My company sponsored a day of thanks to us, their loyal employees. The day started with breakfast and hand written thank you notes. The rest of the day was peppered with prize drawings and lunches. We worked to a collaborative playlist submitted by us.
We shut down early, headed over to a bar for a two hours worth of happy hour. Yes, I said it. Two hours. By the time we sat down for dinner, we were all lit. I mean, the company paid for our drinks. Who is dumb enough not to take advantage of that.
Glass #3
Not me!
Part of the awards ceremony was a roast. I guess this is their way of making sure everyone gets acknowledged in some way. I got the “No Competition AWard” as a roast. I always say that I’m not competitive. D (my director) doesn’t believe me. He says I say that because there isn’t any competition. He confirmed that statement by standing up later, giving me a 3-5 minute speech about how great I am and giving me a departmental award. D is so sweet. He’s talking and his eyes are about to tear up and I’m sitting down about to tear up.
The night at the restaurant was filled with craziness. I have pictures of people pulling D’s shirt up while he’s trying to speak. One guy ripped his shirt open when his name was called for an award. Some of the girls kept yelling for the guys to “Take of your sweater!” Best believe I was not one of those girls.
What happens after 3 glasses of wine and 1 and a half shots of Jager...
The real shenanigans happened at the after party. One of the owners invited us back to his loft. I’m not one of those people that gets off on hanging out with co-workers, but I was stuck. D was my ride home, but he was too tipsy to drive so he had to get a ride home with the President who left about 15 minutes into the after party.
One of the guys in sales offered me a ride home because he lived reasonably close by, so I had to wait until he was ready. Well, enough glasses of pink wine makes Alix have loose lips. I think I talked to every person in the company that night. Some of the guys took me aside to have conversations too. While I often describe myself as shy (to other people’s disagreement), I have to remember that some people are extremely shy. I have to be more open to them to make myself more approachable.
The view from a Buckhead loft
I’ve never played the corporate game before, but one of the owners walked up to me that night and said, “I am so glad you made it. You are doing a wonderful job! Me and P (the President) sit down often and talk about how to build a department around what you do.” Blank stare. “No, seriously!” He gave me a hug for the third or fourth time that night.
Now how is this game played again?
Then one guy decided it was time to get in the hot tub. He strip down to white undies and got in. Which was fine until he decided to get out. Yes. There are pictures, but I don’t have them. I was standing behind them which was the preferred view. Especially since someone was held the towels hostage.
I made it home about 1am, but the party continued on. The following morning, P was walking around showing pictures of people, grown as men, cuddled up together sleeping. I can’t tell you how many people left early because of hangovers. Next year, the party will be held on a Friday.
Since lesbian images are so hard to find (at least ones that aren’t pornographic), I decided to post my own! If you want to send me real images of you and your lover, I’ll post them here…
Anyway, this is me & my Sugar…
Pineapple Now and Laters, Sugar’s favorite flavor. The newsstand in my office complex sells them so I try to bring some home for her as a sweet treat. Well, on her last trip to Houston, I gave her a bag of treats that included a few packs.
Her bestie’s romantic interest has this same love for this candy. I don’t know if there is a shortage of Pineapple Now and Laters in Texas or what, but Bestie asked me to get her some and mail them to her, a whole box if you please.
I go into the newsstand and luckily, it’s empty. I didn’t want anyone to overhear me asking for a whole box of Pineapple Now and Laters. Wheretheydothatat?
Even though I was the only one in the store, it still didn’t save me from getting an odd look. The Asian lady that runs the store repeated my request back to me, “You want a whole pack?!“ She looked confused and it had nothing to do with her command of the English language. I explained about the Pineapple Now and Later drought in Texas. This appeased her. She charged me $8 for a 48 pack box.
The next time I came in the store, she asked about it. It was only a couple of days later. I told her that my friend had gotten them! “That’s fast!”She smiled at me, but still looked a bit confused.
After all of that, Sugar didn’t even get a pack! Not a one!
I have never been one to fear change. I’d like to believe that I embrace it. If my hair is proof, here is my evidence.
This is how I started 2011. That’s a lot of hair!
I decided to lock my hair again. That got old so…
I cut it!!! And then…
I cut it again!
This is the lowest I’ve ever gone. This cut was met with much trepidation, but it was something I had been thinking of doing since before I locked. Sugar encouraged the cut, which made it that much easier.
My barber didn’t flinch when I asked him to take me all the way down, but he asked several times during the course of the cut:“Is that low enough?” You know how some people are about hair. The buzzing clippers against my head felt wonderful. There was something about the vibrations…
Anyway, I left him that day to have lunch with my best friend from high school and do the mall thang. She pointed out to me that I was getting a lot of eyes. I didn’t notice until I recognized a table full of women discussing my cut. “It’s beautiful,” she stated as I walked by.
I must admit I feel a bit sexier with a low cut. I didn’t anticipate that at all. I suppose I should have, simply because I’ve never been one to associate hair with beauty.
I mean, why should I?
I wrote a couple of posts a long time ago about a girl I referred to as Jersey (Part 1 and 2). When I received a request from her on twitter more than a year and a half ago, I ha a minor breakdown.
Had she been reading my blog? Did she want to confront me? Wait, did she even recognize me?
I was right. She didn’t recognize me. She probably never would have if I hadn’t gotten cocky in one of my tweets causing her to take a closer look at my picture. Having a big mouth has no rewards…
It was fine though. I never brought up how things went down with us. I was content. The past was the past. We exchanged tweets on a semi-irregular basis. Having her present in my life, didn’t change anything for me one way or another.
When Mama got sick and she caught wind of it, either here or on Facebook, she contacted me, sending me her prayers and her number to lend her support. I thanked her. It was unexpected, but appreciated just the same.
Last week, we are tweeting and she asks me to call her. I’m thinking it’s business related.
As soon as I heard her voice, memories came flooding back. Not good, not bad, just scenes from the past.
What did she want? To apologize!
It was completely random, unexpected and unnecessary, but well received.
You never really think about how someone who’s caused you pain feels about what they’ve done. We always focus on the pain it’s caused us. When the pain is gone for us, we don’t expect that remorse may exist from them.
Something so simple made me smile on a day when I really wanted to pull my hair out. The power of words. It’s real.
The Black Girl Syndrome. I’ve seen it. Admired it. Never had to deal with the complications of it, until now.
It can ruin an entire day as you spend hours searching for a cure. You look online, in stores, everywhere, to find just one thing to make it all better.
The Black Girl Syndrome, aka TooMuchBootyItis.
Sigh…
As I have previously mentioned, I am small, so my case is not the most severe I’ve seen, but this is the first time I’ve ever had to search for a cure aka jeans that fit without gapping.
I first noticed what was happening when I put on a pair of jeans that were bought intentionally a size larger than normal and I realized my ass still looked quite prominent, actually mire prominent than my normal everyday tight jeans.
I was confused… Scratches head…
Then it hit me. My tight jeans were acting like a girdle and minimizing my bootyliciousness.
So I decided to go buy bigger jeans. I was tired of struggling and doing knee bends anyway…
Three hours later, I had tried on ten pair of jeans. All of them fit in the booty, but nowhere else. All I had to show for my shopping excursion was new panties…
But I’m almost sure those won’t keep me warm through the winter.
About six months ago, I started a new job. If you were reading back then, you know the idea of this job compkteky freaked me out. I recovered after time. I got into the swing of things, even to the point of being named employee of the month… *pops collar* Did I mention this happened before I was even out of my ninety day probation? Yep. I’m good.
I’ve been reviewed twice since I’ve started. We play hard because we work hard. They take our work performance seriously. Because I work for a small company (less than 35 employees), the social aspect of my job is bigger than most. It’s actually part of my performance review. It’s the part I don’t do so well in…
The company I work for is comprised of gay and straight. Brown and white. Nerds and nerdettes. Singles and non-singles. Drinkers. Artists.
We’re a freaking melting pot.
They buy us meals, drinks. The president loves to use the f word…
It’s a relaxed atmosphere full of open minded responsible adults.
However, there is still a line, however invisible, that keeps me from being completely open.
What’s that about?
The blog challenge is over, yet, I am still writing. That means that writing here has once again become habit, and that makes me happy.
With that being said, I have a lot to say, but because my audience now isn’t the same audience I started out with, I do feel the need to reintroduce myself.
Hi, I’m Alix.
I started writing A Brown Girl Gone Gay just a little over 3 years ago. I was in a much different place when this blog was born. This blog was birthed out of necessity. I had been writing another blog, one much less fabulous, and my girlfriend was an avid reader. When we broke up, she monitored my blog to gain insight to my emotions. I didn’t feel like she was entitled to such an inside view of my heart, so…
I created a new blog, a new name, and wrote anonymously for…hmmm…A long time. There was no face besides my afrocentric brown girl. Then twitter happened and there was a real person’s face to go along with this blog.
Initially, I shared a lot of my personal life here. It was easy. I knew that none of you would associate the real me with this blog. I didn’t have to worry about being judged. I’ve shied away from such brutally honest and open posts. I’d like to get back to that. Two blogs reminded me of what I used to be and what I want to be again. Many thanks to Slivers of She and She’s My Husband.
In the future expect me to share my life, my random thoughts, and my opinions of the gayness that surrounds me.
Thank you all for your continued support. I appreciate each and every one of you.
If all my wishes came true, I would probably fall out! I mean, have you read what I’ve been wishing for? Lol!
In all seriousness, I’m not sure what I would do. It would be like waking up on Christmas morning and getting everything you asked for. While you would enjoy the initial thrill, at some point wouldn’t you wonder, what’s next?
I do believe that part of the reason we wish for the things we wish for is because we know those wishes are unattainable. We wish for things we know will never happen. I guess this post is about the fairy tale day when all my wishes would come true…
I guess I’ll have to go back to my original answer, I’d fall out, I’d completely crack under the pressure of having a perfect life…
I wish I could fly over the Grand Canyon.
Or maybe the Appalacian Mountains…
No, definitely the Sahara…
But what about the pyramids?
I’m amending this post. I wish I could fly over.
There. That’s better.
To feel the wind on my skin and to feel weightless. To soar like a bird, cut flips in mid air… To see the tops of the simplest, most extraordinary things.
Yes, I wish I could fly.
I wish I had known I was gay before I started having sex.
I lost my virginity at seventeen. It was the second semester of my senior year. I was curious. I wasn’t pressed or influenced into doing it, even though I had a boyfriend I had been with for six months. I could have waited. I should have. I would have if I had known…
Does it matter? Not really.
I do think that those “gold stars” tend to rub it in the face of those of us that have experienced real live penis.
I suppose for me, I wish I had the knowledge sooner, rather than later. While I wasn’t a whore, I wasn’t as discriminating with men as I should have been. I was searching for something with them that I could have never found with them. If I had known that, I would have never shared my body with them.
Make sense?
I wish I could give everyone a helping hand…
Over the years, I’ve had people stay with me, people I didn’t always know so well. I took risks because it seemed likenthe right thing to do. I was never scared that these people would have I’ll will towards me. And as far as I know, they didn’t.
I wish I could give everyone a helping hand. It’s hard to pass through downtown Atlanta and miss the very obvious homeless problem. It’s not unusual for someone to ask me for money. Actually, if I’m standing in he right area, I could get asked quite a few times by quite a few different people in a matter of just a few people.
I pass by the homeless shelter everyday on my way home. One day last week, I saw a woman that was obviously a stud sitting on the sidewalk with who I assumed was her partner. There was a circle of small children surrounding them. My heart cracked.
I don’t ever wonder how these people got to this point. I know how they got there. I just always wish I could do more for them.
An address and regular meals is enough to motivate anyone. While I know it’s not always that simple, I know that sometimes it is.
I wish I could hear my granddaddy and mama speak again.
They both called me baby. I was just as much as his child as hers. I know that he loved me as his child, not as a grandchild. And I was mama’s first baby.
Neither one of them talked a lot. I learned early to pay attention when they did speak because you had better take their words seriously.
I remember spending hours in the same room with them, in complete silence, and not thinking anything was wrong. It was comfortable…
But now, I’d love to hear either of their voices. It doesn’t even matter what they would say…