The Big City Superwoman

I didn’t truly believe in superheroes until I moved to DC six years ago. 

Don’t get me wrong!  I could enjoy a Superman or Batman movie with the most dedicated of comic book fans…oooh-ing as Batman overpowered six men with a gadget he pulled from the his uber-trendy batbelt….

However, I couldn’t really believe these guys actually existed until I moved to the District and was introduced to an elite group of ruthlessly ambitious, sharply educated, unrelentingly aggressive, and fabulously dressed…superwomen.

These women were unique brand of bio woman who had fearlessly gone to war with the old boys network (and won), busted a big wide hole in the glass ceiling (without breaking a nail), and overcome a system that favors neckties (over Nine West).   

And Ms. Diva – the shortest friend in my network of homegirls but the one designated as having the largest ambition – was a part of this exclusive sorority. 

She was deputy director over a government agency, managed a staff of 75 people, sat on a Fortune 500 Board, traveled every other month to broker deals internationally, and was under the age of 30…

She was what most young boys wants to be, and what  most old men had never been….a woman equal to a man, and relentlessly aggressive....

Dating in DC had been an interesting rollercoaster ride for Ms Diva who was constantly meeting gentleman who thought they wanted a Bonnie to their Clyde…

Cue Jay-Z and Beyonce.... "all I need in this life of sin, is me and my girlfriend...down to ride to the very end, is me and my...”

What these men really wanted, though, was a Stewart…as in Martha Stewart…or a stay-at-home,  raise-my-kids, support-my-endeavors, but don’t-get-a-job type of woman…

Ms. Diva was about her business, and bake sale didn't make her short list…

So she settled on spending intimate nights with her Macbook, stroking the keyboard lightly with her fingertips, and gazing longingly at the screen wishing  - like Geppetto did Pinnochio - that her computer was a "real boy!"

Her computer - unlike most DC men - was unimpressed with her ambition and unaffected by her drive.  So she decided to take her relationship to a deeper level, decided to use her Macbook to assist her with stripping herself of her identity, undressing any title association with her name, and connecting herself with a profile on a hook-up website that only asked two questions, what's your screen name and how do you look?

In which she responded...

Username: PintSizedPrincess69

And then she had posted nude pictures and sat back as the responses rolled in.  Initially, she enjoyed meeting  nameless men who were outside of her DC network, and who were able to introduce her to the most discrete locations around DC until....

....I got a midday phone call...

"I'm late." she hissed into the phone. 

"To what?"

"My funeral." she shouted sarcastically.  "What the heck do you think, Bree! This hook-up shit has got me caught up."

An hour later, I tried to be patient as she snatched the paper bag out my hand containing two pregnancy tests…tried to be calm as she sat on her toilet smoking cigarettes and sipping a Corona as we watched carefully for one pink line or two….AND tried to ignore the desperation in her voice as she recounted how after about 25 sexual experiences the condom had broken on the 26th time....

The test  results came back 10 minutes later...

...and Diva pulled up her pants, adjusted her tailor-made Gucci suit, and pitched her cigarette in the toilet and flushed…

“So, what are you gonna do?” I asked…

“Bree, I can’t think about this shit right now.  It’s already 5:00, and I got a 5:30 dinner meeting.”

As I watched Diva walk out of her bathroom, I couldn’t help but wonder why none of the SHEROES – Superwoman, Wonderwoman, or Catwoman - ever had a man…

In wanting to succeed at the highest level, and in pursuing that which the average man wasn’t able to achieve, would Ms. Diva be forced to make a decision no man would ever be forced to make?

Could Diva still be a heroine with a baby in tow?

Playing 20 Questions in a Miniskirt

Last weekend I was involuntarily signed up for a game of 20 questions with a guy I had never met.

This guy  - a dude I had connected with online - caught my attention because he could put together three complete sentences and post pictures which were cute without looking constipated.  This is super rare in online dating.  So I had decided to keep him around because he was generous with compliments via text message, and the one late night voicemail he left sounded...sane. 

Still I wasn't sure if the guy was who he said he was...because for all intents and purposes he could be single, tall, muscular and 26 (like he said)

OR

he could be a 45-year old married male with nympho tendencies (who took great pictures and had excellent grammar).

Sadly, I was crazed enough to find out and arranged to meet up with him at a U Street bar wearing a mini-skirt and a mase bottle strapped to my belt loop.

Mr. 20 (or Score), showed up a few minutes after me and walked in looking like the Old Spice Guy...confident, handsome, and two seconds away from diving off a mini waterfall, landing on a horse, and smiling with a deodorant stick in his hand.  I was impressed - kinda!

We did the awkward church hug embrace and I lightly kissed his cheek with my ruby red lip gloss and sat down ready for dialogue!

"How are you Mr. Score?  How was your week?"  I smiled sweetly as I sipped my mojito.

And...that, ladies and gentleman, was all he needed.

For 45 minutes I was beat in the head with nouns, accosted by a slew of verbs, slammed over and over again with unnecessary adjectives, and jumped by a gang of adverbs as Mr. Score subjected me to a monologue all about himself.  Nineteen questions, people!  He asked himself nineteen straight questions, then proceeded to answer all of them in the voice of his alter ego...Mr Score 2.0 as I sat  there waiting desperately on the edge of my seat for a slightest...hint...of...an....inhale!  Or an intermission!

Then, thankfully, the 20th question was asked to the person I least expected...

Me!

"Bree," he said. "That is your name, right? Are you ready for dinner?"

I thanked Jesus for modern day miracles and then quickly asked him to forgive me as...

I told Score I had eaten.  Even though I hadn't.
I told Score I was tired.  Even though I wasn't.
I told Score I had to go home.  But, c'mon now, son!  It was a Friday...night....and 80 degrees outside!

So, I faked a cough, told him "no" and tried not to plow down the one-day-over-16-and-happy-I-got-my-first-job greeter during my escape!

On the long walk to my car, I tried to convince my grumbling stomach that a free meal wasn't worth listening to the verbal version of the Autobiography of Mr. Score. 

The date made me remember how much dating (in DC) sucked, but it also reminded me that a good date was hard to find!  It made me specifically think of A Long Walk, a gentleman with whom conversation was never lacking and a dialogue always flowed. 

I had to ask myself, does it take a bad date to appreciate a good one? 

I hadn't thought of  A Long Walk for a couple of weeks, but now A Long Walk was all I could think about.

So I sent him a text, "I really want to see you tonight!"

I blamed it on the mini-skirt I was wearing, which was dying to get the proper play.

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I'm In Love with Mary Jane

The first time I saw weed was in the back seat of a car going 60mph on the freeway.  My god sister’s boyfriend’s friend told he had something “special” to show me.  And, since 15-year old me had recently walked in on my boy cousin peeing.  I felt – you know - prepared.  Fortunately for my little girl eyes, it wasn’t what I expected.  Instead it was a bag of mysterious grass-looking plant leaves. 

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Mary Jane.” he answered. I stared back blank-faced.

“A Dime Piece?”
“Weed?” It was starting to click.

“Marijuana!”

DING! DING! DING!

I suddenly saw my short life flash before my innocent, un-narcotic touched eyes, and demanded they throw it out of the window OR let me out.

They chose the former! Apparently (and unfortunately for me), rolling a blunt seemed more important than rolling with me.  Go figure!

To this day, the thought of being in the presence of weed scares the heck out of me because…HELLO…smoking kills! 

Problem is, I was brainwashed in the 80s by a sunglass-wearing camel on a motorcycle  named Joe that smoking can be cool, be chill and sometimes be sexy.  So though I'm scared of weed, I can't help but envy Jay Z on the BluePrint Album Cover, or Al Capone's expression on the infamous cigar poster, or Obama  in his pre-presidential days squatting with a joint hanging from his lips. All of these people (camel included) are mad cool, and hella gangsta!  More importantly, each of them has mastered the art of balancing a black and mild between their fingertips while simultaneously exuding an I don't give a f*** attitude....an attitude I was currently swagger-jacking as I sat watching one of DC’s most powerful rainstorms, my legs kicked up on my balcony banister, and pretending to smoke an imaginary cigar.

I wanted to NOT give a f*** about My Crush, or the guy who had jumped his ass out of Breeanne’s Ugly Girlfriends with a Penis Club withOUT my permission and advanced directly into Breeanne’s Potential Man Fraternity (without passing GO!).

I will still pissed that My Crush - a month earlier - had attempted to hook me up with his friend, ignoring my too-discrete-he-clearly-missed-it attempt to connect with him over warm beer and chicken wings!  After my "no" then "hell no," he had skipped asking me "why" and began busying himself with the "how" task of pledging me into his Homegirls Sorority.  I - uninterested and happy to be an invididual - had been desperately trying to drop line ever since.

Every day he assumed the title of Dean and commenced the “getting-to-know” you pledge process of  gchatting me relentlessly from good morning to COB, hanging tough with him during happy hours while sexily sipping beer out a straw, and demanding I answer non-booty call related phone calls at 1am in my Girl 6 voice!

And what did I get for these efforts?

A date - Nope
A pat on the back - Nada
A penny for my keeping my thougts rated PG13 - Not a chance!

Instead I received the honor of being dubbed the unoriginal pledge name: “sweetie” and a confession from him that he had a

crush…

on...

another…

chick…(GASP!)

WTF!

I wanted to kick and kiss him, but not necessarily in that order! BUT then I (kinda) remembered his declaration that he rarely told a woman he likes her until he was sure she felt the same way, BECAUSE according to him, subtly was mandatory in all things related to romance.  So – of course – this made me speculate about his so-called Homegirl Sorority, which I figured might just be a modern day brothel of “potentials” that he kept running prettily around in a never-ending circle, in too-tall stilettos, chasing the carrot (which was him)!

Yes, I liked this guy....

But...problem was...I...do…not…pursue…a...man...ever!

So what’s a girl to do? 

Can a woman ever…really…move out of a friend zone without making her interest known? 

I contemplated this answer while watching DC rain drops fall and while lighting up my non-existent black & mild to chill out.  I was hoping that somewhere in my imaginary smoky haze that I could embrace the “I don’t give a f*** attitude” and figure out how I could avoid being left out there on the sidelines once again…

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Friends Without Benefits

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I didn’t get the memo that kids were better seen than heard until I was 21 and my little cousin talked back to me like she was 45. She almost (keyword: ALMOST) got put out in the middle of the 14th Street bridge until I remembered I used to be “that kid,” (yes, “that one”) that always had “something” to say. In fact, the only time I was speechless was in math class and that was because I hadn't figured out the best way to argue why 2 + 2 ALWAYS had to equal 4.   ALWAYS was too concrete for me, a little girl with an opinion and a pantaskirt - or rather, a skirt I wore tied between my knees in rebellion against the dresses-only code for girls, which resulted in MC Hammer-looking pants. 

I needed versatility.

The need to understand that always wasn't forever, that a pantaskirt could be one (a skirt), two (pants), or both! So you could imagine my professors reaction when she proclaimed that “opposites attract and likes repel,” and I nodded in agreement. What she couldn't know was that I had developed a crush on the geekiest, nerdiest, brown noser boy in class who took pride in following the rules…and if opposites attracted, than maybe a pretty girl in a pantaskirt, and a little boy with a penchant for following the rules could work.

What I couldn't know then, but learned 15 years, 3 boyfriends, 2 heartbreaks, and a really embarrassing session where I used the therapist hair for Kleenex later, was that "opposites only attracted" in science class and in the 6th grade.

And I held on to this fact...

UNTIL...

20+ something me felt that familiar heart flutter for a guy friend of mine!

At first I was mad! Livid! Peeved!

I had never - before this day - pledged a guy friend and crossed him into the fraternity of Breanne's Potential Man.  Matter of fact, all of my guy friends - for all intents and purposes - were really ugly girls with penises.

This guy wasn't even a guy friend, partly because he was GUD (Geographically Un-Desirable) living across yonder in VA, but mostly because we had nothing in common.  He loved expensive cars (Porches, BMWs, Bentleys).  I drove a GEO.  He reveled in shopping for Prada and Gucci. When someone mentioned mall, I thought monuments.  He endeavored to be a millionaire.  I got happy when I paid my bills on time.  He was GQ and I was...so...not...interested!

But one day...

He posted a gchat status that took me back to my renegade days: "Opposites only attract in the 6th grade!"
And I hit him back with a "Dude, I totally agree!"

A dialogue occurred soon after, catapulted into a conversation, and ended somewhere past 1,238 lines of  chatting. And our chat conversations continued weeks after, flowing seamlessly from discussions about my pantaskirt and his Porsche, as well as my volunteer work and his 15 hour working days!

And...

These conversations continued every day never lacking in frequency or volume. It didn't take long for us to wonder if our budding computer love, was limited to keystrokes and emoticons or if our conversation could translate into an LOL smiley face - sans gchat!

So, we both RSVPd +1 for an after work happy hour! The +1 was our blackberry, the ride-or-die companion we kept on "ready, set" just in case we both got overwhelmed by the excessive use of our vocal chords.

The non-date started off innocently enough, with both of us asking polite questions that required one-word answers:

How are you? GREAT
Are you hungry? YES
Do you like beer? SOMETIMES

The question, I really wanted to him to ask was: Are you bored? 


To which I would reply:  HELL YES!

But he didn't ask that, because - dangit - that would require a two word answer.

After a long and awkward silence and more awkward sideways glance.  I was just about to call on my "ride-or-die" when he commented on my skirt, saying something silly about how it would look better tied between my knees.  I thought he said "he would look better between my knees."  And me - being single and celibate for 2...long - yelled "SAY WHAAAAAAT!" a little too loud!

And both of us started laughing at a joke we both missed.  Me - because I was little horny.  Him - because...well he couldn't let me laugh alone and be the guy sitting with "that" (insert one: crazy, loud, psycho) chick.

Lucky for us! The conversation flowed from there! Our vibe was similar to harmony, insomuch as we were two different tones that sounded right together!  Our differences absolutely contrasted, but other intangibles like sense of humor, temperament, conversational pace were all in one acchord.

After the fourth beer.  He put his hand up like a 'hi-five' and matched each of his fingers with tips of mine. 
There was a brief moment of silence where our eyes met and suddenly I wanted to him to kiss me!

"You would be perfect..." he said as I slid my fingers inside the space of his.

"For?" I questioned.

"My friend..."

Wait what! What the fuck do you mean perfect for "your" friend!  I took my beer, threw it in his face, pushed our plate of chicken wings on the floor, and walked away while flippin' him the bird.

Okay, I'm lyin', I didn't get all Fatal Attraction on him...but I did push the chicken wings plate to the ends of the bar counter after I disentangled my hand from his. I know, I'm such a bad ass.

"We're friends right?" he asked as I looked at him with that phony/fake smile you give to old people and big head babies.

I had to think.

If my therapist mucus-ruined hair was any indication, opposites did not - INDEED - attract.  So he wasn't even eligible to cross into Breanne's Potential Man Fraternity and was always destined to be an ugly girl with a penis (such was the destiny of all my guy friends)!

"Bree, we're friends right?" he asked again.

I closed my eyes and tried NOT to imagine him in a leather, Prada G-strring.  Tried to channel my inner, break-rules, bad girl.  Tried to imagine 12-year old me in a pantaskirt.

I wanted to tell him yes, and prove my science teacher right.  I also wanted to tell him no, so my 3 heart breaks would not be in vain.  So...

Rebelling against the concept of "opposites DO NOT attract"

Optimistically, I replied...

"Kinda."

 The renegade in me was convinced that "anything was possible."

Definition of The Metrosexual Male

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I have a fashionable, Baptist friend that finds sanctification in all things Christian...

Louboutin, Lacroix, and Dior...that is!

This fashionable friend is an anomaly in DC, because he can debate the relevance of politics and prose and the irrelevance of polkadots and ponchos. This friend is the epitome of an Upper East Side Manhattan, VISA Black Card-carrying, curly-haired, perfect-skin having, bleached-white teeth buppie. This friend is (and still could be) the ideal candidate for AKA Sorority EXCEPT he's a dude and he believes their official colors -  salmon pink and apple green - are so 2001!

Mr. Swagg (because he's the definition of...) would rather wear a fake polo from Wal-Mart than step his Marc Jacobs Oxford in the basement of ANY bargain store EVER. So how he became friends with a 23+  lover of Forever 21 - a woman's store packed with 98% nylon, $5 dresses, 16-year old allowance spenders and young professionals on a budget (raises hand) is beyond me....

Mr. Swagg is the gay BFF I've been looking for all my life, except he exclusively loves women (eliminating the gay part), and gives me a mad case of paranoia whenever I shoe shop for pumps at Payless (eliminating the BFF part).

He is someone I have tried to define for going on 324 days (<--respect the diligence), and all I've come up with is Mr. Swagg (the definition of...a Metrosexual Male).  In other words, he is totally in touch with his masculinity but not afraid to embrace the finer things in life (mani's, pedi's, pu@%!*).  He's flyy, smells fresh, stays clean, loves women and is able to converse about more than just basketball and beer (<---though he can do that too)

MOST IMPORTANTLY, Metrosexual Mr. Swagg understands CODE PINK girl talk and can provide the ever, elusive, desperately sought after: GUY OPINION.  Which was what I was looking for as I continued my quest to find out if  my girlfriend's, boyfriend Mark (say that 2x fast) could still be a straight man despite having an inclination to munch carpet while calling his best friend boo with a winkface ;-)

"What's the deal Bree-dizzle?"

Swagg and I were sitting at a trendy restaurant on 7th Street called Oya where the chopsticks are sexy and the food is served in cute little miniature dishes that Forever 21+ me wanted to sneak in my purse (hey, it's a recession)!

"Dude, I think my girlfriend's, boyfriend Mark might be gay but I don't know."

Swagg glared at me from across the table.  At first I thought he was about to chastise me for wearing a dress from Target outside of the 'burbs, but then I realized....

"Rolled-Up Jeans Guy?" he asked.

he and I had already discussed boyfriend Mark a few weeks back in my attempt to bond with him over a fashion faux paus that wasn't mine (thankya Lawd!).

The gchat went something like this:

ME: "So Charm's boyfriend Mark had Double-Cuffed jeans on the other day."
SWAGG: "LOL...tell me he's from Europe?"
ME: "He's NOT from Europe."
SWAGG: "Whack"
ME: "But he..."
SWAGG: "Whack"
ME: "They've been together for like...."
SWAGG: "Dude is whack or he's gay."
ME: "He's so not whack, though."

Then Swagg hit me with a Wendy Williams "How you doin'" and the conversation ended with Swagg emailing me an article about the all the reasons why rolled-up jeans were wrong (and whack and possibly gay...unless of course the dude wearing them was European - but dude in question was not though).

"It's deeper than a pants roll!" I said sliding one sexy chopstick in my Pucci bag and giving him the low down of the pictures boyfriend Mark carried of Midnight Rob in his wallet, the miss you messages between the two and the winkface.

Swagg looked underwhelmed. 

"So, what do you think?" I asked.

"Breez-tizzle, you may be clueless in fashion" (OUCH!) "But it doesn't take a genius to figure this one out. It's like a girl buying a Pucci bag - looks like one - but all you have to do is pay attention to realize it's a knockoff. A P looks nothing like a G, Bree-tonia!"

My Pucci bag suddenly felt disrespected!
 
Swagg (because he's the defintion of...) knew all about the bait and switch.  Being a curly-haired, pretty-boy metrosexual male that could never be found without a fresh shape-up, Swagg always got approached by men that thought he played for the Homo team!  And though his open mind was never offended, he was always clear where his hetero interest lay - with a green-eyed lady nicknamed Mulan, who had an eclectic personality that matched her sense of style.  Besides, she was the only other person he knew that lit an Archipelago candle (google it!) when Alexander McQueen took his life!

She was what he really wanted to discuss over cute little china and sushi at Oya.

So while I discreetly tucked the other sexy chopstick in my Pucci bag, and thought how I would tell Charm that boyfriend, carpet-munching Mark did not fit the definition of (a....Metrosexual), I wondered how often do women find themselves in a situation when a man's actions leave her wondering if she was dating a knock-off instead of the real thing?

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Come back next week and read about a How a Metrosxual Man Date's in DC....
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The Tail End of a Boo

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"I think she should just wait until he's sleeping and stick her finger in his..."

It was the tail end of Spring and one of those muggy DC afternoons where the air smelled of sweaty metro mixed with overheated tourist.  Flower Child and I were on our way to meet Southern Charm, who had called a CODE PINK (a.k.a.  emergency girls-only powow) to discuss the meaning of a "boo" and a "winkface."

Allow me to explain!


Two days prior, pre-boo, pre-winkface, and pre-CODE PINK,  Charm had broken into her boyfriend's gmail account desperate to find out if  it was alright to show a bit more of her bad girl side OR keep her Southern girl act going just a little bit longer.  After a few keyword searches -  "date," "kiss," "girlfriend"  - had confirmed she was the only lady in his life, she sighed satisfied and ready to show her Sasha Fierce. Then a window popped up...

"Hey Boo ;-)"

From Rob.

At Midnight.

....

It seemed that, although Charm was definitely the only lady, she may not have been the only love!

A "wtf, gtfoh, omg" three-way call ensued soon after, with us three fiercely debating the interpretation of "boo" and a winkface.  Maybe Rob was trying to frighten him electronically, and the winkface was an attempt to assuage his fears.  Perhaps Rob was short for Roberta (which wouldn't be any better - BTW)

Maybe it was all a mistake...

Either way none of us could agree, hence the impromptu meeting at La Tasca,  a Spanish restaurant that afforded us the chance to play the "what's that" game with our waiter Papi and had just enough sangria to assist us in pondering over the meaning of a semicolon paired with a parenthesis.

"I think you should stick your finger in his..."

But Charm was paying no attention to Flowerchild, instead she was slamming dozens of copied and pasted gchat conversations on the table like Johnny Cochran in Chanel.

Scandalous snippets jumped out of a sea of vowels and consonants, secret conversations between boyfriend Mark and Midnight Rob:


"Remember when I had you face down on the carpet."
"I'm not just a hit it or quit it type of dude."
"Can't wait to get down with you later. Miss you, my man!"

To Mark's credit.  He hadn't actually said he had sexual relations with that man. Then again, neither had Bill Clinton during the Lewinsky trial.

Maybe this had been ALL been a coincidence! Maybe they were both just two, straight men extremely comfortable with calling each other boo?

But then Charm started recalling how Mark enjoyed sporadic weekend excursions to see a male friend (gmail revealed twas Rob), the one picture he carried in his wallet (twas Rob, too), and the way he wore his jeans rolled up 4 inches above the ankle despite being 110 miles from the nearest beach (twas Rob's fashion tip as well).


Were these examples Ru-Paul suspect.

Maybe! 

But so was Fonsworth Bentley's neon-colored bow-tie and umbrella (in 90 degree weather, not a cloud in the sky!)

This did not make him gay, though...

So it brought us back to evaluating his words (the truth he told when noone was looking)....AND the words that none of us girls could really understand because like the La Tasca menu in espanol, they were all coded up in secret-boy language and all we knew was CODE PINK girl talk.

Deciding if another person was gay wasn't as easy as asking "what's that" to Papi or deciphering vague references to carpet munching and rolled-up pants.

Maybe you couldn't really call a man guy unless he self-identified himself as such first. 

Flowerchild had an idea, "Try sticking your finger in his..."

But Charm and I barely heard her on the way out the door.  Suddenly the idea of eating a Legal Sea Food where we knew exactly what was on the menu of options seemed a bit more appetizing.

Later that night Charm texted me and said:

"He finally told me the deal :-?"

Now it was my turn to decipher exactly what that emoticon meant. 


...........

Stay tuned later this week for "boyfriend Mark's"response
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Facebook Pimping & Sexy Status Updates

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I first employed the skill of "deception" the moment I grew tired of running down my 5th grade crush, jumping on his back, and getting mushed in my face as I attempted to give him a kiss.

I couldn't understand why my little boy crush was more amused with kicking rocks than kissing me! 

So, I abandoned back jumping in favor of a new approach.  If the boy was afraid of cooties, I would tell him that the answer to a cootie-free life was printed on the inside of my bottom lip. Eager to be cootie-less, the boy-in-question, would dive in to take a look and....VOILA...my first kiss would occur!

And, it did - in fact - happen that way.  He leaned in to take a look and I took my first kiss, and though the boy walked away with more cooties than he had before, I - all kissed up and happy - learned that persuasion yielded more results than force. 

Deception, I thought - or "the art of making false information seem real" - was the answer to never being mushed in my dainty, little, 5th grade face again.

I have since put the playground games to rest, opting instead to tackle another virtual realm of opportunity.  Enter: Facebook Status Update!  The method whereby women are able to convince unsuspecting boys (over 21) that they do things they actually do NOT...such as:  wash their cars and shave their armpits every other day.

My girls and I called it Facebook Pimping, the new playground ploy to get a kiss. 

For example, a woman didn't have to know the difference between a field goal and a three-point shot, as long as she updated her status every time "the game was on" (discreetly copying updates from her little brother's status).

SCORE!

Likewise, if she talked about boiling collards and frying chicken (even while she ordered Kung Fu chicken for delivery)...she could obtain instant comments and dating options in a matter of nanoseconds!  

Facebook Pimping - we dubbed it - the new, online equivalent of getting a man's attention WITHOUT hooker heels and a get 'em girl dress but via 180 characters in a small, white window.

On this particular day, I was bursting a few brain cells trying to figure out how I would pimp my Facebook status.... My current status had generated a measly 2 "likes" and 1 comment:

Bree is just getting home from work.
To which...
Flowerchild commented: But it's Friday, you're lame....

I was momentarily ashamed that my Friday's were never as interesting or acrobatic as Flowerchild's...

I scrolled through a few status updates and found Longwalk's....

Longwalk is home listening to old school Justin Timberlake and OD'ing on a few bag of skittles.
He was probably scratching his balls, texting and watching Family Gay.
I left a comment, anyway....Save me a skittle :-)

Next was...

Big Chocolate...ya'll boys just left with a car full of boys, but me I left the party with a dime. you know how Big Chocolate get's down...

Starfish69 Jones Commented: thanks for gettin' it right last night, boo

Big Chocolate Replied: anytime "mama."

I guess Big Chocolate had found a place to shove his "pretty, shitty key" after all.

It seemed like everyone had a facebook gimmick but me...so I tried a few...

Bree is looking for a good reception to attend.

No Likes, No Comments

Bree is dowloading Janet Jackson's "I Get Lonely"

No Likes, No Comments

Bree wants at least 1 of her 400 friends to comment on her status

To Which...
Flowerchild Commented: WTF, Bree. It's Friday! Get out of the house!

Bree at this point was wondering if Flowerchild was having so much fun, why the heck was she all up on (yes allupon <-- one word) my Facebook page...I posted again....

Bree is putting on the mini dress and stiletto heels. 

(Then I changed my profile pic to me wearing a dress from BeBe that was 14 inches above my knee and had a neckline that was on a serious quest to meet my bellybutton)
22 Likes, 17 Comments (and counting)

I felt momentarily triumphant, as my tata's stared back at me from my Facebook picture.  Then I had a "WTF am I doing?" moment and realized I had officially become the newest DC Madame and pimped myself.  I quickly took down the picture and deleted the update. 

If I had to get a man by utilizing the art of deception, than what type of "pimps up, ho's down" game would I have to employ to keep him?

I went for a safer status update instead....

Bree is learning to be 100% myself.   I am me.  Take it or leave it.

I got 1 like and 1 comment, surprisingly from the guy in the 5th grade who had me eating concrete until I convinced him to look inside my bottom lip.  But now, one degree and 15 years later, he was smarter than the little boy of yesterday.  He had moved past kicking rocks to reading books like the one he had listed: Think and Grow Rich!

I sent him a message....

hey you, it's the former cootie queen! i just finished reading Think & Grow Rich!! hit me back if you're interested in chatting about it.

If Facebook Pimping could be defined as attracting attention in 180 characters or less.  I had successfully accomplished this goal MINUS the hook 'em girl heels and get 'em girl dress and still managed to keep it all the way 100% me!

...........

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