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?
My neighbor upstairs, the one who just moved in, is having raucous sex. I know because it woke me up out of a pretty restful sleep in the wee hours of the morning. Try as I might to will myself to hurry up and drift back off to blissful, coital-less unconsciousness, I listened to her man friend do his best to drill her down through the bed, past the floor, and into my apartment. So I figured I had two options: keep hoping what I was hearing was their last spurt of voracious humping or get on up, catch an episode of The Golden Girls, and write a blog post. Clearly, I chose the latter. Anyway, all of this banging and clanging reminded me of a public service announcement I’ve been meaning to make, and it’s about the misuse of the Facebook inbox. It’s a handy way to communicate with groups, send inside jokes to friends, and circulate 1,005 unsolicited party and event invitations that I’ll never consider attending.
Sometimes people talk just because they have mouths and tongues and vocal chords. I’m convinced that George Zimmerman’s brother is one of them. And when folks like him have time to marinate in their own muddled thoughts and open a Twitter account, we all become privy to their clumsy attempts at reason. Hence Robert Zimmerman, Jr.’s effort to compare De’Marquis Elkins, who is accused of killing a 13-month-old baby in Georgia, to Trayvon Martin, who went to buy some Skittles and an iced tea before he was murdered. Using photos of each teen brandishing their middle fingers and captioning the collage with “A picture speaks a thousand words,” Zimmerman seems to be trying to make a point. It’s not until he gets into his Twitter tirade that he reveals what it really is, though:
I guess the title kind of gives away the story. But let me paint the picture. I got stood up for a date a few weeks ago. Actually, I got canceled on at the last minute which, in the book of Janelle, is the same thing as being stood up. This in spite of an evening revolving around tickets to the Wizards vs. the Bulls which, so far as I thought, a guy wouldn’t bail on. He might find a way to weasel out of a post-game dinner or sexless hang-out time, but seems like the ball action would’ve kept him reeled in until at least the second half. Unless it was a blowout. But he proved me wrong and now I know, so I won’t be walking around thinking I’m all better-than-being-stood-up-for-professional-sporting-events and whatnot.
I’m getting ready to show my age here, but when I was a kid (the key phrase that indicates someone is indeed about to launch into a story that will show their age), I used to rap the molasses outta the lyrics to “Push It.” I loved Salt-n-Pepa anyway, down to my ripped jeans and my replica of their asymmetrical haircuts. I don’t know about them, but mine took a regrettable and absurd amount of time to grow out. So that combo, the fan-dom and the haircut, made me the fourth member of the group in my mind whenever that song came on. Perhaps Salt-Pepa-n-Curry? Or was I more of a Paprika? Either way, I obliviously ooh-baby-baby-edsong and emphatically ahhh-pushed-it in front of my mama whenever it came on. She never said a word to encourage or put me on ice either way.
He was being a normal teenager. Sneaking out of the house, disobeying his parents, dabbling in rebellion. Caleb Gordley wanted to go to a party last Saturday, but his plans got snuffed out when his mom and dad grounded him for not cleaning his room. But, in authentic teenage hardheadedness, he went anyway. There, the 16-year-old started drinking—to the point of being drunk—and when his friends dropped him off after their night of festivities, he stumbled to a window to sneak back up to his bedroom. Except his friends dropped him off at the wrong house, and he was too wasted to notice, particularly since this home, like many in housing communities that have popped up around the country, looked almost exactly like the one he lived in two doors down.