I have an irrational fear of relationships. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy being snuggled up on a couch with a 6'0 piece of man candy as he gets his fingers tangled in my wooly fro. Whispering words of endearment over the phone gives me butterflies. I love being in serious like. My problem is the actual idea of a full fledged relationship. The responsibility of having to consider someone else besides myself, the commitment, the labels. It makes my skin crawl. No matter how much I like a guy the idea of him being my boyfriend scares the shit out of me.
And yet whenever something "new" starts, I always envision it lasting for a long while. In those daydreams I see the gift exchange at Christmas, me giving him something personal with tons of sentimental value that shows that I've been paying attention for the last three months. I envision the soft, lingering kiss at the stroke of midnight on Jan 1. And of course I see the most romantic movie night, complete with 80s blockbusters and extra cheese pan pizza on Valentines Day (hey, I'm a cheap date). Mind you all of this will of course occur without an actual relationship.
Oh, the best laid plans. I have a great habit of getting into something new during the summer and falling out of it right in time keep those visions of winter holiday snuggling bliss as strictly visions.
And this year is of course no different. Valentines day came and went with not a phone call, card, or gift from any man expressing his undying devotion (at least for the day) for me. I don't know if I'm disappointed or not. See, I don't really know if I was supposed to expect anything this year. The possibility of the Alcoholic West Indian making a reappearance for Cupid's day was a longshot. He's still got another two months of not speaking to me before he shows back up. But The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry (and lately is NOT) is definitely back in the picture. The thing is this time, everything is a lot more casual. And not because I'm playing casual just so he won't think I'm a clingy chick and maybe stick around for a while, but because honestly I don't want to be that serious and neither does he. Yet, it still would've been nice to get more than a chain text message to the effect that if I get this rose @>------- from 10 people then I'm really loved. One out of ten, what does that say?
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Friday, February 16, 2007
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Gross Negligence
I know, I know, I've been neglecting the blog. Grossly neglecting it. I'm in the midst of applying to graduate school. Three apps are finished and I have three more to go. I have a million and one blog entries in my head but no time to really get into everything that's been going on with me in the last month or so. I swear I'll get to it as soon as I'm finished with the last application. In the meantime, I'll post some more of the short story I've been working on recently. Hope you like it. And if you have any feedback, that's even better..............
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I wish...”
“I know you do, Jaelyn.” She smoothed a hand over her hair, securing several stray tendrils behind her ear. “But anyways, how’s school?”
Goose bumps rose on my skin. I ran a hand up and down my arm with vigorous strokes in a vain attempt to create the heat the room lacked. “It’s cool. Just a bunch of exams, papers, and group projects that I don’t have any interest in doing.”
“Hey, don’t slack off now. I don’t care what anyone tells you, senior year grades are important so you’ve got to stay focused if you want to get into med school.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me! I’m serious. Look, I’ve been there so I know.”
“Yeah, I get it. You’re an expert on everything. Can you spare me the lecture?”
“What’s your problem?”
I chewed the inside of my lip and shook my head. “Nothing. I just don’t feel like talking about school, that’s all.”
“Alright,” she said slowly, “what do you want to talk about then?”
“I don’t know. Don’t really have much to say.”
“Then why are you here?”
“What do you mean, why am I here? Obviously, I’m here to see you.”
“So you can take up space then tell yourself you’ve done your good deed for the day? Don’t do me any favors, Jaelyn.”
“You are so ungrateful!” I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts. “I got a question for you. Who else has been up here to see you? Christine? Nope. How about your best friend, Devin? Not so much. Oh, and all your fellow attorneys at the firm? That’s right, you haven’t seen them either.”
“Thanks for the reminder. I really needed that,” her voice dripped with sarcasm.
I leaned my elbows on the tiny table top in front of me and stifled a yawn. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. But I woke up at the butt crack of dawn, suffered through a two hour bus ride with the world’s grossest scumbags, and damn near had a body cavity search just to come and spend some time with you. The least you could do is appreciate that.”
“Do you want a medal? I’m your sister, that’s what you’re supposed to do.”
I opened my mouth to fight back, but thought better of it. Changing the subject was easier.
“What have you been up to since the last time I was here? Started dealing cigarettes yet?”
She cocked her head to the side and furrowed her brows. “Where would you get an idiotic idea like that?”
“Lifetime Movie of the Week, of course.”
A smile teased the corner of her lips until it exploded into a full grin. “You’re a damn fool.”
Laughter erupted from the pit of my stomach, a pleasant distraction from our concrete and steel surroundings.
“On the real, if there’s one thing I miss since I’ve been in here it’s Lifetime. Brendan used to make fun of me all the time for watching it, but that man just didn’t know. Those movies are good as hell!”
I stared at my sister in shocked disbelief. She had said his name.
“Has anyone from his family…?” Her voice trailed off as I shook my head.
“Give them some time,” I reassured. “It hasn’t been that long. They could still come around.”
“No. I killed him. Ain’t enough time in the world to get over that.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I wish...”
“I know you do, Jaelyn.” She smoothed a hand over her hair, securing several stray tendrils behind her ear. “But anyways, how’s school?”
Goose bumps rose on my skin. I ran a hand up and down my arm with vigorous strokes in a vain attempt to create the heat the room lacked. “It’s cool. Just a bunch of exams, papers, and group projects that I don’t have any interest in doing.”
“Hey, don’t slack off now. I don’t care what anyone tells you, senior year grades are important so you’ve got to stay focused if you want to get into med school.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me! I’m serious. Look, I’ve been there so I know.”
“Yeah, I get it. You’re an expert on everything. Can you spare me the lecture?”
“What’s your problem?”
I chewed the inside of my lip and shook my head. “Nothing. I just don’t feel like talking about school, that’s all.”
“Alright,” she said slowly, “what do you want to talk about then?”
“I don’t know. Don’t really have much to say.”
“Then why are you here?”
“What do you mean, why am I here? Obviously, I’m here to see you.”
“So you can take up space then tell yourself you’ve done your good deed for the day? Don’t do me any favors, Jaelyn.”
“You are so ungrateful!” I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts. “I got a question for you. Who else has been up here to see you? Christine? Nope. How about your best friend, Devin? Not so much. Oh, and all your fellow attorneys at the firm? That’s right, you haven’t seen them either.”
“Thanks for the reminder. I really needed that,” her voice dripped with sarcasm.
I leaned my elbows on the tiny table top in front of me and stifled a yawn. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. But I woke up at the butt crack of dawn, suffered through a two hour bus ride with the world’s grossest scumbags, and damn near had a body cavity search just to come and spend some time with you. The least you could do is appreciate that.”
“Do you want a medal? I’m your sister, that’s what you’re supposed to do.”
I opened my mouth to fight back, but thought better of it. Changing the subject was easier.
“What have you been up to since the last time I was here? Started dealing cigarettes yet?”
She cocked her head to the side and furrowed her brows. “Where would you get an idiotic idea like that?”
“Lifetime Movie of the Week, of course.”
A smile teased the corner of her lips until it exploded into a full grin. “You’re a damn fool.”
Laughter erupted from the pit of my stomach, a pleasant distraction from our concrete and steel surroundings.
“On the real, if there’s one thing I miss since I’ve been in here it’s Lifetime. Brendan used to make fun of me all the time for watching it, but that man just didn’t know. Those movies are good as hell!”
I stared at my sister in shocked disbelief. She had said his name.
“Has anyone from his family…?” Her voice trailed off as I shook my head.
“Give them some time,” I reassured. “It hasn’t been that long. They could still come around.”
“No. I killed him. Ain’t enough time in the world to get over that.”
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Just a taste
Since I've barely been posting for the last couple of months, I figured I'd do something different. I'm not going to lie and say that none of the blog neglect was due to laziness. About 50% of it was. But, the other 50% was more noble. Grad school apps are due this month and next and they all require a writing sample. I've never posted my fiction on my blog for many reasons (paranoia about plagarism and idea theft being high on the list), but I figured it can't hurt too much to post a smidge of what I've been working on. I really do appreciate everyone who reads my blog, especially now that I'm so disengaged from the blogosphere.
So here's a bit of my short story entitled "Captive." Hope you enjoy it.
*Special thanks to my editors: Chesty LaRue, Jailbait, and BP. You guys brought out the best in me.
_____________________________________________________________
The combined stench of stale cigarettes, urine, and body odor assaulted me as I stepped through the thick steel door. The long, narrow room stretched more than 50 feet ahead of me, dead ending into a gray brick wall. There were no windows to offer any proof that the outside world existed. Noticing the dirt caked into the linoleum floor, I immediately bent over and fashioned a large cuff at the hem of the jeans that billowed over my sneakers. The steel door slamming shut behind me jarred me upright and I could feel the goose bumps rise on my skin. I ran my hands up and down my arms with vigorous strokes in a vain attempt to create the heat the room lacked.
Under the hazy fluorescent light, I studied the slip of paper they had given me. Window fifteen – at the far end. Careful not to look at anyone, I trudged to where the number 15 was stenciled on the floor in faded black paint. Pulling a wad of tissue from my purse, I wiped down the seat to remove any remnants of the previous occupant and sat down hesitantly.
So here's a bit of my short story entitled "Captive." Hope you enjoy it.
*Special thanks to my editors: Chesty LaRue, Jailbait, and BP. You guys brought out the best in me.
_____________________________________________________________
The combined stench of stale cigarettes, urine, and body odor assaulted me as I stepped through the thick steel door. The long, narrow room stretched more than 50 feet ahead of me, dead ending into a gray brick wall. There were no windows to offer any proof that the outside world existed. Noticing the dirt caked into the linoleum floor, I immediately bent over and fashioned a large cuff at the hem of the jeans that billowed over my sneakers. The steel door slamming shut behind me jarred me upright and I could feel the goose bumps rise on my skin. I ran my hands up and down my arms with vigorous strokes in a vain attempt to create the heat the room lacked.
Under the hazy fluorescent light, I studied the slip of paper they had given me. Window fifteen – at the far end. Careful not to look at anyone, I trudged to where the number 15 was stenciled on the floor in faded black paint. Pulling a wad of tissue from my purse, I wiped down the seat to remove any remnants of the previous occupant and sat down hesitantly.
A series of short buzzes pierced the air, and a heavy metal door swung open. I watched through bullet proof glass as an officer escorted her toward the chair across from me. Her steps were deliberate and she kept her eyes trained on the floor. She was losing weight. The drab blue uniform swallowed her once curvaceous 5’7” frame.
In the narrow walkway she passed another inmate, their shoulders colliding. She gave the woman a hard shove that sent her staggering backward. Before the confrontation could escalate, the officer stepped between them, saying something inaudible. He positioned his face inches from hers and jabbed his finger against her chest as she stared at the ceiling, her chin up and face turned from his lecture. Seconds later she gave him a perfunctory nod then sauntered to her chair.
I pulled the sleeve of my sweater over my hand and picked up the receiver.
“Samara, what the hell was that about?” I asked.
“What was what about?”
“Don’t play dumb. I saw what happened.”
She flashed an innocent smile, but offered no explanation.
“Forget it. Anyways, how are you?”
“How do you think I am?”
“I don’t know. You look good.”
She shot me a weary glance and sighed.
I wasn’t lying. Her butterscotch skin was clear, and she still managed to maintain her perfectly arched eyebrows. The dark brown eyes that illuminated her face were wide and alert. She obviously wasn’t spending her commissary on cigarettes because her teeth gleamed white. Only the dark circles under her eyes marred her appearance.
She studied me for a few seconds then said, “Have you been to the gym lately?”
“Why?” I gave her a quizzical look.
“You look like you might be gaining a few pounds. I’d hate to see you put the weight back on.”
Looking down at the pooch that hung over my belt, I wrapped my arm around my body and hugged myself close. “It’s not enough that I have to hear this stuff from Mommy? Now you’ve gotta start with me, too?”
“How is Mom?”
“Not bad. She’s hanging in there.”
“And Auntie?” She ran down the list of family and friends and I assured her that everyone was okay.
“Do you need anything? How’s your commissary?” It didn’t matter how much she asked for, I was ready to give it to her.
She laughed, short and bitter. “Fuck the commissary. I want my life back.”
Unfortunately that was the one thing I couldn’t give; not since the judge sentenced her to 25 years to life.
Friday, December 15, 2006
The Miracle of Hanukkah 2006
I just experienced my first Hanukkah miracle! NYU extended the application deadline by two days! Praise God!!
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The Final Countdown
My first grad school application is due in less than 2 days. The writing sample is only 3/4 finished, the personal essay is 0% to target, and one of my recommenders is nowhere to be found. Sweet!
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Questioning
Ever since I was a little girl, I've always liked boys. I can still remember the crush my four-year-old self had on my next door neighbor with the mop of brown hair and a penchant for shirtless yard work. My heterosexuality was confirmed young. But lately, I've been having these thoughts. Not really thoughts, but moreso flashbacks. A couple months ago I met a girl and I don't quite know how it happened, but we kissed.
We met in front of my grandmother's house in the north Bronx. She was walking up the block with a friend of mine I hadn't seen in over two years and I was standing on the stoop. We locked eyes and she immediately entered the slightly ajar gate leading to the front walk. I introduced myself with a handshake and invited them both inside. Her energy was amazing. She ran around the house, exploring the new environment.
"Would you like some water," I offered.
She eagerly accepted the tap water I placed before her and within minutes it was gone. In her excitement to have a drink she even spilled half of it on the kitchen floor. No bother, I just wiped up the mess with some paper towels and headed back to the living room so we could get to know each other.
For the next half hour she wouldn't leave my side. I tried to engage our mutual friend in conversation but she kept interrupting. Usually I'm bothered when someone doesn't let me get a word in, but her interruptions were so endearing I didn't even notice. What I did notice is that she kept laying her head in my lap. Now, I'm a pretty affectionate person. I have no problem putting an arm around a female friend or cuddling close to one of my guy friends, but this situation was weird. True, we were hitting it off great, but we'd just met. That type of closeness made me uncomfortable.
"Stop doing that!" our friend would tell her.
She'd do what he said for a minute or two and then come right back into my personal space. While I didn't want her hanging all over me, I also didn't want her to feel uncomfortable. Whenever she came close to me, I ran my hand up and down her back. She was extremely fit and I could feel her muscles through her coat.
I think I might've rubbed her back a bit too long because before I knew it she pinned me to my chair and started kissing me. Her tongue was EVERYWHERE. My lips, my cheeks, my chin were covered in saliva. I tried to push her off of me but she was too strong.
"No! Stop!" I screamed. In the midst of my protests she slipped her tongue in my mouth. Immediately, I closed my mouth and turned my head to the side so she couldn't try that move again.
Meanwhile our friend looked on, consumed by a fit of giggles, guffaws, and gasps. In all the commotion he was still able to snap a couple of pictures of the girl on girl action with his camera phone.
After what felt like an eternity, she finally let me go then casually walked to the other side of the room as though nothing happened. The second I was free, I ran to the bathroom and scrubbed my face with St. Ives Apricot Scrub and brushed my teeth with Colgate Total. Unfortunately I didn't have any bleach. When I felt sufficiently clean I rejoined my guests in the living room.
The moment I reentered the room she rushed back to my side. When she stood on her hind legs and started humping my right leg I knew that she wanted more than the kiss we just shared. I disengaged myself from her paws and kept my distance for the rest of the day. She was way too aggressive for my liking. I mean, can't a girl at least get a few hours to process the fact that she just had her first same sex kiss?
Days later as the events of that day replayed in my head one moment stuck out in my mind. The kiss. Yes, it was sloppy. Yes, it was against my will. No, I didn't kiss her back. But when I thought about it some more, I realized that she had given me the most passionate kiss I'd had in a long time. And she made it a total sensory experience. Not only was I lavished with her tongue, she also got her paws and fur into the action. Maybe she was just trying to hold me when I was fighting her off? In hindsight making out with her wasn't bad at all. In fact, it might've even been enjoyable.
So now I sit here with something of a conundrum on my hands. Since she is a girl and I'm a girl and we kissed and I think I liked it, does that make me a lesbian? Or just bi?
We met in front of my grandmother's house in the north Bronx. She was walking up the block with a friend of mine I hadn't seen in over two years and I was standing on the stoop. We locked eyes and she immediately entered the slightly ajar gate leading to the front walk. I introduced myself with a handshake and invited them both inside. Her energy was amazing. She ran around the house, exploring the new environment.
"Would you like some water," I offered.
She eagerly accepted the tap water I placed before her and within minutes it was gone. In her excitement to have a drink she even spilled half of it on the kitchen floor. No bother, I just wiped up the mess with some paper towels and headed back to the living room so we could get to know each other.
For the next half hour she wouldn't leave my side. I tried to engage our mutual friend in conversation but she kept interrupting. Usually I'm bothered when someone doesn't let me get a word in, but her interruptions were so endearing I didn't even notice. What I did notice is that she kept laying her head in my lap. Now, I'm a pretty affectionate person. I have no problem putting an arm around a female friend or cuddling close to one of my guy friends, but this situation was weird. True, we were hitting it off great, but we'd just met. That type of closeness made me uncomfortable.
"Stop doing that!" our friend would tell her.
She'd do what he said for a minute or two and then come right back into my personal space. While I didn't want her hanging all over me, I also didn't want her to feel uncomfortable. Whenever she came close to me, I ran my hand up and down her back. She was extremely fit and I could feel her muscles through her coat.
I think I might've rubbed her back a bit too long because before I knew it she pinned me to my chair and started kissing me. Her tongue was EVERYWHERE. My lips, my cheeks, my chin were covered in saliva. I tried to push her off of me but she was too strong.
"No! Stop!" I screamed. In the midst of my protests she slipped her tongue in my mouth. Immediately, I closed my mouth and turned my head to the side so she couldn't try that move again.
Meanwhile our friend looked on, consumed by a fit of giggles, guffaws, and gasps. In all the commotion he was still able to snap a couple of pictures of the girl on girl action with his camera phone.
After what felt like an eternity, she finally let me go then casually walked to the other side of the room as though nothing happened. The second I was free, I ran to the bathroom and scrubbed my face with St. Ives Apricot Scrub and brushed my teeth with Colgate Total. Unfortunately I didn't have any bleach. When I felt sufficiently clean I rejoined my guests in the living room.
The moment I reentered the room she rushed back to my side. When she stood on her hind legs and started humping my right leg I knew that she wanted more than the kiss we just shared. I disengaged myself from her paws and kept my distance for the rest of the day. She was way too aggressive for my liking. I mean, can't a girl at least get a few hours to process the fact that she just had her first same sex kiss?
Days later as the events of that day replayed in my head one moment stuck out in my mind. The kiss. Yes, it was sloppy. Yes, it was against my will. No, I didn't kiss her back. But when I thought about it some more, I realized that she had given me the most passionate kiss I'd had in a long time. And she made it a total sensory experience. Not only was I lavished with her tongue, she also got her paws and fur into the action. Maybe she was just trying to hold me when I was fighting her off? In hindsight making out with her wasn't bad at all. In fact, it might've even been enjoyable.
So now I sit here with something of a conundrum on my hands. Since she is a girl and I'm a girl and we kissed and I think I liked it, does that make me a lesbian? Or just bi?
Monday, November 27, 2006
I Promise
When is a promise no longer valid? If you swear up and down about ANYTHING are you held to it no matter what? Are the promises you make to a person contigent upon who that person is to you when you made the promise.
This summer, I made a promise. Actually it was more of an assertion. I swore that a male friend was just that, a friend. I promised that nothing physical or romantic would ever occur between us because we just "aren't like that." When asked if anything physical or romantic had already occurred I was honest. Yes, but that was a long time ago and things are different now. Not only would it not happen again, it simply couldn't. I was firm.
I said those things because I truly believed them. Plus, I was trying to prove a point. I have been told by several men that I have too many male friends and that there is absolutely no way in hell that all of those inter-sex friendships could possibly be 100% platonic. And I have always argued that men and women can totally be just friends. MY friends are NOT trying to get in my pants nor am I trying to get them to lay on top of me so I can feel a warm body.
So when I told a man who was definitely not just my friend that nothing would ever happen between myself and The Friend, I meant it. I didn't just say it to appease him or to give him a reason stop whining about why The Friend always seemed to call at ungodly hours of the night. I wasn't saying, "Because of you, I won't do that." No guy wants to hear that anyways.
"You're the only thing stopping me from tappin' dat ass" is not exactly reassuring. If there's a possibility then there is definite reason to be concered. But I was saying something totally different. I was saying I wouldn't do it, period.
Last weekend I did it. I had every right to. Things with the man who was definitely not just my friend fell apart weeks ago. I am perfectly free to do whatever I please without worrying about anyone else's feelings. And I'm not necessarily worried about feelings being hurt per say. The problem lies with me. I feel like a liar. I made a promise and I broke it. I didn't make the promise with a built in contingency plan and out clauses. And I'm not that girl that lies to a man just to make him feel better about a situation. Actually I'm honest to a fault divulging more information than what is really needed all in the spirit of full disclosure. Granted, I owe nothing to that man and he has a tendency to be a veritable asshole....yet I still feel bad. Like I've done something to him or was deceptive or something. I can't explain it. Or maybe it's not about him and more about me. I have no problem lying to my parents, boss, IRS (just kidding), etc. but when it comes to who I say I am I prefer to be truthful. And I feel like a hypocrite. I might say I am just friends with each and every one of my male friends but am I really? How much would it take for me to fall into a similar situation with another guy I claim is "just my friend." Maybe I should just NEVER say never again.
This summer, I made a promise. Actually it was more of an assertion. I swore that a male friend was just that, a friend. I promised that nothing physical or romantic would ever occur between us because we just "aren't like that." When asked if anything physical or romantic had already occurred I was honest. Yes, but that was a long time ago and things are different now. Not only would it not happen again, it simply couldn't. I was firm.
I said those things because I truly believed them. Plus, I was trying to prove a point. I have been told by several men that I have too many male friends and that there is absolutely no way in hell that all of those inter-sex friendships could possibly be 100% platonic. And I have always argued that men and women can totally be just friends. MY friends are NOT trying to get in my pants nor am I trying to get them to lay on top of me so I can feel a warm body.
So when I told a man who was definitely not just my friend that nothing would ever happen between myself and The Friend, I meant it. I didn't just say it to appease him or to give him a reason stop whining about why The Friend always seemed to call at ungodly hours of the night. I wasn't saying, "Because of you, I won't do that." No guy wants to hear that anyways.
"You're the only thing stopping me from tappin' dat ass" is not exactly reassuring. If there's a possibility then there is definite reason to be concered. But I was saying something totally different. I was saying I wouldn't do it, period.
Last weekend I did it. I had every right to. Things with the man who was definitely not just my friend fell apart weeks ago. I am perfectly free to do whatever I please without worrying about anyone else's feelings. And I'm not necessarily worried about feelings being hurt per say. The problem lies with me. I feel like a liar. I made a promise and I broke it. I didn't make the promise with a built in contingency plan and out clauses. And I'm not that girl that lies to a man just to make him feel better about a situation. Actually I'm honest to a fault divulging more information than what is really needed all in the spirit of full disclosure. Granted, I owe nothing to that man and he has a tendency to be a veritable asshole....yet I still feel bad. Like I've done something to him or was deceptive or something. I can't explain it. Or maybe it's not about him and more about me. I have no problem lying to my parents, boss, IRS (just kidding), etc. but when it comes to who I say I am I prefer to be truthful. And I feel like a hypocrite. I might say I am just friends with each and every one of my male friends but am I really? How much would it take for me to fall into a similar situation with another guy I claim is "just my friend." Maybe I should just NEVER say never again.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Chicken
The screen is mocking me, daring me to write something impressive. "Type. Do it. Say something remarkable," it says to me. I put my hands to the keys, but nothing happens. Firefox saves me from the sting of defeat. I promise myself I'll face the Word document again in a few minutes - just a quick browse through My Space, Facebook, Nappturality, my email, back to My Space, check in on Facebook, then back to Nappturality. And before I know it sleep calls and words go unwritten.
It shouldn't be this hard. There was a time when I could turn out twenty five pages in two weeks. I would just sit and stories would pour out of me, filling up page after page with the people, places, and events that existed in my mind. This story only trickles in sporadic spurts leaving more to be desired with every line. I take solace in the dialogue, which is the only part that works. The setting is bland, exposition abrupt, and action non existent. I can do so much better, but for some reason I can't.
Twenty five pages. The equivalent of two ten-page papers and a five-page essay. I have a 165 pages sitting on a jump drive. I did that in five months. 165 pages that are of no use to me now. None of it is good enough. For friends to read, sure it's great. But to hang my future on, to compete with hundreds maybe thousands of other writers. Not so much. So scrap it and write another 25 pages. What's 25 pages? Everything to admissions panels. And right now, nothing I have in me.
It shouldn't be this hard. There was a time when I could turn out twenty five pages in two weeks. I would just sit and stories would pour out of me, filling up page after page with the people, places, and events that existed in my mind. This story only trickles in sporadic spurts leaving more to be desired with every line. I take solace in the dialogue, which is the only part that works. The setting is bland, exposition abrupt, and action non existent. I can do so much better, but for some reason I can't.
Twenty five pages. The equivalent of two ten-page papers and a five-page essay. I have a 165 pages sitting on a jump drive. I did that in five months. 165 pages that are of no use to me now. None of it is good enough. For friends to read, sure it's great. But to hang my future on, to compete with hundreds maybe thousands of other writers. Not so much. So scrap it and write another 25 pages. What's 25 pages? Everything to admissions panels. And right now, nothing I have in me.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Jiminy Cricket
At the moment my conscience is not allowing me to blog. I have to take the GRE at the end of next month. According to Baron's diagnostic test I won't break 1000 (for those of you who don't know...that's NOT a good look). I must relearn the formulas for area of a circle, area of a triangle, and basic 7th grade math. I must also learn random vocabulary words I will NEVER use.
I have a shitload to write about, unfortunately the graduate admissions offices don't want to hear about my obsession with You Tube and a certain alcoholic West Indian. Nope, they want to hear all about my latest reading material, my condensed life story, and the great works of literature I'm conjuring at the moment. Add to that a 30 page sample of my brilliance. For some reason sending them a link to my blog isn't acceptable.
None of this includes the actual applications that I have to submit between mid December and early January in order to be thrust back into a state of brokosity with little to no health insurance (forget about dental) for the next two years while I pursue an MFA in Creative Writing, which by the way will do nothing to make me employable!
So basically what I'm trying to say is that every time I attempt to participate in a blog related activity (reading, writing, etc.) I am quickly reminded that I am on a strict deadline and I gotta get all the aforementioned shit done, and done well in the next six weeks. If I'm blogging, I'm not studying, writing, or applying and Jiminy says we can't have that.
I have a shitload to write about, unfortunately the graduate admissions offices don't want to hear about my obsession with You Tube and a certain alcoholic West Indian. Nope, they want to hear all about my latest reading material, my condensed life story, and the great works of literature I'm conjuring at the moment. Add to that a 30 page sample of my brilliance. For some reason sending them a link to my blog isn't acceptable.
None of this includes the actual applications that I have to submit between mid December and early January in order to be thrust back into a state of brokosity with little to no health insurance (forget about dental) for the next two years while I pursue an MFA in Creative Writing, which by the way will do nothing to make me employable!
So basically what I'm trying to say is that every time I attempt to participate in a blog related activity (reading, writing, etc.) I am quickly reminded that I am on a strict deadline and I gotta get all the aforementioned shit done, and done well in the next six weeks. If I'm blogging, I'm not studying, writing, or applying and Jiminy says we can't have that.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Used To
My hair used to be straight, all the way from the roots until the ends curved under my chin. I parted it down the middle and leaned forward so it would swish in front of my face. Then I would sweep my right fingertips across my forehead and tuck the wayward locks behind my left ear.
I used to wear black combat boots. I'd trudge through crowded hallways barely lifting my feet because they weighed ten extra pounds. I always wore flannel with my boots. I liked dark green patterns mixed with gray and cream.
I used to listen to Guns N Roses, not because I really liked them or anything but because everyone else did. Same with Nirvana. I didn't get them. I never knew "aqua sea foam shame." I liked Bush and I got them. I got Buffalo Tom, Oasis, and the Goo Goo Dolls too. They spoke to me. So did Mary. Not from experience because I had none. But their words sounded how I thought they should for when I went through the same thing.
I used to like boys with chin length hair that grazed the tops of their shoulders. Straight or wavy, it didn't matter. I liked their corduroy pants, Chuck Taylors, and auto mechanic shirts. I stared at them all the time.
I used to think I was just like the girls on TV. I was going to be just like them. Weird, smart, misunderstood, awkward, yet adorable enough for a boy with chin length hair and corduroy pants to like me. I used to be able to make Angela Chase's sad face, nose wrinkled, eyes wide, mouth drawn. I used to talk to like Julia Sallinger, complete with hand wringing and head scratching. I used to close my eyes because it was supposed to hurt to look at the world. I don't think it did. But I could emote.
I don't straighten my hair anymore. My combat boots are long gone. I like men with fresh cut Caesars who wear Timbs, Uptowns, or Cole Haans. I think most girls on TV are stupid and have no interest in going through what they do. I can no longer make Angela's sad face. One of my very own replaced it. I get Guns N Roses now. I know what November rain is. The Goo Goo Dolls and Oasis aren't nearly as sad as I thought they were. I don't have to imagine what Mary was experiencing. I'm there and doing my own version of it. I think I prefer emoting. And I wish I still had my flannel shirts.
I used to wear black combat boots. I'd trudge through crowded hallways barely lifting my feet because they weighed ten extra pounds. I always wore flannel with my boots. I liked dark green patterns mixed with gray and cream.
I used to listen to Guns N Roses, not because I really liked them or anything but because everyone else did. Same with Nirvana. I didn't get them. I never knew "aqua sea foam shame." I liked Bush and I got them. I got Buffalo Tom, Oasis, and the Goo Goo Dolls too. They spoke to me. So did Mary. Not from experience because I had none. But their words sounded how I thought they should for when I went through the same thing.
I used to like boys with chin length hair that grazed the tops of their shoulders. Straight or wavy, it didn't matter. I liked their corduroy pants, Chuck Taylors, and auto mechanic shirts. I stared at them all the time.
I used to think I was just like the girls on TV. I was going to be just like them. Weird, smart, misunderstood, awkward, yet adorable enough for a boy with chin length hair and corduroy pants to like me. I used to be able to make Angela Chase's sad face, nose wrinkled, eyes wide, mouth drawn. I used to talk to like Julia Sallinger, complete with hand wringing and head scratching. I used to close my eyes because it was supposed to hurt to look at the world. I don't think it did. But I could emote.
I don't straighten my hair anymore. My combat boots are long gone. I like men with fresh cut Caesars who wear Timbs, Uptowns, or Cole Haans. I think most girls on TV are stupid and have no interest in going through what they do. I can no longer make Angela's sad face. One of my very own replaced it. I get Guns N Roses now. I know what November rain is. The Goo Goo Dolls and Oasis aren't nearly as sad as I thought they were. I don't have to imagine what Mary was experiencing. I'm there and doing my own version of it. I think I prefer emoting. And I wish I still had my flannel shirts.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
The Flip Side
The change was subtle, but unmistakeable. She folded her arms across her chest, shielding herself from me. The gregarious energy that had drawn us together a few hours ago was replaced with a weary countenance. She was still friendly and engaging but she was no longer open. I had trespassed and was no longer wanted.
When he grabbed my waist and pulled me close I saw her staring at us.
"You see that guy right there," she had said a half hour after our initial introduction. "He's so cute. I want him tonight."
We had both arrived alone, but she didn't plan to leave that way. Dancing was her angle. She sashayed toward him and swung her hips to get his attention. Much to her dismay it wasn't enough to keep him entertained. He found his way to me and kept finding me the entire night. I didn't beckon, but I didn't turn him away either. She was the one who wanted him, but I knew I was the one who would get him.
As I watched her over his shoulder, I recognized the look in her eyes. I had been her on so many other nights. I had stared, danced, and flirted to the best of my ability only to watch my target use the same moves on another woman. I had gone home empty handed on more than one occassion, wondering what the other girl had that I didn't. And I had felt the irrational feeling of loss over something that was never mine.
I felt bad being the cause of her disappointment. And I felt worse because I had participated knowingly. But feeling bad didn't stop me from walking over to him at the end of the night and getting his phone number as she looked on.
When he grabbed my waist and pulled me close I saw her staring at us.
"You see that guy right there," she had said a half hour after our initial introduction. "He's so cute. I want him tonight."
We had both arrived alone, but she didn't plan to leave that way. Dancing was her angle. She sashayed toward him and swung her hips to get his attention. Much to her dismay it wasn't enough to keep him entertained. He found his way to me and kept finding me the entire night. I didn't beckon, but I didn't turn him away either. She was the one who wanted him, but I knew I was the one who would get him.
As I watched her over his shoulder, I recognized the look in her eyes. I had been her on so many other nights. I had stared, danced, and flirted to the best of my ability only to watch my target use the same moves on another woman. I had gone home empty handed on more than one occassion, wondering what the other girl had that I didn't. And I had felt the irrational feeling of loss over something that was never mine.
I felt bad being the cause of her disappointment. And I felt worse because I had participated knowingly. But feeling bad didn't stop me from walking over to him at the end of the night and getting his phone number as she looked on.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Pits
She emerged from the murky lake water, dark hair dripping and water glistening on her olive skin. Her smile was triumphant and proud. She had not backed down, refused to hesitate, and met the challenge.
"Umm, that's not Lake Minnetonka," The Kid informed her.
Triumph dissolved into mortification as she realized her mistake. She had been duped into disrobing in front of a man she had known mere hours.
"You! I'll kill you!" she screamed, trying to wrest leather pants over her wet thighs.
At five years old I couldn't quite grasp the subtleties of what had transpired between Prince and Appolonia as the VHS tape played. What I did know was that I wanted boobs just like hers. Round, ample, perky boobs that bounced when I ran. Even without a lesson on puberty I knew that although my chest looked no different from my older brother's, one day fleshy orbs would grow where none existed.
Then it happened. My best friend KP got her first training bra. She was eleven, I was nine and completely jealous. Although it made sense for her to develop first, I was desperate to play catch up. I spent the entire summer staring at the buds that pressed against her bathing suit's nylon fabric while lamenting the way my pink polka dot bikini top sagged against my body.
The next summer was the same. She kept blooming and I remained dormant. By the time I turned evelen a year later my patience was wearing thin. Fifth grade sex education had taught me about more than just the boobs I desired. I learned that a monthly period, body odor, and pubic hair were going to accompany them. So when I noticed a faint dusting of curly ques sprinkled underneath my arms, I was pretty excited. I was positive that my long coveted breasts were sure to follow. And sure enough they did. That summer two definitive bumps materalized on my chest.
"Do you want to come over and go swimming?" KP stood on my front porch with a beach towel in her hand.
"Yeah, let me go ask my mom."
Within seconds I had permission to play in the new underground, heated pool her grandparents had put in at their home across the street. Immediately I changed into my new black and green two piece. Eager to show off my new figure to the neighborhood kids, I left the T-shirt I normally wore over my bathing suit inside before I sprinted out the door to join the fun.
"Hey! Watch this," I screamed.
I took a running start and jumped off the diving board, tucking my knees to my chest to form the perfect cannon ball. Water flew in all directions. I surfaced and swam toward the shallow end. My next door neighbor, Puny Gonzalez, created a similar splash seconds later, followed by KP's younger brother BP. We dunked each other under the water and sent gallons of water flying onto the surrounding patio. It was sunset when we finally tired of the swimming pool.
I grabbed my towel off a lounge chair and stetched it behind me like a cape.
"Eww, what's that?" KP asked, pointing towards my raised arms.
"What?" I looked around me for a slimy creature of sorts.
"No! Under your arms."
I looked at my armpits to see the the straggly hairs that had been there for the last several weeks. I had no clue what was grossing her out.
"You have hairy pits!" she shouted. "Hey everyone, look at Liz's pits."
Immediately, I clamped my arms to my sides. Puny and BP rushed to where we stood, curious to see the cause of the commotion. KP grabbed my right hand and thrust it into the air.
"Pits!" she yelled. Puny and BP stared at my underarms as she doubled over in laughter.
"Ah, gross. You got bith under your arms," BP said.
I struggled to wrest my hand from her grasp. They were laughing, but I found none of it funny.
"Stop!" I commanded. I jerked away from her and wrapped my towel around my body, wishing I hadn't left my trusty T-shirt at home.
Children have short attention spans, so they left me alone to focus on other endeavors.
"Who wants to play Bloody Murder?" BP asked. The last strains of daylight were fading and the time had come to play our favorite game.
"Yeah, I'll get the other kids," Puny offered. Without waiting for a response he ran off to find The 6 Grade Heartthrob and his younger brother The Verbally Challenged Youth. I ran home to lure my older brother out of his bedroom.
Minutes later we reconvened on my front lawn, KP, BP, Puny, The Heartthrob, TVCY, my brother, and me.
"Who's gonna hide first?" The Heartthrob asked.
Wanting to be the first one to scare the pants off everyone else, I shot my hand into the air.
"Me! I'll hide first."
"Pits!" KP screamed, once again pointing and laughing.
My body tensed and I quickly lowered my hand. I had forgotten to put on a T-shirt while I was in the house. Everyone seized upon me at the same time. For the second time that day, KP lifted my arm in the air to expose my burgeoning pubes.
"Pits!" BP and Puny joined the chorus.
"That's gross," The Heartthrob said.
I tried to wriggle away from KP, but this time she was too strong. She waved my arm in the air and giggled. Under the glare of their ridicule, the hair that I had once been so proud of became toxic.
"Why do you let it grow like that?" BP asked.
I didn't know that I wasn't supposed to "let it grow like that." When the teacher taught us about body hair, she neglected to mention anything about hair removal. Desperate to stop their teasing I rushed inside my house. I ran up the front stairs two by two and headed straight to my parents bathroom. Opening the drawers on my mother's side of the vanity, I searched for the tool to end my problems. I found it in the bottom drawer.
Within seconds, the electric razor was against my armpit removing all evidence that I was in the throes of puberty. There wasn't much hair so the mission was completed within minutes. I cleaned up the hairs that had fallen in the sink and placed the razor back where I found it. I examined my armpits once more to make sure every last hair was gone. Satisfied, I returned to the front yard where everyone was waiting for me.
"What did you go inside for?" KP asked.
I said nothing. The few minutes I spent inside did nothing to curb her desire to tease me. This time when she reached for my arm, I didn't fight her.
"Pits!" she yelled as she hoisted my arm over my head.
A smirk tugged at the corners of my mouth. There was no way they could make fun of me if there was no hair to poke fun at. Their laughs turned to whimpers soon enough.
"Oh, she shaved," BP said. Disappointment tinged his voice.
"It doesn't matter," KP declared. "You're still Pits."
Everyone laughed at her assertion. Although I had rid myself of all evidence, there had been witnesses. It wouldn't matter if I shaved my underarms everyday for the rest of my life because to them, I would always be the girl with the hairy armpits. The humiliation followed me through junior high and most of high school. And to my ultimate dismay, while the armpit hairs grew steadily, my boobs did not.
"Umm, that's not Lake Minnetonka," The Kid informed her.
Triumph dissolved into mortification as she realized her mistake. She had been duped into disrobing in front of a man she had known mere hours.
"You! I'll kill you!" she screamed, trying to wrest leather pants over her wet thighs.
At five years old I couldn't quite grasp the subtleties of what had transpired between Prince and Appolonia as the VHS tape played. What I did know was that I wanted boobs just like hers. Round, ample, perky boobs that bounced when I ran. Even without a lesson on puberty I knew that although my chest looked no different from my older brother's, one day fleshy orbs would grow where none existed.
Then it happened. My best friend KP got her first training bra. She was eleven, I was nine and completely jealous. Although it made sense for her to develop first, I was desperate to play catch up. I spent the entire summer staring at the buds that pressed against her bathing suit's nylon fabric while lamenting the way my pink polka dot bikini top sagged against my body.
The next summer was the same. She kept blooming and I remained dormant. By the time I turned evelen a year later my patience was wearing thin. Fifth grade sex education had taught me about more than just the boobs I desired. I learned that a monthly period, body odor, and pubic hair were going to accompany them. So when I noticed a faint dusting of curly ques sprinkled underneath my arms, I was pretty excited. I was positive that my long coveted breasts were sure to follow. And sure enough they did. That summer two definitive bumps materalized on my chest.
"Do you want to come over and go swimming?" KP stood on my front porch with a beach towel in her hand.
"Yeah, let me go ask my mom."
Within seconds I had permission to play in the new underground, heated pool her grandparents had put in at their home across the street. Immediately I changed into my new black and green two piece. Eager to show off my new figure to the neighborhood kids, I left the T-shirt I normally wore over my bathing suit inside before I sprinted out the door to join the fun.
"Hey! Watch this," I screamed.
I took a running start and jumped off the diving board, tucking my knees to my chest to form the perfect cannon ball. Water flew in all directions. I surfaced and swam toward the shallow end. My next door neighbor, Puny Gonzalez, created a similar splash seconds later, followed by KP's younger brother BP. We dunked each other under the water and sent gallons of water flying onto the surrounding patio. It was sunset when we finally tired of the swimming pool.
I grabbed my towel off a lounge chair and stetched it behind me like a cape.
"Eww, what's that?" KP asked, pointing towards my raised arms.
"What?" I looked around me for a slimy creature of sorts.
"No! Under your arms."
I looked at my armpits to see the the straggly hairs that had been there for the last several weeks. I had no clue what was grossing her out.
"You have hairy pits!" she shouted. "Hey everyone, look at Liz's pits."
Immediately, I clamped my arms to my sides. Puny and BP rushed to where we stood, curious to see the cause of the commotion. KP grabbed my right hand and thrust it into the air.
"Pits!" she yelled. Puny and BP stared at my underarms as she doubled over in laughter.
"Ah, gross. You got bith under your arms," BP said.
I struggled to wrest my hand from her grasp. They were laughing, but I found none of it funny.
"Stop!" I commanded. I jerked away from her and wrapped my towel around my body, wishing I hadn't left my trusty T-shirt at home.
Children have short attention spans, so they left me alone to focus on other endeavors.
"Who wants to play Bloody Murder?" BP asked. The last strains of daylight were fading and the time had come to play our favorite game.
"Yeah, I'll get the other kids," Puny offered. Without waiting for a response he ran off to find The 6 Grade Heartthrob and his younger brother The Verbally Challenged Youth. I ran home to lure my older brother out of his bedroom.
Minutes later we reconvened on my front lawn, KP, BP, Puny, The Heartthrob, TVCY, my brother, and me.
"Who's gonna hide first?" The Heartthrob asked.
Wanting to be the first one to scare the pants off everyone else, I shot my hand into the air.
"Me! I'll hide first."
"Pits!" KP screamed, once again pointing and laughing.
My body tensed and I quickly lowered my hand. I had forgotten to put on a T-shirt while I was in the house. Everyone seized upon me at the same time. For the second time that day, KP lifted my arm in the air to expose my burgeoning pubes.
"Pits!" BP and Puny joined the chorus.
"That's gross," The Heartthrob said.
I tried to wriggle away from KP, but this time she was too strong. She waved my arm in the air and giggled. Under the glare of their ridicule, the hair that I had once been so proud of became toxic.
"Why do you let it grow like that?" BP asked.
I didn't know that I wasn't supposed to "let it grow like that." When the teacher taught us about body hair, she neglected to mention anything about hair removal. Desperate to stop their teasing I rushed inside my house. I ran up the front stairs two by two and headed straight to my parents bathroom. Opening the drawers on my mother's side of the vanity, I searched for the tool to end my problems. I found it in the bottom drawer.
Within seconds, the electric razor was against my armpit removing all evidence that I was in the throes of puberty. There wasn't much hair so the mission was completed within minutes. I cleaned up the hairs that had fallen in the sink and placed the razor back where I found it. I examined my armpits once more to make sure every last hair was gone. Satisfied, I returned to the front yard where everyone was waiting for me.
"What did you go inside for?" KP asked.
I said nothing. The few minutes I spent inside did nothing to curb her desire to tease me. This time when she reached for my arm, I didn't fight her.
"Pits!" she yelled as she hoisted my arm over my head.
A smirk tugged at the corners of my mouth. There was no way they could make fun of me if there was no hair to poke fun at. Their laughs turned to whimpers soon enough.
"Oh, she shaved," BP said. Disappointment tinged his voice.
"It doesn't matter," KP declared. "You're still Pits."
Everyone laughed at her assertion. Although I had rid myself of all evidence, there had been witnesses. It wouldn't matter if I shaved my underarms everyday for the rest of my life because to them, I would always be the girl with the hairy armpits. The humiliation followed me through junior high and most of high school. And to my ultimate dismay, while the armpit hairs grew steadily, my boobs did not.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Drowning
Everything was beautiful. Incandescent lights reflected off the freshly polished hard wood floors. Unknown flowers with long tubular stems that explode into white canopy petals sat in tall vases at the center of all twenty three tables. Fine china, wine glasses, champagne flutes, and flatware were perfectly arranged on the unadorned linen table cloths. The moon, the Hudson, and the Jersey City lights created a surreal backdrop in the ceiling high picture windows. The scene was exquisite, elegant.
They stood in the middle of the floor wrapped in each other's arms. Him in a black tuxedo. Her in a shimmering white gown. Music filled the air, slow and melodic with words no one understood. It didn't matter. The meaning was clear. They were in love and now it was official. They were enchanted by one another and everyone was enchanted by them. I couldn't watch. I didn't want their joy to taint my sadness.
It was too perfect and even though I felt beautiful in my new dress that wrapped around my body, traced my curves and revealed my bust, I knew that I didn't belong. The night was about love, and all I knew was loss. I escaped to the patio. The open bar called.
"I want a screwdriver."
The bartender poured a steady stream of Kettle One into a glass, followed by a splash of orange juice.
"Thank you," I said, taking the glass into my hand. I took a deep breath. It was my fourth visit to the bar that night, but the first to yield more than a chaser. I prepared my throat for the cool burn it hadn't felt in over six years, and took a gulp. The vodka met my lips like a kiss from an old friend. I shuddered at the aftertaste and walked back to my table. I wondered how fast the drink could make me forget.
Being there reminded me that I was alone. I was surrounded by familiar faces that I had known for years, but never really knew. There was nothing to say in college, and even less to say that evening. The seating arrangement was strategic. All of the people who couldn't quite figure out how to find and keep someone were seated together at a table in the back corner, lest we curse the happy couples around us. Or maybe it was a set up so we could find each other. The only person I wanted to find wasn't present.
Two more sips and I was still empty. Red wine, then white wine, a swig of champagne. Nothing worked. I took my phone outside to try and fill the void.
"I'm drinking."
"You're not!" Chesty LaRue was incredulous.
"I want to call him so badly. He would so understand what this is like for me right now. I mean c'mon. A singles table? Please shoot me."
"I know. Just give it some time," she soothed.
Too much time had already passed. He needed space and I needed him. I broke down and sent him a text.
"I'm drinking vodka and it's all your fault," I wrote.
He should've been there with me. It was difficult to remember that even if we were speaking he wouldn't have been by my side. My invitation was for one. I missed him anyways.
My unfinished drinks beckoned. Before I could touch them I was led to the dancefloor. I allowed the man to twirl me around and move in a figure eight. Then I moved to his friend.
"What you want, baby I got it!" I pointed at my partner as I sang along with Aretha. Faking it wasn't a problem. And when the song changed, I nursed more alcohol and hoped an empty stomach and a low tolerance would push me past drunk before I finished the glass. It didn't work.
So I flirted with the guy next to me over baked cod bathed in peanut sauce, with aspargus and potatoes. Then I danced with the best man's father, shaking my hips as fast as I could. I shared a dance with the groom, and moved on to a groomsman. I laughed with a bridesmaid and drank some more with a new "friend." And for a moment the fun was real and I enjoyed myself. When the groomsman took my hand and asked me for another dance, I obliged over and over again until the strains of the last song faded in the air.
I would've gone home happy if my text was returned. But it wasn't. Nothing could feel right because we were all wrong. I was hollow. And leaving with the groomsman's phone number safely stored in my Treo 650 didn't make me feel any better.
They stood in the middle of the floor wrapped in each other's arms. Him in a black tuxedo. Her in a shimmering white gown. Music filled the air, slow and melodic with words no one understood. It didn't matter. The meaning was clear. They were in love and now it was official. They were enchanted by one another and everyone was enchanted by them. I couldn't watch. I didn't want their joy to taint my sadness.
It was too perfect and even though I felt beautiful in my new dress that wrapped around my body, traced my curves and revealed my bust, I knew that I didn't belong. The night was about love, and all I knew was loss. I escaped to the patio. The open bar called.
"I want a screwdriver."
The bartender poured a steady stream of Kettle One into a glass, followed by a splash of orange juice.
"Thank you," I said, taking the glass into my hand. I took a deep breath. It was my fourth visit to the bar that night, but the first to yield more than a chaser. I prepared my throat for the cool burn it hadn't felt in over six years, and took a gulp. The vodka met my lips like a kiss from an old friend. I shuddered at the aftertaste and walked back to my table. I wondered how fast the drink could make me forget.
Being there reminded me that I was alone. I was surrounded by familiar faces that I had known for years, but never really knew. There was nothing to say in college, and even less to say that evening. The seating arrangement was strategic. All of the people who couldn't quite figure out how to find and keep someone were seated together at a table in the back corner, lest we curse the happy couples around us. Or maybe it was a set up so we could find each other. The only person I wanted to find wasn't present.
Two more sips and I was still empty. Red wine, then white wine, a swig of champagne. Nothing worked. I took my phone outside to try and fill the void.
"I'm drinking."
"You're not!" Chesty LaRue was incredulous.
"I want to call him so badly. He would so understand what this is like for me right now. I mean c'mon. A singles table? Please shoot me."
"I know. Just give it some time," she soothed.
Too much time had already passed. He needed space and I needed him. I broke down and sent him a text.
"I'm drinking vodka and it's all your fault," I wrote.
He should've been there with me. It was difficult to remember that even if we were speaking he wouldn't have been by my side. My invitation was for one. I missed him anyways.
My unfinished drinks beckoned. Before I could touch them I was led to the dancefloor. I allowed the man to twirl me around and move in a figure eight. Then I moved to his friend.
"What you want, baby I got it!" I pointed at my partner as I sang along with Aretha. Faking it wasn't a problem. And when the song changed, I nursed more alcohol and hoped an empty stomach and a low tolerance would push me past drunk before I finished the glass. It didn't work.
So I flirted with the guy next to me over baked cod bathed in peanut sauce, with aspargus and potatoes. Then I danced with the best man's father, shaking my hips as fast as I could. I shared a dance with the groom, and moved on to a groomsman. I laughed with a bridesmaid and drank some more with a new "friend." And for a moment the fun was real and I enjoyed myself. When the groomsman took my hand and asked me for another dance, I obliged over and over again until the strains of the last song faded in the air.
I would've gone home happy if my text was returned. But it wasn't. Nothing could feel right because we were all wrong. I was hollow. And leaving with the groomsman's phone number safely stored in my Treo 650 didn't make me feel any better.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
In The Morning
The air is tense, thick with anger, hurt, regret, and longing. It suffocates me. I pick at the untouched breakfast sandwich beside me. Made out of obligation with a splash of contempt, I'm nauseated by the sight of it. My stomach turns and my diaphragm tightens. I double over and rest my head against my knees. Another dry heave.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
The sensation passes and I nod my head. I'll be fine, physically at least. I raise my head and look at him through the screen door. He's bathed in the porch light's glow. Steady rain falls behind him in the morning darkness.
"Now you can tell all your friends I literally made you sick." His laugh is joyless.
I want him to shut up. I wrecked us, but he's determined to destroy anything that's left. This isn't the way we should be, but I seem to be the only one who knows that.
"It's not you," I say. It's the truth. I'm sick of the situation and sick of myself, unfortunately I know I'll never be sick of him. I just want to go back in time and get a do over. I'd retrace my steps and change the last 48 hours. Then I would be munching on the wheat toast, fake eggs, and turkey bacon. He wouldn't be mad.
I rest my head on the kitchen table. I broke it, but I want him to fix it.
"See what you're making me do," he says.
He brings the cigarette to his lips and pulls hard. His bare chest expands. I can sense the heat rushing down his throat, the physical pain matching the inner turmoil. He exhales a cloud of carbon monoxide and toxins, then brings the silver thermos to his mouth. I have nothing to say. I hate cigarettes. He knows that. Without a word he takes another drag. In the moment of silence, with a smoky haze surrounding him, he's beautiful. I could sit there forever watching him smoke and drink coffee.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
The sensation passes and I nod my head. I'll be fine, physically at least. I raise my head and look at him through the screen door. He's bathed in the porch light's glow. Steady rain falls behind him in the morning darkness.
"Now you can tell all your friends I literally made you sick." His laugh is joyless.
I want him to shut up. I wrecked us, but he's determined to destroy anything that's left. This isn't the way we should be, but I seem to be the only one who knows that.
"It's not you," I say. It's the truth. I'm sick of the situation and sick of myself, unfortunately I know I'll never be sick of him. I just want to go back in time and get a do over. I'd retrace my steps and change the last 48 hours. Then I would be munching on the wheat toast, fake eggs, and turkey bacon. He wouldn't be mad.
I rest my head on the kitchen table. I broke it, but I want him to fix it.
"See what you're making me do," he says.
He brings the cigarette to his lips and pulls hard. His bare chest expands. I can sense the heat rushing down his throat, the physical pain matching the inner turmoil. He exhales a cloud of carbon monoxide and toxins, then brings the silver thermos to his mouth. I have nothing to say. I hate cigarettes. He knows that. Without a word he takes another drag. In the moment of silence, with a smoky haze surrounding him, he's beautiful. I could sit there forever watching him smoke and drink coffee.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Oops I Did It Again
When I go to New York City, I spend money, lots of it. Between dining at the finest chicken spots on the corner of E 219 St and White Plains Road, the small boutique on 135th Street between 7th and 8th, and cover charges and drinks (that I don't partake in) at the club on 54th between 2nd and 3rd, my money drains from my account faster than I can keep track of. Knowing this, I prepare for the spending spree. I make sure all of my bills are paid, then I designate a few hundred to my weekend excursion and hope there's just enough left over to get me to my next check without dipping into my savings account. I'm all about fiscal responsibility. Yes, I will spend and then spend some more, however I will not spend money that I do not have. At least not so far from my next check.
After the last time I threw my bank account into chaos, I promised myself that I would be more diligent about tracking my finances. I balanced my checkbook regularly, paid off all of my credit card debt, cancelled unused accounts, and budgeted my money. I even increased my investment capital, hiding a large percent of my liquid assets in untouchable savings vehicles. I was being responsible with my money and felt perfectly fine with my financial situation when I embarked on my Labor Day journey to the happiest place on Earth. I had a good amount of money to spend on my usual pursuits and felt perfectly capable of staying within my budget.
Five days later, I am once again wondering how my bank account will recover. Oh why did I hide my money from myself? Maybe because I knew I would spend it if I didn't. It started with "necessary" cell phone equipment that I still can't figure out how to use and probably doesn't work anyways. Then there was the unexpected five hour hotel stay (I was by myself so get your mind out the gutter), which really wasn't that expensive, but still cost money I didn't have. Now, most people would make adjustments when emergency expenses happen. Cut back here and there to make up for it. Not, I. I go shopping and purchase a $250 shirt and justify it by passing it off as a dress ($250 for a dress is definitely reasonable). Spending $250 on one item was more than I could handle, so I decided to spend $400 in total on three items to make myself feel like a saavy shopper. I knew I was going over the edge when I stood at the check out counter at my favorite store trying to convince Capital One to give me the account number for the credit card I cut up so I could purchase a $350 snakeskin purse that perfectly matched a reasonably priced wrap dress that was only worth purchasing if the purse was part of the transaction. Thank God, Capital One told me no. The weekend could've gotten very ugly.
I'm back home now and my account is obliterated. Decisions I made several weeks ago are making it difficult to cover my ass while each transaction materializes and gets deducted. I don't get paid for over a week and I have nada to get me through to the next cycle. At least I'm not in debt. That's the only good thing I can hold on to. I could live with no dinners, movies, and shopping trips. And I do have some amazing clothes in my possession (which I will wear everyday and twice on Sunday to get my money's worth). But my stomach is grumbling and I have no groceries and no money to buy them. Too bad I can't eat my new shirt/not quite dress.
After the last time I threw my bank account into chaos, I promised myself that I would be more diligent about tracking my finances. I balanced my checkbook regularly, paid off all of my credit card debt, cancelled unused accounts, and budgeted my money. I even increased my investment capital, hiding a large percent of my liquid assets in untouchable savings vehicles. I was being responsible with my money and felt perfectly fine with my financial situation when I embarked on my Labor Day journey to the happiest place on Earth. I had a good amount of money to spend on my usual pursuits and felt perfectly capable of staying within my budget.
Five days later, I am once again wondering how my bank account will recover. Oh why did I hide my money from myself? Maybe because I knew I would spend it if I didn't. It started with "necessary" cell phone equipment that I still can't figure out how to use and probably doesn't work anyways. Then there was the unexpected five hour hotel stay (I was by myself so get your mind out the gutter), which really wasn't that expensive, but still cost money I didn't have. Now, most people would make adjustments when emergency expenses happen. Cut back here and there to make up for it. Not, I. I go shopping and purchase a $250 shirt and justify it by passing it off as a dress ($250 for a dress is definitely reasonable). Spending $250 on one item was more than I could handle, so I decided to spend $400 in total on three items to make myself feel like a saavy shopper. I knew I was going over the edge when I stood at the check out counter at my favorite store trying to convince Capital One to give me the account number for the credit card I cut up so I could purchase a $350 snakeskin purse that perfectly matched a reasonably priced wrap dress that was only worth purchasing if the purse was part of the transaction. Thank God, Capital One told me no. The weekend could've gotten very ugly.
I'm back home now and my account is obliterated. Decisions I made several weeks ago are making it difficult to cover my ass while each transaction materializes and gets deducted. I don't get paid for over a week and I have nada to get me through to the next cycle. At least I'm not in debt. That's the only good thing I can hold on to. I could live with no dinners, movies, and shopping trips. And I do have some amazing clothes in my possession (which I will wear everyday and twice on Sunday to get my money's worth). But my stomach is grumbling and I have no groceries and no money to buy them. Too bad I can't eat my new shirt/not quite dress.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Don't Speak
Women talk. It's a fact of life like taxes, underpaying jobs, and the freshman fifteen. We talk when we're happy, when we're bored, when we're sad, when we're angy, when we're confused. We talk all the damn time. We even talk when we're not supposed to.
It's difficult for me to keep my life to myself. I like confirmations and validations regarding what I think, feel, and do. Advice. That's what it's called. What should I do? What does this mean? Advice isn't free, though. I have to give the story to get the answers I seek. Usually there's no harm in telling a story. It's my business and if I choose to let someone in on my world the only person it affects is me. But sometimes it's not just my story. When it's our story, it's not mine to tell.
I couldn't help myself. I was happy, confused, giddy, and in desperate need of an outlet. I called Chesty LaRue and told her everything. She listened as I recounted the details. How it started, where it was going, the potential pitfalls, and why I was out of my blasted mind for even putting myself in the situation. Chesty is awesome. She's objective and tells me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. She made me think, and the thoughts weren't pretty. Talking to Chesty wasn't a mistake. Telling him I talked to Chesty was.
Normally, I'm an excellent liar. Spinning believable stories is an artform I've mastered. But there are some people I can't lie to. They ask, I answer. Hell, sometimes I even offer information. Certain situations require full disclosure. When it's all said and done, they can't say I lied to them. When I brought my doubts to him, he asked where they came from. I told him the truth.
"Why did you say something to her?"
Because women talk. It's a fact of life.
Saying something to Chesty wasn't a big deal. Saying something to my other friends was. Friends call and ask about my life and I tell them. It's not a big deal to me, but it is to him. In my mind he was overreacting. What could possibly go wrong. Yes, my friends ask questions, make comments, and give suggestions. But in the end, I always do what I want regardless. Their views may plant seeds, but they never sway me. He said it would only lead to trouble. I didn't believe him. He was right.
Sharing isn't caring when all parties are gathered at the same location and large amounts of alcohol are being consumed. Sharing turns into melee. He said this, she said that. "Listen to me. I'm your friend." "No, listen to me, I won't lie to you." All of a sudden, we're no longer in our mid twenties with good careers. We're 16 years old arguing in the middle of the cafeteria. Scenes are memorable in high school, not so much at 3 a.m. outside a packed club.
I have no clue how it all snowballed out of control. Maybe we were in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. Maybe talking is okay when the parties talked to never meet the parties talked about. Maybe I should just keep my damn mouth shut for once. Maybe I haven't learned my lesson because all I really want to do is call a friend and spill my guts.
It's difficult for me to keep my life to myself. I like confirmations and validations regarding what I think, feel, and do. Advice. That's what it's called. What should I do? What does this mean? Advice isn't free, though. I have to give the story to get the answers I seek. Usually there's no harm in telling a story. It's my business and if I choose to let someone in on my world the only person it affects is me. But sometimes it's not just my story. When it's our story, it's not mine to tell.
I couldn't help myself. I was happy, confused, giddy, and in desperate need of an outlet. I called Chesty LaRue and told her everything. She listened as I recounted the details. How it started, where it was going, the potential pitfalls, and why I was out of my blasted mind for even putting myself in the situation. Chesty is awesome. She's objective and tells me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. She made me think, and the thoughts weren't pretty. Talking to Chesty wasn't a mistake. Telling him I talked to Chesty was.
Normally, I'm an excellent liar. Spinning believable stories is an artform I've mastered. But there are some people I can't lie to. They ask, I answer. Hell, sometimes I even offer information. Certain situations require full disclosure. When it's all said and done, they can't say I lied to them. When I brought my doubts to him, he asked where they came from. I told him the truth.
"Why did you say something to her?"
Because women talk. It's a fact of life.
Saying something to Chesty wasn't a big deal. Saying something to my other friends was. Friends call and ask about my life and I tell them. It's not a big deal to me, but it is to him. In my mind he was overreacting. What could possibly go wrong. Yes, my friends ask questions, make comments, and give suggestions. But in the end, I always do what I want regardless. Their views may plant seeds, but they never sway me. He said it would only lead to trouble. I didn't believe him. He was right.
Sharing isn't caring when all parties are gathered at the same location and large amounts of alcohol are being consumed. Sharing turns into melee. He said this, she said that. "Listen to me. I'm your friend." "No, listen to me, I won't lie to you." All of a sudden, we're no longer in our mid twenties with good careers. We're 16 years old arguing in the middle of the cafeteria. Scenes are memorable in high school, not so much at 3 a.m. outside a packed club.
I have no clue how it all snowballed out of control. Maybe we were in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. Maybe talking is okay when the parties talked to never meet the parties talked about. Maybe I should just keep my damn mouth shut for once. Maybe I haven't learned my lesson because all I really want to do is call a friend and spill my guts.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Doing Too Much
I push send and wait for the confirmation. That's five texts in less than five hours, with no response in sight. Each message is more desperate than the one before it. "Hey! What's up," turns into "Are you there?" which turns into "I need to talk to you," which runs headfirst into "I miss you." Nothing works, and I am starting to wonder what I have to do to get a reply.
It wasn't like this before. I never had to wait to hear from him or have my calls returned. I didn't have to walk on eggshells, avoiding the landmines of desperation and the pitfalls of too much pressure. I had access whenever and wherever I wanted. But it's no longer like that. I'm shut out now, banging my head against a bolted door hoping that it will open. I can wait it out.
Then I start to think. What if I wait and what if he opens up again. Then what? Is he mine? Not necessarily. And what does having him really represent. Will he communicate, tell me how he feels, be there when I need him? Probably not. Five texts, two voicemails, countless calls. What the hell for? Why am I begging him to want me again. So we can be us for a second time? We were issues oriented at our best. I'm putting myself through hell waiting on him to tell me yes. I'm doing way too much for what I might get in return. Fuck it. I'm done.
It wasn't like this before. I never had to wait to hear from him or have my calls returned. I didn't have to walk on eggshells, avoiding the landmines of desperation and the pitfalls of too much pressure. I had access whenever and wherever I wanted. But it's no longer like that. I'm shut out now, banging my head against a bolted door hoping that it will open. I can wait it out.
Then I start to think. What if I wait and what if he opens up again. Then what? Is he mine? Not necessarily. And what does having him really represent. Will he communicate, tell me how he feels, be there when I need him? Probably not. Five texts, two voicemails, countless calls. What the hell for? Why am I begging him to want me again. So we can be us for a second time? We were issues oriented at our best. I'm putting myself through hell waiting on him to tell me yes. I'm doing way too much for what I might get in return. Fuck it. I'm done.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Persistance Overcomes Resistance
Two months before my 20th birthday, I made a decision. I was going to get married before my 30th birthday. Although ten years is plenty of time to make it happen, I had the feeling that I didn't have any time to spare. My prospects were bleak, and if past performance is a good indicator of the future, they would remain bleak for a while. Not wanting to make my mission any harder than it already seemed, I decided I would not press my luck. Thinking about all of my friends, I realized that if they got married before me I'd probably be a bridesmaid more times than I could stomach. Everyone says, "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride," and I didn't want that to apply to me. Yet, I still wanted to be a part of my friends' wedding days (whenever they would be). Then it hit me, I could still play a major part in any friends' nuptials. They may say, "always a bridesmaid, never a bride," but they don't say anything about being a flower girl.
At first it seemed like a radical idea. Who ever heard of an adult flower girl? Especially an adult flower girl who's taller than many grooms. But one day while discussing weekend plans with a classmate, I learned that adult flower girls were not a mythical species.
"Yeah, so I'm going to my cousin's wedding this weekend," she said.
"Oh, that's cool. Are you in the wedding?" I replied.
"Nope, but my twin is gonna be the flower girl."
And with that sentence hope was born.
I presented the idea to all my close friends, who immediately laughed in my face.
"Umm, isn't the flower girl supposed to be a little girl? Don't you think you're too old? Yeah, you're too tall to be a flower girl."
I had expected some resistance to my plan, but the outright opposition surprised me. I'm absolutely adorable! How could anyone not want me as their flower girl. Obviously, they would need more in order to see the vision.
A campaign was born, complete with flower throwing demonstration and visualization exercises.
"Aren't flower girls supposed to be little girls?"
"Little girls have temper tantrums and can ruin the wedding."
"You're too tall!"
"I'll wear flats."
Whatever the objection, I had an answer. I even considered having head shots made so people could get a better idea of just how cute I can be. Even with my full fledged "Liz For Flower Girl" campaign, my friends still refused to support. Refusing to be thwarted, I offered my services elsewhere. Whenever anyone mentioned an engagement the first thing I said was, "I'm available if you need a flower girl." It didn't matter if it was an acquaintance, coworker, perfect stranger, I put it out there. I figured, I wouldn't know for sure unless I asked. I got five consecutive years of "No!"
In December 2005 when my good friend and sorority sister announced her engagement, I went through the routine.
"Can I be your flower girl?"
"No."
"But a little girl can ruin the wedding."
"I don't even think I'm gonna have a flower girl. I don't want kids in the wedding."
I didn't realize it then, but that would be the silver lining in the dark cloud of rejection. Normally when I put in my application to be a flower girl, I'm competing with several four year olds with cherubic cheeks and wide eyes. This time I had no competition, I only had to overcome her hesitations.
Several months later in a bridal shop in Brooklyn, I got the assistance I needed. While my friend was in the fitting room trying on a gown, I flipped through a magazine.
"If only they made these flower girl dresses in my size. I would be so adorable."
"Liz, you're too big to be a flower girl!" she admonished as she stepped out of the fitting room.
"Actually, I've heard of older women being the flower girl," the shop owner chimed in.
Finally a voice reason.
"Yeah," she continued, "Of course they don't wear white like a little girl would, but I've definitely heard of it. They're called flower maids or something like that."
I shot my friend a hopeful glance and I could tell she was mulling over the idea. The seed was planted.
Two months later I got a phone call.
"So, I wanted to ask if you'd like to be in my wedding. I don't really know the exact capacity. But would you like to be the flower maiden or something like that?"
"I'd love to!" I was beaming. After years of trying, I would finally get my chance. We decided I would wear a pink A-line halter dress with ballet flats. I'd also have a basket with flowers to throw down the aisle. There would be no little girls, just me. I was estatic!
On June 10th, 2006 I woke early to prepare for my big day. I washed and detangled the fro, shaved my legs and got a pedicure. The next few hours I practiced looking as innocent as possible. I kept the makeup and jewelry to a minimum in order to help the effort. Then at 6 p.m. I lined up outside the Grammercy mansion in Baltimore, MD. The processional music started and the wedding planner cued the bridesmaids. One by one they walked down the aisle towards the awaiting pastor.
"Now go!" the wedding planner pointed at me.
Clutching my white basket filled with pink and orange rose petals, I walked to the threshold. I took a step, then threw a handful of flowers in front of me. The guests stared, initially confused. The giggles started when they finally comprehended what I was doing. I looked to my left and saw my sorority sisters shaking their heads at me in disbelief. Step by step I made my way down the aisle, leaving a trail of rose petals in my wake. My basket was empty just as I reached my destination. I had done it! I had proven all of my detractors wrong. Grown women who are nearly six feet tall make exceptional flower girls!
At first it seemed like a radical idea. Who ever heard of an adult flower girl? Especially an adult flower girl who's taller than many grooms. But one day while discussing weekend plans with a classmate, I learned that adult flower girls were not a mythical species.
"Yeah, so I'm going to my cousin's wedding this weekend," she said.
"Oh, that's cool. Are you in the wedding?" I replied.
"Nope, but my twin is gonna be the flower girl."
And with that sentence hope was born.
I presented the idea to all my close friends, who immediately laughed in my face.
"Umm, isn't the flower girl supposed to be a little girl? Don't you think you're too old? Yeah, you're too tall to be a flower girl."
I had expected some resistance to my plan, but the outright opposition surprised me. I'm absolutely adorable! How could anyone not want me as their flower girl. Obviously, they would need more in order to see the vision.
A campaign was born, complete with flower throwing demonstration and visualization exercises.
"Aren't flower girls supposed to be little girls?"
"Little girls have temper tantrums and can ruin the wedding."
"You're too tall!"
"I'll wear flats."
Whatever the objection, I had an answer. I even considered having head shots made so people could get a better idea of just how cute I can be. Even with my full fledged "Liz For Flower Girl" campaign, my friends still refused to support. Refusing to be thwarted, I offered my services elsewhere. Whenever anyone mentioned an engagement the first thing I said was, "I'm available if you need a flower girl." It didn't matter if it was an acquaintance, coworker, perfect stranger, I put it out there. I figured, I wouldn't know for sure unless I asked. I got five consecutive years of "No!"
In December 2005 when my good friend and sorority sister announced her engagement, I went through the routine.
"Can I be your flower girl?"
"No."
"But a little girl can ruin the wedding."
"I don't even think I'm gonna have a flower girl. I don't want kids in the wedding."
I didn't realize it then, but that would be the silver lining in the dark cloud of rejection. Normally when I put in my application to be a flower girl, I'm competing with several four year olds with cherubic cheeks and wide eyes. This time I had no competition, I only had to overcome her hesitations.
Several months later in a bridal shop in Brooklyn, I got the assistance I needed. While my friend was in the fitting room trying on a gown, I flipped through a magazine.
"If only they made these flower girl dresses in my size. I would be so adorable."
"Liz, you're too big to be a flower girl!" she admonished as she stepped out of the fitting room.
"Actually, I've heard of older women being the flower girl," the shop owner chimed in.
Finally a voice reason.
"Yeah," she continued, "Of course they don't wear white like a little girl would, but I've definitely heard of it. They're called flower maids or something like that."
I shot my friend a hopeful glance and I could tell she was mulling over the idea. The seed was planted.
Two months later I got a phone call.
"So, I wanted to ask if you'd like to be in my wedding. I don't really know the exact capacity. But would you like to be the flower maiden or something like that?"
"I'd love to!" I was beaming. After years of trying, I would finally get my chance. We decided I would wear a pink A-line halter dress with ballet flats. I'd also have a basket with flowers to throw down the aisle. There would be no little girls, just me. I was estatic!
On June 10th, 2006 I woke early to prepare for my big day. I washed and detangled the fro, shaved my legs and got a pedicure. The next few hours I practiced looking as innocent as possible. I kept the makeup and jewelry to a minimum in order to help the effort. Then at 6 p.m. I lined up outside the Grammercy mansion in Baltimore, MD. The processional music started and the wedding planner cued the bridesmaids. One by one they walked down the aisle towards the awaiting pastor.
"Now go!" the wedding planner pointed at me.
Clutching my white basket filled with pink and orange rose petals, I walked to the threshold. I took a step, then threw a handful of flowers in front of me. The guests stared, initially confused. The giggles started when they finally comprehended what I was doing. I looked to my left and saw my sorority sisters shaking their heads at me in disbelief. Step by step I made my way down the aisle, leaving a trail of rose petals in my wake. My basket was empty just as I reached my destination. I had done it! I had proven all of my detractors wrong. Grown women who are nearly six feet tall make exceptional flower girls!
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Resume Dating
She was on the verge of tears for the second time in one night. He'd done it again and she couldn't understand why he treated her as though she didn't matter.
"Why do you still want him?" I asked.
"I don't know," she answered between sobs. "He's a really good guy, and I know that I'm not going to find someone that has all his qualities."
"Ummm, what's so great about him?"
"Well, he's college educated, got a good job, his own place, no kids. Plus he's really good looking, goal oriented and all that stuff."
And there it was. Like so many women before her, including me, she had mistaken qualifications for qualities.
Everyone has standards. Whether they write it on stationary and tuck it under their pillow at night, or keep it stored in a corner of their mind, everyone has a list of everything they want in a mate. Honest, kind, loyal, smart, funny, musical, artistic, educated, driven, spiritual, logical, sane, and the list goes on and on. And as much as people are loathe to admit it, the packaging those qualities come in is pretty darn important as well. Personally, I prefer honest, kind, loyal, smart, funny, etc. to come in a very tall, very cute, gainfully employed package.
It seems the older and more accomplished my friends and I become, the more emphasis we put on the packaging rather than the contents. Whenever we brag about the men in our lives (they brag, I listen) it usually sounds like, "He's 2_, an engineer, has his own house, and is working on his masters degree." Then we all agree that our friend really has found a wonderful man. Fast forward two weeks when he's stood her up for the fourth time in five dates and won't return her calls and we're calling him the scum of the Earth. But the worst part of it all, is that no matter who this happens to, we still want to hang on to him, cause we're sure that he really is a great guy. I mean, he's an engineer with his own house whose working on his masters degree. That says it all.
In the last few months, I've learned a valuable lesson from Chesty LaRue. Since the turn of the century, Chesty has had the misfortune of dating several successful men (in addition to the Broke Ass Niggas she also attracts.) She's dated a Wall Street trader, an engineer, and something else that I can't remember right now. All of them were supposedly a good catch, except for the fact that they lied, cheated, and basically treated her like shit. After the last "great guy" acted a damn fool, Chesty decided she was taking a break from men. And the moment she stopped looking, someone found her. She met a man who is attentive, kind, funny, and best of all adores the ground she walks on. And she got all these things in an unemployed, ex-con, multiple babies' daddy who's an aspiring rapper. He's by no means a perfect man, as he does have a tendency to stupid shit on occassion. However, he makes her happy which is more than I can say for the others.
Dating is a lot like job searching. You present your qualifications, go on a few interviews, hope for a call back, go on some more interviews, and hope someone picks you for the job. I think a lot of women wind up falling for a guy's resume before he ever has an interview. But it's important to remember that just because a guy looks good on paper, it doesn't mean he's a good guy.
"Why do you still want him?" I asked.
"I don't know," she answered between sobs. "He's a really good guy, and I know that I'm not going to find someone that has all his qualities."
"Ummm, what's so great about him?"
"Well, he's college educated, got a good job, his own place, no kids. Plus he's really good looking, goal oriented and all that stuff."
And there it was. Like so many women before her, including me, she had mistaken qualifications for qualities.
Everyone has standards. Whether they write it on stationary and tuck it under their pillow at night, or keep it stored in a corner of their mind, everyone has a list of everything they want in a mate. Honest, kind, loyal, smart, funny, musical, artistic, educated, driven, spiritual, logical, sane, and the list goes on and on. And as much as people are loathe to admit it, the packaging those qualities come in is pretty darn important as well. Personally, I prefer honest, kind, loyal, smart, funny, etc. to come in a very tall, very cute, gainfully employed package.
It seems the older and more accomplished my friends and I become, the more emphasis we put on the packaging rather than the contents. Whenever we brag about the men in our lives (they brag, I listen) it usually sounds like, "He's 2_, an engineer, has his own house, and is working on his masters degree." Then we all agree that our friend really has found a wonderful man. Fast forward two weeks when he's stood her up for the fourth time in five dates and won't return her calls and we're calling him the scum of the Earth. But the worst part of it all, is that no matter who this happens to, we still want to hang on to him, cause we're sure that he really is a great guy. I mean, he's an engineer with his own house whose working on his masters degree. That says it all.
In the last few months, I've learned a valuable lesson from Chesty LaRue. Since the turn of the century, Chesty has had the misfortune of dating several successful men (in addition to the Broke Ass Niggas she also attracts.) She's dated a Wall Street trader, an engineer, and something else that I can't remember right now. All of them were supposedly a good catch, except for the fact that they lied, cheated, and basically treated her like shit. After the last "great guy" acted a damn fool, Chesty decided she was taking a break from men. And the moment she stopped looking, someone found her. She met a man who is attentive, kind, funny, and best of all adores the ground she walks on. And she got all these things in an unemployed, ex-con, multiple babies' daddy who's an aspiring rapper. He's by no means a perfect man, as he does have a tendency to stupid shit on occassion. However, he makes her happy which is more than I can say for the others.
Dating is a lot like job searching. You present your qualifications, go on a few interviews, hope for a call back, go on some more interviews, and hope someone picks you for the job. I think a lot of women wind up falling for a guy's resume before he ever has an interview. But it's important to remember that just because a guy looks good on paper, it doesn't mean he's a good guy.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Join the Club
I spent almost two hours of my evening plastered to You Tube. It's Nick at Nite's fault. Ashley was singing on Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire. She was on a stage, dressed in Cross Colors, a bra top, and Doc Martins. Suddenly I'm back in 1993 sitting cross legged on the living room floor enraptured by different teens on a different screen. I saw Rhona and Ricky and Britney and Justin and Christina. I saw flannel and velvet body suits. I saw the Mickey Mouse Club and in that moment I had to see it again for real.
Seek and ye will find. And find I did. The Season 6 opener, the Season 1 ending credits, Dale/Justin/JC/and Ryan singing "Cry For You," Christina singing "I'm Not Over You," and so much more. I watched it all. And once the laughter dissipated, the longing set in. Thirteen years later, I still want to be a Mousketeer.
I never watched, I studied. Every song, every dance, every skit. I would stand up in front of the television and copy their choreography, just to make sure I could keep up. Thanks to six years of dance lessons I could. And I sang a mean rendition of that song that goes, "Too many walls have been built in between us. Too many dreams have been shattered around us. If I choose to give up, I still never win. Deep in my heart I know that truth is within." All I had to do is wait for the auditions to roll into my town and I could join the Club.
Unfortunately I'm still waiting. The show got cancelled, and even with the renewed interest due to the success of several alums, I doubt they'll bring it back. But if by some miracle The Disney Channel recognized the error of its ways and resurrected the Mickey Mouse Club, then what? According to a friend, I'm too old and too tall to audition. Plus, my voice isn't what it used to be and could possibly be mistaken for a dying hyenna.
Even though I know time has passed me by, I'm still preparing for my shot. I still study, except now BET and MTV are my teachers. Not one video can play without me getting up just to make sure I can do it too. My latest inspiration is Danity Kane (courtesy of Diddy!). Today, I felt an inexplicable compulsion to stay in front of the mirror in only a bra and panties, practicing the dance in their Show Stopper video until I could smell myself. I was gyrating, popping, and winding my heart out. And when I fell on my ass for the fifth time because my knees just can't handle dropping it like it's hot, I had to wonder why the hell I can't just let it go?
Seek and ye will find. And find I did. The Season 6 opener, the Season 1 ending credits, Dale/Justin/JC/and Ryan singing "Cry For You," Christina singing "I'm Not Over You," and so much more. I watched it all. And once the laughter dissipated, the longing set in. Thirteen years later, I still want to be a Mousketeer.
I never watched, I studied. Every song, every dance, every skit. I would stand up in front of the television and copy their choreography, just to make sure I could keep up. Thanks to six years of dance lessons I could. And I sang a mean rendition of that song that goes, "Too many walls have been built in between us. Too many dreams have been shattered around us. If I choose to give up, I still never win. Deep in my heart I know that truth is within." All I had to do is wait for the auditions to roll into my town and I could join the Club.
Unfortunately I'm still waiting. The show got cancelled, and even with the renewed interest due to the success of several alums, I doubt they'll bring it back. But if by some miracle The Disney Channel recognized the error of its ways and resurrected the Mickey Mouse Club, then what? According to a friend, I'm too old and too tall to audition. Plus, my voice isn't what it used to be and could possibly be mistaken for a dying hyenna.
Even though I know time has passed me by, I'm still preparing for my shot. I still study, except now BET and MTV are my teachers. Not one video can play without me getting up just to make sure I can do it too. My latest inspiration is Danity Kane (courtesy of Diddy!). Today, I felt an inexplicable compulsion to stay in front of the mirror in only a bra and panties, practicing the dance in their Show Stopper video until I could smell myself. I was gyrating, popping, and winding my heart out. And when I fell on my ass for the fifth time because my knees just can't handle dropping it like it's hot, I had to wonder why the hell I can't just let it go?
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