Biggie. Tupac. Lauryn Hill. Lil Kim. Hip Hop. Late 90s. Let Me Hear a Rhyme was published in 2019 for today’s youngsters, but it was a trip down memory lane for this child of the 80s and 90s.
Online dating. The assumption that anyone who goes through the trouble of signing up, creating a profile, uploading pictures, and in some cases, paying a fee, said person is interested in making connections. With another person. As in, a fellow human being. And since none of us are telepathic, we need to communicate.
Every week or every other week, my landlord would text me that I received another package. I let it sit out in the hallway for a week or so to de-Corona before I brought it in unbox. Reactions varied from pleasantly surprised to WTF? Most of the time, I know exactly where and why I want to log on and shop, however, I’ve fallen victim to pesky social media sponsored ads. In one case, it was a podcast sponsored ad. A list of sponsored ads to which I’ve succumbed during this pandemic:
Categories: Fabulousness, Goodreads, Listicle, Random Thoughts, Try New Things • Tags: Baking, clothes, Lists, Masks, Online Shopping, Pandemic, Pandemic Baking, Pandemic Shopping, Retail Therapy, Shopping, Skincare
There should be a warning before reading profiles. Warning: scrolling through these profiles may induce eye-rolling and headshaking. There should also be a warning to manage expectations when going through photo galleries.
I’m ready to get back into the dating game. I purposely called it a game because that’s exactly what it feels like. I’ve been on and off dating apps since my twenties. These men claim they want relationships, but their behavior says otherwise. I don’t want to go back to an app, but there’s no other way for me to put myself out there. Even when we were allowed to roam about freely, I had to resort to apps. I was not meeting The One at the grocery store, subway, bookstore, movies, concerts, book signings, plays, comedy shows, Brooklyn Bridge, doctor/dentist office, work, Greyhound, Amtrak, Lyft share, JFK airport or other places.
My soft spot is when asked for food vs money. I need to earn brownie points for heaven (if it exists), so I agreed to buy overpriced shish kebabs at the cart where he was already standing. I encouraged him to order water and ordered one for myself.
Growing up, I barely read books with black female teen protagonists (shout out to The Coldest Winter Ever and Flyy Girl), let alone novels with Haitian female leads. I didn’t read my first Haitian author and Haitian characters—Haitian female characters—until Edwidge Danticat’s Breath Eyes Memory. Thank you, Oprah, for making it a book club selection in 1998. I’ve been a fan of Danticat’s ever since. I knew of Roxane Gay, but I didn’t know she was Haitian until I read her memoir Hunger. If Gay mentioned it in Bad Feminist (which I did not finish because I’m, well, a bad feminist) I missed it. Last year, I read Ben Phillippe’s The Field Guide to the North American Teenager, which is about a Black French Canadian teen boy (with Haitian parents), who moves to Texas and teen angst ensues. Now to my short list of read Haitian writing I can add Dear Haiti, Love Alaine by sisters Maika and Maritza Moulite.
At no point while I was cooking, packing the food, searching for an outfit, taking a shower, exfoliating, shaving my legs, drying off, moisturizing, sponging my hair, getting dressed, packing an overnight bag, or calling a Lyft did I think it was a bad idea to head over there.
I just wanted some comfort food. I had just emerged from a more-than-usual emotionally draining therapy session. I was spent, exhausted and hungry as if I had just completed a Shaun T T25 workout. I longed for a hot shower, comfy sweats and socks and my favorite fuzzy blanket to wrap around myself as I got lost in TV, or even better, a nap. The latter was not likely to happen. It’s rare that I nap on purpose. As much […]