Mating Season

I know how boring it is to talk about the weather, guys, but this time I really think its important. As you all know by the brisk night air, fall is finally approaching—and it is indeed an inconvenient truth. Why? Because now it’s time for me to get a damn man!

See, in the summer, I could be single and free, wearing my tank tops and flip flops, and still keep it grown and sexy. Now, it’s time for tall socks, unflattering winter hats, and layers of clothing. And nothing kills the damn mood like layers of clothing. Have you ever tried to act on your sexual impulses when you’re wearing tights under your pants?! By the time you get undressed, it’s time to put the clothes back on again!

I like to have a man from Thanksgiving to Arbor Day. That way, I can get holiday loving and cuddle while it’s too cold to go out. Not only will I be able to celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah and KWANZAA with a special someone, but my birthday (December 7—mark it!) is also a time where a man pillow is in order. As the Christmas song goes: Oh the weather outside is frightful/but the coitus is so delightful/and since we’ve no place to go/let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…

After a stand up show last night, I was talking to intern about this phenomenon. Intern is a tall glass of milk who works in my office—but not for my company. I call him “intern” not only to protect his fragile undergraduate identity but to make him feel like he has a role. He is more than a cog in the wheel who sorts packages in the mailroom.

Anyway, intern said that he and his guy friends call this time of year “Wife Season.” I didn’t know men could be so practical! They know that people stop going out—and put on winter weight—around the holidays, and the likelihood of finding a fine piece of ace after the new year is slim to none. It’s completely acceptable to find someone attractive in October and stay with them until the leaves re-(Orlando)bloom, even if you don’t like them all that much. I completely agree with this strategy, as I’ve learned that there is no such thing as “the one” or “destiny”—people come into your life for a reason…. or a season. And for me, that season is winter.

This came up during an image search for "wife season." They don't look very happy.

If you have any eligible bachelors who appreciate a good spooning and like a cup of hot chocolate on a winter’s night, holla at a freed slave playa!

I'm currently working on this "winter wife" concept by releasing pure pheromones.

Seriously, this is the only way I can explain the fact that, last weekend, I attracted the attention of three different males. I think I may have mono—you know, the kissing disease.

Friday night started out innocently enough-- though I was worried things would get out of control. I was wearing the same outfit I’d worn during the Blackout of 2007, so I thought that I’d somehow recreate the night of horrors. I went out with a motley crew of theater friends, internet lovers, and college pals. The night began as it should: with wine at the Bourgeois Pig, then a trip to St. Dymphna's to find foreign men. Somehow, Uncle Ming's (my haven of debauchery) became involved, and I met a tall bald man. He became quite smitten with the blacktress, and insisted that Sojo (and her friends) attend HOME, a fancy meatpacking district bar. This is not usually my scene, but, needing something to blog about, I went.

Cut to us dancing in our private table with bottle service as the banker boy smooches Sojo.... and I smooch back!

Saturday involved a trip to Queens to see the Greek (who I know call ZEUS), and then a trip to Brooklyn for a b-day party. Somehow, I met another tall glass of skim and just told him, "I wanna make out with you."

What can I say? Oh, I know: "You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals, so let's do it like they do on the discovery channel."

That's Zeus, and that's a white version of me begging for his winter lovin'.

Dog Days of Summer

I am sorry y'all, but I have to rant. I have been trying my best to shake off the years of servitude and oppression that have been heaped upon brown people the world over. I try not to look at Aryan youth and see their evil ancestors, and I try not to cringe when I hear "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer"-- I used to hear "Adolf, the Mustached Hate-Mongerer."

But then I read about a Caucasian hot mess and feel like I need to call it out.

U.S. hotel billionaire Leona Helmsley (not related to BLACKtor Sherman Helmsley, from the hit show "Amen") left her dog-- a WHITE maltese named "Trouble"--TWELVE MILLION DOLLARS.

Okay, now I know White folks love their dogs. But dogs are NOT people, people! I thought it was bad enough when y'all let them lick your face and whatnot, but this is ridiculous. Do you know how many orphans you could feed with 12 million dollars? Shit, do you know how many of ME you could feed with 12 million dollars?!!

This is reason # 248 why WHITE FOLKS DON'T NEED MONEY.

They waste it! And then, when they get guilty, they start shopping at thrift stores. Oh, great, yay! YOU BEAT ALL THE POOR PEOPLE TO THE CLOTHES!

What I love is that Ms. Helmsley was nicknamed the "Queen of Mean," for her "penny-pinching and hard-nosed work ethic." So tell me what kind of flippin' work that dog did to earn 12 million dollars? Did it go down on her on a regular basis? Or is it just getting money for being WHITE?!

Whew. Sorry y'all, I just got a little heated. I can't even handle the bizarro-ness of our world when a single dog has more money than a developing country.

Massa Helmsley, can I get some veal in my puppy chow?!