Janitor Fun

The janitor at our new office building thinks we're 'cool like that'.  My manager said Janitor (that's how I'll refer to him) showed interest in me the first week.  He told him I had a man, but Janitor said he was going 'for it' anyway.  Since then, I have been 'beautiful', 'my good friend' and today he called, from the elevator bank in the hallway mind you, 'hey good-lookin'.  Enough is enough, 'MJ works fine', I told him.  He put his hand up like 'okay no offense.'  Then apologized by saying, ' I'm sorry, how you doing MJ?'  Why do I have to check this grown man?  Some men think that's a compliment, and yes, to some degree it is.  But in the workplace, don't be too familiar with me.  Especially considering, we just moved in 3 weeks ago.  It means more if you respect me enough to refer to me by my name and treat me in a professional, cordial manner.  Then you can get more comfortable if a work rapport is formed.  Plus, does he really think he has a chance?  I told my manager what happened, he said I should have 'pulled the brotha to the side and told him'.  I should not have hollered it in the hallway.  Whatever.  Men and their egos, never cease to amaze me.  We will see if my trash is emptied tomorrow morning.

Dream Sequence

Here is a dream I wrote about on April 17, 2012:

When I woke this morning, the last thing I dreamt was me in Paris.  I climbed some steps to enter a quaint, quiet and low-lit cafe.  I was alone.  The hostess asked if I wanted to join a table of three women who sat at a table for four.  I looked back and forth between the empty seat at their table and an empty table for two I could dine at alone.  I chose the women's table.  When I sat, they didn't say anything, just looked at me then kept their conversation.  The women were African and/or Middle Eastern.  Their hues were dark chocolate or olive.  Then the scene shifted to what appeared to be the same cafe, but now I was standing.  People were adding pictures of young men and women from the Middle East and Africa to two walls.  I would choose a picture and 'interview' them on the spot.  If they answered my questions, they got citizenship (not sure if to U.S. or France). But it was that simple.

I try to write my dreams down before I forget them, especially the bizarre ones.  Because I will forget, just like I forgot this one.  I happened to be flipping through my journal for another entry I wrote and found this.  To add context, I did just have a conversation with Antoine about how envious I was that he was going to Paris (and other parts of Europe) next month.  Maybe that spawned this dream.

The Truth About Lying

Three things stood out to me this weekend:

1.  It never ceases to amaze me how insecure people, grown people can be.  The fallacies that they concoct and believe are endless.

2.  In time, people will not only reveal their true selves, but the feelings they had tucked deep down will slowly seep to the surface.

3.  Woman cannot live off of Golden Oreo Cookies alone- hungry as hell!

Numbers 1 and 2, are the most important and sometimes less obvious.  It is a shame, but if I was given a dollar every time someone told a lie on me, or totally misconstrued something I said, I would have at least $875!  If I was given a nickel for ever incident where someone used me as the scapegoat for some of their own bullshit when I wasn't to blame, I would have about $600.  But the strange thing about lies and being lied on, is how it brings you so much closer to the truth- your truth.  In my mind, as I wade through the mess of it all, I intricately slay each lie.  I dissect every word repeated and get free, steadily reminding myself that I am defined only by myself, second, and an almighty divine One, who created me, first.  All others are banished to the waist side.

Furthermore, although hurtful, I cannot help but feel empowered.  For someone to take time and create a fairytale about me, they had to have realized that I was, and am, a tower.  A tower that would need to be toppled to bring us to the same level.  Not happening- I'm good where I am.

Drunken Posts

There are times I do not post on Facebook for days.  If anything, I may 'check in' somewhere, but that's it.  But when I am drunk or tipsy even, and out, the posts get a little out of hand.  After last night, I am seriously considering removing Facebook from my phone.  I hate to do it, because sometimes it provides satisfactory entertainment.  Take last night for instance, I posted, or attempted to post at least 5-6 random thoughts and/or commentary on the shape-up of my night.  Which consisted of my ever increasing intake of alcohol.What started out as one post advertising an event, steam-rolled into a barrage of ridiculousness.  I had 3 tequila shots, rum and cranberry, a watermelon long island and a strong gin martini- let's just say I was more vocal than usual.  So vocal, by the end of the night I had posted the inventory of drinks consumed.  Now I was getting a bad reception and my phone kept cutting itself off to reboot, which might explain why today I only see two posts.  I hope that is the case and not just me being confused by the timeline structure.  Regardless, I need to work hard against 'expressing' myself when others are watching, even if via social media.

Cognac Conversations

There are conversations that can only be had by two people.  The kind of soul stirring confessions and reflections that are too deep to say while looking in the eyes of the other person.  The thoughts and yearnings that come to the surface when the lights are low and music takes the pang out of each syllable, making it easier to communicate one's feelings.  One's true feelings.  The conversations that make you think of your grandmother; the one who died before you were born.  Is she proud of me?  What would she say?  What does she think?  The words that haunt and hunt you the next day, making it hard to read even one page from the book you ferociously read just yesterday.  You look back at the page realizing you haven't read shit the whole bus ride.  The stomach churns and your heart giggles at the remembrance of the things said.    I had such a conversation- just last night.  There is a thump in my soul today.  It's on beat though- so I welcome it.

Sips of his cognac.  Tribal house beats.  Just. Last. Night...make for a hazy, tipsy Wednesday.

Crackhead Ish

Last week Friday, I had what I like to consider a 'Crackhead Encounter'.  It was with the woman who works at the laundromat where I drop my clothes off to be washed.  She has been handling my clothes for awhile now.  I refer to her by her first name and make a point of being friendly even though she is usually irritated at the sight of me walking in with yet another load for her to have to clean.  Plus, I put anything I want cleaned in my laundry bag, so she has had the pleasure of sorting through my not-so-clean undies.  But hey, I'm paying you to do that, so who cares?  I am used to her telling me my clothes won't be ready until tomorrow, when the process should take no more than a day.  I just drop the clothes off, pay and keep it moving.

On this particular morning as I walk in, she starts whining about breakfast and medicine and some random shit, I cannot even make out.  As I walked to the counter with my large and cumbersome laundry bag, I ask the other washerwoman what she was saying.  That woman just shakes her head and says, "I don't know, she crazy."  All the while, my 'friend' is still whining and going on about whatever.  She refers to me by my last name and tries looking me up with someone else's first name.  "That's not me".  "I'm sorry, I know your last name, I just forgot your first name".  She addresses me directly this time, so I can hear her plea.  Here it is:  "I got all this laundry to do.  I ain't had nothing to eat and I didn't take my diabetes medicine today.  You gotta help me out.  Can you at least buy me breakfast?"  Did I mention I was running late for work?  This was not a good time to test me.  I was not in a bad mood, but she pissed me off with her bold assumption.  Yes, I have tipped her before when she has washed my clothes in the past, but that stopped when she bleached more than her share of my tops.  Although it has only happened about three times, I feel that quota has been met.  But you don't ask for your tip.  Especially from someone whose name you cannot remember.  You don't count on money that  isn't yours yet.  Furthermore, I don't like people trying to work me over and play on my sensibilities.  She sounded like a straight up crackhead.

I told her I didn't have cash and pumped out of there, headed to work.  The nerve...