My mom had managed to score a bootleg copy of The Artist Formerly Known As Prince's jam session in some Italian nightclub. We were going to have our own little listening party while she tried to tame my hair into submission with a home perm - you know, make it a little less like Whoopi Goldberg, a little more like the token black Spice Girl.

As she combed my hair with the biggest comb known to womankind, I casually said, "You know, I forgot to tell you, Aya got married a little while ago."

"What?! To who?" She replied, so surprised she left the comb dangling in mid-hair.

"To herself. She had a simple ceremony on the beach with a Yoruba priestess, a minister, a few close friends and family and, um, I guess the Holy Spirit."

"Oh, the Holy Spirit came too?"

I gave her a look. "Yes. And there was also a cake."



 There was a pause.

"I see," she said in a tone that encompassed all her disbelief at the strange ways of twentysomething girls today. "Well, at least she made a commitment to the one person who can't walk out on her when times get rough. That's what I love about you and your friends, honey...so practical."