It’s always here for you. Remember that.
Happy Tuesday, y’all. Onwards.
It’s always here for you. Remember that.
Happy Tuesday, y’all. Onwards.
Who are the scientists or hairologists that create the gel for those of us with edges that have temperamental minds of their own? They need to work harder. Because people like me with edges like me laugh at these gels, these silly things that do absolutely nothing to tame these rebellious follicles that rest on the borders of my hairline. Normally, I wouldn’t care. I’m the kind of naturalista that puffs my hair and doesn’t take the time to smooth things out at the front. Smooth isn’t that important to me. But then I started taking Biotin and vitamins to make my hair stronger and yay, my hair started really growing and getting fuller, but whoa, my hair started really growing and getting fuller and goodness, I looked like I lived in someone’s backyard. And with braids (I’ve had braids since December; done and re-done), if one wants a ponytail or to pull the braids back, the edges cannot shame you. But mine shame me. Every. Single. Day.
So I purchased this “edge control” gel, which a woman at the shop claimed would do wonders for my edges. Nope. Nope. Nope. The hair lays for approximately 5 seconds and then rolls its eyes at me and sticks right back up. Wild and curly and crazy. Unabashedly untamed and unkempt.
But you know what? I’m c’est la vie-ing it, folks. That’s life. Bushy edges and all. I can’t change them. There is no control.
But am I the only one? If you have rebellious edges, kindly let me know in the comments. Edge misery (not really though) loves company.
Happy Friyay, bon weekend, and onwards and upwards.
It’s the only way to explain why my bed looks like this when I wake up. I snapped this photo a day ago, moments after arising from my slumber (ah, poetry) and gazing at my bed in crusty-eyed shock. Had I participated in a dance competition in my sleep? Had I entered some kind of back-to-Math-class nightmare in which I fought an eager teacher engaged in a quest to make me understand fractions? Or had I fulfilled a secret wish to become a wrestler? Perhaps it’s the latter.
I should add that I tried to videotape myself once to determine what was really happening at REM. When I woke up, the phone that I had propped up next to me was under my bed.
Happy Saturday. May you sleep serenely, unlike me.
Been a while since you resurrected this feature, huh?
Well, I wanted to give you a break since you’re always so pleased when we do it.
By now, though: don’t your readers enough about you?
Nah, we haven’t even touched the tip of that iceberg.
Fine, fine. What’s going on with you? Are you eating tons of beef and wearing cowboy hats yet?
Perish the thought. I’ve yet to even see a cowboy hat.
A lot of people are transplants like me. And the natives I’ve met seem quite content to go hatless.
Sorry. But remember that you’ve accessed the meaner part of your personality when we have these silly conversations. You basically asked for it.
Anyway, how is your eating and exercising and all that?
Much better. I’ve resumed my regular fitness schedule, left all the donut shops behind—we’re doing well.
Good. What else is new, pussycat?
You’re effective at pretending like you actually care.
I learned from the best.
Nothing else is new. My fro is handling the new environment better than I expected.
Indeed. You know how temperamental she is. But I’ve been really moisturizing and babying her, so we’ll see. Next year will be a full-fledged summer here so she may implode.
Perhaps a protective style, then?
Look at you, giving advice!
I read enough about this stuff on here; might as well join in. Speaking of cowboys—
We were not discussing cowboys.
We talked about their hats, so yes, we were discussing them. Have you met anyone yet? You know…wink, wink…
What? We’re all thinking it.
No, I haven’t.
No one. Unless Idris has decided to start dressing like John Wayne.
Now you know what it feels like.
Switching reels: are you writing?
I am! Finishing up stories and starting new ones. All at the same time, of course, because this is how I do.
When is the third book coming?
I’m really shooting for early 2017.
Care to wager on that?
That’s my cue.
Come back! I want to taunt you!
Scene: after a premiere that I’ve somehow been invited to, during a meet-and-greet.
Lupita: Hello, [Government Name]. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for your support.
Me: Your elegance, talent, and grace are inspiriring, Ms. Nyong’o.
Lupita: Oh, please call me Lupita. And thank you so much!
Now: what would actually happen in real life:
Lupita: Hello, [Government Name]. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for your supp–oh, dear. Someone call a paramedic. The poor woman has fainted.
The Real End.
Happy Monday, dear reader. Onwards and upwards…
(*Photo courtesy of Instagram*)
This is a story about peer pressure. Plain and simple.
Last night, I pulled up to a stoplight and commenced with my usual voyeuristic observing of the cars and drivers around me. To my right was a guy in an SUV. The first thing I noticed was what appeared to be tears cascading down his face. Second thing: he was doing major, major damage to a burrito. We’ll get to probable tears later. What grabbed my attention was that burrito. It was soft, it looked delicious, and for the first time in my entire life, I wanted one. I’ve never, ever craved a burrito, or any other Mexican food. That’s just me. But the way he held it in his hands…like a beloved friend saying goodbye to his beloved friend before utterly consuming it…
I stared at him and that burrito until the stoplight turned green. Some minutes later, I reached for my trusty smartphone GPS, searched for a Taco Bell (there was no time to locate authentic Mexican fare, reader, not when my belly was officially running things), found it, drove there, and ordered my version of what I saw Burrito Man eating. It was delicious. Or was it? I don’t know. I ate it so quickly that I tasted nothing but air, really.
My hunger and burrito longing had been satiated. All was right in the world. Until late in the evening, when my belly felt guilty for what happened and decided to punish me with echoes of weird alien noises, groans, sighs, and other related things. This lasted into this morning, when I became convinced that maybe something was now living inside of me?
It’s better now. Much better. Maybe we’re OK. Maybe we’re out of the woods. Maybe nothing is indeed inhabiting my body. Maybe.
But let’s go back to that moment, shall we? This wouldn’t be your Square Peg if we didn’t analyze every single iota of what happened yesterday.
The end. The moral of the story: the eyes may want something, but the belly will only be temporarily appeased until it turns against you. Make wise decisions.
Have you ever eaten something that turned your digestive system into a vengeful alien? In other words, tell me all about your suffering in the comments. Please and thank you. Misery loves company.
…in other words, what I’d like to do to commemorate my last day here at the OK Corral. Since my adolescent gym teachers shamed me for my inability to tumble, therefore ripping that desire out of me for the rest of my days, here’s this instead.
Happy last day to me!
And happy Wednesday to you, dear reader…
Thanks to the African juices/genetics (thanks, Daddy and Ma), I have somewhat youthful features. When I was a teenager, I looked younger. When I was in my mid-20s, a woman at a hair salon once asked me if I was excited about Homecoming. Her shock when I explained that I was 26 years old–and not 15, like the girls getting their hair done–was memorable. Even in this later-third decade of life, when I meet new people, I frequently get a prolonged, quizzical stare before the onlooker leans forward and asks, “how old are you?” At a dance party last year, my dance partner asked me if I’d ever heard the song playing on the loudspeaker. It was “Motownphilly” by Boyz 2 Men. I replied that of course I knew it and that I grew up listening to it. I couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction. All that said, a lady gets used to questions like this, at the raised eyebrows of surprise, at the declarations that they would have never guessed my age. By the way, any woman who claims to find these questions/comments to be a nuisance and complains about them is trying to pull a bit of wool over your eyes, dear reader. Sure, there’s a difference between questioning age and questioning maturity (an entirely different animal), but who doesn’t like a bit of surprise when you explain that you’re older than you look? Come on.
Anywho, keeping all of that in mind, imagine my reaction when someone guessed my actual age. About a year ago, while in Alabama to visit the bestie, a bunch of us were chatting.
Lady: Do you mind if I ask how old you are?
Me (with muted pride and a mischievous, tiny smile in expectation of the impending guess): How old do you think I am?
Lady: I’d say…36?
Me (muted pride and mischievous, tiny smile vanish): You’re right.
The sheer audacity of that woman, I later raged to my bestie, who was laughing so hard and hysterically that tears brimmed in her eyes. How dare she accurately guess how old I am? I was well aware of how foolish I sounded, y’all. But that didn’t stop me from waving my arms in the air and pontificating on how she was certainly in the minority, that several people believed me to be younger than I looked. Later, after I finally came out of my age-related fugue, I joined my best friend in loud, raucous laughter. “Welcome to the real world,” she pronounced. “Indeed,” I replied.
When I was 14 years old, I couldn’t wait to be 16. When I was 23 years old, I couldn’t wait to be 25. When 30 came and many of my (mostly toxic) views about myself, my beauty, my worth, my body, and other things changed for the better, I embraced this wondrous start to a new, epiphany-laden decade. For me, I can honestly say that aging has always been about exciting transitions, new realizations and understandings, growing further into adulthood…
But it’s nice when you don’t look like you’re aging. *wink*
Happy Friday, everyone. Because I adore you and because my 15 year-old self danced to this song in my bedroom, here you go.
Other than drinking copious amounts of champagne while watching the Academy Awards when I was 16 years old (how nerds “turn up”; we all make mistakes), This Square Peg can’t make it beyond one drink.
I was reminded of this during the weekend, when a friend offered me wine at a cookout. After a few, tiny sips, I was giggling like a happy fool. And that’s typically what happens: I take a few sips and I start laughing. And speaking at a decibel only cute puppies can hear. And complaining about the heat. Case in point: I went to a swanky restaurant in the city with my uncle and brother and had half of a cocktail. By the end of that partial cocktail, I was fanning myself, complaining of an invisible heat, cackling, my voice raised as I asked whether George Clooney, who was known to frequent the establishment, was in the room. The ride home found me sprawled in the backseat of the car, asleep and muttering under my breath. You can imagine how much fun my family had with me.
Apparently, the girl who sipped the foamy parts of her Dad’s beer when she was three years old (Mom is still not happy about that) can only handle just that: foam and sips. Of course, this doesn’t occur with drinks that taste like fizzy soda (i.e., wine coolers) and/or drinks where I can’t taste the alcohol. Those do not fall under the category of one and done. Maybe two and done. But the reactions are fairly the same. Anyway, in case you’re wondering:
Overall, though, add my inability to take more than one drink to the rest of the things I generally can’t do: tumble, eat spicy foods, and engage in anything having to do with roller coasters and/or lifting these feet off the ground when they’re not in an airplane. Ah, well. C’est la vie.
Welcome to Monday. Onwards and upwards…
Either way: a win-win.
(Which one are you? Pessimist or Optimist? Assuage my curiosity and tell me in the comments, won’t you?)