Friday, December 30, 2005

Back on the job & saving the black race...



...or, at least, future generations of my family!

After nearly one week of doing absolutely nothing, I am back at work doing (you guessed it) absolutely nothing. Today is a half day of sorts, which means that we are free to leave at 2p. Mind you, my day starts at 8 and ends at 5 anyway (yeah, you do the math...perhaps you can get it to add up). While I am back in the rat race called NYC and sleepy as ever, I am so glad that I took the trip. Our family's newest little rugrats were to die for, although I did experience great difficulty when trying to figure out how to pronounce their names. Hell, even their very own grandmother commented to me via telephone that she was planning to spend two weeks with X, X, and "whatever that little girl's name is...."

The latter was the only incentive I needed to toss on my superwoman cape and rescue the littles from a lifetime of Mickey D's checkout lines. That's why I have assigned each of them their very own Buppie Moniker....

Rugrat #1: Birth Name: Nivea (pronounced 'na-vay-ah')
Buppie Moniker: "Nev." Think Nev Campbell or some other cool and spunky woman who wasn't named after a bottle of lotion nor a failing R&B hopeful.

Rugrat #2: Birth Name: D'Arius ('dee-air-re-us')
Buppie Monkier: Just in case you were wondering, no, "Dee" does not work, as it is not an appropriate nickname for the cubicle world. I instead choose "Dar" (rhymes with "Gare" - as in short for Gary). It might sound gay, but gay men are supposedly the most-successful cubicle world workers. So, go figure!

Rugrat #3: Birth Name: Ta'Rya ('tah-rye-ah," a ghetto mommy/daddy collabo of 'toyia' and 'ryan')
Buppie Moniker: Ri (ree). Nuff said. I prematurely breathed a sigh of relief as I first thought girly was named "to-rye-ah," spelled 'Toriah,' which would have allowed her to go J.A.P. on paper (Toriah Alexander). Little did I know, the wound cut much deeper.

Rugrat #4: Tamaria ('tah-mar-ree-ah')
Buppie Moniker: Tam. Why her momma couldn't have just left off the 'i' eludes me to this day. Just difficult if ya ask me. I really should not complain too much about the birthname, considering Lil' Mari was originally to be named 'Cyntanakala' (pronounced 'sin-tah-nah-kay-la'), a down south collabo representing the women of her family...Cynthia, Toyia, Nzinga and Karla.

Rugrat #5: Senja (rhymes with Kenya)
Buppie Moniker: Susie. Negra or not, this little Cocoa's fam lives waaay out in the burbs. So, she can pass for a Susie quite easily. Besides, do you have a better idea??????

And, for the record, there ARE babies in my fam with normal, ahem, average-sounding names...C.J. (not as in Casanova, but Carlton), Sydney (though her can not spell it to save her life) and Julian.

R.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Cocoa Girl...on her mama's couch: Part 1

So, today will mark the very first installment of the "Cocoa Girl On Vacation" series, featuring scenes from Minnesota and, more specifically, mom-duke's sofa. While I would like to act as though I've been hella active since vaca day #1, I - simply put - have not. Some of us just aren't as Supa duper as others (major hateration intended;-).

Since I workout four to five times per week, I've been sure to keep physical fitness top of mind during this gluttonous holiday season. That's why some of my most energy-expending movements so far have included daily baths (no, not showers...baths! MD needs to get her shower fixed); post-Christmas shopping at the Mall of America (it's real big, which equals more mileage for the behind), and chasing tons of babies around the homes...eight in total.

It's been a real good time, thus far. I'm just hoping that I can keep up with real life once I get back to New York. See ya tomorrow...indolence is a calling...

R.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Coworkers don't let coworkers bake

I am near tears, literally, and cannot believe that I tried to go there. I guess my overly-lofty sense of endless ability and competence had to come crashing down at some point. In a nuthshell, I worked until the wee hours of the morning mixing, mashing and dashing what was supposed to come out as the Waldorf-Astoria's red velvet cake. It was my personal way of saying thank you to the traders who pitched in for my nice cash bonus. Yet, instead of some fluffy cake, I more so ended up with the likes of red velvet brownies! Worst off, people at work are giving me that sad, "it tastes [hard, dry, nearly painful, gulp] good."

I want to knock it over onto the floor, but I am almost certain that God will strike me down if I do, as it would be such a waste of food. I have to find a way to get rid of it though... I feel like it's threatening my good, cool reputation in the office. Good thing is many of these East Coasters have never tried RV, so they might taste it and erroneously think they don't like Red Velvet, cuz it's nasty, versus, they don't like my cake, cuz it's nasty... Oh brother.

I've also contemplated removing pieces myself, until I can finally exclaim "it's all gone!!!" Oh Lord, it keeps getting worst...In my moment of super low culinary confidence, I wrote my boss and complained that the cake is terrible. She replied: "I thought it was delish!! Great job!!!"

Damn.

I might as well open the window now and prepare for the quick descent. Why couldn't I just have made something else, something more simple and familiar. I always gotta get K. West with sh!t and overdue things. Cookies from the roll or Krispy Kremes would have been just fine. But, no, I had to get brand new.


R.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

The Don and His N!gga, Remy Ran

Unless you've been under a rock, preoccupied with holiday shopping or plagued by weeklong fears of losing your paycheck due to a lack of public transportation, you know the smart n!g with the crazy number of academic degrees won the title of Apprentice #4. Yet, perhaps what you didn't know is that the 2nd-place snowflake from Minnesota is throwing a b!tch fit over the fact that Randal refused to let the hoe mammyback her way into the Big House, aka Trump towers, with him.

During last Thursday's Apprentice finale, The Don asked 1st-place Randal if he should also hire the runner-up, to which Randal replied, "...it's not called the Apprenti," a.k.a "hell to the naw!" Now, killa Becky has been crying wherever those with too much sympathy AND time on their hands would lend an ear; The Don's been giving daps to Remy Ran and his boldness to shut her a$$ down on national TV (you know Dat N!gga DT is really street!), and White America (along with Fair America, Be Friends America and Everyone's a Winner! America) has been up in arms over what they call Randal's "meanness," "lack of class" and "poor display of sportmanship..."

To all I say: B!tches, please.

What successful adult with an ounce of sense would hire their toughest competitor to work side by side with them on the new job? I'd hope that any person - white, brown, yellow and especially black - wouldn't lose their cotton-pickin' mind and say “yes” to such an absurdity. And why should they be expected to do such…just for the purpose of appearing to be fair and equal? Hell, black folk are not the ones who need to appear to be fair in efforts to help make up for former our ancestors' overwhelming lack of systematic unfairness. What perplexes-me-so-much-but-not-really is how all of these former Randal supporters are now playing up his "class act" performance during the competition only because doing so helps further demonize his final words - as if to say that they were Bamboozled into thinking he actually deserved the title.

I'd like a camera to follow all of these complaining, middle-America fat a$$es onto the job each review period and see if they're telling their bosses how they'd like to share their new title, pay increase and hard-earned status with the Killa-Becky in the cubicle next door.

It makes me wonder if the winner would have been someone other than a brown man - for instance, if the #1 would have been white and the loser white - if these complainers would have felt the same way... waiting for a Kizzy-like demonstration of enormous gratitude and grace and thankfulness for something they have already earned and is now rightfully theirs. We all (including Randal?) watched the better-qualified Kwame lose the job because his punk a$$ failed to put the managerial smack down on Homorosa. I don’t think Randal was having it and I don’t think Trump would have tolerated it either. The whole screwy thing seemed like a set up to me. I actually believe had Randal said yes to Trump’s request that his a$$ would have been without a job and Becky would have been the new hire. One thing is for sure: Trump does not pity the likes of whiners, wimps or fools.

On a final note: since America keeps telling the so-called underprivileged classes to step up to the plate and earn our keep, then perhaps the nation should stop developing hurt feelings when we work for the prize, earn it, claim it and then act as though it is rightfully ours, too.

R.

Monday, December 19, 2005

Feliz cumpleanos a mi...

That's right...today is my birthday! I've been up since about 4a, which was totally unplanned. I was going to rise at 5 and head to the gym, but instead decided to write in my prayer journal, pray and read my bible. Next, I completed a circuit training of sorts leg routine in my apartment, spliced with rest periods doubling as ensemble selections for this evening's events. Think: high-paid, Chanel-clad ho working the lounge at the Ritz.

Well, I'm off now...got some work to do and coffee to find...Perhaps, I'll be back on following my free cake celebration with the Company. Gee...who doesn't love enjoying one of their most-favorite treats in front of a some of their most-(un)favorite people?? Pray for me that I don't choke on a plug of chocolate mousse... R.

Thursday, December 15, 2005

Apprentice season finale is tonight

The Apprentice Season finale featuring the brotha with 5 gazillion (okay, really just five) degrees and the ultra smart youngin' Becky from my old urrrea, Moneyapolis/St. Paid, airs tonight on NBC. While former seasons have lacked in terms of loser-like contestants, tonight's two-hour season finale equally pairs the finalist, whose match up delivers a sheer battle only rivaled by the likes of David & Goliath, Ike & Tina or Bobby Brown & Tyrone.

I won't lie...while I want to pull for the black man, bit the girl is pretty fierce AND she's from my hometown! Here's a little bit on both of them...

RANDAL
Randal, 34, is the founder, president and CEO of his fifth venture "BCT Partners," a multi-million dollar management, technology and policy consulting firm...that works with corporations, government agencies, philanthropic and nonprofit organizations....he holds five academic degrees in engineering, business and technology... an M.S. from the University of Oxford in England as a Rhodes Scholar, and an M.S., M.B.A. and Ph.D. from MIT...he has received numerous awards for his accomplishments as an entrepreneur and technologist...Randal has been featured by Black Enterprise magazine and Ebony magazine in their "30 Leaders of the Future" issue. He is a proud member of First Baptist Church in Somerset, N.J., where he resides and is happily married to his wife Zahara (she's black ya'll!!!!!).

Rebecca
Rebecca, 23, was named "One of 20 Teens Who Will Change the World" by Teen People magazine and was awarded a Point of Light by President Clinton. She graduated with honors from the University of Chicago, earning degrees in economics and pre-law. As a Chicago-based investment banker, she structured mergers and acquisitions, as well as equity and debt transactions. Prior to that, she traded short-term interest rate options on Citigroup's foreign exchange desk in London. Outside of business, Rebecca founded a non-profit organization, raising over $750,000 to support disenfranchised children. In conjunction with this effort, she lobbied state and federal government officials, speaking at a wide range of national conferences and sharing the stage with Al Gore and Colin Powell, among others. She also reported on-air, wrote and helped produce hard news, features, and entertainment segments for a weekly show on an NBC affiliate in her hometown of Minneapolis. She is currently a financial journalist in Chicago.

I am so amped about both of their qualifications that I want to say may the best person win, but ya'll know I gotta route for the fellow darkie!

R.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Give me RAISE, or give me...INFLUENZA??


Hahaha...

I am getting sick as hell, ya'll, and, while I do blame the cold weather, I even more so blame my lack of funds/inability to afford heating oil in this new age hard-knocks Bush economy. Even better stated, I cannot afford to keep my heat turned on. So space heaters (you know, those ghetto joints that threaten to set anything within 75 yards ablaze) are my saving grace for this single-digit NYC weather.

The finance industry's equivalent to the PA-peddler's 'first of the month' is this Thursday. Pray for me! Ask that I'll receive a big enough bonus/raise to afford my heating bill, or at least that I'll get enough extra funds to cover a decent wig, leather mini, fishnets and clear-heeled, stiletto boots... Hell, a Cocoa girl's gotta do, what a Cocoa girl's gotta do!

JUST KIDDING MOM!

R.

Friday, December 09, 2005

A holidazzle of a hangover

Judging by the fact that I just devoured ham & cheese atop the gross office blockegg sandwiched between two flats of refined flour so low-quality that a Kaiser roll could have justifiably shat on its presence, one could easily conclude that this little Cocoa had a rough night.

I should have known that rough waters lay ahead because, at only half past noon, visions of bottomless apple martinis, Chardonnay and free gourmet meals had already begun a Riverdance of sorts in my head. So, when my two-woman entourage (half of which has still not made it into the office) stepped onto the party scene last night it was on. Rather, it was as "on" as a black girl (oh, that's right...I'm now White...get back to that one soon!) in the finance world should get at a work function.

So, I drank, then found some food. Drank, then found another drank. Drank, then found some more drankers and had some more (you guessed it) drank, and so forth, with this pattern of debauchery spiraling out of control for roughly the next five hours. Since I could not digest another drank (read: office tab expired), nor my bosses’ insistence that I rush the “fine a$$ bouncer” and “get me some of that," I decide that it was perhaps time to go home. That is, until, my boss (yes, the aforementioned) insisted that I tag along for some more fun at location #2.

The wardrobe change, raised voices and suppressed Long Island accents fighting to regain their place should have been warning enough that this little Cocoa was in way over her head and that it was time to haul a$$ back to Harlem. Even more so, the mere mention of the terms “40/40” and “25th birthday party” should have done the trick alone. However, I guess I had to find out the hard way that enough is enough, which could explain why I happened to be in one of the most famous clubs on earth asleep with a red pea coat draped over my head.

I eventually made it home at 2 and arrived to work at 9 (only one hour late!!!). I must say, however, that my first workplace party as a White girl was big fun! I was quickly included on most conversations that I joined and actually got to toss back several rounds of Patron with some folk whom I had no business finding out so much about their business (can we say ‘class action' and 'EEOC’ - ?)...

Oh well. Back to work as usual…TTFN

R.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

OMG...I'm, like, SO in!!!

It's official. I am now White!!!! I've been waiting for this day to come for so long that I am almost ready to shed a tear...matter of fact, I am sniffling as I type.
Five years, people, five years of toiling away to the tune of 40-plus hour work weeks absolutely devoid of any ethnic support, workplace diversity, fried-chicken lunches and the Old School Hour of Power every day at noon. That's right...I've made it/crossed-over/sold out for the almighty paycheck... What the hell happened, you say? I am much too excited to get into details now, but it goes it little something like this...

White girl @ work (who never speaks, mind you): Rachel - have you been ice skating in Bryant Park?

Me: No, but I've been skating in Central Park...

White girl @work: REALLY??? Say, did I show you my new coat? Feel it? I am so excited because I got it at.... Oh, and did you ever make it back to the Theory sample sale? What did you buy? Oh Rachel, you always have so many nice clothes...you always look great...


It's almost like I've been bestowed with a secret, invisible cape that renders me Caucasian with one flip over the shoulders. Matter of fact, I can't wait for the first opportunity to sport this brand-new find of a garment and plan on styling in that bad boy as much as I can. I know...I'll give it a go at our Firm's holiday party tonight!

I can just see me now.... Striding in the door and instantly being snatched up by at least five guys (four of which might be of my former race), complimenting me on everything under the sun. I'll breeze right up to my bosses and all of my other colleagues and won't be met with that uncomfortable 10-second pause until someone decides it's ok to fill me in on the conversation. And, the most joyous thought of them all, is that I won't be begged or - if coming from boss man - coerced onto the dance floor to bust a move to It Takes Two. *sigh*

The possiblities are now endless, mi amigas...ahem...my friends. Endless! I'll be back tomorrow with the full recap on tonight's events aka my first new night as a White Woman!!!!

R.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Sambo has left the Building

Since when did it become okay for black people to look angry at work? I hate to sound all Aunty Thomasina, but the last time I checked, mean-looking coloreds are still scaring some of the most-ignant Asian, Arab, White - and even - White Choco-coated Buppy coworkers nationwide.

So, WTF! gives with the smoldering, glowering or just plain threatening angry black rapper (apologies for the redundancy here) look? It's apparently the new HOT sh!t for the millennium, as I have now witnessed it in nearly every situation where a black person is featured a business or career-related environment.

The men are usually in signature B-boy mode with both arms folded across the body or flossing the one-arm-folded/one-arm-propped-up (with the fingers stroking the chin) wannabe Malcolm X joint. Their faces portray the classic "N!gga, you don't know me" or the fiesty "Your portfolio might be large, but it's not as big as one of my b@lls, and I'll stick knock your a$$ out" smirk, which somehow never seems to fully work alongside a crisp, white button up and a boardroom full of white middle-aged men.








As for the women? Those heifers just look angry, pissed, seething, and ready to open a can of Whoop A$$ on somebody. Don't believe me? Glance over any promo shot of a black female contestant from either of the Apprentice runs and I guarantee you that ain't naw one of them smiling.



R.

Monday, December 05, 2005

Apprentice: Another Negro in the final...

Nah, it ain't this giN, but we'll get to her channeling Omarosa the Orge behind in a minute...

If being totally honest, then I have to admit that I haven't been up on Ultimate Hustler and the other "reality" shows dedicated to showing black folk in the workplace, which is a shame since I'm always blogging on the realities and craziness of working while black, female and professional. However, I don't feel bad for not watching b/c I don't think any good and law-abiding citizen-Negra like myself should be forced to stomach the fake tears, overwhelming stupidity and terribly-ignant broken "English" ov dem profeshinulls on dose shos.

But, then again, before one of my friends blasts me via the comment box, I'll stick to the honesty theme above: I can't watch these shows cuz I can't afford to partake in the pleasuring afforded by TWC (time warner cable). So, as much as I'd like to blame my lack of IQ (Ignance Quotient) on a discerning taste in literature and culture, I just can't...at least not fully.

Now, back to this chicky...Hailing from Hotlanta, GA, call her Marshawn, think Martin, the "Mar-tian"...or as in the hip-hop, momma and daddy collabo, Marcia & Shawn; Marcus & Shawanda or m-a-r-s-h-a-w-n-m-e-l-l-o, like, ya know, the fruit. While I didn't watch the show, I don't believe I need a Ph.D. in psych to label this chick angry and decide that she spoke too damn slow to be on the likes of The Apprentice. First of all, can somebody please tell me what's up with those tampy-string length Magic City requisites dangling from her ears? Secondly, what is with that god-awful white piping on her collar, bringing to the mind that Kathy Ireland collection at the Big K? She looks like the producers tossed a hood over her head, snatched her behind off "stage," mid-table top, and plopped her down in front of a camera somewhere at NBC Studios. But not before giving her a new suit coat and a fresh coat of gloss. I bet poor thing has been suffering from pole separation anxiety ever since...

Yes, I do understand that she more than likely did not have much say in selecting her photo wardrobe, but I still blame her. Those Jewish girls would have NEVAH! let that Glamour Shots-degree'd minion of a stylist within arms reach!

No wonder she didn't make it that far...no backbone and no damn style.

BTW, the actual Negro in the final is some cat with a whole bunch of degrees. Perhaps, I'll cover him later on.

R.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

I made it one year, so where's my Boone's Farm?

Last Tuesday, November 29th, marked my one-year anniversary at work, an "event" that came and went with little - if any - hoopla, dazzle, fireworks, or (in the spirit of supreme hateration) - DJs, bottomless vintage, revelry and highfalutin appetizers. But, you see, I'm not mad, because although my anniversary was a non-event (my own mom even forgot to congrats me for making it 365 days, sans firing and/or hate mail threats), I did have the opportunity to help two former cubicle-Cocoas-turned-entrepreneurs celebrate the one-year anniversary of their new businesses, a.k.a. their new jobs. Heck, I even had the chance to hob knob, rub some elbows and look good. Though I must admit that the latter wasn't all that unique to (or of) me:)

The recent celebrations that helped spawn the return of my "Do as I say, NOW; I'm running this got-damned show!" business-owner dreams were the one-year anniversary of Harlem Vintage, half-Negroed by a sweet nice Cocoa named Jai Jai (and a nice, big and "skrong" specimen of a man, who from here on out will officially be known as my baby's daddy) and Patrice Clayton's spot The Harlem Tea Room, both of which, of course, are located in the Vil of Harlem. Even better and more inspirational to me is the fact that both of these lovely Cocoas (and the husky & tantalizing M.B.D.) previously 8-5'd in the stodgy investment bank environment, like moi, and made the choice to pursue more rewarding, creative and challenging work ventures, like moi, too!

I'm proud to applaud these black women professionals because they are doing quite well for themselves! The Vintage has been featured in nearly every "who's who" editorial section, from The NYT to Black Enterprise to the Wall Street Journal, while the Tearoom has recently made one of its biggest splashes in O mag's November 2005 issue.

So, while this textbook O.C. usually takes time to talk about me, I thought I could take the time to give props to a few more hardworking Cocoas. Besides, if dude is going to be my future baby's daddy, I figured that I thought better start introducing him to my Cocoa world family now...

R.

Friday, December 02, 2005

These PITAs are getting stale

Thank God, dear lord, of all heaven and earth that this work week is over. I know I just posted about being thankful for having a job - pain in the a$$ places of employment in all - but I'm already back to my giving praises for a paycheck, yet ready to smackdown a ho-b*tch over the trifeness that ensues life on my cubicle farm every day.

The H.B. in question today is a P.I.T.A. (pain in the a$$) that I could easily chew and up spit the farg out. I am so tired of this jerk acting all holier than thou and while simultaneously trying to 'massa' me around like we're on somebody's plantation that I don't know what to do. Better phrased, I don't know what non-ghetto and non-Black to do, cuz as a black woman - paychecks, promotions or not - I really do know what to do, if you catch my drift! Ok, I'll pull the black back in now...

I am just beyond annoyed at his antics, e.g.... I'll send five email updates. He reads one and then sends me one big email (displaying the little red exclamation point for effect), reminding me that I still need to follow up with him on the other for items. I book his international flight at 930p (per his request), but now he needs to leave at 1030p (per his pimp's, ahem, wife's request). He doesn't want to answer his damn phone when it rings, but then wants to get huffy with me because I record a message and hang up, as if his indolent-a$$ were never present to begin with. Ho please.

Now, granted, the last time I checked, my title did read "Senior Secretary" (yes, very pre-Ms mag/bell hooks), but I think I am entitled to a little bit of respect in the office. Ya think?

R.