To all the boys I’ve known before…

It’s the end of another year and this has caused me to reminisce. It’s also because I spent Christmas in Montreal and I visited a lot of the places I used to hang out at when I was a youngster trying to get my education and get the heck out of dodge. From hanging out at Lionel-Groulx metro waiting for the train to go to Eaton Centre on a Friday night with my little girlfriends, to Bibleway Pentecostal Church where I spent many of my formative years, there was always a boy… or boys that caught my attention.

Today, I’m reminiscing about some of the giddy headed little boys I used to crush on and some who made my life miserable*. I guess they are all reflections of me and what my mind was like during those 10 years. Come walk down memory lane with me…

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty. Plus, I have my pride, I don’t know who’s going to be reading this blog. Do you think I want one of my crushes actually knowing that I had a crush on him? It’s been 10 years or more, but still…

Bilal and Shogun: 1987 to 1992
Bilal
Never was a person so happy to be done with high school than me. It was five years of misery and sadness.

No, the younger Urban Sista was definitely not a hot girl or a player (I’d post a picture of me back in high school, but I ain’t trying to shame myself. Some things are better left in a dusty closet.) I was a nerd, I admit it. I wanted to be cool, but with strict parents, braces, glasses and no fashion sense, it made it hard on a sister. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and have a one on one with the young me. Just to let her know that high school isn’t the end all, be all.

One boy stands out from the rest: Bilal. We would see each other at Sunday School and on the bus all the time. Bilal was a cute boy – with some big ass teeth – but cute nonetheless. I heard from someone, who heard from someone, who heard from Bilal (leave me, I was 13 years old) that he thought I was cute.

Cute? Me? I was one of the happiest little girls in the world.

At Sunday School, he would sneak little peeks at me when we were supposed to be listening to our teacher. He would try to talk to me after class, but, I was too nervous. This went on for a couple of years. Bilal grew into his teeth and started dating super cute girls. I was still in glasses and had the shape of a McDonald’s straw. Once I turned 17, I started to blossom. I would see Bilal and we would talk, but we were on two different paths - I was in school and he was working at the hospital. Nothing ever came of our unrequited puppy love.

The last time I saw Bilal, he was walking down Ste. Catherine St. with his girlfriend. It was about four years ago and I wondered if he still remembered me.

Shogun
I never spoke a word to this boy. I would hear him running his loud mouth on the bus every day after school. I just kept out of his way and hung out with my little friends. One day in ninth grade (1989), he decided to pick on me. I tried to ignore him.

Shogun got up on the cafeteria table I was seated at and screamed, “Urban Sista is the UGLIEST girl here!”

I nearly fainted from embarrassment. I ran out of the cafeteria crying, with my bestfriend running after me. That one comment caused self-esteem issues for years to come.

But, don’t you worry, I got my revenge.

Fast-forward to fall 1992. The Lord was kind to me and the summer of 1992 -- 17 was a good year. I was cute – I had some stylish little outfits, I bought a curling iron and some Stiff Stuff.

One afternoon I was in Angrignon metro with my mom and this young man sidled up to me, all greasy-like.

“Yo, I know you. Where do I know you from?” Lo and behold, it was Shogun.

“Yo, cutie, can I get your number?” I wanted to laugh. Me, give that little greasy, Mike Tyson looking Negro my number? Please. I wanted to slap him in his face for shaming me all those years ago.

The Lord said, vengeance is mine. And it was His and it was good.

I looked him up and down and said, “no.” And I traipsed downstairs and joined my mom.

“Who was that boy?” asked my mother looking all concerned. If only she knew that Shogun was no one to worry about -- that boy would have had to lick my foot before I looked at him.

“Nobody.”

Ahhh, just like an ABC Afterschool Special.

Justin, Pretty Boy Dwayne, Andrew: 1992 to 1994
Justin
From the moment I spotted Justin in September 1992 working out in the gym of Dawson College, I nearly fainted. He said hi to one of my girlfriends and I grabbed her once we were out of his sight and asked: “Who is he?”

One of the prettiest boys I had ever seen in my life, Justin was one of the reasons I visited Dominican Republic in 2000 – I needed to see his countrymen. I made it my mission to get to know Justin and become his girlfriend.

Ha! Justin was so out of my league. He was the nicest guy you would ever want to meet, but he knew that he was one of the finest men in that school, so he was going for the girls in the big leagues. When we were 18, my man was dating a 30-year-old woman with two children.

We both took West Indian Literature and on the last day of class, he held my hand, looked deep into my eyes and said something in Spanish. Lawd. I nearly fainted. Don’t know what the heck he said, it could have been, “Urban Sista, you’re a real wretch, stay away from me in the future,” but it sounded so pretty.

I sent a message by a mutual friend a couple of years ago, just to say hi and he said, "Urban Sista? She's just too cute for me."

He may have been lying or our friend may have been pulling my leg, but it made me smile.

Pretty Boy Dwayne
I never found Dwayne all that pretty, but that’s the name the girls had given him. One day, I was sitting in the Atrium and one of the girls I used to run with came to sit with me. She was a pretty girl, always made up and dressed up, making me feel very plain next to her. I think she had a self-esteem problem, because she loved to pull me down and being the shy, nerdy chick I was, I let her. And I felt bad.

So, she struck up some conversation.

“Pretty Boy Dwayne asked about you,” she said.

“About me? Why?” I asked. What, did he need tutoring or something? The Urban Sista was always a good student.

“He said he thought you were cute and wanted me to introduce me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but I told him no. He’s too cute for you.”

And with that, she left. If it was the Urban Sista of 2004, I would have went up to Dwayne and introduced myself. But being the shy, stupid kid I was, I sat there and felt bad.

Andrew
My first real boyfriend.

But I didn’t like him.

My friend Shawn kept insisting that I meet his co-worker – they both worked at McDonalds. Shawn’s then girlfriend thought that Andrew and I would be the perfect match.

I didn’t think so when I met him, but I was 18 years old and never had a real boyfriend or been kissed for that matter. So I was game for hooking up with this 19-year-old guy who hadn’t finished high school yet. (For those of you who don’t know, in Montreal, we finish high school at 16 and start college or CEGEP at 17.)

We dated for three months. During that time, I would daydream about Justin. Justin and I would chat in the Atrium, my knees knocking and my heart pining away for him. Alas, he didn’t know the teenage love that was brewing in me.

One day, Andrew informed me that I wasn’t keeping up my girlfriend duties. Huh? For me, at 18, that meant holding hands and sneaking pecks in the metro, nothing more. I was already sneaking around -- my parents had promised to break my back if I got pregnant or even had a boyfriend. And with that, at Georges Vanier metro, we broke up.

But the joke was, the boy had the audacity to tell me, “don’t cry about it.”

Cry? Ha! I was in no crying mood. Honestly, I was relieved by it -- it was too much pressure. I liked the idea of dating someone and saying that I had someone who liked me, but I didn't have any feelings for him. Besides,
I could concentrate my efforts on Justin.

As for Andrew, I believe he may still be working at that McDonalds on Peel St. If you see him, tell him the Urban Sista said, “wassup?”

Darren, Charles and Tony: 1995 to 1997
In the fall of 1994, I left Dawson College for Concordia University. My life was dedicated to books, studying and I had ABSOLUTELY NO TIME for guys. Ha! Don't let me fool you. Things were brown in Montreal. As far as I was concerned, there were no men. None. Nada. Nothing.

So, I would go to church, school and make the occasional Friday afternoon run to Eaton Centre, where my little friend Marianne and I would scout boys. Summertime was a little more fun...

Darren
Darren. What can I possibly say about him? I met him the summer of 1995. I was 19 years old and I had visited Toronto for Caribana with my older sister. My sister's then boyfriend picked us up Caribana Friday with the cutest boy in the front seat. He had a gumby with a comb sticking out of his hair. That was Darren -- he said he had dreams of being a lawyer. I sighed, 'cause the dudes I had met at home definitely had no dreams. One told me he was going to play the 6/49 until he 'hit de number.' Until then, he was going to collect welfare.

Ugh.

The car was packed solid with the boys and my sister and I. My sis got to sit in the front, while I was crushed up in the back with three full grown men.

"Urban Sis, you sit on Darren's lap. He's harmless." So I gingerly sat on him -- honestly, I weighed all of 95 lbs. at that point.

"Am I too heavy?" I asked.

"No," he said, smiling that smile that he would smile for the next eight years. "You're as light as a feather."

That night, I decided to wear my pretty shoes, not knowing that Caribana Friday night consisted of walking up and down Yonge St. parading your wares. By 1:30 that night, my toes were yamming off. I hobbled to the car and Darren hung back and waited for me.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

"My feet are killing me," I answered.

"Let me carry you." The boy bent over and picked me up. I thought I had died and ended up in an urban Harlequin romance. Since when do men just pick you up and carry you to a car when your feet hurt? He opened the car door and placed me in it. I exhaled.

Well, I should have kept my breath, 'cause like a Harlequin romance, it was all make-believe. I went back to Montreal after a wonderful weekend, thinking I had met my soulmate. Now I know that a weekend and some chat do not a soulmate make. But I was young...

Fast-forward the following year, I was gung ho! to get back to Toronto for Caribana. Darren had promised to write, but I never heard from him. He said he would get my information from my sister's boyfriend. Hmmph. Ladies, if a man runs that kind of game, he's only playing, don't take it seriously. Unfortunately, I did.

At Caribana 1996, I saw Darren. He grinned at me and hugged me as if we hung out just the other day. He was complimenting me and telling me how much he thought about me over the past year. That's when I made my decision -- I was going to tell him how I felt. I threw myself shamelessly at Darren. I didn't care, I was going to try. I'm saying what did I have to lose? Maybe my pride when he told me, "It wouldn't be right. I have a girlfriend."

What?

Self-righteousness, now? Why weren't you thinking about your girlfriend when you were telling me how you couldn't stop thinking about me.

I bawled all the way back to my sister's apartment in Scarborough. The story doesn't end here, but that's enough for this blog. It still makes me angry.

Charles
It was July 1996, Marianne and I got dolled up and went to Carifiesta, Montreal's answer to Caribana.

As we were walking down René-Levesque Blvd. a green-eyed man (I would soon learn he was a green-eyed wretch) caught Marianne's eye and love (lust?) bloomed right there before my eye. His name was Chris and he was from Toronto. And Marianne swooned. And they started dating.

I will admit, at first, I was a little jealous. She met a guy, who, at first, sounded great. But, I swallowed any jealousy and was happy for my friend. Heck, at least one of us found a decent (hmmph) guy. We visited Chris in T.O. where I met his gorgeous friend, Charles. Lawd 'a' mercy.

That man was fine, but stupid.

Lawd, was he stupid. It was a darned shame that a man so attractive didn't have any sense. Chris and Charles picked Marianne and I up at my sister's apartment to take us to Studio 69. Charles was all up in my grille from the minute I sat in the car.

"So," he said, looking through the rearview mirror, "I heard you're a churchgirl."

"I am."

"You know, I told my grandmama, before she died, that I would go back to church before the prophecies were fulfilled," he said as if I was supposed to know what the heck he was talking about.

"Right." But, a man like Charles was status. I know it sounds really bad, but he was the type of fine dude that you know all your girlfriends would be checking for and cussing you in their hearts for, saying, "What does HE see in HER?"

We made it to Studio and as quickly as Charles was trying to woo me with his talk about prophecy fulfillment, he was gone, chatting up to some other chick. I didn't see him for the rest of the evening, but at the end of the night, when some other dude was trying to convince me to take his number. Charles appeared and stood next to me. Had the gall to put his arm around me (actually, I didn't mind. I wasn't interested in that other dude at all).

"Oh, my bad," the dude said, backing off, "I didn't know you knew her like that."

Like what? I learned a lot about Charles that night. He had spent so much time on looking good -- hair cut just so, body hard, just FINE, that he had spent NO TIME on his personality or intelligence. So, he had to use what he had.

Last I saw him was August 2003 at Eaton Centre. He gave me a big hug and I was surprised how old he looked.

Tony
My last year and last semester at Concordia University. I was bored -- everything was just dry and I prayed for some excitement in my life. Well, be careful what you wish for, you just may get it.

At the end of summer (things always seem to happen during summertime), Marianne and I met three guys. They were... umm... undesirables for lack of a better words. One of them, Tony, took a liking to me. I thought he was checking Marianne, but he called me and we talked a couple of times.

He seemed like a decent guy.

One afternoon, we were supposed to meet to hangout. I didn't think Tony was all that (Marianne thought he was gorgeous -- he looked like the brother who didn't sing in Next) and I was just looking for a friendship. I met him outside of Alexis-Nihon plaza in downtown Montreal. He looked all stressed.

Supposedly, his little nephew had been at the hospital all night suffering from an asthma attack.

"Oh my goodness! Is he ok?"

"Yeah, he's ok. My mom is with him. Look, can we stop at my place so I can pick up my work clothes? I just live a couple of minutes away."

I was wary of going to his house, but he was with his nephew, at the hospital, all night. What could it hurt to go to his place, quickly pick up his stuff and be out?

Gosh, I was naive.

So, we took a taxi to his apartment. He walked in and stripped off his shirt and faced me in his wifebeater. I stood at the door with my shoes on.

"Don't be shy, come in." I hesitantly took off my shoes and knapsack. "Let me just clean up this kitchen and we'll be on our way."

Isn't he sweet? I thought. His mom's at the hospital and he's at home cleaning up the kitchen so that she doesn't have to come home and do it. I took a seat in the kitchen and we chitchatted about life, school, work, goals and this guy seemed to have his head on straight.

We were having such a good talk, it didn't even faze me when he said: "Why don't we stay here? We can watch Days of Our Lives."

Sure. Why not?

"The TV in the family room is broken. We can watch it in my room."

Yes. All of you can see what this older guy was doing (he was 25, I think), but I had ABSOLUTELY NO CLUE he was plotting to get me up in his room. See, that's what happens when your child is too sheltered.

We went into his bedroom and I sat at the very edge of the bed. He laughed at me and said, "get comfortable" and put a pillow behind my back. He was being so nice and friendly, I didn't think anything of it. I sat on the bed, we watched Days and at the end of the soap, I had totally dropped my guard.

"Do you like Jodeci?" Today, that would have been a red alert, Girl! Get your little tail outta there! This man ain't up to no good!

"Yeah, I like Jodeci." So, my man put on the tunes and pulled the pillow that I was propping up on from behind me. Now, I was lying flat on the bed, next to him -- I started to, finally, get uncomfortable.

"Let's dance," he said trying to sound all suave-like.

"OK." I thought, that way I wouldn't be on his bed anymore. Tony picked me up and put me on his chest and started, what he called, 'dancing.' "Ummm..." I said, "people don't dance lying down..." Once I said that, the light finally went on and something started to scream, 'get the heck out of there!'

Which I did -- unscathed, thank God. My older friend Egbert cussed me out something fierce when I ran into the community newspaper where I worked and told him what happened.

But, it didn't end there.

Tony's friend Kirk called me the next day. "Why are you acting like such a baby?"

"Pardon me?" I asked. I was still annoyed by the whole thing.

"You heard me. It's just sex -- act your age."

"What? Look, if you're so interested in your boy's sex life, you sleep with him." With that, I hung up the phone, livid.

I've seen Tony since -- about three years ago, close to the spot where I met him. Loser was playing in the alley like a 10-year-old boy, watching me like I was a piece of meat. Nasty dog.

So, that's high school, college and university. I've had some highs, I've had some lows. I'm just going to chalk it up to experience. But, you know what? I wouldn't change any of those experiences because they have made me into the person I am today. Yes, I know, it sounds all goofy, but it's true. I wouldn't be Urban Sista, if I hadn't known those boys... and a few others that I didn't mention.

Gotta keep something to myself ;)

Jetsgo sucks.

It really, really does. Look for the entire story of how Jetsgo nearly ruined my Christmas in the coming days...

Cosby's rant

I went to see Bill Cosby perform last Friday and I must say, he's a comic genius.

I must also say, Mr. Cosby isn't just funny. Recently, he's spoken about African-Americans dropping the ball and playing into racial stereotypes. Instead of trying to aspire to greatness, many are happy to continue being victims -- you know what I'm talking about: "The man! The man is holding me back!"

Trust, we have our 'victims' in Canada, too.

But some people are irate that Mr. Cosby would 'air the Black community's dirty laundry.'

Heck, if he doesn't say it, who will? Many of the folks who maybe should be speaking up with Mr. Cosby are the same people who are making a mint off of glorifying the lifestyle that is helping keep some very impressionable young people right where they stand: uneducated, trying to bling and not doing a damn thing. Sometimes people with no life experience latch onto media -- music videos, movies, TV -- to build expectations and goals.

Silly, yes, but it does happen. Talk to a young person who has no worldview except for BET or MuchMusic and you'll see a warped image of reality. They are the ones who'll say that a young Black man going to the library to do a research paper is acting white. Ahh... I remember those days. I was going to the library to study only to be told that I "don't act Black enough."

Well, if getting my education and not having my mother dole out some lashes on my tail because I've flunked out of CEGEP is acting white, I guess I'll have to be a little white girl. For the record, people, being Black is NOT equal to being uneducated.

I think Mr. Cosby is speaking the truth. We all understand that Black people have been given the short end of the stick many times. We struggle and we have to work harder to succeed, but that isn't anything new. He is speaking it very bluntly and very boldly and that's rubbing people the wrong way. But there are no lies in his comments.

At some point, you have to take responsibility for your own actions and try to improve your own station in life. To expect the man to pull you up is pretty much saying, I'm going to be at the bottom for the rest of my life. It's not easy -- trust me, I went through six years of being a broke college and university student while people where working at the hospital making big bucks (well, big bucks when you're 19 isn't really big bucks when you're 29 -- it's all relative).

Most things in life that are worth having are hard to get and it's not guaranteed. But you have to aspire to something -- being a doctor, lawyer, pilot, artist, writer, whatever. Don't lie down and cry "Poor me! The man has done me wrong."

We know that. The system is built against us, but that doesn't mean that you can stop trying.

I think that is what Mr. Cosby is ranting about. It's too easy just to give up and let the streets take our Black children. Have you heard about all the violence in Toronto over the past month?

Even so-called professionals, who'll raise their noses in the air and say, 'that's why I got my education.' Well, that's good for you, so how are you going to help someone who didn't have the parents you have? Or the ambition? Or the dedication?

We all have a part to play, 'cause we're all part of this Black community and none of us should be left by the wayside. Granted, not everyone was cut out to be a doctor or an architect, but we should all desire to something. And it's up to all of us to help with the solutions.

Merry Christmas!!!

I found this article at Newsweek.com today (December 24) -- exactly what I was trying to say: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/6746677/site/newsweek/. True pluralism is needed, not political correctness... Anyway, I'm off to Montreal for Christmas -- have a good one!

It's Christmastime -- one of my favourite times of the year. I love it -- I love the lights, I love spending time with my family, and, I can't lie, I like presents.

But, as Solitaire pointed out, that's not the reason for Christmas.

People will say, it's a pagan holiday to celebrate winter solstice and that's where we get the 'christmas tree' from.

Sure. I'll give you that. The tree is part of a pagan holiday, but that's not why we celebrate.

But the reason for Christmas is Christ's birth. Whether you want to agree or not, we wouldn't be celebrating CHRISTmas if not for Jesus being born to save the world.

So, while you're ripping open gifts Saturday morning or just chilling out with friends and family during the holidays, remember it's not the 'festive season' (dang, I hate writing that at work -- it bugs me) and don't say 'happy holidays.'

If we can respect Hanukkah and Ramadan, lets show some respect for the day that Christ was born.

It's merry Christmas! Feliz Navidad! Joyeux Noël!

Have a great, blessed Christmas and I'll see you on the other side.

The Bajan Girls

Sigh.

Memories of summer and the CNE. We had a great time. Thanks for the jokes, ladies!

Now, back to work.

Grunt.

Beautiful people?

"HOT PARTIES, BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE AND YOU DON'T NEED A BRIEFCASE TO CARRY IT"

This is the tagline for Warner & Associates. For those of you who aren’t familiar, this is an entertainment group that puts on some really hot parties in the Toronto area. I can’t lie, the two Warner events I went to were pretty good (two all white wear affairs). My sister and my friend may disagree on the calibre of the party people, but, hey, if I spent money, I’m going to have a good time.

But I digress.

The question I wanted to ask is: is it me, or are the beautiful people not so beautiful anymore?

This week, I got a Warner event e-mail and the so-called beautiful people adorn the page. I’m not talking about the models who are posing up a storm, I’m talking about the snapshots that are taken at the events. I’m not dissing anyone, ‘cause you don’t have to be America’s Next Top Model (go Eva! GO!) to be an attractive person.

But, heck, from what I read in the e-mails, I’m expecting Boris Kodjoe types to be lining the walls of the party.

Ha! I had been fooling myself. I walked into the jam and saw some cute guys, but for the most part the people where like me: cute, but far from supermodel status. Not a crack on anyone, but a fact.

"Warner events are more commercial," says one of my co-workers as I question him those the window in my cube. "Those parties just contribute to stereotypes – an elitist, bougie, chi-chi poo-poo, stush party." I guess Warner attracts the clientele he wants.

You walk in and there are women, who will spend hundreds of dollars on hair, makeup, clothes, etc. to fit into that stereotype of the ‘beautiful woman’, and guys lining the walls trying to pick and choose from who has the nicest booty to who is the prettiest woman in the room.

And it seems like some of the people who go to these parties actually believe the hype. If I attend a Warner jam, I am part of the beautiful people.

No, star, you’re not.

Trust, I like to pose up with the best of them (remember, I’m an R&B diva), but while I think I’m cute, I don’t take myself too seriously.

Guy, I’ve heard plenty of men complain about the women who attend these jams. There’s nothing wrong with knowing and believing that you look good, but to refuse to speak – like pretend you’re mute – to a guy, who is attractive, but not drop dead gorgeous is just plain rude.

It’s not just Warner jams, though. I’ve seen that behaviour at the limited number of clubs that I’ve ever been too – including Studio 69. Who remembers Studio? That was some good fun right there… well, at least the two times I went.

I’m just picking on Warner ‘cause I got his e-mail this morning.

I’m not taking this seriously – don’t ban the Warner parties if you like them. There is nothing wrong with dressing all fancy and posing up.

Just a little Urban Sista commentary, that’s all.

Just call me an R&B diva

This weekend was the big office Christmas party at the Metro Toronto Convention Centre. Unlike Solitaire, I love the Christmas party for a couple of reasons: I love most of the people I work with and we get pure jokes and I LOVE to dress up.

When I dress up, I go all out. Not because I have something to prove, but from the time I was a little girl, I liked dressing up. Putting on a pretty dress, some makeup and doing my hair puts that little oomph in my step. So, when the e-mail came out announcing the Christmas party, I was ready: I had my dress, a sexy purple cheong sam from the CNE, and my shoes.

The only thing I had to concern myself with was getting my hair done.

When I watch awards shows and see the likes of Beyoncé, Ciara and Ashanti (all beautiful women -- no disrespect to any of them), I always say to myself, 'if that was me, I would have worn this' or 'I would have done my hair like that.' Even with my limited clothing budget, I can rock an outfit just as well as any of those R&B divas.

To complete the R&B diva look, I had to get the hair. The long, straight hair to flash around like the white girls do. I am not a proponent of weave, but I wanted something different. A little extra length, so I said, what the heck? I'll get some extensions glued in.

"Glue?" said my hairdresser Stacey in horror. "We don't glue. Just bring the hair and I'll do the rest."

This is where the journey began...

The salon.

I love my hair salon. I've been going there for four years now. It's on Yonge Street, just north of Wellesley and the girls can really do hair. But, after some restructuring, the ship hasn't been as tight.

Since some run-ins at various Montreal salons, I've been gun shy. I'm saying, why pay a lot of money to have some scorn my hair and use chemicals to dry it out. So, if I've been going to a salon for years, it's gotta be tip top.

D. and I both had appointments at the salon early Saturday morning. After I had stayed up late baking a cake for the boyfriend's birthday, my sis and I headed downtown to become glamour pusses. We arrived to find one of the stylists perming her own hair.

Maybe she had somewhere to go that evening, which is fine. Call me a prima donna, but if I'm paying you to do my hair, my hair sould be your priority. I may be dry, but darn it, I wanted to look cute.

My sister and I both needed some serious work. I mean, I don't just wake up looking fabulous (I wake up looking pretty close to fabulous, but some work is still needed ;))

Being the patient, Christian woman I am, I sat back and got ready for the girls to transform me. Well, maybe it was the fumes from the texturizer, but I forgot the cardinal rule of all Black salons: "If you have an event or are in a rush, we will conspire to make you late."

It's not everybody in the salon, there are usually a few conspirators. On Saturday, Ms. Let-Me-Perm-My-Own-Hair-and-Forget-About-Yours was it.

This stylist overbooked and, by noon, she had about four irate women in various states of 'done' in and out of her chair. One was wet. One had a relaxer in her head. One had a colour in hers. And, one, my poor sister D., was just waiting. D.'s not the most patient young woman, so you know she was starting to get riled up as she looked at her watch and sucked her teeth.

Then it got ridiculous.

The overbooked stylist walked sheepishly to Stacey's station, just as I could see my the end nearing. She had just finished blow drying my hair and discussing the parting options.

"Stacey, do me a favour and finish my client? She wants an updo."

But wait. I don't need my hair to be finished as well? Time was ticking and I wanted finish up, get my georgy bundle and get outta there.

"No, [INSERT NAME -- we gotta protect the guilty]. You know you have to learn how to do updos," said Stacey growing increasingly annoyed. At this point, I could tell that this had happened more than once and Stacey was not impressed.

"C'mon, Stacey. I didn't know that's what she wanted."

"[INSERT NAME] not only are you inconveniencing me, you're inconveniencing my clients. You know that too."

This went on for about five minutes, until Stacey was harangued into fixing the other client's hair. The client who wanted the updo felt so bad. I mean, I was shooting her bad looks 'cause I needed to get out of there and get home and make myself look like something.

What should have taken about three hours, had stretched into a marathon hair appointment. The joke was we told the stylist that we had a Christmas party to go to, but did you think that mattered? Finally at 3:11 pm (two hours and ten minutes after we should have left), we left the salon.

Then started the wailing and gnashing of teeth, because D. didn't like her hair. "It took so well long and I don't even like my hair," she complained as we drove home. "I look like I have wings!"

We got home at minutes after four. I called the boyfriend, who was going to arrive at 5:30 pm. We still had enough time to get ready and get to the party for cocktails at 6 pm... at least that's what we thought.

Getting ready.

Got home and didn't have time to eat a little something. My mother always told us to eat before we went to social events 'cause: a) you may not like the food; b) you may be allergic to the food (trust me, I'm allergic to enough things); c) it may take forever to get that morsel of food; and d) when you finally get the morsel, it may be a foodlet.

But, because of the chaos at the salon, there was no time for a bite -- unless you count the freezer burned Eggo waffles that I scarfed down because I was faint from hunger and exhaustion.

As I was trying to apply the eyelashes that I bought from MAC -- I wasn't playing around. My sister began to carry on in her bedroom. She can't find this! She can't find that!

"And I put it right here!" she sighed.

Good grief. "Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes," she said pouting. After five minutes of searching she found the offending undergarment in the back of her drawer. I went back into the bathroom to fight with the eyelashes. As I was applying the adhesive to the lashes, the phone rang. The boyfriend.

"Yo," I said.

"What time should I get there?"

"Ummm... we should be ready around 5:30."

"OK. I'll see you then."

Finally, on the third try I got the stupid lashes to stick to my eyelid, not my finger.

Let's go to the party!

I was done. My hair was coiffed. My lashes firmly attached to my eyelids. My dress was on (thanks to that body slimmer) and I was ready to go. The boyfriend arrived at 5:20 pm and took a seat on my couch.

"The weather's getting kinda bad out there," he said. It had been snowing all afternoon and the roads weren't bad, but you know how Toronto drivers are. As we discussed my Apprentice blog (the boyfriend totally disagrees with my reasoning. Meh), my sister came out -- hair re-coiffed, wearing a dark blue spaghetti strap gown -- to put on her brand new shoes.

She opened the box and put them on.

"Something feels strange," she said. After this day, I was thinking: this girl must be overly sensitive or something. What could possibly be wrong.

"No, they don't fit right."

"Do you have two lefts?" the boyfriend asked laughing. D. was not in a laughing mood.

"No!" She ripped off the shoes and looked inside. "One is a size 8 and one is a size 10!"

I thought my sister was going to lose it. I could see the steam coming out of her ears.

Relax. We'll just go to the Town Centre and get a new pair," I said.

"No! We don't have time!" she said slumping on computer chair. "We should be heading down there now."

I convinced D. to call Bata (the store in question) and have a pair of shoes waiting. We trudged downstairs to the parking lot. I was trying to make light of the situation. I mean, why get upset? The shoes were the wrong size, we were going to go to the mall get the shoes and head to the convention centre.

We got to Scarborough Town Centre, parked and made a quick move: D. went to Bata and the boyfriend and I headed to the bank. You could just imagine how we looked amongst the ruffians at the Town Centre. The juxtaposition was quite amusing.

Allons-y!

Shoes? Check!

Tickets? Check!

We headed down the 401 at a good pace. It was 6:20 and, if we contined at that pace, we would be at the MTCC by 6:45. Not as early as we had wanted, but in enough time to take a picture and get to our seats. But, of course, it was inevitable as Mr. Smith would say.

Traffic.

And not regular traffic. But the inching kind of traffic that would drive you insane.

There was a conspiracy to keep me from the Christmas party. Did I tell you that I looked like I should have had my own R&B record? Beyoncé had nothing, NOTHING, on me (some of my male friends may disagree, but they are just haters. I'm not saying she's not gorgeous, but she had a team of stylists -- I had a harried one and I did my own makeup. And look at the weave... only recently it's looked like something. Ladies, holla if you hear me!)

We inched along the ramp from the 401 to the DVP. We inched down the DVP -- that's when all of my co-workers started to call me wondering where I was.

"I'm on the DVP, stuck in traffic. Yep, I'll be there soon."

Yeah, soon. Sure. I didn't believe that myself.

The party.

We did actually get to the party on Saturday night. We were late, but we didn't miss anything. D.'s shoes ended up being fabulous and our hair was on point.

I looked so fabulous, my co-workers didn't recognize me -- I cleaned up well (I'm sure the two feet of hair didn't help.) You've gotta mix it up a little bit at these office shindigs. If I dolled myself up every day to sit down in the office building, do you think I would have cut any shine? Saturday night was a time to pull out some of the stops and make myself into a R&B diva.

We laughed. We danced. We took plenty pictures (see above) and had a good ol' time.

And I was an R&B diva -- I still can't sing, but, then, neither can Ashanti ;)

The Apprentice - Bye bye Kevin

I don't usually comment on reality TV, although I love it, but did you watch tonight's Apprentice?

During the interview process, Donald Trump's business associates said that Kevin was ambitious to the point of aggression...

Pardon me?

Wayne Brady could have been interviewed by that panel and, because he's a Black man, be deemed 'aggressive'.

I am so disgusted.

If Kevin had been a slacker with no ambition, the same interviewers would have grumbled that Kevin wasn't ambitious enough, therefore ill-equipped to run one of Donald Trump's organizations.

It irks me that these people couldn't find anything truly wrong with the brother, so they had to play the 'scary, aggressive Black guy' card. Like the girls played the 'scary, crazy, aggressive Black woman' card with Stacie J.

Tell me you fired Kevin because he didn't perform well on the tasks. But you who watched it heard it to: "I instantly liked Kevin, but..." Let me add in the rest, Urban Sista style: "I instantly liked Kevin, but last year was just too darned close with that negro Kwame almost winning. We can't have any field hands running the massa's big company. Oh Lord, he's dark-skinned too! He's just too scary and aggressive. It was one of the most scary moments of my life!" (Thank Stacy -- another jackass -- for that line.)

It's like your run-of-the-mill racist telling you, "I have Black friends!" Yeah, but would you let one of us run your company?

Please. Don't try to justify your wretchedness with by telling Kevin, or any other Black person, you like them, but I would never let you run a company 'cause you're too aggressive.

I'm not necessarily vex that Kevin got the boot (Kwame didn't win last season, but if we're honest, who's more successful? Kwame or Bill?). I vex about the reasons given, because, obviously, they were flawed. Kevin was too educated, according to the panel.

But wait.

Since when was it a crime to have a proper, well-rounded education? I can't see how having both a business and law degree can harm you in the corporate world. And, of course, the aggression, which I could rant about all night: historical stereotypes, how the media plays into this, North American corporate culture and the Black professional.

But, dammit, all of you already know what the deal truly is.

Argh.

It's so annoying and frustrating to hear people in power finding bogus excuses to deny worthwhile people of colour positions they deserve. And, yes, we need our own organizations to run and rule as we like (go Kwame!), but until then, I will comment.

Kelly, I can understand him being in the final two. He's a worthy candidate and, while quite stiff a person, he's proved himself. But Jenn? I had liked girlfriend at the beginning, but she never, NEVER!, stood up and proved herself. When she took praise for Ivana's idea during the Levis' task, I learned Jenn was a wretch. (Although, I always knew Ivana was a wretch and I was glad her tail was blazed up. Idiot.)

Anyway, reality TV or not, it goes to show you -- as I have always said -- life, success and promotion is NOT based on merit. You aren't promised the job, even if you are one of the best candidates. And if you're Black? As your mom told you many times as a child: "You've gotta be twice, sometimes three times as good as these people to get half as far."

Momma always knew best.

Romantic Realism: He's just not that into you

A work of genius!

I was watching Oprah last night and her guests were Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo, authors of He's Just Not That Into You. I swear, these people have put common sense on paper and are not making a mint. My mint because I've been talking about this stuff for ages, darn it.

There were various women on discussing their relationship woes. One girl, I believe, is dating a young man I used to talk to. Like her now and again boyfriend (I use the term boyfriend very loosely -- he was more of a boy who was a friend...), mine was in the music business. I would hear from him and he'd want to take me out and spend time with me, then as suddenly as he was around, he was gone. And I don't mean he didn't call for a couple of days, for weeks this man was missing in action. Then one day, I'd get an e-mail or text message or, if I was lucky, a voice mail, saying 'I miss you. When can I see you?'

I put up with the foolishness for 10 months. Ten month of my dating life, gone -- not 'cause I thought he was the one, or anything crazy like that. But because I spent so much time agonizing over this one dude, I didn't have any time for any other guy who may have been interested in me (of course, during that time, I went out once with the UPS man, but that's a whole other blog.)

The brother was honest, he said he had women who, (clearing throat), handled his business. I know, I know. I was young.

But the truth was, he just wasn't that into me. I was cool to hang out with every so often, but ask me if I saw him on the weekends? No.

Did I meet any of his friends? A few people in the music biz, but no one that he was friends with.

Did we ever talk about the future? Yes. He would comment about me having his children, although he already had four (I know, I know -- I was young and foolish) and possibly marriage one day. Even then I knew that was a load of hooey.

We parted ways in the fall -- after he sent an e-mail to me (and four other women) saying "I miss you. When are we going to get together?"

Right. I should have figured out at least seven months earlier that he just wasn't that into me, but I was making excuses -- to myself and to my girlfriends (one who called him 'slime') -- about why we weren't spending any time together. Why he would disappear for a month and a half (I think the entirety of our 'relationship' was two weeks, if you counted all the time we actually spent together).

So, after a lot of soul searching and nights spent contemplating my love life, I decided I wasn't going to put up with that crap again. If a guy wants to be with me, he will. He won't disappear. He won't tell me about the chicks handling his business (imagine how dry they must have felt). And he will incorporate me into his life.

As they said yesterday on Oprah, the worst feeling in the world isn't when the guy you like doesn't like you back, it's when you are yearning... pining away for someone who could care less about you and strings you along.

If the guy can't treat me how I deserve to be treated (and a man will only treat you how you allow him to treat you), maybe he's just not that into me.

And that's ok, 'cause I'm into me and I refuse to be with anyone who doesn't think I'm the greatest girl in the world.

If you're planning to get me a Christmas gift this year, this would be a good one ;)

Urgh. Snow. Yuck.

I can't lie. I hate winter. And anyone who says they like it, is a liar from the pits of hell. There is nothing, NOTHING, nice about these five to six months out of the year when you have to bundle up in layers and layers of material and goose down only to shiver, get frostbitten and catch colds every two twos.

Really, what is there to like about winter? The ice? The snow? The windchill? The only good things about winter are: Christmas, your makeup doesn't sweat off and there are no bugs outside.

This morning when I woke up, I looked out of my window and saw dry roads and a cloudy sky. By the time I put on my coat and boots (not even the real boots, they are cute fall boots), I heard it was snowing. I thought, 'oh! Flurries! How cute!'

Hmmph. Flurries my eye.

By the time I walked outside, I was in a maelstrom. The snow was falling, the wind was blowing and I couldn't see a darned thing. I took out my braids this weekend, so my hair is much too big for me to wear a hat. All the poor Urban Sista had was an umbrella and a prayer.

I fought against the wind and made it to the bus stop. Yes, unfortunately, today of all days, my sister had to go downtown and she took the car with her. I closed up my umbrella to wait for the bus... but why was the snow still licking me in my face?

I had to open up the umbella inside the bus shed to shelter from the storm force winds assaulting my poor skin. After five minutes of waiting and I was close to tears -- I'm saying, it's only December... the first full week of December. If I can't deal with this a windchill of -8, how am I going to deal with -32 in January?

Lawd, help me. Sniff.

A young woman from my building walked, shivering, into the bus shed. She wasn't wearing a hat or scarf and her warm-looking coat is opened, exposing all of her chest to the elements. The other person in the bus shed looked at me and said, with her eyes, 'this heifer must be out of her mind! It's as cold as ras up in here.'

After a couple of minutes, the girl with her chest exposed (she was wearing a sweater, but today's cold was no joke), started to get stressed -- you could see it in her eyes. She was trying to find a warm corner in the bus shed, but as I pointed out earlier, the snow and wind were blowing in freezing us.

Can you believe that girl tried to sidle up under my umbrella?

That ain't right. Why are you trying to be under my umbrella, when you have a big, able hood on your jacket but you think you're too cute to wear. No ma'am, stand there and freeze while I ride it out under my umbrella.

Finally, the bus arrived. It was 20 minutes late, but it was there and it was warm and dry. I found a seat at the back and decided to relax and enjoy the ride to the subway. Well, I could have walked faster to the subway the way the traffic was all backed up along Kingston Rd. and Eglinton Ave. And then the bus started to skid -- look, as Ivana from the Apprentice would say, when a big, twenty tonne bus skids, you know the weather isn't so good.

I arrived at Kennedy subway station, finally. A ride that should have taken me 20 minutes, took 50 minutes. But, I got there safely, so I shouldn't complain. I went upstairs to the rapid transit platform for the last leg of my trip. A gale force wind ripped across the platform and I started to shiver. My teeth were chattering and my feet were getting numb.

Wait. I expect this in January and February, not December! Last December was so mild and wonderful -- Christmas was green and I wore a cute outfit last New Year's Eve.

Well, if this is any indication of the upcoming weather, don't look for the Urban Sista outside of her yard. I'll be curled up with a blanket, some hot chocolate and a book. For real.

I finally did make it to work -- a good hour and a half after I left my home. My hair was soaked and my cute curly 'fro is... well... jacked up. I had to go spend good money to buy a new sweater because I can't deal with the elements on my way home unless I'm well prepared.

All I can say to my peoples reading this: say a prayer for me. I don't know if I can make it to April if I have to suffer through another Canadian winter. My hair's already starting to dry up.

Sniff.

You can contact me if you want to send a donation to the 'Send The Urban Sista to Barbados for the Winter' fund.

Thoughts...

Today, I went to a funeral. It was the first funeral I attended in more than 15 years. The one that I went to back in the summer of 1988 was that of my mother's friend. A wonderful woman who, after a lengthy illness, passed away.

The teenaged Urban Sista went to the church, to the gravesite and back to the church for refreshments. I was shaken, but at that age, I still felt invincible. Not in the 'I'm going to jump off this building and survive!', but in the 'I'm only 13, I have all of my life to live."

Fifteen years passed and people I know have died -- but no one really close to me. I've been lucky enough not to have to attend many funerals. My aunt died last month and, unfortunately, I couldn't travel to Barbados to attend. It's been exactly a month today and I don't feel quite as invincible as I used to be.

Age, maturity and maybe some experience has shown me that I'm not going to live forever. Today could very well be my last day on the face of the earth.

Morbid, huh?I shocked myself with my deep, philosophical thoughts about life and death during the past four weeks. I know, mentally, that at some point, I will die (granted Jesus doesn't come back before I go and meet Him). It's a part of life -- a difficult part -- but a part nonetheless. It's scary. Not because I don't know where I'm going, but I guess because I'm human, I'm scared because no one has come back and told me what exactly happens.

It's fear of the unknown, plus worrying about the ones you've left behind.

At today's funeral, I saw this man's family and friends come to honour him, which was great, but the sorrow was palpable, especially at the gravesite. Big, young, tough dudes that were probably rockin' Jay-Z or Nas on their soundsystems this morning were crying like babies for someone who meant so much to them.

Forgive the rambling -- I'm feeling introspective.

I guess it comes down to: you never know when your time will come. Just because you're young and healthy doesn't mean you are guaranteed a certain number of years on this earth. Death is no respecter of person (I heard that a bazillion times today).

Enjoy your family and friends. Make time for them -- it's really easy to say, 'I have to work. There's something important I have to finish!' But at the end of your time here, what will you really care about? How much work you accomplished on the weekend you were supposed to hang with your buddies? Or when you unplugged your computer and went shopping with the girls and had a great time? Don't let a funeral bring your family together -- 'cause sometimes that's the only reason you'd travel to see each other. (I heard at the funeral, the man who died wanted to have a big blowout 50th birthday party in BIM, but his job wouldn't give him the time to go, saying, "if you go, you may not have a job to come back to." Now they sent flowers -- what for?)

Enjoy your life. Stop fretting over foolishness and giving yourself ulcers. We like to stress ourselves out over a bunch of things that are frivolous. Why worry? Especially about things you can't control. Focus on what's important and let the rest roll off your back. Travel, eat, listen to music, crack a joke, go to church sometimes (it won't kill you), spend time with your loved ones.

Live with integrity. Think you're getting somewhere knocking down people to get where you want to be? At today's funeral, the church was packed with people who cared about this man and his family. People spoke highly of him and sincerely missed him. How would you feel if only two people show up at your funeral because your attitude stank and no one could be bothered with you?

Learn to forgive. Why hold someone up in your heart? Half the time who you're angry at doesn't even know that you're upset with them. The other half, they know exactly what they've done and are enjoying making you miserable. Don't bother. Forgive and move on -- life is too short (it's a cliché, but it's true.)

Work hard. You have to work hard in order to deserve to enjoy life. No one has any respect for someone who can't get off their sitdown and do something.

Laugh and do it heartily. I can remember so many times with my friends (the Lighthouse dinner; the CNE with the Bajan Girls; my 29th birthday party) and family (watching the parents get into 'what did we call this back home?'; Connecticut with the cousins; being a bridesmaid at my cousin's wedding) where I laughed until I cried. Those are the memories that I'm sure I'll keep until I'm an old, grey granny (God spare my life).

Don't always watch, sometimes do. Take a risk -- a calculated one or not. But don't just sit there and watch the world go by, get up a do something. Take a trip. Approach that cute boy. Sing back up at Indian Motorcycle (that's for you DK). Take a course and better yourself. Smile. You don't know whose life you're brightening up with that lovely grin of yours.

Do what you love -- whether it's your job or a hobby. Not all of us are blessed with the job of our dreams, but that doesn't mean it has to be all that you do. Find something that you love -- writing, singing, painting, Web site development, childcare -- whatever. If you love your job, do it to the best of your ability. But find something that you love and do it, no matter what anyone says. You'll be surprised how people encourage and support you.

Well, that's all my ramblings for today.

Older siblings are bigheads

My cousins are arriving from Barbados tomorrow evening and my sister wants to leave home a good hour and a half before their flight arrives.

My question, WHY?

We live about 25 minutes away from the airport. If the flight lands at 11:15 and you know it’s going to take them a good half an hour to go through customs and get their luggage, why are you trying to leave home at 10:30 pm?

To give the parking attendant all your money?

“It’s the holidays, Bob. Buy yourself a new sweater. And seeing I’ve been in the lot for an hour, get a nice one. From Holt Renfrew.”

Common sense tells me to leave home, at the earliest, 11:00 pm. If there are any accidents or inclement weather, you still have some wiggle room.

Will she listen?

No. She just gets belligerent, because, as she puts it “[She’s] the driver!” And gripes at me about taking public transportation.

So, when she sees that it’s going to cost her 30 bucks to park at Lester B. Pearson International Airport, she’s going to cuss and complain and want me to commiserate.

But I will just sit there stone faced.

Because my older sibling is a bighead.