A little bit about me.
I’m too terrified to put ERRRYYYYYYTHING out there but in case there is someone else in a similar situation to mine, I felt like sharing this (and the wine is kicking in, you all look beautiful BTW).
Sometimes I don’t know where I belong. Usually this is a locational aspect but sometimes it has to do with race. Sometimes I wonder, how do I identify myself? My mom is half white and half black, my father is mixed with black, native american, german, french etc (It’s a lovely combination, my parents are beautiful). I grew up in a predominantly white neighborhood. I went to a mostly white school (like me, brother and 2 other kids of color in that school), in my younger years most people I knew were Jewish (MAZEL TOV) and honestly to this day the only black people around me are my family members or my hairdresser Curtis (HEY BOOOOOOOOO).
I don’t feel that I need to categorize myself as anything, I’m BabyK, duh. But recently I joined match.com and they ask you pick an ethnicity. You don’t have to answer, but hello you have to put pictures up on that shiz and there’s no denying that I’m “tan”. In person, a lot of people think that I’m Spanish. OLE. I often have to smile at strangers and say, no I don’t speak Spanish, sorry. And they scowl at me like, girl who you fooling?
I am attracted to white males (especially of the Jewish variety). Can’t help it. This is what I grew up knowing. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, I hope we’re more culturally evolved (except for you backwards anti-gay marriage fucks, don’t get me started) that I can chose the person I want to be with.
I have insecurities that the men I am attracted to either “try me out for fun” or won’t even give me a chance. I rarely approach people unless I’m three sheets to the wind (that’s a whole other issue) and I get jealous of all you little blond cuties rubbing elbows with those stupid lacrosse boys that I’m still attracted to.
I have many, many, many wonderful things, people and opportunities in my life. I truly live a special life. But as we’ve discovered today in learning from one another. Everybody’s got their something. And for me that’s the race card.
Night nurse story for this fine morning
Remember how I said she takes a subject and beats it to death? This time, it was something on the dog’s neck. I’m not even awake yet, and this is what happens:
“The dog has a spot. Did you see it?”
“A spot. It’s black. On his neck.”
“She’s a her.”
“It feels like a lump.”
“It could be a bite.”
“He doesn’t like it when I touch it.”
“Don’t touch her.”
“It’s black. It could be dried blood.”
“It probably is.”
“I don’t know what it is. It’s a spot, or something, on his neck.”
“I don’t know what it is, either.”
“It could be bite or a scratch or something else. It’s black.”
It went on like this until I called the dog over and checked out the spot. I shouldn’t expect her to diagnose it, she’s a nurse, not a veterinarian. The dog seemed fine to me, it was probably just a flea bite or something. I told Jess about it and how the nurse would not let it go. She shook her head and asked if I could have possibly imagined growing up in her house.
I laughed. I got a great picture in my mean mind. I know she’s the youngest of five girls in a family where everyone had a medical issue of some kind. She was the little, adored nitwit. I can see it all, and it would make a great sitcom. I would make sure whoever wrote the script got our night nurse as a kid EXACTLY right. She would be a cross between Shirley Temple and Ralph from The Simpsons.