Hey! Are You Housing Discriminating Me?

Yeah, you! Old White Christian Conservative Guy. Are you housing discriminating me? Because, I was told that you were desperate to fill this unit, and I was the first one here.

I'm ready to sign, and I have a list of references in my left hand, and my security deposit in my right. Wait, what? You need to see if someone else wants the apartment? The unit is still available isn't it? So, what's going on again, cuz I'm looking to pay for somewhere to live, you have somewhere to live but you need someone to pay you. The shit sounds like a symbiotic relationship to me. You took down my references; even my boss' number. What's the hold-up papi?

So, that looked very confusing. After stewing over it, and talking to the folks who were with me, I decided, "Yup. Looks like discrimination." I found a housing alternative, and then decided to call the guy to find out what the story was.

I laid out what I saw, and told him what looked like a reasonable conclusion to me, and then asked him to help me understand what was going on. He got pissed, but it didn't deter me. So, we worked through it. He told me enough of his side of the story and what happened and why for things to look sane and reasonable.

He could be lying through his teeth. I don't think he is, but he very well could be. I'm still okay with it.

White people: If you are going to housing discriminate (really I guess any discrimination. really I guess, not just white people), please understand that you need to get your story together. As long as you can offer a reasonable explanation that stands up to scrutiny, pretty much you can have people easily accept the most absurd of circumstances.

I Punched Myself In The Stomach Just Now.

Well, not just now, but recently enough that I still feel like throwing up. I didn't punch myself in the stomach on purpose, in fact I was really fucking shocked that it happened. It kinda knocked the wind out of me, but mostly it made me want to throw up. It’s 6:28 am, I’m in the airport, and I don’t get to NY until 11:30, and I can’t eat anything before my plane takes off, because I punched myself in the stomach.

Terrible.

It seemed innocent enough, I was tired of carrying my bag, so I got one of those carts with the handbrake. Push down it rolls, release and it stops. Well, I can be a brisk walker, and in my briskness I forgot that the handbrake violates the laws of inertia. Your cart will not slow down with you as process that a bathroom is ahead on the left. If you let go of the handbrake, it stops. It stops rather abruptly in fact.

If you’re not paying close attention you will walk, kinda fast, into a stationary object with a bar that comes right across your abdomen. I don’t ever remember someone being really pissed at me and punching me in my stomach. But, this shit makes me want to be nice to everyone I meet for the rest of my life, just in case. This shit is terrible.

Before that I had a security guard yell at me because I asked him if he was having a bad day. He was being really rude to an old woman who hadn’t flown since the new security measures had been implemented, and she was confused about a lot of things. He yelled at me because “I didn’t know him” and therefore couldn’t tell if he was frustrated or not. So, since he was already pissed, and now taking it out on me, I toyed with him.

“Well, I hope your day gets better.”

Fumimg words!!

“I’m just saying that I hope you have a good day.”

“Ma’am! Just take your bag and leave.”

“Oh, my bags still haven’t come out yet. If they had, I wouldn’t be standing here listening to you take out your frustrations.” (smile)

Fuming words!!

“Ok then, have a nice day!”

Fuming words!!

I told all of the folks in the security area to have a nice day. Some of them laughed. Some of them didn’t.

Before that, my cab forgot about me. I called for a cab to the train, and then planned to ride the train to the airport. I called several times and was told that he was on the way each time. Finally, I called back pissed, and demanded to know what they were going to do for me since this whole ordeal had taken nearly 30 minutes, and now it was too late for me to catch the train. Free ride to the airport, and the driver was the guy who “forgot” to pick me up. Ok.

After 10 minutes, I’d started walking. Not because I thought it would make a difference about time/convenience, but because I would have been pissed if I just sat in the house waiting. So, I walked ¾ mile at 5am through not necessarily the safest part of town, carrying my luggage over my shoulder.

The whole thing was almost laughable, which wasn’t lost on me. So, the guy finally arrives, and tells me that he forgot. He didn’t have an answer for why he never came after the subsequent calls, but I tell him that because of his dropping the ball, I now need to go straight to the airport, and they said that they would take care of it.

“No problem, I’ll take care of it for you. And, I’ll get you to the airport early. I’m really sorry.” he turns off his meter, and were off.

So, we ride to the airport at 80+ mph, and I decided that mistakes happen, so I would pay him the fare that I would have otherwise paid to get to the train plus a tip. So, $15 is better than nothing; he’s just a working stiff.

We pull up to my airline, and he says, “Okay, that’ll be $30.” WTF!?!?

“Normally, it would be $33, but I want to take care of the inconvenience.”

I ran him through the litany of inconveniences he caused me, including the need to get a ride all the way to the airport in the first place. $3, uhm- I had to tell him that I was doing my best not to curse him out.

So, I had to argue with him, and he finally agreed to a lower fare.

He got $10, I told him that I shouldn’t give him anything, and made him give me change from a $20. (ouch!)

Started with that, went to the friendly security guy, and then punched myself in the stomach. Somehow, I’m still in a pretty good mood. I haven’t succumbed to “having a bad day”. Could be my crush. Could be that a couple of shitty instances haven’t ground me down to the point that I’m starting to take it personal.

I think I’ll go get a croissan’wich.
___________________________________________________

Fast forward to 1am. I had a pretty good day. I found a really good BBQ joint; found the apartment that I plan to live in for the next 12 months; wandered out to the edge of town and found what may become my favorite Polish restaurant; and went with a friend to grab a drink, where I met some cool-ass folks and got me some digits.

Not a bad day at all.

Am I Too Old To Call It A Crush?

It honestly feels so 7th grade to call it a crush, but it makes me feel like I'm in 7th grade. I have a crush!!!

She makes my heart go pitter-thump! Like it thumps so hard in my chest that I can't breathe. I can't remember my thoughts. I can't remember that I'm not boring, or that I have witty witticisms. I have a crush, and she makes me all redundant and shit, but I don't even care, because because her hair is pretty.

What does she do? I don't know.
Where is she from? I don't know.
What does she like? I don't know.
What excites her? Justice, I think.

I love everything about her!!!!!

Does she like me?
I don't know. Maybe. I'm pretty likable, except I can't remember that when I have a crush on someone. I'm too busy feeling awkward, and unattractive, and gangly- like my arms are too long or something, but I never had a growth spurt. I've always been fairly well proportioned.

I like her so much that I take on other people's awkwardness and discomfort. My crush makes me feel like I'm really tall, but uncomfortable about my height.

She has beautiful brown eyes. I wonder if she wears contacts...

Blogette VIII

I went for a run yesterday.

I hurt my foot.

Stupid Latin body parts!

Stupid longus tendons!

Lifted

Straight from the EBP site. This fucking site highlights just how cliche and stereotypical I really am. I used to love my fucking Top Siders. Anyway, this episode of the Boondocks reminded me of when BET was sold, and I started to talk to my family and friends about why I would never support BET from here forward.

Funny.




Personnel!!!! How are fuckin up Niggas money?

Why Yes, Thank You. They Are Contacts!

I have brown eyes. Regular, normal, run of the mill, right smack dab in the middle of an African-American phenotype- brown eyes.

I don't wear contacts, (Oh, Susan, I know that I told you in an e-mail that I wear contacts. That was a joke. I have 20/15 vision. If you're not Susan, this will not make any sense to you. And, you will have a hard time coming up with a context wherein telling someone that you wear contacts when you don't is funny. Don't bother. I'm pretty good at wrangling humor, and it was actually a stretch.) never wore contacts. Just eyes.

I had a strange day today. I fell into a light coma after my ride. In fact, I slept so long that I missed my friend's wedding. (Sorry about that K! I feel really bad. It was good sleep though, if that makes you feel better.) Even though I missed the wedding, I figured that at least I could get a haircut before hitting the reception.

My normal hair cutter was out for the day, ironically, because he was photographing a wedding, but the other guy was there. Now, I just needed a quick haircut, and he asked me to stick around and told me he would cut my hair. I ran to grab some cash and came back. Now, there was a long ass line of folks who'd come in while I was gone to get cash. Am I ahead of them, or are they ahead of me? Obviously, the two of us had a difference of opinion. After an hour of waiting I got up to leave, and he runs after me into the parking lot to waive me down. Why? Why??? Because he wants my phone number! (WTF?!?!?!)

Let's say I wanted to sex you. Let's just say. Uhm, I would give you preferential treatment, right? Uhm, cuz I want to sex you. But at the very least, I would treat you fairly. I wouldn't overlook you for 40 minutes, and then run you down in a parking lot. (Men are silly.)

So, I drive across town to a different shop, and when I sit down in the guy's chair we chat for a bit. Blah, blah, blah. Then he says, "You have incredibly beautiful eyes." Now, just as I'm saying, "Thank you," he says one of the craziest things I've heard since 1986.

"I thought they were contacts, but they're your eyes. They are beautiful."

Now, I don't think I said anything other than, "They're brown," but I thought, "Uhm Negro, my eyes look just like yours, and hers, and his, and everyone else in the the room." I thought about telling him that my eyes are light grey, but I wear brown contacts because more people notice me that way. Yeah, I'm just African-American, but a lot of people think I have ambiguous ethnicity because I have brown eyes. Its a real conversation starter, but honestly it can get tiresome. Sometimes I wish I just had eyes like everyone else. Oh wait- I do.

You Don't Want To Be My Workout Partner

Honestly, you don't. In the name of all that is holy, listen to me and spare yourself the agony.

It's not because I'm unreasonable, or I'll push you beyond your limits. I'm not unreliable when you really need someone to show up, or even motivate you. As far as those qualities go, I'm top notch. Hell! I'm so good there, I could be a personal trainer. I'm fucking awesome.

But, don't get sucked in! Use restraint. Why wouldn't you want to be my workout partner?

Let me tell you a story:

I woke up this morning at 7 on the nose. The first thing I remembered was that I was pretty excited about going for a bike ride. That was yesterday's excitement, today I just wanted to sleep, and a bike ride was about the farthest thing from what my legs were asking for.

I argued and rationalized, and debated with myself over whether I would go for a ride. About an hour later, when I honestly told myself that I would go, except for the price of gas, I realized that I might as well get up and go for a decent ride.

I got my bike and filled up on $4.99 gas so that I could driveout to the trail (WTF!!?!?!!? I'm not happy about this shit!), and rode my bike up and down mild inclines for an hour. I didn't go full out at any point, just an hour of moderately strenuous exercise.

At the end of my workout, I stretched and hopped in my car and drove back into town. Windows down, driving down the freeway; it was niiiice.

So, after 10 minutes I started to realize that I was hungry, and if I went home to shower, I would be too tired afterwards to go out and get food. And, since I didn't want to eat a couple of bowls of Chex, I decided to pull over and grab some meal-making supplies.

When I got off the highway, and pulled into the Publix parking lot, I thought a sewer main had broken, or maybe a water treatment plant was nearby. "What the fuck is that smell???"

And suddenly, it dawned on me. That smell was me!! I was emanating the most god-awful stench that I had ever smelled in my life. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that it was nauseating. Nauseating, you know? Like I fucking wanted to throw up!

So, just to be sure (and maybe because I'm a little retarded in sectors of my brain), I lifted my arm, buried my nose in my armpit, and took a big deep whiff. (Mistake.)

My armpit smelled like a rancid vagina. Like, let's say you had a vagina, not a woman, just a dismembered vagina. Now, since it's not attached to a living body, you're going to have to take special care with this vagina, or it may begin to decompose, and get kinda stinky in the process. If you had a dismembered vagina, you may want to keep it in the fridge, or maybe freeze it until you decide to do whatever you do with a dismembered vagina.

Okay.

Now let's say that you took that vagina, and rather than refrigerating it, you threw it in the corner of your basement. Musty, a little bit dank, but certainly dark, that basement, and left it there for a week. Then for some reason, your mom told you to get that damn vagina out of her basement, so you put it outside under a tree. You were nervous that your dog would think it was a toy, so you decided to put the vagina in a ziplock sandwich bag. Then you leave town for three or four days, and when you get back, you notice that the vagina has started to liquefy.

Out of curiosity, you decide to open the zip lock bag just to see what that would smell like. THAT! That is the smell from my armpit today!!! Literally, I wanted to throw up. I smelled my armpit several times just to be certain I wasn't making it up. I swear to GOD that I wanted to throw up!

But, what was I to do? Go home, and eat cereal? Hells no!

So, I went into Publix, kept my arms firmly by my sides, and tried to stay 10ft or more from people. Certainly, I did my best to avoid children, because I didn't want to hear any "children say the darnedest things" comments.

I sure as hell hope this is a one-time, maybe something I ate, occurrence. Because if this shit continues, I'm gonna have to go see a fucking specialist! And what do you say to your brand new PCP? "Uhm, doc, I need a referral (not sure to what kind of specialist, so I'll be leaning on your expertise there), but when I exercise, uhm, my armpits smell like rancid vaginas."