Sarah Palin makes my teeth hurt

Any day where the nation’s collective attention is focused almost solely on Sarah Palin is just going to suck. So, when I broke a molar around 4 p.m. last Thursday, it’s no more than I should have expected for the day.

It was just like any other day at the office. Until I bit down onto some snack nuts and the earth shook. Or, at least my jaw did. Something happened.

I made an emergency doctor’s visit for Friday a.m. (which I’m still too traumatized to talk about), and headed home to get ready for the Biden-Palin debacle. Later that evening, I doped myself up with some Aleve—partially because of the tooth, but mostly in prep for Palin watching—and settled down for what had to be the single most lacklustre non-event of my entire human existence.

Did that debate really not happen right before my eyes? Did I waste away precious seconds of my life watching Palin neatly sidestep any attempt at real engagement by the moderator and Dem. VP candidate Joe Biden? Please tell me it was the drugs. Somebody please tell me I did not see what I think I know I saw. (How's that for Palin-speak?)

I am more frustrated with this woman than any minimally intelligent person should ever be. I want to like her. Lawd, knows I do...but, I just can't. I am over her. I cannot believe that she chose not to answer one single question directly. Over and over and over again. Nothing happened.

I can’t wait for November 4. That day, when she asks Americans to vote for the McCain-Palin ticket, I hope they’ll all take a cue from little ole Sarah…redirect the nation’s attention to something else, preferably a vote for Obama.

Gloria...my Gloria

I used to have a hair alter-ego. Her name was Gloria, and she had fabulous hair. Gloria usually showed up on salon day with a to-die for cute crop, hair all shiny and bouncy, ends neatly trimmed, perm freshly applied. It was glorious being Gloria. I loved her.

Last year, after my skin and hair rejected the perm, Gloria packed up her sh*t and left. Taking with her the heady scent of fresh no-lye relaxing. Gone were the days of admiring glances at my trendy, closely cut flyness. Gloria was just gone. All I had to remember her by was a cabinet full of Gold n’ Hot curling irons in assorted sizes, an old silk head scarf and half a stick of Paul Mitchell slick pomade. Now, I’m the one who glances sideways at other women on salon day. Their hair all sleek and chic; mine twisting and curling, knotting and napping and doing just about any damn thing it wants whether or not I agree.

I am not this hair. But what hair am I? Is it Bonquisha, Ms. Clairol, or Shenappy-happy? I don’t know, but I’m having an ongoing hairdentity crisis and my hair SOSs have so far left me SOL. Man, I miss Gloria.



I never considered myself to be that girl…the one who ties her identity to her hairstyle. I laughed secretly at women–-strange ones and known ones--who felt long hair is the only it…smirking in arrogance because I had the cheekbones and the flair for barely there hair. Rolling my eyes as they flick born or bought hair over their shoulders, hair which honestly made them look way too old. But that was then, when I was in control of my hair.

Now that my locks are firmly in control of me, the joke is on me. This wild, wiry mane laughing outright. Taunting me to try, just try, to do something about it. And so I do, tussling and twisting and detangling with all my might, for hours on end. Only to be reminded minutes, hours or days later, that, yes, I am in fact this hair, so we might as well settle down and get to know each other.

Day by day, I’m learning. And that’s all I can do, really. But if you see Gloria, if you spot her turning a corner, hair gleaming and looking fly, tell her don’t forget about me. I’m waiting anxiously for her return.

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.