Happy to be Not Nappy

Lady Sybarite with her new hairstyle, threaded eyebrows and pedicure clearly didn't get the 'recession memo'.

Last week, I went out for Indian food with a friend. During the course of dinner, said friend stared at me curiously and persistently. Because I have a gap, I tried to discreetly check for unsightly food items stuck in my teeth. Yet the staring continued. Because I have the canyon sized nostrils from dad's side of the family, I tried to (discreetly again) dislodge any unwanted visitors. Still, he stared. While he did the North -South stare (because face it, I know the occasion for the southern stare), I couldn't figure out what was going on up North. My eyes weren't red, my eyebrows weren't dyed invisible like normal. Could he be awed by my beauty?

The answer came after dinner. He took in my aura and leaned in close. I held my breath, closed my eyes, and waited with puckered lips in anticipation. Much to my surprise, ten appendages invaded my curly, bushy afro (northern hemisphere, thank you) and proceeded to vigorously massage my scalp!

As Lil' Jon would say: WHAT?

Someone did not get the memo about Black women and their hair. How lucky he is to have surivived the invasion with both life and limb. That was last week and today is a new day. This morning, I went to the salon for a press and curl. My hair is bouncy, shiny and straight and I feel like I've re-discovered an old friend. My smile is bigger, my step is higher and I love, love, love the sensation of curls tingling the back of my neck. I like being natural, but I miss my permed hair. Theoretically, someone could run their fingers through my hair without risking loss of a finger or thumb.

One (natural) friend so eloquently surmised: The creamy crack habit (of a fresh perm) is a hard habit to break for some sista's out there. Well, I guess I'm on step 2 of the 12 step program.

Today, it was nice to look like the woman I've been all my adult life.

All I want for Christmas…

Back when I was a tadpole Christmas for me was easy. Mad easy. All I wanted for Christmas was my two front teeth, a purple Huffy with a banana seat and streamers dangling from the handlebars and, perhaps, some Jellys.

Later in life, Christmas became a practical event. I wanted underwear, socks and cash or things that could be placed on E-bay for cash.

As I mature, my wish for Christmas becomes increasingly prosaic. For the sake of my loved ones and to make shopping for me easier, I decided to publish my Christmas list.
All I want for Christmas is …

1. Peace and damn quiet;


2. Freedom from intrusive questions;


3. The gift of not asking me when I’ll abandon my life of leisure for a steady 8-5;


4. No inquires on the state of my love life or lack thereof;


5. No betting with the House on when I’ll have kids;


6. Immunity from requests for cash

And if you really want to help me out this season…

7. Call my pimp, Sallie Mae, and tell her you got, no put $5 on it. That bitch wants her money.

Let me have the leisurely and luxurious Christmas you desire for yourself.

Pick your Afro Baby

You know that Sista. You've seen her at the mall, sitting up front at the less-bougie churches, vibing at Apache (Ying-Yang on 3rd for you old heads), at Common's last two concerts, or even presiding from the Bench.

She rocks the brown espadrilles, no less than 16 bangles, cowrie shell earring acquired from her latest trip to the Motherland or the discount mall, or perhaps a subtle nose ring. She may work at the West End or perhaps is a graduate of an HBCU. Her scent is slightly earthy and the waft of sandalwood essential oils warms your olfactory nerves.

She is tall and reminds you of Mother Africa. Her shoulders pulled back in regalness or even defiance. Coconut husk skin glistening in the sun. Her hair in full salute to Angela Davis and all that she represents, save perhaps, the weed. Woolly, strong, political. Protecting the movement, advancing the struggle, blazing new paths to tomorrow. Reclaiming the heritage.

You've seen that unadulterated sister. You've secretly said to yourself,

"That style is cute... for her."

"Couldn't be me."

"Sista needs a hot comb and a brush."

But instead, you simply smile and your inner diva gives her a Gill Scott Heron (the original spoken word artist) Power to the People fist pump. Right on!

I am that Sista.

And I will warmly accept donations to the "Give that girl a perm!" fund.

Beaches

Friday afternoon, one of my buddies called me from the beach beseeching me to rescue her from a thorny situation with an ex-paramour. Inside of an hour, I rented a car, threw on my Superwoman sarong and drove to the beach. I should have looked at a map; I would have realized that the beach is farther than I realized.

My trip to Santa Rosa Beach was 85% country roads, as evidenced by the horses, cows, one lane no-passing highways and cotton fields that I saw en route. Personally, I am not one for night driving or long-distance driving. That’s probably why I drove like the Klan was riding at sundown. It was a very prayerful trip: I prayed that Sheriff Cuzin wouldn’t pull me over. I r-e-a-l-l-y prayed when that empty gas indicator decided to illuminate my dashboard and that was the ONLY form of light for miles and miles around.

I did arrive safely and unfortunately Thorny Situation left before I had a chance to meet him. Too bad. My girl and I had a wonderful time in a graciously donated beach rental, Van Gogh’s View. It was a two bedroom, two bathroom, fully upgraded kitchen, 4 minute turtle walk to the beach dream. Thank you again, Thorny Situation.

My girl welcomed me with a nice meal and wine. We talked, laughed and caught up with each other. Then we retired early to prepare for a full day of beach chillin. Well my sleep was interrupted by a phone call. It was Truculent Caribbean. At first, I welcomed the sexy Caribbean voice because it reminds me of home. I love the cadence of a Caribbean accent and it touches me like a soft chenille throw on a cool autumn evening. It makes my soul smile. Until I listened to the words. You have gottah be effin kidding me.

The drunk dial. Let me first apologize to anyone I have ever drunk dialed. I now know how you feel. It’s ugly. This call was no different. Ugly and belligerent. Fortunately, it had nothing to do with me. I was a victim merely by being the last dialed number. I finally calmed Trusay down and he got home safely. I’m still waiting on an apology for the verbal assault.

Maybe he called Saturday to apologize. As fate would have it, Saturday morning at the beach, I got knocked over by a wave while attempting to pick up a shell. My phone fell in the ocean. It is now dead. I do relish the anonymity that a new phone and new, unpublicized number brings.

The rest of the weekend was spent eating smart, relaxing with reckless abandon and taking in sun. I was born to live on the beach with the sun caressing my skin and a fresh breeze whispering on my neck. I scoff in the face of those who don’t like roasted chestnut zaftigs.

Finding Forever

I certainly did not plan on posting again so soon. I wanted to average one Sybarite activity a month. Tonight I attended the Q-tip & Common concert at the Tabernacle. The concert was LIVE. I love hip hop. Actually, I like certain musicians in hip-hop with Common being in my top two. Can you name my number 1?

Common came on at 10 pm prompt. I respect an entertainer who understands that it is a Monday night and his demographic has to be in bed... You could tell who had an 8 am meeting the next day and who didn't. Any wagers as to which camp I am in? A good time was had by all with the concert concluding before midnight. I was waiting for the encore and the afterparty but my companion had to be at work early in the morning. Like all good hip hop concerts, I came home smelling like the elements: sweat, weed and likka. Hopefully, it will dissipate before my 2:30 pm meeting.

Someone gave me an idea for a sybarite activity. I'll do some research and see if it's feasible. All I can say as a hint: Sunrise, Champagne and Cityviews. Details to come...

Saddle Up

For the fans of my morenatravels blog which chronicled my world travels in 2006, I am back. This year has been FAR less productive than last year. I have not been out of the country and barely have left the state.

2007 has been the year I discovered what it means to be a Sybarite. And let me tell you, this is the life I was born to live. Sybarite is defined as a person devoted to luxury and leisure. (Websters). Other people define it as being shiftless and lazy. Obviously, I prefer the former definition rather than the latter. So I will dedicate this blog and all its updates to the luxurious things I do.

Today I drove out to Madison, Georgia to go horseback riding. By myself. Southern Cross Guest Ranch is a remarkable locale. They have 240 horses. Being a novice, I requested a mild tempered Filly. A got Moose. An ornery old heifa. How a propos.

I rode with two very nice ladies from Tupelo, MS. Carolyn and Barbara. I also received lots of help from the staff and other guests because obviously, I don't know the front end from the back end of a horse. They helped me brush Moose down and put on her saddle.

Together, we had an excellent ride. Mainly we walked because I was new at this. We also walked because Moose was slow as molasses. Sweet little girl, but only a fire would spark her to trot. When we did finally trot, I tried to become one with the horse. Riding is not as rhythmic and intuitive as one would think....
You know I read one Western by Beverly Jenkins and all of a sudden, I think I am a cowgirl. I really wanted to canter which is a fast pace with the horse. I will have to do that next time. I have decided that horseback riding will be one of the activities I will engage in.

Now I know what it means to pee like a race horse. It's unfortunate, because I really liked those shoes...

Overall, riding was fun and relaxing. We ended our evening with a ranchers dinner and hearty drinks... Right now, my body is sore. Horses are huge, and mine was wide. My legs and back need a massage. Parts of me hurt that I didn't even know was possible. I don't know anyone well enough to massage my hurt body parts so I have to rely on Aleve. Seriously, how do you say, Will you massage the crack of my ass?