Wednesday, September 23, 2009

the negrometer.

the cvs around the corner from work has a rotating cast of homeless players shucking and jiving out front for loose change and hand-me-down sandwiches. and since it's my second home i see them fairly regularly. upon my exit a few days ago i was immediately accosted (physically, mind you, he touched my coat; ew and NO) by the dirtiest dude i've ever seen in my life. "hey, little sistah," (uh oh) "can you spare some change?" now i have absolutely zero problems giving homeless people money. and i could give a fuck about what they do with it. how goddamned arrogant is that? "i'll give you money, sir, but you have to use it to buy some food." man, fuck that. if you want to allocate your charitable contributions, find an organization you believe in wholeheartedly and write them a check. dude, if you don't mind cirrhosis, here's my dollar. off to the liquor store, you!

so my wallet was buried in my bag, because i am a notorious loser of wallets, and he enlightened me with some scripture while i dug past all the mascaras and extra mittens to get it out. who knew the lord's prayer had so many curse words? in my wallet was a handful of laundry quarters and a five. my man was about to get the quarters when he blurted out: "aww, come on GIRL. i know you ain't gon' be like that?! let me hold that five!" okay, so i'm generous, but i'm also a giant bag of assholes who doesn't respond well to verbal abuse. so i cocked my head and gave him the shittiest look i could muster and said, "i'll keep that, but i can give you--"

"shit, i shoulda known," he interrupted. "you oreo girls never give real brotha like me a motherfuckin' thang." (brakes screeching. record skipping. insert your own metaphor.)black people who are uncomfortable in their own skin and with their own identities often try to control and demean other black people by challenging their "blackness." it's an age-old trick. maybe you won't notice that i'm wrong and an idiot if i deflect and put you on the defense about your heritage. because there is no right answer to the question of who's blacker than whom, it's an ideological pissing contest. and a fight, by the way, that the negro-lite can never win.

i dated a dude who called me a "house nigger" once because i don't think nas is a genius and think tupac's depth is overrated. oh, for real. a rational person would understand that maybe i just prefer biggie. and i grew up in the fucking suburbs, man! that's the reason i speak this way! for me, this is keeping it motherfucking real. BLARF. apparently each racial judge comes equipped with his own specific ruler by which we uncle toms get measured. for some, appropriate slang usage is the gauge; for others, style of hair and dress dictate the guidelines. typically, a dude bathed in his own excrement wouldn't lead me to question anything about myself; and, unless i'm mistaken, nat turner is dead, not shaking a starbucks cup outside a drugstore. but i thought for shits and giggles i'd come up with my own black litmus test. i mean, shit, it's almost february. let's black up some history.

i have brown skin. 5000 points (my scoring system is wholly arbitrary.)
i speak "properly." (i totally take offense that this is a negative and not the standard.) -100
i have natural hair. +500
i don't smoke newports or kools or black and milds. -200
or weed, regularly. -500
i am 27 and i don't have any children. -500
i don't know anyone in jail. -200
my name is sa-man-tha (no double-consonants or unnecessary apostrophes) -800
i have a wide gangsta rap collection. +1000
and a lot of metal and alternative. -1200
i know who my father is. -1000
i grew up on section 8. +500
i don't read ebony. -100
or jet. -100
or vibe. -500
but i do read XXL. +100
i got a 32 on my ACT. -1000
when i say "pitcher," i mean a vessel for liquids. -200
i have a giant ass. +1000
i have scary tattoos. +100
my parents were divorced. +500
and they were married before i was actually conceived. -500
i sometimes say "soda." -50
i like pork. +800
i love 30 rock and csi. -900
but i can name all the characters on girlfriends! +100
paul mooney is one of my heroes. +1000
i never use the word "finna." -200
i've never had a weave. -500
or acrylic nails. -600
i'm writing this list. -6,000,000,000

see kids? racism hurts. and is HILARIOUS. i might not be black enough, but i'm a good fucking time. and i'll always have a job. laura's mom teaches in flint, and has a set of twins named chardonnay and merlot. for realsies. i hope one of 'em is a judge at the NAACP when i go on my "black trial." just picture it, a jury box full of my peers with their cornrows and jordans and prepaid cell phones. it's all in fun, bitches. don't get bent. but if i have to defend my lack of blackness, i'm shining the mirror on my judges. i just better make sure my baby phat looks tight as hell when i drop it like it's hot up in tha muthafuckin' court room, nah mean?! i better play my cards right (and by cards i mean spades) in front of the judge. or he might just revoke my use of the n-word. and THAT would be a tragedy.

i love meat.

apparently my image needs some fine-tuning. i had a date last night, and in the week leading up to this glorious, unprecedented event, everyone and his uncle said, after giving their congratulations and asking the battery of veiled background questions, "don't be a dirty slut." or some derivative equivalent. ain't that a motherfucking bitch? to take it a step further, at a party a couple nights ago my goddamned friends were placing bets on how long i could hold out before having sex. there's even a pool, folks. get in while you can before i fuck up the spread. literally.

so those eharmony commercials really make me want to stab my goddamned eyes out, with all those slo-mo shots of people hugging and that lifetime movie soundtrack. fucking gross. and there are never any black people in them! not a one! don't negroes need a high-tech matching system, too? one of my friends goaded me into signing myself up, and in the back of my mind i was all "just think of it as a social experiment." you know, to retain my street cred. i can tell you why there are no blacks in the goddamned commercial: that 8,926-question questionnaire you're forced to fill out. black people ain't doing that. that shit was harder than the motherfucking ACT. it took me six weeks to finish that bad girl. that's a good way to separate the wheat from the chaff, i suppose. you have to really want it if you're willing to devote the better part of a day to honestly answering questions about your living skills and communication style.

i've never second-guessed myself more in my entire life. am i really calm during an argument? what skills are most important in a partner? (that partner shit always makes me laugh.) they ask everything except what you ate for fucking breakfast. which they probably should, because if he likes eggs and you like french toast? SUREFIRE DISASTER.

i answered all the personality questions and wrote some jazzy little profile business and put my hot ass picture on it and kicked back and waited for my future ex-husbands to start flooding my inbox. because that's the other trick; you don't search for potential stalkers, THEY SEND THEM TO YOU. which is just perfect for a lazy sack of shit like me. if they could dispatch someone to my apartment to look through all the shit that would be even better. and by default these are supposed to be people you'll dig based on whatever info that doctor dude and his minions gleaned from that in-depth psychological profile they compiled based on the answers to multiple-choice questions that may or may not have been completely honest.

and while i'm trying to be an asshole about it now, there must be something to all that nonsense because i met a rad and hilarious dude with whom i made an actual date. you read that right. a bonafide date. (i really really really wanted to write boner-fide and leave it, with no explanation. obviously, i wasn't raised right.) and that shit was last night. i'm up early posting this garbage because i had heartburn and diarrhea from the thirty-seven pounds of filet mignon i ate at dinner, but it was well fucking worth it. we went to fogo de chao, BECAUSE I ENJOY TASTY MEATS, and i felt bad because he was sick and tired and came out in a torrential downpour anyway, just to bask in my evil glow. seriously, he almost vomited at the table. but i appreciated his effort, especially since i was a good girl and did all that torturous first date shit: got my nails painted, got my eyebrows waxed, ironed my good jeans; it only goes downhill from there, ironing ain't really my regular thang, so hopefully he wasn't too delirious to notice.

dude really was sick. like, i went to the bar and got him an orange juice sick. we should've had a paramedic two tables over just in case sick. and you whores know how i feel about germs, but i would have licked his spoon after he'd used it because thank god for a fucking gentleman who almost dropped dead at the table just so i wouldn't be disappointed. isn't it about fucking time someone worried about disappointing me? i've dated dudes who would bail over a hangnail or a stubbed toe. so even though i wanted to excuse myself to the bathroom and call the CDC to ask about bird flu and ebola virus symptoms, i didn't. i risked it and did the next best thing: ate. a lot. of meat. he couldn't eat, or talk, so i overcompensated on both counts. i've never talked so fucking much in my entire life. and i was nervous and sweaty, to boot. humidity does not equal "cute samantha." so i blathered on at him about anything i could think about while he valiantly tried not to pass the fuck out.

i've never felt so sexy and engaging in my entire life. all my jokes kind of fell flat. so then i just ate giant chunks of steak and tried not to think about the impending stomachache. i didn't even get drunk. half of a poorly made mojito, and that's it. the night wasn't bad, it was just unsettling. i like to know that i've hit it out of the park, which is impossible to do when the other team is on the injured reserve. maybe he didn't like me and had an emergency petrie dish of bacteria in his car. insta-flu! that'll scare this bitch off! i was home and in bed (alone, ahem) by eleven-thirty, doubting thomases. the night ended with a handshake, and not the sexy kind. i'm turning over a new leaf. andy, apparently my only respectful friend, bet two months on me and i'm going to try to win it for him. and then make him buy me a six-pack. AND A STEAK.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

two peas in a pod.

"hi, honey."

listen, i'm trying out this new thing. i'm going to start calling you bitches "honey" and "sweetie" and "baby" from now on. i'm working on a new image, you see. a sunny disposition kind of thing. because i can be a snatch in the worst kind of way, so i'm going to try to offset that with a few "sugars" and "angels." so when i say something nasty about your mother you get less mad. you know, because i called you "kitten" first. as a general rule i call most of my friends lover or gorgeous anyway, so this will just be taking it a step further.
(i tried this shit with laura's bitch ass last week, and she got all mad and uncomfortable and said it didn't sound authentic. that i'm not believeable as a nice person. what a jerk. i am TOTALLY fucking nice. bitch.)

i hate the grocery store in the worst way. the same people who can't drive on the fucking road can't maneuver their way through neatly organized, widely-spaced, roadblock-free aisles, either. and it kills me every single time. without fail, i am inevitably nailed in the ass by someone's cart or chasing down the woman who absentmindedly mistook mine for hers (were you really about to buy ONE can of green beans and a box of alka-seltzer, bitch? gimme that back!) or annoyed at some douchebag frat boy's loud ass cell phone shouting while perched DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF the beer i'm trying to get (you know, and i know, and you know that i know that you know the only fucking thing you are going to get is a case of natty ice. so get it. and shut the fuck up. and move already. stop contemplating the good beer that we all know you're not going to buy and let me get some). and I'M the asshole if i politely ask him to slide his 1.5 GPAss out of my goddamned way? right.
when i read that recent news story about that grody old milkshake who slapped the dogshit out of some screaming little kid in walmart or wherever i was immediately flooded with sympathy. for the dude. places like the grocery store (and walmart and target and pleasedontgetmestartedoncostco) do something to my brain, man. i just can't even handle it. the bright lights, the sensory overload, the constant swarm of people who just can't help but touch you in some way: i nearly have a complete emotional meltdown every single time. i can't realistically claim to have OCD; anyone who has been in my apartment when there are dishes and cutlery IN THE BED would shoot that down in a second. but i do have my fair share of crazy, and i'm going to give you a taste. some grocery-specific crazy, to be precise. watch out, this might make you hate me for reals.

everyone who has been in the store with me knows i have a bunch of (certifiably) psychotic rules and/or phobias while shopping. and i adhere to them no matter who is around or how embarassing it might be, though i am never really embarassed because i'm reasonably certain death really is lurking around the corner just waiting to snatch me if my dairy products and sweet potatoes touch even a little bit while inside my cart. THE HORROR.

so here goes:
1 i will only purchase an item if it is three or four items behind the first, but never the one at the very back. 2 i try not to buy paper products that have anything green on the packaging. 3 i like canned goods, but i will never buy a dented can or one with a damaged label. 4 buying things in the bulk section makes me physically uncomfortable, so i rarely do it (i make an exception for the raspberry hearts at whole foods). 5 i will never buy the last one of anything. EVER. 6 i try to never buy more than twelve grocery items at a time. 7 i will never buy anything located on the bottom shelf. 8 i will not buy anything in the freezer section that has that snowy/icy stuff on the outside of the container. 9 i refuse to buy unpackaged fruit. 10 i read the label three times before buying something i've never bought before. and 11 i would literally DIE before i'd eat anything left out in an open sample.
i think it goes without saying that the salad bar is absolutely out of the question.

toss a shrieking child into the mix with all that crazy and you'd have a combustible situation on your hands. all of that said, if you were in dominicks with me you'd never notice all of my little "quirks" (sounds much better than "batshit mannerisms," no?) unless you were paying especially close attention to me and had no shopping of your own to accomplish. all of that just hums along inside my brain; as a matter of fact, i've been doing it for so long that i don't even notice it anymore. my hand just instinctively reaches out for the fourth of six cereal boxes. you know what's really insane?! people who shop with me often or have known me my whole life find that they have subconsciously started doing the exact same fucking thing. travis and i were buying a dvd player in target and when he reached down to get it i proudly noted that he took the third from the rear. a little tear even came to my eye. like aunt, like nephew. sigh.

i haven't had a car for a few years and when the last one blew up it pretty much put an end to the limited amount of grocery shopping i'd been doing. i've spent the last three years surviving on "supermarket runs," brief trips that require little more than a backpack, a basket, and the 10 items or less line. i used to peapod all the time when i had a 350-lb hulking linebacker of a boyfriend who would eat my chairs if they weren't bolted to the floor to cook for, and carrying five armloads of groceries up three flights (after stopping to talk shit to nina on the 2nd floor, of course) was never ever going to happen.

the other night i almost had a stroke because i had depleted my beer rations and was down to the two bottles of that apricot pyramid bullshit that had been hiding behind all of the decent beer since the days john and i ground to a screeching halt. which was FOREVER ago in vagina years. (like dog years but sexier. cat years, maybe?) and limping to the liquor store to get beer to drink alone with helen seemed too tragic even for me. to add insult to injury, i was hungry. and the only thing i had available was dried-out swiss cheese. (i told you i don't shop) so my unhappy foot sent a signal to my bitchass brain and i placed a peapod order.

for twelve items.

yesterday morning was a busy one at casa sam, and i was lying in bed with a t-shirt wrapped around my head listening to the new muse record (buy it buy it buy it) as loud as i think is appropriate for six-thirty a.m. on a monday when there was a sharp, and unexpected, knock on the door. i immediately reached for the hunting knife that i keep under the pillow and instructed helen to get her sawed-off (she keeps a cat-sized one behind the litter box in her crate) before i answered the door.

ever since the attempted robbery heard round the world two years ago i've taken to sleeping almost fully clothed. really. the suckiest part of fighting that crazy asshole off was not that he wanted to take my shitty tv, but that i had to do it in my "i'm not getting laid" panties and without my glasses. OR A BRA. nowadays i wear a fucking parka and jack boots to bed. if you want to kill me this time, you're really going to have to try.

so it was the peapod dude, inexplicably early, holding my two measly grocery bags. i could tell he wanted to say something, something along the lines of "bitch, are you insane for making me deliver some shit a pigeon could carry?!" or maybe i looked hot enough to rape, with my baggy sleeping pants shoved into my walking boot and the american apparel hoodie i shrunk in the wash clinging to all the wrong places. RAWR.

or maybe he was just waiting for a tip, which i realized half a second too late to avoid that awkward unspoken is she or isn't she? should i stand here or just GO? foot shuffle. i was instantly irritated (motherfucker i have an elevator, how hard could it have been?), but something resembling yuppie guilt rose up like bile in my throat and i dropped the bags (probably denting my can of young peas in the process) and ran to fetch my wallet from the bottom of my school bag. i had two dollars and a handful of quarters and, after re-opening the door, i made the "i'm so sorry, i know i suck" face while trying to hand it to him. but he just looked me up and down quickly and damn-near sprinted down the hall, leaving me holding a handful of dirty change.

"what the fuck was his problem?" i asked helen, whose non-response reminded me that that bitch is a fucking CAT, not my quiet roommate who mostly keeps to herself. i had already brushed my teeth, what could have been so offensive? it wasn't until i bent over to put the (cellophane-wrapped) watermelon slices into the fruit bin and almost fucking gutted myself before i realized i had been standing at the door with a goddamned machete sticking out of my kangaroo pouch. totally fucking dumb.

here's a tip: i'll cut a bitch.