Category: cuteness kills

So I’m in the supermarket last night and I swear, every other person that passed me by was either pregnant or pushing a stroller.  It was the most bizarre thing.  And I don’t know if it’s the PMS or what but, I could not stop wishing oohing and awwing like a damn fool.  

You know that annoying girl who can’t help but say how adorable every single baby in sight is?  Yeah, that was me. Sigh.

But then, I got online this morning and read an article about a woman in Indonesia who just gave birth to a 19-pound baby boy and I almost threw up in my mouth!  NINETEEN POUNDS??  I can’t even lift a ten pound dumbbell without bitching and complaining and this lil’ sumo wrestler came out of the womb weighing NINETEEN pounds?? 

Um, just what in the-made-for the-maury-show- hell is anyone supposed to do with that? 

Poor woman is prob gonna throw her back out just trying to carry him home from the hospital. And let’s not talk about what it’s going  to cost to properly feed that child. Uh-uh, no ma’am… 

Thank you NY Daily News, my biological clock is officially SHUT DOWN. 

So after debating back and forth for some time, a good friend of mine (who shall forever remain nameless) got this AMAZING but EXTREME haircut. Mind you, I’m not saying she is the only person in the whole world with the particular style but it’s def the first in her immediate circle of friends.  Which is always kinda hot, right?

Well don’t you know, not even a week and a half later one of her homegirls called her FROM the chair in the local beauty salon asking/telling her that she wanted the exact same hairstyle too (cause at the point that you’re i the chair, you’re so not asking). And wait on it… could my friend explain to her stylist how the cut was done??

Err-um, what in the-hand-rocks-the cradle-hell?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear folks on the whole “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” party line. BUT lemme tell you something… forreal, foreal? When it comes to MOST women (cause there are always the A-list celeb exceptions) that mantra does NOT, I repeat DOES NOT apply to three things: hair, handbag or shoes. Straight. Up.

And don’t try me on it. We are too grown.  I do not want to be surrounded by a circle of clones. Go get your own style, dammit. I can barely cobble mine together without you encroaching on my ish!

Survey says, LAME.

Err-umm, I know most parents stop whooping their kids when they get old enough to comprehend but real talk? Some of these hard headed mo-fo’s need to be beat all the way up until they turn 21 years-old. And preferably with a large, thick, you-gonna-remember-this-one-right-here leather belt like the one my Dad used on my lil’ ass back in the day… Uh-huh, yeah, I said it.

‘Cause if more teenagers understood that they could still catch a bad one from their parents, we damn sure wouldn’t have bored children enlisting to become assassins in Mexican drug cartels, playing themselves out in ridiculous reality shows like NYC Prep or walking into tattoo parlors talking about, “hi. I want you to tat up my body to the point where the only place I’ll ever be able to work is a circus.”

Because in what can only be attributed to a lack of fear of the parental beat down, 18 year-old Kimberley Vlaeminck decided to have 56 freaking stars etched into the side of her FACE. And to no one’s surprise but her own, her father completely lost his shit when that fast ass got home.

So naturally, like all immature, adolescents under pressure Ms. Kimberley went straight into denial mode.

Don’t you know, this silly child had the nerve to insist that she’d “only asked for three stars, feel asleep in the chair and woke up with a galaxy on her face.” You ONLY asked for three stars on your FACE??? Feel free to insert the blank stare with 2 blinks.

But wait on it… Her parents actually believed that bullshit!

I mean to say, not only did they believe it but they proceeded to hire a lawyer and press charges against the tattoo artist/ parlour. As if any sober person in their right mind could sleep through 56 stars being inked on his/her face… I. can’t.

Needless to say, not even a week later homegirl got caught on a hidden camera admitting that she knew all along what the tattoo artist was going to do. So she’s had to issue an apology, retract her statement, lost the almost $18,000 her parents put into making the claim/ hiring a lawyer, et al.

So ummm, I’m just going to go out on a limb and say, this right here. This is what happens when “time outs” go horribly wrong. No offense

PRAISE God there are less than 48 hours until Toya & Dre’s freaking wedding!!!  My goodness, this whole bridesmaid dress situation has been a NIGHTMARE. Exhale. Got me feeling like a broke-down Keyshia Cole singing, ‘I jus’ want it to be OVAAAA!’  

No offense.
Forget the fact that I’ve been existing in a perpetual state of hunger for the last 6 weeks, why has it taken SIX freaking fittings to get a “custom-made” dress to fit properly?? Seriously?? , I’m a need you to do a little better dude.  Cause beyond the $250 for a dress that I won’t ever wear again, you’re wasting MY TIME.  
SIX times over the past EIGHT weeks, I’ve had to stop any and everything that I was doing and DRAG my ass down to midtown and below (because after the 4th attempt, it required a totally different tailor to execute the necessary damage control) from Washington Heights,.  For those who aren’t familiar with NYC, that’s about 120 blocks or a 40 min trip. Mind you, as I type this post the dress is not in hand. I still have to go pick it up for the shop.  Uh-huh, one word: beyond.
Jesus be the open bar reception.  ‘Cause Lord, I can’t do it in my right mind…

Now that the weather is attempting to warm up and we’re in the final stretch of whatever damage control folks will actually accomplish before open-toe season begins, it’s time to deal with the least appealing aspect of the change of season: the new bikini dilemma.

Uuuggh, can I tell you? I ABHORE (yes, breaking out the big GRE words folks) shopping for new bathing suits. Like, seriously? I can by new tanks tops, sundresses and sandals all day every day, but say the word two-piece and I literally wanna throw-up in my mouth. And it doesn’t matter how much I physically or mentally prepare, trying to find a swimsuit that can simultaneously hide all the lumps and bumps yet still qualify as sexy is like water torture.

Honestly, I think the root of problem is that every year, my overall body shape changes- sometimes for the better, most times not. Therefore, the hella cute string bikini style that might’ve been the answer last season, looks nothing but cra-razy this time around. And please, don’t even get me started on those damn boy short bottoms that cut dead in the middle of the saddle bag? No maam, nobody needs that AT ALL.

And call me cheap but the thought of spending damn near a $150 of bullshit sized piece of material that’s only going to hightlight the areas of my body that I’m most insecure about is beyond painful.

So if you see me walking out of Bloomies looking dazed and confused ike I someone just kicked me in the neck, you know what the deal is. There’s nothing to say, just pray.

My God, do you remember that unfortunate period of time when flashing the strings of a thong over your super, super low rise jeans was considered a bold fashion statement? You know, right around the time folks actually believed that Sisqo from Dru Hill was anything but 1-800-ON-FIRE? Uh-huh, we sure have lived through some Dark Ages my friends…

Well, what you know about a group of “innovative”Japanese designers (emphasis on the sarcastic quote marks) doing their darnedest to damn us all back into that hell. Yes sir. Just in time for the summer, they rolled out a new style of jeans so low they require the attached bikini straps to keep them up. Talking about, “now women can be even more booty-licious.” Sigh. Bootylicious? In 2009? Really?

Someone please pass me the barf bag.

As of today there are t-minus 67 days until Toya’s super sexy 2nd wedding. And since my lil mini-me has decided that she wants her bridesmads to wear specially designed super short, very low-cut, fitted cocktail dresses, Operation Pull-It-Together is in full effect.

First, there were three weeks of the crazy 6.30a bootcamp workout to jump start the mission. Although I’ve done bootcamp in the past, that sure didn’t make going back remotely easier. Real talk? I still don’t know how I managed to wake up and get out of my house by 6.10am 4-days a week. ‘Cause if you don’t know anything else about me, please understand this: I am not the one for the early mornings. But praise god, somehow we made it through. And now, I’ve committed to daily hot yoga and at least 4 days of cardio at the gym.

Okay, bump what you heard about feeling more relaxed, detoxed and zen-like after bikram yoga. I’m gonna keep it real- that b.s. is kicking my ass coming and going. Seriously? I feel like 2 cents. From my toenails to my scalp, every inch of my body hurts. I can barely make it home before falling on my face. Ain’t nothing relaxed, or zen-like about me. And let’s not even talk about the gym… OMG, this morning I was on the elliptical machine for 15 minutes sweating and heaving louder than the 350lb woman on the machine next to me. Mind you, my resistance level was only 5. WTF?
So the next time you wanna know why I’m not thrilled to be in one of my very closest friend’s wedding, lemme tell you- it’s not the money on a dress I can only wear to a club in Miami or Vegas. It’s not the hours of my life lost stuffing envelopes with save-the-date cards. Or even the big ass hole homegirl has talked in my head with all the wedding day drama. Nope, all that is water under the bridge. The core issue is the damage control.
It’s trying to find a waistline that I haven’t seen since the summer of ’08. It’s eating an orange when what I really want is a warm chocolate chip cookie (or two). It’s the bars of deordorant that I’m going through trying to hide the constant state of stink I find myself in. Dammit, I’m tapped out!
For the record, I will so not be offended if any of my peeps decide that they don’t want to be in my wedding (whenever the hell that actually happens) because they’re soft and squishy. Just keep it real. Not only will I understand, I promise to save you a second slice of the cake.

My god when is the summer coming? This cold weather is K-I-L-L-I-N-G me I tell you.

It’s gotten so bad, I don’t even believe the sunshine when I see it. It’s like: yeah, yeah, yeah all them blue skies and rays of light are just trickery to get me to leave my warm and toasty apartment for the frigid outdoors. Damn that. Like I always say, can’t nothing good happen below 75 degrees.

On the flipside, in anticipation of the day I actually get to wear a sundress or pair of shorts, I’ve decided to re-enlist in my local bootcamp workout program- AGAIN ( Yeah, yeah, I know, why in the world would my lazy ass voluntary wake up at 5.30a just to be worked out like an endentured slave for 90 minutes four days a week? Ummm…. cause bootcamp is way cheaper than replacing the cute clothes. And there’s nothing uglier than the ill fitting baby-t. Mmm-hmm, exactly.

Thankfully, this program is only three weeks long (as opposed to the normal six week session). So praise the Lord, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Sorta…. Check back in with me next week after we’ve hit the track to do countless wind sprints and I attempt to run a mile and a half in under twelve minutes.

Pray for me ya’ll…

Um hi. I’m looking for my waistline, have you seen it? It disappeared sometime shortly after August and hasn’t been shown any kind of definition since.

I’m beginning to worry because according to the all the damn catalogs and invitations that keep flooding my mailbox, bikini/ wedding season is around the corner. And considering I don’t have a baby to blame there’s really no excuse for the bulge that insists on making its prescence known over the top of my jeans. Not at all.

So seriously, if you live uptown and belong to NYSC, please holla at the kid. Cause I’m in desperate need of a focused workout buddy to help with the search.

Okay for all my Gossip Girl obsessed friends, did everybody see that navy brocade skirt that Blair was wearing for the majority of the show last night? HOT. Well turns out that it’s actually a piece from this really exclusive French line called BGN of which my BGB (bestest gay boyfriend) since our more scandalous days at FAMU, Geoffrey Payton happens to be the North American Sales Director. Mmm-hmmm…

So you know as soon as I found that out I had to put a call in to try and work something out (cause that’s what we folks do). And it turns out that the new spring line is here and popping! Unfortunately, its waaaay out of the kid’s budget at the moment, but please feel free to check it out. At least you’ll be able to spot the pieces the next time you see them on the pages of US Weekly and whatnot.

Oh and don’t say I ain’t never put you up on nothing!



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