Random

The designer forgot my middle initial. And my name and the word "novel" will be a bit bigger. A little tinkering will go down between now and July 4th. But for the most part, this is what we're working with. Introducing...

[caption id="attachment_3800" align="alignnone" width="347" caption="You're wearing WHAT?!"][/caption] Note before I begin: TH is not a supporter of this blog. I mean, he supports everything I do. But he doesn't read the blog. And he expects to not be mentioned--ever. For the unitiated, TH stands for The Husband. So, I mention him only when necessary. That's fair. I had to ask for special permission to write this post. And my permission was granted--grudgingly. So I ask that if you know him, pretend you didn't read this post. If someone tweets him or shoots out an email to him, teasing him about this post, my blog will be shut down forever. Okay, so here's the thing. I'm one of those neck-swiveling wives. I'm not meek. If I think he should wash the dishes, I'm nagging. If I don't like something he says, he'll know it. My pointer finger has been known to be in the near vicinity of his face. My husband is unflappable. When I'm giving lip, he ignores me. When I'm nagging, he nods and smiles and goes back to watching Meet The Press. But when it really goes down and I need him, he's there for me. Unwavering. We're both self-made hustlers. We chin-stroke often and try to figure out how to take over the world. If we ever joined forces and did a blog or a radio show or a book--we'd be dangerous. For real. But we don't get down like that. It's almost like when we leave the house, we morph into different characters---Clark Kent and Lois Lane, giving each other a sly smile from across a crowded industry party. Damn. I'm digressing like mad. My point: I am a fiercely independent, hear-me-roar kind of woman. If TH says something I don't like, maybe something like how long are these dishes going to sit here. I might snap back and say, until you wash them. You know. That kind of thing. One thing I've never given much thought to is how my look is perceived by TH. I'm a jeans and flats kind of girl. A Little Black Dress when I have to. I do like a sky high stiletto. But that's about as far into fashion I go. And TH is on the same level with me. Rugby  and denim during the week. With the occasional fly blazer combo. And cleans up very nice when necessary. So. This weekend was his class reunion. Y'all know what I was thinking. What the heck am I going to wear? My shallow side took over. My husband was popular in high school. Cute girlfriends. All that. I was a mousy geek whose hair was rarely done. And I'm just coming into my own as far as confidence and fashion sense. So, I looked in my closet to see what I would wear. I wanted to look exceptional. Not just nice. For once in my life, I wanted to make an entrance. I wanted people to nudge each other and say, who is that? Did I already mention that I understand that I was being shallow? Okay. Good. Cause it gets worse. Here's the dress I pulled out of my closet:

Chimere Norris, also known as @chimerenmktg in Twitterville, has tagged me in an interesting your-turn-to-spill-the-beans social media experiment. I'm supposed to share ten honest things about myself. And then tag seven bloggers I love, respect and admire. Whenever these sorts of things go around, I usually hit delete as fast as I can. Facebook and Twitter make us transparent. Do we need to go that extra mile and tell random people 25 more things about ourselves? I talk about my weight, my clothes, my family and my work right here on this blog. Why on earth would I share ten (more) honest things about myself? Eh. Why not. Herewith. 10 (brutally) honest things about myself. (Read it quick. I'm so deleting this post tomorrow.) Thank you to Chimere for tagging me. And at the end of my post, I'm tagging seven others I'd like to hear from.

I don't ask for  much in this world. I'm pretty low-key. Definitely low-maintenance. I just started having a standing hair appointment in the last year or so. (Feel like a grown woman with my every other Thursday at nine joint). After giving birth, my feet went up a full size and a half. They only came back down a half-size. A year later, I realized that all my cute shoes were just taunting me from my closet. I stacked them neatly in the foyer of my apartment and parceled them out. To my little sister, to TG's mom and a few pair to charity. Done. It's over. I got big feet. It's hard to start a shoe game from scratch. Especially when you have no good reason to buy cute shoes. I'm a freelancer. I haven't been to an office since 2000. What on earth do I need a cute shoe game for? After I came to grips with my new shoe size, I began to slowly but surely purchase new shoes, mostly cute flats. Just picked these up last week. [caption id="attachment_3693" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="Target. 20 bucks. What?!"]target shoe[/caption]

Who can edit a guest blog when this cutie has just joined the family! Welcome to Oliver, soon to be renamed. Adopted today from the Bloomfield animal shelter. I gotta play with my new baby. I'll be back tomorrow. I promise. Dear readers: how cute is he?! ...

Went to an animal shelter today. Fell in love with a dog named Oliver. If TH vetoes the adoption of this mutt with a gimpy hind leg, I will file for divorce in the morning. Oliver is five months old. He was found on the...

TH and Tog sleeping in. Me and Tog at Starbucks. Double tall soy cinnamon dolce latte for me. Bagel for Tog. Edits due for novel in ten days. I may need a tiny extension. I'm petrified. I know EXACTLY what needs to be done ....

Gave up the blackberry for the iPhone. This is my first attempt at mobile blogging from the iPhone. This should be interesting. I'm gonna try to add a photo too. Here's a pic of tomorrows blog post. It's a good one. Don't miss it. ...

[caption id="attachment_3302" align="alignnone" width="450" caption="Don't be fooled. This hairstyle takes WORK. Believe me, I know. "]Don't be fooled. This hairstyle takes WORK. Believe me, I know. [/caption] At age four, I ran away screaming anytime my mother approached me with a comb. Thirty years later, I feel the same way. I. hate. hair. I hate combing it. I hate styling it. I hate hot combs, relaxers, weave, grease, brushes, blow-outs, hood dryers, sponge rollers, hard rollers. I hate getting it braided, twisted, loc'd, cut, shampooed, conditioned, wrapped, rinsed, dyed, fried and laid to the side. Why can't we all just rock smooth clean baldies? Why can't we place an emphasis on who has the shiniest dome? That's a style I could compete with. But alas, beauty and hair have been intrinsically linked since the beginning of time. Much to my chagrin.

[caption id="attachment_2834" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Preview Issue of VIBE. 1992. "][/caption] Now what? You want to clutch your chest and lay back on your chaise and dab your brow with your hankie? Go ahead. I can't go there with y'all. I'm busy. Running a fiction workshop right here on my blog. Reaching out...