Pseudo- Fab Epiphanies... Age

I am old.

My little sister and brother, 18 and 15, respectively, tell me this. But, you know, they have to irritate my life, so I think nothing of it.

Last week, my intern was humming some tune that I didn't easily recall. Assuming he was tone deaf, I asked him the tune he was humming.

"Dang, " he replied. "I didn't think you were that old."

"Whatever."

But yesterday night, as Total Request Live said goodbye after it's 10th year, and I struggled to keep my eye lids open past 10:30, I was forced to face the reality that I am, in fact, aging. And though I am not old, by popular culture standards, I am aging.

I can remember, in full detail, when Carson Daily delivered the top 10 videos in a dark room embellished only with one small TV screen to his right, into which the camera man would pan into the playing video. Here, 10 years ago, at 14, I caught my first glimpse of my FAVORITE and BEST BOY BAND OF ALL TIME: *NSYNC. They wanted me back in shiny suits against a purposefully industrial background and danced in precisely choreographed harmony.



This one fan, an overly bleached blonde high schooler, reminisced on the premier of Britney Spears' "Hit me Baby [One More Time]. In the next breath, she spoke about how her mother let her dress up like Britney in the Catholic School Girl outfit for Halloween--an issue for a blog entry in and of itself. When that video debuted, I was 15 and passed the stage where dressing up for Halloween was cute, and more the sign of an over sugar-crazed teenager. But I remember staying up at night in high school, listening to the Top 9 at 9 on Z100, hoping to catch the song with the record button, so that I could pop it into my cassette Walkman and jam to it on my hour long Q76 bus ride to school.



I also remember the absence of Destiny's Child on the countdown, even though their debut single, "No, No, No," hit the charts with feverish intensity.


But now, Britney's had an annulment, a divorce and two kids. Justin has gone from wanting you back, to crying rivers, to bringing sexy back. The Backstreet Boys have receding hairlines and some (*cough* AJ) need to go on diets. Destiny's Child went from four, to two, back to four, down to three and now down to Beyonce being the baddest chick in the game. Hip hop, which was almost never included on the countdown in the beginning, being featured on "YO! MTV Raps" instead, infiltrated the countdown almost two years after its debut when they moved to a live taping, and Ludacris introduced a “non threatening” sound into rap.

To sum it up, everyone grew up. Even TRL.

And me? I have a grown-up job that I have to get back to.

Cause for Pseudo Fabulousness...The Economy Part Deux

Can someone please explain to me why last night, I paid $1.30 for a cup and a half of rice?

A CUP and a HALF of RICE.

I know because I measured it. Poured it into my 2 cup Pyrex and watched as it went slightly over the "1 1/2 cup" mark.

Now, when I first moved to Pittsburgh that same bag of generic long grain rice was $.89. Then, if I wanted a pound, it was about $4. My mother used to buy 25 pound bags in New York City for $13. $11 on sale. Now they're $15.54.



But I paid $1.30 for a cup and a half of rice.

I ended up paying $17.92 for my total bill. My groceries included 2 cafe steamers that go in such great tandem with my Weight Watchers plan (sale 3 for $10, although I'm sure I bought them for $2.14 last week), 4 strawberry Yoplait yogurts (9 for $6), my staple Minute Maid fruit punch, a pack of pinto beans, 2 Kit Kats (it was for my friend so don't judge me), 1 diet coke, and the infamous pack of rice. $17.92!

And such is the reason that obesity is running rampant in this country. At this rate, it is becoming increasingly cheaper to buy fast food off somebody's dollar menu then buy healthy foods. I could have purchased a greasy double cheeseburger, over-salted fries and a (diet) coke, plus tax, and it would have still been cheaper than a healthy choice meal on sale.

Oh, how I would have loved to indulge myself in some salmon and gnocchi (my new fave Italian side), but fillets are about $6 each. I can't remember the last time I had a good steak, even though it's probably better for my WW that I haven't indulged in a while. I'd love to have fruits all over my house to snack on, but the price of an apple is about $.69/apple, a measly $.40 less than a box of fatty spaghetti that would probably last me far longer and keep me full longer than an apple. It's just really too expensive to eat the 5 servings of fruits and veggies that dietitians suggest.

Now, it is great that fuel has gone down. It's a full dollar cheaper in Pittsburgh than it was this summer. And that's great for people who pay for Gas heat in their apartments (which I don't) or have gas-guzzling cars (I don't have one). But for we people who are trying to make ends meet and whose lives don't directly revolve around fuel prices, we need a price cut too.

You didn't pay that much to get it to the supermarket. Fuel prices are down. So, you paid a little more for seeds and the like, but, at some point, if you're producing it in abundance, it becomes cheaper (think Costco).

So, rice farmers, you're probably not paying that much to produce rice. And certainly not enough to charge me $1.30 for a cup and a half of rice.

Cause for Pseudo Fabulousness...The Economy

So, in my endless pursuit of a job in the Chicago Land area, I have sent out hundreds (ok, so maybe not hundreds...but at least 20) resumes to PR/Communications/Publication firms that I have targeted as wanting to build a career at.

In my daily e-mail communications with my sister that sum up to about 40 Gmail threads a day, I sometimes talk to her about my concern regarding the absence of response to my resume.

To which she responded on out 11/12/08 conversation in the 22cnd conversation thread:


"Man...if you don't stop being depressed about these callbacks..."

I wanted to KILL her!

BOO for her!

The reality of the situation is that it is depressing to view yourself as qualified, and not have the kind of response you thought you would. It makes you doubt yourself and makes the accomplishments you thought you had made seem to not matter.

I have a good, meaningful degree that applies to the field I wish to go into, was super outgoing in college and still am, I believe myself to write well and people love me. I have work experience out of the wahzoo and NO ONE WANTS TO HIRE ME!!!

OK. So the relocation thing may throw some people off, but I'm willing to do it at my own expense. THAT'S HOW DESPERATE I AM!!!!!!!

Now, I do take into consideration that the economy is in shambles. It is probable that even the most qualified people are out of a job right now and I should feel lucky that I have a stable one. My Daddy always said two things would always be constant in America, health care and education. I do PR for the later.

OK, so maybe I'm being selfish and am not taking into full account the ways of the world as we close out 2008. And maybe, this is a transgression of my disappointment that voting for Barack didn't make my mailbox start jumping with callbacks the next day.



But I want to live the fabulous life!

And this just ain't it.

The First Family looks like my family...and there's nothing pseudo about that fabulousness!

On November 4, 2008, Democratic Presidential Candidate Barack Hussein Obama accepted the Presidency of the United States of America. And, though the victory belonged to the country, there is a sense of pride that beams most brightly in the hearts of people of the diaspora. The next leader of the free world looks like us!

Throughout my lifetime, growing up Black in the United States of America, my parents have been on tireless searches to enable me to see that my Blackness was something to be proud of. I didn't grow up in the best neighborhood, but my parents always instilled in us a drive to aspire, even if no precedents were there to follow.

My mother wouldn't allow White Barbie dolls in her house, opting instead to purchase "Christine," Barbie's best friend who was Black. She wasn't a fan of seeing us sling towels over our heads to signify long, straight, flowing hair, and, she didn't bus us out of our neighborhood for "better education." Products of the civil rights movement, my parents knew the strides Blacks had made in this country and the progress we had yet to go.

Growing up, Claire Huxtable was every young girl's role model. She was gorgeous, had a family and was a lawyer. The only issue was that she was fictitious. She had been dreamt up as Bill Cosby's idea of what a Black woman role model should be. And though Felicia Rashaad was, and still is, a beautiful woman of class and grace, it was the fictional Claire Huxtable who served as role model.

But now, Claire Huxtable is in the White House. Her name is Michelle Obama. And she's real. An Ivy League educated attorney, she has two beautiful daughters who are well mannered and well rounded. She has stated her causes as women's rights and military families. She is not dumb, nor is she a trophy wife. She is the First Lady of a country who just gave her the right to vote about 40 years ago. A person who, 250 years to this day, would have come here in shackles on a slave ship.

This morning, Good Morning America claimed that the election of Barack Obama and his family to the White House is the "Return to Camelot," a world of Martha's Vineyard visits and attractive politicians that existed in the days of JFK and Jackie. And, though I loved Jackie's style and grace and find Michelle's style to be of a substance that will change fashion, I don't think of this as the return to Camelot.

I think of this as an introduction to a new day.

Trickle down effects of pseudo fabulousness....Public Transportation

I could afford a car. Albeit, in the overworked and underpaid career path called public relations, it would be a hoopty of sorts that would start to honk if I turned the radio volume dial up past 5, but it would be a car.



However, I am adamant about my monthly clothing allotment of (a shameful number I will not divulge in the streets lest they up my tax bracket, Lord) and fiercely believe in the miracles that happen during my retail therapy sessions with my highly recommended and accredited therapist named VISA. (Shameful number of clothing allotment that shall not be divulged) would easily cover a car note and insurance, but I'm just not willing to give it up.

And then, there are days like today. Days when I have made myself look that much more fabulous than I usually do because it's Monday and I have to make myself feel better or else I am doomed to lament the weekend that has just died too young. Days when it's unseasonably warm (high of 68 today, snitches!) and THE ONLY THING I committed to doing on Sunday was my toes, so that I could don my peep toes for what could be the last time until April (May, messing around with Pittsburgh).

ONLY TO HAVE SOME JERK OF A BUTTHEAD WHO HAS CLEARLY FOREGONE LOOKING AT THE WEATHER REPORT WEARING MUD RUCKERS THAT I'M SURE HAVE SEEN MORE THAN THEIR SHARE OF CAMPING TRIPS AND IS TRYING TO FLY OFF THE BUS BEFORE IT HAS EVEN COME TO A COMPLETE STOP YELLING "GETTING OFF" INTO THE EARS OF PEOPLE WHO ARE GETTING OFF JUST LIKE THEM, TRAMPLE ON MY TOES AND KEEP IT MOVING.

KEEP! IT! MOVING!

Then, as the moron runs across the street, camping bag/book bag flopping onto the back of his puffy jacket, I am silently reprimanded by my Lord as a smile makes it's way onto my CO Bigelow Cinnamon-(Bath and Body Works ladies, get on it!) laden lips because said forest ranger wannabe almost gets hit by a concrete truck.



So, I spend my injured walk across the street to the office listening to NeYo & KNOTB (gotta be over 21 to know that acronym) be my boyfriends while the single plays and breaking down my monthly budget to see how many pairs of shoes a month I would have to forego in order to squeeze this hoopty into my budget.

Then, I look across the street and see this girl who is inappropriately dressed for the unseasonably warm weather. But she's got on some BAD winter boots. I think I saw them in Nine West's fall collection...they're about a bengie...

Goodbye hoopty, HELLO KNEE BOOTS!




As I crawl my throbbing-toe-having self up the 4 steps up to the door of my work building, I pat my trench coat pocket (a steal from the twin!), making sure my bus pass is still there.

For now, it's my pseudo fabulous self, my bus pass, a fabulous pair of boots on the horizon, and the Pittsburgh Public Transit Authority.

Kids are Faux Fabulous...for now...

Because part of my professional job description entails constructing and executing FABULOUS, LUXURIOUS opening receptions and soirees, my friends usually call on me to help them turn ordinary events into fabulous events worthy of them. Here's my most recent work:





You likey? Thanks!

Anyway, this weekend, on the heels of pulling off one of the biggest and most important events of my professional career thus far, I was called upon to orchestrate (ugh) a baby shower.

I must admit that I was excited at first. I love what I do. It excites me to set up a theme, pick colors, scout venues and work with vendors. In this case, it excited me to dress up a room at the William Pitt Union at the University of Pittsburgh.

The rush of the event hit me, as it always does, at about 9 in morning. I had two hours to set everything up. I got to the venue about 15 minutes late, adrenaline pumping, pick up the food, set white table clothes on the table, sprinkle it with baby-pin confetti, put up gift table, blow up balloons, put up streamers, etc.

Then, in walks Serayah Marie Leech. Better known as the 2 year-old phenom who ruined my decorations.

She proceeds to rip down my streamers, pop my balloons, rip the sign in sheet of the wall, and smear the hand she smashed into a Boston crème donut onto my freshly tag-popped Gap Jeans.

GAP JEANS!

Then, Kyree, her partner-in-making-me-lose-my-mind, STORMS into the room, straight to the crepe embellished pole, runs into it and falls, taking the streamer down with him.

Sigh.

I spent the duration of the shower anxious and nervous, wishing the windows would open more than their pre-set limits so that I could jump out, shimmy down the drainage pipe onto the front awning's ledge. I told myself I'd take it from there. Maybe the fire department would arrive and set out that big ladder so that I could get off the ledge.

But, in that moment, I had to get out of that sweatbox of a room infested with these little creatures known as children before they crept their way through my new H&M sweater under my skin like ticks and infested me with their leaky faucets of mucus and dirty hands and induced perspiration that was already invading my brow to seep down to my arm pits and give me those gosh awful sweat stains that would make everyone ask me if I was feeling ok and I just can't BREATHE!

Even though I live the pseudo fab life, there are certain things that I refuse to let into my life at this point.

Kids are at the top of that list.