OK, the new HairSpray film might not be everyone's cup of tea - why should it? - but I LOVED IT! It made me feel good to be voluptuous - I do a lot of the time, but it was just great to see a film that celebrated that - I'm tired of the production-line of beautiful fit dumb 'teenagers' running scared, then being bludgeoned to death in some shape or form.
HairSpray was refreshing, funny, and fun to watch. Some bits were REALLY tacky but I think that was intentional - 'cos it's set in the 1960's. I found the very well-fed lead actress cute & energetic & agile as hell. It took me a bit of getting used to seeing John Travolta play her voluptuous-looking big momma 'cos (s)he looked kinda WEIRD. But, the thing is, after a while, the character he was playing started to grow on me and it really didn't matter as the film went along - maybe it's something a great actor is able to do, I suppose - make you forget the actor & appreciate the character.
You know, if I could afford it, I'd take every teenager that's insecure about their weight to go see it - boy or girl. 'Cos if I can come out whooping & cheering, then surely it can't do them any harm. I was even high-pitching to some of their songs!
Loved it, loved it, loved it. Would go and see it again.
(p.s.: Queen Latifah represented! Definitely held her own, in my view. Well done, woman.)
HairSpray!, HairSpray! - Go watch HairSpray!
Momma, I've Just Been Kissed by a Woman!!!
...and a very nice bubbalicious MWAAAAAAAAH it was too :-)
And who oh who descended on me with a nice big wet joowsey smackeroony?
Well, none other than Bloggrrl herself!
and it was guuuuuuuuuuuuuud.
She likes my blog, Momma! She likes my blog!
ebele
Momma, Am a Rocking Girl Blogger!!!!!
Sundays are my new Fridays, I tell ya! First I read a lovely blog which really resonated with me, then I have me some sweet bread with soya butter (yum!), AND THEN I find out I've been honoured by a sista called Vanessa Byers with an award - not just ANY award, no, but a ROCKING GIRL BLOGGER AWARD - Oscars are sooooo yesterday. (I've never met Vanessa, but you know when sometimes you just 'feel' people?)
There's an Igbo saying: "Aka ekpe kwo aka nni, aka nni akwo aka ekpe" meaning "The left hand washes the right hand, the right hand washes the left" - so I'm gonna pay it forward & extend the honour to 5 other women whose blogs I admire the bras off of.
[the words in brackets are Igbo - 'ofu' means 1, 'ibuo' means 2 and so on...]
ofu) it goes without saying: Ms Straight No Chaser Vanessa Byers!
ibuo) Kristina Wong: Creative. Loopy. Sensitive.
ito) Kirsten Anderberg: Fearless Tongue.
ino) Kumiko: Not afraid to stand on her own.
ise) Bloggrrl: Funny. Sarcastic. Well written. Creative. Non-prescriptive.
isii) I know she said she shouldn't be added to the list, and I know I'm only allowed to recommend 5 women, but this woman initiated the whole Rocking Girl Blogger Award thingymejig, so she's gonna get one - she has no choice, yes, it's you Roberta Ferguson!
Pass the love-loaded appreciation on - if there are any female bloggers out there whose blogs you love reading, why not show it by giving them a Rocking Girl Blogger award? Let's get the mangoes rolling, people :-)
Here's a stretchmark I made earlier!!
i luv my stretchmarks /
nature has made her tattoos /
what a work of art.
My stretchmarks are x-mark-the-spots - marking exactly where you should kiss me.
Must.
It ain't a myth - it's a fact. Not a request - it's an order - Sir - ordained - by she-angels with cherried tongues - who are watching you if you make the wrong move - on my oh-so-deliberately-gratuitously-plumpified body.
So. Be careful how you kiss me, Sugar.
Or where the hell you kiss me, Sugar.
Or else I won't even call you Sugar.
I'll just call you Salt instead. Sugar.
Now... you have 3 chances to get it right - I'm feeling particularly generous tonight - don't know - must be the full moon with her belly hung so low I can touch her.
So here's what?, I'll give you 5 goes instead of 3 - and you know what?, ya don't even have to thank me, see?
But 5 times wrong and I'm sorry - I'll have to turn you into a piece of cheese, a mogwai ...or Donald Trump.
Take your pick.
But don't worry, if you get it wrong, I'll tell your momma you wen' on a NASA expedition or something. (I'm thoughtful like that. She's very old, I know).
So, best gets to working, Mr - get it right - and you won't smell the faint scent of cherries - or hear angels giggling in the corner of the room.
And if ya really lucky, Mr.
If you're reeeeeeallly reeeeeeallly lucky, Mr
I might just marry you twice, Mr.
I might just marry you. Twice.
And carry you over the threshold my own damn self. Picket fence, DIY tools from B & Q, wide-screen Sony TV, the whole works for you, baby. You - barefoot and pregnant with Nigerian Guiness; Me - bringing home the bacon & jollof rice.
And we'll have our very own pole in the very middle of our very own room ...
and you'll sing for me and I'll dance for you...
and I'll clap for you and you'll strip for me...
and I'll sing, My Mr, I'll sing for you:
i luv my stretchmarks /
nature has made her tattoos /
what a work of art.
I said I'll sing for you Mr, I'll sing for you
Oh Lordy, lordy - I'll sing for you:
i. luv. my. stretch.marks.
then you'll look at me
you'll look at my body
look up to the sky
and mouth: thank you, Jesus
you'll look at me
lights off - moon bright
every kiss - on every mark:
a validation.
I cried when I read this...
...there are just no words.
I shall call her by her real name - Saartjie Baartman.
I SAID I DON'T WANT A PLASTIC BAG, WOMAN!!!
[what happened when I went to the butchers...]
I said I don't want a plastic bag, woman! What's wrong with you?
Yeah yeah I'd love me some chicken wings, but please please don't wrap it up like it's some EGYPTIAN MUMMY.
I mean, first you wrap it up with polythene & polystyrene so it won't fly away - (does it look pretty in polystyrene, er, no). And then upon my purchase, you put the polythene-&-polystyrene-wrapped chicken wings in a baby plastic bag – is that cute, no.
AND THEN finally, to finish off your masterpiece (because by now you've got a whole circle of customers marvelling at the ignorant genius that is you), you put the polythene-&-polystyrene-wrapped, baby-plastic-bagged chicken wings in ANOTHER plastic bag – no, this ain't a collection of Russian dolls, darling - you do not need to wrap & wrap & wrap it up like we're playing musical chairs. (Oh dear, you'd think the way you’re wrapping it up, it was poisoned. Hmmmm.)
And so I say to her, 'no plastic bag, please'.
And she says to me, 'if the wings aren’t in the 2nd plastic bag, yeah, security will think you nicked it.'
I'm like 'what planet is this woman on? (obviously not the one I'm doing my bit to save)'
And so I say, more firmly this time 'No, I don't want a plastic bag'.
(I mean, you'd think that PAYING FOR IT and HAVING THE RECEIPT would be enough.)
This is about to turn into a battle of wills – I reach into my bag for my SuperWoman outfit and my watch which sends people back in time to give them a chance to redeem themselves. I also reach into my bag for some water to parch my throat to prepare my voice to give her a good telling-to 'cos oh boy she ain't seen nothing yet - I am my mother's daughter, oh yes, siree, Nigerian through and through, I'm rolling up my SuperWoman sleeves now, I’m rolling them up - someone stop me 'cos I'm about ta, I'm about ta...
Oh wait. If I am my mother's daughter (for which I am), all I have to do is give her 'The Look' like my mother does.
And so I give her 'The Look', yeah, and say "Step away from the plastic bag".
The Look's got her all hypnotised. She steps away, eyes wide, lips trembling.
I, in my SuperWoman outfit, say: "Now repeat after me: Plastic is Tragic".
"Plastic is Tragic".
"I can't hear you".
"Plastic is Tragic".
"Again".
"Plastic is Tragic".
"AGAIN!".
"Plastic is Tragic".
"Now... if I EVER see you triple-wrapping my chicken or anybody's chicken for that matter, you, my dear, will spend the rest of your life... on a landfill site. GOT IT?"
She nods desperately.
And I. Fly out. Triumphant.
Mangoes, Bats & Keyboards...
I had a mango an hour ago. Swallowed the sun a half hour ago. Preached to bats 5mins ago. Smashed up & threw my keyboard to the dogs - chose to blink straight to the screen instead.
'Cos keyboards are for lazy people who don't trust their fingers. I trust mine.
My long ET-like fingers have touched God and known that (S)He is real, stroked a multitude of birds into flight, beckoned & held spirit-children 'til they stopped fearing life, stopped fists, redirected locust, comforted a crying man, pleasured a woman, muffled the sounds of bush-babies who were intent on robbing the souls of our children, mixed chalk for the witch-doctor, fetched water for the clouds, fixed the broken wings of angels, turned the smiling face of a neighbour to another.
Yes. My fingers are long - for a reason.
[to be continued. maybe.]