Swirling (Big ‘Uns @ 2 O’Clock!)

…continued…

I noted with quick satisfaction the arched left eyebrow of my daughter, and the clasped fingers of my wife. I knew them both like the palm of my hand; they were waiting to see my reaction to this. Would I stutter, shake, or, even worse, lick my lips?

Fret not, dear friends; this tale is being told by a Smoove Operator, First Class. One of the first things you learn in Smoove 101 is how to handle the Presence of Nubile Females in the Presence of Your Significant Other.

Rule: 1—Look Em’ In the Eye.

Rule: 2—Refer to Them as “Ma’am.”

In order to pass Smoove 101, you must master these two rules. Nothing, and I mean nothing is more distressing to a female than your inability to keep your eyes UP! I’m not sure why; seems like it would be an affirmation of the fact that she’s chosen a real man to converse with, but noooo, it’s not. One of those forever unsolvable mysteries, I suppose.

Anyhoo, I did. I looked that big-racked heifer in the eye, and said quizzically, “Ma’am?”

Well, my daughter relaxed a bit at that, her being a bit inexperienced and all, but you know my wife didn’t move a muscle. Not that I expected her to; I’ll give her props for that.

“Is that ersters you eatin’?” she repeated.

I merely nodded, and said, “Yes, Ma’am.” Rule #2 is there for a reason. Gives you the opportunity to let her know you’re not flirting, and gives you time to see where they’re coming from, if you get my drift.

“Is that true what they say about ersters?” she asked.

“Phhhht,” my wife said. I looked at her. She was asking for it, that’s for sure. But now wasn’t the time or the place. Besides, when we would discuss this later, I had to make certain that I held the high cards. Rookies, when you’re in this kind of situation, where a good-looking female is asking you questions in the presence of your Significant Other, you have two options…

One—Defer To Mate.

Response # 81B, Honey, What Do You Think? serves 2 purposes, namely, it takes you out of the conversation, and causes your mate to participate in her favorite activity, talking. Never forget Man Rule #2—Women Love To Talk. Remember, you can’t get in trouble for something she said. Well, yes, you can, but that’s another story.

Two—Shift to Lecture Mode.

This one is a bit tricky, and should not be attempted with any subject matter that can be construed as flirty or a double entendre, because guess what? You will be accused of being flirty, and every word will be taken as having a double meaning, and there is nothing you can say or do that will convince her otherwise. AND….This conversation will be played back to her girlfriends/mother/female relatives/etc/ad infinitum/ad nauseum, for the rest of your life. “This conversation” includes every facial expression, every lifted eyebrow, every pursed lip, every smile….

You get the idea.

So, what did I do?

I probably would have Deferred To Mate, but those two “Phhhhts” let me know that she would have said, “You know I don’t eat them, I really don’t know. You have to ask him,” causing me to squirt the hot sauce on her blouse, and the resulting, uh, conflict would not be good, not at all. You learn these things as you go.

So, I was stuck with Lecture Mode, which really wasn’t too difficult, just remember the basic rules: Eye-to-eye, begin every sentence with “Ma’am”, keep the sentences short. No smiling; an annoyed frown is the Default Expression. She’s not a pleasant interruption, she’s a bother to be quickly disposed of. Better rude than crude, got it?

Easy, right?

Ha!

to be continued…..

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White Neighbors, Part 2

My daughter pointed at our White neighbor down the street. “What is he doing, meditating?”

I shook my head. “No, baby, he’s barbecuing.”

Our neighbors, Robert and Lacy, had moved in about four months ago. They were nice and all, and we were glad they had bought the house, because it meant an instant 20% jump in our property values.

White folks have their uses, y’know.

The only bad thing about him is that he would do strange things in his front yard. Like, for instance, water his lawn. I asked him about it one time, when he was standing in his front lawn with the garden hose, just sprinkling away. I says, “Hiya, Robert, what’s up?”

He turned, and quickly shut off his hose. “Nothing, nothing,” he said, wiping off his hands and extending a clenched fist. “Fist bump,” he said.

“Huh?” I answered, puzzled.

“Fist bump,” he repeated.

“Oh!” I answered, extending my fist to quickly tap his, not wanting to be rude. I heard someone laughing and turned. It was my daughter and her friend Shooney. “Go ahead, Daddy, fist bump!” she exclaimed, and they both bent over, laughing their fool heads off. I’d fix her later.

A minute later, Robert finished bumping my fist, first one way, then the other. All we needed were a couple of Afros and some bell bottoms and we could be Starsky and Hutch. He looked up with a big grin. “How’s that, Bro?” he asked, proud of his new skill.

“Been watching Flip Wilson reruns again?” I asked, with a deep sigh.

“Yeah, but I didn’t know Flip had a twin sister named Geraldine. She’s funny!”

I decided to let that go for now, and pointed to his still-dripping hose. “What’cha doing?” I asked.

“Watering my yard. Today’s Tuesday.”

I shook my head, confused. “What does Tuesday have to do with it?” I asked.

“You didn’t hear? Fire Marshal declared a drought, odd-numbered houses can only water on Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays, even-numbered houses on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturdays, nobody on Sundays.” He nodded his head vigorously, happy to impart some new information my way. “He catch you watering your lawn on the wrong day, he’ll write you a ticket!”

I nodded blankly. Fire Marshal?

Who the Hell was the Fire Marshal?

When we voted for him?

White people got a bad habit of holding them little back-door elections they don’t tell us about.

Like Dog Catcher!

You ever voted on him?

Hell, no!

It’s probably the Mayor’s little cousin in Special Ed they done give a job to. He slow, but he can grab them dogs lickety-split. Probably cut him a deal with the Chinese restaurant, so he can make some extra money on the side. Plus, if he stay catchin’ dogs for 20 years, he can collect a pension.

White people always got a way to take care of their own.

Bastards…

“He can’t be barbecuing,” my daughter said, shaking her head. “Where’s the smoke?”

I looked at her. “White people don’t barbecue with smoke,” I replied. “See?”

Robert had picked up the lid and began poking inside. A half-opened can of Beanie Weenies, and 2 pink chicken legs lay on the grill. He held his hand over the grill, and held it there.

2, 3, 4, 5 seconds..then 6, 7, 8, before nodding his head like he was satisfied.

“Is it cooking?” my daughter asked.

“You lookin’ at it, just like I am,” I responded, “so you tell me.”

She looked at me with the same look her mother had when I told her it was her turn to mow the lawn. Don’t start me on that.

“I’m going see,” my daughter said, walking toward Robert and his pit. I stood where I was. This would be a good lesson for her, teach her some gratitude about Black men. When we say BBQ (in BlackSpeak, barbecuing is called “‘cuing.” You know us, we shorten everything.), we mean heat and smoke, with a bottle of water on the side for flare-ups. When a Black man ‘cues, he’s putting in some work, with jars of BBQ sauce and baste, with either a brush or a short mop to slap it on with. We need a radio blasting, and an ice chest full of cold ones, ’cause barbecuing is hard work, yes indeed!

I watched my daughter talk to Robert for a moment, then kept my face straight as he raised the lid. She put her hand over the grill and held it, then looked at Robert. I couldn’t hear him, but I could tell he was explaining something to her, ’cause she was shaking her head, kinda like her mother did when I explained something to her.

Black women are real experts when it comes to shaking their heads. Every shake got a different meaning. All them years in the cotton fields, y’know?

You have the Shake #1, called the I Aint Hearin’ Schit You Say, you got the #5–What Did That Heifer Just Say to Me?

(That’s a good one. When you see it, go get a tall glass of Red Kool-Aid, ’cause you’re about to watch a catfight. Just don’t make the mistake of trying to separate your wife when she’s fighting.

Bad, bad idea, on a lot of levels…

I aint got time today, but remind me to tell you when I pulled my wife off of a woman who tried to snatch the last pair of size 7 shoes out of her hand. They’re called “stilettos” for a reason.)

She patted Robert on the shoulder and walked back to the house, looking a bit dejected.

“What’s wrong, Baby?” I asked.

“Aint no heat,” she said. “Aint no smoke, aint no fire!” She looked at me. “Aint no coals, he usin’ gas! “Gas and rocks!” She shook her head. “Not even wood! And his meat…don’t have no seasoning! I was trying to be polite, and not dig in his business, but I had to ask him….and you know what he said?”

“No, Baby,” I answered, lying through my teeth.

“He said this is healthy cooking, and you should BBQ like that! No smoke, ’cause smoke is carcinogenic, no salt, because salt is hypertensive, no fire, because fire burns the ozone layer….Daddy, what do White people eat?”

“Let’s go in the house,” I answered, “I’ll explain it to you…”

How to Act @ A Black BBQ

To all my White people out there who have been reading this blog, thirsting for knowledge about your new Black neighbors, whose strange and mysterious ways leave you befuddled, I apologize. We got a little sidetracked, talking about Black Church. If you missed it, click this:

https://revmatthews.wordpress.com/2013/05/15/black-church-part-one/

Once again, I, your instructor, and Official HNIC of this class, do humbly apologize……..well, not humbly. Screw that.

Y’all should’a got your fill of “humble” back in the day.

Anyway, let me apologize for not fulfilling the premise of this blog, which is, to help you understand the ways of Black people, and bridge the gap of ignorance that exists, so that you will know exactly why it aint cool to bring quiche to the BBQ your new neighbor Leroy invited you to.

(Don’t get mad, Black people, @ my using the moniker “Leroy.” I have to start this class slow and simple, and besides, let’s keep it real. When you hear the name Leroy, the first thing you imagine is a sweaty nigga with a Jheri. And a gold tooth. You know I’m right, so quit that.)

Huh?

You didn’t know quiche was verboten @ a Black BBQ?

(Black folk: “verboten” means “forbidden” in German. FYI.)

You do NOT bring quiche to a Black BBQ. If you do, three things will happen:

1–Your dish will be prominently displayed on the sides table, next to the mac & cheese and the potato salad.

2–You will hear the question asked over and over, “What is that schit?”

3–You will hear the host(ess) repeat, over and over, in response to the above question, “I don’t know what that schit is! Ask him!” Then,

3a–The host’s finger will point @ you. Making you, of course…

3b–Extremely self-conscious, even more so than just being The Only White Person There.

Black people, please, please try to avoid the above situation. I’m not talking about the quiche, that’s something White people just do. And, yes, I know, there are one or maybe two Black people who actually eat quiche, but you do have the good sense to do that schit behind closed doors. And, you don’t be bringing that schit to people’s house, unless they ask you to. I’m talking about inviting just one White guy or White couple to your party.

You know that’s just wrong.

I know, it’s a source of amusement, watching the Only White Person (OWP) clumsily walking around with a Schlitz Malt Liquor in his hand, trying to fit in. Then, after a few, he starts giving everybody high fives, and then, then, OWP turns into OMG!

Why? You know why!

He starts to dance! Jerkin’ and twitchin’ all over the floor, Kinda like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_h7hBASK0gA

and then, your Cousin Junebug starts egging him on, and they form a circle around him with your niece Trudy With The Big Ol’ Booty……

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vcrnxTYgPXQ

Just writing about it makes me want to invite a few people over…

But, we must resist the impulse to invite just one.

No, it aint right!

Remember when you got invited to an White event, and you realized you were the Official Invited-Nigga-So-I-Can-Feel Good-About-My-Whiteness? And you had to slog your way through warm Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and unseasoned food? And the music…..no.

I refuse to go into the music.

But, you get my point. Invite more than one.

But, you may ask, how many?

The proper ratio, according to the Official HNIC Handbook, is, and I quote, “…one White person for every 12 Black people.”

Can’t go wrong there. That’s enough to keep an eye on ‘em and still have a good time….

Huh?

You White people didn’t know we had an Official Handbook?

We talked about this! You’ve forgotten already???

Click here: https://revmatthews.wordpress.com/2013/05/08/proper-white-behavior-around-black-folks/

Sigh……

A Black man’s work is never done….