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Things I Forget When I’m F*cking White Dudes

In any case, I’m coming off of a “time out.” Last week, I didn’t update the blog as much as I usually do and I scaled back on a bunch of other stuff. Instead, I caught up on the phone with Abiola, Rachel and other friends I hadn’t spoken to in a while; met up with Wilma & her son Denware (two FBC readers visiting NY from The Netherlands); went to see Paranormal Activity with Bro and Elsie; checked out other fun stuff in the city; and tended to personal matters. Also, today, I scheduled down time to take care of random business & enjoy an extended weekend.

I’m grateful anyone reads this site at all, and I feel bad when I don’t stick to my typical schedule of posting new content. That said, this time, I really needed a break. So, no apologies — just heartfelt thanks for your patience and understanding. Now, on with the show. I’ll post a new Manly Monday in a second but, this week, I can’t promise I’ll update every day. So, if you’d like a more regular Funky Brown Chick fix, there’s always Twitter.

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Taking Care of Business (and Self)

I like my new apartment so much I’ve actually started cooking in it. :) I used these ingredients and more to make Spicy Vegetarian Chili w/ Ground Turkey. Here are the results. I think I’ll finish the final leftovers this afternoon.

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Domestic Pleasures: Sexpot in the Kitchen

[phone conversation. 8:58pm, Monday, August 24, 2009]

BRO: I have three points to make about your last post.

ME: Uh-oh.

BRO: I’m very disturbed. Do you REALLY think white European dudes aren’t WHITE?!

ME: They’re different. Seriously, ask an Irish person: ‘Are you WHITE?’ And they’ll think you’re kind of racist or whatever. Seriously, in Europe, the idea of “race” smacks of 1930s and 1940s eugenics / Hitler shit. Ethnic groups? Yes. Cultures? Yes. But, they wouldn’t understand and believe in the social construct of “race” in the same way Americans do.

BRO: That’s some mumble-jumbo bullshit. They’re white. Your exes were white.

ME: Whatever. I’ve dated white American guys. It’s not the same.

BRO: Ok. Fine. Whatever. Second point. Did you REALLY expect to see brown people on deviantART?

ME: Yes. I think black people should do whatever kind of art we want too.

BRO: That’s not the point. It’s just not what we do. It’s not that we shouldn’t or we can’t. It’s just, you know, most of us just don’t.

ME: Whatever. I’m on deviantART.

BRO: I’m just saying … MOST black people aren’t. Look at their site. They don’t have pictures of black people.

ME: That’s because there’s a bunch of stupid shit people believe about what’s “appropriate” for different people. It’s clannish and everybody deals with that in some way or other. People say “Asians don’t do blah blah blah” or “South Side Irish in Chicago shouldn’t do blah blah blah.”

BRO: Whatever. I’m just saying.

ME: Anyway. Whatever. You said you had a third point?

BRO: Okay, so, I read your post. So, do you mean to tell me — the next time I come to your house — there’s gonna be “The Peen” looking at me while I’m peeing? That’s gross. I mean, imagine: You’re in the bathroom and there are penises everywhere just looking at you!?!? There’s like a third eye thing just staring at you?!?! That’s weird!!! My pee might get scared of that and go back in my body.

ME: Whatever.

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Deeply Penetrating Thoughts About The P3nis

This is one of my favorite dresses.

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In Pictures: The Little Silver Dress

Two summers ago, I attended the New York premiere of Dans Paris at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. (Or, “BAM” as us locals call it.) There’s a song in it that reminds me of him and every other guy who hasn’t liked me as much as I liked them or vice versa. If you’re not into snotty French New Wave cinema and/or really slow-moving independent films, you’ll hate Dans Paris. If you like that stuff, it’s worth renting it on Netflix. The song starts during this sappy scene where two lovers realize their relationship is over. The guy is depressed, suicidal and bearded. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. Having just finished crying, the woman (his ex) is getting ready for bed. Alone. He calls her from his apartment and they sing this really beautiful tune back and forward to each other. The song, “Avant la haine” (”Before the Hatred”), is in French but the gist of it is: I’ve got a really good idea … let’s “avoid the unbearable” and get out of this while the gettin’ is still good. Before we hate each other. Before we’re screaming and shouting about how much we can’t stand each other. “Before the sorrow and the disgust. Let’s break up now, please.” It’s really beautiful. It reminds me of the Frenchman and other relationships when I’ve stumbled into that sad, lonely moment where my partner and I were both fully aware that we liked each other; yet, for whatever reason, we also knew it wasn’t going to work. Breakups are rarely easy. The decision to get out is rarely black and white. And, NOT hating someone doesn’t make it any easier to break up with them or have them break up with you. Video below. Lyrics in English and French follow.

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A Good Breakup Song: Before the Hatred

Next week. By exactly this time next week (Monday, May 18th), I’ll be able to tell you more about the “stuff” that’s been going. Until then, I can’t write about what I want to write about, so my posts are probably going to sound totally random. You know what it’s like? It’s kind of like when you’re having a conversation with someone and you hit this part where you can’t talk about something so you change the subject. Example:

YOU: So, how are thing going with … what’s his name? Bob, right?

RANDOM FRIEND: We broke up.

YOU: Oh, um, okay. Sorry. I didn’t know that.

RANDOM FRIEND: Yep, I walked in on him fucking my sister and my best friend in a threesome, so that pretty much ended it.

YOU: Oh, God. Wow. Um. Ooh. Um. I mean. Um, yeah. [Awkward silence.] So, how’s work going? How’s your mom?

That’s what Friday’s post what like. Only, of course, without the context. So, like, I’m writing about sexy older women … partying with friends … snooping on dates … interracial dating. Then, I go dark for like almost a week. I come back talking about … wait for it, wait for it … subway graffiti and gentrification. I shit you not, I got a couple emails from readers that simply read: “Um, are you okay????”

I’m fine. Stick with me, folks. Trust me, I’ll have news soon.

Anyway, until then and on a completely different note, you may have noticed I haven’t responded to comments in the comments section lately. There’s a reason for that. I tried out a commenting system (Disqus), but enough of you emailed me to complain and/or say you preferred the other system, so I disabled it. I’m revamping the site again to add (among other things) an enabled threaded comments section again. I just haven’t had time to do that yet. I’m reading all the new comments in the meantime. And, once the new comment feature is enabled, I’ll respond to you guys as usual.

Okay, it’s almost midnight. I’m going to bed. Just wanted to shoot you a quick update to let you know what’s going on. As always, thanks for reading. I look forward to sharing good news with you next Monday. In the meantime, I’ll keep posting new stuff on the site as usual. You’re hereby forewarned: it might be a little disjointed. :)

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Soon, My Sweeties. Soon.

A  month or so ago, I meet a Polish dude who says he was a doctor. We go on a few dates. I haven’t written about him before because, during one of our early conversations, he told me he reads this site because he searched for my name online. When you google Twanna A. Hines, either Funky Brown Chick or my writing portfolio (TwannaHines.com) is usually the first hit.

“Why don’t you like to kiss on the mouth?” The Polish doctor asks me.

“What are you talking about?” I’m confused because, of course, I LOVE kissing on the mouth. And on the neck. And on the torso. And below the belly button …

“I saw one of your interviews and you said you don’t like to kiss on the mouth.”

“What are you talking about?!?!?!? I would never say that.”

“I saw you say it. You were talking with a British girl, and you said you don’t like to kiss on the mouth!”

“Ohhhhhh!” Slow on the uptake. [Remembers he's ESL and doesn't know American expressions. Talks slower.] “You mean the interview with Zoe?! I soooo didn’t say I didn’t like KISSING. I said I don’t like PISSING in the mouth; I said I won’t let a  man piss in my throat.”

So, now the Polish dude seems disgusted that I even talk about these things. Whatever. Life’s too short and I sooo can’t worry about what some random guy thinks about what OTHERS say. Anyway. Different, albeit it related, topic: Using the internet to snoop about your dates. I freely admit I’m a paranoid freakshow who assumes most Manhattan men I don’t know very well are willing to lie about damn near anything (their jobs, criminal backgrounds, marital status, etc.) to get a bit of ass. So, of course, I google the Polish dude, right? Guess what happens? Nothing comes up. Seriously. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Rien. Creepy, right?

“How do you you live your life as a doctor and go to conferences and stuff,” I ask a friend and her boyfriend, “without showing up online anywhere? Like, ANYWHERE?”

“Dude,” my friend’s boyfriend responds, “how to do you live your life PERIOD without showing up online somewhere? That’s weird.”

Good point. So, I start snooping. I go to the New York State site that verifies all regulated professions to check if the Polish guy is really a doctor. Guess what? His name doesn’t come up. Unfortunately, I don’t have a chance to ask the guy about it because: (1) I stopped calling him and he hasn’t called me since and (2) it would’ve been weird to say, “So, yeah, um, WTF? I was stalking you online the other day and I couldn’t verify your credentials. What’s going on?” So, here’s a question for you: Is it okay to snoop on your dates, boyfriends, lovers or others with whom you share the covers? And, if so, would you confront them if the info you found didn’t match up with the stories they’ve told you?”

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Is It Okay to Snoop on Your Dates?

ME: New York is an international city. It’s always “office hours” somewhere in the world, no? Maybe the person is calling from abroad or something and they don’t realize it’s “quitting time” in Manhattan.

BRO: I guess. When you say it like that, it makes sense.

ME: Exactly! Right now in Indonesia, there’s a little kid working the late shift in a factory so you can buy an overpriced basket in some chic import store a couple weeks from now.

BRO: But that kid wouldn’t call New York because they don’t have fingers or eyes anymore. Remember? They’re working with in a factory. Do you really think those child workers making 5 cents for 3 hours of work use office phones? Do you?!?!

ME: You’re too much.

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Why I Love My Friends (Conversation: Me and Bro)

The Girl: TWAAAAANNA!!!
ME: What?
The Girl: Are you deaf?!?!? I’ve been calling your name.
ME: I didn’t hear you. I’m hard of hearing.
The Girl: [laughs, doesn't believe me] What?
ME: No, seriously. I was born with hearing loss and I’ve had surgeries on both of my ears.

So, of course — because kids can be shitty little assholes — the girl proceeded to pretend she was using sign language and did a so-called “mock retard” move by beating her hand against her chest. Thinking about it now makes me laugh because it was so fucking ridiculous. But, then again, I’m several decades removed from the experience and pain. Perhaps, I should’ve had thicker skin as a child. I didn’t. So, it really hurt my feelings.

We moved around a bunch when I was a kid. I was often the new girl who didn’t have friends in school, and I didn’t really fit in. I’m not a special case; I’m sure lots of people felt out of place in elementary, junior high or high school. Each of us has our own scars. One of mine is that I was sensitive about my hearing loss — mainly, because it was invisible. If I was Deaf, maybe I’d speech read, speak with a deaf accent or use ASL. And, of course, people would think it was insensitive to make jokes about my situation. But, I wasn’t deaf; I just couldn’t hear very well and it wasn’t something you’d notice unless you knew the signs. I still have them.

• My television is never on without closed captioning.
• During summer, if we’re in a room with an oscillating fan, I’ll turn it off or move away from it. You see, the background hum of the motor’s whirl blends with your voice and my ears can’t segregate which sounds are words and what’s just noise.
• Men with really deep voices who mumble annoy the shit out of me. I can’t hear them, and they frustrate easily when I repeatedly ask, “Huh? Sorry? What did you say?”
• If I’m on a street corner and you call out my name from the distance, I’ll spin in all directions to find you because I can’t tell from which direction your voice came.
• If we’re in a crowded place like a bar, I’ll lean into you much closer than others so I can actually hear you.
• In some cases, I’ve had a few people SHOUT at me when I tell them I’m hard of hearing. You need only speak louder; you don’t have to yell at me.

“Can’t you get a hearing aid?” people often ask. Hearing aids (and, quite frankly, sound in general) are more complex than I thought before I started really getting into this stuff. The quick and dirty is this: When people hear the phrase hearing loss, they typically think of old folks. Grandma and gramps aren’t “sexy,” so a lot of innovation in this arena isn’t as strong as it could be …. kind of like how HIV/AIDS didn’t get mass attention until Ryan White got it. My guess? Research about hearing loss will matter more when more people who “matter” lose their hearing. Come on boomers!!! I’m holding out for you!!! But, I digress.

In case you were wondering what any of this has to do with sex, dating or relationships … Rewind to last night. I’m reviewing a sex-related movie that hasn’t come out yet. The film’s people sent me an advanced copy so I’ll actually know what I’m talking about when I interview the director the next day. Sitting on my couch, I’ve just popped a bag of Orville Redenbacher’s yummy microwave popcorn and I slip the DVD into the player. No closed captioning. I’m used to it. Because screeners are rarely captioned, it takes me 1.5 – 2.0X as long to watch them, rewinding and replaying the parts where people talked so softly that I couldn’t hear them. (You’d be surprised how often actors mumble on camera!) Ah, hearing loss. It’s certainly not tragic; it just is what it is.

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This is What It’s Like to Be Hard of Hearing