Brainstormin on a Saturday mornin'... cuz I can't shop!

That's right folks. Every once in a (blue moon) while I get overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions and I turn, like most red-blooded American women do, to retail therapy. Jeans, blouses, jewelry, fragrances, just personal shopping. Somehow digging through the racks or pulling on that 14th pair of pumps evens out your mood. And you suddenly feel like you're staring at a blank canvas in front of you; all the problems are sectioned off like vibrant colors and you can paint the picture you want to see. When you reach that point it doesn't matter if you leave the store with a killer sale item or if you leave empty handed. You've jarred that problem from its comfortable nest and you can go on with your life because of it. Or. At least, that's how it works for me... since I'm broke and all.

But this weekend is different. This weekend, the amount of gas I'd use to go to Payless or Dots and rummage around, wouldn't even be worth it. So, I'm in the house and trying to talk myself into cleaning up the carpets and doing some floor exercises (Cat. Hair. Galore!). Of course, it's despicable how much I've neglected you as well. I'm sorry for that. I'm not sure how I can channel this antsy bundle of mental energy but I think blogging helps. It's therapeutic in a way. My idea? Now that's something that's been driving me batty...

You know how most black female magazines are about one type of black woman? I mean absolutely no disrespect. BUT... I am not the type of black woman they're targeting. I'm a strange gal with a desire for interracial dating (I married outside my race) and an equally strong desire to never perm again. And yet, when I look through these magazines I see beautiful black women with protein-enriched, bone-straight hair. I see these women with families of 3 black children and a handsome black man by their sides. Some of them even have a tight-knit fabric of black girlfriends, all divalicious and fabulous in a "Waiting To Exhale" sort of way. I can't say that I wish I were this kind of black woman, because that would be denying the love I have for who I am and who I will become (the mother of interracial children). And I can't (and won't) say that what I see is stupid and unrealistic. It's simply not my reality. I need an outlet, a way to interact with black women who share my reality. For this reason, I've been thinking about starting up a forum or a magazine or something bigger for women/wives/mothers/lovers like me. Women who know what I've been through and what I will go through (how many times have I gotten the 'race trader' bit thrown at me?)

I know it's no small enterprise, starting up a magazine. In fact, I know it's damn hard. One of my favorite magazines, Shop Etc., has recently shut it's doors and turned off all lights. The price of production was too much for them. And mailing. And all the other smaller details that we don't think about like having photographers, writers and editors on staff. Despite numerous commercial sponsorships and advertising, they didn't make it.

But... here's a new "but". I recently did an exercise called "future write up". I typed out what I thought my ideal and dream job would be like. The most mundane detail, like what kind of coffee I would drink to the clothes I would have to wear. To the most important ones, like my salary and who would work under or above me. I came out with what looked like the desire to be an Editor-in-chief of a NYC based magazine. Maybe this is all coming together... like some finely sculpted and freshly sanded pieces of a puzzle. Maybe this is destiny calling and maybe I should answer. But how?