I’ve Got Hose

Today I wore panty hose, and apparently, no one under 70 does that anymore. I woke up thinking, It’s a nice day. A little warmer than usual. I’d like to wear a dress, but tights would be too hot. Bare legs won’t work either. I know! I’ll wear a pair of sheer hose. Yes. That is what I’ll do.

I kid you not when I say my leg temperature was nothing short of perfect. It was a beautiful morning, and I felt long a strong, confident black woman. But then I got to work, where my dear co-worker and fashion mentor said, “Oh, are you wearing panty hose?! That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen!” I’m sure what she meant was, “Oh, are you wearing panty hose?! That’s so gross. How old are you? Do you listen to soft rock?”

Let me be clear, I was wearing the most classic pair of panty hose a lady might find. They were “sheer,” as I mentioned, which really just means they make you look ashy. I bought them at CVS, if I recall, balled up in a little box. I think the brand is L’eggs. At the beginning of the day they had the obligatory single run, but by the time I got home it looked like I’d been attacked by wildebeasts.

As I rode the train, I realized that everyone was staring at me. I’ve worn rompers and gotten fewer stares. ROMPERS! I must admit, the older men seemed quite smitten, and the older women found me respectable, as they too were wearing hose, because in their day a lady didn’t walk around shaving her legs and galavanting about, or decorating them in patterned tights like a harlot. I hope they are in their beds now, their dentures by their bedside, thinking about how their are still nice young ladies in the world.

Those without AARP cards, though, seemed very confused, as though they had no idea what was wrong with my legs. They could have just put up their thumbs and fingers for an epic “Loser” sign.

I think I made a baby throw up.

In any case, I made my way home just fine and warm, and I made myself a cup of tea and put on my cozy pants. I’m proud to say that I wear panty hose, and I plan on breaking these babies out next week, perhaps even under a pair of nice slacks or culottes.

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Foxxy Fight

Good news. Jamie Foxx got into a fight at an User concert on Thursday. No, I’m not talking about a 14 year old girl named Jamie Foxx, I’m talking about grown man/singer/comedian Jamie Foxx.

$20 says those are prescription lenses. Old.

Now, Jamie Foxx is 43, and should be cautious of schoolyard brawls. No spring chicken, Foxx is at high risk for broken bones (I just have a feeling he doesn’t consume enough calcium), and a fight at an Usher concert is something more appropriate for Trey Songz or the like. According to my favorite South African website IOL.com, Foxx got into a fist fight with a former business associate, Breyon Prescott,  at a Belvedere pre-Grammy party. (Blame it on the Goose? Amirite?)

The article reports, “The pair…had a confrontation, before Breyon reportedly punched the ‘Soloist’ star, who immediately struck him back before friends, including music producer Jermaine Dupri, waded in to help.”

If there’s any way to reference Jamie Foxx, it’s as ” ‘The Soloist’ star.” I mean, who didn’t see that movie? Sure, he has tons of songs, starred in a television show named after him, and portrayed Ray Charles in the biopic, but I think we can all agree that ‘The Soloist’ really made Jamie Foxx who he is.

Also, if I happened to get into an altercation at an Usher concert, which I plan on, I would not want Jermaine Dupri to back me up. Real talk, I’d prefer to have his ex Janet throwin’ bows on my behalf. Did you see ‘For Colored Girls’? Mama is jacked. Like, on the juice. When The Situation is fresh from the tanning bed, and the two of them stand side by side (a common occurrence), the two are nearly indistinguishable.

In conclusion, I think we can all take a cue from the ever-wise Chris Rock:

Young black men — if you go to a movie theater and someone steps on your foot, let it SLIIIDE. Why spend the next twenty years in jail, cause someone smudged your Puma?

Pen Pals

Pen pals are a rather interesting thing. It always seems like a great idea in the beginning, but after one letter each, no one cares, and everyone just goes back to talking to their real pals.

Pen pals should always be of different races, to keep things interesting. (They should probably not sit so close, though.)

When I was in 5th grade, we were assigned international pen pals. I was lucky enough to be assigned Jean-Baptiste, a 14 year old French boy (It is only now that I notice the strange decision to pair a 10 year old with a 15 year old…I can only attribute this decision to my teacher’s acknowledgment of my extreme intelligence and maturity). Jean-Baptiste wrote to me from his small village of boring things that I didn’t care about. He described his house and his family, and I was like, “Whatever, Jean.” He even drew me a map of France. That was weird. I’m sure he could have gotten a map of France to send me, one that was not drawn with a No. 2 pencil by shaky fingers on parchment paper.

What Jean-Baptiste did tell me that was interesting, was that he wanted to be a fireman. I thought that was pretty cool. But everything else, Snoozeville. I was pleased to find his letter when I went home to visit last summer. I was interested to see what he looked like, as he’d chosen to send me a drawn map of France instead of a photograph, if you’ll recall. I typed his full name into my Facebook search bar, as any creep would, and there he was! And he was standing in front of a fire truck. “You did it, Jean-Baptiste!” I thought. “You did it!”

I promptly sent him a message explaining who I was, along with a friend request. I have been waiting six months for a response, but I know it’s coming. I know.

This past week, as I was sorting out my bin ‘o junk, I found another letter from a pen pal. Apparently I was some sort of mentor pen pal for a girl while I was in college, though I have no recollection of how this would have been arranged. In any case, I found a letter from Brittany. Judging by the handwriting and the presence of words like “cuz” and “N-E-ways,” I think Brittany was about 13 years old. After saying that she found the letter than I sent her interesting (an obvious lie, when she later admitted to not remembering anything I told her) she said this:

“Your new nick name is Lauri. As I get to kno u I will come up with a better one but for now Lauri is the one for u.”

First of all Brittany, let’s work on spelling and proper punctuation. Secondly, Lauri is not a great nickname for Lauren. It’s just another name entirely. Thirdly, you can’t change someone’s nickname midway through a relationship. It’s confusing. And finally, how did she think that getting to ‘kno’ me would help to determine a proper nickname? Was she planning to name me something like Running Bull?

After informing me of her ethnicity, which included ‘Afro American’ (and asking ‘what are u?’), she asked, “What R u doing 4 the holiday AKA Christmas and anything else u may celebrate?” I love that she called Christmas THE holiday (HAPPY HOLIDAY was also written on the outside of the note), as though there was no way I could possibly celebrate anything else. I also like that if I did choose to celebrate anything else, it must only be in conjunction with Christmas.

Brittany then asked when I was visiting, which I thought was a red flag. This girl was moving too fast. She signed the letter,

Love Alaways,

Brittany J*******

I’m guessing I ignored Brittany after all that, because that’s what any good mentor would do. But I hope she’s doing well. I hope she’s learned to spell a little better, and I hope that she finally thought of a better nickname for me.