Halloween 2014 – “Pris - 8.0”

I knew Halloween was doomed when the Sun rejected it.  It’s like when the world rejected Pluto.

“But you simply CANNOT reject Pluto as a planet NOOOWWWWW!” we objected, those of us who grew up with Pluto the Planet, Pluto the Dog, and just the general Pluto-ness of the EN-tire Solar System.  Ahem.

“Nope.” said NASA, or whatever governing body governs such things as when a planet is a planet and is then demoted to “ dwarf-planet“ status.  I mean I get it - as technology marches on developing finer and finer measuring tools, and we inevitably end up “discovering” more and more “stuff” out there, we have to re-define when a “thing” becomes a “thing.” Or else we will have waaaaaaaayyyy TOO many “things.” And then what?  Well then, we have a show called HOARDERS -

When I announced my costume idea to the Sun, he demanded to know, “What happened to Pris 2.0 – 7.0?”

Well – not demanded.  More like I demanded “And what happened to Pris 2.0 – 7.0 you ask?” He cocked his head at me, a look of annoyance, confusion and fascination all rolled up into one.

I leaned in, closer, to his ear…”…they’re all rolled up into me.”

To which he shrieked back in mock fear and then snickered at my robust, if not overly-boisterous theory.

Thinking back, I’m really not sure where the idea for Pris - 8.0 came from.  Once the Sun quit Halloween, I realized that was my ticket to quit Halloween.  Except, you see, maybe I wasn’t quite 

ready to quit Halloween. 

So late on Wednesday when I remembered there was a “Skin” Boat party on Halloween night, I started to get excited about the possibility of an adult Halloween, meaning one without kids.  Until the child is 18, this is what this means.

I’m thinking about clever costume ideas and I remember that I still have this ‘do going on and how could I make the most of this ‘do.  Well, considering that I am surrounded by video, technology, futuristic images of all sorts, and PLUS we are in some dark times right now, and PLUS the 30^th anniversary of Bladerunner was 2012…it all came together in one flash of brilliance (as these things often do):  Pris - 8.0. 

So - what happened to Pris 2.0 – 7.0? No need.  Pris - 8.0 is just that much better. Pris the Original was known as the “basic pleasure model”  Pris - 8.0 is known simply as "MILF" – ‘nuff said.  In the future, we use acronyms – it’s much faster.  Does anyone know what FML means?  I do.  It stands for “Fuck My Life.”  We didn’t say such things when I was 11 years old.  Then again, the Sun is much better adjusted and happy than I was at 11. 

Pris - 8.0: Not a white face anymore, because alabaster is OUT.  IN is brown, golden brown.   

Picture a scene out of the Matrix II where all of the beautiful brown people of Zion are dancing the freedom dance!  And how would ppl know I was Pris?  Well - the raccoon eyes of course!  I’d be a dead ringa!

But when I went out to the Party, nobody knew who I was.  And – a spell worse than that - nobody even cared.

“Do you know who I’m supposed to be?” I finally asked a friend, when I had received not one remark, nor one single query about my badass costume.

“Um. Scary?” she replied.  I wanted to walk out the club right there.  I KNEW when I had made the commitment to stand in that dreaded line that I was coming eerily close to hipster-ville.  I could feel the energy.  It’s the energy of  “…why do we SEE hipster on you, but we don’t FEEL hipster?”  It can be very confusing…sort of like cognitive dissonance, when you have an expectation,  a preconceived notion about how someone is, how someone walks in this world, based on how they look – to you. To clear this up for everyone: it’s the brown skin.  I have witnessed time and time again brown folks - who are NOT of the hipster variety - get a sort of automatic “pass” into hipster-ville.  Which they should, since the word “hip” is, after all, derived from the Black experience.  Whether or not they want the pass is a personal issue. 

So they are all getting this hipster vibe off me, but are also not really feeling me, so I realize I’m just gonna have to feel myself (a-GAIN), so the first band really does it for me.  Enough so that when the first band goes off and there is an intermission, I grab a vacated seat up top so that I have a bird’s eye view of the stage.

The next act hits the stage and begins to “warm-up,” part of the act is a tall, thin, black gender-bending man with an obvious wig, and a white woman with an eye patch - both in black pointy boots, both in long black trench-coats…stretching.  Seriously: like lunges and deep-knee bends.  So at first, I’m thinking, wow! There is going to be this really hot dance show accompanying more of the kind of music that I had just heard! But when the music starts to play and they begin their dance, which is nothing more than gyrating nearly nude (yes the trench-coats come off), up on everyone and everyTHING…musical instruments, the floor, each-other, I decide to call it.

Back home I think to myself: where is my space?    Two weeks ago, I stood in the center of a room full of black women of all shades (except ‘half-breed’ shade) trying to dance the rhythm of our (black) ancestors, and I could palpably feel my difference.  And I couldn’t dance my dance because of it.  Tonight, I danced my dance, but my dance got cut short by a group called the Itchy-O and their full-on grope-fest during what I THOUGHT was supposed to be a music show! 

So I ask myself again - where is my space?  Where are my people?  And then a still-small voice inside says “its ALL HERE love, you just have to sort out the pieces.”

xo

ritz

"Mom, I can see your pubes."

it's 745 in the a.m. and i'm trying to give the Sun a lecture about why it is that time doesn't stop just because he chooses to get off the "getting ready" train, and all he has to say at the end of my rant is:

"Mom - I can see your pubes."

This is a re-creation of how i was dressed, sans the leggins and add a pair of granny panties.

and before you go getting all judge judy on me about what i choose to wear around the child, know this: I WAS SHOWING LESS THAN A BIKINI BOTTOM OR MODERN DAY RUNNING SHORT.  it's just that, well, when i am dating myself, things in that area can get a little...ever so slightly...overgrown.

so sue me.

anyway, i ran out of the room in horror, made a mental note that I need to cover up in ways I had not needed to before, and I plan on never having this conversation again.

AND WE ARE (NOT) LIVE...M.M.C.P.A. is. D.O.A.

crap.  i played by the rules, except that i did NOT have a backup plan.  i had no plan b.  or c. 

Tre found the background image for the website.  It is a quilting tapestry by a woman who designs, sells, and shares all things quilting.   When I asked permission to use the image on the website, she said that she has "... given folks permission to use my photos in lots of things but never for a web site.  In thinking this over, I don't think a web site is good place to use this photo, so please don't.  I really appreciate that you asked for permission, though, as many people don't."

OK fine.  So since I did indeed ASK, i figured that perhaps she might  show a little compassion and allow me to use the image on a temporary basis,  so that I don't have to delay the site launch.  This is her reply:

"I really don't want you to use it whether it's on a temporary or permanent basis.  Sorry,"

I know she has her reasons, but I think that is JUST DOWNRIGHT BITCHY!  It reminds me of the older folks who don't like the neighborhood kids playing around their property, just because, just because they DON'T LIKE IT BECAUSE IT BOTHERS THEM.

So anyway, the website is HERE, but the site is having trouble "propagating" (whatever the f*ck that mans, so you may not be able to see it), so i have pasted images below. 

I am offering a CRISP $100 BILL to the person who presents me with a USEABLE IMAGE OR IDEA FOR MY WEBSITE.   I know it's not a lot, but I'm on a budget, and its enough to by a good pair or shoes have a night out, or get ur wig busted n nails did, or something.


got anything for me?  send to earthlynx@gmail.com

( Self) Date Night - 10/25/2014

I was playing the Tinder the other night when the Sunny looked over my shoulder and noticed my profile pic:


"THAT'S FALSE ADVERTISING!" He boomed, clearly upset that I would not present "AS-IS." 

"Well I don't have any 'nice' photos of myself bald yet!" I offered, hopeful that he would be reasonable about this and see things my way.

"THAT DOESNT MATTER!" he insisted.  "THAT IS CLEARLY FALSE ADVERTISING AND YOU NEED TO FIX IT."

So tonight, fresh home from a (self) date-night, where i was grabbed and  maneuvered against a wall by another women (it was actually quite frightening!), I decided that midnight was as good a time as any to snap that new profile pic!

yes indeed, hijinks ensued...

so here is me setting up the camera, and, as usual, it catches me just a bit off-guard.  thank-gawd duck lips are in order and my gloss is on and popping. 

excited to show off my freshly-manicured-do, i try the "pensive-side look"




....i look bored.  so then i try the "don't eff with me i will cut you in a new york minute" look:

but i cut off my head, and the angle is all wonky and shows my deviated septum up close and personal. 

in a blinding flash of (attempting to get) creative, i strike several of my best "glasses are hawt and you know it" poses in rapid sequence:

 ...and then i start to get a little bit antsy and a little bit desperate, so i pop off my chair and start to love up on the camera:

 ...and thats when things got a bit weird...

 

but i think i am settling on this one: i think it captures both my my direct nature, as well as my ability to cut loose when the moment warrants it, given the right time and place, and temperature, and lighting, of course. 

and then i ate my feelings.

and it was good. amen.

"WHOEVER IS DATING ME RIGHT NOW IS ONE LUCKY SON-BITCH....

...oh right...that's me.   well gawd-DAMN i'm HAWT!

Now listen Linda, I know those many months ago when I said that i wasn't going to do before and after, but like any good woman, I am exercising my right to change my mind, because I was in yoga class the other day and felt my flank, and WOW!  So when i got home, i turned around and took a look in the mirror and  my a$$ looked GOOD.   And since its not getting any better than this, please just let me have my before/after moment, thank-you. 

MY FAVORITE: ITS CALLED "I DONT KNOW HOW TO WORK THIS THANG"

B.A. = BEFORE AGING (really starts to set in..)

D.O. = DATING OTHER (and consuming massive quantities of chocolate)

D.S. - DATING SELF (and lots of yoga, and still lots of chocolate)

 Thank you for letting me have that moment and now I will get right back to not caring how my body looks and feels.

"I’m (not Black) and Female!"

 This pretty sums up how I feel about the event I just returned from. 

The event was titled Black and Female, and it was for "ALL self-identified women and girls of African descent - GLBTQI, straight, gender queer, etc - who share in the experience of being black and female."

 Which I had a problem with right there, as i most definitely do NOT share in the experience of being black and female, but my very good sister-friend had invited me to the event, and I have been super-eager to find community, especially community with women of color, so I really wanted to go!  

If you read one of my earlier blog posts (and please go back and do that now), you may have picked up on the interesting relationship dynamic I have with black women – a dynamic that was established between black/white/mixed women waaaaaaaaay before my time (or your time).  It’s a competition of sorts, a competition that I have always been unaware I was competing in because I have never bought into my own attractiveness – it’s ALL wrapped up in the shade of my skin.  That’s it.  By the sheer fact that I can pass the paper-bag test, I have felt like the bane of black woman's existence since I can remember!  

Anywhoo, tonight, I suspend judgment as best I can and march my half-breed a$$ into that group of Black women just as sure as I belonged there!  Until I didn’t.

There were two girls in the center of this wonderfully inviting circle of black women…a younger one with lighter skin, I would say around 7 years old, and a darker beauty, very outgoing, probably 12 or 13. 

I see the younger one give me a thorough once-over and then turn and whisper to the older one: “She is not supposed to be here – she is not Black.”

The older one responds in turn “She is half black, so it’s OK.”  The younger one seems happy with this explanation and goes back to ignoring the group.

And it really is ok.  Because I don’t identify as Black.  And I never will identify as Black.  Which seems to make some people uncomfortable because they don’t know where to put me. 

Well, welcome to my world, mother-truckers and deal with it. 

Life is not Black or White.   

And neither am I. 

carry on.   

10-4: An Open Letter to My Psyche

(well, you're all up in here, so I may as well address each of you separately):

Dear White American Women (WAW): No, I am not having a Britney Spears moment, and I am truly disappointed that you would so carelessly and callously relegate/demote/judge behavior that is foreign to you as …as…(hold please for google search -): psychotic? indicative of an instability of some sort? Mental Breakdown Material? Just Downright Cray?!?  Do tell…in all ur great wizdumb.  And keep in mind: YOU are mainstream media’s target market.  YOU are America’s darling consumer, buying lots and lots of shit you don’t need in order to fit into a society controlled by men who don’t like you.  Some of them even hate you. 

Dear White American Men (WAM): Um, yeah.  Put the gun down.  This is NOT a call for some sort of revolutionary uprising, no G.I. Jane moment, nor am I operating as “collateral damage” in someone’s holy war.  Once the hair grows back, you’ll see I’m still that “exotic b#tch u wouldn’t mind “getting to know” a little better.   Now see though,  what I heard is that the 'darker the berry the sweeter the juice,' so if you are looking for the genuine “experience” you best keep lookin’ Mister.

Dear Black American Man (BAM): As much compassion as I hold in my heart for you over your (temporarily inhibited) inability to sexualize me on a dime, you have got to believe me when I say that I truly, truly did NOT shave my head as a passive-aggressive way to take away everything from you that you hold sacred about ‘your women’ and everything you feel you have a right to demand from us, as ‘your women’ in order to make you feel ‘like a man.’   I mean, black American men were the first men in my youth who expressed any interest in me as a sexual being – I can’t hate now, can i?!?

Dear Black American Women (BAW): Yes, I get it.  I am no longer a threat.  Carry on. 

Dear African Men (AM): Thank you for always finding me attractive, regardless of how I chose to wear my hair.  You get it: bald is a legit hairstyle!  Unfortunately, there are some “things” about the way I have been treated by African men, things that have stacked the cards against any of you EVER penetrating my misogynistic-sensi-shield.  So sorry.  

Dear African Women (AWWWWWWWW): Mommy! Where have you been all my life?  I love you.  I miss you. Don’t leave me.

xoxoxo

- ritz

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