Top Ten Reasons Why Your Online Pimp Game is an EPIC FAILURE

I had the distinct pleasure, honor and privilege over the weekend to come across a few things in the dating universe that completely got my goat... and I thought in light of spreading more laughter, I'd make a composition of my reasons why some of these dudes that are trolling the internet looking for love *coughcough*pussy*coughcough couldn't hit water if they fell off a BOAT.

So many, it seems, are missing the mark... so here's a little re-education (and yes, I know this message will not get to the ones who so desperately need it the most but I'm feeling froggy today so FUCK IT)

10. You're more than 50 miles away from me.
Unless you are planning to relocate immediately, if not sooner, to the Greater Baltimore-Washington Metropolitan area, do not expect me to waste more than five minutes flirting with you. I commute 92 a miles a day, seven days most weeks and I am not wasting precious vacation leave and overtime dollars flying across the country for booty-call weekends. NEXT!

9. You don't speak English as a first language (or if you do, you have no command of the written medium).
I don't care how fine you are, how big your dick is, how much money you have or how nice you may SEEM to be. If I can't communicate with you without my Secret Squirrel decoder ring or babelfish.com ... in the immortal words of Hall & Oates... "Don't even think about it//say no go."

8. You have no conversation.
Granted, a polite segue will earn you far more cool points than some lewd bullshit, or some big long cut-and-paste (see #5) ... BUT if EVERYtime you see me online, it's some straight "How r U 2day Ms. Laydee" bullshit, your ass is going to straight to File 13 with the Rejected N*gga Quickness. Surely at some point, you can find something ELSE with which to greet me that I will not find offensive.

7. You are more than 10 years younger than the object of your affection.
Okay.. this isn't ALWAYS a dealbreaker... but check the move... as for ME - I'm almost 38 in real-time. In my head I'm probably a lot closer to 50. I don't give a damn about your X-box marathons with your boys, your sneaker collection and (stolen from Bonita) I am NOT coming to your grandmother's house with cake and ice cream to indulge in carnal pleasures with you in your grown and sexy room.

6. You assume that my girth correlates to an equally huge level of desperation.
I try very hard to cultivate my online profiles so that they are an accurate depiction of who I am. That being said, what in the lovely fuck did you read on my page that would make you think that I would accept a date "for lunch and a movie" at nearly 5:00 in the afternoon from a profile with no picture, when in the message you couldn't be bothered to state your name or anything else..... thefuckouttaherewitdatbullshit!

**oh wait... you didn't read it. Don't even tell me you did.**

5. The cut and paste game.
Nothing chafes the inner folds of my ass (credit: Sis. Danja and her girl Ladysol again) like getting some long, fake ass wannabe love note trying to suck me in quoting Khalil Gibran, Anais Nin and spewing some ole bullshit about long walks at sunset and candlelight dinners... I bet the last dinner you ate by candlelight was because your busted ass didn't pay the light bill and BGE shut your shit down like a speakeasy during prohibition. Again.. reading is fundamental. A little investigative research tells you that I don't walk anywhere I don't have to, I'd rather ride my bike most of the time than ride YOU given the choice and I'm not the frilly frou-frou chick that's going to gasp and swoon and catch the vapors and fall into your evil clutches on the basis of what you believe to be the Magic Words. Peddle your papers elsewhere, slick. If you want to talk to me, I need some original writing. I get that the cut and paste game is an easy way to talk to more women at once and up your slim chances of getting laid sometime in 1Q2009, but uhm err aah... women see through that shit like Glad Cling Wrap... *bzzz*

NEXT!

4. You forgot to "stay in your lane" and/or "play your position"
I know that we all aspire to greatness...okay scratch that. I'll speak for myself and say that I aspire to be a better Tracey tomorrow than I am today, in all areas of my life. By that, I mean that I understand that in my present situation, I cannot seek to date a GQ model, with an 800 FICO score, a Ph.D working on his post-doctoral thesis, who owns both domestic and international real-estate. By the same token, my secret identity is not that of Eleanor J. Gotrocks... I am by no means independently wealthy and am not seeking curb-dwellers or other assorted bums and troglodytes to clean up and make into a welfare project. You trying to get with this? Have your shit together to the point where you are at least bringing to the table what I am bringing to the table. Granted i need a tax write off in the worst way but I can't claim your overgrown ass as a dependent.

and I would think you would know that if you got the yuck-mouth, the scabies, your belly is hanging down so far that it completely hides your flaccid member or are just generally unkempt in any way that's an automatic GETTHEHELLON!

3. Wackadociously Profane/Highly Sexual Screen Names
Let's not get it twisted.... Sista Silk enjoys a good, deep digging, chiropractic back-breaking, hot, steamy, sweaty, bring-cold-drinks-before and-put-em-on-the-headboard-for-later hump like any other red-blooded American girl... but showing me your dick before giving me your name, or expecting that I'm going to be pressed to let you go down on me just because you offered (like I'm the only person you whom you offered that service... oral chlamydia much, jerk?) is going to get your face cracked. No, I am NOT in need of a sex slave for training (had a guy ask me that yesterday) , NO am I not interested in having a white woman begging at my ankles to serve me (used to get those on 360), what I need is for y'all weirdos to go to wherever the BDSM folk go online and play amongst yourselves!

2. You found me... trolling through a female friend's friendlist.
**blinkblink**
Information tends to pass between chicks like water through a sieve. Quietest kept... manwhores are a laughingstock. I don't go behind my friends (well... with one or two notable exceptions I've been there) and they don't go behind me. We do this out of something generally called RESPECT for each other and more specifically for our sexual health. ... cause lord knows if you're knocking off chicks who know each other like that, chances are you are indiscrimate AND indiscreet and you don't need a third strike! Boo Hiss and BYE!

(need I even expound on the drama that ensues when said chicks find out they're all boning the same dude, that one that wrote the poetry with the indiscriminate pronouns so all y'all would think he wrote it for you? I thought not.

AND DONT ACT LIKE YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, SOMMA Y'ALL DONE FELL FOR THIS OKEY DOKE!)

1. Sure, You Hit It... But It Aint a Revolving Door
So sad for you, my horny friend... that you didn't recognize the blessing you had whilst it was spread-eagled before you. Maybe it was that you didn't give me the proper respect. Maybe it was just that our timing wasn't right. Maybe *I* finally woke up and realized you weren't worth touching to scratch. Again, with one or two notable exceptions, once I'm done with you, I'll wad you up like a napkin and toss you faster than you can say "I've been thinking about you and wondering when we could get together again." ... and I don't waste time reminiscing about how good it was. Good dick is a dime a dozen and most days it's buy one get one free! I'm sorry.. for someone who does so much talking you didn't say SHIT! All these chicks out here giving it away for free by the pound and you're barking up MY tree... *pfft*

... at least that's MY take on it...

And I'm TI'DE!!!!!

Owning Your Sh*t

(originally posted February, 2006)

So often, we as humans can sit back and examine other folks’ lives and cluck our tongues... it’s so easy to see where another has gone wrong, and then have the nerve to identify how to right that wrong. However, for me, on this day, at this moment, it is time to point my razor-sharp observation inward and remove the beam in my own eye before I call attention to the splinter in the eye of another. Based on some of my recent blogs, one might be inclined to wonder what kind of bipolar life I’m living, but that’s not the case at all. I’ll go one better and say that I know I’m not the only person that has these kind of thoughts, but it’s not about anybody else… it’s about me, and it’s just time to own my shit.

I’m tangled in a web of emotions the likes of which I’ve never seen before. Whether or not the final outcome to this complicated matter is to my liking or not, I know I won’t emerge on the other side as exactly the same Tracey I was going in. The situation has become so convoluted that if I dared expose the whole truth, certain members of my inner circle would have me shot without so much as a second thought.

I am wholly IMPERFECT, and I fear I have embraced that which I despise: hypocrisy. I am selfish, self-indulgent, impatient, and more than a little lazy. Other people have this perception of me as smart and strong, but sometimes the choices I make are stupid and weak. I’m not bulletproof. There’s more holes in my shit than Alpine Lace Baby Swiss cheese. Some days it’s all I can do to get out of bed and put one foot in front of the other. I go through periods when I feel like I’m a complete failure at the most important thing I’ve ever been charged with the responsibility of doing. I find myself scared more than I care to admit, and I cry… A LOT.

Having read these sordid confessions, one might wonder how I still manage to see any good in myself at all. I have come to realize that one of the keys to balance is being brutally honest with myself about what I’m feeling and what I’m doing (and my motivations therefor); seeking peace within as opposed to without, and not seeking (or caring about, necessarily) judgment from others.

I’ve also learned to listen to and speak on the situations that others come to me to discuss without judgment, but with compassion and understanding. Strangely enough, I have found a certain humanity in vocalizing my negative character aspects. This writing was cathartic, as was the conversation that gave me the courage to tell the tale. It can only be that I’m happy in spite of everything, because I have remained true to myself, and refuse to abide in misery.

I press onward knowing that at the end of the day, I have to answer only to God and the woman in the mirror, and that if I am blessed to continue this life tomorrow, I’m given another chance to right certain wrongs. I pray not for strength (my pastor says praying for strength is asking for trouble), but for the wisdom to learn and grow through the dark times. I acknowledge that in order to see the good (in all areas of my life, but especially within myself), I have to accept the bad.

What will you do when your chickens come home to roost?

Seeing the Forest for the Trees

(originally posted March, 2006)

I got a pained, angry, ranting phone call this afternoon, from a good friend of mine who has grown weary of playing Captain Save-A-Ho.

The problem, you ask? Females come to him with their many tales of woe and wet up his shoulders crying over the ones that have left them behind. (Before I get too deep into this, I need to check myself and make sure I’m not guilty of the shit I’m fit’na get to ranting about. ((ON HOLD MUSIC)) )…

(SELF CHECK COMPLETED, we return to my regularly scheduled rant already in progress)

Forgive the sweeping generalization, but men typically like to keep things simple. Admittedly, most of the time it’s women who make shit hard. How? By reading every act of kindness that a particular man does to us as assumption of “ownership.” Sure, it was all good when y’all met. You fell into something “natural” that “neither one of you expected.” That does not a committed relationship make. Neither do weeks and weeks of dinner-and-drinks or Blockbuster Nights followed by mindblowing sex. If he didn’t sit you down and say, TO YOU, OUT LOUD, the words “I want an exclusive, monogamous relationship,” or something else definitely along that line, you fell for the OKEY DOKE. I mean… he’s not going to tell you that you don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell at anything beyond “friendship with benefits” or booty call status, because that would make him a callous asshole, and of course he’s probably trying to keep his stable as full as he possibly can, especially if you’re the type that spoils the one she THINKS is her man. Who gives that up willingly?

Now comes the hard part. If you see yourself, or your current relationship in any of the above, I hate to break it to you, girl… but guess what?

TO HELL WITH:
“HE’S NOT THAT INTO YOU”:
HE JUST DON’T WANT YOU. PERIOD!

My personal belief is that you don’t have to question, EVER, when a man really wants you. He will move heaven, earth and furniture to make his desire to have you in his life as HIS woman known. Further, when a man wants you, he’ll do anything to keep you – but if he DOESN’T, there’s nothing you can to do to make him stay. If you only see him at night… you ain’t his woman. If you’ve been seeing him for a considerable period of time and you’ve never met ANY of his friends or relatives… you ain’t his woman. Conversely, just because you HAVE met some of his friends or relatives, or because he does a few nice things for you here and there or leaves you a l’il $$ when you’re short, that doesn’t mean you’re his woman either.

Me personally – I don’t stake any claims for ownership on anyone. Let’s say there’s a particular guy I’m seeing, and we tend to get together at his place. Until and unless HE brings it to ME that he wants to move to the next level, the only assumption I can readily make is that any given night of the week that I am NOT on the premises, he could have any one of his stable in situ. Cold blooded, maybe – but it keeps me from getting my feelings hurt.

Sadly, all the information we (women) need is right in front of our faces, but again, we like to make simple shit hard, and we don’t LISTEN. We ignore the red flags and get mad when our friends do their duty and refuse to co-sign for the bullshit. We read too deep into the vaguaries they feed us and hang onto that shit like it’s the Gospel. It’s time to let actions speak loud than words, girls. Hear what isn’t being said. More importantly, stop hanging onto these Negroes for your happiness and do what makes YOU happy for a change.

Sure, there are exceptions to every rule… there exist master manipulators who hide behind the mask of a person who genuinely cares and will even lead you to believe they’re interested in more, but trust, you’ll die a slow death waiting for that day to come. Those aren’t the cats I’m talking about here. I’m talking about regular dudes, living regular lives who aren’t interested in serious relationships and the women who seem to fall hopelessly in love with them.

(Oh, and uh… fellas – don’t think it can’t happen to you. Some of us ladies are equally specific and unless there’s a clear distinction made as to the type of relationship in which we’re co-existing, no assumption is to be made regarding possession and exclusivity – but I think that’s a whoooooole’notha blog post. *SMIRK*)

This is a Test...

(originally posted April, 2006)

It’s not a test of the emergency broadcast system, and it’s not just “only” a test. More than the average man can possibly realize is hanging in the balance.

Each time a man approaches me claiming to be interested, , I’m evaluating carefully. If it’s in a written medium and I see all caps? Point deduction. Poor grammar and English? More points deducted. Come off the break asking for sex?? GAME OVER. You sank your OWN Battleship! I might also add that one rarely gets a second chance to make a first impression over here.

There are a myriad of ways that a man can lose points with me. Not only that, getting through the initial ordeal of breaking the ice only opens the door to intense scrutiny. You certainly don’t get ME at “hello.” I find myself at times being deliberately obtuse and indifferent (and even sometimes deliberately abrasive) in further attempts to separate the wheat from the chaff. It’s an extremely effective method too.

I was talking to a female friend of mine probably within the last month and she told me that I’d become too picky. I mean, if it’s too much to ask for a man that’s:

•Honest and secure in himself and his position in my life
•Somewhat outgoing and DEFINITELY romantic without being too clingy
•Respectful to women in general (misogynists need not apply here)
•Attentive to detail (the little things mean the world to me)
•Reasonably attractive who is mutually attracted to me both physically and emotionally
•Mentally stable without the use of psychotropic drugs
•Financially stable and gainfully employed in a REAL career with a solid and verifiable employment history
•Able to communicate his needs, wants and desires in such a way that I can’t help but appease him
•Possessed of a mastery of the Queen’s English, including vocabulary AND spelling, (but can flip the script and go standard colloquial or straight ghetto as the situation merits)
•Interested in current events of the world that don’t involve a major sporting event
•Cultured and makes a good presentation before family, friends and business associates
•Capable of enthralling conversation on a number of different topics
•100% HETEROSEXUAL

then I guess I better get ready to be single (meaning not involved in a committed relationship) for a VERY long time. Please note that I did NOT ask for Morris Chestnut or Shemar Moore, with credit scores above 750, who owns both residential and vacation property and holds either an engineering degree or an LL.M. (not to mention a burning desire to satisfy my every whim LOL), and pulls in a six figure salary.

((Hey.. a girl can dream, right?))

If you’ve read this far, you’re probably chuckling to yourself, “Who in the hell does this heffa think she is?” By way of response, I am a woman who has the whole world to offer and expects nothing less in return.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I think that I’m so much better than anyone else, but I have a clear picture of the man that I want to spend a significant portion of my time (if not, one day, the rest of my life) with. I get a lot of offers (although most of them don’t qualify as anything substantial) and I don’t have time to waste playing the getting to know you game only to find out you’ve got six kids, seven baby mamas, you live in your mother’s basement, you’re toothless, jobless and just plain SIMPLE. True indeed, there’s supposed to be someone for everyone, but the mess described above has nothing to do with me. It’s not in me to be raising someone else’s overgrown son.

See... I know what I want and need out of life. I’ve been married before, and I’m done having babies. The man who suits my needs can not only hang in for the bumpy ride, but keep up with me across the board. Together, we will challenge each other to grow immeasurably.

(Hold on a minute while I get the stars out of my eyes, please?)

This wasn’t meant to be some kind of personal ad or anything… but if you know anyone that fits the bill, can you give a me a heads up? And uh…if you’re thinking about stepping up to the plate – remember to step correct, or not at all. I don’t grade on the curve.

The Waiting Game (Rules, Schmules)

(originally posted April, 2006)

Last night I received a message in my 360 inbox that set my brain abuzz. It was a guy that I talk to on a fairly infrequent basis taking an informal poll among his circle regarding what it means for a woman to ask a man to wait an inordinate amount of time before she’ll engage in sex with him.

It blows me out of my socks that in this day and age people are still playing this ridiculous game. I question the sanity of any man (besides one who truly practices abstinence) who would agree to a relationship with a woman that demanded that there be no sex for a minimum of one year. I question the intelligence of any woman who after making such demand, fully believes that said man is abiding by his agreement – because trust and believe if he’s not screwing HER…he’s screwing somebody else, and that’s not within the guidelines of the arrangement, now IS it? What kind of character does a man prove he has by agreeing to said guidelines (but not “REALLY” agreeing, if you catch my drift? More importantly, what does a woman prove by holding out for so long??

>>AaaAhhh… now we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we <<

From birth, the paths of the male and female are not only divergent, but diametrically opposed. Males come out of the womb and are thoroughly encouraged to spend the rest of their lives getting back in where they fit in, at each possible opportunity they can muster. Females are born and chastised to ration pussy by the millimeter. Thus begins the power struggle; we are forced to use what we got, to get what we want. Men dangle the possibility of love before a woman in order to persuade her to give up the panties and a woman will tease a man with the promise of freaky circus monkey lovin’ on the premise of winning his heart.

How about this to bake your noodle: As the Perdue chicken commercial once noted, “Parts is parts.” If a woman’s pussy and a man’s heart have equal value (and notably, they should, considering the way each one tends to be hoarded, respectively, but again I digress), and a fair exchange is no robbery, then wherein lies the problem?

The answer is fairly simple. Women tend to be more emotional and tie all their hopes and dreams to that hot fuzzbox between their legs, and that aint where it’s at. We want to believe that kisses are contracts and presents and promises, and that’s not the way it works in the real world. Sorry. Men see what they want, move in for the kill, hit it off on the “find em, fuck em and flee” tip, and get away with it largely unscathed…until, of course, they come across a woman who doesn’t fall prey to the backwards mindset of tying her intrinsic value to her sex (unless of course she’s a by-the-hour call girl, but that’s a different kind of value LOL), and falls hopelessly in love with her scandalous ass even though it goes against everything he knows and believes in. Some men want to say that a woman who’ll open her legs early in the game isn’t worthy of respect or is no longer in consideration for long-term relationship status… in rebuttal I offer that she didn’t unscrew your dick on the first date and fuck HERSELF with it, so, Mr. Milk-Bone, pot meet kettle!

While I recognize that maybe a certain level of chastity is of great import to certain kinds of men in their quest for a wife or life partner, I also recognize that THAT man is NOT the one for me. I'd also be willing to bet that among this lot are men who become married assholes trolling for pussy on the Internet because now Miss Iron Box won't give them any either... but that's just an observation. I will also state for the record that I don’t begrudge anyone his preferences, because just as men have theirs, I have mine. I just fail to see the logic in “making him wait.” I could make him wait five dates, have mad chemistry with him and then find out he couldn’t screw his way out of a wet paper bag, and then find myself stuck in the conundrum of being interested with someone who doesn’t please me sexually. I could make him wait 10 dates because I think that’s the kind of woman he’s into, only for him to disappear like a thief in the night the morning after he busts them draws and find myself heartbroken because I really liked him.

You never can tell with people, and I for one, have no cut cards in my deck. I mean, REALLY, what in the hell are we waiting for, as two consenting adults possessed of our right minds and prophylactics? However, PLEASE let it be said that in no way by this writing am I advocating reckless promiscuity on the part of either males or females – it does pay to be somewhat discriminating, and that too is a lesson I have learned in real-time.

I close with this: tricks are STILL for kids, and I’m still a grown ass woman. Time waits for no man and neither do I.

Building a Case for Possession: Not Only for the Demonic and Not Just 9/10ths of the Law

(originally posted April, 2006)

Did you ever notice that a child is the center of his or her own universe? Everything that he or she can pick up is christened with a singular title: “MINE!!!!!”

...and thus we come to the subject of today’s musing... The question we’ve all asked or been asked at least once in our lives; a question that raises eyebrows (or, in the alternative, bile LOL) depending on the person who’s doing the asking:

WHOSE IS IT????

(I’ll pause here to wait for the groaning, chuckling and eye-rolling to stop. Done yet? )

What is it about the act of sex that makes people take leave enough of their mental faculties to want to claim (or, in the alternative, confer) possession of someone else’s (or their own) genitalia?

I mean, maybe I’m taking too serious an approach to this whole thing. Then again, anything that could potentially screw up my downstroke is cause for consternation. Sex is (or at least should be) serious business, right??? These matters must be handled delicately, of course, but tact isn’t my strong suit. (Yeah, yeah, I know, tell the world something it doesn’t know.)

To me, this is the sort of thing that can turn sugar to shit in 2.2 seconds. Sure, in an ideal world, none of us would be having sex if we weren’t married; and it stands to reason if one is married, then there is at least what could be referred to as “leasehold interest” (that’s a right to which a person who receives mail in your home is entitled, and once they get it, it’s impossible to get rid of them without at least 30 days notice, but I’m digressing) in the goodies of the person that’s on the other side of your bed. BUT: What’s my credo? “If wishes were pigs, bacon would be free.”

Imagine, if you will, a HOT scenario. Two people with an insatiable hunger for each other, doing what they do best, with not a care in the world for anything other than devouring and completely satisfying themselves in each other. They have a natural rhythm to their stroke, and they’re clipping along like 95 going North… until he whispers in her ear the Dread Question. ****RECORD SCRATCH****

Everything came to a screeching halt when those words were uttered. Seriously. I had to struggle not to LAUGH right there on the spot. I mean, pillow talk is just that, but I hate to make anything more than it is. I don’t want him to lie to me and therefore I don’t lie to him, even when the truth is ugly and/or painful. I tried to ignore the question and keep on going and then came the insult added to the injury: He went so far as to claim it for his own whether I was going to confirm it or not. I guess thought he was doing me a favor as well by verbally deeding title of a certain piece of prime real estate to me. However, knowing him as I do, I’m thinking that the chain of title is not exactly as clear as he would have me believe, and there might be some difficulties should I attempt to take this one through settlement…but still I digress.

So what’s the point? Is the real issue here the actual concept of “ownership”? I ask this because I think a lot of the time the idea of having something is better than actually having it – evidenced PERFECTLY by some of the gadgets I’ve been pressed as hell to buy which are still sitting in their boxes untouched. (Get your heads out of the gutter. I’m talking specifically about a garment steamer I bought before Christmas. LOL) Let’s go back to my analogy about small children again – any object that’s in their hands at any given time is THEIRS. A lot of the time they’ll put an item down and move on to the next seemingly without a care but woe betide the fool that tries to play with the discarded item. There’s hell to pay, right? (I’m wondering if I’m the only one truly feeling the symbolism here… *sigh*)

So… when someone inquires of you, “whose is this?” … think about what you’re going to do if the response is, “It’s Yours!!!” – decide if you’re going to maintain it and respect it in the manner it’s being given. Conversely, if you’re more the type to just leave your toys in the middle of the floor and then throw a fit when one of your friends wants to play, even if you’ve got another toy in your clutches, you need to consider that as well. Better yet: Stop talking shit and don’t say in bed what you don’t mean OUT of bed!

In closing, when asked that SILLY question, I tell the truth: it’s mine. After all, what’s MINE is mine… but if you play nice, maybe I’ll let you borrow it… ;)

My Big Fat Monologue

(originally posted April, 2006)

With my writer’s block soundly smashed to smithereens, I return to my post to ponder over a subject that people often tiptoe around on eggshells. Considering where I’m going with this one, that’s almost laughable. I usually avoid wearing stiletto heels out of fear I’ll break them, so that whole walking gingerly around on anything is sort of a non-issue for me.

I unabashedly and unapologetically stand on the mountain top (and that mountain, in my fantasies, is a mountain of Junior’s Cheesecake, STRAIGHT from the corner of Flatbush and DeKalb Avenues, but still I digress), fork raised, and proclaim to all who will hear me:

I… am a FAT chick!

YES! I said it, gotdammit! I’m FAT. Not phat, thick, curvy, fluffy, zaftig, Rubenesque, big-boned, pleasantly plump, chubby, chunky, or heavy-set. I got more ripples than a bag of chips and more waves than a water park. Whyyabullshittin: I had to double check the last belt I put on to make sure it didn’t say “Michelin” in raised white letters. HOWEVER: Let’s not get it twisted… I’m not the fat friend that the skinny girls drag on dates to cockblock, or hold their purses at the club. At the risk of tooting my own horn: I’m probably one of the flyest fat chicks you’ll ever meet…I just know my limitations and work well within them.

I know some folks reading this are cringing while others are shocked and still others are laughing. “Fat” is just an adjective, like tall, short or skinny, and maybe if more of us used it to describe ourselves where it applied, the stigma attached to it would disappear. Example: people have attempted (unsuccessfully) many times over the years to insult me by calling me fat. Most of those folks are either ugly or stupid, and with enough effort I could potentially lose weight so I still got a leg up on the competition!

There are a billion reasons why I’m still heavy (even six years post-op from gastric bypass surgery). For starters, my eating habits and exercise regimen are woefully inadequate. (Hey, man, let’s call a spade a spade.)

Some of it may be psychologically rooted. Maybe deep down inside, the real me is hiding behind all these layers of adipose tissue, longing to be noticed but afraid of the attention at the same time (now there’s one to bake your noodle, huh?). Then again, maybe I’m using my considerable bulk as a shield because in spite of themselves, fat people are sometimes invisible, or at the very least, marginalized and forgotten to an extent.

My closest friends make all kinds of excuses for me. Some of them say that they don’t see me as fat (HA.. take a look at the size tags in my jeans, why don’t cha). Some of them say that my “fly” diminishes my fat but again… I don’t always see myself the way other people see me. I’m just glad that I’m blessed with more than a reasonable amount of health, physical strength, mental acuity and devastating charm (haha). Contortonist-like flexibility and a creative, yet freaky side don’t hurt either.

My dear sweet babysis, Bella, once remarked that I had so much personality that I need the XXXL bod just to contain it all. (I thought that was hella sweet, too. Thank you, Bellissima!). I always say that God made me fat to keep me humble, because if I were a size 12 NOBODY would be able to stand me but I don’t think that’s especially true either. I’ve been heavier than I am today, and I’ve been thinner and the contradiction was that the thinner me was more conservative. That came as a result of seeing how differently the thinner me was treated by people who knew me before, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog.

However, the most important thing, be I fat or thin or anywhere in between, is that I am HERE, and refuse to let anyone or anything steal my joy. I have found my voice and I will shout my message from the rooftops until people stop listening, or until I go hoarse. I will bleach my hair blonde and wear clothing capable of turning heads and popping eyes at every opportunity; I will ride my motorcycle like I stole it and drive my truck like the ass end is on fire and the Devil himself is chasing me. I will dance like no one’s watching (even if they are) for the pure joy of bouncing my ass all over the place, and most importantly, I will laugh much and love hard in the skin I’m IN, because life isn’t going to wait “until I lose weight.”

…would that we all find a measure of happiness and confidence enough to all get along, and live life as abundantly as God ordained… *sigh*

You Can't Please Any of the People, Any of the Time (or so it Would Seem)

(originally posted May, 2006)

Okay… so yesterday I was reading my regular message board discussions, and what did I happen to come across but a thread called “Skinny Women Are Out of Style”.

*WHAT THE HELL?*

**RECORD SCRATCH**

Against my better judgment, I read it, and the young lady who authored the post wasn’t trippin, or angry towards her fluffier counterparts, but she actually felt like a second class citizen because in the dating world, it seems like the fat girls are (finally) getting the love that’s (long) overdue them.

*sigh* …Are you kidding me?

Nobody in this world is ever happy with anything. First the fat chicks can’t get dates because we’re fat. Light skinned folks can’t get dates cause they’re melanin deprived, short folks cause they’re vertically challenged, dark skinned folk are TOO black, l'il dick men are just left out on GP () and the list goes on and on and on. And now *DRUM ROLL: I’m supposed to feel bad because some skinny bitch missed a date on the strength of some cat peepin’ MY posterior??? BOO-HISS and BYE!

I wish this was the least of my problems *lips twisted*

However… on this particular subject (because it applies to directly to me and my ample ASSets), I have to admit that I’m scratching my head. When did big girls fall into fashion, exactly? While I might not have had a bunch of the relationships that I’ve wanted, I’ve NEVER found myself lacking for male attention/affection/companionship. Surely I wasn’t the one woman capable of drawing a love for fluff out of so many who somewhere along the line professed they’d never date a chick whose sizes were in the double digits. I won’t fall for the premise that I’m actually that amazing.

(Well, maybe I am, but then again I’m onto something here so I’ll get to the point)…

Could it be, maybe, that it’s not so much a matter of size, as a matter of having a little more going on the INSIDE, where it really counts? After all, there are a million beautiful women in this world who are size 8’s. And guess what: Somewhere there is a man tired of putting up with her SHIT! Furthermore, for all the people that overlook us because of a shortcoming THEY label us with, is that really the kind of person that we WANT in our lives? Think about it…

Then again, I’m thinking that in this post-modern, politically-ubercorrect society in which we live (if that’s not a joke I don’t know what is), we’re supposed tobe sensitive to the needs and feelings of others. Maybe it’s just that the barriers against fat acceptance are finally coming down, making it more comfortable for larger people to live happier and more fulfilled lives, and the people who enjoy having a larger companion are now freer to pursue what they really want without fear of ridicule.

On the real for real: Who gives a shit? How about grow up and just DO YOU? If we’re all miserable with each other isn’t there a shred of truth within that mayyyyyyyyybe we’re all just miserable with ourselves? I got a real novel idea… if we all learned to be happier with ourselves and radiate a TENTH of the inner light within, maybe, just maybe, this world would be a much kindler and gentler place.

The moral of the story for today, kiddies, is about mind over matter. Put your size (complexion, height or whatever issue is your Achilles heel) out of your mind, and it won’t matter. (or at least it’ll matter a little less)

The Secrets We Keep

(originally posted May, 2006)

It’s funny that even in this world of six billion or so people in which we all must co-exist, that there are so many things that affect us individually so deeply that we feel we have to hide in order to survive.

When I blog about fat issues, I’m talking purely from a standpoint of experience. I’m fat, and it’s no secret that I’m fat. I know what kind of problems it causes in terms of long-term health, increased medical costs, and so on and so forth. However, a couple of days ago, I got a glimpse into the other side. A coworker of mine shared with me in regards to another person in our office. She’s struggling terribly with anorexia nervosa. The conversation struck me because I’d noticed when I saw this person Friday leaving work, I thought she was looking unusually thin, but wouldn’t have thought to speak a word of it to her. I said a short prayer for her and just hoped she was okay. She told me she’s leaving us for a while to get some treatment and I thank God that I work in a place that cares enough to try and help an employee that needs it.

I rarely pause to think about the “problems” that a thin woman might have – but I can’t imagine the hell that people with this issue live with. You have to eat to live, but in order to stay in control you avoid food and exercise yourself into nothing? That concept is hard for me to wrap my mind around because frankly I’m not that disciplined, and that’s not even REMOTELY an attempt at humor.
I have another friend who struggled with anorexia and bulimia for years. To listen to her, she would say she’s still struggling, and she always reminds people that just because she’s of normal weight now doesn’t mean that she doesn’t obsess over every bite, every calorie. The only thing that keeps her straight is remembering the damage she’s already done to her internal organs, and not wanting to die.

I have secrets too (who among us doesn’t). For the last two days I’ve been a hair’s breadth away from tears. All I will say is that I miss my little girl and I hope I get a chance to talk to her before too much more time goes by.

It’s so easy to covet another’s life. We think that things would be better if we made more money, lived in a bigger or nicer house, drove a fancier car, got married, had kids, etc. etc. etc. It just goes to show that we all have our crosses to bear.

Sometimes we forget that behind each face we see every day, there is a story. Not all of those stories have happy endings, and I think the responsibility is incumbent upon each and every one of us to be a little more of our brother or sister’s keeper, or even judge each other less harshly. You never know what private hell someone is living in, and you just might have the words that keep them going just one more day.

J. … here’s to a speedy recovery. This place won’t be the same without you.

Day of Reckoning: My Journey Out of Egypt

(originally posted June, 2006)

Today I won a victory in a battle that has changed every single, solitary aspect of my life. Just over a year ago, a chain of events took place that set in motion the most humiliating and demoralizing experience of my life.

My daughter has been something of a difficult child since she was young. She was never thrilled about my divorcing her father, and once she hit the “tween” years, things just took a turn for the worse. On June 4, 2005, I was notified via a call from the principal of the school she was attending at the time that she’d arrived at school two hours late for the fourth time in a 10-day period. That fourth occurrence was amplified by the fact that she’d been seen on school property, tried to run away, and had to be physically restrained by the officer that patrols the school. Obviously, I was pissed beyond all pisstivity at this child’s temerity and unmitigated gall. (She lied to the principal and said that I was at home waiting to take her to a doctor’s appointment.)

That night, after I got home from work and running some errands, I decided that l’il Miss was about to catch one. (Let it be known from the gate that I was raised at the hands of my grandparents, who ruled with an IRON fist, and some of that rubbed off on me. I’m not apologizing for it either, because until this mess got started, I’d never really been in any trouble, not a day in my life.)

I marched L’il Miss into the living room, and in front of the other folks I live with, proceeded to lay her out verbally, and then I dusted that ass off, but good, with a leather belt. Understand that I’m not a fan of physical discipline, but after an entire year of bad grades, a totally apathetic attitude toward schoolwork and a general disrespect for the rules of the house and all the adults within, it was time for this CHILD to see who’s boss. I would also like to add that in said year, her chores were increased, she was given extra schoolwork, her amenities (stereo/video games etc.) were removed from her room, and she lost her social privileges – which essentially had the whole house on punishment.

After said corporal punishment was completed, everybody went to bed as usual. The next morning was the same – she had her lunch money for the week, so I didn’t see her prior to her departure. I was shocked to find out TWO WEEKS later that the local police had opened an investigation into child abuse allegations (there were marks on her arms because she was “blocking” and upon being asked at school she told the authorities that “my mother beat me with a belt.”) Now, I’m trippin at this point because school is out, l’il Mama’s been shipped off to her father for AT LEAST the summer and NOW the cops are digging in my ass.

I met with one of the detectives (who termed this l’il question and answer session as an “interview” during which I provided a “voluntary statement”). It wasn’t pretty. The detective was somewhat hostile towards me. She talked about how she had teenagers of her own and how it wasn’t going to get any better by “violently abusing” my child. I told her that she could raise her children as she saw fit and I’d raise mine as I saw fit. I also told her that if my daughter had been committing crimes against person or property during these little mini-vacations that *I* would have been held responsible. It wasn’t pretty, and at the end of the interview I was informed that she was going to refer my case to the State’s Attorney for prosecution. I was STUNNED.

Fast forward into July. The day after my birthday I received a phone call that there was a WARRANT pending for my arrest and that I had until a specific date to turn myself in or I would be picked up. I think I threw up after I got off the phone.

Me and the fam began to circle our wagons. We coordinated the day that I’d turn myself in. Not having ever had any trouble with the police I didn’t KNOW that Friday is REALLY not a good day to do it, even if you go early in the morning. I was arrested in Hyattsville at 9:00 am and this is where the descent into Hell truly began. I was kept in front of the booking officer, handcuffed and chained to a bench for two hours and kept in a holding cell until 3:00 pm with some folks that made my issues look fairly tame.

When my mug shots and fingerprints were taken, the CO’s at District I asked me “Was this your kid you did this to?” and I said yes, and explained why. All they could do was shake their heads because they agreed they would have done the same thing.

Back to the holding cell it was, while I waited to appear before the Commissioner. I was not taken to see the Commissioner until 8:30 pm Friday night. This man talked to me like I was shit on the bottom of his shoe. He pronounced me a flight risk, and proceeded to set my bond. I was distraught because I was told that nobody is allowed to post bond after 8:00 pm, and I was unceremoniously delivered with the other women that had been in holding who’d seen the commissioner to the Prince George’s County Correctional Facility. I cried the entire way there, especially upon being told that the charges for which I was being detained carried a maximum penalty of 15 years in prison.

Again the intake process begins. Sit here, go to this counter, sit there. Wait… wait… wait. Each time I came into contact with a CO, they’d ask me a little about my situation. One of the officers said that she felt sorry for me because there is REAL crime happening in this County and the state is trying to stick ME in jail for doing my JOB as a PARENT.

At this point I was able to make some phone calls, and I spoke with my folks as much as I could, anything to keep my sanity. They were just as upset as I was.

More and more time went by as I inched through the process. I was photographed again and given a name tag. Then they took my clothes and issued me the dread orange tracksuit. I was given a Rubbermaid crate for personal belongings and escorted with several other women onto the intake block. We got there at 6:00 am SATURDAY morning, but oops, too bad for us – we’d already missed breakfast.

I had to clean the crate I was given with a paper towel and a spritz of cleaner provided by the prison matron in charge that morning. I climbed into the top bunk and cried myself to sleep around 7:00 in the morning.

Those of us on the intake block were segregated from the rest of the general population and thankfully the people I was confined with seemed to be fairly decent. One woman was there on a weekend lockup for violating probation, one was on a bad check charge, one got arrested during a raid of her home because her husband was dealing drugs out of their home. She was pregnant with two other young children and I really felt sorry for her.

The minutes ticked by like HOURS.

Lunch was served around 11:00 am and I don’t think I ate much of anything. I’d been trying to call home but I couldn’t get anybody, so I could only hope that meant that the folks were working on busting me out. The “new fish” got some yard time. We huddled in a corner together mostly just sitting and talking. Some of the other girls came out to talk with us and I just wanted to be AWAY from that place.

More tears…

Finally – a ray of hope: The CO’s buzzed into my cell around 3:30 to tell me that I’d made bail. I gathered up what little stuff I had and was escorted into another waiting area. I felt like Debra Winger at the end of “Officer and A Gentleman” because the other girls were practically cheering for me. I was getting more and more antsy because all I could do was sit in this room while the others were having dinner (by now it’s 5:00 pm) and FINALLY someone came to walk me out.

The exit process was sort of the intake gig in reverse. I was never so glad to see my own clothes, even my UNDERWEAR again. To this day I can tell you what I was wearing when I turned myself in, a pair of jeans and my black Happy Bunny t-shirt. Isn’t it funny how the mind works??

The last guy I had to talk to (in Property) was telling me where to go and what not, and after walking what seemed like a maze, taunting me, I found the door to freedom. I could see people waiting in line to come in and visit, and I saw some of the CO’s that had been in intake the night before. They smiled and waved goodbye to me, but there was a lump in my throat because I didn’t see anyone waiting for me. I had to squelch the urge to run screaming out of the building. My heart was racing because when I went outside, there still wasn’t anyone there – and then I saw him. My sweetie, in his familiar black truck, pulled out of a parking space way down on the end. Turns out he’d been there all day because he didn’t want me to come out of there and have to wait for someone to come and get me. He got out and hugged me, said “Let’s leave this place” and he took me first to pick up some food, and then home.

The next steps in the process included dealing with my ex-husband in terms of getting L’il Mama situated for school up there in PA, and then of course finding out that he’d sued ME for child support after essentially having not paid for YEARS while *I* was the custodial parent.

Fine. *sigh* I am not one to shirk my responsibilities.

Next was voluntarily entering the parenting classes and securing legal counsel. A colleague of my former employer took my case, and for that I am ETERNALLY grateful. There were a couple of preliminary hearings and my case was set for trial this past January. They offered me a plea deal but I nixed the offer because there was no guarantee that I wouldn’t end up doing time, and because of another related matter which is still pending before the Department of Social Services. The prosecutor was trying to nail me to the wall and the judge assigned to the case practically spit on me when I appeared in court. I found out at Thanksgiving that I was basically BARRED from having any contact with my own child. I missed her 13^th birthday. That hurt… a lot.

My original trial date was continued to the end of May because my lawyer was diagnosed with stomach cancer. I appeared on May 30 only to discover that my ex basically handed the prosecution a continuance because he told the Court he wasn’t coming because of a school trip for L’il Mama. There were some turns in my favor though, my case was assigned to a different judge and a different prosecutor. The date was rescheduled for today and the prosecution was admonished that no further continuances would be granted for lack of appearance on the part of my daughter.

This morning, I went to Court ready to sit and tell this whole story in front of a jury, but the ex did not appear and over objection of the prosecution, my case was dismissed. However, I have been changed permanently by this whole mess. I feel like even if I wanted to bring my daughter home, I would subject to extreme scrutiny by the state, and have therefore chosen to allow her to remain in the care of her father and stepmother. It’s a better environment for her all the way around; the school system, extended family (both her father’s and mine), and she’ll have the constant supervision that a teenager needs.

Don’t get me wrong: I understand why these laws are in place. Someone needs to protect the children whose parents come home and unscrew broom handles to beat them to within an inch of their lives on general principle. I, however, am NOT one of those parents. I merely tried to stop this kid from doing something to get herself into REAL trouble, and if I had to dust her off again, you damn right I would. Nothing that I gave birth to and that lives under my roof is going to run over me without a FIGHT.

Even though the war is not over, this battle is won, and I feel as if the weight of 40,000 years has been lifted.

For the special one that sat in the parking lot of the Prince George’s County Correctional Facility for HOURS in the heat waiting for my release; the three other members of my chosen family that helped facilitate said release; the host of friends and family that have prayed with me and for me through this horrendous ordeal, I appreciate you and thank you.

We now rejoin my regularly scheduled life…already in progress.

Seek, and Indeed Ye Shall Find...

(originally posted July, 2006)

A rather prevalent topic lately among both my friends and the various discussion groups to which I belong has been “snooping” and the questions of whether it’s ever acceptable, and if so, under what circumstances. Having lived the scandalous and insane life I have, I will say that I have both been the snoop, and been snooped on, but honestly, for me – at this stage of the game, if there’s any serious snooping to be done, then it’s time to go.

One person in my main e-mail listserv spoke of a female friend whose significant other locks his cell phone and PDA so nothing can be accessed when those devices are in the house. The same gentleman, by contrast, said that his wife has all his passwords/passcodes for everything – email, voicemail, etc. I think those are sort of extreme examples. I’m admittedly more of a middle of the road kind of girl. I’m not going to voluntarily give some free and unrestricted access to all my personal email and such, not because there’s anything there that I’m hiding, per se, but just because it’s personal. I don’t NEED to know my s/o’s email passwords and such! I value my privacy and the privacy of others very highly. I’m laughing to myself now because I remember trying to sneak open somebody’s medicine cabinet just to have a peek at what was in it and feeling REALLY guilty for having done so.

There are so many ways to snoop, some more egregious than others. There are companies making MILLIONS of dollars off programs designed to record computer keystrokes, and various and sundry other types of equipment designed to catch the people we supposedly love and trust in the act.

So… back to the more deliberate act of snooping…looking back, I have to say that when I made the decision to go looking through my s/o’s email or IM that he’d inadvertently left open, I should have realized at that point that it was the beginning of the end, no matter what I found. I feel like this – when you go looking, most of the time you know you’re going to find something, and you have to be fully prepared for a) what you’ll find, b) the response of the other party to having discovered your little espionage and c) deciding how your discovery impacts the instant relationship going forward.

There are many different ways that this can play out. What if you don’t find anything and then your lover finds out that you’ve been through his/her things, and on that basis feels that the trust is broken and decides to end what was otherwise a good relationship? What if your worst suspicions are confirmed but for whatever reason you feel unable to distance yourself from the person? Now you’re stuck in a rat bastard situation with egg on your face, getting dogged and KNOWING you’re getting dogged, but chalking it up in the L column and looking the other way. Is it better to live this way, with bile rising in your throat half the time being ARMED with the information you so painstakingly sought, or to be somewhat blissful in suspicious ignorance? (That’s a question that each of us must answer individually…)

I was once in a relationship where there were some situations present of which I was aware and about which I was definitely not thrilled. I spent a great deal of time in his home, alone, and he left everything everywhere. It would have been a snoop’s paradise. Business cards, contacts scribbled on little pieces of paper, small personal thoughts and notes… Even when he’d go out of town for weeks at a time, I was still left with his keys. On one occasion he asked me to retrieve some stuff he needed while he was away on a military exercise and I was really not trying to have my hands in all his stuff like that – but he TRUSTED me – he trusted me to enough to give me the truth even when it was ugly and painful and somehow having the benefit of informed decision making made things a little more palatable. There were times when he left the place scattered to death and I always tried to tidy up some while he was away. I had access to paperwork that could have rendered me capable of bringing his entire world to a screeching halt. I packed it away in an orderly fashion without having made any notes for future reference, and got it the hell out of my way. There were times when just in the business of BEING there I saw things that I didn’t like, but rather than taking said observation and parlaying it into some kind of character assassination (and using it for a reason to turn over every sheet of paper in the house), we always found a way to talk about it.

Needless to say, at one point he had another guest in the house who didn’t feel the same way I did, and of course the minute he left home for work, you guessed it, she tore the place apart and they spent what should have been a lovely holiday bickering over all of her “finds”. All I could do was shake my head and wonder in general how is it that so many of us find ourselves sucking up so much crap from other people, but that’s a whooooole ‘notha blog.

So, the question begs… when it is ever OKAY to snoop? (and I’m talking about grown-folks-on-grown-folks crime, not parent/child-type ish, because I feel like anything that I give birth to, and have supported is subject to search and seizure of personal property given a display of untrustworthy behavior) Do you feel bad afterwards for breaking trust even when you discover that your reasoning was on point? For me, the linchpin of any relationship is trust, and if I can’t trust you (either to do right, or to trust me to do the same) more often than not, then we have a serious problem.

The Funk, The Whole Funk, and Nothing But the Funk

(originally posted August, 2006)

Unfortunately… I’m not talking about a song by Parliament. I can only wish I was. You know what, though, it’s bad enough that most of us are walking around wilting in the heat, and burning off the skin on the backs of our legs on those leather seats we enjoy so much, but then comes a certain unpleasantry that rises, right along with the mercury.

Yep… I’m here today to talk about FUNK.

I wish I didn’t have to. I swear on a stack of bars of Irish Spring that I wish that I didn’t have to endure the funk of 40,000 years rising off of folks’ bodies in public places. I’m not even talking about homeless or indigent folks who live on the streets… whyyabullshittin, some of the homeless folk that I see regularly are cleaner and more well-kept than some of the people going to work on the Metro every morning!

My first question: How in the hell do you stand yourself when you smell so bad that you’ve got little wavy stink lines rising off you like in a cartoon? Of exactly what kind of mental deficiency must one be possessed to allow themselves to walk around smelling like a pile of hot garbage and a three day old autopsy?

My second question: Why is it that women act like they don’t sweat… Heffa.. you ain’t glistening, or dewy or damp. Your ass is just as wet as mine is. Stop trying to be cute.

I will admit, I had a moment last weekend. I was shopping for the appliances in the new place with a friend and in a rush, I’d forgotten to put my deodorant on after I got out of the shower (hey.. it happens to the best of us). Now of course, it’s 95 degrees outside and I’m wearing something that’s a little inappropriate for the heat but I got dressed in a hurry. Suffice it to say that about two hours later I noticed I was a l’il moist in the armpits. I did the surreptitious sniff test and geez-mo-flip!!!!!! I thought I saw stars and almost passed out. (I sweat like a buffalo and without anti-perspirant/deodorant it’s not pretty for those in my immediate vicinity). I was completely embarrassed and told my companion we were going to have to cut our trip short. She was relatively unfazed (but I made sure to keep my arms down lest she get hit with the biological warfare) and we went on about our business.

I will also grant that there’s a difference between sweaty and funky… and I want y’all brothers to understand that when you’ve been out hoopin for six hours with your boys, your balls are salty and nobody wants to suck on them, or smell them. Go wash your ass! And uh… to those women out there who want to believe that the vagina is a self-cleaning organ PLEASE wash your ass. TWICE. Gotdammit, it’s not an oven. If you’ve got more than one sexual partner, you eat onions and garlic by the pound and you’re in the gym twice a day, then for the love of god when you get home STOP, go to the shower and wash your funky ass, do not pass go, do not collect $200! And anybody that can smell themselves, you get a gorilla-pimp-slap because if you can smell you, so can OTHER people!

I read Bella’s blog all the time and sometimes she gets stuck on the treadmills next to a dude so funky her nose hair is about to fall out. One of the funniest stories I ever read online was the story of a hookup gone bad at a meet and greet… the dude in question talked about the female something fierce cause her hygiene wasn’t up to snuff (or is that SNIFF? LOL) We can sit here and laugh about it all the time, but there is NOTHING funny about funk.

Oh.. another side thought… it aint just fat folks that are funky. I guess some people wonder how larger people get it done… maybe they go to their local party store and rent a midget and a pressure washer – for myself, my loofah gloves and that handheld showerhead ensure that I STAY so fresh and so clean at every opportunity.

Funk isn’t just limited to the pits and crack, either. Some of y’all out there got some foot odor that could kill a horse. I used to take my infant daughter and go running out of the room when my was-band would take his shoes off… put them funky mothafuckas out on the porch or something… that’s just NASTY! Put some charcoal briquettes in your shoes, get some Odor Eaters and WASH, WASH, WASH!!!!

And for those of you who are tracked up ... yes - all that hair against your scalp for weeks on end will REEK. Spare your man the indignity of having to lay face first in a pile of hair that smells like three day old baby formula. Dab with witch hazel or get some dry shampoo... and if you aint weaved up there's no excuse why you don't wash your hair at least once a week. Ole fonky asses!

Then there are people whose bodies are clean but their clothes aren’t…as my boy Skrap says, “Febreze is NOT an alternative to washing your SHIT!” Neither is a liberal application of cologne. Nothing is unsexier than Issey Miyake over a layer of funk when you’re in the club trying to get your mack on.

And what about breath? Aint it a damn shame when you get to work all early in the morning and your co-workers got the Yuck-Mouf so damn bad that their breath is taking the skin off the side of your face and their mouth is CLOSED? Those are the folks that don’t take the gum when you offer it… knowing good and damn well they need it like a crack fiend needs a hit.

As I try to bring this to a close, I can’t help but wonder how some folks walk around KNOWING they stink to high heaven… I FEEL better when I shower, especially having been ill and bedridden, or having completed serious physical exertion. There is nothing like a shower to perk me up. Plus, I love the way certain bath products smell in combination with my skin, and then there’s my perfume. Who the hell would want to be funky, or next to anybody that is?

I say all that to say this: When in doubt, WASH IT OUT!!! Better still: Lather, Rinse, Repeat…

Nuff Respect Given... Nuff Respect Due

(originally posted August, 2006)

I was just having an enjoyable conversation with our firm’s receptionist. She was in my corridor waiting for the secretary two bays over so they could go to lunch, and stopped by my bay to show me her new hair color. It was fierce… it’s a dark, honey-ish blonde full of high and lowlights. We had our usual banter, trading diva compliments, and I told her how pretty I thought she looked (Felicia is GORGEOUS). Once Pam was ready they went on their way.

It has to be said here that I work in an office where there are several extremely attractive women. They range in size, shape, height and proportion, but let me tell you that they are DIVAS, every one. Mean shoe games… stylish wardrobes, etc. etc, weekly hairdos. And you know something else: I don’t feel like I really fit into all that. I own fewer than 30 pairs of shoes and only wear three or four pair regularly. Half the time I don’t wear makeup anymore (even though my makeup case could stand in for a pro’s – whyyabullshittin). I’m not trendy and I haven’t been sewing so my wardrobe isn’t what it should be.

Okay… so let me finally find my way to the point instead of meandering around like a jew in the desert. Even though *I* may not feel that I’m up to Diva standard, the other girls in my office do (or at least that’s what they say to my face… goodness only knows what they say about me behind my back, but I digress). In spite of all that I said in the previous paragraph, I’m a member of the “Diva” club. I have to admit, I like getting the compliments from other women, and my convo with Felicia started me to thinking…

What is about women that makes us more prone to tear each other APART rather than try to lift each other up? Why do so many women have such great difficulty either paying a compliment to, or accepting a compliment from, another woman? (That last one REALLY blows me)

Example, I saw a woman of Southern Asian/Pacific Islander lineage running on my street when I got home the other night and she had this gorgeous hair – and I told her that I thought so. She turned and said thanks… but she looked at me like I’d tried to tongue kiss her and I was wondering what she was thinking about… was she thinking I was trying to hit on her, or did she think I was just weird?

Is it that the “competition” out here is so fierce that we girls just don’t stick together anymore? I don’t think like most women. I don’t feel like I have to compete for some mythical prize and therefore issuing a compliment to another female is something I have LESS than no problem doing.

Too many of us spend too many time mad at somebody else because of what WE ain’t got. Whether it be the man, the house, the salary, the clothes, the shoes, the hairdo. Well… guess what: All y’all chicks put your socks on one at a time just like me. Just because yours are Roca Wear and mine are from Target doesn’t make you any better than me. We all got problems. Some of those men aren’t worth the skin that holds their scrotum. Some of those houses are five days out of foreclosure and the car payment is due and folk don’t know where the money is coming from.

I guess I consider myself lucky that I don’t have to deal with a whole bunch of bullshit, but that comes from picking one’s true friends VERY carefully and not dealing with folks towing around their own weight in mental and emotional baggage.

Trust it, Miss Thing… if I see you out there, looking good and representing (as long as you aren’t acting like you have a two by four firmly wedged in your ass) understand that I will tap you on the shoulder and let you know. *head nod* Keep shinin’, girl.

(but remember to pay it forward and tell some other sister girl! You might be the bright spot in an otherwise gray day.)

Coitus, Interruptus?

(originally posted August, 2006)

This is a subject that is REALLY near and dear to my heart, especially now that I’ve become a “woman of a certain age” and my priorities have begun to change. I see a phenomenon within relationships that I’d like to highlight and discuss and I REALLY hope that a number of people (especially the married ones) weigh in on the discussion.

My question: How do you handle the inevitable slowdown of sexual intimacy, and why do you think it happens (besides the common factors of children, household responsibilities), or more accurately, becomes the rule rather than the exception?

Allow me to illustrate. I once started seeing someone, and everything started off REALLY well. We weren’t looking to get into anything too heavy, but after a few weeks of nightly phone calls, talking for hours, you know the drill, and I believe four dates, we found ourselves dating exclusively. Sex then fell into the mix, and although the take-off was a little rusty, we found ourselves at cruising altitude REALLY quickly.

I’m not sure who broached the subject first – probably me, but I felt that the discussion was necessary. There were some commitment issues on both sides, and it was time to discuss how our sex life was impacting our relationship, and how to move forward (by incorporating other enjoyable activities). The sex was GREAT, but it sort of took precedence over everything else. Neither one of us wanted to feel like our relationship was based on sex, so we changed up and slowed down.

MISTAKE.

It seems like we went from three or four times a week to once or twice a month. Those who are close to me to know that I don’t take rejection well, and after hearing “No” three times in relative succession, I started going to bed with my panties on (which was always code for “no pussy for YOU tonight”). I tried to understand when he was tired (we were on opposite schedules). He tried to understand when I was busy. The lack of physical intimacy (among other things), of course, then led to insecurity, which led to infidelity (on my part, not his).

Fast forward to today, and feeling like I’m on one of those odd cusps in my present thing. I’ll say that we are CERTAINLY having no problems or compatibility issues sexually, but I’ll also say that considering some of the things I have on my plate (the upcoming move and a serious need to get back into my sewing as a business opportunity, among others) that I see where I could find myself potentially between a dick and a horny place.

(snicker… I slay myself sometimes.)

I swear... I never thought of myself as one of THOSE women… the one who snags the great guy and then lets everything fall off. No more romance, or home cooked-meals or other little endearing things that make a relationship sweeter. And I swear when I hear about people I know who have recently married and go from 98 degrees in the shade to 30 below zero on the sex tip, I REALLY wanna know what’s going on. Surely it can’t just be that folks are faking the funk that hard, can it?

I do understand that as folks get older sometimes there’s a loss of interest in sex. I can also understand how a woman in her 40’s that’s been married to the same guy for probably half her life, and has been washing clothes, playing taxi to soccer practice, checking homework, cooking dinners and cleaning house on top of a full time job is just plain worn out and uninterested in hot, freaky, circus monkey sex.

Then I look in the mirror, and I wonder what the future holds for me. In the past I would have said that optimally, sex three or four times a week is ideal. Now… I’m not so sure, especially after dealing with someone for months or years. Hell, at that point sometimes I feel like I might be doing good to find an hour or two at night once or twice a week just to sit with him on our respective ends of the sofa, sharing space and maybe not even TOUCHING, just being together.

Ye GADS. Who woulda thunk it?

Really though… isn’t it supposed to be about quality over quantity? Does familiarity truly breed that level of contempt where sex is reduced to passing your s/o in the hallway on the way to the bathroom and muttering a disgusted “fuck you!” at each other? Who the hell wants to live like that? I certainly don’t; and at the same time I have to recognize that not every night of my life is going to approximate some steamy scene out a Zane novel.

Damn… I must be the most selfish bitch out here, too because I’m sitting here talking about me, me, me… and suddenly I wonder what happens for my sweetie when my libido hangs a sign on my legs that says “Do Not Open till Christmas?” Is he supposed to just suck that up and keep it bookin’? Am I supposed to take one for the team, wave a flag and say I’m doing it for the Queen?

When I was feeling the pinch of the ecstatic drought, I would have said "YES! He needs to buck up and take it on the chin and lay some PIPE!" Now that I’m in a role where *I’m* playing Miss Iron Box (and if that’s not irony I don’t KNOW what is), or just generally feeling like I'd rather have a V-8, I’m thinking “hmph, he’s got hands…”

I guess it’s just all a part of the system of compromises one is forced to make when you choose to be or remain in a relationship.

Train Em Up: The Re-Education of Your Significant Other

Usually we hear that snippet in the context of raising children: “Train a child up in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it.” (Proverbs 22:6). However, it’s been a point of discussion between myself and friends both online and in the real world as of late that we “train” people how to treat us every day, moreso in the context of romantic relationships, and to a lesser extent, in the overall company we keep, in the vein of the behavior that we allow them to manifest in our common interactions.

One rather dramatic example is the scene in “What’s Love Got to Do With It” where Angela Bassett flips the script and stomps the snot out of Larry Fishburne. It’s pretty safe to say that THAT particular day began ole Ike’s retraining on how Tina was going to allow him to deal with her.

Thus opens our discussion. I have found that in the time since I have changed/narrowed the company I keep I’ve become a lot happier. Kinda on that “frolic with wolves and learn to howl/fly with eagles and learn to soar” tip, even. Before I meander too far away from my original point, let’s talk about romantic relationships first and foremost. Is it required (hell, is it even possible) to train your man or woman “how to act”? Is the more important question linked to “why” one would have to do it?

I’ll go a bit further and add that sometimes the attempt to ascertain the “training” a new puppy needs is clouded by the fact that when you meet a new someone, often for a certain period you get their REPRESENTATIVE. Everything is hunky dory until you start dating the REAL person rather than his or her agent.

Oh… but Y’ALL don’t hea-me doh… LMAO

Back to the point.

It’s difficult to address that with your significant other… that something that they’ve been doing grinds your ass to the bone. (It is for me at least… I don’t have a tactful bone in my whole body!) But it’s tricky, underneath the surface, because it’s unfair to expect someone else to change their habits or behavior just to suit your needs – it then becomes time to either fish or cut bait.

I’ll complicate the matter further and draw from a previous relationship. Once we started to settle in lovely, there were (seemingly) small things that we both saw in each other that didn’t quite work. Because we communicated so well with each other even in a non-verbal, we picked up on the other’s cues, and started to make subtle changes.

DISASTER. What started off as subtle adjustments because this sick dance in circles around each other. I’d changed certain elements trying to make HIM happy. He’d tweaked some things trying to make ME happy (but since he was WAY out of his normal mode it was just ALL way off). The most screwed up part about it all is that in the aftermath we were happiest in the beginning just being ourselves. *sigh*

(Originally posted August, 2006)

Relationships are such a study in human psychology…You become interested in someone, and conventional wisdom says that we are to accept them as they are. Going deeper with that one, for someone as mercurial as myself, certain behaviors might be acceptable one week and totally off the mark the next, and it’s not fair to expect someone to keep up with that. (Even *I* know that!!) And on the real for real, I see very little that’s attractive about having a person around that would jump through whatever hoops I set out just to please me.

As Justy said in my comments yesterday, you can either bitch about it, or you can make it better. But what happens when making it better (for yourself) means ending the relationship and hurting the other person? You can’t go on indefinitely making excuses for other people when you know that the shit is twanging on your last good NERVE.

In the end, do you continue sitting the puppy on the paper, or do you take him/her back to the pound? How do you draw the line of compromise? When does accepting a person “stock” become just too much?