I'm one part word nerd writer, one part shoe hoochie fashionista, and all parts mother of Skylar, the flighty but fabulous 14 year old who is the object of my undying affection (when she's not immersed in teen funkiness). Aside from storytelling for The Stir, I pen pieces for Essence, Ebony, Vibe, Clutch and just about anyone else who'll have me. On any given day, I find solace in Five Guys fries, Hello Kitty paraphernalia and crime TV. Love me anyway, please.
Sprite on the rocks. Oh, you thought this snarkiness was alcohol-induced?
A really good honeymoon should include a few essentials: a nice getaway spot where the newlyweds can enjoy each other, an air of romance and excitement, and an almost ridiculous amount of sleep and sex.
Should, for reasons that can only be dreamed up on a couple-by-couple basis, either the bride or groom have a brush with the law during the course of their post-nuptial canoodling, it should be for something that makes for funny, shareable stories like public drunkenness or random flashes of public nudity.
It should not be because the new hubs has been nabbed by police for soliciting a hooker right after his wedding night.
Next week, the Boy Scouts will hold their National Annual Meeting which, like most events of its kind, is an opportunity to put pressing issues on the table for discussion. And when they do, they’ll make a decision that weighs the future of the organization against the regulations of its past: whether or not to lift an existing ban on gay members. Boy Scouts is one in a thinning crowd of holdouts still practicing this brand of exclusionism. At least on paper, other entities have stepped up to support—or, at the bare minimum, tolerate—the LGBT community. If the Scouts’ powers that be move to accept gay boys, it probably will be less because of some great sweep of sensitivity and more due to public pressure and bias-shaming (because we don’t already have enough terms that have “shaming” tacked onto the end).
One month after bombs shattered the euphoria at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, investigators say suspect Dzhokhar Tsarnaev wrote a note on the wall of the boat he was hiding in before he surrendered to police on April 19. Scrawled in pen, his message—and the makeshift dry board he scribbled it on—were riddled with bullet holes. He himself was bleeding from gunshot wounds he sustained during an earlier shootout between police and his older brother, Tamerlan, the accused co-conspirator in the attacks that senselessly killed three and injured 264. Even down to what could’ve very well been his last moments, Tsarnaev was passionate in his zealotry and dedicated to his cause. And he fired off a whole mini-manifesto about it.
It’s been a while since I shared a misadventure of a single sister in the city but this latest one is a winner. Last month, I went to a birthday celebration in Philly for my not-even-a-year-younger-than-me sister, another product of the infamous babymaker who is my father. Her friends and some of her other siblings crammed into the space she reserved at a Moroccan restaurant and I—all late and wrong since I cut my hair and can’t get the ish to look decent enough for public viewing—sat uncharacteristically quiet in my seat. Even chatterboxes like yours truly get introverted sometimes. Then again, the hair keeps me a little more sedated as of late. Out on the street, one of her other guests approached me to introduce himself. It seemed perfectly innocent, since he mentioned something about applying for a job in D.C., and since I live in D.C., I just figured homeboy was networking.
They’re coming. Every other day, it seems, there’s a news box on Google about the impending descent of the II Brood of cicadas, those huge bugs with the bulging red eyes that emerge every 13 or 17 years, depending on where you live, to mate like maniacs, replenish their high-pitch shrieking population, and wreak all kinds of terror on humankind. Specifically me. No, it hasn’t been 17 years yet since we endured their horrifyingly disgusting presence. When we survived the last go-round in 2004, no one was splitting hairs about the possibility of different iterations of those big ol’ nasty things. But we probably should have, because that was Brood X, not expected to intrude again until 2021. Meanwhile, Brood II has been percolating underfoot and once the ground warms to a consistent 64 degrees, they’ll creep up and out and all over the place, and rob entomophobiacs of 3-4 weeks of their summer.