I recently attended a soiree at a supper club in Buckhead (a suburb of Atlanta). I attended for the sole purpose of seeing a really good friend who had recently relocated to Atlanta. His fiancée wanted to make sure that he was acclimated with the "right people" and had arranged a debutante's welcome for the boy. He and I laughed hysterically when he invited me and he described her as being "a little high-maintenance and bougie ". “Oh Shit, what have I gotten myself into” I thought to myself as I had already promised that I would be in attendance. Over the years, I have mistakenly found myself at a number of parties and socials with new college graduates, new corporate concubines, or the newly married. Whatever it is that is "new" in their life, believe me, you will spend the next 2 hours being acquainted with whatever this new thing is, until you know it intimately whether it's a man, job, or an semi-advanced education.

Now you tell me, when a woman gets married it is usually her that loses her name, right? WRONG! It's the man who undergoes a secret name change. His new name - My Husband. That's it, no first name, last name, zodiac sign or nothing. As a race, is marriage that rare in our culture of the last 30 years that we have to flaunt our new husbands like the Cash Money Millionaires who have sickened us all with bling bling references to jewelry

“My husband did this, or my husband works here, my husband said the same thing”- Now this is all one conversation with 3 different women. How in the hell can I keep up with who's husband does what, said what, or works where if I don't have a first name to identify these poor bastards? When asked was I married, I paused and took a sip of my drink so they would not have to strain hard to tell if that was a marriage or engagement ring on my ring finger. I made it easy on them, I politely smiled and flatly replied "no". Instantly, I was bombarded with sympathy, and encouragement that I had not solicited. "Girl you will find him one day, I was just like you, girl, don't give up hope - he'll come soon" I sat there and damn near bit a hole in my cheek to keep from laughing in their powdered up faces. Thinking to myself all the while that it was these women that needed the pity they lavished on me. It was I that felt sorry for them because somewhere, someone told these women - they weren't shit until they snagged a husband.

I'm writing this for single women everywhere that enjoy being single and the ones that don't that do have hopes of marriage - we are OK - feel me? I began to navigate from clique to clique and eavesdrop on various conversations as I happened by. To my surprise, men are not as fucked up as we think they are. Yes, they have fragile egos - but for the most part - their insecurities don't lie as near the surface as ours do. What is a woman most insecure about? The very thing she spends so much time talking about. It's just that simple. Whatever she describes the most in detail, or constantly comments on whether it's hers or someone else's - it's this person, place, or thing that has this woman about to lose her mind. So many of us have issues of low self-esteem and I don't think there is a true way to be totally confident and comfortable with ourselves. In fact, I wouldn't want to. It's our insecurities that keep us humble. Without these, our egos would bruise even easier from sheer abuse if we, as women, didn't have these "checkpoints of dis-interest".

You can learn so much by not being apart of conversations, it is how I sharpened my listening skills. Of course there were several cliques that were either new graduates from college or new wives. There were corporate concubines both male and female that believed that their status really does derive from their position at some white man's firm whom they will never meet. I guess they were networking, but it was actually comparable to teenage boys pulling their penises out and measuring them with rulers, or pubescent girls comparing breast sizes. Each wanted to see, whose was the longest or biggest - I'm referring to job title of course. When I interrupted and questioned them about job security and our declining economy, they were slow to answer and before you know it - it turned into a conversation about God! Hey Lord, how did you get in the door? These sacrilegious idiots are so frightened they might lose their "power, position, or prestige" due to a lay off -that instantaneously - they all became "saved" right before my eyes. Oh talk about the goodness of God!

After I had disrupted the dick and tit measuring contest and had given them a more constructive topic to talk about, I made my way over to the designer hoes section. Now this is something you have to see for yourself. It's like these bitches have an invisible force field or anti designer label detector apparatus built within their "semi-weaves" one bitch and I quote "the top is ALL mine girl" - you just GO girl......

Anyway, I approached to bum a light and before I was given a light - I was scrutinized like a stray puppy - they were unsure of my pedigree - feel me? I was given a light and once again I was showered with compliments and kind sentiments. None of them were genuine mind you, these compliments served to cut to the chase - did I belong in Barbie and Christie's designer playhouse or not.

“I love those shoes, are those Via Spigas?” one tramp asked me.

I replied with a lighthearted laugh, “no they're mine” (STRIKE ONE).

“Oh”

“I love that bag girl, is that Prada”

“Nada” I quipped

“Girl, I thought so, I have one just like it. Don't you just love their new fall line?”

“Uh hmm” I replied (Dumb bitch, STRIKE TWO).

I think one of the other heifers heard me when I replied “Nada” and her spidey sense started to tingle because she abruptly asked the other snipe to accompany her to the "powder room". Conference time no doubt, she had to school her girl that I was not a fellow designer "dunce".

Don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with acquiring 'nice things' or striving for 'the best', but in this economy - there are far more important things to spend a fortune on. I know the psychology behind these hoes and their madness, they are under the impression that if they spend $200 for an outfit that they will attract a certain type of man that can afford to continue this ludicrous behavior for the rest of their lives. Billions are spent each year by single women alone on clothes, jewelry, accessories that will hopefully land them some brainless idiot whose soul desire is to dress his woman in name brand clothing for her shallow fulfillment.

Sometimes, I don't know who's worse - the corporate concubines in their smart little suits, designer handbags and shoes or the poverty stricken chickens that spend their small funds on the new Jordans for their bad ass kids who are going to fuck them up anyway. One thing, I can say about my people in the ghetto that I can't say for those that have a supposed education and a "good job", my ghetto fabulous peeps, never forget where they live or where they came from, how can they? They may be proud of this insignificant article of material bullshit they've purchased but rarely do they look down on others around them that don't follow suit with their materialistic foolishness. My seemingly upwardly mobile-almost middle class-graduated from college with $30k worth of debt-but I rock Prada and Dolci & Gabana working class sisters think material possessions make you a better person. Nice cars, nice clothes, nice ride - but Oodles of Noodles for lunch. My word to these "sistahs" STRIVE TO BE BETTER THAN SITUATIONS, NOT PEOPLE. That is how I was brought up and it has served me well.

Another golden rule that I live by is that MONEY CAN NOT BUY CLASS. It simply isn't for sale - anywhere. Class comes from within and no type of status, material or otherwise - can replace it. I have thoroughly enjoyed my life as a social outcast and being an advocate for critical thought. At times, I live the life of a double agent - that is until I open my mouth. I may look the part of the corporate concubines but my mind and life distinguishes me from the crowd. I'm not anti-establishment and I enjoy shopping as much as anyone else, but I don't have the resources to buy Donna Karan another high-rise penthouse when I am trying to buy a starter home myself. I won't even discuss my black men and their unbalanced masculinity that they try to round out with "ghetto jewels" - I'll leave that to my hata counterparts. I don't feel totally qualified to expound on their issues yet - but I'm working on it.

I had made my rounds, but had yet to discover the "and what school did you go to" club. I knew they were there though, all of the aforementioned idiots travel in pacts. It took only a few minutes before I heard university names being slung around like good dick. This was by far my favorite crowd because they are so gullible. You can tell them the moon is blue and they will agree, and confirm what you say - if you came from a good enough college. Anything to appear "informed" and well educated. In the midst of this crowd expounding on her triumphs and trials was a Stanford University graduate. I am originally from East Palo Alto, California and Stanford is on the other side of the tracks from my hood. However, I have had the pleasure and pain of attending various camps, seminars, workshops, classes, and other "outreach" programs that Stanford conducted while growing up.

I listened intently to her tales of brilliant teachers, a diverse student body, and a beautiful campus. She sounded like a walking brochure for Stanford. She mistakenly gave incorrect information about Stanford's location on the Northern California peninsula. I knew that if I corrected her, then the brain wrestling would be on and poppin'.

“Stanford is 10 minutes from San Francisco and let me tell you ...”

(Fuck it, here I go)

“25 minutes actually” I interjected politely.

“Oh, you graduated from Stanford” she replied

“Not exactly” I responded.

“I see. I was going to say that you didn't look familiar - you seem to be about my age so we would have graduated at the same time. What school did you graduate from ? Are you from California?”

“Yes” I told her

“Yes what? Oh I see, you are from California. I didn't catch the school you graduated from”

(LET THE GAMES BEGIN!)

“I didn't mention the college I attended” I laughed.

“Oh you are just from the Bay Area then”

“Yes, I'm just from the Bay Area, but you do look familiar. Were you there when Dr. Joseph Lowery spoke last Spring?”

“No, I wasn't”

She had lost her small crowd of 2 other women that she held as conversational hostages and was irritated with me for that reason. I think they wanted to jet anyway and were somehow secretly grateful to me. She couldn't dismiss me because I had somehow challenged her and her alma mater. She was curious just how long it would take to make me look like an ass and for me to wish I had never corrected her in the first place.

“I swear you look familiar, maybe it was the speaking engagement for Maya Angelou back in 97. I know I've seen you somewhere around campus before”. I told her.

“Campus? You mean Stanford? But I thought you were never a student there” She replied.

“I never said I wasn't a student there, I....”

“Oh you didn't graduate, I see girl, it was so expensive!”

“No, what I was going to say, is that I lived in that community most of my life but I've attended a lot of speaking engagements and the like”.

She spent a few more minutes testing my nuts and realized that although I was from the other side of town she never “got a chance to visit” that I too had an education of sorts.

At this point, my dog came up and saved me from the "Stanford Brainiac".

“Girl, stop tormenting my girl's bougie crew. I saw you making your rounds, dropping psychological lugs on these shallow minded ass people. I'm surprised you stayed as long as you did”.

What can I say the man knows me well. He has seen me at my worst and approaching my best. He says he is going to marry ole girl so he decides to introduce me. As we approach her he pleads with me to be nice. I shake her hand and smile happily. Judging by the look in her eyes and the close proximity of the designer divas, I see that my reputation has preceded me. I kick the 'Bo-Bo' to her for a few shakes, compliment her on the "lovely" party, and make an excuse to go home. I say goodbye to my homeboy and head out the door.

On the way to my car, I catch a glimpse of my reflection and notice that the collar of my Bitter Bitch cape is visible. I tuck it back inside my blouse and laugh my ass off to my car.

Released: October 2001

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