Ruby red grapefruit
I’ll get in line when I’m done
Please quit rushing me
I wont push your things
On to the conveyor belt
That’s your job homie
I just got felt up
My bra triggered the alarm
Was it good for you
So I’m in Detroit Metro Airport standing next to this sign in the US Airways Preferred Access ticketing line, when a not-black woman who was also checking in walks up behind me and taps me on my shoulder. “Your line is over there ma’am. This one is for elite.”
What in the ENTIRE hell?
In the dream sequence that played in my head, I bitch-slapped that lady and then stood over her like I was Ali and she was Sonny Liston. In real life, I gave her the big eyes/forehead crinkle combo and said, “I am flying first-class, thank you,” and then gave her my back. But what I what I was feeling, what I would have said if I’d had half a second longer to think about it is, “How f—ing dare you!”
How dare you look at me and just assume I’m not entitled to be exactly where I am! How dare you not even consider the possibility that in this scenario we could be equals?
I’ve been called “nigger.” And “nigger bitch.” I’ve been told by a friend that I was not welcome in her parents’ home. I’ve experienced in-your-face racism. But what happened to me today is no less racist. The immediate assumption that I didn’t belong — it’s the same kind of ugly.
When I got to the counter the agent thanked me (loud enough for her to hear) for my loyalty. I glanced over my shoulder at her and threw all the shade I could muster.
She couldn’t have cared less.
And I guess that’s all there is to say.
Get it? Cause there’s a banana in my pocket… Yeah.
Yesterday I chose a banana as my in-flight snack on my Kansas City to Memphis flight. But I fell asleep and didn’t eat it on the plane so I put it in my pocket as I was getting off the plane. It wasn’t until I boarded my connection that I realized I’d been walking around for an hour and half with it in my pocket. When you realize you’ve been walking around for hours with a banana in your pocket, you have to take a picture of it. You also have to make a really lame, obvious joke.
I apologize guys. It won’t happen again.
I was sitting on the floor by my gate in the Philadelphia airport this morning when I saw a sight that surely would have buckled my knees had I been standing. There was a lady wearing one of those super high (higher than the one pictured) orthopedic shoes you wear when one of your legs is shorter than the other on one of her feet. And on the other foot… was a Skechers Shape Up. Now, I’ve always thought they looked like orthopedic shoes, but to see one paired up with an actual shoe lift was just too much.
If the Skechers marketing team was smart, they’d ditch the “they help you become fit and toned doing everyday stuff and hey Joe Montana wears them too” angle and press forward with the “perfect if you’re in an aircast or have a little leg” angle. Whether they realize it or not, it’s what that ugly ass shoe was put on this earth to do.
It’s time for Skechers Shape Ups to step into their destiny.
I really don’t have a lot more to say about that, other than I wish you — and by “you” I mean “every single one of you” — could have been there to see it.
It was pink. Did I mention it was pink?
OK, then. Bye.
So I’m on a plane yesterday on my way to Ft. Wayne, IN and I notice this sign above my head:
And you know how you just see a word that just doesn’t look like it’s spelled right?
I stared at it for a good minute before I tapped the woman sitting next to me (a very friendly lady by the name of Karen) to ask her if the word “flotation” was spelled correctly. ‘Cause it just didn’t look right to me. I fly all the time but I never noticed this before. Seems like there should be an “a” after the first “o” like in the word ‘float’. doesn’t it? I don’t believe I’ve ever had the occasion to write or type the word, so it’s not like I’ve been going around spelling it wrong for years… like I did with ‘down pat‘ (I always thought it was ‘downpacked.’ Seriously. Until like 4 years ago. My mom called me out and teased me for days.) Or how I didn’t recognize the word ‘segue’ wasn’t spelled phonetically until I read it in context in a book. That one was kind of embarrassing but I figured it out on my own. I didn’t even have to tell you that…
Anyway, long story short, the plane we were on had WiFi, and Karen and I needed to know the answer right then and there, so I got on my iPod Touch and we found out that both “flotation” and “floatation” are acceptable spellings. Which is freakin’ dumb. But you know, whatever. Dilemma solved. But it still looks wrong.
What else is going on?…
Well that’s about it for now. I’m gonna take a nap before afternoon radio cause my allergies are kicking my butt out here. Have an awesome day!
I didn’t think women were still “doing” knee highs and skirts.
This woman at Reagan National Airport proved me wrong.
Even if you hate pantyhose as I do, you just have to accept the fact that as a woman living in this society, you’re gonna have to wear things sometimes that aren’t comfortable. There is no excuse for this. I’m ashamed for her.
She was, however, sitting in first class.
My Blackberry is back. And all is right with the world.
It’s 6:09 a.m.
9 minutes since I realized I lost my Blackberry.
This is a photo of my Blackberry during the good times. It’s actually from a blog I never posted called “Never leave home without them — my Crackberry andÂ my set list.” So much for that…
I’m sitting at the gate ready to fly back home and I’m looking through my bookbag for my ‘medicine.’ Crackberry… where are you? I looked in the small pouch in front where my camera and my keys are. Looked in the miedum size zip compartment and in the large one.
I stood up and checked my pockets. Felt myself up pretty good. Looked in my sweatshirt and my puffy coat. No luck. I exhaled and I saw my life flash before my eyes. Every club/booker contact, tons of old friends… I’m not even sure I know my mom’s cell number. Never needed to know it as long as I know how to spell Mom. M-O-M. I asked the lady sitting across from me if she’d be so kind as to call my phone in case I was just overlooking it in the bag. I knew it was on full volume because I just used it to wake myself up. She called me.
But my bag didn’t ring.
It’s 6:21 a.m.
She allowed me to use her cell so that I could call the hotel and see if I left it in the room or at the front desk when I checked out. It wasn’t at the desk. And the operator told me she’d have housekeeping check the room when they got in. “What time is that?” I asked. “Soon,” she said.
I can’t wait ’til soon.
It’s 6:37 a.m.
And now I understand why they tell recovering addicts to cut off their friends who are still using. It’s too hard to watch someone do the drug you love and not indulge. The man sitting in the chair next to me is on his Blackberry right now. I’m trying to be discrete but I can’t stop looking at it. Maybe I should get up and move. Distance myself from the poison. Or maybe… I could ask him to let me touch it.
It’s 6:40 a.m.
I asked the nice woman across from me if I could borrow her phone once more so that I could try and call it again. This time someone answers. It’s Jenna. The manager from the club that dropped me off at the airport. Duh. I didn’t even think I took the phone out in the car. She said she would overnite it to me. All is well with the world…
Overnite it? That means I won’t have it until sometime tomorrow. How am I gonna make it ’til tomorrow? Oh God.
It’s 6:43 a.m.
I have to get on the plane now.Â I don’t anticipateÂ this being a goodÂ day. Stay tuned for updates.
To Be Continued…