Inner Black Queen

I sit here nursing a slimfast, or as one of my male friends likes to call it "slim slow", I am driven to preach the gospel according to Candycane. That is what this entire site is about.
A good way to start the day off correctly, besides "Grace Notes", besides visiting my blog, is a healthy does of Mary J. Blige. I got the new cd two weeks ago. Love it. Keep in mind, I've been listening to her since the 9th grade. You do the math, I'm busy.
I usually instantly turn black when shes in the cd player. I'm convinced I have ancestors from Africa. I just have way too much soul for one little white girl to bear. Plus, ask the average black male about my behind, and they will say "baby got back".
I'll never forget, one time, shortly after Miss B was born, I ran up to the gas station to get some milk and pop (yes, pop, thats for my northern readers), and a black man approached me and said these exact words, "ooooooh baby, can I go home witchyoo?" (Note to reader- "witchyoo" stands for "with you" just in case you grew up in Maine and have no idea how to speak hood)
I was so shocked, I got my ugliest look on my face, paid for my stuff and hauled arse to my car. Let me describe what I was wearing: no make-up, ponytail, yoga pants, and one of Michael's t-shirts (much too big for me). I was still recovering from a rough labor and c-sec so I sort of walked hunched over. I had no color to my skin and was constantly groaning with my hand over my c-sec scar. Yep, I would say I was pretty sexy that day. You know what I was thinking, I don't even have to say it-- starts with WHAT THE.
Well, this inner black queen has dishes to do, laundry to fold, and fox news to watch.
"Now who you talkin to- baby I'm grown"
Don't ask.