when you go to church on that one Sunday when the choir decides to premiere a new selection. You just figured out what they'd been talking about in the song they've been singing since last summer and have finally been able to sing along. Now they have something new, and you have to translate (or ask for subtitles) before you can allow yourself to shout.

That must be the real reason why the choir director gets on the mic and pre-speaks each line. It probably helps the choir members that came late to rehearsal and didn't get their lyrics sheets.

In fact... maybe those choir members are why the words sound muffled in the first place. Singing "watermelon, carrots, watermelon, peas" to keep their mouths moving until they get to the part they know.

Would it be too much to ask for some enunciation? Or is that me being a bougie saint?

Mirror, Mirror....

2008-04-14T22:44:00.018-04:00

I have the tendency to name inanimate objects in my life. The car is named Lola. Peaches? My laptop. And the cell is affectionately known as Bat Phone.

I've decided my mirrors are next.

Why?

I was inspired by this quip from comedienne Erica Watson:

“Mirror Mirror on the wall, who is the cutest fat girl of them all?”

This is the question I ask my mirror every morning!

“Of course you are Diva! You Better Work Bitch!" (My mirror is a gay man).

I've decided I want gay mirrors too. So my full-length reflector is now known as Christian Derek. He's a white boy who's fierce stylist. And the illuminated cosmetic mirror on the dresser is Jaquan, a brother that's bad with the makeup brush.

You see, this will assure that I look nothing less than FIERCE at all times. The warmth is coming, so it's about to be on. That said, I'm now opening the floor for suggestions on naming the compact mirror in my purse.

...and yes, I'm very serious.

"I just love your blog..."

2008-04-13T23:38:00.003-04:00

Oh joy! NOW COMMENT!

I know, I know, I'm shameless. (It's actually one of my more endearing qualities.) But I'm starting to think that the reason I don't generate a whole lot of comments is that a lot of the things I talk about are kinda inside-baseball -- or inside-studio, if you will.

Most of my friends don't really comprehend the joy of sticking a pirouette, much less the difference between a battement and a developpe. (Lynnette sat perplexed as me and Cherryn gave her a crash course one night at the apartment.)

So let's try this... what (if anything) would like to know about the wonderful world of dance? It can be anything, from why ballerinas dance on their toes, to whether one considers Chris Brown to be the new Michael Jackson. I, apparently, know more than the average person (evidenced by Boyfriend's bewildered expression as I named every dancer in a Janet Jackson video), and even if I don't know the answer, one of my wonderful roommates does. (Those who've been in the Basement know -- we do nothing but watch reality TV and go "boom-kat-kat" all day. That's how we bond.)

So I guess you can consider this another round of the Questions exercise -- the "So You Think You Know Dance" edition. Go head. Indulge me, just a little bit. :-)

You know what the best thing is?

2008-04-12T20:26:00.009-04:00

...nailing a triple pirouette without even realizing it's happening.

It makes life in the studio just a bit sweeter.

Plus... it gives good reason to jump around and scream like a banshee.

Don't believe me? I'm not the only person excited by triples...

I'm not on pointe but I had the same reaction. Well... I jumped a little more. And screamed a little louder. And ran through the studio like a maniac.

But still... same difference. Oh, joy. :-)

One at a Time, V, One at a Time

2008-04-11T05:59:00.006-04:00

So as I sat here watching my "Beyonce Experience" DVD (yes, in the middle of the night), it finally hit me.

The reason I can't seem to do things I want to do is that I want to do too many damn things.

Simply put, I have a sea of ideas in my head. (Ask my Tara and my roommates. I come up with at least one a day.) There's that pesky novel. The media consulting venture. And now, a full-length theatrical dance production (or club show). And that was the reason I had started the DVD in the first place -- so I could get some inspiration.

I'm kinda like Diddy, at least in my head -- I just haven't found my "execute button."

Where the hell is my button?

Well, at least I've found some inspiration (which, of course, has its own source of inspiration .) So... it's a start.

. . . .

2008-04-10T06:41:00.001-04:00

... i have no words.

Seriously, I don't.

You're gonna have to read it for yourself.

A Simple Request

2008-04-08T07:41:00.010-04:00

I had to hurry up and wash my hands. The toilet was flushing in the first stall, and if was still standing here when she came out, she'd start talking.

They always start talking.

What is it that makes people so comfortable with striking up conversations in the workplace restroom? In most cases, folks want to chat you up about your day (or night) while you're standing at the sink. And you don't exactly feel comfortable because you just heard the HCS (habitual conversation-starter) piddling -- or worse -- in the third stall over, and now you're preoccupied with whether they'll use soap or not when they wash their hands.

Or whether they'll even wash their hands at all.

In the very worst cases, you'll run into the HCS as soon as you enter the bathroom. At that point, they'll immediately start conservation, keep talking as you lock yourself away in your stall, and continue as if nothing's happening while they're piddling.

Or worse.

It's all a bit too intimate for me. While I'm squatting with my pants down (or my skirt up), I really don't want to discuss lunch, the weather, or the cutest thing your baby nephew did this morning. Honestly, I'm truly happy for you and your tuna sandwich, the partly-cloudy forecast and Zachary's use of four-letter words and tutus. But can we discuss it in the actual office? By the coffee machine? Or at the very least, next to the elevators?

Because if I know you're an HCS, I have to flush, wash and leave at lightning-speed before you come out. Or I'm forced to hide in the stall, twiddling my thumbs, until you finish primping, adjusting and picking your teeth in the mirror. And who wants to do that?

I don't. So save the small talk for later.

Because it all becomes a bit much while I'm piddling.

...or worse.

To Answer Your Question(s)....

2008-04-06T03:26:00.010-04:00

I'm at work in the middle of the night, so now's a good a time as ever to answer y'all's questions -- and what wonderful (non-probing) questions they were! :-)

The Frugalista asked, "Do you like dance or writing better?"

Oh, if were only so simple... okay, it is. The honest answer for right now -- I'm loving dance. And I'm pretty sure that's because I'm in a period of discovery -- discovering what my body can do, discovering how to execute whatever move I'm obsessed with, discovering exactly what my style is. The way I see it, I know where I stand when it comes to writing; I've been doing it since pre-school. But this is the first time I've been immersed in dance the way I am right now, so I'm like that little kid that constantly needs to move and just can't seem to sit down. (Some of you have witnessed this firsthand. I apologize for making you nervous.)

This is not to say I abhor writing... clearly, I have this blog and the ever-present need to pen that mythical best-seller. But my pure joy right now comes from twirling around and jumping about -- and then figuring out how to do it the right way.

*

Mau asked, "What's next? You could stay in DC for the rest of your days, continuing to move up the ladder at work and even in your personals at a predictable pace. Are you pretty happy with life and never want it to change dramatically, or are you already planning your next steps? Feel free not to tip your hand too much."

You know that plastic bag you see floating about over the street? The one that moves when the wind does, and settles to the ground when the gusts die down? That's me. I move with the wind. Although, now that I think about it, a crumply old plastic bag probably isn't the best comparison. So let's go with a feather. Yeah. I'm that feather that moves with the wind.

Which is a round-about and unnecessarily metaphoric way of saying... I don't know what's next. There have been some changes as of late -- I'm about to start a new job, I'm bunned up for the first time in quite a while, and more of my friends are living in the area than before. What does that mean? I have no idea. Well, except for the job -- expect me to get my hustle on and make my name known. But in the grand scheme of things, I don't hold the controller on this thing called life. So while forward progress is always the motivation, I'm content with enjoying the present and waiting to see what kind of magic God has in store.

Until then... I'm going to appreciate the fact that plenty happy right now.

*

Said the great Madosi, "Why is your hair so frizzy?! LOL, I kid! What is your biggest fear?"

Well, the hair is frizzy because I'm of a frizz-friendly ethnicity. Don't let the lack of melanin fool you. I am of color.

My biggest fear? Hmm... not living life full out, I guess. Yeah, it's corny, but that's the best way I know how to put it. I want to thoroughly enjoy my career and reach some pinnacle of success that even I didn't know was possible. I wanna write that damn book. I want to be a wife that keeps a fun and cozy home and a mommy to a couple of adorable but smart-assed kids. (The friends joke that I'm domesticate-ready. Just add water and stir.) The idea of not reaching any or all of this? Terrifying.

*

Eb the Celeb asked a few questions. The first: "Why did you start blogging?"

The same reason I do anything on the Internet. I got bored at work.

Yeah, that's really all there is to it. Lol.

Number two: "2pac or Biggie?"

Um... er... I grew up listening to the Spice Girls in Pittsburgh, so...

Yeah... I have nothing to contribute to this debate.

Please don't revoke my black card. I've been holding onto it for dear life ever since people found out I have Bjork in my iPod.

And lastly, "Where did the name duck come from?" Saharra co-signed on this one.

Ah. The old family name.

See that picture of me, up in the right-hand corner of the page? I was a toddler, probably around one, and obsessed with Donald Duck. See, I had a thing for ducks -- cartoon ducks -- when I was little. I got a stuffed, yellow duck named Eggie when I was four (still have him), and my dad taught me how to waddle around the house with my butt sticking out, a maneuver now known as the "duck walk." Yeah, he probably created for his own amusement (we Millers tend to do that), and no, y'all can't see it.

*

Cici asked, "Has your hair always been your defining feature? i.e. 'You know, Veronica with the hair!'"

Actually, that only started after I got to Howard freshman year, and by accident more than anything else. Being four hours away from home meant I couldn't go get my relaxer touched up as frequently as I once did (and I wasn't about to experiment around a strange city), so I kinda just let the curls grow. It's funny now... when I straighten my hair up here, it takes people a second to recognize me. But if I go home with it curly, there's still that same delay. Because all of Pittsburgh was used to the perm.

What was my defining feature before then? Probably my reputation as the overachiever... and my lack of melanin. It's hard being bright-skinned, I'm telling you. *sigh*

*

Finally, Mels asks, "Would you rather be the mother of an award-winning dancer or an award-winning writer?"

Ooooh, good question. Should I give the diplomatic answer or the honest one?

Let's be honest. Performing is a bit more glamorous than sitting at home and banging away on a keyboard. So there would be a certain cool factor involved in being able to say your kid was on "So You Can Dance" or a back-up dancer for Janet. (I mean seriously, who really thinks Janet is gonna sit down any time soon?) Doesn't mean I'd love her any less if she wrote a New York Times best-seller. (Though there might be some jealousy if she makes the list before I do.) But at the end of the day, I'd be pretty damn proud to say my kid is an award-winning anything.

Wait... almost anything. Can't say I'd show up for baby girl being presented with the "Table Dancer of the Year" award.

Mama has her limits.

This Is What It Looks Like

2008-04-03T20:38:00.003-04:00

I'll be answering questions soon (add more if you like!), but in the meantime, I'd like to share this, courtesy of my fairy feminist god-sister and the cool people at Feministing (hi Ann!). For those of you who, like me, may be looking for more understanding. :-)

Monkey See, Monkey Do...

2008-04-01T01:59:00.004-04:00

I'm copying off of Chris... although I don't know how successful my attempt will be. (I don't think anyone reads me anymore... *sniffle*...)

I like questions, but I seem to ask more than I answer. So now I'm asking you to ask me something. Anything. Everything. Have at it in the comments section. Then I can entertain you guys with my never-ending wit and charm.

:-)

Who Am I? (De Gurl Dem Suga?)

2008-03-30T21:56:00.010-04:00

So I really thought I knew myself.

But the universe said, "Nah, Veronica, not so much," and plunked me down in the midst of a bunch of women who, unknowingly, challenged my own perception of me.

I was at the Women, Action and the Media conference this weekend in Cambridge. (Yay, home!) A women-centered, feminist-identified conference on women's issues (clearly), the media (obviously) and social action regarding both entities.

And because Veronica only knows how to dive head-first into things, how does she make her WAM! debut? As a panelist, of course.

Which unnerved me -- I'm well-versed in black issues, of course, but not with the feminist agenda... or so I thought.

Turns out, what Soraya said was right. I am a feminist -- I just didn't know it. While negative depictions and stereotypes of feminists abound (i.e. ball-busting, man-hating chicks who refuse to shave), the basic tenet of feminism -- having the the same access and privileges as men -- is something that I've believed from birth.

But I think, in being black, that the want for equality developed in the framework of simply wanting to be respected as a person -- a desire that I learned not from reading books or following political movements, but from my own upbringing. From my dad.

When I got to my aunt's house after the conference, she told me she wasn't quite sure what feminism was either. So I gave her the definition Soraya gave me -- that women want the same treatment and rights as men. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Oh!" my aunt said. "Well shoot, I'm a feminist too!"

So... I'm a feminist now. Or I've always have been. Either way, it's made think about all the labels I could pin to myself. So far I have, in order of prevalence (in my mind, at least), "progressive black liberal-leaning feminist..."

...I think.

...I dunno.

Really, I'm just me.

But it's fun finding that there's more layers to that than I realized.

Whatcha Waitin' For?

2008-03-23T09:02:00.005-04:00

"What am I doing with my life?!"

Cherryn (the roommate who made me sick this week, thanks) hears me ask this question to no one in particular on just about a weekly basis. It usually comes as we're watching television or as I'm perusing one of my many magazines, and come across a story of some lucky twenty-something who's been able to make a comfortable (to say the least) living doing something they love.

"Why can't we do this? There's no reason we can't do this."

That always comes up in conversations with Tara, my faux business partner. (I say "faux" because we have yet to actually implement any of the ideas we brainstorm. They are, however, pretty good ideas.) Here we are, two smart young women with creativity to spare, but who can't seem to free themselves from the shackles of the 9-to-5. (Well, Tara freed herself last week. And my shackles have rotating hours.)

I have this deep, basic need to be, I guess, an entrepreneur. I say that tentatively because the motivation here isn't money. (The rotating shackles provide that.) My desire, rather, is to do something just because I love doing it -- and to find a way to make a living out of it so I don't have to work around hours that the shackles dictate.

But for every idea I come up with (and they come about once or twice a week), I can't seem to break free. And that's because of fear. The shackles provide one thing that ideas don't -- security.

But goodness, how satisfying and fulfilling would it be to finally strike out and establish something of your very own? I daydream about it constantly. But I also know the daydreams are of the best-case scenario. I don't want to imagine what it would be like if my ideas failed miserably. And the realist hidden inside says that could very well happen.

*sigh*

There's no reason I can't do it. So why am I still sitting here talking?

Learning Curve

2008-03-22T10:24:00.005-04:00

Hey guys (and I literally mean guys)...

Y'all sure y'all don't wanna come to ballet class with me?

It'll be fun, I promise... only I don't think you'd be able to get away with sneakers at Joy of Motion.

:-)

One Hop This Time

2008-03-21T13:47:00.007-04:00

It always starts like this.

You're offered money to perform at some random event. And while competitions, showcases and concerts are essentially the blood that runs through your veins, the random events are met with some resistance. Why? Because the circumstances of said random events tend to bite at your dignity. You're referred to as "the entertainment," and you start to feel like some stripper whose name is Chocolate Cherry Bomb.

Or in my case... Buttermilk.

But you go anyway. Because you're getting paid.

Hence why five of us piled in Will's little Accord last night for an hourlong excursion into the backwoods of Virginia. (Lansdowne, to be exact.) Someone requested entertainment for a contractors conference. We answered the call.

Of course the sound system wouldn't play our CD. Of course we had to dance on carpet. Of course the attendees looked at us and gushed, "Oh, you must be the dancers!" Which was most likely harmless, in all honesty, but still felt patronizing and a bit demeaning anyway.

But then there's that moment when you realize why you were paid to come in the first place. Because in these folks' eyes, you're cool. You can move. You can do choreography, and, God bless it, you're coordinated. Dance may be a part of your every day life -- right after lunch, just before you go to grocery store -- but it's something your audience doesn't necessarily experience often. And God forbid you ask if they ever actually attempt it.

Part one of the gig was performing our own stuff. Part two? Teaching line dances. The Cupid Shuffle. The Bunny Hop. And of course the Cha Cha Slide. We invited our audience up to the dance floor (dance carpet?), and wouldn't you know -- they started cutting loose! I mean, grooving, bopping, going as low as they could go AND giving us the mean two-step in between. Apparently we'd given the conference-goers the chance to break out of their shells. And they weren't at all hesitant about doing so.

Later, as the five of us enjoyed our meals (did I mention we got fed? Yeah, we got fed.), a number of conference goers stopped by our table to thank us, to tell us how much fun they had. "You guys have great energy." "I had so much fun, thank you!" And we wondered why we were acting like such brats at the beginning of the night in the first place. This was fun! The people were fun!

And, most importantly...

We got that guap.

And with that said... who wants to learn the Electric Slide? :-)

Janet's New Video...

2008-03-19T20:42:00.003-04:00

... is like a friggin wet dream.

That is all.

Alphabet Soup

2008-03-13T13:52:00.008-04:00

Today's revelation: My breasts are huge.

I know, I know. Half of you are thinking, "Wait, what Veronica?" The other half of you are like, "Well, duh."

But the notion was confirmed when I trekked to Nordstrom for a fitting.

The verdict? Veronica wears a 36F.

Or a 36DDDD, depending on the brand. (And yes, that is a total of four Ds.)

My breasts. Are friggin. Huge.

A petite African woman measured me in the privacy of a fitting room, disappeared, and then returned with an impressive array of bras for me to try on.

"You're between a 36 and a 38," she said, lining up the bras on two racks. "If you get a 36, you'll need a DDDD, or an F -- I'm putting them on the top rack... if you get 38, that's going up a band size, so you'll have to go down a cup size, and that's get a DDD or an E -- those are on the bottom rack...."

All the numbers and letters swirled around in my head and put me in a tizzy. I decided to text message the suggested sizes to myself to keep everything straight.

(And no, I didn't do it while she was standing there.)

Twenty bras and a good hour later, I narrowed my selection down to three. And when I got home and tried on my favorite dresses and shirts with my new undergarments, by golly -- I looked HOT! No, seriously, those makeover shows in E! and Style don't lie; a good bra will do WONDERS for the way your clothes fit. I was too excited about it.

Seriously, I was prancing around in front the mirror like I was in a Top Model photo shoot. Stilettos and all.

(Please don't tell anyone that. Please.)

All that to say -- ladies, go ahead to your nearest Nordstrom and get measured, especially if you're in the Ample Bosom Club like me. Turns out what they say is true: eight out of 10 women are wearing the wrong bra -- a fact proven by the number of women in the fitting rooms who also had "Oh wow!" moments today. And, according to one fitter, most chicks are wearing a band that's too big with a cup that's too small. (I glanced down at the joke of bra I had walked in with to check. What is she, psychic?)

I'm only the latest to discover the wonders of a Nordstrom bra fitting. A co-worker of my friend Sam had recommended one to her this summer, and she, in turn, sang the praises to me. (Then she insisted I take a feel see how well her bra fit. "No really. Feel my breasts." Those were her words... no homo.)

Now (albeit a little late in the game) I'm paying it forward to you. Go give your bosom a reason to smile.

:-)

(Oh, and if you're a guy, completely disregard the preceeding post. Unless --- never mind.)

Oh HELL no.

2008-03-11T06:23:00.008-04:00

Great minds must think alike.

Or, maybe, just minds with common sense and some sort of self-respect.

Question: What does one do when one's husband is revealed to have had an out-of-town tryst with a petite brunette -- the day before Valentine's Day, nonetheless?

If you're Eliot Spitzer's wife, you follow in the footsteps of Suzanne Craig, Dina McGreevey, and, hell, even Vanessa Bryant, standing by your man as he either confirms or denies stepping out on you and apologizes -- rather effusively -- in dense, vague, press-release speak.

Yeah, excuse my French, but f@%$ all that.

First, let's examine the circumstances. Spitzer supposedly arranged to see ol' girl in Washington the day before Valentine's Day. Meaning he was out of town on a holiday in which most wives take a special interest. And according to court papers, when the call girl service asked Spitzer -- or "Client 9" -- whether he'd pay for the visit in the usual way, he responded, "Yup, same as in the past. No question about it."

Wow, son. For real?

Now, I could be wrong... but my instinct tells me there was probably already some discord in the Spitzer household. This, ladies and gentlemen, was nothing new.

So if I already have suspicions about your exploits, and then they turn out to be true... HELL NO I ain't standing by your side at some wooden podium in no got-damn press conference.

My happy behind will be sitting front row with the rest of the media, tape recorder in hand, asking for an explanation along with everyone else.

In fact, if you don't see me somewhere in that room, it's time to worry.

Someone better check the bell tower.

Tough-talking aside, let it be known that I'm not judging Silda Spitzer. She's the one that's probably suffering the most in this mess, and heaven only knows what it's like to be in her shoes... though I can't help but wonder what she's allowed herself to put up with prior to all this.

And I'm not at all saying not to stand by your man. I'm all about being a Bonnie to someone's Clyde (even though they both got popped in the end -- yikes). But the stakes change when I'm the one being disrespected -- and in a very major, very public way. I can't stand by anyone's side then. Who wants to show support for someone who's wronged them? Whether you're a politician, a baller, hell, the King of Zamunda, I can't do it. I just can't.

And it's not even about being a woman or someone's wife or a figure in the public eye. It's about being a person.

No one should stand for being disrespected.

Gather 'round, kiddies

2008-03-10T00:31:00.021-04:00

So I've had this idea for a story floating around in my head since about November (my roommates can tell you -- they always humor me when I come up with my "ideas"), and I thought it was about time to finally stop talking about it and just do it. Yeah, like Nike. So, behold, the first installment of a story that's actually going to be longer than a single blog post. Maybe this will warm me up for that best-seller I keep talking about....

I have a sixth sense.

Well, kinda. I have a sixth sense about who's calling when my phone rings. Like at eight minutes to ten on Friday night. Laurynne was calling to ask if she should go over Leon's house. Leon, the unemployed aspiring party promoter who only calls Laurynne after dark and suggests that she drive 35 minutes to his (and his roommates') house to "chill." And Laurynne considers it every time. Because Leon is 6'3" and looks like a chocolate-dipped Adonis.

I considered chucking my phone into the can of chicken grease on my stove instead of answering. But that would have made me a bad sister. Plus, I was planning on frying up some wings later. So I picked up, albeit begrudgingly.

"Yes ma'am," I chirped.

"So..." She trailed off for a second. "Leon wants me to come over...."

"You already know what I'm going to say."

Laurynne sighed. "But Reesa..."

"But Reesa nothing. The man has a girlfriend."

This time Laurynne huffed, indignant. "Well, apparently she ain't doing something right. He probably tired of looking at her fat lazy ass anyway."

"Dammit, Laurynne, the girl is eight months pregnant."

"Yeah... and lazy. "

"Good night, Laurynne."

"Wait, Reesa! Why you gotta --- "

"You're gonna do what you wanna do Laurynne. Have fun."

I hoped reverse psychology would do the trick this time.

*

Seventy-eight minutes and nineteen frantic text messages later, Laurynne was bolting out of a townhouse on Fourth Street toward my open rear-passenger door. I have to say, I always fantasized about being a getaway driver, but in a high profile, old-school Bonnie-and-Clyde-type bank heist. Not for a 24-year-old grad student ducking Colt 45 bottles being thrown by an expectant doppelganger for Grace Jones – a doppelganger who, as it turns out, ain't so lazy after all. Laurynne dove in and slammed the door shut as I peeled off, thinking this would be infinitely more satisfying if I were watching it on TV.

*

"Why did you let me go over there?"

Of course she'd blame me. Why wouldn't she? It's only right.

I peered over the rim of my glass at my nitwit of a sister as I took a long, deliberate swig of a rum and Coke that I'd usually barely be able to sip. Judging from the way she swirled the ice in her pineapple and Malibu, Laurynne was decidedly more blase about the situation than I was. And I wanted to kick her off the bar stool because of it.

But bar violence is never really attractive, and I didn't feel like ushering Laurynne to the E.R. after pummeling her with my boots. So I set down my glass, exhaled, and signaled for the bartender to fill me up for a third time.

"I just don't understand, Therese." Her words probably should have had more resignation behind them, but they didn't. At this point, words were just a formality as Laurynne moved through her usual, cruel cycle -- lamenting about not meeting any decent guys (decent is used loosely), latching on to the first one that shows her attention, calling me when bottles are thrown, bills are left unpaid, or when a SWAT team shows up with German Shepherds and tasers at a basement party in Philly.

God, I wish I could forget that night.

Laurynne was in that part of her usual soliloquy when she lauded me for being having such a "sharp eye" and being able to "smell the bullshit on these niggas from jump." "That's why they don't fuck wit' you, Reesa, 'cause you call 'em on their shit, easy. So what if you still single? That might be a good thing."

Swig. Long, long swig.

"Reesa? Therese?" Laurynne's voice changed, picking up a twinge of guilt. "Girl, I'm sorry, I didn't mean --"

"No, no, it's cool," I said evenly, putting down my glass. "You didn't mean to remind me that I haven't had a date since Kevin and that he hasn't even said as much as a 'Hey fiancé, just checking to see if you're still alive' in eight months. Of course you didn't mean to remind me that I, for some reason, am unwanted, like the pound puppy with the heartworms, the missing eye and the gimp."

Laurynne looked defeated.

I sighed. "Look, don't worry about it. Why don't I get you home?"

"Well... I don't know," she said, peering at something past me. Was something about to go down in the bar? I moved to grab my purse just in case, because I needed not one more hint of drama for the night.

But I was frozen by a chill across the back of my neck. I turned, and was greeted with a smile punctuated by a pair of sparkling, sable eyes.

"Hi," the smile said. "Didn't mean to startle you, but I just wanted to say hello. My name is Nathan."

Nathan, he of the hazelnut skin, trimmed goatee and warm but mischevious grin, with a 6'1" wide-receiver body draped in a fitting black shirt and jeans that seemed to enjoy the job of covering his backside -- a stranger that my eyes managed to make familiar in the span of five and three-fourths of a second.

I felt a shift in the air – and somewhere deep in my chest.

Hey guys...

2008-03-09T12:20:00.004-04:00

...have I really been MIA for a while?

I don't think I have. At least, it doesn't seem that way to me.

But after leaving a few comments with some of you in the past few days, I've gotten exclamations of "OMG! Duck!!! Where have you been?!"

I mean, y'all don't even say anything about the comments I leave. And they're good, quality comments. Grade A, even.

But yeah. I ain't been nowhere, really... still here...

...still whoring for comments....

(*wink wink, nudge nudge*)

An Appeal from A Comment Whore

2008-03-09T01:02:00.005-05:00

So here's the deal.

I'm a comment whore.

Loud and proud, I bully people to leave comments on the blog.

Which wouldn't be an issue if folks didn't read the foolishness I put up here. But y'all do. You call me and tell me you do. You IM me and laugh at me cussing in the studio. And just to prove my point -- you're reading this right. Now.

So leave GOT-DAMN comment.

Dammit.

Luv ya muchly. Smooches. :-)

Next Time, I'm Having My Lunch Delivered

2008-03-08T14:11:00.002-05:00

I really, truly, honestly thought I heard it all.

Until...

"Ay, ma! Let me put some music in your iPod! I got some hot shit, yo!"

*sigh*

Please stop.

Halfway There

2008-03-07T23:31:00.004-05:00

After lamenting the fact that my kids folded in class last week, I decided to take a more patient, encouraging approach to reteaching them the choreography tonight -- particularly because I want them to be able to do this piece for their recital.

(June 21st! Mark your calendars, son!)

And wouldn't you know... they got it!

...for the most part.

Okay, they got the steps down pat, so half the battle is won. Now I just need them to get some energy.

And yeah, that's me hollering behind my ancient Canon PowerShot A400. I love my babies to pieces, but I can only be Tony Little/Richard Simmons/Susan Powter for so long until I start folding myself. Like when I'm practicing once everyone goes home...

... I should have just closed up the studio and called it a night. *sigh*

That One Unanswered Question

2008-03-07T15:22:00.009-05:00

Random question.

Is it weird that I'm not friends with anyone I used to date?

This stems from a conversation with Brother, who shared a joke with his ex about their upccoming, would-be anniversary.

I, on the other hand, have no jokes to share with any of the guys I've been involved with.

Not that I want to, because I don't. But I guess I'm wondering why that is. Why can't I be amicable with said dudes?

See, one of two things have happened when my involvement with someone ends. Either the guy disappears, or I somehow piss him off. (That's the real big question... why you mad, son?) And even when I've attempted to retain some sort of civility in a dissolved situation ("Hey, we should just be friends" -- not said by me), I still end up being told that I'm the evil Jezebel hussy spawn of Satan.

...okay, those weren't the exact words, but they may as well have been.

Tara says she doesn't think it's a matter of dudes being pissed, but more so hurt. Yet that still leaves the question -- hurt by what? I don't consider myself a hurter -- at least, I don't try to be. I am, however, someone who looks out for her own best interests, which sometimes doesn't sit well with some people.

So am I really an evil Jezebel hussy spawn of the debil? Or are these cats really just passing off their anger/frustration/mama-I-need-a-hug moment onto me?

I just wonder sometimes....

An Observation

2008-03-03T12:14:00.004-05:00

The Golden Corral is our special place. And by "our," I mean myself and former wifey Lynnette.

We went to the one at the Captial Boulevard Center in Largo, Maryland, last night after evening service at church. We sat down with our trays and super-sweet iced teas among the throngs of negroes during the evening rush.

(That was SO politically incorrect.)

Then I noticed... while the throngs were gathered around the steak, the potatoes and of course the chicken (I'm going to hell), no one -- and I mean no one -- was at the salad bar.

Not a man, woman, nor child.

Black folk, apparently, don't eat salad.

Like, a restaurant full of folks, and I counted not one picking up nary a lettuce leaf or a crouton.

At that point, I felt the weight of obligation on my shoulders.

I went and got some salad.

Spring mix. With carrots. And French dressing.

I must be the example.

Take Two

2008-02-29T23:34:00.003-05:00

Last week (or actually, the week before, since last week's class was canceled because of weather) my kids at Dream in Color picked up the class combo all too quickly. So I set out to challenge them a little bit.

Which resulted in them folding all over the place.

*sigh*

I just want to find a happy medium.

At least next week, I'll be able to spend class going over the details and trying to convince them to not be so scared and just dance. ("Oh my goodness, I keep messing up!" Chile... just dance. You'll be fine, I promise.)

Which brings me to my latest challenge. I've got to prepare my kids for a recital in June. I'm not worried about them picking up choreography; steps will come. But I am searching for ways to bring out their inner performer. The head-banging, hair-swinging, face-giving performer.

Basically, I want my kids to be extra when they hit the stage. But right now, most of them are rather timid and seem to feel silly when I tell them to make faces in the mirror. (And probably rightly so. I tend to forget that I've been giving face for years... don't even take it there.)

So I turn to you. What's a good way to get people to let loose and come out of their shell? To turn on their inner actor/actress without fear of looking silly or being judged? Basically... how do I get my kids to wild out?

Take your time. I have till June.

Today's combo with Lauren...

Always, always... Keep dancing

2008-02-29T11:08:00.005-05:00

Onward with my Monsters reflections.

I auditioned for Jamal Sims during the weekend. Monsters produces a big show (everything in dance revolves around a big show) in Los Angeles during the summer, and holds auditions during the convention tour to pick cast members.

Was I nervous? Hell yeah. Jamal is the biggest-deal person I have yet to audition for. He choreographed "Hairspray" and "Step Up 2." I mean, he was on "Making the Band" for gosh sakes. The dude was hired by no-bitchassness Diddy. He's kind of a big deal.

So yeah. I was nervous.

But that goes away once the music comes on, once the choreography starts moving through your bones, once you remember a pep talk from the night before (thanks, Pumpkin) and once you let yourself enjoy what you're doing for the next 45 seconds -- performing.

Before we started dancing, Jamal said the piece was more about the "feel" than the "moves." And the feel? Straight outta church.

And I grew up Baptist -- so I went at it.

I wasn't picked as a finalist, and that's fine. Auditioning is like working as a freelance writer; you'll hear yes more than you'll hear no. But a moment of redemption came when Irever and I went to meet Jamal and snap a picture.

"What's your name?"

Veronica.

"Nice to meet you. You know I really loved you. You were great."

Really?

"Yeah. You did a great job."

Score, dude. Friggin. Score.

'The second you do a pirouette...'

2008-02-26T17:25:00.003-05:00

So I've been fully immersed in this thing called dance for the better part of the last few years. I live with dancers, I read dance magazines and our home library has nearly every pivotal dance movie ever made. (I'm saying, "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo." Nuff said.)

To that end, when I find myself talking dance with someone who isn't quite as immersed, I get a confused look. Or just silence. Like I did when telling Boyfriend about this weekend's class with Dave Scott.

"...who?"

"The guy who choreographed 'You Got Served.'"

"OH! Yo, that movie was hot!"

So in order to share with everyone just how big the weekend was for dancers in DC, here are the people we got to meet and take class from for a whole two days:

· (The aforementioned) Dave Scott, mastermind behind "You Got Served";

· Lisette Bustamante, who's dance with (my idol), Janet Jackson;

· Marty Kudelka, the guy who gives Justin Timberlake his moves;

· Rhapsody, choreographer for Beyonce (yeah!) and the Pussycat Dolls;

· Flomaster, also of "You Got Served," and breaker/locker extraordinaire;

· Nappytabs, the most adorable married couple ever, who've choreographed for Missy Elliot and Christina Aguilera; and...

· Jamal Sims, the choreographer for "Step 2: The Streets," and (this helped Boyfriend) the guy who replaced Laurie Ann when Diddy fired her from "Making the Band."

The weekend also included an audition for Jamal (more on that later) for a show to in L.A. this summer.

Also to note... have you watched "America's Best Dance Crew"? One of the contestants (Laura Edwards, my new girlcrush), is a Monsters of Hip Hop alum, and has since been in a number of movies (and TV shows, obviously). And other Monsters alum have appeared everyone's favorite, "So You Think You Can Dance."

So... yeah.

Monsters is kind of a big deal.

:-)

Aight...

2008-02-26T11:57:00.003-05:00

I'm back. I promise I had the full intention of posting a complete Monsters of Hip Hop recap yesterday... but I couldn't. I just... couldn't.

I've never done a full weekend intensive before. And boy, did I get my butt whipped. Okay, it wasn't that bad, but there was that moment if you wondered whether your brain could absorb any more choreography and whether your body would actually do what you told it to do. ("You want me to what? Lock? Trick, you crazy.")

But all that was minor compared with how much I learned and observed and with how much fun I had. And lots of fun was had. Learning from Dave Scott and Marty Kudelka, auditioning for Jamal Sims... how could that not be fun? So, in order to preserve the little brain power that I have left this week, I'm going to post my "Monsters revelations" as I remember them, instead of trying to produce one, long, re-cap post.

In the meantime, someone tell me what to do with a mysteriously swollen knee. (It doesn't hurt... it's just bloated.)

Monsters Aftermath

2008-02-25T09:23:00.001-05:00

I was here this weekend.

Now I hurt.

More to come shortly.

Word of the Day

2008-02-18T10:47:00.019-05:00

I'm intrigued by this one. Not because Diddy brought it to the forefront, but because, as he accurately states, it's a serious disease that's infecting our community.

Yes, I'm talking about the phenomenon affectionately known as bitch-assedness.

Now, let it be known that this affliction isn't something new that Diddy just diagnosed. It has been around for a while. Katt Williams has lectured on the subject a number of times. And most girls -- me included -- have dealt with people who have this ailment at least once-- no, maybe twice-- okay, we probably see it just about every day.

But I wonder... how exactly does one define bitch-assedness? Of course, I asked my wonderful friends... and this is what I got:

"A bitch ass is someone who can't speak his mind. Someone who lies for no reason. Someone who can't keep up. Someone who has no driven purpose. Someone with several baby mamas and no ex-wives." -- Lynnette

"Bitch-assedness? Being simple, childish, weak... and therefore affecting others." -- Mashaun

"What's a bitch ass? Well, as my uncle would say... a PUNK!" -- Tara

"Well, it's kinda like pornography... You just know it when you see it." -- Keith

I, personally, think bitch-assedness can encompass a range of actions, but that they're all basically rooted in deception and the need to cause dissention in an shady effort for personal gain. Bitch-ass moves can include (but aren't limited to):

· Approaching a girl when her man goes to the restroom;

· Attempting to get members of the opposite sex to fight over you;

· Eating someone's mutha-fuckin' pizza rolls out the got-damn office fridge, and knowing GOT-damn well they don't belong to you.

(I'm sorry. I'm still a little salty about that... fucking douchebag.)

So, loyal readers (all four and a half of you), how would you define the disease known as bitch-assedness? What kind of bitch-assedness have you encountered? (I would share more, but I don't wanna keep y'all here all day.) And... would you admit if you got a little bitch-assedness in you?

:-)

Dammit.

2008-02-17T13:04:00.001-05:00

I didn't even notice what I did until yesterday.

In my excitement about Monsters of Hip Hop finally coming to (or rather, near) DC, I hastily arranged a shift swap with a co-worker at the J-O -- meaning I switched my "weekend" from Wednesday and Thursday to Saturday and Sunday so I could go run around the Hyatt Reston with Josh, Tranae and other assorted DC hip-hop heads for two days of dance, dance and, well... dance.

It wasn't until Boyfriend asked me about my days off this week that I realized -- I have none.

Friday, I wrote.

Saturday, I wrote.

Today, I write.

Tomorrow, I write.

Tuesday, I write again.

I edit Wednesday.

Thursday, I edit once more.

And on Friday, I'm back to writing, only to rush out at 6 on the dot to teach two hours of class at DIC.

By the time Monsters comes around, I will have worked eight days in a row.

Eight. In a row.

I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

And now I'm mad at myself for cheating my sleep through these first three days.

Just don't let me pass out at Monsters, Lord. Please.

My New Favorite People

2008-02-16T02:09:00.000-05:00

I arrived at the studio tonight to find that my teen street jazz class has grown... exponentially.

These kids apparently multiply like rabbits.

That's cool though, the more the merrier. And they're older kids, so I figured I'd have more fun with them.

Oh, wait... now there's boy in the class.

Drats. The plan to re-teach last week's combo (with its hip-shaking and hair-flipping) was out the window. I know I made my little brother prance around when we "performed" for our parents as kids, but I've since learned that's not the best way to engage a boy in dance. (And I'm still sorry about that, Ty. Really.)

So now I had to come up with something else, and quick. And because the kids were ready and raring to go, I couldn't try to stall and make up something on the fly.

Hmmm...

Would they look at me funny if I put on this random-@$$ Bjork song? That's what Vizion alumni had done when I introduced it in practice last week. Alas, it was my only choice. That... or have the boy fling his wrists in the air.

Yeah, this was a no-brainer.

At least the techno/electronica vibe of Bjork would challenge them, I thought. Then, I could eat up my hour by answering questions and clarifying steps, right?

Yeah right.

I got some talented-@$$ kids in this class! And I just adore the younger ones...

I'm so glad about it.

I think I have a new favorite class. Now I just have to prepare more than 16 seconds worth of song for next week. :-)

About that card....

2008-02-15T00:58:00.000-05:00

...it did the job.

WHOO HOO!

:-)

Down with Hallmark

2008-02-13T22:21:00.000-05:00

Shopping for Valentine's Day cards sucks.

Now, let me clarify. It sucks, not because I'm anti-Valentine's Day, and not because I'm begrudgingly taking part in the holiday.

It sucks simply because... Valentine's Day cards suck.

Who WRITES this shit?!*

This is all a recent revelation. I haven't really had to buy a V-day card in a number of years, so imagine my surprise, when, while trolling the selection, I notice that they're all A) either ridiculously sappy, or B) insanely corny, to the point where it probably should be criminal.

And I'm inclined to conclude that my disdain for said cards is stemmed in some sort of writer superiority complex.

Meaning -- because I write for a living, anything in ink and with my name attached canNOT be cowplop.

That said, I think I've found my own personal solution to the mass suckiness that is the Valentine's Day card industry. (Yeah, American Greetings, I'm talking to you.) Let's hope it does the job. :-)

* If I've offended any greeting card writers, I'm terribly sorry. I'm sure the cards I'm talking about aren't even yours. :-)

'Watch A Gal Dem Roll...'

2008-02-09T19:43:00.000-05:00

First... whatchu know 'bout Musical Youth?

I post it for two simple reasons.

One, VH1 just played it on its "Greatest One Hit Wonders" show, and I need a reminder to download "Pass the Dutchie" -- or import it into my iTunes if it's already on my computer, which is highly possible. Old school reggae always brings fond memories.

Two, the video I would have liked to post is nonexistent.

Hmph.

After a holiday hiatus (and by holiday, I mean Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's and yes, Martin Luther King Jr. Day), I'm back to teaching. And as I referenced earlier, I'm thoroughly and completely stoked (yes, stoked) about teaching adult hip-hop.

So imagine my disappointment when I arrive at the studio last night (after dashing out of the J-O 15 minutes early) only to find that my adult class wouldn't happen.

DAMMIT!

Oh, I still taught. And the kids in my teen street jazz class thoroughly impressed me. (You better do that ronde de jambe, babies!) But my excitement about class mostly resides in what I have to teach and seeing students perform it. And while the street jazz routine was a good introductory combo, the hip-hop piece I had ready was gritty. Dirty. Crunk.

And inspired by Shawty Lo's "Dey Know."

So I wanted to get it on tape (er, digital camera?) and post it to share -- my new resolution as I teach this year. (Okay, in all honesty, I just want to be like Kelly, Shallom and Boris. Hi guys. :-) )

But alas -- no students, no class to record. Could I have recorded myself, a la the lovely Luam? I guess, but I prefer the group thing.

(Hey, hey... let's keep this PG folks.)

So until I can break out my ancient Cannon PowerShot A400, I'll close with one video I would not have minded being in at all.

(Hey, I got island blood running through me -- I can't keep it PG all the time.)

(...and homegirl with the ponytail is BAD! Get 'em, boo!)

Woooooow....

2008-01-26T12:17:00.000-05:00

So I've never put too much stock in people's Internet antics. Mostly because I can't take my own Web activity seriously myself. I mean, I AM the girl who, up until recently, had a Facebook profile saying I was in a relationship -- open, complicated or otherwise -- with one woman or another.

(I am heterosexual, by the way.)

I am also the chick that has little cartoon Facebook babies with one of those aforementioned "girlfriends," as well as a third one with a Facebook "mistress."

(Again... I'm straight. I promise.)

So I never quite comprehended the idea of trying to take people to task via the Internet. I don't know. I guess if I'm upset about something I'll verbally inform the people that need to know, or not say anything. And if I'm pissed at someone, I'm not going make it known in my away message on Instant Messenger.

And I'm pondering all this because...

Someone has removed me as a Facebook friend.

And not some random acquaintance, but an actual buddy (or someone who I thought was a buddy, I dunno).

So now I'm like... word, son? Like... what do you do with that? What does that mean? Should I be offended? Sad? Melancholy? I really don't know. I'm amused, certainly, and at the same time, intrigued. I'd like to know -- what crime did I commit that was so heinous that now, I can't even be someone's Internet buddy?

I guess I'm baffled because everyone has social networking buddies that they barely even know. Most friend requests are accepted with a shrug and a "Why not?" I, personally, have a bunch of Facebook friends that I haven't spoken to since Michelle was the boss of Barack. So for someone to log onto the site, click "Remove from Friends," and click that final "OK" button, is a very measured, calculated and motivated move.

And personally, I've never been SO pissed at someone to say, "That's it... you're not my Facebook friend anymore!!!"

I mean, it's very kindergarten, don't you think?

Clearly, this fascinates me.

So what does this mean, guys? Help me out.

What Just Happened in the Last 15 Minutes

2008-01-24T17:42:00.000-05:00

I thought cats had gotten the memo before, but apparently not. So here goes, one mo' 'gain.

Sir,

Kindly refrain from beeping at me while I'm crossing the street. I will not take a detour from my path in the pedestrian crosswalk to walk up to your car, SUV, 70-year-old hooptie, whatever, to strike up a conversation with a person who figured the only acceptable way to get my attention was to honk the horn in the middle of lunch-hour traffic.

Thanks,
The Management

* * * * *

Dream in Color has a new studio! The director, Kim, called to tell me she somehow inherited the studio where she used to teach before she launched DIC. And the place, apparently, is huge, with enough space for folks to tumble and flip off of trampolines.

But more than that, along with studio, she's inheriting all the students who go there. Advanced kids, little ones who've been dancing since before they can talk.

And what does this mean for me?

I can finally teach students who can pick up my steps!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Very few people understand the frustration of teaching inexperienced dancers. Now, I'm not knocking them (because, you know, dance is for everyone and it's never too late to start and all that good stuff). All I'm saying is that it takes a special kind of person with the right kind of patience to guide new dancers in their first steps.

I am not that person.

Not yet, at least. Possibly not ever.

...hey, I never said I was perfect.

So imagine my excitement. I was already amped about having a street jazz class for teens ("Let's add a pirouette to that pop") and a hip-hop class for adults (explicit lyrics TOTALLY fine) this term. (I, by the way, heart older students. Children, as adorable as they are, are very hard rein in inside a big open space with mirrors.) So now I'll have a lot more students, AND folks on whom I can unleash my... um... uh...

I don't know what to call it.

Whatever it is, it's being unleashed. Every Friday. At seven o'clock. Sharp.

Word, son.

Now, about my schedule at the J-O....

* * * * *

So I'm a fat girl. Because I'd been looking forward to getting the new balsamic chicken "Sammies" from Quizno's ever since I saw the commercial while watching reruns of "Project Runway" this week.

"What would you like?"

"Balsamic chicken Sammies. Two, please."

She begins assembling the little sandwiches.

"Can I have cheese with that too?"

She looks at me.

"Sammies no come with cheese."

"Well, can you just add it on?" I'll pay the 40 cents, damn.

Now she's ice-grilling me.

"Sammies no come with cheese."

"None at all?"

"No."

*Sigh*

Fine. Fuck it. Give me my damn Sammies. With no cheese.

Bastards.

* * * * *

There's balsamic vinagrette sauce all over my desk.

And on my keyboard.

And splattered on my jeans.

Fantastic.

Veronica, The Diabolical Newswriter

2008-01-14T18:01:00.001-05:00

Okay, I get it. I'm evil.

I write news for a living. Meaning when you hear or see a radio or television anchor person read copy on the air, there's a good chance that it's something I wrote.

But I have a smart-ass imagination. Which is why I when I come across a story like this:

"Senate Democrats thwarted Idaho Sen. Larry Craig's bid to use a federal spending bill to dictate water flow for Northwest salmon."

... I write a headline like this:

"Sen. Craig stalled by Democrats."

(If you don't get that, you suck.)

I denied being an evil newswriter, fervently. Up until about two minutes ago. When I got this story:

"A Nevada judge says Democratic presidential candidate Dennis Kucinich must be included in Tuesday's candidates' debate in Nevada."

And the lead that immediately came to mind was:

"Dennis Kucinich gets to play with the big boys."

(For those who don't pay attention, Kucinich has about a snowball's chance in hell of getting nominated... and he's short.)

*sigh*

So there, I've admitted it.

I'm an evil newswriter.