Do you remember this post? By my friend, Heather B?
Sit tight, my sweets. I have a story to tell and it’s the kind that I would do better in person because I do all the voices and I have incredible facial expressions (someone once told me at an audition for a play that I have a good face “at rest” and since I have no control over what that could conceivably mean, the only guess is that I don’t look like I’m dead when there isn’t a smile on my face? or that it’s the face people make when they’re trying to pass off a silent fart in a public place?) and I also use my entire body to relate a narrative.
On my tall frame it’s either terrifying or exciting. It’s like a choose-your-own-genre for story telling from an Amazonish chick educator in heels reasonable flats.
First, I must introduce you to the cast of my own version of the movie “Heathers”.
This is the real Heather. Heather B from No Pasa Nada.

This is Heather #2. Karen from Chookooloonks who took this picture of me for her new project.

This is Heather #3. Lorraine from Ask Wifey.

“The extreme always seems to make an impression.” (Heathers, 1989)
And this is me. Heather #4.

“Some people need different kinds of convincing than others.” (Heathers, 1989)
Finally, I must link to a picture taken of Heathers 1,2 and 4 (and it includes Heather #2’s real-life sister - her fake-life sister is somewhere off the coast of Trinidad which is really confusing because Karen…ahem! Heather #2 actually IS from Trinidad.)
Now, this is important to remember and if needed, grab a pen and keep track. Perhaps you’d like to do a diagram and use subtitles? How about a web-interface-design-widget? (I just threw a bunch of geeky lingo together for that last one. It’s not a real thing. Is it?) Ready for the important part: THESE ARE FOUR DIFFERENT WOMEN.
Up next: WE FIND IT HILARIOUS THAT WE’RE MISTAKEN FOR ONE ANOTHER.
Let’s be honest, some of the time we’re in complete disbelief when this happens. Let’s color a scene, shall we? Imagine you are at a cocktail party and someone comes up to you and asks, “What size shoe do you wear?” Because, in all actuality, this is common cocktail party conversation when one is in a department store such as Macy’s. The scene is best if you’re downstage left and the new character, let’s call her Chiye-tanka (because Sasquatch sounds mean and I don’t mean to imply that a bipedal hominoid approached me at this party) enters from the escalator. Or thereabouts.
“Eleven. Why?”
“Because they’re letting us big-footed women go in the backroom to see the larger sized shoes! Want to go?”
“YES.” This is said much louder than originally intended, but the sheer excitement and rendering of a Bigfoot sighting has impaired my ability to use anything other than monosyllabic words.
“Are you Heather B?” she asks.
Aw, hell no.
What a quandary I’m now in. On the one hand, this woman is going to take me to the last remaining size 11s in the store. The ones that are fashionable. The ones not yet taken by the trannies and cross dressers who seem to buy the one and only pair of heels in my local stores.
On the other hand, my brain has an entire conversation in the span of about 3.8 seconds: Is she serious? Where’s the camera? Someone has PUT HER UP TO THIS. Surely, someone has a tiny Flip video and they’re streaming this live across the internet to see what my reaction will be. What would Jesus think of them teasing me like this? GASP. She’s not kidding me at all and she truly believes that I’m Heather B! Because all Black folk look the same! How dare she! But she wants to take me to the shoes! The pretty pretty shoes! Man, I should mess her UP and take off these here heels and smash them into her forehead. But there could be new sexy shoes in the back. WHERE IS ALL THAT FREE WINE?
Alas, I go to find the shoes. These shoes, in fact.

While I’m trying them on I remember that there is a party going on and I’m purring over footwear. Women are celebrating with pinot grigio and gazpacho. My need to get back to the festivities forces me to be bold to the salesman salesboy whom I coyly ask, “These are 40% off, aren’t they?”
Either my desperation or his fatigue with 800 women overtaking all 7 floors of Macy’s forces him to say, “Yes, they are.”
At this point, any reasonable character would completely forgive the faux pas of the Yeti.
But then she tells me that my new purchase matches my dress better anyway.
Which brings my stage left foot to her center stage ass and now I can see why it’s necessary for main characters to die in movies and on Broadway.
In all fairness, there was a moment when I turned to go pay for my shoes and Mallory didn’t know that I moved from the spot I was standing in (stage left, remember?) and she almost called Heather #3 “Mom”. No, I’m not mad at my daughter for this almost-error. Plus, she didn’t try to hate on my pink stiletto shoe choice.
Exit stage right.