Craybit is intense AF.
Protecting My Peace With The Spa Girl Life
The last few months have been beyond challenging. At the top of the year, I was doing what I typically do, jetting across the country to attend the Sundance Film Festival, various junkets, and panels. In early March, which now seems like a lifetime ago, I spent five days in my bikini with some of my best friends celebrating our impending 30th birthdays. While there were whispers of the coronavirus (COVID-19) spreading across the globe, nobody seemed able to provide any concrete answers about what it meant. It appeared to be a phantom disease, unlikely to touch my life in any way. However, just one week after landing back in New York City, my chocolate skin tinged darker by the Jamaican sun, NYC came to a standstill. COVID-19 was quickly and horrifyingly wreaking havoc across the country, and the best thing we could do for ourselves, our loved ones, and our fellow humans was to shelter in place.
A consummate optimist, I resigned myself to sticking to a strict routine. This included early morning virtual workouts, working at my desk instead of in my bed, reading, taking naps, therapy sessions, and having Zoom calls with my friends and family. In the early days of the pandemic, it became essential for my mental health that my one-bedroom apartment in a quiet Harlem brownstone was my sanctuary. The world was in turmoil, and it was vastly important to me to hold on to some semblance of peace.
During my weekly grocery runs, I made sure to pick up fresh flowers to display while working. I kept things clean, neat, and orderly at all times, and candles became an essential part of my home's ambiance. There's always been something spiritually calming to me about candles. I could glance over from my couch, desk, or bed to watch the flames flicker — stunning scents wafting through the air mixing in with the cool breeze blowing through open windows.
Therefore, when I discovered Nicole Black's The Spa Girl Life luxury candle line, I knew it would be right up my alley. The 100% Vegan Soy candles came with six distinct scents and themes, Hawaiian Sunset, Radiant Love, Day at the Spa, Glow from Within, Sunrise on the Mountain, and Moonlight Reflection. The line comes in a set; each candle is paired with healing stones and a mantra/affirmation card. A cancer zodiac sign used to being on the go, I was desperately missing the beach. I chose Hawaiian Sunset, a soothing but juicy scent that intertwines orange blossom, lavender, jasmine, rose, and musk.
The amethyst crystals that came with the candle are all about peace and calmness. As I've been struggling with increased anxiety during the pandemic, while also using my voice to out against systemic racism and anti-Blackness, having a peaceful environment and a calming manta has genuinely helped me remain grounded. Though I can only be with my loved ones virtually though this time, loving and supporting myself is also vital.
As we continue to press forth in these unprecedented times, we must take care of ourselves. Nicole's The Spa Girl Life’s Mini First Aid Kits for the Soul remind us that we must do the inner work. For me, this centering work is often lighting my Hawaiian Sunset candle, saying my mantra with my amethyst crystals, and breathing deeply
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Tracy's Dog's Dual Stimulation Vibrator, Dolphamine Just Might Get Your Through Quarantine
Dolphamine is small and cute, but it certainly packs the same powerful punch.
"Hello Me, Goodbye Cupid" : A Self-Care Guide For Single Gals On Valentine's Day with Tracy's Dog
Even if you've been happily single every other day of the year — when Valentine's Day comes around, it can be a glaring reminder of all of the things you don't have. While your friends and loved ones cuddle up with their significant others — it can feel isolating to watch Love Jones for the umpteenth time by yourself while snacking on the take out the delivery guy brought you.
Even if you have a fantastic group of girlfriends who go all out for Galentine's Day celebrations — it's not quite the same feeling of being booed up. Being alone and certainly being brokenhearted can nag at you no matter how unbothered, strong, or above it all you feel. If you adore strong relationships and hope to have a fulfilling love life at some point, Valentine's Day is a reminder that you haven't quite made it there.
Therefore, I think the best thing to do on Valentine's Day is to treat and cater to yourself. Romance movies and take out are great — but you're worth going the extra mile for yourself. It might feel silly to order your favorite plant or flower and grab your favorite snack after work, but if it puts a smile on your face, then why not go for it?
Throughout the year, women tend to put everyone and everything above themselves. Whether it's work, children, friendships, and certainly in romantic partnerships, we often come last to ourselves. For Valentine's Day 2020, we aren't doing that.
Now is the time to pull out or purchase that outfit that makes you feel your best (whether it is sexy or just cozy and comfy). We know you have that bath bomb and lotion that you've been storing for an extra special day — now is the time to use it. Delivery services are great, but if you've been dying to try out a restaurant, go for it. Restaurant bars typically don't need reservations, and it's a great way to meet new people.
Still, when you do get back to the comfort of your own home, you can't forget about self-pleasure and self-love. To top off your epic Valentine's Day, Tracy's Dog, the creators of the most adored G-Spot vibrator for women, (trust me it’s bomb, I reviewed it myself) have created the Tracy's Dog Self-Care Guide for Broken Hearts and Singles on V-Day "Hello Me, Goodbye Cupid" Self-Care Guide.
To say that it's epic is an understatement. So whether you're doing good on your own or you're trying to get over some hot mess of a person, Tracy's Dog self-care guide + a self-love package to win are just what you need to push through V-Day.
Tracy's Dog Self-Care Guide for Broken Hearts and Singles on V-Day
1. Plug self intimacy by listening to ASMR Erotica
Nothing will put you in a better mood and make you flirt with your own intimacy than the sounds of ASMR, from scratching surfaces, finger tapping to explicit erotic whispering. Many people are using ASMR to relax, fall asleep to, and even tap into the undiscovered territory of self-pleasuring to these sounds.
The advantages of ASMR on getting you in the mood, as opposed to traditional porn is the freedom of imagination and the flexibility it gives you, by not having your eyes locked on the screen.
Check this hidden gem of the internet, or this Spotify for audio Erotica.
Couple with it a Tracy’s Dog Vibrator, for a next level play, and watch this combo with ASMR send you into another dimension.
2. The Subtle Matter of Living the Unf*ckwithable Life You Deserve
Get into reading this badass book, coming out on February 11th, by the irreverent Ash Ambirge - “The M!ddle F!ng#r Pr*ject”. And how convenient for it to come exactly when you need it.
This “fresh, funny, and fearless, point-by-point primer on how to get unstuck, slay imposter syndrome, trust in your own worth and ability, and become a strong, capable, wonderful, weird, brilliant, ballsy, unfuckwithable YOU” takes your self-care to another level. And no broken heart can resist this much badassery and fun.
3. The immoral Ice-Cream
Ok, stop that diet for a minute. And just this once, dig into an ice cream with the voracious appetite of a Hummingbird, that has to refuel every ten minutes, because it uses an incredible amount of energy. And so are you. Coming back to yourself, healing and realizing that you’re worth every drop of self-care takes energy, dahhh-rling. Vegan, sugar-free, healthy options are available galore, so you won’t even have to feel guilty for going this route.
GIVEAWAY CAMPAIGN!!
Tracy’s Dog is giving away a Self-care Duo: our insanely popular vibrator, that brought tears of laughter to half of the Twitter population, is the #1 wished for item in sexual wellness on Amazon and made 1 million girls and women worldwide finally close the pleasure gap. And the second pair of this duo is the book of the irreverent Ash Ambirge, “The Middle Finger Project”.
To enter the GIVEAWAY, or nominate someone who needs it, follow and tag us on Instagram @ilovetracysdog. We're here to make this V-Day unforgettable for you!
The Tracy's Dog Vibrator Is The Gift That TRULY Keeps On Giving
Like any red-blooded woman with an adequate amount of stress in her life — a good orgasm is a part of my self-care routine. Though I mastered the art of masturbation in my teen years, it wasn’t until my 20s when I discovered the otherworldly pleasures of sex toys. From my first cheap vibrator that I was lowkey embarrassed to purchase, to the higher end ones that have lived in my bedside drawer for the past couple of years — I know what I like and exactly how I like it. Though partners are fantastic (and vibrators certainly aren’t just for solo time), sometimes you just want to climax without having to deal with another human.
For women who have sex with men, it can sometimes take a lot more time to get to le petite mort. Therefore, when I was offered the opportunity to try Tracy's Dog Clitoral Sucking Vibrator and G Spot Dildo, I dove in — clit first.
My package arrived from Amazon on a freezing NYC day, and I eagerly opened the box. Immediately, I was pleased with the quality and look of the vibrator. A bold purple with gold plating — it looks chic AF. It also comes with a matching bag for storage when it’s not in use. (Please remember to wash your vibrators before putting them away.)
Admittingly, I was a little miffed that the vibrator needed some time to be charged, but I quickly plugged it up with the USB charger to give it some juice. I downloaded a bit of smut on my Kindle and waited.
Aside from its cute looks and many vibes — Tracy’s Dog is unique because it’s two sex toys in one. It is both a clitorial sucking vibrator and a G-spot stimulating dildo. (Truly, it does everything your partner cannot do at once.) Once it was fully loaded, the fun began. Tracy’s Dog has 10 vibration modes for the dildo and 10 suction modes for the clitoral suction. Trust me; you’re not going to be able to handle them all in one sitting.
I wanted to start off slowly because I didn't want to pass out or alarm my neighbors. Since I workout, but I am terrible about stretching, it was a tad tricky trying to position the suction over my clit, but once I did — My GOD. I was revved up from my bit of kinky reading. Still, the clitoral suction brought on an orgasm in under a minute. If your clit is very sensitive, I would not recommend moving the suction mode above 4 — but that’s just me.
Since there was no way I had the energy left to continue my adventures with Tracy’s Dog that evening, I rolled over and went to sleep.
The next day, I decided to pull out my gorgeous new purple friend again. This time I wanted to try out the dildo portion along with the clit vibrator. Once again, it took me a moment to get into a comfy position ( I really should stretch more often). However, the silicone material of Tracy's Dog makes it quite flexible. Also, I found that laying flat on my back was not exactly the move for me — but straddling the vibrator or leaning against my headboard worked QUITE well.
Additionally, the smooth material made Tracy's Dog very easy to insert without discomfort. Once I got that right, I had to fiddle a bit to get the clitoral suction positioned correctly, but once I did — it took all of 45 secs for me to be off the races once again with one of the best orgasms I've ever gotten from a sex toy.
Truly, Tracy’s Dog is the gift that keeps on giving.
Some quick tips:
Go slow with this bad boy, there is a learning curve, and your clit and vulva will not be pleased if you ram Tracy’s Dog against them.
I would try the vibrator solo first and then with a partner later (if you'd like). Just be sure to learn what works best for you without rushing — that's what yields results. Trust me; these are the RESULTS you want.
You can snag Tracy’s Dog in bold purple or hot pink for just under $50.
‘Tis the season after all.
Image: ilovetracysdog
Hello Again
I’ve been half-heartedly counting my MACROS and listening to Teddy Pendergrass on repeat. My mama’s music has always soothed me — brought me back to a place where I’ve felt safe and content, not more alive than I am right now but somehow less bumped, bruised and weighed down by my 28 years of life. If I close my eyes real tight, I can still see her now, driving her Mercury Sable —either the old car from my early years or the indigo blue one she got in 2000 that I drove after her death. Teddy’s soulful voice would flow through the car's stereo system as my mama sang along —off-key, of course, exclaiming “TEDDY!!!” at the top of her lungs every few minutes or so. It would be years before I truly understood who Teddy Pendergrass was a man or a musician. My life has been shaken and swirled around since those days —ever since August when I wrote my last personal post here.
At the end of summer, I was feeling unsteady and uncertain-- as if some unwelcome storm was on the horizon ready to blow its way into my life. I was right. Luckily (or unluckily) storms aren’t exactly uncommon in my life, and I’ve learned to buckle up and strap in --letting life whip me about at its whim. This latest wind brought the ending of my long-term relationship and career frustration— but it also brought a sense of clarity and calm.
Being alone again— or at least single, not having to concern yourself with the opinions and feelings of another heart or soul provides a lot of time to reflect. I've been examining my life, where I am and where I want to be. Though I've never been one to be complacent, I’ve certainly allowed myself to get comfortable, to seep into the familiarity of a man and a job. There’s certainly nothing inherently wrong with that but, it’s halted my growth and allowed me a cocoon of false contentment.
So here I am, just two months into the new year and I’m standing at a crossroads. It’s a familiar one in may ways—”Come Go With Me” is still blaring in the background— but it’s also different. Mama is gone, for nearly ten years at this point and so is my safety net —the man who handled my heart with such love and care until he walked out one day, handing it back to me as his Timberland-clad tapped down the hallway of my apartment building. But I’m still here —and in many ways, I’m more recognizable to myself then I’ve ever been. I’ve spent a ton of time alone in these past four months not out of loneliness but about of reflection, getting to know myself once again. And it’s time to make decisions—those life altering, world shattering choices that make the vomit rise in your throat and scare you shitless.
xoxo Chocolate Girl In the City xoxoxo
Insomnia
3:23 a.m. On nights like these when I cannot sleep, I lay awake remembering girlhood giggles and idols long dead and buried. My heart feels restless and unsettled as I toss and turn -- desperately hoping for a better tomorrow. And yet, my most fervent prayers seem to be slipping further away, stolen by foolish men consumed with greed and power as we are left to suffer alone, screaming out in anguish into the still night sky.
xoxox Chocolate Girl in the City xoxox
Unending Summer
It’s hot. I can feel the steam rising from the cracked Harlem sidewalks as I pad slowly down the street in my pearl covered slides, thick thighs rubbing together, and a cold brew clutched in my right fist. Usually, the heat makes me smile. The thick air and unending sunshine feel like a familiar blanket. I basque in it all like a hug from one of my aunties at Christmas time -- brown skin glittering with shea butter and tea tree oil. I feel safe on my near-daily walks to the coffee shop. My neighborhood is fairly quiet during the day, and I'm temporarily shielded from a world in turmoil --of a painful and devastating news cycle that is continuously on the verge of snatching my sanity. I feel guilty for lingering in my comfy bubble of warmth and love -- but it keeps me sane, so I won't quite apologize for it. Every year, I wait anxiously, bogged down under long leggings and a wool coat for the long lazy days of summer. Born in the middle of July, I've always risen in summer, something in me that lays dormant the rest of the year comes alive, and I feel lighter, freer and more like myself. This summer is different. Lately, I've been longing for a breeze. That crisp crack of fall air touching my skin, the multicolored leaves in the park across the street from my apartment reminding me that things have changed, that time has passed and that I've grown or become wiser in some way. But I don't know that I have.
As I turn the corner to my apartment, sweat dripping from the naps at my neck, a young girl is standing there, all limbs and big grins doing cartwheels and backflips on the concrete -- she's confident and assured, and I desperately yearn to feel that way.
xoxo Chocolategirl In the City xoxoxo
Photo Credit: Bernard von Eichman
A Seat at the Table: The Diaspora Dialogues' International Women Of Power Luncheon
The cloudy skies and crisp air hoving around Los Angeles were a blatant indication that a new time is brewing in Hollywood. On the heels of #OscarsSoWhite, and the watershed year that has birthed the Time's Up movement and reinvigorated Tamara Burke's #MeToo movement -- Black women continue to be ahead of the curve. During Oscar's weekend, various parties and events were happening all over LA, but executive producer and media maven Koshie Mills' International Women Of Power Event presented by The Diaspora Dialogues was a celebration of women of the African diaspora who are often looked over during awards season. A lush event hosted by Destiny's Child alum Michelle Williams and held at the Marriott in Marina Del Rey, celebrities, activists and attendees gathered to celebrate several powerful women who have impacted those in the diaspora on a global scale. Mills who owns the consulting and public relations firm K3PR wanted to honor women in Entertainment, Business, Beauty, Music, and Fashion.
"I wanted to create a culturally enriched authentic experience with a female aesthetic, where a mosaic of women from the continent and the diaspora can converge, bond, share, uplift, empower and embrace each other's diverse experiences in one room," Mills reflected. "This is an opportunity for everyone looking at Africa and its Diaspora to see how African women are not only beautiful, regal, intelligent, powerful, resourceful and resilient; we are owning our own narrative and reclaiming our Queendom for the world to see."
Continue reading at Shadow and Act.
Kobe Bryant's Film Mentors Are Two Legendary Black Women
Kobe Bryant is the first professional athlete, and the first Black person to ever win an Oscar for Best Animated Short film. He took home the prize for his film, Dear Basketball. The film is based on a letter he wrote to The Players' Tribune on November 29, 2015, announcing his retirement from basketball. "The hardest thing for an athlete to do is to start over," Bryant said as he stared at his Oscar in shock backstage at the 90th annual Academy Awards. He described winning the award as a better feeling than achieving any of the five championships that he won during his career in the National Basketball Association. Bryant has always known that he's wanted to tell stories. However, moving from the court into film world was no easy task, especially considering the rhetoric that suggests athletes should simply shut up and dribble. "To be here right now gives me a sense of validation," the former Laker explained.
Continue reading at Shadow and Act.
Franchesca Ramsey And Director Kaitlin Fontana On The Comedy Docuseries, 'Franchesca' (Sundance Interview)
Franchesca Ramsey is returning to her roots. The ever-poised and polished YouTuber is dressed in bright colors and sports and a bold lip in the midst of the grey and white background of Sundance Film Festival. The comedian, YouTuber, journalist, actress and producer has returned to the film festival for the second year in a row with her new comedy docuseries, aptly titled Franchesca (at least for now.) This isn’t the pilot Ramsey recently sold to Comedy Central, Franchesca is something else entirely. A short form series which premiered under Sundance's inaugural Indie Episodic section, Franchesca combines beauty and culture in the brilliant candid way Ramsey has mastered. Sitting with director Kaitlin Fontana, the women speak enthusiastically about the origins of the series. “It was really collaborative," Ramsey explained. “My manager introduced me to Kaitlin. They worked on a project together. I had a development deal with Topic to create something. We just weren't really sure what we wanted to do, but we knew we wanted it to be very different from anything else we'd seen. I loved the idea of exploring beauty and culture because that was how I got my start on YouTube. I started making videos in my bathroom, and it really came out of the fact that there weren't any natural hair videos. I needed help styling my hair and I didn't know how. I was just very fortunate that I built an audience because there wasn't anyone else doing it. Even though I wasn't an authority, I think people connected with my passion and my honesty.”
Fontana was also interested in making sure the series stretched and expanded further than beauty and culture -- examining some of the things Ramsey deals with on a daily basis as a Black woman in the public sphere. “I think that that's an interesting and important part about the pilot," she expressed. “Online abuse is something that Franchesca absolutely deals with. One of the first things she said in the pilot is, 'No I'm not going to deal with this today. I'm hanging out with my friend today.' I think that's such a part of women's lives. To compartmentalize so much of what we're doing.”
Continue reading at Shadow and Act.
Producer Datari Turner Talks Bringing 'A Boy. A Girl. A Dream.' To Life (Sundance Interview)
We’re taught to lean into to love — to let dreams and possibilities consume us. The paralyzing fear the comes with jumping in head first is rarely explored. However, Qasim Basir strips down the fairytale with his gorgeously shot A Boy. A Girl. A Dream. Omari Hardwick and Meagan Good stand at the center of the film as Cass and Frida, two strangers spiraling toward one another in the midst of an election night that would jolt the world awake. For producer Datari Turner who has worked in the entertainment industry for two decades, it was a story that he needed to be a part of. A day after the film premiered at Sundance Film Festival, I sat with Tuner on a hotel balcony overlooking the snowy mountains of Park City to chat about the film. For the Oakland native, returning to Sundance was like coming home. “I've had six films in the festival in the last seven years, and my company has produced 30 films,” he explained. “Q and I met here six years ago at a dinner that Ava DuVernay put together. I was here at the time with a film called LUV. Ava was here with a film called Middle of Nowhere. Omari was in Ava's film, and Meagan was in LUV. Q and I met, and we stayed in contact over the years, and always talked about projects. As a man of faith. I always feel like everything happens when it's supposed to happen. A year and a half ago, Q called, and he was like, ‘I’ve got a love story, and it's sort of in the vein of a Love Jones meets The Notebook.’ I read it and what drew me to the project was that it was about two people who had given up on their dreams. I read an article that said 8% of the people in our country are actually doing things that they love, and that really struck a chord with me. So many people move to LA and New York and Atlanta to pursue a dream, and then real life sets in.”
Love also drew Turner to the words on Basir’s page. “Obviously love makes everything work,” he reflected. "It doesn't matter what color you are, race, or class, you're either chasing love, in love, falling out of love, or wanting to be loved more. Love is the thing that we all deal with every day in some way. Those were the things that really drew me to it, and then the election happened.”
The election of Donald Trump was paralyzing, his victory ringing out like an atomic bomb that no one saw coming. “We had already been developing A Boy. A Girl. A Dream. and moving forward with the project before the election happened," Turner explained. “I would say, I couldn't really remember any time in my lifetime where the country had been more divided, it was just a really polarizing night. I would say in modern day history, it's probably the most polarizing night. Everybody had an opinion about it. Qasim, he was calling me during the night. He's like, ‘I can't believe this is really happening.’”
Continue reading at Shadow and Act.
Why Is There No Black Press At The Sundance Film Festival?
Sundance is the most prominent film festival in North America with thousands of films screening each year. This year, Black representation in the programming slate has been explosive. From projects like Sorry to Bother You, Blindspotting, Hale County: This Morning, This Evening, Two Dope Queens, Francesca and many others, there are so many projects to screen and write about — effectively putting them on the world's radar before many of them even receive distribution. However, as I stood in the press lines each day, or in waiting rooms before my interviews, I was one of the only people color. Aside from Black Girls Nerds Editor-in-Chief Jamie Broadnax, and her crew, Sundance seemed void of writers from Black publications covering the various films and events. But why is that this case?
On Sunday, the fourth day of Sundance 2018, I sat in a packed theater having just screened the forthcoming Netflix film, Come Sunday. The film stars Chiwetel Ejiofor, Condola Rashad, Danny Glover and Lakeith Stanfield and tells the true story of Bishop Carlton Pearson, an evangelical megastar whose life-altering epiphany shifts his entire theology. The film stemmed from an episode of NPR’s This American Life. Though the film boasts almost an entirely Black cast, the director, writers and producers were all white. Both the cast and crew were on stage for a Q&A after the screening, when someone from the majority white audience blurted out, “We want to hear the people of color speak on stage, no more white people!" The crowd immediately quieted until Stanfield took the mic and jokingly broke the awkward silence. Up until that point, none of the actors of color has spoken. As I chuckled to myself, I realized, that however uncomfortable that moment may have been, it raised several questions about Black stories and who gets to present and speak about them to the world.
Continue reading at Shadow and Act.
Please Don’t Talk To Me On Planes & Other Requests
I fly a lot. Like more than I probably even realize. It seems like on the third Wednesday of every month; I’m sitting at some gate in LaGuardia Airport, clutching my beloved medium Dunkin Donuts coffee (cream and two Splendas) while dreaming up all the ways I’m going to spend my per diem at the hotel I’m going to check into. I’m not a fan of flying by any means. In fact, when my mother was dying during the first half of my college years, I developed a phobia of flying that made even the thought of it crippling. Each flight ended with a long and unpleasant time in the bathroom while I tried to calm my stomach and nerves back in formation. Luckily, for the sake of my sanity and my career, I got over that. Nowadays if I’m not going home to Chicago or on some exotic Groupon vacation that I’ve booked with my sister or bestie, I’m usually traveling for work (ie: someone is paying me to go fly somewhere (usually to like Los Angeles or Atlanta or whatever but I’m not complaining) to watch a movie or show, interview some celebs, write about that shit and take long luxurious baths in the tubs at five star hotels). It’s a pretty kick-ass gig and fits right in with my bougie lifestyle (even though in real life I’ve lived in the same box in Harlem for the past six years with my variety of Raid sprays to kill any and every bug that may infiltrate my bubble.)
To get back on topic, the trip thing in itself is quite a delight, and it makes me feel all adult and professional to say that I’m traveling for business. (Sometimes if I’m feeling extremely Whitley Gilbert, I’ll even upgrade to First Class, but only if it’s for a flight over four hours and it’s less than $79.99… let’s not get crazy.) However, the trip itself and the fellow creatures that pretend that they’re human beings usually like to make my life miserable on planes. It’s one thing if you’re under five and can’t control yourself, but it's usually grown folks who are the absolute worst.
All I want to do on flights is listen to Brandy’s Greatest Hits Album, work a little (because bills) and read whatever that latest filthy novel is that I’ve downloaded on my Kindle on the dimmest setting possible. (NO CARL I don’t want to tell you what I’m reading!!!) Instead, I'm usually forced to sit next to Mildew John (washing machines are not a new invention) or Patrick or Mable who tells me she reminds me of her granddaughter or well-meaning Beth Ann who wants to strike up a conversation with me. Listen, I’m almost polite to a fault. I’m always going to nod and smile and listen to your tragic tale of how you're visiting your sister Betsey for the first time in five years, and you’re going to go to Cracker Barrel or whatever or how you find that it’s so intriguing that I can actually LIVE in New York. Mostly, I would rather be getting my pubs waxed or getting my annual gyno exam instead of listening to you. It has also become increasingly more difficult to be nice to Dwights I don’t know since ya’ll ruined everything and elected Dump. I really can’t trust you at all, and I would rather sit in silence than have to try and figure out who you voted for Even when you think you get lucky on a long ass flight to LA in coach, and there is no one in the middle seat, someone makes it an ordeal. Why is it acceptable for you to take off your filthy Berkinstocks Paul, and put your BARE FEET on the seat between us? I wish I were watching the news instead. But by far, the worse offense of plane traveling is this new age bullshit where Sally and Gereldene from row 6998Z run their desperate asses to the front as soon as the plane parks even though 4 million people are in front of them and we’ve gotten to the gate 30 minutes early. I hate you. (But I’m tragically too nice to ever say some shit like that. )
xoxoxo Chocolategirl in the City xoxoxo
27....I'm F*ckin 27
My knee is throbbing. As I write this, I am currently propped up on my fluffy queen-sized mattresses with my right leg elevated — a makeshift ice pack from some juice cleanse I did in the past two years rests on my knee. The offending knee is wrapped in the ace bandaged I got that time I almost broke my toe. The Golden Girls is playing on my TV in the background. I'm in pain, but I'm happy. Like really really happy. Like almost fuckin' tickled pink. I'm 27. I'm damn near 30 which is both odd and slightly thrilling because I feel like I've done a half way decent job of keeping myself alive a thriving without my mother for almost a whole ass decade. Who would have thought? I'm a bit hungry at the moment because I'm on Weight Watchers. According to my Fitbit I gained 20lbs from April 2015 -Oct 2015 and I've been carrying them around with me for almost two years and I'M OVER IT!! I've actually started cooking again, and I don't hate it (sometimes) because that's the only way you can ever really know what you're eating. The last six months of my life has been another one of those exhausting roller coaster rides that make me one to vomit scream, laugh and cry all at once. Even my therapist was alarmed about the swift changes that seem to come rushing in at me. I've gotten used to it now I think.... I've at least gotten used to managing things better.
So I'm laying here with a f*cked up knee because, "No Aramide, running 4 miles randomly when you've barely been running two because you want the weight to fall off faster even though your body is telling you to sit your ass down is not a good idea!" This is only the third thing I've written in like two weeks, and it feels glorious AF. On Monday I start a new job that has literally NO OFFICE. I'm headed to Jamaica, Tennessee, Atlanta, (possibly NOLA), and Greece in the next three months, and I'm finally sleeping soundly (except when I get up to pee because I drink more water than should be humanly possible) without my trusty melatonin gummies.
So how did I get here? With a busted knee, a smile and two weeks of almost no writing? I won't get into it all now. I'm sure I have a series of vignettes in me that will spill about the page at one point or another so instead I'll just give you a glimpse at the tornado that has been my life since Feb.... and it hasn't been all bad. I try not to complain, so I def see and acknowledge the good bits, but sometimes, I wonder how I'm still standing. (I'm mean right now I'm not so....)
In February, a couple of weeks after I'd returned from my first trip to the Motherland (South Africa is lit FYI!), I was unceremoniously laid off from my job. It was the longest I've ever been at one job. A year and a half of my life (legit all of 2016) where I was underpaid and did too much, but I loved the people and the flexibility, and I was determined to ride it until the wheels fell off. I knew the layoff was coming, and I was even offered a job at a huge name online publication within a couple of weeks, but I was over the shitz, and the grind and office life so turned it down. (You only live once right?!) Oh btw in the midst of this my doctor found a lump in my boob (which if I'm being honest wasn't all that surprising because of my family history) and they also thought there was a leaky valve in my heart. This is the best news to hear when you are newly unemployed and without health insurance and just trying to squeeze in your annual physical before the folks at the doctor's office realize your insurance card is actually now garbage. (Luckily both of those things turned out not to be anything, and I rarely think about them. Kind of.)
Then I was offered another job. A dream job —one that I never ever wished I could get that got my name in print. I interviewed a ton more celebs, got to go to events and make connections, my name was on a gazillion VIP email lists, and it was all great for the 'gram, but I was anxious and exhausted and overworked and hating it. There was good shit in the midst of that obviously like this man person that I adore, and recognition and finally making decent money (by NYC standards). But I spent a lot of time crying at my desk, or lying awake at 2 a.m. or hiding in the bathroom, or venting to my sister. My mom's oldest sister also died in the while all of this was happening, and I felt too numb to even grieve for my Auntie. This was the same woman I'd just seen a few months before, who'd taken me to Disney World for the first time and who ALWAYS sent me birthday cards. I got one this year too even after she was gone.
I've done this before. I've been trapped in circumstances that didn't elevate me I was 22 and 23, and 24. It was terrible, and trash and I learned then that FOR ME, my professional life has to be in sync with my personal life for me to thrive. We spend so many hours at work that if you aren't happy, or thriving, it will seep into other aspects of your life. For no reason, you'll be lying in bed on blissfully gorgeous summer Saturday thinking only of how much you don't want Monday to come, or cussing out your thoughtful and caring man person over dinner choices. I've been in NYC for nearly a decade, and I KNOW that this city is too hard to do when you're depressed. Hell life is too hard to sit in that sort of dark cloud when you can do something about it. (I recognize that sometimes there is nothing you can do about it.)
So...I did what I had to do, something that used to take me a lot longer to do in my early twenties. But at 27, I chose myself. It was my only option. I know now that dreams change, shift and evolve and that's what makes life... well the thing that it is. Sometimes you get everything you thought you wanted and it's really nothing at all.
I've been euphoric —except for those 24 hours last weekend that were actual hell (and as long as I avoid the news) ever since.
xoxo Chocolate Girl in the City xoxoxo
** cue SZA's "20 Something" ***
My Daddy, The Muslim Immigrant
My dad has been gone exactly four years now, buried in the hard earth on a bitterly cold day in February, I nearly fell to my knees as I watched that plain pine box getting lowered into the ground.
You see, he was the smartest man I've ever met; his brain working at the speed of light to compute numbers and figures. He was always reading and absorbing information; talking (or shouting) to his friends and family members when discussing policies, politics, and statistics. I feared him as much as I was enchanted by him. I was born the year my father turned forty-two. He had a whole big life before I even took one breath in this world.
At nineteen he was saying goodbye to his friends and loved ones in Lagos, Nigeria, bound for Howard University. Before he could return to his house and embark on his voyage to America, my grandfather collapsed and died; my daddy never got to say goodbye.
He never spoke to me much about his childhood and adolescence. I knew that school came easily to him as it often did for me. (Though his love for mathematics was something he neglected to pass down to his children.) Instead of attending classes at HU, he often made the journey from D.C. to New York to party with friends; returning to class only to ace his midterms and final exams. I found his diploma for his Ph.D. in mechanical engineering folded and stuffed into dusty filing cabinet the summer my sister and I sold our childhood home.
He moved to Chicago at some point, and lived in a pristine apartment on the north side; at least that's what my mother told me he was doing when they met. Though he was always a practicing Muslim, he became more devout as I got older; beer disappeared from our fridge, and his prayers, coming from our TV room often comforted me on early mornings or late nights when I tossed and turned in my double bed. To this day, the music and sounds from the five daily prayers coming from the mosques in Harlem often put me at ease on warm summer days when my windows are cracked, and my anxiety threatens to get the best of me. It's as if my dad is there holding my hand.
We got along mostly he and I, until we didn't, having major blow up fights once every other year or so, his stubbornness and my disdain for authority clashing viciously; threatening to set our home ablaze. (When I was 12, he drilled the door to my room close; my punishment for lying. When I was 14, he tried to spank me for defying him. When I was 21, I told him I would never forgive him for how he treated my mother, her loss, so painfully crippling and raw even now. Her final diagnosis was perhaps the one time I ever saw my daddy cry.
He was so grand, and so big, at only 5 foot 9 or 10 (though he swore he stood six feet tall). Like me he often retreated into himself, thinking and observing; his calm scrutiny running parallel to my frantic energy.
Born in the late ‘40s, daddy had his work cut out for him raising two little girls on the South Side of Chicago during the ‘90s. Education was his top priority, and during the week, it was all about books. However, many Friday nights during my adolescence were spent perusing the shelves at Hollywood Video store; arguing with my sister about what films we’d rent for the weekend. My daddy sparked my love of film, one that has shaped and transformed my life.
He was and still is perhaps one of the most God-fearing people that I've ever met. He painstakingly taught himself how to read Arabic and took The Hajj in the fall of 2010; the same year my mother drew her last breath.
He didn't become as US citizen until 2008, grasping on to his Nigerian roots despite his forty long years in America. His roots and story are things I know too little about. The two times he voted in a US Presidential election were for a man who looked like him, a man whose name Barack, feels as foreign to many as Segun did and as Aramide does.
Though I've known what it means to be Black in this country for well over two decades now, I have never been more disgusted than I am with the US as I've been in the past year. As the election results rolled in on November 9th, my stomach rolled in horror; that sinking filthy feeling has not yet left my body, but at that moment, I did thank God, Allah, and Jesus that my father was not here to witness such an atrocity.
He was 64 years old when he died, colon cancer shrinking his body down, taking him peacefully in the dead of a wintery night, his mind sharp until the very end.
He was not a perfect man, he was hard and unyielding often, but he was my friend and my teacher, he taught me how to pray and he gave so much, though sometimes it was not enough. He was not simply just a man, or a father, or a Muslim, or Black or Nigerian and he deserved much more than what this place has become.
At The Edge Of The Year
On winter days just after the holiday season has come to a close I find myself
alone, braless with bare feet,
invitations to brunch turned down, relationships ended.
My shea butter coated arms elbow deep in scalding hot water as coffee brews in the background.
I stand over the sink, scrubbing my breakfast dishes, the window cracked just slightly billowing in gusts of frigid air,
I smile, and I think to myself; there she is; that woman you thought you'd left behind.
xoxoxo Chocolate Girl in the City xoxoxo
Summer Fling
On a warm evening in early September, we said goodbye. I stood outside of my apartment building clinging to you, desperate to memorize your scent and the way your body felt molded against mine. All those months earlier, I'd jumped out of an Uber in the middle of a rainstorm in Harlem, nonchalant and unexpecting. You "got" me from the jump, your sexy stoic nature, matching my whimsical and often outlandish one. Over Sylvia's Soul Food right off of 125th street, I felt my soul reconnecting with an old friend. I was so floored by that feeling that I told you then, on that first date (never one to hold much back) and you laughed, taking no offense because you inherently understood. Long winding walks through the Bronx zoo, pizza and Disney flicks, and milkshakes. The reverence that you showed me and my brown skin, kisses at 4 am, back rubs and black silk sheets and so much freedom to speak; to be me. I floated through those long sticky days; secret smiles a constant on my face.
I've always thought summer had magical qualities, (perhaps it's because I was born in the middle of July), and that proved true because it brought me you. As I sit in silence now, the scent of my zillion candles wafting through my apartment, I can still see you and hear you; as if your arms were still around me. That loud laughter that you always inspired; bubbling up inside of me begging to be released; desperate to be released.
That's the thing about flings, though; they exist in a magical snow globe of sorts; encasing you in protectively from the world as all of that marvelous joy swirls around you. But inevitably you shake the globe too hard and the glass cracks, splintering up the sides until it shatters completely; leaving you bare and exposed; but wistful and longing nonetheless.
xoxoxo Chocolate Girl in the City xoxoxoxo
Image: 20th Century Fox/Carmen Jones
The Things I Wish You Knew (Here's To 26)
As a little kid, I wore my cotton textured hair in braids with beads. Every month or so, a 20-something girl would come to my house and I would sit between her legs as she parted and plaited my hair. The large Tupperware container containing my dozens of colored beads resting at my feet. The ends of my hair were always wrapped in foil, the old school method to prevent the beads from tumbling off my interlaced ends. In first grade, for one reason or another, I went to school with two Afro puffs atop my head; for once, my hair was free and flowing; and I remember hating it. That day during art class, I took my scissors and bit by bit, hacked away at one of the puffs until there was nothing but a nub left. It was the first time I can recall hating something about myself. Twenty years have passed, but that memory sticks out to me vividly, as if I was watching it on my smart TV. My mother's look of horror and anguish as she came in my classroom to get me at the end of the day. Her own locs long and flowing past her shoulders. I wouldn't like the way my natural hair looked again until I could legally drink. Over the years it would consume me, the hair on my head. I cried on my way to picture day in seventh grade. The previous evening I'd sat in a stifling hot salon as an Egyptian man nearly scalded me to straighten out my kinks; the results outweighed the pain. But of course, my hair looked like a rat's nest by the time my alarm shocked me awake the next morning. Middle school was already brutal for me in more ways than one. I don't remember ninety-percent of it, but I remember that morning, weeping on that bus. My best guy friend quietly trying to reassure me as my 12-year old heart broke. I wish you knew how I suffered for another decade with wraps that never turned out right, and weave that was way too shiny until I'd finally had enough and decide to let it all go.
I wish you knew that my life is divided into two parts; there's a before and after. And in those after days it took everything in me just to get out of bed in the morning, to step one dark brown foot onto my medium brown wood floors. I wish you didn't take me for granted, the love I gave and the things I expressed...and I wish in turn I didn't do the same to you. I wish you understood the pleasure I take in books, the stories and the people, the characters that are so unlike me and yet, my kindred spirits all the same. My vice is in the words on the page. (Digital now, not print.) I wish you knew that I used food as a coping mechanism for so many years, finding solace in flavors instead of my spirit. I'm unlearning that now, but it's a process....will the scale ever be kind?
I wish you could take pleasure in the joys I find in most things, like the sun and hot coffee, solitude, and an old tattered stuffed bear, gingerly held together by a few strands; shredded from a lifetime of love. I wish you would take my work seriously. The work; the grind and the hustle that it takes to do my job. Not to mention the vulnerability that being a writer evokes. My flaws laid bare across the page for everyone to gape at and gawk at and comment on. I wish that you loved yourself the way that I am learning to love myself, the fullness and wonder that I feel in just being me. I wish you cherished your girlhood more because everything changed so quickly. Sometimes, I feel as if I'm still scrambling to catch up. I wish you cared less about what other people thought and focused more on what you thought about yourself. But you will in time; we all do. Still, here's to you and everything that you've been through.
xoxox Chocolate Girl in the City xoxoxo
Aramide Tinubu Moderates ‘Miss Sharon Jones!’ ‘Apple Talk’ w/ Sharon Jones & Director Barbara Koppl
She’s been called the female James Brown, and if you haven’t heard her voice yet, when you finally do, your soul will recognize it. Grammy Award nominated soul singer, Sharon Jones (of Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings) will be at the Apple Store in SoHo NYC with Academy Award winning director, Barbara Kopple on Tuesday, July 26th at 5PM ET.
The duo will be discussing the documentary “Miss Sharon Jones!”, which is set to debut in theaters Friday, July 29th. Clips from the film will be shown, and there will be discussions about Sharon Jones’ midlife rise to stardom, despite being continually turned away in the entertainment business. We will also discuss her continued battle with cancer, her ongoing tour, as well as her new single “I’m Still Here”. I will be moderating the ‘Apple Talks’’Q&A, which will also be recorded for iTunes’ “Meet the Filmmaker” Podcast.
For more information, and to RSVP for the event, please click here.
Image: Apple