Winter come hither

I don’t ever need a thermometer to tell me it’s getting cold outside. I know the temps are dropping because I start getting random phone calls from old (and cold) flames. Every year, after the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, dudes just start calling me…wanting to see me. Telling me how much they miss me, and how they want to try again. What they really wanna do is lock down a snuggle buddy for the holidays. But I’m hip to the game.

Me and my friend Lynette joke about this all the time. We spend all summer alone, no dates, no prospects…just dinners with each other at Picadilly, and then at the first hint of chill—the phone starts ringing.

Maybe it’s some primal winter survival instinct known only to men. When I start to get cold, I just drag out the heavy blankets and put on some socks. But these guys, when they catch a chill, they whip out the old phone roster and start dialing. Enticing unsuspecting women with dates to the movies and to dinner.

I admit that I’ve fallen for the old winter come-hither a time or two—okay, maybe three times, but definitely, no more than four times. And it was great…pure bliss. Lighting fires and watching movies and wearing his sweatshirt…it was all good from about mid-October until the week before Christmas.

That’s when things start to get a little tricky. He’s trying to figure out how to not buy you a gift, but still get the goods. And you’re trying to figure out if the two of you should wear matching sweaters to Christmas dinner. Faster than you can say Valentine’s Day, he’s gone.

Oh yes, I’m hip to the game.

Sure, you’ll see a resurgence of interest for New Year’s. After all, who wants to go home alone after drinking too much? After that, be prepared to pack it all in along with the Christmas ornaments and your New Year's resolutions. Spring is on the way, Sister Kate. And with the first appearance of buds and tiny green plant shoots, it’s in with the new and out with the you.

Save yourself some trouble this winter….just stock up on some thick socks and send the phone to voicemail when it rings. You’ll be glad you did.

Cornrows and other nonsense…

Last week, my scarefro was getting on my nerves, so I made an appointment with braider Habibah. If braiding was an Olympic sport, Habibah would be a frickin’ Gold Medalist. I don’t know what genetic pool produced her agile and nimble fingers, but she had every hair on my head braided in no time flat.

She worked so quickly, in fact, that I had paid her and was back in my car before I noticed the awful, stabbing, mind-numbing pain radiating from my scalp. My friends all warned me that the first few days would be a tad uncomfortable, particularly for a first-timer. They failed to tell me it would feel like a swarm of killer bees landed in my head for some target practice. This was bound to turn out bad.

I suffered through five whole days of that foolishness. Five whole days of being unable to squint because my hair was pulled so tight. Five whole days of not being able to even nod my head.

Five. Whole. Days…of cornrow terrorism.

On Day 5, I stopped by the local beauty supply in search of a product called Braid Ease. It’s supposed to help. A professional hairstylist who was shopping on the same row as me took one look at my irritated scalp and said, “Oh, that’s not right,” as she eased away from me, looking like she was about to call the CDC on me for whatever was eating away at my head.

I rushed home and performed an emergency braid evacuation. I ripped out some hair in the process, but we’ll just call that acceptable collateral damage.

The scarefro is back…and it’s back getting on my nerves….but when I think about what it could be, I just whip out my pick and go with the ‘fro.

4:03 p.m.

In my next life, I want to be an albino peacock. If that doesn't get me noticed, nothing will.

PETA is being run by the mentally impaired. They have asked Ben & Jerry's to use human breast milk, rather than cow's milk, in all its icecream products. It's true: www.wptz.com/news/17539127/detail.html

Cinnamon Mentos might just be the greatest food ever invented.

The Hair Up There

For the past 20-odd years, I have waged an epic battle of control against a most formidable opponent: my own hair. The war has been fierce, each victory against the nap hard worn. Utilizing a considerable arsenal, I kept my hair not itself using presses, Jheri curls, Kool-aid color (Fruit Punch, thank you), Peroxide, Bantu, black gel, etc. to fry it into submission. I was so fly...it's true. But, it was exhausting!

Then last year.... my skin and hair staged a coup. They turned on me! I was betrayed...not so much by my actual hair...but by my super, ultra, extremely sensitive skin that refused to be chemically burned again just so I could look like I have Indian in my family. And so, September 18, 2007, I waved the white flag -- or in my case, headrag. I let it go. Chopped it off. And, it felt great....for about 3 months.

Then, began another battle...to keep it soft, to keep it tamed, to keep it neat...and this time, this time, oh, my nappy hair is kicking my butt. It's a thing possessed. One day, soft, sassy, touchable ringlets. The next, a tangled, dry, brittle dragon's nest. Payback, I presume, for the Super Strength Hawaiian Silky circa 1996....or maybe it was the Kwame' blonde streak and finger waves, est. 1992.

Either way, I just need help! I admit it. This is my hair SOS...and somebody better help me soon.

I just want to live in perm....I mean peace.

Going Public

I'm thinking of taking my blog public.

This really has been a forum for me to just dump my thoughts and forget about them... but, really, what is the big deal? Truly, one woman's ramblings can be someone else's workday entertainment. I should know, I spend most of my workday dropping in other's people's business. Baby blogs, cooking blogs, travel blogs...you name 'em, my nosy ass reads em.

Who am I to deny others the pleasure of doing the same to me?

So, I guess that about settles it. Coming soon to a blog near you.... it's just Shemika.

Pimento Cheese....here I come

So, I'm prepping myself for the Great Reception Event. I'm please to say I vanquished the pimento cheese, but I'm just not sure what to expect. Lord, please give me the strength to deal with Martha Nell Benton Britt Rogers for a whole night! She is not gone worry the sh*t outta me. I mean this. I'm looking forward to seeing my Bigmama and getting that feeling I get each and every time my spirit finds itself home again.

The Bee does Beantown

Boston is only 12 miles wide. How can that be? I've encountered at least 10 nationalities just by hailing cabs. The drivers have all been wonderful though, and we've talked about everything from hybrid cars to the merits of a good cigarette...I'm still not buying that last one. I've run into some really nice people...who ever knew a New England town could serve up some good ole southern hospitality? And, then there have been a few not so nice ones... Shout out to the biotch in Mickey Ds who would not refill my sweet tea! But we won't let the tea nazi ruin this trip. The lobster at Legal was worth getting lost for, and I still want to get to Harvard and Paul Revere House.