I must admit: I’ve never been a fan of Valentine’s Day. I guess almost always being single on the day designated for lovers will do that. Last year was the exception. Then, my boyfriend at the time merely handed me a stack of cash.

“I figured you would rather have the money,” he shrugged.

He was right. 

When I was younger, of course, I was a believer. I yearned for a secret admirer and even shot off a couple of love notes of my own to unsuspecting classmates. But every year, outside of my parents’ annual gift of a small bear, box of candy and cards from friends, I returned empty-handed.

Then one year it happened. I was finally was surprised by a secret admirer.  He thrust a life-size stuffed puppy with a rose dangling from its mouth into my arms on the bus and then asked me to be his girlfriend. I managed to ignore the question in my excitement and was all like ‘yay, Look what I got.’ I proudly pranced down the halls  at school with the huge dog in tow, happy someone had finally chosen me. Who cared if it was someone I didn’t want.  But as I toted he gigantic stuffed animal from class to class, my excitement waned. By the time I returned home, the dog was trailing behind me in the street. I promptly gave it to my little sister who eagerly whisked it  away and named it Rosie.

By far, my most memorable moments of romance have occurred on every day but stupid cupid’s. One winter, a talented friend of mine randomly began playing his saxophone for me in my suite as snowflakes floated outside my dorm window. One fall, another with a penchant for poetry recited this hot track by slam poet Black Ice called Nice2MeetU.  One spring, a singer in training, serenaded me with his rendition of “Beauty is her name.” I still LOVE that song. 

  And while none of these relationships stood the test of time—ahem, cough cough, etc., I still cherish these acts more than anything I’ve gotten reading “Be my valentine.” Because it took something out of each of them: It didn’t cost them a penny to play a sax, recite a poem or sing a song. Instead, each act cost them a piece of their time, minds and souls. And that’s priceless.

“This n—-.”

“That n—-.”

 “My n—–.”

The notorious noun peppered the words of a group of Hispanic teens on the city bus. It’s a word I’ve heard countless times: from the rowdy kids on the corner, from my grandma as she dismissed a sketchy passerby, from a Black college president deriding the pettiness of naysayers. I’ve used the term myself from time to time, especially when referencing a certain ex.

In all honesty, Blacks in my generation have adopted the n-word like an ugly step-sister–someone we can tease, mock and deride all day long, but won’t dare let anyone else utter a word against. We dress her up, gave her a quick makeover by dropping the ‘er,’ adding an ‘a’ and supplanting the ‘g’s with ‘c’s’ and voila: She’s ours.

But never before had heard the term used so freely by someone who didn’t look like me to describe someone of another culture. It clearly didn’t hold the spite of yesteryear, when saying the word was like spitting bullets or jabbing fire-lit knives.
Could I truly get mad at the Latino teens for tossing the word about when so many others who look like me do the same?

My whole notion of term was placed under the microscope a couple of years ago, in China, of all places.

“We have a word in Mandarin that sounds like the n-word,” a Chinese-American friend abashedly warned me after we touched down in Beijing.

She explained that the word neige (neh-guh) in Mandarin was the equivalent of saying “ummm” in English. It was merely a filler word. A filler word that when said really quickly, as it often was, sounded a never-ending chorus of n——.

Some classmates gleefully seized the opportunity to finally utter the sound  in public.

The trip taught me a valuable lesson: A word and sound in and of itself has no value. We give them value through our associations, connotations and tones. N—- can refer to a friend or enemy, depending on the context.

Just don’t call me n—-.

“Whatever you are, be a good one,” I reminded myself as ladies clad in thongs alone strutted, bounced and swiveled beneath the flashing lights. I tried not to judge. In another life, that could me scampering up the pole.

The reporter in me wanted to know these anonymous beauties’ backstories: what were their childhood dreams?  What their family and friends think about their places of employment? Who are they outside of the strip club, when they are off-duty and clothed?

Are they like the Sweet Charity’s, Diamond’s and other cliche golden hearted women of the night–ladies who’ve simply fallen into the ill-fated grip of reality seeking to make ends meet?

Or is reality simply that some women like to literally use what their mothers gave them, get a thrill out of playing into the fantasies of others for profit?

On the floor, true identities are replaced by caricatures–roles each woman plays to maximize the night’s earning. Reduced to the size of their breasts, butts and moves on the stage, some add personality and flavor with props. A Yankees fitted cap adorned one’s head.

When an old friend invited me out for a ladies’ night, this was not what I had in mind.

I disappeared into a corner and fidgeted nervously with my phone.  Every now and then, I stole glances at the other women in attendance. Some were girlfriends joining the boyfriend on his fantasies. Some were women fulfilling their own. Others jeered the strippers under their breath, pointing out this one’s flaws and that one’s oddly shaped something or another. Perhaps it was ego. In school we are taught to imagine our audience naked to ward off stage fright. It seemed the theory applied in the club. Some of the women attended solely to make themselves feel bigger and better than the ladies scurrying so desperately after the Almighty Dollar.

Me? I was lured by the promised of an all-night $10 cover and assurances that it was just like an other nightclub. Just ignore the topless lady to your left. After about 30 minutes of clicking my heels and wishing myself back home, I tried to swallow my prejudices and view it as a “new experience.”

Downing a glass of Long Island Tea, I ventured from my little corner–careful not to look into the dancers’ faces in fear of recognizing somebody from my past.

Stray bills landed near my feet. They seemed almost sacred—each holy dollar these women hungrily scrambled after with vigor when the dance was done.

In a world where fast food and email reign supreme and everything is available at the touch of a button or screen, I can’t help but think humanity’s quest for the fast, easy and convenient bears some effect on our personal relationships.   

It certainly bears weight on mine.

Mismatched and constantly conflicting schedules are enough to warrant abandonment in a life where every second outside of the office and work-related events is precious. Settling for what’s readily available, easy and most accessible is common. I wonder what it would take to overwhelm relationships of convenience. What type of friend or lover would make the inconvenience of time and distance worthwhile?

A week ago, a bouquet of roses and a take-out dinner from Kona Grill was delivered to me at my job. The note revealed that the gift was from a gent I’d met the day before. When I called to thank him for the sweet expression, I learned that the Houston native was literally in town for training for another week, before moving to Louisiana.

Whippee.

Honestly, I was less than thrilled. Though I love the romantic flicks where a woman and man groom and tend to their love irrespective of distance and obstacles, I don’t think myself capable of the same. Surely, there’s someone living in the same time and place up for grabs, I mused. Someone more convenient.

My thoughts returned to my relationships of yesteryear.  One abandoned upon college graduation. Another when I went to study abroad. And now, yet another teeters on the brink of ending as my new job constantly invades previously sacred weekends and nights.

Honestly, most of my relationships have been sparked by convenience. You’re available. I’m available. You’re decent. So am I.

But what happens when relationships of convenience become inconvenient? Relationships seem to wither away when the homegirl next door moves across the country, the favorite classmate becomes only visible through Skype, and the once wide open boo devolves into nothing more than a series of missed calls, texts and voicemails.

Perhaps that’s why celebrities and stars have such a high relationship turnover. They live in a hyper-connected world where everything they want is literally at their fingertips. When something or someone becomes an inconvenience, they can simply find a replacement.

“True friendship isn’t about being there when it’s convenient; it’s about being there when it’s not.”

Perhaps inconvenience is simply a relationship’s litmus test. The fickle and superficial ones surrender under its pressure, while the truly sturdy ones, though mutual work and commitment, manage to survive and thrive.

In 2012, my goal is to make a committed attempt to form more friendships and relationships based on true compatibility instead of simply settling for what’s convenient.

“Nobody is forgotten when it is convenient to remember him.” – Benjamin Disraeli

It was one of those days: You know, those once in a blue moon 24-hour Murphy’s Law Days completely dedicated to fighting the elements.

My white flag was waved when I arrived at my evening gig soaked to the bone, bra and all. I still don’t know whether to blame my missing umbrella, my genius decision to simply walk to the mall rather than wait an extra 10 minutes for the next shuttle, or the rain men who saw fit to start a monsoon-worthy downpour when I was literally smack, dab and in the middle of nowhere with no place for shelter.

As my shoes swished and slid across Macy’s hardwood floors and added to my coat’s trail of dripping water, I hurried through the sparkling clothes to the nearest bathroom to evaluate the damage.

Staring into the mirror, I saw that my face was now completely makeup-less, that my freshly groomed hair now hung limply across my shoulders and that my favorite suit was clammily clinging to everything beneath it. I thought back to my abrupt run from the house this morning, getting lost for 20 minutes in route to a school literally 5 minutes away.

Really.

I summoned the courage to walk into my store, presented myself in my sodden clothes to my managers and asked to be allowed to go home. The clothes themselves would be fine. My attitude, however, needed some serious recovery. I’d willingly forfeit the day’s wages for that.

On my way back home, I tried to find the silver lining. I had been on the go since 8 this morning. Monday is deadline day for the paper, so literally every moment before I headed to the mall to work was spent either polishing my current stories or researching info for future ones.

I needed a break. Perhaps the sudden downpour was the result of a subconscious rain dance my spirit was desperately channeling.

Perhaps next time it’s cloudy and I can’t find my umbrella, I’ll just buy another one.

“Hey you, what are you looking at,” the mannequin barked in a thick French accent.

I simply shrugged off his words. By then, I had grown accustomed to the roaming eyes and random utterings of the 30 life-size dolls donning Jean Paul Gaultier’s duds.

It was “Night at the Museum” mannequin-style.

The much awaited exhibit in the Dallas Museum of Art projects pouts, snarls and smiles on the blank mannequins’ faces. Speaker systems rigged with a revolving list of phrases and questions give voices to the stiff creatures. One would expect nothing less from the eccentric designer’s namesake exhibition.

The entrance is guarded by two mannequins rocking Western wear on a platform that is signed “For Dallas with love,” by the famed Gaultier.

In the first room, a replica of Gaultier himself welcomes guests to the exhibit as a chorus of mannequins hum softly in the background.

The exhibit itself is divided into six themed collections that would make any fashionista gasp. Clacking heels echoed in the chambers as flocks of fashionable women and men pranced to and fro, surveying the masterpieces.

My favorite item? The outfit worn by Beyonce in the music video for “Video Phone,” that is placed on the revolving runway.

The exhibit is in Dallas until February and is the U.S. debut of the first exhibit devoted to Gaultier’s works. It was definitely worth the twenty bucks.

I stood to find a card with gifts and dough waiting for me on the dining room from the parents. I read a couple of text messaged birthday wishes from the boo. Before work, as he recuperated from his own wild bday shenanigans from the night before, we nestled cups of tea and walked hand in hand in Whole Foods. Somehow, it was so romantic. I laughed, recalling the sweet call from my grandparents—who actually thought they were a day late—bidding me early wishes. And smiled as I listened to one little sister’s serenade and my sister from another mother’s earnest remarks on the voicemail.

The little things, man.

At work, I spotted a bad black dress—I know, like I need another one—in the store on sale for $30. My boss selected a necklace to match  for that ran me another $5. Not bad. Not bad at all.

This morning, in a new dress that didn’t cost me an arm and a leg, I am scribbling this down while prepping for a day split between City Hall and its neighboring library, a couple of evening meetings and  a night with a few friends in a local bar.

And couldn’t be happier.

Did I mention I’ll have the chance to meet her tomorrow. (I’m such a Broadway geek-but this is the best week ever.)

My expectations haven’t lowered. They’ve simply shifted. Drinks with a few really good friends means more than having a million fake ones. Free entry to a couple of really awesome arts events–even if it’s technically work–is now more stimulating than a night at the city’s hottest club.

This birthday, cheers to the little things.

The scent of Rudy’s signature chicken wafted throughout the rattling city bus.

“Mmmmmmmm,” I moaned while hungrily sniffing the air.

The culprit was a young girl with burgundy hair hunched over the front seat, guardedly nibbling away.

Gotta love it.

In Dallas, many jokingly dub it Rudy’s  “crack chicken,” because on any given day at any given time, rain or shine, passersby will find a faithful line of customers weaving down the meager restaurant’s stairs and a constant stream of cars in a drive-thru queue that almost always spills out into the bustling street.

Let me be frank. The restaurant itself is nothing to write home about. There’s no place for sitting so customers are forced to purchase their food and flee. And the service won’t win any awards. But that delicious blend of deep friend well-seasoned chicken, tenders and fries makes it all worthwhile.

I wonder how much the place rakes in on a given day. Certainly more than its shack-esque building let’s on. The stuff is not cheap. For my favorite, a 3-piece chicken tender meal with fries runs about $5.

How much of my neighbor’s paychecks flowed into businesses like these, small, tidy cornerstones of the inner neighborhoods of Dallas. Restaurants, nail shops, beauty salons and supplies.

I was reminded of Carter G. Woodson’s assertion in The Mis-Education of the Negro. He basically said that so many people of color bypass open opportunities right before their eyes in search of more luxurious, glimmering routes to success. Many rush from the urban ghettos to the plush corporate skylines in search of what already resides next door. Meanwhile, outsiders that realize such opportunities for profit and sustainable practices rush in to the fill the void and offer services that the poorest and most vulnerable of folk can’t and won’t do without.

I am guilty of the same. A couple of years ago I met a guy who was in mortician’s school. Despite his great personality and attitude geared for success, I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose at his career-choice. Sorry, but there’s nothing glamorous about dead people. Likewise, there’s no cache for the chicken restaurant or barbeque joint owner. Nothing implicitly enviable about the guy that owns the local beauty supply or mechanic shop.

But these are the types of businesses that will never die. They are protected from the fickle winds of trends and fashion. For this reason alone, they are worthy of a second look.

I’m certainly doing a double-take.

This question is posed in one of my all-time favorite films, Mike Nichol’s Working Girl.  It features Melanie Griffith as Tess, a pretty secretary with dreams of becoming more, who is pitted against the Ivy League Kathryn (Sigourney Weaver), who is everything Tess wishes to be: beautiful, confident, smart and yes, successful. Tess naively views Kathryn as the much-awaited mentor who can groom her full potential — until she learns of Kathryn’s scheme to steal Tess’ idea and present it as her own.

For Tess, something snaps.  For the sweetest revenge ever, Tess decides to walk in Kathryn shoes, literally.  She raids her closet, chops off her big 80s hair for a more sophisticated air, mimics Kathryn’s social graces to glide into the right circles, fully embracing an alter-ego that will ruthlessly stop at nothing to climb the corporate ladder.

By the end of the film, Kathryn’s career and boyfriend have fallen into Tess’ grasp as I, along with most other viewers, gleefully celebrate Tess’ rise. Only later, when my favorite teacher pointed out Tess’ unsavory road to success did I question my alliance. Was I wrong to turn a blind eye to Tess’ way of blatantly lying her way into success and then hypocritically hold Kathryn accountable for her acts of deceit?

Are they both not guilty of the same indiscretions?

Tess’ best friend, Cyn (Joan Cusack), is the film’s only moral compass. Throughout the movie, through teased hair and heavy make-up, Cyn cautions Tess to come clean before she gets caught. She tries to get Tess to stop fooling herself and come back to reality with the rest of the working poor. Tess merely waves away her unsolicited warnings.

At the end, when Tess has landed the job of her dream, her own office, while Cyn is yet a lowly secretary answering phone calls through her heavy Jersey accent, the audience is left to ponder who was right. The film seems to glorify Tess’ tenacity and makes a fool out of people like Cyn, who try to play by the rules.  

Could Tess have risen to success without lying and scheming her way to the top? Can she be blamed for adapting to the ways of the corporate environment that had so callously constantly rejected the honest her?

But the final shot of the movie reveals just how little Tess’ victory really means as it zooms out of her luscious new office to show millions of others just like her working like little bees in a corporate honeycomb, leaving one to wonder who is truly the villain?

“I feel like a used condom,” one government official mused upon learning that he had been manipulated by another in R. W. Johnson’s South Africa’s Brave New World. I have been working on this 600-page book since the sticky days of summer, flipping through its dense, but well-written highlights of the flagrant acts of nepotism and corruption in the “rainbow” country post-apartheid in stops and starts.

I think I’m now on page 342.

Needless to say, the vulgar simile stuck with me. I rolled over laughing when I first read it, but long after I had first perused the words on page, the phrase remained. It’s an odd saying that many could easily relate to. I certainly can. Feeling needed and desired one moment and tossed aside, discarded and forgotten the next characterizes a great host of human interactions. It’s applicable both professionally and personally.

Here’s where I would normally lead into another sappy love story gone wrong. Well not tonight. Tonight I’ll spare you my drama.   I’m sick of it myself.

I just  really like that quote. (And the cool cartoon to the left).

Enjoy.