This winter I went home to St. Louis and found that most of my friends from school were married. Many had kids. As in plural. My best friend was pregnant for the third time with her husband. My best friend from kindergarten and old pen pal has three kids with her husband. A friend from college was recently married. (All these people are black women for those playing at home.) My parents, while still obviously my parents, seemed much older than I remembered them. Their home, while still tidy and loving, seemed more of an empty nest than it had ever been, too big for just two people and a cat.

When my father grunted getting out of the car, saying he was stiff, I asked what was wrong and he said he was just old and turning 70 this year.

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This is such a post.

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I was just really proud of this video I edited. You should have seen the raw footage. The interns had never really shot video before so it was ROUGH, but I appreciate all they did to make this work.

For the first time in a long time I had to break up with someone, of sorts. We weren't really in a relationship. We rarely talked on the phone. We'd gone out on a few dates and he was nice enough, but I think we both knew this was going no where. Something about the time he invited me out to the concert then informed me at the concert that I needed to buy my own ticket. Nice guy, but ... um, a little warning would have been nice considering the level of brokeness both of us were operating under.

Anyway, I felt kind of bad because I did my usual thing of "avoidance" in ending our nothingness. He essentially called me the night before I moved to Washington, D.C. and I had to tell him that I was going far, far away and that he was cool n' all, but I'm MOVING TO THE CHOCOLATE CIT-TAAAAY and we'll probably never, ever see each other again. Since we were barely dating, I think he took it pretty well, and was a good sport about it. We were just going in different directions and we both knew it. Besides, I had this strong urge to give him a total makeover and if I can't like a guy for whatever he is when I first meet him it's just never going to work.

I've been told by people in the past that I have a somewhat "masculine" attitude towards dating and relationships. I don't really believe in gender stereotyping, so I see it more that I have a REALISTIC attitude towards what I expect out of men. There have been plenty of times when I've relied on men to be rational, not emotional, about whatever we have going on. Especially if it's not going anywhere. Usually the man and I both know we're both wasting time, so there's no hard feelings when one decides they're tired of the other. There was never anything more horrifying for me than someone who didn't realize the true nature of things, got carried away and lead me down the awkward dance of "She's Not That Into You."

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Immortal Beloved Show, Photo by Alexis Glenn

I honestly can't explain how surreal my life has become in a short amount of time. Back in April, I had just taken a break from the blog because my medication wasn't working and I was struggling just to function. Then I went on a whirlwind road trip to Boston, NYC and Washington, D.C. with my friend Dorothy -- right after getting out of the hospital, of all places, and flung myself right back out into the world, sink or swim.

I have to admit. I'm a little surprised.

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For four years I didn't want to be pretty or funny or bubbly or friendly. I was angry. So I dressed angry. And sloppily. And like I didn't give a shit. Because I didn't. But now, for whatever reason -- perhaps those meds finally kicked in -- I'm back to wanting to be pretty and girlie and fashionable.

That's part of the reason why I write about clothes and hair so much because I just didn't care for so long. I was rebelling against ... well, nothing actually. I just knew I didn't want to be bothered and I wasn't bothered for a very, very long time.

Of course caring about what you look like comes with its own baggage. Like now I have to budget things I used to ignore, like the dreaded hair salon. I went on a mission to find a stylist who could do my hair in a reasonable amount of time. I could not and would not spend all day in a salon. I can understand it taking nearly four hours to twist up my hair when it's natural, but a friggin' blow out and flat iron shouldn't take seven damn hours. Fortunately, I discovered New York New York Hair Design here in St. Louis and stylist Debra Small who got me in and out and "fabulous" in two hours.

I honestly don't understand why more salons like hers don't get with the program and get more efficient in how they budget time. Time management is usually the main issue I have with most salons. There have been times I've shown up, on time, and been told I had a three hour wait and to come back. I mean, if I made an appointment at 3 p.m. I'd like to be seen somewhere around 3 p.m. My time is valuable to me. I have other things I need to do. What's the point in making an appointment that no one is going to honor? Debra was ready for me the minute I got there. There was zero wait. She did my hair without going into the whole "don't you want a perm" speech. (I've met more stylists who look at my natural hair like it is a foreign object. I mean, you'd think black people would know how to do black hair, but shockingly, that is not always the case.) She was highly knowledgeable about natural hair and came with tons of tips and advice.

As for clothes, that was another story. Why clothing stores can't agree on what a size 16 is drives me nuts. Like a lot of women, I'm bottom-heavy. My rear and hips are way larger than my waist which makes pants near impossible to buy. I go to one store and I wear a size 16-18 in pants. I go to another and I'm a 22. Plus sizes are more like guessing than actual sizes and Lane Bryant has this magical way of making me feel like a whale (even though I'll occasionally like some of their clothes). This was probably another reason why I stopped caring how I dressed for so long. I'd gained weight and didn't feel attractive. After I lost some of it, just like that, clothes didn't seem as terrifying anymore. Since then I've been a bargain fashion hunter.

I think depression had A LOT to do with how I dressed. Who feels like looking cute when inside you're miserable? I dressed how I felt and I felt horrid. My hair was constantly one step from becoming matted because I wore it in the same pulled back scarf/headband combo everyday. I wore tennis shoes with everything and black was the primary color in my wardrobe. It was a stark contrast from the bright colors and great care in being overly matching I did in high school, or my discovery of how to dress like "a woman" once I got to college.

Now I don't think fashion is the end all, be all. Clothes are just that, clothes. To me it's still far more important as to what's going on in your head that what's on your back. But clothes are a form of self-expression and I'm glad my expression is now that of a happy and healthy person, not of a moody, malcontent.

Alderwoman Kacie Starr-Triplett and myself at her fundraiser.

Tiffany, who has known me since high school, knows that I am not a shy person, but I did feel rather awkward at Tuesday night's Fun-D-Raiser for St. Louis sixth ward alderwoman, Kacie Starr-Triplett. Everyone was nice. I actually knew a few people there besides my friend, her hubby and my sister who came with me. I felt amazingly adorable in my outfit, so confidence wasn't the problem. It was just so hard to talk to people when you can't hear them. The band was awesome, but loud, making all my conversations sound like the teacher from Charlie Brown.

Also, unlike in say, back east, where it delightfully meant something to be "The Black Snob," I have no kind of rep at all in St. Louis. (Although I was told by someone that might be a GOOD thing.) I mostly got some blinks and polite smiles upon telling people I was a freelance journalist and blogger. The highlight of the whole evening came at the very beginning when I ran into my old co-worker/friend, David, from The Bakersfield Californian who now works for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He was just driving by the restaurant and we ended up having a convo, catching up, in the middle of traffic. Love that guy. He was always a good sport about all my ribbing.

That said, the food was awesome and Kaci was as tall, gracious and lovely as ever. She's a great person with a bright future in STL politics. The restaurant, Smoking Joes at 1901 Washington Ave., was gorgeous and I told the owner I would be back. Maybe I'll drag Big Sis out again or Baby Snob. I think Baby would like the place A LOT. Maybe we'll go back on Friday when they have live music.

Anyway. My shoes were awesome and my hair looked nice and that's really all that matters, right?

A few years back I went on dating strike. It wasn't that I was upset with men. (I love you all appropriately.) It was more that I was really angry and in no position to be dating anyone. I'd gotten out of a bad, long-term relationship with the starter husband and was ready to lay waste to anyone who dared to look upon me. But now, after mellowing, learning, loving and some self-discovery I have finally stamped myself with the label "No Longer Too Angry To Date." Meaning ... Lawd, I'm going back out there again.

Out there is out into the big wide world of menfolk in search of someone to spend time with. Out there can be fun (Yay! I love going to the zoo!) or horrifying (Boo! All you want to talk about is your stupid car.) But it's worth it. (I think.) The only frustrating thing about all this is that I have been off-market/on strike for so long (about five years), that I no longer remember how to do things like flirt. It also dawned on me that I'd woefully "let myself go."

After all, me, all Z-Phi n' cowrie shell adorable pre-starter husband glory:

And now, me in a too small jacket post-starter husband, circa 2005:

I'm not even the same person! Who is that chubby woman with the terrible highlights!?

Anyway. I'm slowly rediscovering that I actually don't like looking like crap, have lost 10 more pounds to add to the 40 lbs I lost last year and remembered that I enjoy being pretty. Who knew? I've also learned that giving up is not an option or excuse. Sure. Sweatpants were a great buffer to scare off anyone who dared to flirt with me, but I needed to go back to my closet and get back to dressing like I give two shits.

Now, I did attempt to date last year, but found that I had forgotten how to A) flirt and B) express my interest or disinterest properly. Basically, I'm a rust bucket of emotions. I do a lot of blank stares and "huhs." I plan on going to an event tonight where men may actually be in attendance to do some practice flirting (God, this sounds sad) as well as some networking. So, um, I ask of you ...? Tips? Suggestions? I'm NOT tossing my hair and giggling like a 16-year-old and I refuse to be pushy or blunt. There must be SOME subtle form of cute communication I can use. God, what did I used to do? Touch a guy's arm and say funny things?

Well. At least I have my list of what NOT to do ready:

1. Don't mention awful starter husband.

2. Don't mention not knowing how to flirt.

3. Don't mention not dating for almost five years.

4. Don't be bitter.

5. Don't get drunk.

I think I'm good. And I'll take pictures so I can share this all with you if it goes well. And ... I'll tell you about it anyway even if it doesn't.