“Your hair is so… swoopy.”
That’s what the nice [not black] lady behind the counter at the bookstore said to me last nite. She said it with a smile, so I know it was a compliment; she just couldn’t find the vocabulary to express what she meant.
I cut off most of my hair. Most people who know me know my hair is my thing. But when I was really suffering with my Graves Disease, my hair broke off and fell out like crazy. It happened so quickly; one day I had a head full of healthy, shoulder-length hair, and the next day it looked like I got mugged for it:
“Gimme that ponytail or eat this bullet, lady! Your choice.”
It was traumatic. But I knew I had to let the rest of it go. My medication was adjusted, and along with it, my thyroid hormone levels, so I’m feeling pretty confident that after cutting off all the damage, my hair will rebound. But I am not happy with my current length. I wore a (modest) weave for the Exhale taping; it was the length my real hair had been. But the day after we wrapped, while I was still in LA, I found a braiding shop and had these box braids installed. This isn’t the first time I’ve worn braids, but it is the first time I’ve worn them for longer than two weeks. And you know what, they’re really growing on me. People keep complimenting them, or almost complimenting them (see above), and I’ve always thought natural hairstyles were beautiful. My mom wears a TWA (teeny, weeny afro) and the majority of my girlfriends have moved in that direction. I’ve often thought my natural curl pattern would look great if I allowed it to reveal itself. It’s the “going” natural part, the transition, that’s always seemed daunting. I’m impatient. But this disease has been a constant test of/lesson in patience. For the better part of 2014, I couldn’t stand from sitting without assistance, or walk up a flight of stairs. And now, as I am enjoying the get-up-and-go ease of these braids, and I find myself stuck in between a rock and a bald place, I’m thinking that maybe there’s no time like the present to put to use my newfound life skill.
My mom is not convinced…
So, we’ll see. Maybe this is the beginning of a natural hair journey. Maybe it’s a holding pattern. But I’m not going to make a decision either way anytime soon. Relaxers aren’t going anywhere so no need to rush back to them. And I would love to prove myself and my mom wrong.
So, you’re gonna blatantly use photos of Lenny Kravitz on your online dating profile? Alright, I’ll play along. I spent half the morning messaging this guy back. Even changed my dating profile pic to Lisa Bonet without explanation.
I hear that all the time? Are you serious, dude?!???
Or are you a comic too, posting on your blog about all the dumb women who fall for your fake profile? Cause if you seriously think you’re gonna find women in America (AMERICAN WOMAN, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD) who don’t recognize this sexy piece of caramel on first sight, you are supremely buggin’. This dude didn’t even remove the watermark from the website he stole one of the photos from. He had to be kidding, right? I talked about this on Facebook and a few friends asked, “what if it really is Lenny?” Which… whatever. Plus, I know that the real Lenny and I would be more than a 20% match; I have it on good authority that we are soul mates.
I have a girlfriend who was real-life “catfished” by a dude she thought she might really like, using photos of MLB star, Matt Kemp. Not being a sports fan, she had no idea until another friend broke the news to her. ‘Twas a sad day. You would think these dishonest losers could just find a hot guy who wasn’t an international superstar or professional athlete to pass themselves off as. Exhale. Idiots. I promised myself that I’d try the online dating thing again in 2015, but I’m admittedly only giving it half of a half-hearted effort. And thus far, my online dating adventures have been good for nothing but jokes. Maybe it gets better. Maybe it just gets funnier.
I hope you’ll stay tuned.
In anticipation of the “Storm of the Century,” I went to Total Wine, a liquor store (warehouse, really) near my home I’d heard a lot about, but never visited. Because drinking alone under the covers isn’t sad if there’s a blizzard outside. Shut up, no it’s not.
The store was amazing! Every kind of wine, beer and liquor you could ask for at great prices! The whiskey and Bourbon aisle was like heaven. It’s officially my new happy place. I bought a bottle of the Elijah Craig small batch I tasted on the Evan Williams distillery tour I went on in Louisville earlier this month and a bottle of Builleit. I didn’t even get to really enjoy either before I realized the storm was a bust. Does the streets being clear mean drinking alone is sad again? Awesome, then I’ll get back to it. Below is the “Me In Your City” video I shot in Louisville. Bourbon and Bourbon distillery tours are my favorite. Check out the video when you have the chance!
Yesterday, on my flight from Seattle to Dallas, I had the most passive-aggressive pillow fight ever with the woman seated in front of me. She wasn’t using her neck pillow and she kept pushing it into my lap. Grrrrr!!! A big believer in living within the space designated for you while flying, and admittedly a little cranky from being on the road for 3 weeks, I kept pushing it back onto her side. She could have easily just put it away, but she didn’t. She kept stuffing it back in the window and nudging it back with her elbow. So it was “on.” No words were ever spoken, but it went on for nearly 10 minutes. I was flying US Airways, so there was no video screen in her headrest; I had to amuse myself somehow. Every time I pushed it back in her window, I would see her huff and puff and almost turn around, but she never did. I guess we were both being petty, but stop encroaching on my personal space, lady! I wish I’d videotaped it. It was hilarious.
Oh and in case you’re wondering, I won.
Maybe this makes me a bad person. But I needed it.
We just wrapped taping for season 3 of “Exhale,” and I had a day off before I had to head up to Seattle for a show. So I decided to stay overnight in LA with BFF Dawan, rather than fly straight to Seattle and get a room. He lives a ways from the hotel where I was staying, but his daughter’s daycare was just a couple miles away. So I decided to meet him there and ride back to the house with him after he dropped her off.
Perfect. I’d save money by not paying for an Über to West LA during morning rush, and I didn’t have to inconvenience him at all. To make sure everything went smoothly, I planned to arrive about 15 minutes early and just wait outside or in the lobby of the daycare center. But when my taxi pulled up, I realized the daycare was located in a home on a quiet, residential street, and I was gonna have to stand in front of the house until Dawan arrived. I considered asking the taxi driver to keep the meter running until he got there, so I didn’t look like a toddler thief, but I am poor. So I hopped out. Here’s the thing about being an unfamiliar brown woman standing in front of a daycare with two suitcases, each of which could easily hold a toddler: there’s no way to not look suspicious.
I regularly do an hour onstage, but those 15 minutes outside that daycare felt every bit as long. That’s why I’m not angry at the woman who sat in her car, sizing me up for 3 minutes before she got out and walked towards the house clutching her daughter’s hand and her cell phone equally hard. And I’m not mad that once she was inside, she peeked her head back out the side door and pointed me out to someone inside. I probably would have done the same. As soon as Dawan got there and shifted his truck into park, I began wrestling my super heavy bags into his trunk. “Hang on. I’ll do it as soon as I drop her off,” he offered.
Nah. I got it. We should probably go right now.
I was telling Christine, one of our camera operators and baker of the victorious vanilla bean buttermilk version, that I always try to pronounce scone the way Europeans do — so that it rhymes with “John.” Mainly because it makes me feel fancy in Starbucks, but also because I think the originator (or language of origin) of a thing or a brand is who/what should determine its pronunciation. Like Nike. Or Porsche; the car is named after a real dude. We can’t just decide to change the pronunciation of his name because we want to:
“Well, where I come from, we say it like “Porsh.”
Shut up. No one where you come from has a Porsche. Y’all don’t get a vote.
So… we’re back in the studio shooting the third season of our talk show, “Exhale” and I’m super happy the band’s all back together! We just wrapped day one, and it was probably the best day of my entire life. Better than the day I was on “The Ellen DeGeneres Show.” Better than the day Wanda Sykes tweeted “I love @ejthecomic.” Better than the day I first tried Nutella.
Because today I got to interview Johnny Gill.
I have loved Johnny Gill since I was about 9 years old. In fact, his was the first CD I ever owned. When my dad bought our family’s first CD player in 1990, my mom and I went straight to Sam Goody. She got Whitney Houston’s “I’m Your Baby Tonight” and I picked out “Johnny Gill.” He is the best singer (don’t waste your time trying to argue this point) and my favorite New Edition-er by far and I’ve bought every one of his subsequent albums. I try to catch him whenever he’s on TV and if any of my friends sees he’s going to be on something, they’re always sure to let me know.
During the first season of “Exhale,” we did a show where we had some of the hosts’ favorite entertainers as guests. During the planning stages I dropped several not-very-subtle hints that I would love to meet Johnny Gill. Our fabulous booker, Carol, tried to get him, but there was a scheduling conflict and he couldn’t make it. I was super sad and so I recorded this [wide] open video letter asking him to come on the show if we got renewed for a second season.