Sunday, February 28, 2010

Real Nerds of the World UNITE!!

A while ago, I had a conversation with my good friend and his girl friend. Before I go on, let me just tell you a little about our dynamics in high school.

Me- Fat, socially awkward, bad dresser, obsessed with Tevin Campbell and Tiger Woods (apparently my penchant for loving unobtainable men started early), spent many years with crushes that went unrequited, and picked on mercilessly
Her- Thin, beautiful, popular, hair and nails always professionally done, great dresser with parents that gave her more than enough to afford her expensive wardrobe, and could have any man she wanted

My Friend/ Her Boyfriend- Geeky, socially awkward, somehow he managed to score the hottest woman in high school (his current girlfriend) and he spent years with jocks and financially secure men with good jobs wondering how he managed to land a knockout like her, and thinking little enough of him to ask him such a question to his face

Needless to say, it was quite easy to see why he and I were friends. We were both such nerds, that we cancelled one another out enough to be equals. To this day I honestly have no clue what he and she have in common, but I guess that's just me.

Anyway, one day we all sat around chatting and she had the gall to call herself a nerd. Seriously. I let her rant about what a nerd she claimed to be because she likes to read. But inside, I was seething. For so many years, we nerds only had to cling to each other, lest we be viewed as friendless (hey, having two friends was better than none, so we clung to one another like cheap pantyhose). I wanted so badly to explain to her that being a nerd is so much more than liking to read. Being a true nerd consists of being tormented mercilessly for having shoes that your mother picked out of a bin. Being a nerd consisted of no boy in his right mind wanting to sit next to you in home room, let alone be caught dead talking to you in the cafeteria. Being a nerd is hating when people get to pick their teams in p.e. because it's always down to you and that overly asthmatic kid, yet you still end up getting picked last. Being a nerd is being that kid who needed the bus driver had to tell the other kids to scoot over, because they were being really mean to me- I mean them and not letting them sit down.

How on earth could this beautiful, popular creature dare call herself a nerd? I know what it is. Now that the world is hip to nerds, suddenly those people that made our lives hell want to encroach on our territory. Nerds spent so many years hiding from our oppressors, and now they're not only seeking us out, they're actually claiming to be one of us. Those bastards!! Since Bill Gates went from wedgie champion to gazillionarie, people understand that nerdom isn't as bad as they thought is was (or as bad as they'd hoped to make it).

But still, we nerds have persevered, yet there's something that really grinds our gears about having beautiful people claim to be nerds also. Every time some fabulous woman wants to call herself a nerd I want to say "take it back, you Prada wearing poser!!" Or I'd like to sarcastically tell her that things must have been really hard for her as she balances her yoga classes and her shopping trips at Dolce & Gabana.

What the posers don't get is that being a nerd isn't based on books, being a nerd is based on years of being socially inept. Nerds didn't have the social skills to fit in, which is what made us easy targets. We didn't have a lot of friends, so that whole "safety in numbers" mess didn't apply to us because a) there weren't a lot of us and b) those of us that did exist certainly weren't big enough to stand up to anyone.

For those of you non nerds, here's a little list to go by to let you know whether you're really one of us. If you don't fit at least four of these, I'm going to ask that you immediately stop calling yourself a nerd, and leave the rest of us to heal our emotional wounds.

1) Have you ever been publicly humiliated by someone you had crush on?

2) Was p.e. especially traumatic because no matter where you hid, the ball still managed to find you?

3) Have you ever had to eat somewhere other than the cafeteria to avoid the awkwardness of trying to find a table where people will let you sit down?

4) Have you ever played Pog, Dungeons & Dragons, or World of Warcraft on a regular basis?

5) Have you ever written the love of your life a note professing how much you love them, and somehow that note makes rounds to everyone in your class? (extra points if they xeroxed it)

6) Have you ever go the feeling that your teacher didn't like you for no apparent reason?

7) Were you a member of the Games Club or in the band at school?

8) Have you ever had a conversation with someone and you start talking about books and suddenly stop talking to you?

9) Have you ever attended any kind of Star Wars, Star Trek, sci-fi, or comic book convention?

10) If you are a girl did you never even pretend to want to join cheerleaders because you knew you didn't have a shot in hell, and for guys did you avoid any and all athletics at any cost?

11) Did you avoid the pool like pro athletes avoid paying child support because you were either too fat or two skinny and the thought of undressing in front of people gave you hives?

12) Five or more years after high school, can you still remember the first and last name of your tormentor (Shay Rodgers!) and you often read the newspapers hoping to hear that they've landed in prison?

So there you have it. Now those were only a few nerd tip offs. There are many other horrific nerd stories that we've endured. If any (or all) of those are vaguely familiar, then feel free to call yourself a nerd. But if you know in your cold cruel heart that you don't fit into any of those scenarios, and you were popular, attractive, outgoing, and well-liked, do us real nerds a favor and STOP IT.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Malika and Her Boobs Vol. 2

I blogged a while ago about my issue involving my boobs and not wanting them to hang to my kneecaps in a classy strappy dress that I was planning to wear to my classmate's upcoming birthday party. I really wanted to look good in front of my classmates to the point where they made lewd comments about me and my huge perky knockers. Well, I at least wanted the guys to make nasty comments, I would have settled for the women looking at me enviously and wanting me dead because my bosom was so upright and ample. My homie Shaunnika suggested that duct tape my boobs up, which brought me to last night.

I started getting ready a few hours early. I shaved my pits, my legs, my vajayjay, and my toes, all in an effort to look my best. I even threw my girdle on and my pretty panties. It's not like I was expecting to get action or anything, I just wanted my underclothes to look as pretty as my outer clothes. And then it was time.

I pulled out the duct tape and started on the right one. And then I tried the left one. But unlike the first time where they looked upright and happy, they looked weird. I was perplexed. So I started over, and this time they looked okay. But then I put on the dress and damned if my boobs weren't lopsided. One hung straight down, while the other was clearly forcibly facing my left. Frustration set in. I went to Pookie and asked if my tatas looked okay. Naturally he said that they looked fine, in an attempt to get me to hurry the hell up. I knew what needed to be done. I grabbed my jacket and walked outside. I went to my neighbor Barbie's apartment and immediately said to her "I need help taping my boobs."

I've only known Barbie for a few months but between conversations, advice, watching my son, and making the best damned sandwich I ever had, she's been a God send. Now I'll have to add taping my boobs to her list of accomplishments.

Barbie, our friend Yvette and I headed to the bathroom and closed the door. The first order of business was to take off the duct tape, which had started to settle onto my skin. DEAR GOD. Have you ever waxed your nipples? Well, I don't have any hair on my jugs so I have no need to wax them, but if I did, I imagine that is something what I went through last night. Barbie and Yvette wanted to slowly and painlessly try to rip the tape off, but time was short and my frustration took over. Being the dumbass that I am, I ripped the tape off of my boobs. I remember seeing the skin clinging to the great tape as I pulled if off with all my might. I saw stars as. I wanted to cry. My eyes watered. My boobs hurt and they hurt bad.

Once we got the original set of tape off, Barbie began to apply the more tape as I held my breast firmly into position. Yvette sat back and cut the tape into strips for our mission. All I could think was how much some perv would be willing to pay for footage of three women in the bathroom playing with boobies and using duct tape. After much measuring and trying to figure out the best way to execute Operation Tape Tatas we found the best way. Barbie taped them up. The only problem then was that they were once again crooked.

Thankfully, the tape hadn't set in, so taking this set down wasn't as bad. This time we were able to go back and fix them, and just like I imagined, they looked perfect. Barbie even had me jump up and down before I left to assure that they stayed in place. It was time to party.

I got there and it was great seeing all of my homies from Southwest Dekalb High School. Pookie sat off in the corner with his brother, while I went off and sat down with my homegirls. I let everyone know that if my boobs popped out, they were to let me know immediately because I wasn't trying to end up on the internet. For some reason, I would have been more embarrassed about duct tape showing than I would have been about my actual teets hanging.

My old friend Kenshala started talking and I told her about my apprehension with my boobs. She told me not to worry about it and that if they pooped out, she'd let me know. The song "Blame It On the Alcohol" came on, and I knew that I had to hit the dance floor, since my dearly departed cousin loved this song. I had to bust a move in his honor. The only problem was that as soon as I got down they started to come out. Kenshala pointed it out. Thankfully, I'd hit the dance floor wearing my sweater, so we fastened it. But that didn't stop Irma and Chyna (yes I named my boobs, don't judge me!!). I knew what I needed to do.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom and went into a stall where I prepared. Of course the tape had settled again. Once again, I went for quick and painful to get it over with. I saw stars. And then for Irma (the one on the left). Again it hurt. I couldn't believe that I was in a public ladies' room ripping tape off of the delicate skin of my breasts. After I dried my eyes I went back to the dance floor. I was ready to get down with my bad self.

Unfortunately, Pookie had talked me into wearing an uncomfortable pair of shoes. So despite my going back and forth over the issue of "the ladies" and even ripping skin off of my boobs via duct tape, I still wasn't able to dance because my feet were in immense pain.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Malika and Her Boob Issue

Recently I got an invite from a friend to attend his All Black Affair, and I was thrilled. The mothers out there know how rare it is for us to get the chance to dress up and show off. I think the last time I got to really have fun like an adult, Barack Obama was just a senator that few of us had heard of, Black people had yet another reason to hate Bush because of a little thing called Hurricane Katrina, and people thought a "Snuggie" was what happened when your underwear were too small. Needless to say, it's been a while.

So naturally I jumped at the chance to get dressed up and drag Pookie out to uncomfortably stand around my friends that he's never met. It'll be the prom I never had.

The only problem is that while I already own the dress that I plan to wow the crowd with, my boobs are now touching my belly button. And to wear this spectacular floor-length spaghetti strapped dress with a bra with a strap would reek of "this heffa has no home training." Enter my problem.

I have to admit that I'm pretty content with my body these days. But that's only because my body hasn't changed much since high school. To have my frame and thickness at the age of 14 was hell. However, at the age of 29, and having had a child, I'm pretty damned hot. That's part of why I'm so excited about this party. For the men that told me I wasn't gorgeous or thin enough to get with, they'll be checking me out and undressing me inappropriately with their eyes. I'm really looking forward to having men leer at me. It's about damned time that I get men making rude sexual gestures at me.

I decided then to contact my fashionable friend, Shaunnika, for assistance. She picked up the phone and I blurted out "I need help with my boobs." Shaunnika, being proudly heterosexual, paused a moment to delicately let me know that my boobs weren't really her issue. I explained to her my problem with my tatas and I let her know that I wanted to be checked out the way most women are. She agreed to ask some of her top heavy coworkers about their breast issues.

Shaunnika called me back and let me know the answer to my prayers. Duct tape. I'd need to duct tape my boobs down and up to create the perky and round look that I'm seeking.

I immediately grabbed the tape and headed to my bathroom and only did one side to see the difference between the happy fun boob and the mommy boob. Duct tape created the look that I'd been looking for. All I can say is that tank top season is gonna look really dope this year. I'll go straight from looking like "this heffa doesn't have any home training" to random men thinking "dammit, I want to take her home and bang her on the dining room table." Yep, lewd and obnoxious thoughts about me. Is that too much to ask?

Thursday, December 31, 2009

Middle Finger Glory

Recently I found myself driving, and just like always, I was the only person with any clue how the hell driving should go. Slow drivers right, fast drivers left. Apparently, I'm the only one that got the memo that says that this is how the freeway works. I guess I live in some type of alternate universe where people walk on their hands and flamingos run the city council.
Anyway, the genius driving behind me seemed to think that I was driving too slowly. Either that or his steering wheel suddenly ceased to work, rendering him hopeless to tail behind me at a staggering 75 mph. Eventually he broke free of his errant steering wheel and passed me on the right, giving me a look that said that I was somehow responsible for the fact that he would be late to his appointment, because I was obviously the person that made him leave out of his home later than he should have.

Now the old school Malika would have given him the glorious Middle Finger and kept it going. (I just realized that M and F are also my initials. Coincidence? I think not.) Just before I got ready to give him the "one finger wave" I stopped short. What if that person was crazy? What if waving my favorite finger would have set him off and he would have tailed me and broken my tires and windshield? Worse yet, what if he had a gun?

That's when it occurred to me that things just aren't the same anymore. What happened to the good old days of being able to flip someone off and living to tell about it? What kind of society do we now reside in, where you can't even let someone know where to go and how to get there, without being in fear for your life? How sad.

I just can't help but to wonder how a bunch of sensitive candy ass pansies have made it hard for us middle finger wavers. They can't just take it, or even flip it back, no, they have to go all OJ Simpson and start stalking and cutting people. Some people just have no backbone. I've been called many, many, many names in my life. I'm not going to bore you by naming all of them, but three of the most common names rhyme with "Bore," "Mut," and "Jalcoholic." But do you see me cutting tires over it? NO!? Mainly because I'm too quick to get caught and I don't do it where cameras are, but that's for another post.

Anyway, dear readers please be safe. I'm not going to urge you to stop giving "the bird," I'm just going to advice careful flipping. Because you, my fellow middle finger saluters, and I are among the last of a dying breed. We can't let people that got their asses kicked growing up, take the joy out of our special waves. We can't give them that kind of power. But please be careful of who you piss off. Because some people simply aren't strong enough to swallow your finger.

Happy flipping!!!

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Malika Hits the Pole

I, like most broke women, have occasionally considered what it would be like to make a living as a stripper. Anyone that’s actually looked at my body would tell me that I did right to go to college and leave stripping to women that aren’t shaped like Foghorn Leghorn from Loony Tunes. Typically I might agree with those people, if I hadn’t ever visited the Clermont Lounge here in Atlanta.
The Clermont Lounge is the total opposite of any and every other urban strip club. It is no place for women with huge fake boobs and expensive hair extensions. There you’ll find out of shape women that are in their 40’s with bad dye jobs that are growing out, accompanied by the occasional bullet and stab wounds. Occasionally you may find women that are young and attractive, but not often. The cool thing is that the locals know better than to expect high quality strippers there. It’s all about good cheap drinks, fun music and lousy strippers. You won’t find twin strippers named Mandy and Candy with size 2 waists and f-cup boobs. And that’s just the way we like it.
When women are broke or drunk, or worse yet, broke and drunk, the Clermont is the kind of place where we can make rent and collect interesting stories to tell. Any average looking woman can hit the stage in her full natural splendor. Don’t want to shave? Don’t worry about it! C-section scars? Even better! It’s almost like the worse you look, the more character you bring to the stage. You don’t even have to dance well. As a matter of fact I’ve seen plenty of old fat grandmothers with no rhythm make plenty of tips based on pity alone. Who cares why people tip you as long as they tip you?
Clermont is a dangerous place for a woman like me. There I can shake my jiggly dimpled butt and be paid well for it. I can hang out with drunken hipsters and hug on them and have them buy me drinks. Who needs a college education, when places like this are within my city?
I always imagined how my routine at the Clermont would go. I can clearly envision the smoky club, filled with 20 and 30-somethings, drunk and downing tequila shots. That’s when the intro to my song comes on. I don’t know what it is about the song “Darling Nikki” by Prince, but I’ve always wanted that to be my stripper song. Then I’d climb my 5’8 husky frame onto the stage. Of course I’d be adorned with 7 inch, clear Lucite stripper shoes and some tacky cheap cheerleader outfit. Not that I’ve thought about this every day since the onset of puberty or anything like that.
My deep dark secret is that if I had been born with a different body, I’d have been stripping since the first Bush was in office. However, God is a cruel one. Aside from a belly that refuses to shrink no matter how many hours of crunches, sit ups, Pilates, and laps I do, I was born with something no Black woman wants to be cursed with; I’ve got no butt. Just like all White women are not born with full blonde hair, cute little button noses, and cellulite-free thighs, not all Black women are born with big stripper booties. Oh, but how I want a stripper booty.
I’ve always been fascinated by stripper booties. They’re so big and round. Lucky bitches. I want a behind that’s so big, if you smack it once, three minutes later it’s still moving. I want a butt that’s so big you can play spades on it. That’s the only way to make money as a Black stripper; you need a big butt. But I was cursed with no butt. God decided that rather than giving me a physique like Buffy the Body, he’d give me something else like a good personality. I’m a riot at parties, but I couldn’t touch my toes if my life depended on it. Who the hell wants a good personality when you can have the ass of a stripper? With the right booty, you can have the personality of a bag of nickels and men will still drop to your knees and beg to pay your rent. Instead, I was given the ability to tell a good joke. Lucky me.
So I’ll never be a stripper. I can’t do it simply because I could never accept that I spent 10 years in college just to graduate and then simply take my clothes off for money. I guess it’s pride that keeps me from stripping. That and my flat butt. But would you like to hear a good joke instead?