Noni Jones in Harlem

Archive for May, 2009

Noni

(Clearly, I have Earth, Wind and Fire on my mind)

I just wrapped an incredible Memorial Day weekend. On Thursday Carter and I attended Hale House’s 40th anniversary celebration where Michelle Obama was the talk of the evening. It turns out she was in the city the night before, and  made a surprise appearance at American Ballet Theater’s spring gala. I was bummed!  I mean, Carter and I should have been there.  Michelle, Ballet, fabulous New York society… “these are a few of my favorite things”. I turned to Carter at dinner and whispered that next year,  he must  make that happen. He has all the connections… Those events just aren’t priority for him. Too bad. They are for his girlfriend.

Nevertheless the Hale House celebration was my first major outing since moving here and it was nothing short of fabulous. It was at the very chic, very extravagant Prince George Ballroom downtown and Carter and I danced for the better part of the night. I’m sure I’m one of the few women on the planet that could get that man on the dance floor.

As a relative unknown, I refrained from being flashy… and gauche. I couldn’t look like I was trying… even though clearly I am. I  had a seamstress out of the Bridal District create a midnight blue mermaid sheath for me and I wore it with the pair of diamond  and Tahitian pearl Mikimoto earrings that Carter bought as a ‘welcome home’ present.  My handbag was this sensational Judith Leiber clutch because a woman has to have her trinkets. It’s  one helluva trinket.

When Carter and I got back to our place, he had a surprise for me. He opened the door and told me to pack my  bags.

“For what?”

“I’m taking you away for the weekend.”

I was floored. I mean, this man continues to outdo himself. He’d made plans for short holiday in Bermuda and he knows that’s my favorite island. I can’t explain my passion for that island, the luke-warm turquoise waters, the Johnny cake, or just the feeling. I have loved it there since I was a little girl.

We stayed in an airy seaside villa with just a few pieces of  elegant teak furniture draped in shades of white. We spent the long weekend taking walks, making love, and watching the waves lap at our feet.  And then there was that unforgettable bike-ride… Carter and I peddling along secluded Bermudan paths, stopping every few moments to marvel at the landscape and kiss.

It almost felt like an abbreviated honey moon (clearing throat) minus the wedding.

I’m alone again. Carter caught a flight LA straight out of JFK  and I miss him like mad. Geneva and Caroline are about to come over for a playdate, so  there’s two bottles of Moet chilling and I went out and bought a strawberry shortcake from the Savoy Bakery. It’s heavenly. It can make an man-missing-mademoiselle at least temporarily forget her blues.

In reference to Geneva’s situation–  Paul is a mess.  A hot mess. (I’m sorry love, but that’s the truth)

Understandably.  Crazies are commonplace in the upper-echelons of academia. I have encountered so many brilliant intellects who are also tragically lacking in social skills; common sense, ethics, and swagger…

We were at Geneva’s place one night when Paul  randomly launched into an exegesis on Toni Morrison’s Beloved  about collective psychological trauma in the African-American community. No kidding, all of us were  in awe.  Just like, “yes!” And then this crazy tells us that reading Beloved  gave him an erection.

WTF?

Definitely the intellectual equivalent of impotence after clitoral stimulation.

But  he’s crazy eccentric like that and as an intellect, Paul really is the truth.  As someone’s man… EPIC FAIL.

Sometimes we as women can become so smitten  with a man’s better self, that we ignore his flaws. That’s alright. Your friends will remind you.

-Noni J.

Geneva

My room mate and I are having friends, mostly her friends, over for Memorial Day. Noni and Caroline are both out of town. We like to call it a cook-in, because besides the raggedy fire escape, there’s definitely no place to put a barbeque. My crazy ass boyfriend will not be in the house today, and no… not because he has to study.

Yesterday he came over. Okay, maybe I need to give old dude an alias… so Paul. Yesterday Paul came over. We saw each other just one time since Mothers Day. He’s been acting stand offish and I’m too busy at work to ask why… or care. Okay, I take that back, I do care. But Paul is eccentric. He’s a classic intellectual. At times he’s funny and crazy and then he’ll crawl up in the box he calls a studio apartment and be all deep and moody. His two personalities are the reason it took us forever to actually fall in love, but we are in love, crazy in love to quote B’.

Paul came over last night. He wanted to play nice nice… and nasty nasty. He bought me some food, Jamaican, and some ginger beer. It was cute. We ate dinner on the couch and watched John and Kate Plus Eight reruns. I’m sorry, but all of us love that show. Not because they’re perfect, but because we know behind the scenes Kate is actually a crazy hot mess!

Anyways, everything was fine. My roommate was at her boyfriends. She had her dogs with her. (The two dogs she bought home without telling the other person who pays rent… ugh). The house was dark and quiet. Next thing I know Paul takes his shirt off and starts stroking my hair. I’m like yes! It’s been a minute since I hollered like Minnie Ripperton and my soul was actually aching for his body.

He may be crazy intellectual but Paul is so amazing he can look at me from across the room and make me wet. We had sex, the rough kind. I won’t say where but roommate might want to spray her little desk down before she does any work. As his lips touched my clit, I found my self forgetting all about mothers day, and the week before mothers day when he pissed me off, and then everything before that. Wooowwww. We made our way onto my bed, continued doing it until we fell asleep.

It’s 4 AM. Do you know where your man is? In the damn bathroom. Wait, is he peeing. No, he’s talking. To himself…? No, not to himself.

I sat up in bed, afro all smashed out of shape. He was speaking so low with the damn door cracked I could barely make out what he was saying. It coulnd’t have been an emergency. WTF? I laid back down but I didn’t close my eyes. He knew I’d heard him. He walked back in, beautiful and butt naked, put the phone on the night stand, rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning he woke up and made us eggs and sausage. I threw on my robe, brushed my teeth, washed my face, sprayed on some scent. He acted like he was all into his food.

“What happened last night?”

“Whatchu mean” he said reverting to his Brooklyn Speak.

“You were in the bathroom on the phone?” NEGRO!!!

“Nah. I’mma need you to not be in my business like that right now.”

Say what. I preceded to tell his nappy headed ass that it is my business because it’s my bathroom and that if he wanted to have private conversations at the crack of dawn then he could go outside on the sidewalk with the damn crazies and do so.

We got in an argument that consisted of me saying twice as much as he did. Arguing with Paul is like having it out with a wall. He left. Haven’t heard from him.

As I said, I need my girls. Que es mi vida?

-Geneva

Caroline

Sike!

(Noni, you can stop jumping up and down.)

But for real, I have an update on the Lance situation. After close to two weeks of me not responding to his email, he called me. I have to say I was completely suprised… and flattered. The man deserves some points for his persistence. At first he beat around the bush. He asked me how I was doing, and what was up with my job. And finally, I was like, get to the point. So here it is. He really is moving from the UK to New York City in July for his job. He got a promotion at his paper so I’m really happy for him. But too bad for my life because I still don’t know what I’ll do. He indicated, in his round-about way, that he wants to pick up where we left… after all these years.  And let’s face it. We’ll probably have sex on the first night he gets here. But after that, I don’t have any guarantees. It’s different from when I was at Oxford and both of us just enjoyed each others company, no strings attached. It may have been the comfort of knowing that at the end of the day… I was going back home. I wasn’t in it to be serious. I held him to a different standard than I would someone I was trying to bring home.  I really don’t see myself marrying him, but it’ll be impossible not to get caught up.

And in regards to us cuddling up at his place… obstacle. Right now his son (he’s in adolescence) is living with his mom. When Lance comes to the states, he’s moving in with him. I think it’s commendable. I mean, he thinks his son needs a constant father figure. But I’m not sure how I’ll handle that.  Just being honest.

More to come.

Bisous,

Caroline

Noni

I understood early on that with Carter it would be all or nothing at all. We would either be totally  in love or be strangers. We’d never straddle the murky in-between because we’d forever be reminded of our powerful initial attraction.

The night Carter walked into my life I knew that every single woman in the room had their eyes on him. I felt in my soul that he was mine. My intuition has never lead me astray.

I was an invited speaker at a woman’s conference and his jazz trio entertained us on the final night. Carter was on piano in a bespoke suit  tailored within an inch of his lithe frame. The white shirt underneath was loosely unbuttoned. He’s not a tie man. His gorgeous locks were tied together,  cascading down his back.  and he hovered the ivories as if he were confronting them with a secret.

I was spellbound. In one magical moment, my fascination with jazz and this handsome stranger converged.

When band took their four it was my cue.  Carter headed to the bar. He ordered scotch, sat on the stool, and began to drink pensively. He appeared to be lost in a pleasant memory.

Dressed in a Black body-conscious St. Johns knit cocktail dress and heavily perfumed in Mitsouko, I sauntered toward him. In Japanese, ‘mitsouko’  means mystery. Perhaps he caught wind of my enigma before I fully entered his line of sight. He peered over his shoulder. “Good evening.” And his voice was as rich and as smooth as  fondue flowing from a chocolate fountain. His eyes even more brilliant up close.

“Hi. Noni,” I answered, delicately extending my hand.

“Carter Jackson”. His handshake was firm. ” What are you drinking?”

“Pinot grigio.” As I slid beside him, a few nearby women looked on. “I’m enjoying your set. I love jazz.”

“Oh do you?”

“Absolutely. I grew up in a house filled with Jazz.”

“Who’s your favorite…”

“In terms of body of work, Coltrane. In terms of personality… Miles. It’s a tough call.”

“I hear you on that. I’m a Duke Ellington man myself.  But Coltrane comes second.”

“You know, they say Duke Ellington was a notorious ladies man,” I teased.

“Was he now?” He flashed a smile capable of melting the icicles from snow covered trees.

“Well, legend has it.”

We shared a laugh.

“So where am I on your list?”

The bar tender slid the wine glass in my direction and I took a sip, enjoying the brief pregnant silence. “Musicians have to grow on me. I’d need a little time to figure that’s out.”

“Cool. I’m a patient man.” He smiled.

“Good, patience is a virtue,” I said as I brought the glass to my lips.

“So Noni, where are you from?”

“Originally, Jersey. But I live in the south* now. I’m a reporter and author. What about you.”

“Originally Philly. And now, I’m a man of the world. You write?”

“I dabble in romance,” I told him. His eyes perked. I preferred to keep the spotlight shining on him. “I imagine you must travel all over. Where’s home though?”

“Harlem.”

“ How lovely.” Beat. “Well it was wonderful chatting with you Carter. Thank you for the drink” It was a tried and true tactic. Finish the conversation first and unexpectedly. A Goddess doesn’t linger. He looked surprised. I rose from my seat, touched his shoulder, and leaned into to air kiss him on the cheek. It would give him a final dose of my intoxicating scent and an outward sign that I was indeed interested.

“Hey Noni” he called. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Green Dolphin Street.” I said stepping back. He grinned. A jazz connoisseur, he knew exactly what  that implied.

Lover, one lovely day, love came, planning to stay. Green Dolphin street supplied the setting. The setting for nights beyond forgetting.

His band reassembled and I recognized the intro to the Coltrane classic immediately. I could see his eyes searching for me in the dark room and when they met mine, he nodded. I was done at that moment. Literally. At that moment, I was his to have.

Carter found me after the show, and slipped me his card with instructions to be not a stranger. Always  coy, I waited. But when I finally reached out, I discovered that my instinct had been spot on. He and I spoke for hours and hours about music, politics, history and everything else that we could our ears to phone a moment longer. I appreciated his intelligence.  It was a connection unlike any other I’d experienced before.

Those close to me are still in shock that we live together. Understandably. We haven’t dated that long, about four months. Carter is 15 years my senior. He is newly divorced, and he has a daughter. It’s enough ‘baggage’ to scare most of my Betty girlfriends off, but I refuse to pass up on the man I believe God has set aside for me.

Some of us are frightened by the power of  choice. We drag our feet when faced with a major decision because deep down inside we know that some decisions can never be reversed. The truth is , we really may have only one chance to be rich, one chance to land a dream job, and one chance at true love. We are the products of our decisions, the good ones and the bad.

In life it doesn’t matter how much strategy, practice or preparation you have.  Life is the outcome of all the decisions we’ve made, and some that have been made for us. I don’t get how career savvy women are instinctive, risk-takers at work, but not with love. Just like hesitation and over-thinking can cost you a major account, in a split second, it can also cost you your soul-mate. Why risk missing out on the love of a life time?

I can only hope my fabulous friend Caroline  will take advice from  her enraptured friend.

-Noni J.

Caroline

Paris never get’s old. I’ve been here more times than I can count and it’s still amazing.

There is something about  Paris that makes me want to be extra and toss around french phrases that are over-used mostly by people that don’t actually speak French… like ‘joi de vivre’ (which actually is my life) and quote famous writers. Quote of the day: Be careful what you set your heart upon - for it will surely be yours. – James Baldwin

I just woke up from a much-needed nap, still jet-lagged even though j’arrive a Paris a dimanche. I love traveling but I can’t stand that groggy feeling. I got that bottle of Cab though. Right. I’m on the third glass. Nina is on the I-tunes, I’m wearing my favorite silk robe and privately celebrating.

The board green-lighted the fragrance. Thank you God! That’s a big deal because seriously, the work that goes into developing and marketing a new perfume is just as risky and costly as a Hollywood movie. The up-side, it can be just as profitable.

Side note. One of my male team members we’ll call him Mr. Charlie tried to take credit for an idea that was mine. Emphasis on tried. I pulled him aside and politely reminded him that I am not the one. I won’t dwell on the subject but that’s the dark side of corporate America pun intended. Doesn’t matter that I have two ivy-league degrees. I’m always watching my back.

The meeting ended early this afternoon. I had time to kill. I switched out of my ’shut-em down’ suit and put on something suitable for Paris. Over-sized Chanel shades, bangles, leggings, boots, a shirt dress, and this fly belt I found shopping with Noni. I don’t do the whole touristy thing, but I always have to go to les jardins de Tuileries. It’s where Paris just seems to slow down.

I went to my favorite spot around the pond, where les enfants were running around, feeding the ducks bread. It was actually peaceful. (in spite of toddlers squealing in french). Sometimes a woman needs a moment to actually figure out her life. It’s weird. I am kind of excited for Lance’s arrival and dreading it at the same time. And mad at myself too for being so damn ambivalent. Too bad. I still haven’t replied to his e-mail. But really… he could have called.

Changing subject.

Whenever I’m here, I totally relate to the other black girls who actually turned Paris out. Josephine Baker. Eartha Kitt. Michelle Obama. In Paris, a fly Black woman is actually the truth. Like, a man will stop you in the street to tell you how beautiful you look. Clearly, it’s partially on some exoticism, Venus Hottentot mess… but I do think there’s more. There are some European men (not all) that really put fascinating Black women on a pedestal…. where we belong.

And this may sound crazy, but I think Michelle Obama has made Black women en vogue again. (Pop bottles) Not that we were ever out of style, but…. But let’s face it. Some people slept.

Sometimes I feel like I can apply that Joni Mitchell song to men at home. : “Dont it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone”. Not that Black women are going any where, but sometimes Black men forget how fabulous we are—beauty, body, mind and spirit.

Alright, I’m about to finish this glass, shower and slip into this fly lingerie I just bought. I’m having dinner in two hours with a man I met today.

Trust, I’ll be putting the “Africa” in “Afro-Dite”.

Bisous,

Caroline