Unzipped
By Megan Hughes

So, she is one of my best friends. My girl. Call to talk. Call to listen. Call to bitch. Just call to call. We help each other keep it together…keep things in order…keep things zipped. Been through a lot too…partying days, relationship drama, family issues, personal pain, career growth, hilariously embarrassing I can’t share with you moments, birth of kids (and I do mean kids “plural”…times 5), and then THIS…

THIS. A phone call on a Saturday evening, I hear her voice, so weak, so sad…”my baby’s gone, she died in my arms”.

THIS. A long lonely flight to her home, I hold her tight fighting back my tears, trying to be strong.

THIS. A sleepless night, I listen to her cries from the bedroom above and her prayers for help holding on.

THIS. A mournful morning, I help one of her daughters put on her Easter dress and shoes, but Easter is still days away.

THIS. A cold, rainy day, at a church packed with people, I watch her fall to her knees in front of a tiny white coffin and beg the Lord, through tears and cries, not to take her baby girl.

This. A day when I realized that no matter how hard we had tried, it just wasn’t in our control. Nothing was together…everything was out of order…and it all had just come UNZIPPED.

-- -- --
I can’t capture the emotions from this time. It is still not real to me and the pain and sorrow that I felt over this time…I can’t explain. Seeing her in so much pain was one of the absolute saddest moments of my life. Without a doubt.

A Lady Looks For Her Nest
By Terri Jackson

My father used to rescue baby birds that had fallen from their nests onto our lawn, saving them from being caught in the rotating blades of his lawn mower on Saturday mornings in the spring. He would call us, my little brother and me, out to see them. He’d say, “Now that they’ve fallen out of the nest the mother won’t come back for them.” He would scoop the babies up in newspaper and put them in an old birdcage we had in the garage. My brother and I would try to make the cage inviting by laying newspaper down and putting in twigs and feathers that we found in the yard, as if the baby bird could build its own nest. We would leave water in a plastic bottle top and collect worms and chop them up. Since their mother abandoned them they were our responsibility. The birds were always tiny; their feathers appeared wet, creating the very thinnest layer of warmth for their bodies. Their necks strained upwards. Their beaks open. They would make the tiniest reed-thin noise. They waited for their mother to fly back and drop food into them, cover them with her warm body and make them feel safe. At night we would cover the bird cage with a blanket to keep the chicks warm, but invariably when we would check on them in the morning the baby bird would be laying at the bottom of the cage, on its side, its beak open, dead and stiff. The birds weren’t guaranteed a long life. My father believes that everyone deserves a little caring, and love even if you can’t save them from their fate. My father is a good man. My father has character. To this day, I still think that he knows something about everything. My father took time with his children, and taught my brother and my sister, and probably even my mother lessons about what it means to appreciate your blessings and live your life with integrity and respect for those around you -- even tiny birds that fall out of their nests onto your lawn.

I was that bird when I was younger when I lived with my parents. I didn’t fall out of the nest; rather I left willingly, all of my feathers intact. I had stowed away all of the lessons my father and my mother taught me. A Lady in waiting, I wear them like a fine coat of armor that keeps the harm out, but gives me the confidence to take the risk of letting other people in. After so many years away of finding myself and living like an adult in New York, I feel like I can go back and build my own nest.

Harlem’s Love Story…

For your reading enjoyment, find the first installment of “Harlem’s Awakening”…This is the “True Hollywood Story” (as it were) behind the love affair between the characters Joe and Harlem that plays out in the cabaret, “Harlem’s Night”.

Iced Ruby....Chapter 1
She sl-o-w-ly stained her lips with another coat of her new lipstick: Iced Ruby Red. It made her voluptuous pout even poutier and that thrilled her in places she hadn't been thrilled lately. She pressed her lips together like a baby-doll's when its string is pulled to say, "mom-ma". With a tissue she pulled from a white fluffy tissue box on her off-white dressing table, she leaned into the oval-shaped mirror and blotted.

It had taken her exactly 46 minutes to get ready (including the four minutes it took her to rush into her apartment and into the shower after working at Macy's cosmetic counter all day.) As she stood to review her masterpiece, she smiled. Her midnight-black silk dress was simple in cut and design but oh-so-rewarding of her many, many curves inherited from the black, brown and beige women that had come before her. It danced around her pretty thighs as she posed this way and that just like the bombshells she'd seen in "Life" magazine. She turned her bell bottom to the mirror. As she craned her neck to check out her rear view, a chocolate-velvet cascade of freshly pressed and curled hair fell over her amber eye. She sent a puff of air to do the job her hands couldn't do and she slid the dress up a bit (its material softly whispering "hello" to the delicate snaps of her black garter attached to her nylons as if to confirm one another's important existence)thankfully, two straight black seams marched up her sculpted calves to the wide band circling her thighs. She giggled, because somehow, those seams made her think of Joe's supple fingers sliding and riding in rhythm along the neck of his upright bass.

She loved to watch Joe play. He was playing again tonight at the Cornett Lounge. She'd met him there one late Tuesday three weeks ago when she'd gone in for a drink with her best friend Cora, who'd been having a doozy of a fight with her loser boyfriend, Harold.

She saw Joe the minute she walked into the haze that cloaked the lounge and its inhabitants. Shed swear they made eye contact, but Cora's wise ass said Joe hadn't paid her no never mind. What'd Cora know anyhow? Nothin'. 'Cause, what Cora didn't know, and what she hadn't been told yet, was that Joe had been payin' attention. He had slipped her a phone number when Cora wasn't looking. The phone number, among other things, had been used often over the past 21 days.

She grabbed an overcoat from her closet. A black wool number with large side buttons and wide flowing arms with mink at the cuffs. It was her reward for four months of eating corned beef hash at home on her couch, rather than steak and eggs at Dolly's corner diner. She felt like Dorothy Dandridge when she wore this coat. It was divine. She picked up her black clutch purse (the one with the gold clasp to match her earrings); slid on her black lace short gloves and pinned her hat on her head, arranging the lattice veil just so.

As her right gloved hand clicked on the porch light and her left reached for the brass door knob, she gasped, "Oh, my lipstick!" (She had been thinking of Joe again).She dashed back into her boudoir, found the shiny gold tube and popped it into her handbag. Then, for safe measure, she straightened the pillow on her bed that was sewn by her mother many years ago. Stitched in bright pink yarn, it bore her name: "Harlem".

(c)2007 Pen and Peppur LLC

Momma Said
By Vicki Rogers

I went out to the new over 30ish “Club Ice” here in Tucson last weekend. I knew I had to write this “Momma Said” article, so when I met some girls in the bathroom, I said I would write about our conversation. However, I was already in the “I really don't remember what was said” zone, so guess I will write about what I do remember. I remembered not to drink and drive. So I got the door man to call a cab. I got in and gave him my address. After a few minutes in the cab I looked through my purse and realized I only had seven dollars left. I told this to the cabbie and said when you get to seven dollars just let me out and I will walk the rest. Lucky for me, home was just outside my price range and he took me the rest of the way for free. The next day, I woke up at six a.m. with a hangover and the realization that I had to get my car before I got a ticket for parking in a neighboring lot and before it got hotter than 90 degrees-since it was near 70 already. I dressed quickly-remembering to wear a white shirt and left the house. No hat, no water bottle, no money - not a good choice. I knew where I was going and it wasn't close. The first half mile I didn’t really think about turning back for water and the hat. By the time my first mile was over I was missing that hat and thought I would stop and buy some water at the gas station on Wilmont. Oops no money. Ok no biggie I'll stop at the Burger King across the street. They can't refuse you water in Tucson-umm-not 24 hour. Oh yeah, that's right it's 6:30 Saturday morning. Now my lips are starting to get super dry, but alas no lip-gloss. I've now gotten well into my second mile. I've past Home Town Buffet and the Mall. I hugged the shadows of every stucco wall and tree I passed, thinking, “Why didn't I wake up earlier?” When I got to the busy street of Broadway I was surprised I had the strength to run across it to make the light. Coincidently, the first bus of the day was just passing there too and thought I was running to make the bus stop. It was torture to walk past that open door and feel the cool rush of air-conditioned air try to suck me in. I set my sights on the library a few blocks away, still thinking in an alcoholic stupor that it was open. It wasn't until I saw the homeless guy stripped naked to the waist, washing up in the sprinkler that I realized the water fountain, inside, was out of the question. Mile three. I have said hello the second person of the day, who was wearing black. I felt a bit better. My lips now were peeling and I ran my fingers through my hair trying to get any oil to put on my lips. Gross, but necessary. I tried not to think about how pathetic I was feeling when hundreds of Mexicans cross the desert every month with nothing, pretty much, and I was having a hard time with these few miles. I pursed my lips and went on. When I reached Fairmont, I knew Tanque Verde Road and “Club Ice” were just around the bend. I walked across on a red light and some motorist wheeled past me yelling "Cross with the light!" Yeah well, sorry! In mile four, my feet were burning matches, my eyes were sandpaper, my head had shaken baby syndrome and my fingers were little Vienna Sausages - I wasn't stopping for a red light or traffic. I had walked for an hour and in another fifteen minutes I was unlocking my car door and pulling myself behind the wheel. It took me ten minutes to drive home, lock all my doors and not get up for the rest of the day--except for water.

Editor's Edict ~

Welcome. I find myself at the doorstep of the second monthly issue of the Brown Betties Gazette which is adapted from the stories told in the Los Angeles-based "Harlem's Night Cabaret" as performed by the sizzly-sassy Brown Betties & Joe. "Harlem's Night" is about a woman looking for love in all the wrong places; it's sultry, it's sexy and it's autobiographical (unfortunately). While performing, I've found myself tapping into my Sensual Goddess (it is cabaret, after all)...and I like it! I acknowledge that I was a bit of a prude growing up; I'd often blush at the mere mention of dildos... gasp! .... or porn .... ewww!!....or spankin' that ass....ooooh! I secretly admired the girls that said and did what they wanted even if it appeared "unladylike". This issue (and possibly many more to come) pays homage to those girls. Meet Keshia Kola, this month's featured Brown Bettie, who has written The Shesaurus which is full of amazingly notorious words; Tanya Alexander, who poetically taps into her inner Solitude with Pieces of Tanya and Tina McDowelle who boldly shares a self-gratifying hot tub moment in Brown Bettie gone Beautifully Bad. Take a closer look at the Harlem's Night Brown Betties who each tells you what makes her A Woman. Eavesdrop on an email conversation between a boy and girl that didn't go so well in "Two Sides To Every Love Story" and for lighter fare, enjoy one woman's Unzipped weekend and see what my mom has to say this month in Momma Said. Have fun!

~xo

Peppur Chambers

BrownBettiesGazette@yahoo.com