Weekend Wrapup posted on site

Ok, I know the weekend isn't technically over but I can't really focus on what I'm supposed to be writing right now so I figured why not yap about a few days in the life of K/Pixie/Chameleon/Mala.

This weekend was the weekend to see exactly what it's gonna be like when I get older and attempt to party. Now I kind of understand why Bey never goes anywhere with his "I am not gonna be that old man up in the party. Nope. Not me," philosophy. Imagine a room full of older folks. The future isn't so bright we'll have to wear shades... we'll have cataracts and need glasses.

Friday, theme song: Water No Get Enemy
I get home after checking in on my grandma and I'm doing bad, bad things to a plate of mexican food ~Danny says I'm obsessed with food. I'm not obsessed, I just like food and I'm small enough to eat whatever I want. Sue me.~ when I get a call from muMs telling me to get dressed because we're going to a jazz spot opening. I swear he always does this to me. Never any notice or one ounce of giveafuck for what I may be doing at the time. Funny, he probably does that because I never say no. Anyway, I throw on some gear and those tasty stilettos that have been occupying the pedestal next to my bed and truck it over to his place. I manage to fall asleep lickety-split (which is a running joke with my body), since Ree and Nas are still out eating and not ready to meet us yet. Fast forward through some pretty horrific dreams and muMs is shaking me. It's go time. So we hoof it over to Mittens or whateveritwascalled, a few blocks away and whew boy, let the geria-tricks begin. Nice spot. Slammin music. Got hit on by men old enough to be my granddaddy. Repeatedly. Watch out now girl. Ree was sitting there disgusted by the amount of "cackle" going on around her. I believe she said something to the effect of "I'm full of cackle," and prayed for the yammering of loud, incredibly tacky, women to just end. And after having Mr. "Just Got Paid, Friday Night" talk a hole in my skull, the executive decision was made to exit, door left.

I hopped in a cab and said "170..." and this motherfucker heads in the wrong direction. So I'm like "Uh hi, 170" to which he stutters his apology and instead of making a u-turn ~I know it's illegal but it was like 2:30 in morning... who cares?~ he attempts to circle the block, in the wrong direction again, and ends up on a one way street going even futher downtown. Did I mention that the meter is running it's ass off? I point out that he's a complete fuckup and let him know that I do not intend to pay the full fare on the meter as it is his fault we're heading for Brooklyn instead of Washington Heights. Homeboy had the nerve to tell me he didn't understand what I said. Like I'm the one that doesn't speak proper English. Was he for real? Oh it was on. "Listen Habib/Ahmad/Abdul/whateverthefuckyournameis, you have two options right now: you admit you made a mistake and take my ass home or you pull up in front of a police station and explain this clusterfuck to an officer. I really don't give a shit what you choose, but under no circumstances am I paying the rediculous amount currently on the meter." He mumbled something unintelligible but kept driving. Did I mention at this point the meter was at 8 bejeezus bucks and we were just passing the spot on 118th where he picked me up from? I shit you not. Finally we pull up in front of my building and I hand him his fare minus the aforementioned 8 bejeezus bucks and pull up the door lock. This clown looks at me like I lost the last remnants of my mind and locks the door. Oh, now it's really on. He commences to tell me what I gave him was not what was on the meter. My response? "Look here motherfucker, open this door right-the-fuck-now or I'm calling the cops, telling them you kidnapped me and when they get here I'm gonna act really fucking innocent when they ask me why your mouth reaches both of your ears ~insert sound of boxcutter clicking~ and ya betta not get blood on my goddamned shoes...."~insert sound of door lock popping the fuck open~

Yeah so I was sitting upstairs in my undies at 3:00 am with a plate of Dibi from La Marmite ~I'm utterly addicted to La Marmite, best damn West African food in Harlem~ waiting for the virus scan to finish on my tower so I could tappity tap at my keyboard when I it suddenly hits me that I wanted some slap-n-tickle. Damn, damn, damn. Here we go with the futility factor. I went for it like the little engine that could, except I couldn't. Not even a saucy tingle in my naughty bits. Finally I threw my hands up in disgust, effectively flinging the Lady-luvin-special from Babes in Toyland clear across the room. At this pointI didn't even feel like writing anymore. Besides, I think I sprained my wrist. So I went to bed and slept fitfully.

Saturday, theme song: Shakara Oloje Ni
I had a gang of errands to run, one of them being in Bk to pick up some tax forms. There's a back story and it goes a little something like this, hit it:

I got my taxes done at Jackson Hewitt, the dimwits to end all dimwits. I won't even go into the horror of the 3 day experience but those that know me got a text message about me wanting to go "La Nina Loca" up in the spot. Anyway, those yahoos at JH gave me a printout which the financial aid department kindly informed me was not acceptable so I had to go back to JH and get a copy of my 1040 (why in the hell didn't they just give it to me when I filed the damn taxes? I asked for them and that silly skirt didn't put it in my envelope... sheesh). I call the office where I got my taxes done and it's closed for good. I took a deep breath before the RiotGirl busted out of my mouth and called the 1-800-We-suck-ass number. They informed me that the tax season was over so the outer offices were closed and my records had been transferred over to another location ergo that was where I must go to pick up my 1040. I get the number for the other location and some lackwit on the phone tells me that I have to come in, in person to pick up my tax forms because they don't have a damn fax machine. Now I'm truly heated. I explain that I am in Washington Heights and it would be tres inconfuckingvenient for me to haul my lazy ass out to Brooklyn. I ask if I can go to another JH and get my 1040 there. The answer? No.
Fuck.

Alright back to present. I got on the train and thanks to the MTA's screwed up sense of timing for mandatory construction, trackwork, garbage collection, random bullshit and general need for customer inconfuckingvenience, somehow it managed to take me six different effin trains to get to Nevins in Brooklyn. I shit you not. Best part? I got to the JH and the manager told me that I whoever the nimrod was on the phone gave me the wrong damn information. I could have gone to any JH. The 1040's are electronic (which is what I thought), all she is going to do for me is print them up. Steam. Rising from top of bald head. Steam.

On the road again, I hit Aldo's to return a pair of shoes that didn't exactly pinch my toes so much as squeeze the hell out of them and got a call from muMs to give me the number of a photographer I was supposed to pose for. It included a peek into men's belief about women and shoes
muMMers: Whatcha doing?
Me: Returning a pair of shoes.
- insanely pregnant pause-
Me: Well not exactly returning them, more like exchanging them for another pair.
muMMers: ~insert sigh of relief~ Oh, now that sounds right. You returning shoes... something sounded illegal about that.
Look dammit, women can return shoes. We just don't want to.

Anyway, I found another pair of fantastical pumps which are now jostling for attention with the stilettos on my dresser. I also lucked-up and found a belt that actually fit that wasn't in a children's store ~right now someone that knows me is laughing themself silly- eff you and shut up~ so of course I bought it. I tried to buy some undies but then I realized that it's getting warm outside these days and I'm hardly gonna wear them so why bother? I skipped the undies and headed for the fish market to purchase some steamed snapper (every time I say snapper I have to snicker - I'm so juvenile sometimes) with veggies and I was damn happy because the spot was about to close and I just made it by the skin of my teeth. I positively skipped around the damn fish market. ~Maybe Danny is right and I am obsessed with food~ As I said, they were in the process of closing so fish was flying, Mexicans were laughing, an Asian man was tittering as he counted his money, drool was collecting in my mouth as I thought about my meal and generally life was good. Until I got hit with a wave of fish water from behind the counter because Paco or Jose or whateverthefuckthisidiotsnamewas, decided to sweep behind the counter and the drain was in the front. My jeans got soaked and were wet well above the ankle, justifying the world's need for high-water pants. Did I mention I was wearing sandals? Yup, you guessed it. Steam. Lots and lots of steam. 70% of my body heat rising right out of the top of my head. I cursed Juan out soundly, grabbed my damn fish before anyone of them could spit in it and exited, door right.

I had to head back over to see Gramma so I missed Danny's birthday dinner (Sorry Dan, I'll make it up to you, honest injun) and soon enough, blessedly, I arrived home and could chow down. I think I caught myself humming while I was eating. Food is good. At some point I blacked out and came to at about 12:00 am still clutching my fork. Sheesh. I fired up the old 'puter and got to tappity tappin until I g0t a text from Bee, who was just leaving her house to go to some dame's birthday party, asking if I wanted to ride shotgun. I was going to say no, honestly I was, but the new pumps practically begged me to take them out on the town. Fast forward to about 1:30 am, I had donned the dress with the heaven-bent slit that I mentioned in some other tale-0-mine, and I was all gussied up. And I do mean gussied. Meanwhile Bee was sitting parked on the toll ramp. All but 1 lane was closed. She had been there for the better part of an hour. I think the NJPA is in league with the MTA and plot together to fuck up our lives in new improved ways daily. She pulls up at my door some many minutes after 2:00 am and had the "Fuck this shit, I'm dressed, I'm in NY and I'm going out" look of the determination on her face. However, we still had a ways to go before we got downtown and there was no sense in going to the dame's party now. We weighed our options and we ended up...
at the Shadow.
I shit you not.

Look everyone, if I ever, and I do mean ever, walk my ass into the Shadow again on any night that doesn't include the phrase "I'm going out with my mom" before I am at LEAST 50, shoot me. Just put me out of my effin misery. Please. I beg you. Thanks.

It was a veritable meat market, if you like old, wrinkled, badly prepped meat. I can't count how many times I got hit on by somebody's UncleDaddy. Trust me, I'm not saying this like I was flattered. These dudes hit on anything with two legs, a hole and a heartbeat. Which was the rest of the general population of the club. Upside? It had a calypso room. I loooooooooove calypso. "Sak Passe. Drink you drink. Sak Passe. Wine pon a gyal." Downside? Old men with accents. Sheesh. So after moving my waistline a bit and ducking every lemme-rub-my-dingdong-on-your-bottom attempt made by most, if not all, of the dero's in the soca room, we left and went to the main room. Smack dab into shake what ya mama gave ya. Except I'm quite sure it wasn't quite so big or quite so flabby when ya mama gave it to ya. Please stop shaking it. All of it. Please.

Platinum blonde weaves rapunzelling down to flat asses. Knee high pleather boots, in white no less. Sequined fish net shirts underscored by bras holding on for dear life to gravity stricken double d's. 40 year old women with their hands on their knees doo doo brownin and showing their doo doo holes as their skirts rode up over their waists. Men in turtle necks (wtf!!). Pin-stripped zoot suits. Fashion gone so riotously wrong that we were the only ones out of place in this hodgepodge of "who the hell let you come out like that?" 200 lb women in pum-pum shorts. Patent leather bustiers (huh?) gripping acres upon acres of withered cleavage. Mustache pomade. I shit you not. Dude pulled out mustache pomade. Mini skirts busting at the seams. And enough bad makeup and over-rouged cheeks to choke an elephant. All this, and Bee n Me. Odd chicks out.

We giggled our motherfucking ASSES off for 80% of our time there while tossing back Bacardi Limons straight. Direct quote from Bee: "Um, Mala, is it me or are all of the men in New York short?" Then she went on to dance with a dude her height. I swear the immortal words of Grandpa Bey keep ringing in my ears "if a man is less than 6 feet tall, his manhood is questionable at best" ~damn Bey for ever telling me his Grandpa said that~ so these poor dudes trying to talk to me and meeting my eyeline was just not in their best intrests. Well that, the polyester suits, square-toed shoes and the phrase"Oh god no, you're old enough to be my dad". I refuse to two-step with a bridge troll.

Eventually we left and praise to all that's holy for that. We giggled all the way uptown. Thankfully I had left my phone home because I was in the mood which could have resulted in phonecalls being made that shouldn't. For once I didn't end up eating in my undies (especially since I wasn't wearing any - that could have been awkward). We hit McDonalds like 2 jackhammers and it was hash-browns a go go, all the way uptown. Um, yeah, we're the worst. We stopped and purchased more at the McDonalds on my block. Something is really wrong with that.

I made it upstairs and slipped out of my dress and miles of jewelry. I wanted to sleep nude in my shoes but I had a feeling that would spark a shoe war on my nightstand and I hate jealous stilettos. Sadly, I took off the pumps. I tossed and turned for a long ass time until I realized that I was frustrated as all hell. So I tried again. I fiddadled with my fandango furiously until I nearly fainted. This shit has got to change. Around 4:00 am every morning I turn it to a Canine of the Genus Horn and cannot do a damn thing about it. Ready for some altered Pink Floyd? I, have become, stunningly numb. Sheesh. Oh the humanity.
Sleep no longer in the cards, I went out for a cup of Bustelo. I love my Bodega. "Tu ta bien, nena?" "Si, si" "Y tu Negro?" "Loco- as usual". I went for a walk came back in, did a sun salutation and finally fell asleep.

Sunday, theme song: Upside Down
Now I'm at mom's, having fixed her printer and am supposed to be working. muMs is gonna shake me. I'm out...