It's All in the Sauce

Okay, so a few days ago I headed to a diner for some late night nosh. Everyone knows the unwritten "Diner" rule. Don't order anything obscure. You know, like the Romanian steak with frizzled onions or the stuffed clams. Or anything that makes them go all the way to the deep freezer in the back. Save that stuff for a credible restaurant. Usually if you order breakfast or the common appetizers- you're good money. So I thought. I get the Buffalo Chicken poppers and a strawberry milkshake. The shake was cool- even if it tasted like Strawberry Quik with a scoop of ice cream blended in. The chicken, however was another story. I dunno. I think Buffalo, I think spicy. I think tangy. I think orange in hue at the very least. Nope. What I got was plain old chicken tenders. A nice golden brown with no zing to them at all. They had the nerve to bring it out with Bleu Cheese. As if my sensitive palate couldn't handle the overpowering blandness. I politely ask for more Buffalo sauce much to the waiter's chagrin. We both know damn well there wasn't any to begin with. He returns with a scary, radioactive looking liquid that resembled the color of Thousand Island dressing at the bottom and clear orange oil at the top. My fellow diner takes one look and asks, "Is it a chicken nugget or a what-the-f*ck it?"

Loud. Uncontrollable. Laughter. They probably think we're sauced. They may or may not be right.

Throwback Thursdays

This Bug loves the kids. Whenever I see raw talent by way of young people I'm automatically drawn in. Thus was the case in 1992 when Da Youngstas came with one of the sickest displays of collective skill I'd ever seen in Hip-Hop at the time. The trio consisted of brothers Taji "Taj Mahal", Qu'ran and their cousin Tarik hailing from Philly. I thought for sure they were from NY or Dirty Jerz at best when I first heard them flow- but what did I know? When Somethin' 4 Da Youngstas first hit the scene I was impressed. Such lyrical range was not commonplace among their contemporaries. You never got the feeling that they were just some wet-behind-the-ears puppets. If they were parroting ghostwritten lyrics, I couldn't tell. There was a mature feel to their music. They ran circles around the likes of Kris Kross and ABC because their content sounded grown despite the young voices. And they were actually nice with theirs. These kids could spit! The only other young group that got half my attention was Illegal- but even they failed to win my affection like Da Youngstas did.

Today's Throwback is one of my favorite joints from these delightfully gritty boys. This was before they adopted the new name of the Illy Funkstaz and truthfully, they lost me soon after. We all knew they were young. There was no need to switch it up like that. I guess cute grows up. But these kids ripped it with Pass The Mic. This Bug's favorite line? That's a tough one between two. One was fly enough for Primo to sample it on an equally stellar track two years later. "Once again, I reveal the skill. Money's growin' like grass with the mass appeal." Then from the smallest of the crew came, "I got more juice than citrus. Suckas can't get wit this. I rang more bells than a Jehovah Witness." Boy, I tell you...Out of the mouths of babes. Anyway, This Bug luh da kids! Press play as you wish you were this cool at eleven years old.

Said the Moon Child...

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."- Mark Twain

I'm a Cancer. I'm crabby. I feel. I'm wayward. But I always know where I'm going...even when I don't. I'm tougher than most would expect and more sensitive than some can comprehend. Hard shell, soft center as the description goes. Recently, it was brought to my attention that people worry about me. They worry incessantly about my direction in life. I can understand. It hasn't been a charmed life by any stretch of the imagination. But it's mine. And I intend to live it. Every step of the way with smiles, cries, mistakes and triumphs- I intend to live it. It's a mad world and we get by how we can. We tell ourselves it can always be worse but fail to appreciate how far we've come already. Not I. While the worrying by others may be fleeting, I walk every day with what has become my lessons and trials. My victories. My pain. Pain is such a personal thing. No one can feel yours the way you do- and in turn you cannot feel another one's pain with the same intensity. There is no map because there is no certain destination. Only the journey. That is what counts. What you meet along the way, that is what counts. There's always something to be learned. I write these things to right these things. No stamp of approval needed. Wait. Did that sound crabby?

Bubbly Yes. Glass No.

Dreams are illustrations... from the book your soul is writing about you. ~Marsha Norman

So I've been napping a lot more lately and dreaming weird stuff again. Earlier today I dreamt that I was at a huge catering hall for some sort of reception. It was most likely a wedding. I can't say whose it was or why I was there- but there I was. The peculiar thing about the hall was that it shared a space with a funeral home. Oddly enough, guests that were attending either function were allowed to co-mingle with one another. While making my way to the bar for a glass of Champagne, I overhear two people discussing the weddings and funerals they were both respectively attending. As I walk by I'm thinking, "Maybe they should switch just to get an idea of what the other might be feeling..." Anyway, I find the bar in the far wing of the hall and strike up a conversation with the one of the four bartenders working. He looks a lot like the main dude from Party Down but I don't bother to tell him that. Instead I tell him that I used to pour drinks also. He cocks his head in disbelief for a fraction of a moment. Why, I have no idea. Then he pops open a bottle of champagne and I advise him of a pouring technique to minimize the fizz while maintaining the bubbles. He thanks me and then realizes he has no appropriate stemware for me to drink from. Why can't he just wash one for me?

This is where it gets strange. I go on the hunt for my own glass, but there doesn't seem to be a clean one anywhere. Not a single, solitary clean glass. I search high and low and still...nothing. Every glass is either soiled with lipstick or sitting half full and abandoned on tables or mantles when I find them. Not one decent flute for me to sip from. While still on my quest, I run into a friend that I have not spoken to in months. She never lets on whether she is there celebrating a happy couple or mourning a death. I never ask, either. When I tell her what I've been looking for she offers to help. Soon she finds a contraption which looks more like a globe that opens into two hemispheres. It's encased in wrought iron but it could hold liquid if need be. This is clearly not what I need but I'm ready to give in because I want my champagne. She says to me with a bit of sarcasm in her voice that my significant other would probably love it. To myself, I wonder if she knows there is no such thing in my life. Once she hands it to me- it becomes a wine glass, plump and spotless. I quickly thank her for her help and head back to the bar where Party Down guy is. He's gone now and so is the champagne he opened for me. An utter waste of my time. It's just me and the wine glass now. I debate whether I should drop on in the funeral across the way.

The buzzing of a text message pulls me from my dream. I rise and look up the main symbols:


A wedding in your dream symbolizes a new beginning or transition in your current life. They reflect your issues about commitment and independence.

To see the opening of a bottle of champagne, symbolizes a sexual act. Alternatively, it represents extravagance and overindulgence. It also indicates a celebration or a personal achievement that you are proud of.


To dream that you are searching for something, signifies the need to find something that is missing or needed in your life. You may be searching for love, spiritual enlightenment, peace or even a solution to a problem.

To see a friend in your dream, signifies aspects of your personality that you have rejected, but are ready to incorporate and acknowledge these rejected aspects of yourself.

To see a wine glass in your dream, represents happiness. It may also be symbolic of a pregnancy. If you break the wine glass, then it may denote a miscarriage.

If your are dreaming that you are at a funeral of an unknown person, then it suggests that something in your life is supposed to put to rest or put aside so that you can make room for something new. You need to investigate further what aspect or component of your life you need to let go.

I can't say I agree 100% with the interpretations of the symbols, but I'd be lying if I said that some of them didn't strike a chord. There is so much going on with me right now- that nothing I dreamed about sounds totally far-fetched. But if any of the above is true- I so need to get it together. None of this sounds positive but I guess it's all up to my own interpretation. It's not like I was searching for the Holy Grail or anything. If I could just dig a little deeper and find out what that glass in all of its variations really means to me, perhaps I'd be able to understand a lot more of what is happening to me while I'm awake.

Out of Nowhere Into Nothing

There is no beginning. There is no end. All that is left is this. Time spent. Memories. Shards of shattered promises that sting my palm as I wipe them from the counter of my mind. I've tried to sit and truly examine where I keep going wrong and I am remain bereft. The "psychle" was once how I heard it put. Quite an unorthodox way to say that the heart bends in cyclical fashions- where the mind is not allowed to follow. And now there is this. Only this. Lessons learned. Tears cried. Solitude taking a backseat while loneliness calls Shotgun. I haven't the energy to ruminate on why it continues to happen. Perhaps it's just how life is...or can be. Rocket Love, as Mr. Wonderful so eloquently sang it. Half a mile from Heaven and dropped back onto this cold, cruel world. The defeatist in me is chalking this up as yet another loss. The winner says I'll be back. Stronger. Wiser. Braver than before. A warrior of sorts. It begs the question: Is it all for naught? I hope not. I pray that I can digest this bittersweet slice of life that I so readily consumed with all that I was. There is no one to blame. We live. We love. We expire. If we're lucky, it comes in that order. No Pyrrhic Victories. Even the greatest loss can be considered worthwhile if it brings you one step closer to who you are supposed to be. But then again...what do I know?









Author's Note: Throwback Thursdays will return next week.

Wonder why?

Stress is nothing new to me. I operate on Auto-pilot for the most part. And then with little or no warning, it catches up. Suddenly everything comes at me like a phalanx with military precision. I bear up, stiffen my chin, put my head down and press on- but sometimes it is not enough. Under the Wonder Woman armor lies weakness I am too ashamed to brandish. There is power in words. There is victory in surviving those times. At times I wear my heart, almost gaudily on my sleeve. For all to see, examine, appreciate and sometimes unfortunately exploit. The next time life slaps me down, I'll slap back. Matter of fact- I'll make it a closefisted blow just to get my point across. Although the fault is mine for exposing it to begin with, I will not change who I am and allow the world to make me callous. But I will persevere. I always do. Without indestructible bangles or an invisible plane. I. Will. Not. Lose. It's just that sometimes I'm Wonder Woman...and sometimes I'm just a little girl. It's all a part of This Bug. No apologies. No regrets.

Toe to Toe: Same Bug

It's Soap Box Time. You know I usually give a disclaimer or warning before I start ranting but there's no time. I'm fired up. So a few days ago, I was in the waiting room of a dentist's office. While I have previously been a patient at that same office, I was there for other reasons that day on a much more professional basis. Needless to say This Bug was dressed to kill in a high-waist fitted pencil skirt, ruched blouse and some very cute shoes. What can I say? I clean up nice. When the receptionist saw me she remarked that I looked very elegant. We joked about how she is usually accustomed to seeing me: Hoodie, jeans and Tims on my feet. Told her that I come in ready for war if I expect pain- so I dress accordingly. While we chatted- a brother who looked like he was in his mid to late thirties was ear hustlin' our conversation. When it was over, he spoke. "So you usually wear Tims? Why is that?" I wasn't sure where he was going with this- so I gave the most honest answer possible. "Because I like to be comfortable" I replied. He goes on, "But what does that mean to you? The hoodie, the boots?" I explain that a lot of it has to do with my love for Hip-Hop and without trying, it is ingrained in my personal style. "But you mentioned comfort. Aren't you comfortable right now? What does that mean to you? Hip-Hop?" I tell him that I am absolutely comfortable either way, ladylike or B-girl; it matters very little what I'm wearing at the time. He looks confused. As if trying to picture me dressed down is the most difficult thing in the world at that moment. Suddenly I'm called further into the office and I leave him sitting there perplexed.

I can't front. As I drove home from that meeting, I was annoyed. Whatever allows people to make snap judgments or simply judge a book by its cover annoys me. This Bug can rock the hell out of Construction Tims or sexy Pumps. Simple as that. If homeboy in the waiting room couldn't fathom both, it shows how close-minded he is. Later that day, I have a similar conversation with a dude in a parking lot. He used to drive buses for the elementary school across from where I attended high school. Again, how I used to dress comes up. It's not much different except the jeans and hoodies are no longer three sizes too big. He says he always wondered why I covered up that figure back then. I'm wondering why the hell he was ogling teenage girls when he was supposed to be shuttling grade-schoolers home safely. I keep it to myself though. The conversation turns to music and he seems baffled that I could love a genre that is perpetually disrespectful to women. At this point I'm getting flashbacks from the dentist's office. I asked him why he thought that my liking Hip-Hop somehow diminished my self value in his eyes but he had no valid answer. He mentioned something about liking "some rap" like Lupe Fiasco and stated that if Jay-Z respected his woman- he would never allow Bey to shake her ample posterior for the world to gawk at. Really? Shouldn't he holla at her daddy for training his little girl to shake what her Momma gave her in the first place? How does that fall on Jigga? Negro Please. I'm sure Mr. Knowles was well aware of the history of the Hottentot Venus and still cashed those checks.

Anyway, I came away from both conversations slightly perturbed. Whether I am dressed to chill or thrill- it does not change what is between my ears. That I can appreciate lyrical skill and ill beats does not make me a Hoodrat. At the same token, just because I can classy it up and hold my own at a dinner party with jazz aficionados or intellectuals does not make me a snob. There are so many facets to an individual that it alludes me how folks can take things only at face value. Perhaps I represent an existent duality that few get the chance to examine close up. So when we speak- they have no idea what to make of me. Like I said before, I have more sides than an octagon and they are ALL a part of me. I have no problem stomping a mudhole in a lame with my Mac & Cheese Tims or red stilettos and then breezing off to high brow poetry reading or a Wu Tang concert. One thing's for sure: That is the last time I will defend myself and an entire culture rooted in music to the Elvins of the world ever again. People really need to free their minds.

End of rant.

Throwback Thursdays

Hello B-Boys and B-Girls. Who's feeling nostalgic today? Every now and then, I like to get hit with something that puts me right back where I was when I heard it. Today's Throwback may be a bit obscure for some- but those who feel me will really feel me on this one. Not only does it contain some of the wittiest lyrics but it rides a beat that will definitely make you dig up your Rakim or Cypress Hill tape. Yeah, I said it. Cassette Tape. Because the true heads still have tons and tons of them. You know who you are. Okay Boys and Girls, who remembers the Kings of Swing ? The name may not immediately ring bells, but it will all come back to you soon enough. I think I saw the video only once back in 1991. My girl DJ Cocoa Chanelle does her thing looking fly as ever alongside the fellas. Now, for this one I did some research because one MC's flow sounds curiously similar to EST a.k.a The Unusual Fellow from Three Times Dope. I'm not sure if he did any ghostwriting back then, and I wasn't able to find any affiliation- but check it out for yourself and you'll see what I mean. By the time you're done- how much you wanna bet you'll be humming, "Check out the story to the glory of the Real Estate..." or quoting one of the sick lines from Run for Cover. That beat is simply classic. Told ya you'd want to dig up those tapes. But before you do that- just Nod Ya Head to This.

Untitled but Entitled

There's a memory climbing through my brain,
its claws snagging the fabric of my peace.
Benevolent eye looking down on a beautiful disaster...
but it blinks far too long.
No rewind button to press. No time machine to hop in.
No clock to reverse.
There are no words to paint the picture.
Simon said...
Time, time, time
See what's become of me.
While I looked around for my possibilities.
Kweli said...
Another night slips away.
There are no words I should say. There are no words you should say.
There are no words...
And they're right.

Say It Ain't So

Sometime last week when I heard about former NFL quarterback Steve McNair being shot to death in a murder/suicide I was unfazed. As cold as that may sound, it's true. Perhaps it's because I had never heard his name before or maybe because I don't follow football- I had no real reaction beyond the initial, "Oh sh*t. That's messed up." Well, this time it's different. On the heels of a whirlwind weekend of traveling and partying (on a boat no less) I felt like I crawled out from under a rock and learned the shocking news about Arturo Gatti. I still can't believe it. This Bug loves herself some boxing. I've been following it since I was a little girl. I can remember sitting on the living room floor while my father and his friends watched Hagler vs. Hearns- the only girl completely absorbed in the match while my sisters remained upstairs totally disinterested.

I made it my business to watch Arturo "Thunder" Gatti whenever he fought. I liked his style. And even though he would cut easily- he was a tough son-of-a-bitch. So tough in fact, that I never expected to hear that he was strangled to death with the strap of a handbag. The details are sketchy but his 23 year old wife is in custody because her story was wishy-washy and they found his blood all over her purse strap. Am I wrong for wondering what type of purse it was? Fendi has some pretty strong straps but so does Gucci. I guess at the end of the day, it matters very little. The most important thing is that a life was cut short by a selfish person who thought only of themselves. In one fell swoop, she has orphaned their child and stolen a precious gift from others. I'm still amazed that this tiny woman was able to overpower someone who knocked people out for a living. But as I've examined before- if a woman is determined, the strength comes from somewhere. We've all heard that a woman scorned has no comparison, but this is just too much.

These men need to wise up. Water seeks it's own level. If these athletes don't realize by now that building a life with a girl almost half their age can be bad for their health- I don't know what else it will take. In Gatti's case- his ex-stripper Brazillian beauty was 14 years his junior; in McNair's it was 17 years. These hot young things have an agenda- and if it goes awry, the worst case scenario can play out for all to see. Worse than any career ending injury or dog fighting scandal. I don't know why exactly, but this one saddens me. I'm reminded of comedian Phil Hartman when I think of McNair. He was killed similarly by his own wife before she turned the gun on herself. When I think of Gatti, I imagine all the events that may have lead to his untimely end in a swank Brazillian resort while on his second honeymoon. Only those two know how many fights and rows acted as a catalyst to his death. Bottomline: The ones who have no say are most deeply affected by these violent actions. Suffer the children; a tragic end to an unlovely tale.

Throwback Thursdays

"Just another helpless fool in love is what I am..." Teddy P.

Aight ya'll. I told you from the start of Throwback Thursdays that I would be bringing you treats. Granted, you may not always feel the treats I bring, but you can't deny that they are sweet. It's kind of like when someone brings donuts to the office and you're the last to know. Sure, most of the good ones are gone- but you're happy that you were able to snag that Old Fashioned or Glazed before nothing but sprinkles were left in the box. So at the very least, I should hope my peoples leave Throwback Thursdays feeling inspired and keep it moving to related videos on Youtube.

Anyway, here's a sweet treat for you. Ghostface Killah is joined by Raekwon and Cappadonna to pay homage to the art of bagging women. On his debut solo album Ironman, the trio makes love to the ladies' eardrums with Camay. When this came out in 1996, I was just beginning to hang out in clubs and mingle. I can't front though, no one ever came at me the way this these three did. The first verse let's you know what you're in for as Lex Diamonds smoothly makes his way to a fly broad. Even without the video, you know she's fly because he wouldn't waste time with that type of delivery if she wasn't. She's even too refined to feast on fake pork. Cappa is no slouch, either. He has class, orders her a drink and even though he wants to smash- he acknowledges that she is his mirror, his parallel, his fine ass Black female counterpart. But the true refreshment is Tony Starks himself. His introduction is straight mathematical. "What's your physical degree? 31-33." While chatting her up he only exercises but so much restraint. By the time he breezes off, he has already fantasized about a home cooked meal from Baby Girl, had a Sexy MF outburst (love the timing) and endorses love of the Black woman. He doesn't even press her for the number- he simply offers his. Gotta respect that. Anyway, this video is chock full of beautiful Cocoa sisters if nothing else. To all my gentlemanly thugs who know how to approach your target; and all the women of a certain caliber that pull these types of dudes- this one's for you. A sweet and tasty treat indeed. Enjoy.

Free Shots at the Regal Beagle?

Oh dear. (sigh) Where do I start? Janet...Janet... Janet. What the hell happened? If you haven't heard already, you can read about her charge here. Anyway, add this very unflattering mugshot to the long list of celebrities who decide to knock back a few and then hop in the whip. (Nick Nolte and George Clinton have the scariest mugshots on lock) Normally, I'd say that most of them are foolish for not having a driver instead of risking the DUI but...when was the last time you saw Joyce DeWitt do anything show biz related? Three's Company ended 25 years ago. I seriously doubt she has a driver. I sure hope this is the last of her reckless behavior. However, she looks like a seasoned alcoholic in that pic. Don't you just love how she still captures that 'deer in the headlights' expression? Mr. Roper would be so disappointed. Somewhere, Suzanne Sommers is on a white leather couch with a Thigh Master between her knees, reading this story in Variety and snorting through chuckles at this one. I just know it.

"Come and knock on our door...We've been waiting for youuuu.."

Actual Facts

Hola Peoples. I recently got an amazing gift for my birthday. Did you hear about my birthday? It was great! Anyway, my friend gave me an excellent tool for self exploration ( And no, it didn't require batteries) and I've been making good use of it ever since. I would recommend that everyone pick this up for themselves. Whether it's used as an instrument for memoir writing or just a journal, you'll be amazed at how much you discover about yourself through answering seldom asked questions. You can purchase it here. Don't say This Bug never gave you anything. Anyway- I've discovered a few random things I wanted to share, so get comfortable.




Sometimes, when This Bug rocks peep toe shoes...I only paint the toes that are showing. Sue me.


I cannot live without my Mandoline Slicer. What? You thought my perfectly uniformed Sweet Potatoes were cut by hand? Yeah right! Most ingenious invention ever...next to dishwashers.


I think the show "Snapped" suffers from a misnomer. These women almost always appear calculated when they decide to rub out their husband for insurance money to start a new life with the best man from their wedding. They should call it "Trifey Wifeys"...I'm just sayin'.



After much ponderence, I believe my eldest sister would be a Koala Bear if she were to take animal form. Cute, cuddly, just eats her Eucalyptus leaves & doesn't bother anybody. Love her.




I am a Scrabble Goddess. Yeah, I said it. I'll hit you with a word like JUNKY and you'll never recover. 52 points just like that. BooYah!



When people look for new and creative ways to throw shots at me, I'm unaffected unless they directly communicate them. Water off a duck's back was never so true.



Perfect punctuation is sexy. Ditto for good grammar with a twist of street slang.



I'd pursue a career in teaching if I weren't so damn impatient about explaining things.



At the end of the day, I believe every woman is just a Claire who wants her Cliff. Don't give up, Ladies...

Lightning War

Red, White and Blue. Hunting for fireworks.
Timing is everything.
Artificial stars popping in multicolored bursts.
A pause. Just long enough.
Leaving one minute later
would have changed everything.
And it did.
Change everything.
He. Head down. Purposeful gait.
She. Head high. Blissfully oblivious.
Orange cotton. Navy sky. Gray pavement.
Red, White, and Blue dress.
Multi-colored Madness.
The mosaic of the day comes together.
Last piece of the puzzle...
but I cannot make it fit.
Yes. I remember now.
Independence Day.
Fireworks behind my eyes.
Blitzkrieg in my head.
Sledgehammer to my stomach.
Red passion. White clarity.
Blues anchoring my soul.
No dreaming sweet.
Not tonight.
Only waking Nightmares.

Wide awake now...

Throwback Thursdays

With all the tough talk and at times misogynistic lyrics that have laced Hip-Hop, it's easy to forget that rappers have feelings too. Most of the time- if there is any mention of a woman it's usually for the sake of props. Very rarely did MC's expose a vulnerable side- and when they did it was usually fleeting before moving on to how well they bounced back. But every now then comes a heartfelt account of a love gone wrong. And that brings me to today's Throwback. Slick Rick was never too cool to break down matters of the heart. He did it with A Teenage Love on his first album and then did double duty on The Ruler's Back with not one, but two tracks about being done dirty. While Mistakes of a Woman in Love With Other Men gave blow for blow details of MC Ricky D's cheating lady, it was Runaway that really communicated his emotional state. His narrative is one of resignation- and it's so melancholy that you tend to forget that he Shouldn't Have Done It. Even when I listen to it now, I feel sorry for him. It's not easy to make out his every word and that is part of the song's haunting allure. I always got the feeling that I stumbled across a very personal tape recording of Slick Rick lamenting his heartbreak that no one was ever supposed to hear. He half mumbles and decides that he would forget her if he could- but no such luck. Haven't we all been there at some point? He admits to himself- more than anyone else that there is nothing he can do about her being with another man. "Although a brother lettin' that...Lost and don't know where I'm headin' at." Some of the best love songs ever penned makes no mention of the actual word Love; and Rick delivers his contribution with finesse. You never hear him say it, but I'm willing to bet six dookie gold rings and a bejeweled eye patch that he loved the woman who inspired Runaway. I'm almost glad that there is no actual video for this one- since it forces you to listen with undivided attention to his lyrics.



Sidebar: Shout out to OC for rekindling this one to all those who forgot about it.

Hair We Go Again

It's no secret that I'm what you would consider a Low Maintenance Girl. I don't like having my nails and feet done. I have never once tweezed, threaded or waxed my eyebrows. I detest sitting in hair salons because it feels more like a chore than pampering. That being said- my time is running out. Part of the convenience of not being in the corporate world for almost one year was that I didn't have to fuss over my hair. I could leave the house with the wildest, untamed mane and no one would bat an eye. Well, the winds of change are blowing. I recently interviewed with a company that clearly values a neat and polished appearance...and I think the job is all but mine. (Stay tuned and I'll give the update as soon as I get the verdict.) Anyway, this leads to a new dilemma. I've gotten way too used to my freewheeling, natural style. Hair maintenance is work! I don't want to work! Not on my hair, anyway. I'm just beginning to return to my natural texture without any sort of heat or processing and now I may have to go back to the neat look that I recently discarded. I've mentioned before that I feel more like myself when my hair is wild and curly- and it's true. In the past year I've transformed into what I can only describe as a free-spirited 70's woman in style and mentality. I just want to create. Books, families, ideas, meals, poetry, etc. And I don't care what I look like while doing it. Well, that's not entirely true. I just don't care to look all "put together" while doing it. Contrary to what my dear friend believes- I do not collect antique curling irons from Ebay. I hate rollers, blow dryers, hot combs and flat irons. Those instruments now resemble Medieval torture devices to me. So here I am on the brink of a new beginning career wise- and the crux lies before me. To perm or not to perm. To curl or not to curl. I don't have the energy. I just want to show up and let my work speak for itself- not my hair. One thing is for sure; part of the reason my sister said she hardly recognizes me of late is because I've elected to go natural. This from the girl who visits the Dominicans for the bone straight blow-out at least thrice a month. Later for that! I haven't decided just yet what I'm going to do with all this hair, but I can tell you what won't be happening. There will be no half bald missions À la Cassie any time soon. Wish me luck!