Mr. Pitt.

Not this Mr. Pitt.

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BP

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This one.

I’ll refrain from typing too many adjectives about him or going too far with this. Just know that I fell in love with him when I was 15. It was during this scene in Legends of the Fall, a movie we had no right to be seeing. Nevertheless, courtesy of the fact that my old friend’s mom had no problem buying movie tickets for five underage girls, there I was, looking into those gleaming celluloid eyes and that golden hair and falling into knee-deep, eternal, I-will-name-my-firstborn-son-Tristan love with Brad Pitt. It was acute. So acute that I stood up from my seat and began to applaud him. (True story.) The efforts of my laughing friends to sit me down and halt my clapping were futile. I was done: officially a forever fan and poised to become Mrs. Pitt if a need for that ever presented itself.

These days, I have no adolescent Mrs. Pitt delusions, but of the few actors I admire, he’s one of them. (Seriously, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is a film I can talk about for days, if only for the cinematography and how the movie stayed with me long after it was over.) And so I leave you with a Pitt-related sigh. Happy Throwback Thursday.

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This Curvy Square Peg?

Last night, as I stepped into my friend’s car for us to head to an appointment, she regarded me with a blank expression on her face and said the following:

Friend: I almost didn’t recognize you when you came out of the house.
Me: Huh?
Friend: That pencil skirt, that blouse. You have curves! WHY HAVE YOU BEEN HIDING YOUR CURVES?!

I couldn’t help laugh. Afterwards, I thanked her and informed her that, as always, the accepting of my body for what it is will be a constant work in progress. Having hidden in clothes for a long time to prevent (what I perceived) the appraisal of my body and physique by others, turning 30 five years ago changed more than a few things. For one, I stopped dorothyzdressing like my beloved Dorothy Zbornak there to your right. For another, I started making fashion choices that matched my new attitude. Essentially, because I worked on making what was inside all shiny and accepted, my body and I became besties. And, like any friendship, we’re still getting to know each other.

But I have curves? Really?

When I think of curvy ladies, I think of lovely hourglass figures. Of discernible hips. Of a waist. Of a derrière.

I have no discernible waist, the narrowest hips this side of Earth, hardly an hourglass figure, and a backside that must have missed the memo on being shapely in any kind of way. The only curvy things on this body are the reason I hold newborns for a short period of time before handing them back to their mothers and quietly informing them that the babe is hungry. You feel me. So when I reflected on her statement, I was like, for real? Moi? Curvy?

You know what, though? I have ’em. Curves. Although I sometimes gaze at my mother and my Ghanaian girls and some of my awesome friends in wonder and slight envy at their womanly, curvy shapes, I looked in the mirror for a looooonnng time and realized that there are curves there. I saw my waist. I saw those hiding hips. I sighed at the backside, but it’s there, too. It may not be the standard in curves, but it’s my standard, by gum, and I saw some curves! I also looked at myself in the outfit my friend exclaimed over. It was a simple black pencil skirt and a buttoned down coral/white blouse. In examining the way the skirt draped my body and the tucked in look of the blouse though–I looked kind of amazing. What? Yes, indeed. And I loved saying that to my reflection, silently, of course, since I’ve been caught conversing with myself before. Anyway. Saying that felt good and it continues to feel awesome.

This has been brought to you by a square peg who’s becoming progressively aware of a physique that is far from square. Onward and upward.

here we go.

Was this post a result of an insensitive comment thrown in my direction by another woman who felt the need to share her very unsolicited opinions about my hair to me? Perhaps. Opinions. Ain’t. Facts. I cannot stress this enough, party people. Furthermore:

1. The fact that you don’t care for my afro? Means nothing.
2. The fact that, once in a while, I choose to wear a different style and my hair is all curly and coily and you prefer that style over my big, straight afro? Means nothing.
3. The fact that you felt the need to tell me that women of a “certain age” don’t need to wear their hair in an afro style? Means nothing.

Variety being the spice of life, women can do whatever they want with their hair. This means that the same freedom you enjoy in presenting your hair the way you like should be afforded to me. And despite popular opinion, I didn’t return to my natural state to incite conversations, or to provide you with opportunities to offer your–I repeat, unasked for and unsolicited–thoughts about it. K? We good? Good.

Johnnyswim

JohnnyswimJust officially declaring my musical love for Johnnyswim, a new husband and wife music duo that I discovered one morning on VH1 while getting ready for work. (Could by why I’m perpetually late every morning.)

Abner Ramirez and Amanda Sudano sing the most heavenly harmonies, my goodness, both armed with powerful voices that will immediately make themselves at home in your ear. Lyrically, melodically–I want to swim (what a pun, huh?) in this music. Speaking of swimming, so far Abner and Amanda have provided three different stories about the origin of the name of their band. I kind of like the revolving door of  tales. And, fun fact: Amanda’s mom is the late, great, my-personal-disco-queen herself, Donna Summer! Anyway, listen to some music below, won’t you?

This is the first song I heard from them. Fell in love pretty quickly.

Here they are performing a live version of my favorite song from the album, Diamonds, with Daryl Hall. Oh, and are you watching Live from Daryl’s House? Please do. Immediately. Please and thank you.

Belle (Movie Review #1)

belleposterSaw the wonderful, thought-provoking film Belle last night. I’m a sucker for a historical film, and this was based on the true story of Dido Elizabeth Belle, a biracial woman who was noted for being brought up as a free woman, especially at a time when the British slave trade was a significant part of that economy. What was also notable about Dido was that she was captured in a mesmerizing painting that portrayed Dido as the equal to her Caucasian cousin, not in a subjugate role, by showing Dido at the same level as the other young woman, among other attributes. (The link to Dido above shows that compelling painting.)

The film was so, so well-acted, particularly with Gugu Mbatha-Raw in Dido’s role, as well as Sam Reid, playing a passionate suitor of Dido’s, and Tom Wilkinson as Dido’s great-uncle. Heart-stirring and commanding performances all around. Not only do I highly recommend it, but I intend on seeing it again.

****Four out of four Square Pegs****

See it if you can.

 

 

 

 

“i was reborn when i was broken…”

As promised. Yesterday, when I heard the opening lyric of my boyfriend’s masterful song, “Lifetime,” I was immediately reminded of a conversation I had with Laura. Essentially, we discussed how pathos inspires our fiction. Creation comes from chaos. And to be honest, to paraphrase my boyfriend, some of my best work has come from being/feeling broken.

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Don’t get me wrong–personal distress or being blue or working through stuff is root canal business. It stinks. Nevertheless, since I began writing seriously, I recognized that the catharsis that came from writing seemed to make what I was going through endurable. And for some reason, it made the process of writing, dare I say it, enjoyable.

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Can good times inspire? I can’t say. Actually, yes, I can. Good times, interesting times, head scratchy times, funny haha and funny weird times–these inspire blogging. I find blogging to be the outlet I need when life, in its many facets, intrigues me. But my fiction, my poetry…it’s 90% born from those moments when the blue tint of life needs to be wrangled by way of creative writing.

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Fellow writers, what are your thoughts? While you think about it, enjoy the sweet sounds of my beau, won’t you?

Hair Lessons and Hair Love.

We’ll go with the love first. Naturally.

So I rocked Senegalese twists for the past month and a half. ‘Twas a great protective style, but the feeling of taking them out and finally getting to place my hands into my scalp was divine.

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Them twists.
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Twists be gone.

Since a deep–and I mean deeeep–conditioning was necessary, I headed to the salon and got that done as well as two strand twists.

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“Notice the use of shadow and light.” Nah, I just point and selfie. And bonus if you got that Saved by the Bell reference.

Can I profess my love for this low key style? I find two strands so low maintenance and convenient, especially for mornings when I’m running late for work (which is all of them) and don’t have time to spend on my hair. And better? Better? How much I love my ‘do when I separate the twists and get all curly. After I wore the twists for a few days, this is how it looked.

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Same face…
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Same face…
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Same face…
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Same face…
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Boom. She turns.

Yesterday, I washed and conditioned the tresses and re-twisted. When my weird, non-professional fingers twist, the results aren’t nearly as bouncy and loverly, but they still look ok.

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OK, now for the lessons. Being a year and a half into my return to natural hair, I fully expect to continually learn the best ways to feed, nourish, and take care of my beloved fro. During the visit to the stylist and yesterday when I was getting a trim, both stylists mentioned the breakage around my edges and the fact that the front section of my hair, around the sides, is weaker than the back part of my hair. I got great advice, as well, about remembering to moisturize my hair as much as possible, but definitely to focus on that front part. Admittedly, when you hear words like “breakage” and “weak,” it’s kind of a blow. Nevertheless, I pushed past all of that and decided that, along with everything else in life, these are all lessons. Specifically:

  • Peace. No more braiding/twists (other than two-strand with my own hair) for the foreseeable future, if ever. Until those delicate edges and sides grow back like the lawn in our backyard (the one my brothers pretend they don’t see), I’m leaving ’em alone. No styles that involve pulling, grasping, manipulating. The stylist who did my Senegalese did a great job, in that I didn’t feel like my medulla was being pulled out along with my strands of hair. But the edges and the sides need peace.
  • Hydrate. Seriously, I need to water the plant of my hair more. I have my daily moisturizing regimen, and I have my wash days, and I have my deep condition days. But I get lazy. Not anymore! I will drown this hair. Well, not really, but you get my drift.

There’s more, but the bottom line is my effort to 1) embrace the merry-go-round of constantly learning about my hair, and 2) make the needed improvements. So far, so good though. Love my fro.

kiss me like you mean it. (no, please don’t.)

When I arrived, I wanted to kiss the ground. Yet, I refrained. Possible hepatitis by way of the ground, even the French kind, is still hepatitis.

Anyway. Other places I wanted to kiss, but didn’t, because my rabid love of Paris didn’t mean I was crazy:

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I wanted to kiss the triangle things at The Louvre, but I didn’t, for purely security reasons. See that old monsieur photobombing me, by the way? To my right? Mm hmm.

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I wanted to kiss The Mona Lisa, but had already been shoved by an old lady who wanted to take a photo (I believe that’s her violent head) and was a bit concerned at being punched in the throat if I dare touched the painting with my lips.

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I wanted to kiss Versailles, but it’s Versailles. How much kissing would it take? Years? That place was gigantic. And lovely. And beautiful. And luxurious. And lovely. I said that. I’ll end this now.

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I wanted to kiss those Swiss mountains and that Swiss sky, but…isn’t it all incredible? Just beautiful.

Day One - France

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wanted to kiss those verdant hills and endless mountains (more mountains!) in Pontarlier, but, alas, that bar I’m standing next to kept me from physically doing this. Thank goodness.

French Countryside 2

 

 

One more. Goodness. Lush. So deserving of basisers sans fin (endless kisses).

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I wanted to kiss the Eiffel Tower, but a random backpack left by the site that resulted in no one getting to come closer because of security issues meant I had to see it from afar on a riverboat tour. Nevertheless, awesome view, right? And this riverboat tour was on The Seine! Doesn’t get better than that…

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I wanted to kiss the amazing friends who drove me around, took me on endless tours, fed me, laughed with me, and generally loved me up during one of the best trips of my life.

And I did.