Man, I knew God loved me, but I never knew just how much until yesterday.  I woke up yesterday morning and the front door was wide open, unlocked--and the alarm wasn't even on.  We had gone to bed, tired and cranky--with our defenses down--literally.  But by the grace of God, He protected us as we slept--and nothing harmed us.  The crack-heads from the projects down the street probably walked by our house a hundred times looking for somebody to rob to get their next "fix", but God was watching over me and my husband and my little baby!

I just couldn't get over how amazing His provision is for us. And how much we are protected from dangers seen and unseen. 

When I thought about the awesomeness of it all, I called my momma to tell her about it.  She was livid that I was careless enough to leave the door unlocked while her precious grandson lay in his crib helpless to predators. She wasn't even concerned about me or Shawn--just so long as Andrew went unharmed.  When I tried to get her to focus on God's goodness, my loving momma told me I was blessed because: "God takes care of babies and fools. And you damn sure ain't no baby!"

I mean, over the past few months, I've been doing some business dealings and having to really watch my back because I'm encountering some shady characters. This is new territory for me--working for myself and being my own boss is very different from someone providing me with the pay check.  "Mister Charlie" AKA "The Boss Man" took all the risks when I was punching a time clock, now that I'm "The Man", there are certain risks I assume on a daily basis--but I gotta tell y'all--I ain't never once been burned.  And there were times when I should have been on fire--because I didn't know what the hell I was doing--and the folks around me where trying to get over on me--but they were never able to, no matter how hard they tried.  I know that's because God is watching over me and kept me safe from danger.

But yesterday, man, I'm here to tell you, I really saw His power at work.  So y'all know my credit got more holes in it than Swiss cheese, right?  I keep using my full name on this website hoping some damn body will steal my identity and clear it all up for me--but so far, that hasn't happened yet!  Anyway, so I'm taking things one step at a time, paying off a few medical bills here and there--taking care of outstanding checks (the folks at Sam's Club, Wal-Mart and Target were happy to see me--they thought I'd never show my black ass up there again and actually pull out my REAL identification)--trying to do the right thing so my name won't be mud!

The last hurdle I had was those damn student loans.  Man, I've been in default since my sophomore year it seems like.  They've been garnishing my black a$$ since the after graduation.  They KNEW I wasn't gonna do the right thing and pay the federal government their money back--so they started taxing me from jump street!

Well, now that I ain't working for "The Man" anymore, they can't garnish wages I'm not getting--which means--I ain't paying on the loan.  They called and were like "Sheletta, are you going to make good on paying back the money you borrowed?"  At first, I told 'em, "Y'all seen my track record. If you let me borrow money for school KNOWING my credit is bad and my momma's credit is bad and her momma's credit is bad--then that's your damn fault."

But I'm trying to do right, so I called them back to talk about a consolidation procedure that would get me out of default.  Childddddddddddddd, these vultures pounced on me like I was a crack pipe in a room full of base-heads.  They sent me these forms and told me they were part of the "Federal Government's Consolidation Program" and that I needed to fill them out in order to qualify for the income contingent program. 

If I wasn't talking about Jesus and God in this blog, I'd call them some mother-fuckers--but since I'm being spiritual, I ain't gonna say it.  But these MFers, they walked me through this paperwork on the phone and had me mail it in to what I thought was a Government approved US Department of Education Federally funded program. NOT!  Where they sent me was the pay day loan place for student loans. 

So I get back from vacation and I got a stack of mail on my desk that I'm going through and I see the loan forms--the packet of information that came back after I sent in all my signed documents stating that I wanted to consolidate with this alleged "federally approved" program based on my income.  I open it up--not NO WHERE in the damn packet does it say anything about this being linked up with the US Department of Education.  I'm flipping through the pages and I'm reading the forms and it says "You have 10 days to respond to this letter, otherwise, we will consolidate your loans"--so I keep reading and on page 542, they have my loans listed, the amounts added up to what I owed--so that was cool.  Then on page 543, they had their fees, and by the time they got through adding interest and what they were charging--it was DOUBLE what I owed. 

I showed it to Shawn and he literally threw up in his own mouth.  He was like, "Baby, what is the date on this letter?" I was like "Honey, this letter is dated July 2nd." Mind you y'all, it's July 10th that we are reading over this paperwork.  They got me paying back six figures--over 30 years--like it's a damn house note. I'm telling you, you could have gotten better deals at the Pawn Shop or lesser fees at the local corner store check cashing place than what they were doing to me with my student loans.

So I picked up the phone and called them, and when Tarashonda answered the phone, I knew I was in trouble.  I told her that I didn't want them touching my $hit and that she need not think I was going to be dooped by this pigeon drop scam. And I also informed her black a$$ that I was turning her organization over to Minnesota's Attorney General Office for their deceptive loan practices.  Well, after our conversation, I asked Tarashonda for a transaction number--something that I could reference if they "accidentally" forgot to cancel my consolidation--and of course, Tarashonda informed me that they don't have transaction numbers and that she'd take care of it.  Needless to say, once we got off the phone, I rushed down to the Post Office to send them a certified--overnight letter stating my intentions!

I would have a better chance of getting my money back from one of those Nigerian e-mail scams than I would paying off the loan had they consolidated it for me.  Double y'all, they had me paying back more than double what I owed.  Ain't that some $hit?

And they were really being dirty too, they wanted to make sure that I didn't get the letter within 10 days (cause they said I had 10 days to respond or they'd go forward with the consolidation)--how about they sent my information to the wrong address.  I looked at the paperwork--and the wrong address was on the form and the envelope.  But by the grace of God, it came directly to me, to my house just in time for me to see what they were trying to do and put a stop to it.

So just remember today, that God is watching over you and He's protecting you from dangers seen (like janky predatory lenders and back stabbing business folks) and unseen (like crackheads walking by your house while you are sleeping and the door is unlocked)!  Just like He protected me...

They say James Brown was the hardest working man in Show business before he died; well I’ve found the hardest working group of folk in the Twin Cities: meter maids! 

I paid more last month in parking meter fine violations than I spent on my car note and insurance combined.

I have more parking tickets than I know what to do with.  I didn’t even cash my payroll check this week from the Spokesman Recorder, I just signed the back of it, made it payable to the City of Minneapolis, and mailed it in. 

And I understand they are just doing their job, but some of ‘em are a tad overzealous.  I think they hide behind concrete pillarsand watch while you pretend to put quarters in the meter (when you’re actually inserting Canadian nickels).  Then when you dart off to pick up dry cleaning or pay for take-out lunch, they swoop in, fine in hand, and put that damn ticket on your windshield.  Now, if I didn’t have 50-cent to pay for parking, how in the hell am I going to afford a $35 parking fine?

And it ain’t always that I ran out time in my met—the last ticket I got was because my license tags had expired.  When I came out of the beauty salon in downtown Minneapolis two weeks ago, I saw the lady sticking a ticket on my windshield.  I was livid when I looked at my watch and realized that I still had four minutes to spare.  “Hey Ms. Lady,” I yelled out, “you shouldn’t be giving me a ticket.  By my calculations, I’m still on my last quarter.”

“That may be true,” she yelled back, “but your license tag expired last month, and that’s a $75 fine!”

Again, back to my point: if I had $75, I could get my tags renewed!

Are these people working on commission or something? Do they get an extra five dollars in their pay check for every ticket they write? Because if that’s the case, I sent a few of ‘em into a new tax bracket last month with all the fines I paid!

And with summer being peak construction season, things are getting pretty hairy.  Roads that normally have meters are red-flagged for “No Parking”, secret alleyways where you used to be able to park are now blocked off ‘cause they’re fixing potholes! 

And the meter maids are walking around, in the heat, looking for violators.  Now that takes dedication and a very strong work ethic.  Because if it were me, I would be sitting in Starbucks drinking a cup of ice coffee until my shift was over and it was time for me to clock out.  My boss would ask, “Brundidge, you couldn’t find any violators on 11^th and Hennepin today?” I’d tell him, “No sir boss, everyone was in compliance.  There was a little angel with quarters in her wings and every time someone’s meter would run out, she’d bless ‘em with 15 more minutes.  It was amazing.  I guess prayer really does change things.”

‘Cause I be praying y’all. While I’m downtown getting my hair done—that the meter maid assigned to my area is break. Or her baby’s daddy’s got sick on the job and she had to go pick him up.  But my prayers are bouncing off the beauty shop walls, cause the ones on my block are on every corner, around every turn, standing on the sidewalk, crossing the street—they are more visible than police officers in downtown Minneapolis.  I wish someone would give them a badge and a gun so that I can feel safe from the crackheads that call downtown “home”.

It's not often that Shawn and I get to go out. I am usually at home with Andrew while he hangs out at the bar, wishing he were still single again! 

But last night, we had a baby sitter, the pretty gal Courtney, who does nails at the beauty salon that I go to. She agreed to keep Andrew while Shawn and I went to Minneapolis to check out Musiq Soul Child in concert. It was an invitation only event, couldn't buy tickets anywhere, so we didn't want to miss out on this once and a lifetime opportunity.

Since it's been so long since I've gone out, I wanted to be sexy, so I went to the beauty shop and got my hair did like Halle Berry back in Boomerang days (the movie she starred in opposite Eddie Murphy and Robin Givens).  I jetted over to get my eyebrows arched and was too cute for my own good!

When we started getting dressed to leave, I noticed that my clothes were a little snug.  So I had to go downstairs and find a sundress that was free flowing and allowed "room for error".  It wasn't a maternity outfit, but it was one of those "I just had a baby" transition dresses.  Except I didn't think I'd ever have to put it on again, seeing as how my "baby" is now a "toddler" and I should be back to my pre-birth, not pre-delivery weight!

So I had on the dress and I was walking around looking for my shoes when Shawn noticed that I had an awful pantie line.  Well, I was sporting my granny panties. You know, the comfortable cotton ones that go from your knees to your neck. The damn things could double as a turtle neck sweater in the winter time they are so big!  But you can't beat the granny pantie for comfort! 

Shawn asked, "Baby, do you still have any thongs that you can fit?"

I ain't wanna tell him that I hadn't bought a thong since I was a size "medium" and that was many, many, many moons (and donuts) ago!

Well, I went upstairs to  my pantie drawer and low-and-behold, I found a thong in a size large. It was as if God had planted it there!  I replaced my old faithfuls and we hit the town...

But something wasn't right!!

During the concert, I stood up to dance while they performed one of my favorite songs, and the thong, it ran away from me. The damn thing tapped me on the back, submitted it's letter of resignation and "rolled" off the job.  The  note read, "Hey fat girl. You're stretching me too thin.  I'm doing more work than required of me in my initial contract and I refused to be treated this way. You're putting more on me than I can handle, so I tender my resignation effective immediately."

I tried negotiating with the damn thing, but the thong decided it was best to part ways.  I asked for at least a four hour notice--but the thong denied my request.

So here I am, all night long, pulling and tugging and trying to locate the panties that I KNOW I put on before I left home. But the thong was no where to be found. Every now and again, I'd feel it roll down and get caught between a layer or two of stomach fat, but it quickly disappeared. Almost like it evaporated into my skin or something...

Shawn looked over at me and asked "What's wrong? Why are you tugging at your dress?"

"It's not the dress," I assured him, "it's the damn thong I put on.  It keeps rolling down and getting stuck in a fat roll somewhere. Problem is, I can't figure out which one without digging in there and trying to find it."

Shawn giggled, "Your thong got hydraulics, it's hitting switches on you. It's rolling like a low-rider car in East L.A.!"

We both busted out laughing when I told him, "I'm just gonna change my name to David Blaine. I'm a freaking magician!  I can make a thong disappear."

I gotta make a rule to only go to lunch with my fat girlfriends. 'Cause eating with my skinny friends gonna keep me hungry and with the shakes.

Yesterday 'round noon I met one of my girlfriends in St. Paul on Grand Avenue 'bout noon for a bite to eat.  Now mind you, I was really looking forward to it cause she's good company--plus this was a new place I'd never been to and she promised me that it'd be good!  And I believed her, cause girlfriend has excellent taste!

So I walk in there and didn't smell anything. I couldn't tell if they were pushing Mesquite BBQ or Italian pasta.  Cause the damn restaurant didn't have a scent!!!

She met me in the lobby of the place, and we took a seat in the corner. It was a buffet style restaurant, so I had to get Andrew all strapped in before I could get in line.  Still, I noticed there was no aroma of what I was 'bout to grub on.  I quickly figured out that I ain't smell nothing cause they wasn't cooking nothing!

I got in line, got my tray and started walking around to check out the choices. They started out with fruit selection, then salads, then soups, then bread and there was the check out clerk.  I looked at my skinny girlfriend in her Coach sandals and her half shirt and her pencil thin blue jean shirt and asked "Where are the entrees?  They got some meat and potatoes up in here?"  She was like "No, the salads have meat in them.  And then they have healthy sandwiches."  I was like "At these prices, we could have went to Subway and got the $5 foot long deal if all we was gonna eat was sammiches!"

I tried to be open minded so I grabbed a salad that thankfully had a few hunks of chicken in it.  And a bowl of soup that promised to have beef crumbles included in the recipe.  I looked for the meat but couldn't find it! 

Y'all know I ain't still in my maternity clothes cause I don't like to eat. My fat a$$ lives for eating. I wake up thinking what I'm gonna have for dinner. It took almost two years, but I'm back to my pre-delivery weight!  I weigh now the same amount I weighed right before I delivered Andrew.  You know how much work that took? How many donuts and how many bags of potato chips that entailed? How much beef and pork I swallowed with gravy on mashed potatoes?  I definitely didn't get to this point with soup and salad!

After lunch with  my girlfriend, I had to stop at Wendy's and get me a 5 piece nugget, just so I wouldn't get the "shakes" from starving to death prior to reaching my house in E St. Paul. 

When I got home, my stomach was still grumbling--I had to make me a hot dog and eat some potato chips and chase it down with a Wendy's chocolate frostie!  Ahhhhhhh, now that's lunch--that's living...

The food was good, don't get me wrong and I had a wonderful time.  But in order for me to go back there, they are going to have to start frying some chicken or something!

We were going through some old clothes and hats from several winters ago that we needed to give away to charity.  By the time my fat a$$ was done, I had about four boxes of clothes and shoes and e'rething else I can't squeeze my big butt cheeks into anymore. 

Shawn had a few things too, a couple of suits and a few pair of pants, even some of his hats.  "Damn, baby, your head done got fat too?" I asked him.

"That's just comfortable living," he informed me, "I'm married and settled and eating good now. So I've spread out a little bit."

"You ain't running no more," I quipped, "you were running like a slave on the underground railroad!  But I captured you and revoked your emancipation papers--and had you sign this marriage license."

"And I've been taking Xanax and sleeping pills ever since."

Our son Andrew was rummaging through some of the stuff we had laying around and he put on one of Shawn's hats... a cool black leather joint that Shawn wore back in his (whoring) hay-day.  Shawn smiled when Andrew turned around and was donning his favorite hat, "Man, I remember that hat.  That's back when I was single and popping it.  I was Skinny John then."

I told him, "Please, don't ever be skinny John. Cause Skinny John kicked my a$$ on a regular basis." Not literally mind you, but he was a horrible boyfriend.  OK, I wouldn't say horrible... wait, yes I would!  My husband never really wanted a steady girlfriend, and he showed it in more ways than one.  He would chase loose women... have him an outside woman (or two)... stay out all night with his home boys.  Oh, Skinny Shawn was something else!  Skinny Shawn would go to the club and come home with new phone numbers programmed in his cell.  Skinny Shawn went to the movies alone but came home with two ticket stubs in his pocket.  I tell you what, I'm surprised Skinny Shawn was able to survive all that roach spray and Clorox I put in his food for his bad behavior!

But Chubby Shawn, the husband, is awesome.  Comes home from work on time every day.  Refuses to work overtime so he can take care of his family.  Loves his wife and his son more than himself!  Chubby Shawn is the man I love... Skinny Shawn can go to hell in a hand basket.  Truth be told, I threw away his membership to the gym, cause I don't want him to loose a pound and turn back in to Skinny Shawn! 

I told this story to a girlfriend of mine who does astrological stuff.  And she said "Oh, he's a Gemini, he's got twin personalities..." then she went on to tell me about all that star-sign and that other crap. I don't do "signs", I do Jesus!  So I've never even looked at that stuff.  But there may be something to it, cause my husband was definitely one man when I met him and a totally different man after we got married.  I guess it's the tale of the two Shawns...

OK, so y'all know I do the CrossRoads television program on KSTC TV every Sunday on Channel 45 in St. Paul.  I love the show, it's dedicated to people of color and talk about issues important to "our" community. Ain't nobody in the Twin Cities more colored than I am--so that doubly qualifies me to do the show!

Sometimes, some of my favorite guests are on C.P.T. time and they show up late.  I always tell folks to be there 15 minutes early, but for some people that ain't enough time.

So this past week, I'm sitting there, waiting for my boy Franklin from Big Brother Big Sister to come on the show to talk about the Barber Shop Challenge that we're promoting.  We're sitting around--waiting--sitting around--waiting--but Franklin never shows up.  I know he's supposed to be bringing a barber with him, some guy they've affectionately nicknamed "Preacher". 

I decided to just walk outside the studio and go outside and look for them both. Now, I know what Franklin looks like, big brother who could be the second cousin to Rubin Studdard from American Idol fame.  But this "Preacher" guy I've never seen before.  So I'm walking around all pretty, make up tight, hair curled just right, eyebrows arched and wearing a brand new sundress that makes my stomach look flat, my butt look big and my breasts look one size bigger than a training bra--so I think I'm looking good!

But I'm pissed--so I jump up from the set like "Where are these folks? I need them to get up in here so I can finish the show and get home.  We have an appointment..." So I'm going off and fussing at the air cause ain't nobody in there but me and the camera guys who are all laughing at me...

I go over to the double doors, open them up and on the other side of the doors stands the most handsome man I've ever seen in my life. I mean he was so fine, he made me forget I was mad. Hell, not only did I forget I was mad, I forgot my own name...

I shook his hand and said "Oh hey, I'm glad you're here.  Come on in and let's talk..."  Y'all, I ain't let the man go. I held his hand and dragged him over to the interview set.  I put on his microphone and gazed lovingly into his eyes. At that moment, I was ready to leave my husband and son, and convert from Baptist to Catholic if I needed to. 

The camera guys in the studio had to snap their fingers and remind me that I was indeed married, happily--and needed to keep my husband so I can have somewhere to live (cause my a$$ ain't working no more--so that means I'm on a fixed income of ZERO) and someone to give me money for food and gas!  The director yelled in my IFB ear piece "Sheletta, let it go.  I don't know who this guy is, but he isn't worth it.  You're practically falling over yourself."

And y'all, that ain't like me. But this man was so fine, I got lost!  I took my wedding ring off and swallowed it.  I was so nervous I was stuttering and twitching.  He had me spent... I looked like I was having a seizure!

Now, I'm thinking this is the guy "Preacher" for the Big Brother Big Sister interview, right! WRONG!  I started asking him about what barbershop he worked at and how he got involved in the volunteer project.  Child, I was too shame when he said "Umh, Sheletta, I'm Michael Davis, the first black police chief in Brooklyn Park."  You talk about ashamed.  I hadn't been that embarrassed since I got beat up in third grade by a cripple girl with one leg!

I had to apologize and tell him I was so sorry--but we had been taping three shows, this was the last one and I was waiting on a guest and I assumed he was the guy we were waiting on that I hadn't met yet.  He was cool with it, but I saw him quietly place his hand on his pistol.  He did a good thing, cause it was gonna take a round of bullets to keep me off of him--he was THAT fine!  He was so scared, he thought at any moment, I was going to lunge on him and just steal me a kiss--take me some sugar--bite his ear lobe or something. Y'all, I'm telling you, I was THAT close--I completely lost it!  When I heard him click the trigger and take the safety off his department issued weapon, I backed off--stayed in my seat and behaved myself for the rest of the interview!  I figured if I didn't "act right" he'd either shoot my black a$$ or taser me.

He called S.W.A.T. for back up so he could be rescued peacefully, the hostage negotiator came and talked me down; which is a good thing!  Because I was thinking of taking him hostage--rolling him up in some duct tape and putting him in my trunk--bringing him home and just looking at him all day. The damn man was THAT handsome!

After the segment was over, I called Shawn and told him "Hey, I tell you what, if another bridge collapses in Minneapolis and you're on it--don't try to save yourself--go down in the rubble 'cause I've already found your replacement.  Die peacefully and allow me to be happy with my new husband and Andrew's new father."

We just got back in the house from a Parliament Funkadelic concert. Shawn bought us tickets weeks ago--I had never seen P-Funk perform and he felt like--in order for us to stay married--I needed to attend the show.

Shawn is a true P-Funk fan--he's seen George Clinton perform in concert about fifty-leven times!  Me, I'm good with listening to the $hit on CD--there's nothing I hate more than getting all dressed up to go to a concert and then walk out smelling like I been smoking weed for 8 hours straight!

So we hired a sitter--wrote her a hot check--and headed to downtown Minneapolis to see P-Funk perform at 1st Avenue.  Now for those of you who don't know, 1st Avenue is the club where Prince and Morris Day battled it out in the movie Purple Rain!  It's a vintage concert hall that still allows you to (and highly recommends that you) smoke weed on a regular basis.

We get in side the venue and P-Funk had already taken the stage, we missed the first 10 minutes of the show, but the guy at the front desk informed us that we shouldn't worry; because they'd be on stage for "five hours performing".  What the hell? How is George Clinton going to perform for five hours? He's got to be at least 106 years old.  I can't stand there and watch him perform for 5 hours--that'd take all the life out of me.  And I ain't but 36 years old...

I look up on stage and there is George Clinton, in all his glory, looking like a scary Santa Claus!  I mean he's this old jolly fat guy with a gray beard, except he's got five different colors in his hair--like a bad extension from a beautician who was either on acid or had an ax to grind!  There were purple highlights, blue extensions in the form of braids, a big fuzzy patch of orange hair that looked like monkey grass--he was fit to be tied!  But the people loved him--and he sang his heart out.

The stage was riddled with old dudes from the original P-Funk days that were jammin' like they were still in their prime.  The dude in the band who has the diaper on--he's still alive! And he's still wearing that damn pamper. Although now it's more functional than decoration.  He paused during the middle of a song and stood still for three or four minutes. I turned to Shawn and told him, "I know that look. That old dude just went poopy in his pamper. That's the same look Andrew has when he's going potty in his diaper!"  But he never missed a beat. He left the stage for a few minutes and I'm sure somebody backstage changed his ass, put some butt paste on him, along with a fresh diaper, and he was back in time to sing lead vocals for "Knee Deep"!

Let me tell y'all something, music is universal--I found that out tonight. I thought "Man, this is gonna be George Clinton, a black concert filled with black folks..."  Shittttttttt! Let me tell y'all something, for every black person there, there were 20 white people.  It was so many white folks up in 1st Avenue, I thought that George Clinton was opening up for either Bruce Springsteen or Elton John or somebody!  And these white folks knew every word to every song that Parliament sang.  They were throwing up the P-Funk signs and er'rething!  They were jammin'!

I am talking the most white collar professional guy who sits at work in his cubicle and never talks to another human being was at this concert, shouting obscenities, passing his blunt around for er'rebody to smoke it--and jammin' to the P-Funk funky rhythms!

And white folks are so polite.  I've never been to a concert filled with white folks before.  Whenever they passed us they said "Excuse me." and waited for us to "Excuse them..." so they could pass by. Whenever they fired up a joint to smoke, they were kind enough to offer us a hit. I told Shawn "We gotta get us more white friends. Black folks would never buy a joint, bring it to a concert and offer it to people they don't know!  We're much MUCH too selfish for that!"

I must admit I had a blast!  While on stage, George and the P-Funk All Stars allowed local singing sensations "The Steele Family" to come up and perform with the band.  Javetta, Jearlyn, JD and all the other brothers were there and rocked the house!  The Steele Family, I don't know if you guys have ever seen them perform, but they are so talented and man, they are the best performers I've ever seen live. But they do gospel, so I was surprised to see them performing with George Clinton! Man, those Steele sisters and brothers got up on that stage and they rocked the house y'all!  They were hitting notes I didn't even know existed...

And some of the white folks who were near us tapped us on the shoulder and asked us, "Is that Javetta Steele and the Steele Family?" I shook my head "yes", then I leaned over to Shawn and said "What do I look like? The black folks identification committee?  He asked me like I should know those black folks, just cause I'm black.  I should have told him, 'No, that's Latoya and Janet Jackson.  And Michael and Tito are on the other side of the stage singing bass and baritone!'"  We both busted out laughing; I'm such a smart a$$!

Then, Shawn decided he would walk around to see the famous club--I had been there before--so I just stayed there to hold our spots!  These two guys came over and tried to "holler at your girl".  He wanted to get my name, rank and serial number--I tried telling this snagged toothed fool that my HUSBAND was somewhere in the vicinity; but he was too busy getting his mack on to hear me.  I had gotten real tired of him trying to put his hands on me and spitting in my face while trying to recite those weak a$$ rhymes of his... so I finally laid it all out for him, I told him, "Look, bruh, my husband just paid the mortgage--and all the rest of the bills that go along with the 3 bedroom 3 bathroom house that we live in. He just gave me an allowance and had some work done on my car. Unless you gonna come with something better--step off--cause I ain't moving back in the house with my momma cause you wanna get fresh with me.  Now back the hell up before I brake your hand off.  Cause you putting my lifestyle at risk right now--and I can't have that."

We had to leave at half time though, we couldn't stay for the whole concert.  See, 1st Avenue ain't got no damn chairs. You gotta stand up the whole time--and my black a$$ is too old to stand up for five hours unless I'm in a line to get my credit cleared or to see Oprah--those are the ONLY TWO THINGS I'm going to stand in line for (Shawn says he'll stand in line for five hours for free cheese--high as groceries are--a big a$$ block of cheese can hold us until next pay day!).  My feet hurt now--feel like these jokers are bleeding.  I told Shawn the next time we go there, I'm going to bring a lawn chair and camp out like we're at an outdoor pavilion or an amphitheater. 

I'm taking my black a$$ to bed now--my feet hurt from standing, my a$$ hurts from dancing and my head hurts from the second hand contact (and we ain't even gonna mention the fact that when we talked UP TO THE VENUE, we passed the tour buses and both of 'em smelled like they were cooking marijuana in a hot-wok with soy sauce!)...

I went to get my eyebrows waxed yesterday at Estetica Salon and Spa in St. Paul--where I usually go--and instead of getting my brows waxed, I got my nose hair singed!

So Andrew and I get there, and it's 2 o'clock, we're a few minutes early cause the appointment ain't until 2:15, so we walk around and play--knock over magazines in the lobby--and drink up all the Aveda tea until they call for us.

Now of course, Andrew ain't very well behaved in the small quarters of the wax room--I usually have to put him on my lap, facing me, while I lay down and get my eyebrows waxed--and hope (and pray) that he don't fall face first off the table.  I can't take a stroller in the room, cause the rooms ain't big enough to turn around in; let alone bring a stroller in to strap your kid down.

They called our names to let us know the wax girl is ready--so we walk upstairs and go to the room. I immediately smell either aged garbage or boiling bologna walking up the stairs.  But I was too busy making small talk with the wax girl to figure out where the odor was coming from.  

She was asking about Andrew--and his new modeling jobs--and how the television show was going... yada, yada yada!  She's a sweet girl, BUT...

the moment she closed the door to that box room and I laid down on that table and she leaned over me and asked how high I wanted my arch, I KNEW what was stinking: HER DAMN BREATH!  And my 22 month old son knew something wasn't quite right too.  He said "Boo boo mommy.  Boo boo..." He then checked his pamper with a look on his face that said "I smell boo-boo. I don't remember grunting anything out--but perhaps I did and didn't realize it."  My poor baby was so confused.

I thought "Surely, her breath ain't that funky!" I looked around to find an overflowing trash can, four day old Chinese take out lingering around on a table somewhere or a poopy pamper from the client before me, but NOTHING!  The place was clean as a whistle. 

Her breath was so funky, that I had to check my own mouth to make sure it wasn't me. She had me self conscious.  I reached in my pocket to offer her one of my Altoids (with cinnamon), but then I realized she ain't need a breath mint, she needed surgery.

I couldn't take it. I got up after getting just one eyebrow done and told her I'd take care of the other one later. Her breath was so funky, it got up and walked around the room--sat up and held me a conversation.  It interrogated me about the hot check I was 'bout to write to pay for my services--questioned me about why I hadn't tried to find a baby sitter for Andrew instead of letting him come in that little bitty a$$ room and kick over the hot wax bowl.  Man, the breath was putting a full court press on me to the point that I was sweating bullets!

I left in a hurry, I wanted to get out of there so fast that I paid cash. Actually took dollar bills out of my pocket and put them down on the counter and rant out.  Sad thing is, I thought I was gonna escape the funk when I walked out of the salon; however, little did I know that the stench would follow me for the rest of the day and all this morning.  That smell, that funk, the odor of arm pits and saliva have been stuck in my nose all this time and I can't get it out.  That funk followed me home and has been stalking me!  I've blown my nose until my nostrils hurt--but it hasn't helped--I can't shake the funk man...

There is a guy in Minneapolis, I don't know what his name is but he is a Youtube.com star!  He's got this video called "Chocolate Rain". I'm not sure what's so exciting about him singing in his broom closet and sounding like Barry White--but he's gotten like 6 million hits on their website! He's been on Jimmy Kemmel Live and all kinds of national shows like Good Morning America and The Today Show!

Well, I found out about his internet success after listening to my girl Kevyn Burger's radio show on FM 107.1--he was a guest--and talking about how he spanned the globe after people saw him on Youtube.com singing this silly a$$ song...

Moments later, I kid you not, I'm in the Cub Foods buying groceries with a hot check and before I could pay for them, the girl at the cash register asks me "Are you the guy who sings the Chocolate Rain song?"

I wanted to punch that heffa in the mouth!  Now mind you, I ain't looking all girly-girly... I got my oversized Oprah sweatrhirt on, some big baggy sweats and tennis shoes--sportin' my Oprah cap (y'all know I loves me some Mrs. Sophia) and I got my glasses on.  I rolled my eyes and said "Honey, I have breasts (although I'm still in a training bra), I've given birth and I have a husband--I don't think I'm the 'Chocolate Rain Dude' that you're looking for!

"Oh," she sighed, seeming disappointed, "You look just like him!  Have you seen his video?"

I wrote the hot check for that cheap a$$ bacon and that generic loaf of bread that's so hard it might as well be a loaf of crutons--and I headed home.

I couldn't stop thinking about my encounter with that dumb a$$ GED drop out of a cashier--so I clicked on Youtube.com to watch the video again.  All I could do was laugh y'all; this "brother" could surely be my sister!  I'm sure our families spent some time on the same plantation...

Er'rebdy, and I do mean everybody and their momma is looking for ways to save money.  Gas done hit $3.65 a gallon. I went to the gas station today to fill up, saw how expensive gas was, and drove off (slowly) back to the house. I've decided that I just ain't going no damn where--unless I can walk!

Shawn sat me down last month and we started looking for ways to cut our family budget!  We got rid of all our premium cable channels, we ain't going on vacation this year and we're eating at home a lot more--instead of going out all the time. We save trips to our favorite restaurants for special occasions and anniversaries.

I was cool with all of that. Cause I know my black a$$ ain't chippin' in on none of the bills. I make more bills, I don't pay bills.  (I should put that $hit on a t-shirt!)  So whatever he wanted to do in order to save a few dollars, I was down with it.

We pulled Andrew out of all his extra curricular activities, dropped the $300 tumbling class (that was only one day a week for 30 minutes a day--and all it did was got him sick cause they ain't clean up the equipment after each session).  We stopped swimming lessons and we're gonna just fill the bath tub up and let him kick around with some little floaters on his arm.

Again, I ain't have no problem with that. Andrew and I got enough free stuff that we can do in order to keep us busier than a one-legged man in an a$$ kicking contest. 

But, it was his modifications to the cell phone plan that have me needing to go into rehab.  I lovesssssssssss to talk (as if y'all couldn't tell). I talk in my sleep, I talk on the way to bed, I talk when I wake up in the morning. I talk to myself and even laugh at my own damn jokes--I don't even need anybody else to listen (although it would be nice)!  I been talking since I came out of the womb--and I ain't shut up since day 1!

And I love chatting on the phone with my girlfriends. I ain't got but a few damn friends, but I like talking to them when I feel like it.  But being a stay at home mom doesn't afford me much of an opportunity to carry on phone conversations.  And since all my friends are spread out all across the globe (Alicia in DC, Chris in Arkansas, Chevel in New Orleans, Tina in Colorado, Fanchon in Texas, Angela in Houston, Marty in Louisiana, my sister in North Carolina, and Tamara in Ohio); the only mode of communications we got is the phone.  But I can't just call when I want to, I have to "plan" phone calls since Andrew is getting "up in age". Cause he waits until I get on the phone to start acting a fool.  I got a good three minutes of "Hey girl! How are you doing?" before my little angel transforms into a gremlin and starts kicking my a$$!  Leaving me unable to find out what's going on with who!

Normally, the only time I can get some good adult conversation on the phone is on the celly in the car.  Andrew has his baby music playing, a book in his lap and some peanut butter cookies in his mouth. He could care less whether I'm on the phone or not.  So we're usually riding down the freeway, running errands, when I can actually find out what's going on with my girlfriends, catch up on every-body's gossip, and get a chance to unload on someone else about MY problems for a change! 

But my husband, in his attempt to save a few dollars, has changed our cell phone plan.  We normally split 1,500 minutes between the two of us on Sprint.  But, in an effort to get the bill under $100 a month, we now split 500 minutes per month.  Now, let me tell you why this is a problem: I looked at all the past bills, I talk between 1,100 and 1,200 minutes.  Shawn only talks about 150 minutes a month.  There is no way I can cut my talking in half, let alone eliminate two-thirds of the cell phone conversations that I normally have on a regular basis!

He sends me daily text messages to remind me that we are now splitting 500 minutes--and that I shouldn't "linger" on the phone. It's for emergencies only!  And I had better find some friends who are on the Sprint network--or wait until I get home to call them.  Cause I can't call nobody on my damned phone anymore...

Man, yesterday, Andrew and I did a lot of riding around, I was sweating like a hooker in church! I wanted to pick up the phone and call my friend Audrey to tell her about a joke I'd heard.  Then, I wanted to talk to Fanchon about sending her "God-child support check" for Andrew so I could buy his pampers and wipes.  After that, I remembered that I needed my momma to send me my birth certificate for something.  But I couldn't call nobody! All I could do was look at the phone and sweat.  Then I started shaking. I was sick y'all--I think I got a fever, but I know I had a head ache and my stomach was twiste in knots.  I wanted to pick up that phone and call SOMEBODY, ANYBODY!  But all my girlfriends are on T-Mobile or AT&T! We the only damn people we know on Sprint!

So I'm driving and I'm looking at the phone, and the phone starts talking to me like "Hey girl, pick me up--dial 10 numbers, call your grandmother and check on her. You  now she needs to hear from you."

I shook it off as just a lack of sleep and food. I didn't eat all day yesterday!  But then, the phone tapped me on the damn shoulder and said "Ooh, you need to call your cousin MeMe in Houston.  Cause she'd know for sure if Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon are married.  Plus I hear she's got some juicy gossip about Beyonce and Jay-Z!"

At that point, I started breaking out in hives!  My skin bumped up like I had been bathing in poison ivy.  I had to pull over to the side of the road and put my head between my legs and breathe in a bag. I was having a full blown panic attack. I wanted to talk on the phone. I would have slapped my own momma in the face in order to get a 5 minute conversation with a grown-up today!

I don't know how I'm going to keep up with this pace.  The plan started May 1st and it ain't even been a good week, and I'm ready to throw in the towel...

Why is it that when you go to the store these days, you gotta have all your money at once? That seems so unfair.

I remember being a small kid--my momma would go to Wiener's Department Store in Houston and get all our clothes for the entire school year.  Only thing it was January and the new school year didn't start until September--no need to be alarmed though--cause she put everything on Lay-A-Way! 

Same deal with Christmas--momma would go out to K-Mart around October and get everything we had on our list--she'd take it to the back of the store and put it on Lay-A-Way!  And come Christmas, we'd have our presents...

For those of you who don't know... Lay-A-Way was the black woman's friend back in the day when you had bulk shopping to do! You'd go to the store, get everything you needed, go to the back and set up a payment plan to pay on things "in time" until they were paid in full. At that time, you'd pick up your items and go on your merry way.  And there were no restrictions to the amount of money you had to put down for your Lay-A-Way!  I remember my momma would get about $300 or $400 worth of Christmas gifts for me and my brother--and put $1 down to hold all the toys until she paid them off.  Now THAT'S the kind of shopping I'm talking about.

Now, when I go to the store to get something for Andrew, I gotta have all the money up front--otherwise, we ain't getting out of the store with what we need.  Sometimes, I ain't got all the cash on hand--and instead of laying it away, a sister got to write a hot check and pray it floats until pay-day-Friday.  I shouldn't have to be under that kind of pressure--especially when Lay-A-Way is at my disposal!

I think somebody should bring Lay-A-Way back so that moms and dads on a budget can provide for their families.

And if you ain't got enough money... the cashier wants you to fill out an application to get an "in store credit".  I flipped out when I found out Babies R Us has a credit card.  Back in the day, K-Mart ain't have no credit card--they ain't need one--cause they allowed poor folks to lay away their items until they were able to pay 'em off.

I think I'm gonna write my congressman--tell him to pass a Lay-A-Way bill--so that folks living from pay-check-to-pay-check can get the stuff they need for their kids.

The flight to Houston from Minneapolis ain't but 3 hours, and I've spent the last four hours searching for airfare on line that I can afford. Ain't that a damn shame? I am spending more hours LOOKING for fares than the plane ride actually is!  And I've gone to all the search engines, looking at alternating dates--even looked at different cities--hell, at this point, I'd have to drive to Canada to fly to Houston in order to be able to afford it. FOR REAL, it's cheaper if I drive to Canada, park, get on a plane and fly to Texas.

At first, I had standards, I'd only fly Continental Airlines. They have free refreshments and they give you a pillow and a blanket.  Plus, they got a cool new fleet of jets that have televisions and in-flight movies.  But then, I had to lower my standards and dip into Sun Country Airlines.  They make you load your own damn bags on the plane.  They don't even tell you on the intercom when the plane is taking off, you just better be looking, when you see the engine crank up, you'd better run out there and hop on board.  Ain't no flight attendants either--you gotta fix your own drinks--the bar is self serve!  You gotta bring your own toilet paper and hand soap for the restrooms. It's like riding a Greyhound bus with wings!

And there is no low cost carrier here in the Twin Cities--ain't no Southwest Airlines! Cause Northwest Airlines has a hub here--and I hear tales that in their agreement that they signed so many moons ago, the city agreed that they wouldn't put a low cost carrier like Southwest so Northwest wouldn't have anybody to undercut them.  Northwest promised to stay in Minnesota forever and employ 'bout 50 million people. Well, just last week, Delta bought out the airline and they are moving their operations to Atlanta. 

When I first got to the Twin Cities four years ago, a flight to get home to see my kin folks was probably about $233!  Man I was going home once every four months.  But then, I noticed a trend, air fare kept going up and up and before I knew it, a few years later, the price was $380.  I told myself "Alright, I'll go home less frequently and for emergencies only."

Then, before I knew it, flights were $450, at that point I declared, "It'd be cheaper if we just drove down south." Until gas prices were predicted to go over $4 a gallon this summer. 

And now, I go on line tonight, to try to get to Houston so I can hang with my momma 'nem for 4th of July (and dip down to New Orleans for a few days and catch the Essence Music Festival), and everybody, even old raggedy a$$ Sun Country Airlines wants $550 a ticket.  And that's if the plane stops for gas and give the pilot a chance to take a cigarette break in Chicago or some damn where!  It's not even a direct flight for that price.

I thought "Surely, this must be an error."  So I went on line to all the search engines and it is so for real.  I can not get to Houston to see my momma for less than a grand.  I have been looking on line since midnight, I ain't been to sleep y'all--cause I ain't believing this $hit!  I thought surely, if I stayed on line long enough, I'd find a deal--NOT!

Needless to say, I won't be seeing my momma or daddy any time soon.  Man, the cost of a flight is breaking up black families like slavery.  Remember in the television movie "Roots", black folks would get separated and sold from one plantation to the next--never seeing their kin again?  Well, that's what the airlines are doing!  I'm on the Minneapolis plantation, my momma is on the plantation in Houston--and ain't no way I'm gonna see her unless'en I get my black a$$ on the underground railroad, also known as Amtrak!

And even Amtrak is raising their ticket prices.  Last year, just for fun, we were looking at riding the train to Chicago, to visit Shawn's Uncle Sam, and it was probably about $60 a piece.  Mannnnnnnnnnn, we looked at that same damn ticket two days ago and it's triple that price! 

I'm just frustrated, and I can't be the only one.  These airlines are backing folks into a corner and we're gonna come out swinging--and find creative ways to beat the system!  I thought about putting all of us in a FedEx box with bubble wrap around Andrew so he wouldn't get damaged--and shipping us overnight!  Then Shawn entertained the idea of stowing away--put Andrew in a little doggy carry on cart with some snacks and water inside--I'd get in a hanging garment bag and since Shawn is more limber than I am (he does yoga and aerobics), he'll fold himself up and get in a large suitcase!

Y'all playing, but I'm serious! Drastic times call for drastic measures.  I'm gonna go upstairs and get a few hours of sleep before Andrew wakes up--then I'm gonna see if he can still fit that pug costume from last Halloween.

OK, so the other night, Shawn wanted authentic Mexican food!  That meant one thing: a trip to St. Paul's Super Mercado on Caesar Chavez Blvd.  I love going there because they always have the best Mexican cuisine and spices and herbs that you can't find anywhere else.  It reminds me of home too!  Being from Texas, there is a Super Mercado on every corner where you can find good food--but since I came to the frozen tundra--in Minnesota--that occurrence is about as rare as a dog with a leash in the projects!

Well, so we get over there to the store, Andrew and I, and we're doing our shopping. I'm happy too cause my little 20 month old is finally over his cold. He'd been sick from playing with one of his church friends who had a runny nose and passed it along to our whole damn house. We had it coming out of both ends--and everybody was sick, me, Shawn, Andrew and the roaches.  But after a week of sleepless nights, $200 on prescriptions and three visits to the pediatrician, we were finally cleared for take off.

The trip to the Super Mercado was our first outing since Andrew was able to breathe clearly without his nebulizer treatments every four hours.  We get in the store and he's kicking over the pinatas and running up and down the aisles playing.  I'm picking up my Mexican cheese and the beef that I love so much that they pre-season that's so spicy just the smell alone makes your mouth water and your nose run!  It wreaks of peppers!

So we get up to the counter to pay for the items and the damned cashier sneezes in her hands, wipes her fingers on her shirts and proceeds to ring us up. I grabbed my basket and told her "Oh no, until you either get some hand sanitizer or some soap and water, you ain't touching my groceries."

She ain't speak English so two guys stocking groceries saw the drama and came up to translate for her (hell, and for me too).  She quickly copped an attitude and rolled her eyes.  She told 'em something in Spanish to which they informed me that I needed to scan my own groceries.

I politely put them all up on the counter and scanned them myself. She pressed a button and the total came to $9.41!  I pulled out my credit card and for a split second I had amnesia, cause I forgot just that quick that this heffa had just sneezed in her hands and didn't bother to wash up or use hand sanitizer!

She grabbed for my card and I told her, "Oh no sister.  I will swipe it myself cause I don't trust you." 

The translators were still hanging around and they told her what I said. I was standing there with my hands on my hips in that mean "sister girl" stance ready to pounce on her if she even thought about touching me or anything that would enter into my home at any point in my lifetime.  She rolled her eyes and said something in Spanish to the two guys and they told me "She says you can't come behind the counter because it's just for employees and that's where the credit card machine is."

I told them, "Well you can inform her that until she learns proper hand washing techniques, she can pay the $10 for this food cause I'm taking it home with me. I did NOT drive all this way with gas at $3.50 a gallon to come back with cash and buy it all over again because she was too nasty to go the restroom and wash her hands.  She ain't even pull out a Kleenex and wipe the damn spit off her fingers."

At that point, I was livid and yelled out, "I want to see a manager!" 

The guys started chuckling when they told me, "She is the manager."

Child, I politely picked up my groceries, grabbed my baby and headed to the car. I wasn't gonna give her my credit card and I wasn't going to ride all over Caesar Chavez Blvd looking for a damn ATM machine for something that was her fault.  Had she been sanitary enough to wash her hands, this whole situation could have been avoided.  But now, I done spent 2 hours in line arguing with her through translators and she is out of $10 cause I refused to pay for my groceries.

So I get home, I'm pissed, steam coming off my damned head.  Shawn walks in the door all excited cause the aroma of authentic Mexican is spreading throughout the house.  He walks over to the stove and gives me a kiss on the neck.  His joy quickly turns to terror when he looks over in the pot and asks "Baby, what's that meat?"

"Oh," I tell him, "it's Mexican beef tips. They come pre seasoned and they are delicious! I'm putting that in the nachos."

"Count me out. I'm just going to run to McDonald's or something. I ain't never seen beef that lean before." He quipped, "It looks like dog. Instead of calling it beef tips they should call it dog tips. I know dog when I see it."

Needless to say, after all that drama, we wound up having Big Macs!

I was sitting around with Shawn, just shooting the breeze a few weeks back and we were trying to figure out if either of us had dated any celebrities. I mean, not like Denzel or Dennis Rodman--but B, or hell, even C, OK, how 'bout D list folks.  Madonna's pool boy, or Michael Jackson's gardener.  Prince's grandmother's sister's cousin's niece-in-law.  We both came up with egg-shells. 

But then, just this past week, we saw some video on one of those entertainment variety shows and Ruby Dee was being honored for all her work in Hollywood!  (I don't understand why she hadn't been honored before now.  Girlfriend been putting it down for years without recognition. Now they wait until she got one foot on the grave and the other on a banana peel before they finally give her some props!)  Well, there was a guy standing next to her who looked vaguely familiar.  I was like "Honey, I know that guy.  I really do. I think I might have gone out with him once."

Shawn laughed me off, "You don't know that man.  And if you would have gone out with him, I wouldn't be tied up in your web of deception--I'd be a free man right now and he'd be on the hook for your back tax problems and student loans!"

"For real, I do know this guy..."

Just as I was about to plead my case, the camera cuts to Ruby Dee and she begins introducing her kids.  The guy standing next to her is her son, and his actual name is "GUY" Davis.  He looks just like his late father, Ossie--all stately and masculine--the picture of black manhood at his finest.

"That's it Shawn!" I shouted, "That's the guy I went out with, Guy Davis, he was in Louisiana one weekend promoting his folk album, and the folks at the Convention and Visitor's Bureau ask me to show him around the city."

So I had to tell Shawn my tale:

I'm at my desk minding my own business when the gals at the Louisiana Tourism Bureau called and ask if I would show Guy Davis around town and have dinner with him.  I was like "If it's free, hell yeah!"  This was back when I was still Shawn's "outside woman" and we ain't have no real commitment, we were just 'kickin' it'!

Anyway, I picked Guy up from his hotel and he was looking all suave and smoove... like his father (who was still alive at the time)--hair all curly--broad shoulders and back--lips perched!  I thought to myself: "Man, now that's what I'm talking about.  If he don't do anything stupid or say something out of line, I'm rockin' his world tonight!"

I showed him around the city for a few hours--we toured the historic buildings--and walked near the beach.  But then my stomach started growling and I was like "Look partner. I'm hungry! We got some free coupons to a really nice five star restaurant at your hotel.  Let's go there, eat and then see what we want to do after that."

So we go and have dinner and the conversation was on POINT!  He told me some wonderful stories about his mom and dad and how much love they had for one another. How they were able to make it all these years in Hollywood and still remain married.  He said that his mother Ruby Dee cooked breakfast for his father every day. And they enjoyed sitting around the table talking about life and all the world's woes.  He said that when his father would get movie roles and had to travel for shoots on location, his mom would come along and they'd pretend they were on their honeymoon all over again.

It was fun hanging out with Guy, although he was a little quirky--I mean, a black man who sings folk music and travels across the country teaching kids about folk music.  That's what he was doing in Louisiana, going to different schools and helping kids understand his brand of music and how they could pick up a guitar and join in.  I was amazed at his level of commitment to the arts...

After dinner, I had decided, if he ain't say anything really dumb or trip and fall and bust his head on something--I'd go ahead and "give him some" (I explained to my husband long ago, that a woman makes up in her mind 3 to 4 minutes after she meets a man whether or not he's gonna get lucky.  So all those drinks a man buys--all that time at the bar lying about how much money he makes--means NOTHING--as long as he doesn't say anything stupid--he's in there.  And the funny thing is, men always think "Oh yeah, I talked a good game and she gave it up..."  Unk unh honey, you got it all backward.  We KNEW the moment we said "Hello, my name is ----..." that we were either going to let you hit it--or not even give you a sneak preview of the feature presentation.). 

But then, he shot himself in the foot and abruptly ended our date when he suggested, "How about we go for a walk."

"A walk?" I asked, "Are you serious?  We're in Louisiana in August, it's 150 degrees outside, 180 with the heat index and humidity.  The mosquitoes are filled with West Nile just waiting to bite somebody--and I just got my hair did.  And you want me to go walking?"

Guy explained, "I like to walk after a hearty meal.  It shakes my meal up, helps me digest my food better."

When I saw he was serious, I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. Before leaving him to take a midnight stroll alone, I told him, "Well my food is just the opposite.  My food don't like to be shaken up.  My food likes for me to be real still in a quiet room, with the lights off.  Basically brother, I like to lay on my food.  After I eat a hearty meal, I like to go to sleep!"

He must've been crazy, walk.  Walk my a$$, I had just eaten lobster and steak, with a helping of mashed potatoes and green beans. Then I had dessert and a few glasses of wine.  I'm colored--I was ready to lay down and go to sleep!  The only walking I was 'bout to do was to my car--and once I was home--inside my house!

It's funny, cause all night long, I was talking in my "interview" voice, so I could sound intelligent. The moment that negro suggested that I power walk after eating a 1/2 inch t-bone--I went straight sister-girl on him. He was like "Hey, wait, what happened to the intelligent black woman I was sitting just a few moments ago having dinner with."

"Oh, she got up and left." I told him, "She's asleep--and you're left with the crazy ghetto girl who needs a nap."

I jumped in my car and drove off--chunked him the "peace" sign and headed back to my crib. I slept so good that night, when I woke up the next morning, my pillow was wet.  Needless to say, I ain't hear from Guy Davis again!