Diary of a Mad White Black Woman – Image

Dear Diary,

The kind of invitation I’d been waiting for finally came. Embossed envelope withe the kind of wax seal I haven’t seen since my last Renaissance Festival. I was expecting to be asked to any number of red carpet events where I could rub sunburned elbows with the kind of people it does me good to be seen with.

Then I opened the envelope.

The NAACP Image Awards?? 

Such a tease you are, life, such a tease. 

They are honoring The Blind Side, though. So, maybe they’re more Oreo-tastic than I thought.

Diary of a Mad White Black Woman – Cops Like Donuts, Not Oreos

Dear Diary,

I thought I was making more progress. But a slap on the wrist in front of the majority showed me how much work I still need to do and how I can never let my guard down for a second.

I had stopped off in West Hollywood to pick up some work from a client. I only left my car on the curb for a second and when I came back, a man with a badge and fancy flashing lights on his car was about to write me a ticket.

Thinking this could surely be cleared up sans city fine, I dusted off my pencil skirt, clicked my boot heels together and approached the nice man.

But as I pleaded my case, there was no sympathy in his eyes, no understanding, no pause to his pen and he kept writing. Then suddenly, a flash of recognition. He looked past me, nodded and put the ticket away.

What was behind me? My white client.

“Can we let this go,” Client said to the officer. “She didn’t know.”knight_m

Though I was relieved for my alabaster shield, my blanched bastion, my white knight, I was embarrassed and disappointed that I still needed one and that I’m still making newbie mistakes like this.

The ticket was for not angling my wheels at the curb. That’s what I didn’t know to do. Inexcusable.

I should have been ready for that. Parking on steep windy hills is part of privileged culture. I must remember these details if I am going to pass. It’s right up there with sending hand-written thank you cards and smiling through gritted teeth.

So it’s back to the books and away from the hills until I can conduct myself accordingly.

Diary of a Mad White Black Woman – I Guess I Really Should Have an IPod Anyway

Dear Diary,

Sad news.

After bringing it into the theater to provide a selection of ambient classical music while I prepared for my Neil LaBute showcase, my CD case went missing.

Gone are my collections of the American musical. No more are my ATB German electronica CDs. Au revior to my Mozart arias, my Bach sonatas, my Shostakovichian overtures in all their festivity.

But the truth is, those collections are basically replaceable.

Less replaceable, a CD that got me through some of my darkest days. A CD, given to me by a friend with whom I am no longer in contact, that always picked me up when I was low, put a spring in my step where there was none and gave me the strength to journey on.

The Georgetown Chimes.georgetown-logo

Ahh, the Chimes. The premier all-male a capella group from the school that graduated President Bill Clinton, America’s Next Top Model contestant Sara Albert and a host of other notables,  Georgetown University.

These 10 – 14 masculine voices blend in perfect harmony to bring classic songs to renewed and brilliant life. Nevermind what they do with timeless folk songs like Danny Boy and Loch Lomond, it’s what they do with traditionally ethnic music that makes my heart skip a beat. Motown and Do Wop just don’t truly resonate until they’re sung by a baker’s dozen of boarding school bred boys.

As the CD came from a friend whose contact info I no longer posses and not from amazon.com, the dulcet sounds of The Chimes will have to ring on in my head and never again through my car stereo. I will have to Hoya Hoya Saxa it alone.

Goodbye, boys. I shall miss you dearly.

Lie down forever, lie down, my friends

Lie down. Forever lie down.

Diary of a Mad White Black Woman – Dancing Lessons with WhitePal

Dear Diary,

The party invitation was terribly misleading.

When I saw the evite for “an engagement party at a castle in the Hills,” I thought:”Perfect! I’ll be in good company.” Why was I so confident? Three key words.

  1. Engagement Party – A social setting where guests are forced to stare at two 72317672people make awkwardly public announcements about their love while pretending that the divorce rate isn’t soaring well above 50%. That  screams Stepford.
  2. Castle – Who lives in castles? English lords, insane Bavarian royalty and the Pope, kind of. ie: White people.
  3. The Hills – Lauren Conrad. Spencer Pratt. Heidi Montag. Enough said.

Imagine my surprise then, when WhitePal and I were greeted with not only an engaged couple of color, but their 45 guests of color as well. From shades of light ethnic, to Southern Baptist, to extras on The Wire, we were surrounded.

I tried to take refuge behind WP, but then…the music started.

A note about WP: He is a great dancer. Amazing. “Ill” as I’m told the kids say. He took to the floor and was immediately the center of attention.

The concentration of so many ethnics made me want to run to the nearest Land Rover dealership and knit a cardigan while doing some hot yoga. But there was something to the scene that looked almost…fun?

Maybe it was the beautiful setting overlooking the Hollywood Hills. Maybe it was the free and happy expressions on the dancers’ faces. Maybe it was dram of gewurtrameiner I had been offered and found necessary to consume. Whatever it was, I wanted to try what I saw on the dance floor. I figured I had earned enough O-points to indulge this one infraction.

As indicated by WP, I have transcribed our conversations accurately to this point. Below is a record of our conversation, and its subtext.


OreoWriter hugs the wall while WhitePal finishes a dance battle. Under the sound of applause, OW begins to move timidly toward the dance floor.

OW: I kinda want to come out there (TRANSLATION: I am probably very drunk)

WP: Then do it! (You are probably very drunk.)

WP makes room on the floor and motions for OW to join.

OW: No, no. Don’t call attention to it. (I’m not THAT drunk)

WP: C’mon. Just move. (Because what you’re doing is certainly not “dancing.”)

OW: I don’t know what to do! (There really should have been a disclaimer on the invitation)

WP: Don’t worry about it, just have fun. (What is wrong with you?)

OW: How did you learn this? (Huh…maybe I don’t look totally dumb after all)

WP: You don’t “learn” it, you just…do it. (You definitely look totally dumb)

Another song started and suddenly, the room erupted into a unison chant of all the lonely_goatherdlyrics. How they all knew the words, I don’t know. Even at the best Sound of Music sing-a-longs, we still need the captioning for “The Lonely Goatherd,” and these songs had significantly more complicated verbiage than “laydee-o di laydee-o di lay hee hoo.”

As the guests all turned toward each other in the communion of JayZ, I decided to make my way off of the dance floor and out from under the shadow of shame.

I took a turn on the balcony to collect myself and checked my Blackberry. I saw a new email: an evite to a Pampered Chef Cotillion Ball at a beach house in Laguna. Hopefully that will go better.