Men should come with expiration dates. It's only fair a woman know in advance how long a man is good for before he goes bad. Some guys are like cereal, and as long as you keep them properly stored, they last a couple months before going stale. Others are like produce, cause you've gotta use them pretty quickly before they spoil. Then some guys are like boxed rice. You can keep them in the cupboard for years and they'll still be as fresh as the day you bought 'em. Now in my lifetime, I've never dated a box of rice. Honestly, I probably wouldn't even know where to shop for one. For a few years, I hung out in the cereal aisle. But those Froot Loops didn't last very long. However, in the last year or so, I have the disturbing habit of hanging out in the produce aisle. That's the only way to explain my penchant for 2 week "relationships."
Before The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry came along (I went back to cereal with him), for some reason flies had longer lifespans than the men I was dealing with. I can't lie and say that I didn't know that these men weren't going to last forever. Sometimes a girl can't really commit to consuming a pantry full of unperishable items. However, I'm not stupid enough to purposely choose overripe product that's about to spoil (or just go through some shit right now). There are two ways to get your produce: in single servings or in bulk. In both cases you know going in that it ain't gonna last, however you expect the bulk items to last longer. In the case of single servings , it's okay to buy the produce that's really ripe, cause you only want it once (1 red delicious apple, 1 Sunkist orange), and then you're done with it. Sometimes when you've got a craving all you need to do is satisfy it and then be done. You buy in bulk when you need to get yourself through a season. You buy the bag of under ripe fruit and stick it in the fridge and stretch out the consumption over the course of several weeks until there is either no more left or rotting sets in. The goal is to use it up before it spoils, so as not to waste time or money. Now, I'm more of a bulk girl. I'm not a fan of single servings cause the satisfaction they bring is so temporary. I swear that the men I've dated over the last year didn't appear to be rotting when I made my purchase, but within two weeks they were maggot ridden. If had known they had such short shelf lives, I would've left their asses alone. But alas, I was fooled.
A couple of days ago I was on the phone with Chesty LaRue. She recently started seeing this guy she met while hanging out with friends. Old boy made the greivous mistake of not calling when he said he would and Chesty was already starting to wonder if it was the beginning of the end (failure to do what you say you're gonna do when you say you're gonna do it, is a clear sign of trouble). She mentioned that the men in her life seemed to crash and burn sooner and sooner into the involvement. This got me to thinking about my own dating life. I used to firmly believe that most relationships never made it past the 90 day mark. Those 90 days could evenly be divided into two distinct stages: heaven, then hell complete with a crash and burn finale. Nowadays it's seeming like 90 days is an eternity, I've seen a lot of budding romances killed within two weeks. One week of bliss and one week of bullshit before people decide to go their separate ways. There was once a time when I could expect a man to act right for at least a month. Now I'm surprised if a guy lasts a week before screwing up. There used to be a grace period when men were sweet, reliable, attentive, affectionate, and all the good stuff girls go for. That grace period gets shorter and shorter as I get older and older. What's up with that? If I'm honest with myself, I'm really past the point of wanting to buy produce. It's a waste of time and money to spend my resources on stuff that I know will go bad or just leave me hungry. Next time a dude comes my way, he better be non-perishable.
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Friday, February 24, 2006
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Oversight
If someone were to ask me what is my favorite thing to do, I'd probably say going to the club. Yeah I know that's the typical chicken head answer, but hey it's the truth, so if that makes me a chicken then I say, "BUKAAWWHHH!!!" But here's the thing, I don't go to just any old club. Over the past six years or so my tastes have become very refined. Only establishments catering to a predomoninately young (22-30) black professional (i.e. bougie) clientele, featuring the best DJ's playing hip-hop, R&B, and reggae, with no metal detectors at the entrance are eligible to receive my patronage. Well, that was the case until I moved to Grand Rapids. Now my favorite place in the world to be on a weekend night is at Billy's dancing my ass off to the best 80s pop music with a bunch of white folks. Why the sudden change? Well I still love hip hop music and the uppity Negro clubs like Vision in ATL and Float in NYC, however I've been forced to expand my horizons since that fateful June night in 2004 when I tried clubbing with the black folks in Grand Rapids. NEVER AGAIN!
On my first visit to Grand Rapids after I accepted the transfer my company offered, I decided to get acclimated to the place that would soon be my new home. I found a place to live within 48 hours, a church to visit, and even a salon to get my hair done. Wandering aimlessly around the "city" streets, I decided to find some potential friends and a good place for me to "back that thang up." Having no fear, I walked into a barber shop and introduced myself to the owners and customers. I told them I was moving to town very shortly and wanted to find the black folks. I asked where we all hung out and what clubs catered to us, making sure to clarify what type of place I was looking to find. Well Mr. Barber tells me that on Saturday nights all the black folks would be at the Howlin Moon. He assures me that it's not rowdy or ghetto (i.e. the club doesn't get shot up on a weekly basis) and the crowd is young and real cool. He flashes me a smile that would make Paul Wall proud and I thanked him for the information and decided to check the place out later that night. After I left I headed to the mall to see the caliber of shopping Grand Rapids would be offering me. Not shit, I soon found out. However, while browsing one of the stores, I came across a sales lady who appeared to be around my age. Once again I explained my plight (new to town, no friends, looking for a good time). She was really friendly and let me know that she would also be going to the Howlin Moon that evening and invited me to tag along with her and some friends. I was so grateful to find a companion that I didn't even notice that the name above her phone number was spelled T-E-Q-U-I-L-A.
I headed back to my hotel to change for the evening, then called my new found friend for directions to her place. As I'm driving across town in my rental, I notice that the closer I get to her residence, the more peeling paint, boarded windows, and collapsing porches decorate the houses. Still, I thought nothing of it. When I pull up in front of the address she gave me a pack of white T clad dudes are posted on the sidewalk just chillin. I walk past them without too much harassment and knock on the door. She answers dressed in a white cotton tennis skirt, a jersey, baseball cap, and Air Force 1s. Not exactly what I would wear, but it's all good. I thought nothing of it. A few minutes later we leave for the club.
Pulling up in the parking lot, I see that the full name of the joint is The Howlin Moon Saloon. Interesting name...it even rhymed. But I thought nothing of it. The parking lot was a party in and of itself, with hordes of people congregating in what are supposed to be parking spaces not outdoor lounge spaces. But whatever, all I want to do is get inside and get my dance on with all the other young black professionals in Grand Rapids. Waiting on line I look around and see an abundance of throwback jerseys, Nikes, tatoos, and mouth jewlery. I suddenly thought to myself, "These ladies sure dress casual for the nice clubs in town." As I near the front of the line I hear the bouncer telling folks to get out their IDs and that the cover is $10, unless you don't have an ID in which case the charge goes up to $20. Interesting. Where I'm from, no ID means no entry...but hey different places do different things. When I finally enter the club (passing a metal detector), I see a sign above the entranceway that says "Marijuana smoking is NOT permitted." No sooner than I read the sign does the pungent aroma of the California sticky green invade my olfactory nerve. I step further inside the club and survey my surroundings through the cloud of weed smoke hanging in the air. The place is divided into two rooms with a bar in each one. The main room has a dance floor complete with a stage, a cage, and several poles, while the secondary room towards the back is equipped with an airbrushed backdrop and photographer to capture all the memories that will be made that night. Dudes are in white Ts and jerseys...not a single button down is in sight. A good number of the women favored spandex outfits to complement their rolls while they spent entire songs face down/ass up. I made my way to the bar. No one offered to buy me a drink but one guy did offer me a perfectly rolled blunt. In the midst of all this fun I lost track of my club buddy and her friends. No worries though cause I later found them on the stage making good use of the pole. I spent most of the night by myself wondering if The Howlin Moon Saloon was really as bad as it was looking. When I looked over my shoulder to see a pregnant girl with a glass of henny in her hand doing the chickenhead, I knew it was worse than I could've imagined. I finally decided to leave after some dude pushed his crotch against my ass as a way to ask me to dance.
I got in my car and damn near cried. I hadn't been to a club that trifling since high school and back then it was fun. I made the decision right then and there to NEVER EVER NEVER EVER EVER EVER go to a black club in Grand Rapids again. Looking back on it now, I guess there were some warning signs that should've let me know what I was getting myself into. The barber's platinum encrusted mouth should've told me that his idea of classy was probably very different than mine. Just the name of club alone should've given me pause. But maybe the most glaring oversight on my part was Tequila. I mean really, what should I have expected from a chick named after a bottle of Jose Cuervo?
On my first visit to Grand Rapids after I accepted the transfer my company offered, I decided to get acclimated to the place that would soon be my new home. I found a place to live within 48 hours, a church to visit, and even a salon to get my hair done. Wandering aimlessly around the "city" streets, I decided to find some potential friends and a good place for me to "back that thang up." Having no fear, I walked into a barber shop and introduced myself to the owners and customers. I told them I was moving to town very shortly and wanted to find the black folks. I asked where we all hung out and what clubs catered to us, making sure to clarify what type of place I was looking to find. Well Mr. Barber tells me that on Saturday nights all the black folks would be at the Howlin Moon. He assures me that it's not rowdy or ghetto (i.e. the club doesn't get shot up on a weekly basis) and the crowd is young and real cool. He flashes me a smile that would make Paul Wall proud and I thanked him for the information and decided to check the place out later that night. After I left I headed to the mall to see the caliber of shopping Grand Rapids would be offering me. Not shit, I soon found out. However, while browsing one of the stores, I came across a sales lady who appeared to be around my age. Once again I explained my plight (new to town, no friends, looking for a good time). She was really friendly and let me know that she would also be going to the Howlin Moon that evening and invited me to tag along with her and some friends. I was so grateful to find a companion that I didn't even notice that the name above her phone number was spelled T-E-Q-U-I-L-A.
I headed back to my hotel to change for the evening, then called my new found friend for directions to her place. As I'm driving across town in my rental, I notice that the closer I get to her residence, the more peeling paint, boarded windows, and collapsing porches decorate the houses. Still, I thought nothing of it. When I pull up in front of the address she gave me a pack of white T clad dudes are posted on the sidewalk just chillin. I walk past them without too much harassment and knock on the door. She answers dressed in a white cotton tennis skirt, a jersey, baseball cap, and Air Force 1s. Not exactly what I would wear, but it's all good. I thought nothing of it. A few minutes later we leave for the club.
Pulling up in the parking lot, I see that the full name of the joint is The Howlin Moon Saloon. Interesting name...it even rhymed. But I thought nothing of it. The parking lot was a party in and of itself, with hordes of people congregating in what are supposed to be parking spaces not outdoor lounge spaces. But whatever, all I want to do is get inside and get my dance on with all the other young black professionals in Grand Rapids. Waiting on line I look around and see an abundance of throwback jerseys, Nikes, tatoos, and mouth jewlery. I suddenly thought to myself, "These ladies sure dress casual for the nice clubs in town." As I near the front of the line I hear the bouncer telling folks to get out their IDs and that the cover is $10, unless you don't have an ID in which case the charge goes up to $20. Interesting. Where I'm from, no ID means no entry...but hey different places do different things. When I finally enter the club (passing a metal detector), I see a sign above the entranceway that says "Marijuana smoking is NOT permitted." No sooner than I read the sign does the pungent aroma of the California sticky green invade my olfactory nerve. I step further inside the club and survey my surroundings through the cloud of weed smoke hanging in the air. The place is divided into two rooms with a bar in each one. The main room has a dance floor complete with a stage, a cage, and several poles, while the secondary room towards the back is equipped with an airbrushed backdrop and photographer to capture all the memories that will be made that night. Dudes are in white Ts and jerseys...not a single button down is in sight. A good number of the women favored spandex outfits to complement their rolls while they spent entire songs face down/ass up. I made my way to the bar. No one offered to buy me a drink but one guy did offer me a perfectly rolled blunt. In the midst of all this fun I lost track of my club buddy and her friends. No worries though cause I later found them on the stage making good use of the pole. I spent most of the night by myself wondering if The Howlin Moon Saloon was really as bad as it was looking. When I looked over my shoulder to see a pregnant girl with a glass of henny in her hand doing the chickenhead, I knew it was worse than I could've imagined. I finally decided to leave after some dude pushed his crotch against my ass as a way to ask me to dance.
I got in my car and damn near cried. I hadn't been to a club that trifling since high school and back then it was fun. I made the decision right then and there to NEVER EVER NEVER EVER EVER EVER go to a black club in Grand Rapids again. Looking back on it now, I guess there were some warning signs that should've let me know what I was getting myself into. The barber's platinum encrusted mouth should've told me that his idea of classy was probably very different than mine. Just the name of club alone should've given me pause. But maybe the most glaring oversight on my part was Tequila. I mean really, what should I have expected from a chick named after a bottle of Jose Cuervo?
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
I Ain't Saying I'm a Golddigger...
I want a man with money. Yes, it is also important that he is God fearing, honest, loyal, funny, dependable, good with kids, a good dancer, a good dresser, tall, dark skin, and bears an uncanny resemblance to Morris Chestnut. Yet and still, even with all that going on, the man needs to have money. It's a deal breaker. No money, no me.
After years of dealing with Broke Ass Niggas (who always go through some shit), I have finally decided NO MORE! And I've gotta say, it's about damn time. The idea that a man's financial standing does not matter is a sweet little dream (more like a nightmare really), and I've finally woken up to reality. As politically incorrect as this sounds, what's in his wallet does matter! It is completely naive to think that love is all a couple needs. Why? Glad you asked. With nearly 50% of all marriages ending in divorce, money is the #1 (or #2, I can't remember) reason for marital strife. 9 times out of 10 if the finances ain't right, neither is the relationship.
We're all adults (at least I hope we all are...the mental capacity of some of my readers is questionable at best), so I'm gonna put it all out there. At a certain point in a person's life, dating just to date gets really old. If there really is NO potential for a future (i.e. marriage) there's really no point in pursuing the relationship (unless the sex is incredible, then the rules change). When looking at a potential lifelong mate, being in love is just the tip of the iceberg. Marriage is effectively tying two people's fates together for a lifetime (or 18 months if your Jennifer Lopez). Guess what? That fate includes finances. From bank accounts, to mortgages, to insurance policies, financial wellbeing is dependent upon 2 not just one. Now I don't know about ya'll, but I damn sure will not willingly go down with a sinking ship. But ignoring a man's financial standing and trying to pursue a relationship with a Broke Ass Nigga is doing just that. If a man has no savings, no credit, lives in the payday loan building, and robs from his left to feed his right, he's not relationship material. I don't care how good he looks, how nice he is, and blah blah blah. He ain't ready to be with nobody but an Ameriprise financial advisor.
Last week I was conversing over IM with The Mama's Boy and he was in a tizzy over an email discussion on the latest hot topic amongst Negroes. Over the past weekend every black woman in America went to go see Something New, sparking debate over the relationship possibilities for professional black women. The movie quoted the statistic that 47.2% of black women do not get married, especially highly educated, professional black women. That's pretty daunting, if I do say so myself. And what makes it even more worrisome is knowing that I belong in the category of black women who comprise the majority of that 47.2%. So that begs the question, why aren't so many of us getting married. Many will say that it's because it's so difficult to find the IBM (Ideal Black Man - also discussed in the movie). Now what is the IBM. One would say it's the black male version of someone like me. College educated, professional, middle class to upper class, and blah blah blah (add in personal preferences as needed). So if professional black women are unwilling to be unmarried forever and can't find the IBM, that only leaves a couple of alternatives: either marry outside the race OR marry "down" (a black man with less education with a less prestigious or lower earning career/job). Here is where Mama's boy got all hot and bothered. He had issues with the whole idea of marrying down (as do I) and basically said that women who weren't willing to look at men who made less or had less education were golddiggers. But I think he's missing something with such a pat analysis.
The number of letters after a man's name or the number of zeros on his paystub do not make me look up to or down on him. I know a lot of dumb PhDs who ain't worth shit (well actually I don't, but I do know several PhD candidates). The issue I have is SECURITY. If a person is not financially secure as an individual, it is highly unlikely any couple he is a part of will be financially secure. Many women who are worried about marrying "down" aren't hestitant because they won't be cruising around the world on their honeymoons. They are looking much further down the line to children, work interruptions, and retirement. When life happens, and it always does, it's pretty smart to want some sense that the finances will be stable. There's this idea that a woman wants a man who is financially set, so he can spoil her and take care of her. Honestly, most professional black women already splurge on and spoil their damn selves. A man's money is not needed. So it's not necessarily about money in and of itself, but moreso money management. Now I have to admit that often times a lot of women are quick to assume that if a man has a degree and a certain job title, then his bank statements are all good. We all know that's not always case. There are plenty of janitors who are better prepared for retirement than their investment banking counterparts. But more often than not, the more a person makes (man or woman), the more healthy the finances.
In my quest for the IBM, I have NEVER dated a man who makes as much money or more than I do. Both the Idiot Who Made Me Cry and the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry made a lot less than I did. And at one point or another I wanted both of them a lot more than I wanted a 2.5 carat princess cut Tiffany diamond in a platinum setting with bagets (well it was a close tie). The reason I didn't give a rat's ass about their salaries is because these men knew how to work with what they had. They were stable, unlike other Broke Ass Niggas I've known before. And although there were issues in both relationships, none of them were money related.
Unfortunately, my homegirl Chesty LaRue hasn't been so lucky. She too has been willing to date men who aren't rolling in dough, but with pretty scary results. For some reason, Broke Ass Niggas flock to Chesty, and when they do, they have a tendency to suck her dry (financially that is). They are always short on the rent, the car note, the light bill, or a $1.00 value meal and need a loan to make ends meet. Being the kind person she is, Chesty is always willing to help, but whenever she needs help or just a repayment, these dudes are nowhere to be found. Now think about going through that situation til death do you part? Ain't that much love in the world, now is there?
In my lifetime, I've seen quite a few unhappy unions because couples overlooked how important money would be in their lives. Some have gotten through the tough times, others haven't. From what I can see, marriage is hard enough without adding harassing bill collectors and negative account balances to the mix. My mama always told me to marry a man with dough. For once in my life, I think I'm gonna listen to her.
After years of dealing with Broke Ass Niggas (who always go through some shit), I have finally decided NO MORE! And I've gotta say, it's about damn time. The idea that a man's financial standing does not matter is a sweet little dream (more like a nightmare really), and I've finally woken up to reality. As politically incorrect as this sounds, what's in his wallet does matter! It is completely naive to think that love is all a couple needs. Why? Glad you asked. With nearly 50% of all marriages ending in divorce, money is the #1 (or #2, I can't remember) reason for marital strife. 9 times out of 10 if the finances ain't right, neither is the relationship.
We're all adults (at least I hope we all are...the mental capacity of some of my readers is questionable at best), so I'm gonna put it all out there. At a certain point in a person's life, dating just to date gets really old. If there really is NO potential for a future (i.e. marriage) there's really no point in pursuing the relationship (unless the sex is incredible, then the rules change). When looking at a potential lifelong mate, being in love is just the tip of the iceberg. Marriage is effectively tying two people's fates together for a lifetime (or 18 months if your Jennifer Lopez). Guess what? That fate includes finances. From bank accounts, to mortgages, to insurance policies, financial wellbeing is dependent upon 2 not just one. Now I don't know about ya'll, but I damn sure will not willingly go down with a sinking ship. But ignoring a man's financial standing and trying to pursue a relationship with a Broke Ass Nigga is doing just that. If a man has no savings, no credit, lives in the payday loan building, and robs from his left to feed his right, he's not relationship material. I don't care how good he looks, how nice he is, and blah blah blah. He ain't ready to be with nobody but an Ameriprise financial advisor.
Last week I was conversing over IM with The Mama's Boy and he was in a tizzy over an email discussion on the latest hot topic amongst Negroes. Over the past weekend every black woman in America went to go see Something New, sparking debate over the relationship possibilities for professional black women. The movie quoted the statistic that 47.2% of black women do not get married, especially highly educated, professional black women. That's pretty daunting, if I do say so myself. And what makes it even more worrisome is knowing that I belong in the category of black women who comprise the majority of that 47.2%. So that begs the question, why aren't so many of us getting married. Many will say that it's because it's so difficult to find the IBM (Ideal Black Man - also discussed in the movie). Now what is the IBM. One would say it's the black male version of someone like me. College educated, professional, middle class to upper class, and blah blah blah (add in personal preferences as needed). So if professional black women are unwilling to be unmarried forever and can't find the IBM, that only leaves a couple of alternatives: either marry outside the race OR marry "down" (a black man with less education with a less prestigious or lower earning career/job). Here is where Mama's boy got all hot and bothered. He had issues with the whole idea of marrying down (as do I) and basically said that women who weren't willing to look at men who made less or had less education were golddiggers. But I think he's missing something with such a pat analysis.
The number of letters after a man's name or the number of zeros on his paystub do not make me look up to or down on him. I know a lot of dumb PhDs who ain't worth shit (well actually I don't, but I do know several PhD candidates). The issue I have is SECURITY. If a person is not financially secure as an individual, it is highly unlikely any couple he is a part of will be financially secure. Many women who are worried about marrying "down" aren't hestitant because they won't be cruising around the world on their honeymoons. They are looking much further down the line to children, work interruptions, and retirement. When life happens, and it always does, it's pretty smart to want some sense that the finances will be stable. There's this idea that a woman wants a man who is financially set, so he can spoil her and take care of her. Honestly, most professional black women already splurge on and spoil their damn selves. A man's money is not needed. So it's not necessarily about money in and of itself, but moreso money management. Now I have to admit that often times a lot of women are quick to assume that if a man has a degree and a certain job title, then his bank statements are all good. We all know that's not always case. There are plenty of janitors who are better prepared for retirement than their investment banking counterparts. But more often than not, the more a person makes (man or woman), the more healthy the finances.
In my quest for the IBM, I have NEVER dated a man who makes as much money or more than I do. Both the Idiot Who Made Me Cry and the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry made a lot less than I did. And at one point or another I wanted both of them a lot more than I wanted a 2.5 carat princess cut Tiffany diamond in a platinum setting with bagets (well it was a close tie). The reason I didn't give a rat's ass about their salaries is because these men knew how to work with what they had. They were stable, unlike other Broke Ass Niggas I've known before. And although there were issues in both relationships, none of them were money related.
Unfortunately, my homegirl Chesty LaRue hasn't been so lucky. She too has been willing to date men who aren't rolling in dough, but with pretty scary results. For some reason, Broke Ass Niggas flock to Chesty, and when they do, they have a tendency to suck her dry (financially that is). They are always short on the rent, the car note, the light bill, or a $1.00 value meal and need a loan to make ends meet. Being the kind person she is, Chesty is always willing to help, but whenever she needs help or just a repayment, these dudes are nowhere to be found. Now think about going through that situation til death do you part? Ain't that much love in the world, now is there?
In my lifetime, I've seen quite a few unhappy unions because couples overlooked how important money would be in their lives. Some have gotten through the tough times, others haven't. From what I can see, marriage is hard enough without adding harassing bill collectors and negative account balances to the mix. My mama always told me to marry a man with dough. For once in my life, I think I'm gonna listen to her.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Walking the Line
Ever had one of those moments where the answers to some of life's deepest questions become clear? Well I had one yesterday thanks to my friend The Mad Black Man. He's not really mad about anything, he just likes to imagine himself angrier than he really is. Anyways, we had a 10 minute chat while I was driving to my dentist appointment after work. During our talk he lets me know that he's swearing off women for a while so he can recover from his last girlfriend. In his opinion she was "crazy." Now, we all know where I stand on the topic of female insanity. It's usually caused by male stupidity/inconsistency/ambivalence/breathing. Now I knew he and old girl were having issues and I tried my best to give him a female perspective on why she was always complaining. Obviously, it did no good, cause they broke up anyways. I could honestly care less that the relationship came to an end. I don't know the chick personally and time with her took time away from me (and I'm the most important thing in EVERYONE's life). The thing that struck me is that his relationship began to end the day she exhibited what he believed to be crazy behavior. He never saw her in the same light again, so no matter what she did that was normal, all he could see was "crazy girlfriend." It's like a line was crossed and there was no turning back.
So this got me to thinking. In relationships nothing stays perfect forever. We're human so we err. But for some reason men and women view these errors differently. While a woman can take error after error after error from a man and still see the same sweet guy she fell in love with, it seems that it takes only one error by a woman for a man to see "the crazy bitch." If that's not a double standard I don't know what is. I don't know if women are just more forgiving, more lenient, more optimistic, or just more desperate, but for some reason we sure can take a lot of bullshit before we stop seeing a nice guy who just happens to have asshole tendencies and just see an asshole. A guy can break up with us over voicemail and not say a word for 10 months (ode to the Idiot Who Made Me Cry) and we'll still think that he's a great guy, just a great guy who's going through some issues. Why is that? How come through all the b.s. women can still see the guy they fell for in the first place. I'd like to think that I'm a pretty good judge of character. When a man slips, bumps his head, and starts acting a damn fool, I'd rather believe that it's uncharacteristic, than believe that I just chose the wrong guy. I mean, truthfully speaking, who wants to be wrong. Who wants to say that they fell for a completely insensitive jerk who'd rather clip his toenails than consider their feelings. So we look past all the bad stuff to see the man way down deep inside who is charming and caring and smart and funny and all the things we absolutely adore. I mean, he's still there, it's just covered in bullshit, right?
Well this same optimism or benefit of the doubt doesn't seem to be afforded to the XX choromsome set. We're sort of on a one strike and you're out policy. One instance of suppposedly "crazy" behavior (i.e. nagging, insecurity, arguments, whatever) and we're no longer the awesome girlfriend. That look of love in a man's eyes turns to a wary look of paranoia that says, "oh she's cool now, but when will she snap." Personally, I don't think it's fair. Why does one bad day or night or even hour erase all the great stuff preceding it. It's as though an either/or proposition exists. A woman can either be cool or she can be crazy, but in a man's eyes she can never be both. This sets up quite a paradox (am I using that word correctly?). If one drop of craziness can overtake a gallon of normalcy, it stands to reason that normalcy has to reign all day everyday. But that's virtually impossible. As I stated earlier, no one and nothing on this earth is perfect, so there is gonna come a time when we as women are gonna be less than pleased with our relationships and we're gonna wanna discuss it and it may sound like complaining and it may seem irrational. Passive aggressive silence is immature, so the logical step is to voice our issues. But with this paradox, how can we? In order to appear normal, venting is not allowed, cause when we vent, we're crazy. And once labeled crazy there's no coming back. It's like walking a tight rope and I must say I don't have balance like that and it's too exhausting to try and get some.
Maybe, just maybe there would be parity if somehow the tables were turned. Maybe if women started dumping guys at the first sign of bad behavior, guys would get a taste of their own medicine. Maybe they'd be the ones walking that tight rope with us watching their every move for a mistake. It would serve them right to be suspended high on a tiny thread, exposed for everyone to see, trying to stay on track wearing nothing more than some purple tights, ballet shoes and a tank top.
So this got me to thinking. In relationships nothing stays perfect forever. We're human so we err. But for some reason men and women view these errors differently. While a woman can take error after error after error from a man and still see the same sweet guy she fell in love with, it seems that it takes only one error by a woman for a man to see "the crazy bitch." If that's not a double standard I don't know what is. I don't know if women are just more forgiving, more lenient, more optimistic, or just more desperate, but for some reason we sure can take a lot of bullshit before we stop seeing a nice guy who just happens to have asshole tendencies and just see an asshole. A guy can break up with us over voicemail and not say a word for 10 months (ode to the Idiot Who Made Me Cry) and we'll still think that he's a great guy, just a great guy who's going through some issues. Why is that? How come through all the b.s. women can still see the guy they fell for in the first place. I'd like to think that I'm a pretty good judge of character. When a man slips, bumps his head, and starts acting a damn fool, I'd rather believe that it's uncharacteristic, than believe that I just chose the wrong guy. I mean, truthfully speaking, who wants to be wrong. Who wants to say that they fell for a completely insensitive jerk who'd rather clip his toenails than consider their feelings. So we look past all the bad stuff to see the man way down deep inside who is charming and caring and smart and funny and all the things we absolutely adore. I mean, he's still there, it's just covered in bullshit, right?
Well this same optimism or benefit of the doubt doesn't seem to be afforded to the XX choromsome set. We're sort of on a one strike and you're out policy. One instance of suppposedly "crazy" behavior (i.e. nagging, insecurity, arguments, whatever) and we're no longer the awesome girlfriend. That look of love in a man's eyes turns to a wary look of paranoia that says, "oh she's cool now, but when will she snap." Personally, I don't think it's fair. Why does one bad day or night or even hour erase all the great stuff preceding it. It's as though an either/or proposition exists. A woman can either be cool or she can be crazy, but in a man's eyes she can never be both. This sets up quite a paradox (am I using that word correctly?). If one drop of craziness can overtake a gallon of normalcy, it stands to reason that normalcy has to reign all day everyday. But that's virtually impossible. As I stated earlier, no one and nothing on this earth is perfect, so there is gonna come a time when we as women are gonna be less than pleased with our relationships and we're gonna wanna discuss it and it may sound like complaining and it may seem irrational. Passive aggressive silence is immature, so the logical step is to voice our issues. But with this paradox, how can we? In order to appear normal, venting is not allowed, cause when we vent, we're crazy. And once labeled crazy there's no coming back. It's like walking a tight rope and I must say I don't have balance like that and it's too exhausting to try and get some.
Maybe, just maybe there would be parity if somehow the tables were turned. Maybe if women started dumping guys at the first sign of bad behavior, guys would get a taste of their own medicine. Maybe they'd be the ones walking that tight rope with us watching their every move for a mistake. It would serve them right to be suspended high on a tiny thread, exposed for everyone to see, trying to stay on track wearing nothing more than some purple tights, ballet shoes and a tank top.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
My Golden Girl
I'm up late tonight, which is not unlike many nights before. However, instead of finishing the next chapter of my never ending novel, instant messaging my friends, or trolling message boards, I am looking for a cheap plane ticket home next month. Once again, that's nothing out of the ordinary since I travel home to New York as often as possible to escape the boredom of the Midwest. Unfortunately, this trip isn't social in nature. I won't be standing on line in the freezing cold wearing something completely inappropriate for below freezing temperatures waiting to gain entrance into the latest Manhattan hot spot. Nor will I be spending money I don't have at my favorite stores in Soho. I will be helping take care of my mother for a week while she recovers from spinal surgery to relieve arthritic pain in her lower back and hip. She is 55.
At 25, this is not a trip I expected to make for at least another 15 to 20 years. While my mother may no longer be a spring chicken, she is hardly old enough to be considered elderly. However, that's how she seemed when I saw her a few months ago. Her walk is slow and deliberate, as though she has to concentrate on the least painful way to make her next step. Once long and erect, her back is now hunched, causing her shoulders to slump. She reminds me more of my recently deceased grandmother than the mom I’ve always known. It would be naïve of me to think that my mother would stay forever young, but this aging feels as though it’s happening way too soon. These are supposed to be the carefree years when the children are gone, retirement benefits flow, and life is leisurely for her. Instead her life is mired in doctors appointments, medication, and invasive surgery.
Some people say that growing older is a gradual process and you can’t pinpoint exactly where it begins. I, on the other hand, know precisely when mom got old. It was right after her mother passed away suddenly from a heart attack. Grandma was 88 when she died, and although she was not terminally ill or dying, she did appear to be falling apart at the seams. Her feet, long hampered by bunions and hammer toes, grew increasingly more painful; an always present heart murmur needed to be more closely monitored; and her once agile mind could no longer keep track of all it once remembered. The family was in the process of relocating her from her home in the Bronx for over 40 years to a smaller apartment three hours north and minutes from my parents. The funeral was the week before the movers were scheduled to come pack up her belongings. Almost immediately afterwards, my mother who is usually a constant ball of motion was bedridden, suffering from extreme pain in her hip, which was later diagnosed as a side affect of a pinched nerve in her back. She could not walk, let alone work or attend the many community activities in which she is involved. Seemingly overnight, the woman who once seemed like Wonder Woman to me had been grounded. Medication and physical therapy have her up and running again, if only at half speed. During a recent phone conversation she joked, “I don’t think my mother really died. She just took up residence in my body, giving me all her ailments.” I laughed at the time, but I’m beginning to think there is a great deal of truth in her musings. In spite of herself, she has become her mother.
Interestingly enough, I’m not alone in my situation. In the last few months I’ve had countless conversations with friends who are all worried about recent physical ailments affecting their 50 something parents. Whether it’s adult onset diabetes, degenerative arthritis, failing eyesight, or terminal illnesses we are all under thirty years old and faced with the declining health and ultimate mortality of our Baby Boomer parents. While the conditions differ, our reactions to them are invariably the same, “One minute mom or dad was fine, and now they aren’t.” None of us want to lose our parents, but at the same time we don’t want to watch them slowly fade from the affects of aging, knowing that there is nothing we can do to prevent it from happening.
There was once a time when I effectively tuned my mother out during most of our weekly phone calls. I wasn’t particularly interested in hearing about the goings on in my hometown or her opinions on my unchecked shoe habit. But lately, I find myself calling her more often to see how she’s doing and get the latest updates on her therapy sessions and doctor visits. I worry about her more, but I also appreciate her more, realizing that she won’t always be here to simultaneously love and annoy me. I honestly do not know if this surgery will make her pain free for the next 10 to 15 years, but I am hopeful that I will have her around and living a full and happy life for twice that long.
At 25, this is not a trip I expected to make for at least another 15 to 20 years. While my mother may no longer be a spring chicken, she is hardly old enough to be considered elderly. However, that's how she seemed when I saw her a few months ago. Her walk is slow and deliberate, as though she has to concentrate on the least painful way to make her next step. Once long and erect, her back is now hunched, causing her shoulders to slump. She reminds me more of my recently deceased grandmother than the mom I’ve always known. It would be naïve of me to think that my mother would stay forever young, but this aging feels as though it’s happening way too soon. These are supposed to be the carefree years when the children are gone, retirement benefits flow, and life is leisurely for her. Instead her life is mired in doctors appointments, medication, and invasive surgery.
Some people say that growing older is a gradual process and you can’t pinpoint exactly where it begins. I, on the other hand, know precisely when mom got old. It was right after her mother passed away suddenly from a heart attack. Grandma was 88 when she died, and although she was not terminally ill or dying, she did appear to be falling apart at the seams. Her feet, long hampered by bunions and hammer toes, grew increasingly more painful; an always present heart murmur needed to be more closely monitored; and her once agile mind could no longer keep track of all it once remembered. The family was in the process of relocating her from her home in the Bronx for over 40 years to a smaller apartment three hours north and minutes from my parents. The funeral was the week before the movers were scheduled to come pack up her belongings. Almost immediately afterwards, my mother who is usually a constant ball of motion was bedridden, suffering from extreme pain in her hip, which was later diagnosed as a side affect of a pinched nerve in her back. She could not walk, let alone work or attend the many community activities in which she is involved. Seemingly overnight, the woman who once seemed like Wonder Woman to me had been grounded. Medication and physical therapy have her up and running again, if only at half speed. During a recent phone conversation she joked, “I don’t think my mother really died. She just took up residence in my body, giving me all her ailments.” I laughed at the time, but I’m beginning to think there is a great deal of truth in her musings. In spite of herself, she has become her mother.
Interestingly enough, I’m not alone in my situation. In the last few months I’ve had countless conversations with friends who are all worried about recent physical ailments affecting their 50 something parents. Whether it’s adult onset diabetes, degenerative arthritis, failing eyesight, or terminal illnesses we are all under thirty years old and faced with the declining health and ultimate mortality of our Baby Boomer parents. While the conditions differ, our reactions to them are invariably the same, “One minute mom or dad was fine, and now they aren’t.” None of us want to lose our parents, but at the same time we don’t want to watch them slowly fade from the affects of aging, knowing that there is nothing we can do to prevent it from happening.
There was once a time when I effectively tuned my mother out during most of our weekly phone calls. I wasn’t particularly interested in hearing about the goings on in my hometown or her opinions on my unchecked shoe habit. But lately, I find myself calling her more often to see how she’s doing and get the latest updates on her therapy sessions and doctor visits. I worry about her more, but I also appreciate her more, realizing that she won’t always be here to simultaneously love and annoy me. I honestly do not know if this surgery will make her pain free for the next 10 to 15 years, but I am hopeful that I will have her around and living a full and happy life for twice that long.
Monday, January 23, 2006
And the Oscar goes to....
We are here to present the Award for Outstanding Achievement in Workplace Theatrics. Day in and day out these incredible performers pretend to be productive members of the American workforce when in actuality they really don't do shit. Amazingly enough they manage to convince everyone around them that work is actually being done. A delicate balance is needed in all areas of make believe, from pretending to like coworkers to faking an active interest in moving up the corporate ladder. Different from the acting that occurs on the silver screen, acting in the workplace requires a particularly special blend of three critical elements to really bring the performance home.
1) Pretending to care
It's one thing feign interest in Excel spreadsheets, Power Point presentations, and the newest company strategy to boost revenue for eight hours a day. However, it takes every ounce of bullshit a person can muster to sustain that act over the course of a 4 day working weekend. Sitting through hours of development sessions on how to effectively market "The Brand Called You", fueled only by vats of coffee and the very real fear of being caught snoring by the Sales VP is hard work. The truly brilliant performer even participates in the question and answer session, thereby fooling all coworkers into thinking they actually give a shit.
2) Faking it
Now this skill right here is truly incredible. Faking orgasms is easier than showing genuine enthusiasm for a job that sucks big hairy moose nuts. However, it must be done around the people who have the potential to fire you. Credit must be given to those directors and VPs who take the time to ask lowly underlings about their day to day work activities knowing damn well they couldn't give two shits. But the real magic is created by that underling who blathers endlessly about how much they are learning from photocopying, emailing, filing, and advanced paper pushing. Spin doctors indeed!
3) Unabashed ass kissing
While it's easy to ignore the existence of senior management on a day to day basis, since they spend most of their time ignoring employees anyway, it's quite difficult to do when forced together for a weekend of "networking." Listening intently while an old white guy with a bad comb over and worse breath talks and talks and talks and talks and then talks some more about supply chain logistics, Earnings Per Share Before Taxes, and other useless shit that matters to no one is a difficult feat. Doing it with a smile is the work of a genius. Extra kudos to those who ask to hear more.
Our winner tonight embodied all three of these key elements with gusto during an astounding performance over four nights of dinners, galas, and training sessions. She asked intelligent questions, engaged in meaningless small talk, and even convinced the VP of Sales that she does work on a daily basis. And the Academy Award for Outstanding Achievement in Workplace Theatrics goes to.....ME!!
1) Pretending to care
It's one thing feign interest in Excel spreadsheets, Power Point presentations, and the newest company strategy to boost revenue for eight hours a day. However, it takes every ounce of bullshit a person can muster to sustain that act over the course of a 4 day working weekend. Sitting through hours of development sessions on how to effectively market "The Brand Called You", fueled only by vats of coffee and the very real fear of being caught snoring by the Sales VP is hard work. The truly brilliant performer even participates in the question and answer session, thereby fooling all coworkers into thinking they actually give a shit.
2) Faking it
Now this skill right here is truly incredible. Faking orgasms is easier than showing genuine enthusiasm for a job that sucks big hairy moose nuts. However, it must be done around the people who have the potential to fire you. Credit must be given to those directors and VPs who take the time to ask lowly underlings about their day to day work activities knowing damn well they couldn't give two shits. But the real magic is created by that underling who blathers endlessly about how much they are learning from photocopying, emailing, filing, and advanced paper pushing. Spin doctors indeed!
3) Unabashed ass kissing
While it's easy to ignore the existence of senior management on a day to day basis, since they spend most of their time ignoring employees anyway, it's quite difficult to do when forced together for a weekend of "networking." Listening intently while an old white guy with a bad comb over and worse breath talks and talks and talks and talks and then talks some more about supply chain logistics, Earnings Per Share Before Taxes, and other useless shit that matters to no one is a difficult feat. Doing it with a smile is the work of a genius. Extra kudos to those who ask to hear more.
Our winner tonight embodied all three of these key elements with gusto during an astounding performance over four nights of dinners, galas, and training sessions. She asked intelligent questions, engaged in meaningless small talk, and even convinced the VP of Sales that she does work on a daily basis. And the Academy Award for Outstanding Achievement in Workplace Theatrics goes to.....ME!!
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
PSA
I'm a blogger, a pretty avid one at that, depending on the month. I basically put my thoughts on the web for anyone and everyone to see. I've carved out my own little space and invited friends and strangers into my world. I'm not alone. The web is riddled with millions of blogs spotlighting people's daily activities, political leanings, religious convictions, and interpretations of world news amongst other topics. The ABB primarily addresses politics and the latest stuff going on in our world. The Corner Bruhs keep an eye on our justice system. And me, well I introduced the world to Broke Ass Niggas, The Idiot Who Made Me Cry, and the likes of Chesty LaRue.
Okay, so my topics aren't exactly ripped from the headlines, nor do they do anything to further world peace, increase awareness, or challenge the status quo. But honestly, I really don't care. Someone really perceptive once said that still waters run deep. Well I'm definitely not a constant ball of motion and I'm about as deep as a puddle. This is the 40th post to this blog and I have yet to discuss anything other than myself (except for the exception of my lovefests over Laguna Beach and Crash). The fact is, I write what I know, and the the only thing I really know is me. I rarely watch the news and I don't read the paper, so I have little to no clue about what goes on in the world around me. If it doesn't directly affect me, I don't pay attention. I know that's shallow and self centered, but I'm at peace with that. Every magazine from Essence to Shape to Cosmo is always telling me to accept myself as I am, so I embrace my inner brat willingly.
The interesting thing is that my readers don't seem to mind my narcissistic tendencies. In fact, folks who know me personally are always asking me to put them in my blog in some way. Which now that I think about it is sort of frustrating. The people regularly featured in my blog either don't know that I put their business on front street or have asked that I stop putting their business on front street (to which I say, stop complaining cause I give you perfectly good aliases so folks won't know who I'm talking about specifically, Iz-, I mean Chesty). Basically I write about what crosses my radar and then festers in my brain for a little while. Like I said earlier, current events don't do that, but people and situations that piss me off, usually do. So when I mention people in my blog it's because they've either pissed me off, or reminded me of a past situation that pissed me off. So for those of you, who have asked to be in an entry, either you missed your well disguised alias, or you haven't pissed me off. Keep trying though, cause something always gets on my nerves.
Speaking of things that get on my nerves, I really don't like when folks suggest blog topics for me. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is MY blog. I mean if the state of our nation's healthcare system really bothers you, get your own damn blog and rant and rave all you want. As for me, I'm already busy complaining about crap in my life. So just to be sure that we're all on the same page here, let's recap. You will not find news, politics, or any of that crap in the pages of the Brain Dump, unless it directly affects me, of course. If you don't like that, the link to the next blog is at the top right hand corner. Thank you!
Okay, so my topics aren't exactly ripped from the headlines, nor do they do anything to further world peace, increase awareness, or challenge the status quo. But honestly, I really don't care. Someone really perceptive once said that still waters run deep. Well I'm definitely not a constant ball of motion and I'm about as deep as a puddle. This is the 40th post to this blog and I have yet to discuss anything other than myself (except for the exception of my lovefests over Laguna Beach and Crash). The fact is, I write what I know, and the the only thing I really know is me. I rarely watch the news and I don't read the paper, so I have little to no clue about what goes on in the world around me. If it doesn't directly affect me, I don't pay attention. I know that's shallow and self centered, but I'm at peace with that. Every magazine from Essence to Shape to Cosmo is always telling me to accept myself as I am, so I embrace my inner brat willingly.
The interesting thing is that my readers don't seem to mind my narcissistic tendencies. In fact, folks who know me personally are always asking me to put them in my blog in some way. Which now that I think about it is sort of frustrating. The people regularly featured in my blog either don't know that I put their business on front street or have asked that I stop putting their business on front street (to which I say, stop complaining cause I give you perfectly good aliases so folks won't know who I'm talking about specifically, Iz-, I mean Chesty). Basically I write about what crosses my radar and then festers in my brain for a little while. Like I said earlier, current events don't do that, but people and situations that piss me off, usually do. So when I mention people in my blog it's because they've either pissed me off, or reminded me of a past situation that pissed me off. So for those of you, who have asked to be in an entry, either you missed your well disguised alias, or you haven't pissed me off. Keep trying though, cause something always gets on my nerves.
Speaking of things that get on my nerves, I really don't like when folks suggest blog topics for me. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is MY blog. I mean if the state of our nation's healthcare system really bothers you, get your own damn blog and rant and rave all you want. As for me, I'm already busy complaining about crap in my life. So just to be sure that we're all on the same page here, let's recap. You will not find news, politics, or any of that crap in the pages of the Brain Dump, unless it directly affects me, of course. If you don't like that, the link to the next blog is at the top right hand corner. Thank you!
Thursday, December 29, 2005
This Too Shall Pass
Okay, so I know I've been slacking on the entries. According to Michelle in Michigan it's starting to "smell like old folks in here," so I think it's about that time for me to get back on my job. I've gotta keep all 10 of my fans happy.
Well the holidays were cool. I got a week long break from the shrieking harpee that is my boss and made my way back to civilization (i.e. New York City), where I promptly indulged in all of the things that I've been missing living out here in hell, sorry, I mean Michigan. Of course, one of those things that I just had to partake in was The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. Now before you get your shorts in a knot, there was no quality time spent with him and his current flavor of the month. I learned my lesson on that after the last time (if you don't know what I'm talking about, please catch up). So anyways, we happened (well it wasn't totally accidental, but that's not the point) to be at the same party on New Years Eve. I'm not gonna lie and say that I didn't feel a mild pang seeing him pressed up against some cutsie little munchkin chick who stopped growing in sixth grade. However, when midnight rolled around, the only person on my mind was The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry, who was nowhere around. So this is what I've figured out: I'm pretty much over The Idiot and not nearly over The Guy.
The interesting thing about guys who shouldn't make a girl cry, is that in being human they often do that exact thing. I don't think The Guy meant to make me cry, actually I know he didn't, but it still happened. So we decided to take some time apart almost two months ago, so he wouldn't have to hear my craziness (read this for clarification) and I wouldn't be perpetually disappointed. Well two months have gone by and the feelings are still with me and I miss him like crazy. Let me tell you, it truly sucks! We still talk, but now it's just as friends. Right now I'm at the point where I'd rather have him in my life in that capacity than in no capacity at all. But here's what I've noticed, while I seem to be struggling with this whole situation, he seems oddly at ease and has seemed so for a while, which makes me wonder, is he already over everything? And if he is, how in the hellin did he do it so quickly.
In a case of serious liking and deep caring, it's difficult to shut those emotions off when things don't turn out as initially intended. When it's all over the only thing that's really left are those feelings, and with nowhere to put them, they can eat you up inside. All the could've beens, would've beens, and should've beens could drive a girl to drink (and the strongest thing I order from the bar is a cranberry and sprite). The only thing to do is get over it. But damn it, that's a lot easier said than done. Getting over someone is like having a big ball of shit weighing you down and trying to get out but being stuck by forces beyond your control. I guess what I'm saying is that it's sort of like constipation. You know you gotta get the shit out, but when you try, it hurts like a mutha!! The more you push the more it hurts. After an hour of breathing, grunting, straining, and pushing only the tip of the iceberg has been moved and you're left a sweaty, frustrated mess. It seems the more you try to purge someone from your system using all sorts of different methods (avoidance, immersion, distraction), the harder it is to get past them. After a while it just seems easier to just keep the shit inside (no pun intended) and live with carrying it around with you. But the problem with keeping it inside is that it's toxic and infects everything in you it touches. That's no good. While riding the 2 train from Harlem to the North Bronx I had an epiphany. Just like passing that pesky turd, in order to get over someone, you've gotta push past the pain. Basically like my boy Ursher said, "Gotta let it burn." And somewhere during all that hurt, progress is made and finally when you can't hurt anymore it all comes out in one big dump (no pun intended again). Looking at the process in that light, I now know why it took me three long, excrutiating years to get over the Idiot. He was backing up my system and most of the time it hurt too much to do the hard work of expelling him. So I just kept it inside and basically was infected for a very long time. But now that I've dropped that 200+ lb load I feel a million times lighter.
Now thinking about the whole process, I'm trying to figure out how someone who felt the exact same way I did, can be handling the demise of "us" so well, when I'm a freakin mess. It ain't fair, and it ain't right, and honestly I don't appreciate it. If I'm going to be miserable, he should at least have the courtesy to be a despondent wreck as well. I was perplexed about this, and then I had a conversation with my dear friend Chesty LaRue. Now let me say that Chesty is even more adept at finding Broke Ass Niggas than I am. I mean this woman is a Broke Ass Nigga magnet, and can pick them out in a crowd of a thousand men. Anyways, she had recently ended things with Broke Ass Nigga #1569203983865738 and couldn't get him to stop calling her. Broke Ass Nigga #1569203983865738 kept wondering how she could be so cold and be totally over everything with him so quickly. So she was venting about his incessant phone calls when she said, "He's not over me yet, but I got over him while we were still together." Hmmm, that's interesting. So later on I got to thinking about the idea of getting over someone while still in the relationship. On closer inspection, this is probably the reason why people get dumped. Their significant other was already past all their feelings when they ended the relationship.
Thinking isn't a good thing for me to do, but I couldn't stop myself. I got to thinking that maybe The Guy is okay with everything now, cause by the time we crashed and burned he was already over me. In my head, I can't wrap my brain around that. He vehemently denied that his actions (or rather inaction) was the result of a change of heart. Maybe I'm stupid, but I know him and I know he wasn't lying to me, or just trying to make me feel better (he's not the type to just tell someone what they want to hear). It's not a very nice feeling to think that at the end of everything you were the only person who cared. Jon B said it best when he sang, "Ain't no fun in lovin' if you're lovin alone/ How does it feel to be useless?" Not cool, not cool at all. If I could just get a glimmer that I'm not alone now (at least in what I'm feeling) and haven't been alone for the last three months, then I'd feel better. But then again, maybe it doesn't really matter how he feels or doesn't feel or when he started or stopped feeling that way. Maybe it's time for me to just let this one pass. The very idea is a pain in my ass.
Well the holidays were cool. I got a week long break from the shrieking harpee that is my boss and made my way back to civilization (i.e. New York City), where I promptly indulged in all of the things that I've been missing living out here in hell, sorry, I mean Michigan. Of course, one of those things that I just had to partake in was The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. Now before you get your shorts in a knot, there was no quality time spent with him and his current flavor of the month. I learned my lesson on that after the last time (if you don't know what I'm talking about, please catch up). So anyways, we happened (well it wasn't totally accidental, but that's not the point) to be at the same party on New Years Eve. I'm not gonna lie and say that I didn't feel a mild pang seeing him pressed up against some cutsie little munchkin chick who stopped growing in sixth grade. However, when midnight rolled around, the only person on my mind was The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry, who was nowhere around. So this is what I've figured out: I'm pretty much over The Idiot and not nearly over The Guy.
The interesting thing about guys who shouldn't make a girl cry, is that in being human they often do that exact thing. I don't think The Guy meant to make me cry, actually I know he didn't, but it still happened. So we decided to take some time apart almost two months ago, so he wouldn't have to hear my craziness (read this for clarification) and I wouldn't be perpetually disappointed. Well two months have gone by and the feelings are still with me and I miss him like crazy. Let me tell you, it truly sucks! We still talk, but now it's just as friends. Right now I'm at the point where I'd rather have him in my life in that capacity than in no capacity at all. But here's what I've noticed, while I seem to be struggling with this whole situation, he seems oddly at ease and has seemed so for a while, which makes me wonder, is he already over everything? And if he is, how in the hellin did he do it so quickly.
In a case of serious liking and deep caring, it's difficult to shut those emotions off when things don't turn out as initially intended. When it's all over the only thing that's really left are those feelings, and with nowhere to put them, they can eat you up inside. All the could've beens, would've beens, and should've beens could drive a girl to drink (and the strongest thing I order from the bar is a cranberry and sprite). The only thing to do is get over it. But damn it, that's a lot easier said than done. Getting over someone is like having a big ball of shit weighing you down and trying to get out but being stuck by forces beyond your control. I guess what I'm saying is that it's sort of like constipation. You know you gotta get the shit out, but when you try, it hurts like a mutha!! The more you push the more it hurts. After an hour of breathing, grunting, straining, and pushing only the tip of the iceberg has been moved and you're left a sweaty, frustrated mess. It seems the more you try to purge someone from your system using all sorts of different methods (avoidance, immersion, distraction), the harder it is to get past them. After a while it just seems easier to just keep the shit inside (no pun intended) and live with carrying it around with you. But the problem with keeping it inside is that it's toxic and infects everything in you it touches. That's no good. While riding the 2 train from Harlem to the North Bronx I had an epiphany. Just like passing that pesky turd, in order to get over someone, you've gotta push past the pain. Basically like my boy Ursher said, "Gotta let it burn." And somewhere during all that hurt, progress is made and finally when you can't hurt anymore it all comes out in one big dump (no pun intended again). Looking at the process in that light, I now know why it took me three long, excrutiating years to get over the Idiot. He was backing up my system and most of the time it hurt too much to do the hard work of expelling him. So I just kept it inside and basically was infected for a very long time. But now that I've dropped that 200+ lb load I feel a million times lighter.
Now thinking about the whole process, I'm trying to figure out how someone who felt the exact same way I did, can be handling the demise of "us" so well, when I'm a freakin mess. It ain't fair, and it ain't right, and honestly I don't appreciate it. If I'm going to be miserable, he should at least have the courtesy to be a despondent wreck as well. I was perplexed about this, and then I had a conversation with my dear friend Chesty LaRue. Now let me say that Chesty is even more adept at finding Broke Ass Niggas than I am. I mean this woman is a Broke Ass Nigga magnet, and can pick them out in a crowd of a thousand men. Anyways, she had recently ended things with Broke Ass Nigga #1569203983865738 and couldn't get him to stop calling her. Broke Ass Nigga #1569203983865738 kept wondering how she could be so cold and be totally over everything with him so quickly. So she was venting about his incessant phone calls when she said, "He's not over me yet, but I got over him while we were still together." Hmmm, that's interesting. So later on I got to thinking about the idea of getting over someone while still in the relationship. On closer inspection, this is probably the reason why people get dumped. Their significant other was already past all their feelings when they ended the relationship.
Thinking isn't a good thing for me to do, but I couldn't stop myself. I got to thinking that maybe The Guy is okay with everything now, cause by the time we crashed and burned he was already over me. In my head, I can't wrap my brain around that. He vehemently denied that his actions (or rather inaction) was the result of a change of heart. Maybe I'm stupid, but I know him and I know he wasn't lying to me, or just trying to make me feel better (he's not the type to just tell someone what they want to hear). It's not a very nice feeling to think that at the end of everything you were the only person who cared. Jon B said it best when he sang, "Ain't no fun in lovin' if you're lovin alone/ How does it feel to be useless?" Not cool, not cool at all. If I could just get a glimmer that I'm not alone now (at least in what I'm feeling) and haven't been alone for the last three months, then I'd feel better. But then again, maybe it doesn't really matter how he feels or doesn't feel or when he started or stopped feeling that way. Maybe it's time for me to just let this one pass. The very idea is a pain in my ass.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
48 Hours
I know it's the season to talk about family and giving and crap like that, but I'm not in the mood, so I won't. My family left me to go halfway around the world, so for me Christmas doesn't count this year. But then again, I get to skip the motherly disapproval of my hairstyle, wardrobe, and life choices, so it's not a total wash. Love you Mommy!!
Anyways, the other day a friend of mine, let's call her Flatty Girl (no ass, just a back with a crack), calls me up in a panic because this guy with whom she's been parlaying hasn't called her in 48 hours. Obvious state of emergency there. We start racking our brains as to what she possibly could've said or done to make him stop speaking to her and come up with nada. Of course she can't call him because if he's not speaking to her for whatever reason, she mustn't show any desire to want to talk to him. That's how the game is played. So the only thing Flatty is left to do is simply go to bed and wonder why.
Fast forward 18 hours later. I call her up to see how she's doing and she can't talk to me cause she's on the phone with old boy. He called, she's happy, all is well. When I asked her if he'd given an explanation for the disappearing act she told me he said, "I was really busy and didn't get the chance to call. Besides, it was only 2 days." This got me thinking, "only 2 days." "Only 2 days"? In the grand scheme of things, 2 days doesn't seem very long. Maybe Flatty Girl had overreacted.
Two is a small number. 1, 2. See that, it doesn't take too much time to get to the number 2. So why was Flatty Girl so stressed? Why didn't I tell her to relax, it had only been 2 days? Why have I bugged out in similar situations? And why do guys look at chicks like they're crazy when they trip cause contact hasn't been made for 2 days? I think I've got an answer. Women don't see 2 days, we see 48 hours. 48 is a whole lot more than 2. Actually it's 24 times more than 2. It takes a lot longer to count to 48 than it does to count to 2. 48 hours is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much longer than 2 days.
In all honesty, the fact that Mr. Way Too Into Himself flirted with another chick right in front of me on Valentine's Day two years ago wasn't the only reason I cursed him out in front of a club that evening. He had also committed the egregious sin of not calling me for 48 hours. He couldn't figure out why I would be so upset about that, since, it was "only two days." But that's the thing, for me it wasn't only two, it was 48 long hours. 8 hours at work, 6 hours of sleep, 3 hours of television, 2 hours of step practice, another 8 hours of work, 5 more hours asleep, and more lost hours that I can't remember. All those hours added up and in all 48 60 minute increments my phone didn't ring once. Well, at least not by him. Each hour that passed was another hour for me to think. Every guy who has ever dated me has always said that's something I shouldn't be allowed to do. When given 48 hours of unregulated time, it's truly amazing what my brain can come up with. I can drive myself into a state of rampant paranoia in 48 hours and imagine all type of problems where none exist. And I'm not the only cause Flatty Girl did it too.
I don't know where the perception difference comes from. Personally I don't care. All I want is for a guy to see things my way. I could try to look at 2 days as "only 2 days," but I can't. I've been waiting by my phone for 48 hours and this bastard still ain't called me back.
Anyways, the other day a friend of mine, let's call her Flatty Girl (no ass, just a back with a crack), calls me up in a panic because this guy with whom she's been parlaying hasn't called her in 48 hours. Obvious state of emergency there. We start racking our brains as to what she possibly could've said or done to make him stop speaking to her and come up with nada. Of course she can't call him because if he's not speaking to her for whatever reason, she mustn't show any desire to want to talk to him. That's how the game is played. So the only thing Flatty is left to do is simply go to bed and wonder why.
Fast forward 18 hours later. I call her up to see how she's doing and she can't talk to me cause she's on the phone with old boy. He called, she's happy, all is well. When I asked her if he'd given an explanation for the disappearing act she told me he said, "I was really busy and didn't get the chance to call. Besides, it was only 2 days." This got me thinking, "only 2 days." "Only 2 days"? In the grand scheme of things, 2 days doesn't seem very long. Maybe Flatty Girl had overreacted.
Two is a small number. 1, 2. See that, it doesn't take too much time to get to the number 2. So why was Flatty Girl so stressed? Why didn't I tell her to relax, it had only been 2 days? Why have I bugged out in similar situations? And why do guys look at chicks like they're crazy when they trip cause contact hasn't been made for 2 days? I think I've got an answer. Women don't see 2 days, we see 48 hours. 48 is a whole lot more than 2. Actually it's 24 times more than 2. It takes a lot longer to count to 48 than it does to count to 2. 48 hours is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much longer than 2 days.
In all honesty, the fact that Mr. Way Too Into Himself flirted with another chick right in front of me on Valentine's Day two years ago wasn't the only reason I cursed him out in front of a club that evening. He had also committed the egregious sin of not calling me for 48 hours. He couldn't figure out why I would be so upset about that, since, it was "only two days." But that's the thing, for me it wasn't only two, it was 48 long hours. 8 hours at work, 6 hours of sleep, 3 hours of television, 2 hours of step practice, another 8 hours of work, 5 more hours asleep, and more lost hours that I can't remember. All those hours added up and in all 48 60 minute increments my phone didn't ring once. Well, at least not by him. Each hour that passed was another hour for me to think. Every guy who has ever dated me has always said that's something I shouldn't be allowed to do. When given 48 hours of unregulated time, it's truly amazing what my brain can come up with. I can drive myself into a state of rampant paranoia in 48 hours and imagine all type of problems where none exist. And I'm not the only cause Flatty Girl did it too.
I don't know where the perception difference comes from. Personally I don't care. All I want is for a guy to see things my way. I could try to look at 2 days as "only 2 days," but I can't. I've been waiting by my phone for 48 hours and this bastard still ain't called me back.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Tag, I'm It
Honestly, I probably wouldn't have updated my blog today if it hadn't been for the Cranky Prof. I got tagged, so I've gotta be it now. Here goes.
Four jobs you have had in your life: Newspaper delivery girl - papers were at everybody's door bright and early at 10 a.m. every morning; McDonald's - I got fired; "research assistant" - work study is wonderful; Cheerio Pusher - I deal Cheerios by the gram to school aged children
Four movies you could watch over and over: 10 Things I Hate About You - indulges my inner white girl; Coming To America - Sexual Chocolate!! SEXUAL CHOCOLATE!!!; Sixteen Candles - I love Molly Ringwald; Pretty Woman - made me wanna be a hooker
Four places you've lived: Latham, NY - nothing to do but watch the grass grow; Bronx, NY - for a summer; Minnetonka, MN - bullshit; Grand Rapids, MI - even more bullshit
Four TV shows you love to watch: All My Children; One Life To Live; General Hospital; Sex and The City; Desperate Housewives, Grey's Anatomy; Making the Band; Real World/Road Rules Challenge; The Bachelor; The Apprentice.... that was four right?
Four places you've been on vacation: New Orleans - Mardi Gras 2002; Cameroon; I don't really go on vacation, I'm broke
Four websites you visit daily: Nappturality; Facebook (it's like crack); The Brain Dump (if I don't visit myself, who will?); GMFCU - gotta see how my funds stack
Four of your favorite foods: Chicken - I'm black so that's a no brainer; French Toast - but just from Real Food Cafe; Pizza Hut Pan Pizza with Exkra Cheese; Chocolate Chip Cookies....is this why my skinny jeans don't fit?
Four places you'd rather be right now: NYC; NYC; NYC; The bed belonging to the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry
Four bloggers you are tagging: Da Corner Bruhz; Random Ramblings; WTF; Frank Leigh Speeking
Four jobs you have had in your life: Newspaper delivery girl - papers were at everybody's door bright and early at 10 a.m. every morning; McDonald's - I got fired; "research assistant" - work study is wonderful; Cheerio Pusher - I deal Cheerios by the gram to school aged children
Four movies you could watch over and over: 10 Things I Hate About You - indulges my inner white girl; Coming To America - Sexual Chocolate!! SEXUAL CHOCOLATE!!!; Sixteen Candles - I love Molly Ringwald; Pretty Woman - made me wanna be a hooker
Four places you've lived: Latham, NY - nothing to do but watch the grass grow; Bronx, NY - for a summer; Minnetonka, MN - bullshit; Grand Rapids, MI - even more bullshit
Four TV shows you love to watch: All My Children; One Life To Live; General Hospital; Sex and The City; Desperate Housewives, Grey's Anatomy; Making the Band; Real World/Road Rules Challenge; The Bachelor; The Apprentice.... that was four right?
Four places you've been on vacation: New Orleans - Mardi Gras 2002; Cameroon; I don't really go on vacation, I'm broke
Four websites you visit daily: Nappturality; Facebook (it's like crack); The Brain Dump (if I don't visit myself, who will?); GMFCU - gotta see how my funds stack
Four of your favorite foods: Chicken - I'm black so that's a no brainer; French Toast - but just from Real Food Cafe; Pizza Hut Pan Pizza with Exkra Cheese; Chocolate Chip Cookies....is this why my skinny jeans don't fit?
Four places you'd rather be right now: NYC; NYC; NYC; The bed belonging to the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry
Four bloggers you are tagging: Da Corner Bruhz; Random Ramblings; WTF; Frank Leigh Speeking
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Do You See What I See
I know, I know, I know. I've been lackadaisical with the blog thus far this month. I can't even claim to have been incredibly busy, cause I'm not. I've had time. And I won't lie and say that I couldn't think of anything to blog about, cause I've had a lot of crap festering in my brain. Honestly, the reason why I haven't posted a damn thing this month, is cause I ain't feel like it. Point blank. Now, I've had several requests in the last two weeks to update this thing and I do appreciate that people actually want to read what I've got to say. But then I got to thinking about it and besides my "fanbase" from the Friendster days (does 5 people constitute a fanbase?), most of my readers are just plain greedy. Why do I say that? Because there are over 30 entries in this blog. There are 20 some odd posts in the archive that folks have never read, but they clamor for new entries. My momma always told me that I couldn't get seconds until I finished what's on my plate. Same thing applies to my blog. If you haven't read my letter to Star Jones, the rules for befriending an ex, and my neverending issues with the Idiot Who Made Me Cry, then you haven't earned the right to ask for anything more. And you know how I know those archives aren't getting read. Big Brother is watching, readers. I got Sitemeter. That beautiful tool tells me who visits, how often, how long, and how many pages they view. If you only view one page, and I see you entered on the main page, then I know your ass is greedy. I feel as though I just give and give and give, and people just take and take and take. Well I refuse to be your Patsy any longer!!! This blog is officially shut down, until I see at least one comment (well thought out and intelligent) in each and every post on this blog. Don't ask me to write if you won't do your part and read. Or maybe not. I forgot, I blog for me, not for you. But I still want those comment.
Now, on to the actual point of this blog. I've been watching a lot of TV lately. Well I guess you could consider 25 years to be lately. I've noticed a really disturbing trend. On the Making The Band 3 season finale, Diddy sent the girls home for 3 months and when they came back, how come three of these chicks came back with something resembling a drowned beaver glued to their heads? That wasn't the most disturbing part though. These girls had a photo shoot, and the hair stylists actually let them get in front of the camera like that!!! The next day, I decided to feed my intellect so I turned to 106 and Park. Remy "please don't ever touch a mic again" ma was on there introducing her new video. There was some sort of lopsided blonde in front, jet black in the back, back length hair that obviously once belonged to a Korean on.....
We interrupt this post to bring you this special report. After three months, one week, and three days of silence from the Idiot Who Made Me Cry, contact has been made. It wasn't me. I just picked up the phone. And the only reason I did that was because I didn't recognize the number on the caller ID. I erased him about a month ago. What did the Idiot want? NOTHING!! But the interesting thing is, I don't want anything either. Aahhh, progress! Now if the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry would follow suit, life would be a dream. Now back to your irregularly scheduled post.
.....her cranium. The worst part was when she had the nerve to give her hairdresser a shoutout for hooking up her do. Obviously, vengence belonged to the stylist. Beyonce (man stealing tramp) is the worst offender. That dried up mess she sports looked so much better on the horse she stole it from. Now I have no problem with weave. It's an effective styling tool and keeps the hair from being damaged. But damn it, couldn't they at least get something that looks believable instead of beweavable. Visible tracks with an invisible hairline is NOT cute. Nor are matted roots with straight ends. Are decent weaves that hard to come by? It's not as though they can't afford it, especially Beyonce's multiplatinum ass. If Ashanti could find a weave to fool the masses, then surely B could do the same.
The part that's funny to me is that these women are surrounded by handlers who actually tell them that shit is "fiyah." People actually encourage them to present themselves to the public looking like they spent the day at Hair Magic Beauty Supply's wig station. Ironically, on America's Next Top Model, Bree had to do a photo shoot without being able to see herself in a mirror, and her hair was fierce. If that's the best B, Remy, and company could come up with after spending hours in the mirror, I'm seriously questioning their sanity, judgement, taste, and intelligence. Shit, even Stevie Wonder could see they look a hot ass mess.
Now, on to the actual point of this blog. I've been watching a lot of TV lately. Well I guess you could consider 25 years to be lately. I've noticed a really disturbing trend. On the Making The Band 3 season finale, Diddy sent the girls home for 3 months and when they came back, how come three of these chicks came back with something resembling a drowned beaver glued to their heads? That wasn't the most disturbing part though. These girls had a photo shoot, and the hair stylists actually let them get in front of the camera like that!!! The next day, I decided to feed my intellect so I turned to 106 and Park. Remy "please don't ever touch a mic again" ma was on there introducing her new video. There was some sort of lopsided blonde in front, jet black in the back, back length hair that obviously once belonged to a Korean on.....
We interrupt this post to bring you this special report. After three months, one week, and three days of silence from the Idiot Who Made Me Cry, contact has been made. It wasn't me. I just picked up the phone. And the only reason I did that was because I didn't recognize the number on the caller ID. I erased him about a month ago. What did the Idiot want? NOTHING!! But the interesting thing is, I don't want anything either. Aahhh, progress! Now if the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry would follow suit, life would be a dream. Now back to your irregularly scheduled post.
.....her cranium. The worst part was when she had the nerve to give her hairdresser a shoutout for hooking up her do. Obviously, vengence belonged to the stylist. Beyonce (man stealing tramp) is the worst offender. That dried up mess she sports looked so much better on the horse she stole it from. Now I have no problem with weave. It's an effective styling tool and keeps the hair from being damaged. But damn it, couldn't they at least get something that looks believable instead of beweavable. Visible tracks with an invisible hairline is NOT cute. Nor are matted roots with straight ends. Are decent weaves that hard to come by? It's not as though they can't afford it, especially Beyonce's multiplatinum ass. If Ashanti could find a weave to fool the masses, then surely B could do the same.
The part that's funny to me is that these women are surrounded by handlers who actually tell them that shit is "fiyah." People actually encourage them to present themselves to the public looking like they spent the day at Hair Magic Beauty Supply's wig station. Ironically, on America's Next Top Model, Bree had to do a photo shoot without being able to see herself in a mirror, and her hair was fierce. If that's the best B, Remy, and company could come up with after spending hours in the mirror, I'm seriously questioning their sanity, judgement, taste, and intelligence. Shit, even Stevie Wonder could see they look a hot ass mess.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Identification
I wasn't going to blog today. After yesterday's rant, I didn't have much on my mind. Plus, I've grown tired of writing about The Idiot Who Made Me Cry, The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry, Broke Ass Niggas and men in general. And I'm sure you, my faithful readers, have gotten sick of reading about my issues with men. Shit, who am I kidding, no you haven't. The only reason you all read my blog is because you're sick, voyeuristic mofos who get off on knowing that there is at least one person in this world who is just as fucked up as you if not more so. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, I felt as though the well had run dry. Oh, but silly me forgot that as long as I'm alive the well will never run dry, because as the bumper sticker said, "Shit happens."
Today I was reading through the comments people have left in my blog (thank you thank you for agreeing with me, and if you didn't then bite me). While perusing through them, I found one from someone who knows me informing me that I've inspired them to start their own blog. I was so moved. To think that lil ol' me could be someone's inspiration is just more than I could have ever hoped for. The fact that I managed to strike a cord in someone who I'm friends with just really lets me know why I'm here on this earth. And reading their first blog entry damn near brought a tear to mine eye. The only thing that could've made this joyous event even more perfect is knowing who the hell this person is.
I have an idea of who could've left the message. Actually it's down to two people, but I shouldn't have to rack my brain to figure this out. They should've left their name. And not a screenname either (unless it's the same screenname they use for IM, email, and all online message boards). How in the world would anyone expect me to figure out who they are based on a screenname I've never seen and a blog title that doesn't match the screenname. Honestly, that's just a bit presumptuous in my opinion. Do people assume that they are my only friend in the entire world so I should automatically assume that the message came from them? This reminds me of those guys that call and say, "Hey, it's me." Like "me" is enough information to figure out who is dialing my number at 2 a.m. Is it the "me" who spends all day looking in mirror, or the "me" or hasn't called in 3 weeks, or could it be the "me" who's obsessed with those loser NY Knicks, or possibly the "me" with several gunshot wounds? I just can't tell. And it's a bit egotistical to think that you'd be the only "me" with a baritone that calls me up at ungodly hours. So then I've gotta play the guessing game and God forbid I guess wrong. Cause that always leads to "who else calls you at this hour?" And that's a conversation neither one of us wants to have. Equally annoying are those folks who decide to forgoe the screenname they've chatted with for the past 5 years and IM you with one you've never seen before and assume you'll accept a message from 10inchstud05. Then they want to IM you from their old screenname all mad that you rejected the first message. Well Dipshit, how was I supposed to know it's you. There was nothing in that screenname that even remotely described you so I'd rather reject the message than take my chances at getting a web invite to see Stud Man having all sorts of inapporpriate fun with farm animals. I may be a freak, but I ain't that freaky.
Oh, but I digress! I thought it was common knowledge that if you leave someone a message, you should let them know from whom the message came. Why do you think every answering machine across the country asks for your name in addition to whatever message you want to leave? Let me give you a hint, because most people are not anti social freaks and have more than one person in their lives. Same principle applies to my blog. If you're leaving me a message don't expect me to know who you are. Everyone sounds the same when printed in Times New Roman. So get over yourself and realize that you are not THAT special and leave a freaking name next time. Thanks much.
Today I was reading through the comments people have left in my blog (thank you thank you for agreeing with me, and if you didn't then bite me). While perusing through them, I found one from someone who knows me informing me that I've inspired them to start their own blog. I was so moved. To think that lil ol' me could be someone's inspiration is just more than I could have ever hoped for. The fact that I managed to strike a cord in someone who I'm friends with just really lets me know why I'm here on this earth. And reading their first blog entry damn near brought a tear to mine eye. The only thing that could've made this joyous event even more perfect is knowing who the hell this person is.
I have an idea of who could've left the message. Actually it's down to two people, but I shouldn't have to rack my brain to figure this out. They should've left their name. And not a screenname either (unless it's the same screenname they use for IM, email, and all online message boards). How in the world would anyone expect me to figure out who they are based on a screenname I've never seen and a blog title that doesn't match the screenname. Honestly, that's just a bit presumptuous in my opinion. Do people assume that they are my only friend in the entire world so I should automatically assume that the message came from them? This reminds me of those guys that call and say, "Hey, it's me." Like "me" is enough information to figure out who is dialing my number at 2 a.m. Is it the "me" who spends all day looking in mirror, or the "me" or hasn't called in 3 weeks, or could it be the "me" who's obsessed with those loser NY Knicks, or possibly the "me" with several gunshot wounds? I just can't tell. And it's a bit egotistical to think that you'd be the only "me" with a baritone that calls me up at ungodly hours. So then I've gotta play the guessing game and God forbid I guess wrong. Cause that always leads to "who else calls you at this hour?" And that's a conversation neither one of us wants to have. Equally annoying are those folks who decide to forgoe the screenname they've chatted with for the past 5 years and IM you with one you've never seen before and assume you'll accept a message from 10inchstud05. Then they want to IM you from their old screenname all mad that you rejected the first message. Well Dipshit, how was I supposed to know it's you. There was nothing in that screenname that even remotely described you so I'd rather reject the message than take my chances at getting a web invite to see Stud Man having all sorts of inapporpriate fun with farm animals. I may be a freak, but I ain't that freaky.
Oh, but I digress! I thought it was common knowledge that if you leave someone a message, you should let them know from whom the message came. Why do you think every answering machine across the country asks for your name in addition to whatever message you want to leave? Let me give you a hint, because most people are not anti social freaks and have more than one person in their lives. Same principle applies to my blog. If you're leaving me a message don't expect me to know who you are. Everyone sounds the same when printed in Times New Roman. So get over yourself and realize that you are not THAT special and leave a freaking name next time. Thanks much.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Crazy is as Crazy Does
More than anything in this world, I hate being called crazy. It's annoying when my friends say it and particularly grating when my family says it. But NOTHING pisses me off more than when a man says, "You're crazy." Damn it, I am NOT crazy. I'm perfectly sane. I swear it! Alright, fine, maybe I'm half crazy. But it's not my fault.
Here's what I've come to realize, at some point in time, every man thinks that his girlfriend is crazy. And to be honest, he's probably right. But in defense of females worldwide, I've gotta say, we didn't start out crazy. We were driven to insanity by the men we care about. Don't believe me? Watch General Hospital. Carly wound up in a sanitarium because of Sonny. Maybe by getting this issue out in the open we can prevent another previously stable woman from losing her marbles over a set of cute dimples and a nice ass.
Now Men, when you first met us, we were in our right minds. In fact we were that cool, fun, laid back chick that you've waited for your entire life. We'd sit on the couch all day on Sunday watching football with you. We'd get all dolled up and make you a nice dinner for two. We'd laugh at your crude jokes and match them with even cruder ones of our own. We made no demands and were completely lucid and rational at all times. Hell, we were just like you and your boys except with longer hair and boobs. Then seemingly out of the blue, ying to your yang morphs into the nagging psycho girlfriend from hell. What happened?
Well Men, I'll tell you what happened. But before I do, let's take a closer look at what was going on when your girl was "normal." I'd bet the negative balance in my checking account that you were probably calling her all the time and talking for hours; leaving her cute text messages, emails, and notes about how much you like her/miss her/want her; spending every moment of your free time with her; keeping your fridge stocked with Yoplait and granola bars just for me; watching soap operas with me; letting me keep your sweatpants...wait, I mean HER...yes her...sorry it got personal for a second. Anyways, basically she was happy, laidback, and content because you gave her every reason to be. So it stands to reason that maybe the reason that she's whiny, uptight, and crazy is because you're no longer giving her a reason to be cool, calm, and collected. HHMMMMMM, there's a thought.
What you men don't seem to realize is that women are creatures of habit and women notice EVERYTHING. I've said it before and I'll say it again, if you get us used to things, the moment anything changes we're gonna think something is wrong. For some reason you guys have a tendency to get complacent. You don't say and do the things you initially did to get us. Well when that stuff stops, the crazy begins. But to us women, it's not crazy. We're simply trying to be mature adults and communicate our issues. The problem is, men don't see the issue. For some strange reason men think that as long as they're still with us, we're to assume that the feelings are still there and you still like us just as much as you did before. You always say, "I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be." But that's not really believeable when after a while your contribution to the relationship is just "being there." Taking up space on the couch next to us does not constitute showing interest. Having the same "Hey how ya doing?" conversation on the phone every night does not make us feel desired. Basically, Karen White said it best when she sang, "You're just going through the motions and you're not being fair." Going through the motions does not make a woman feel loved, wanted, appreciated, and all the other things she needs to feel in order to be laidback, cool, and carefree.
Playing games is for children and we're grown women now with jobs, bank accounts, and fuzzy pajamas with the feet. We're beyond the games. So we sit our men down and say, "We need to talk. I'm sensing that there's something wrong and I want to fix it," or something along those lines. So we pour our hearts out to you. We explain how we're feeling and why. And after we get it all out we look deep into your eyes and all we see is a blank stare of confusion. So we try to say it again. More blank stares. Then we try to use different words and different examples and analogies and you still stare blankly. After a while it seems like all we're doing is saying the same thing over and over and over again. All of a sudden we've gone from cool chick to crazy chick faster than it took Tom to knock up Katie.
Just so you know, we know we sound like a broken record, and we hate it. But all we want is to be understood. All we want is to just see the faint glimmer of comprehension in your vacant, childlike eyes. Well, that's not all we want. We also want you to do the things you used to do before you got in our pants. But that's secondary. When we feel like we're not being heard or understood we keep on harping on the same issues ad nauseum. We really don't want to do this. In fact, we can sense when we're about to do it and we're helpless to stop ourselves. It's like an out of body experience. We can hear how we sound and we know it's annoying you and we can sense the craziness, but it's out of our hands and beyond our control. We just have to keep at it until you get it. So please, do us and yourselves a favor....either never stop acting the way you did when we first met you or try to meet us halfway and say, "Baby, I understand." It'll go over so much better than saying, "Bitch, you crazy!"
Here's what I've come to realize, at some point in time, every man thinks that his girlfriend is crazy. And to be honest, he's probably right. But in defense of females worldwide, I've gotta say, we didn't start out crazy. We were driven to insanity by the men we care about. Don't believe me? Watch General Hospital. Carly wound up in a sanitarium because of Sonny. Maybe by getting this issue out in the open we can prevent another previously stable woman from losing her marbles over a set of cute dimples and a nice ass.
Now Men, when you first met us, we were in our right minds. In fact we were that cool, fun, laid back chick that you've waited for your entire life. We'd sit on the couch all day on Sunday watching football with you. We'd get all dolled up and make you a nice dinner for two. We'd laugh at your crude jokes and match them with even cruder ones of our own. We made no demands and were completely lucid and rational at all times. Hell, we were just like you and your boys except with longer hair and boobs. Then seemingly out of the blue, ying to your yang morphs into the nagging psycho girlfriend from hell. What happened?
Well Men, I'll tell you what happened. But before I do, let's take a closer look at what was going on when your girl was "normal." I'd bet the negative balance in my checking account that you were probably calling her all the time and talking for hours; leaving her cute text messages, emails, and notes about how much you like her/miss her/want her; spending every moment of your free time with her; keeping your fridge stocked with Yoplait and granola bars just for me; watching soap operas with me; letting me keep your sweatpants...wait, I mean HER...yes her...sorry it got personal for a second. Anyways, basically she was happy, laidback, and content because you gave her every reason to be. So it stands to reason that maybe the reason that she's whiny, uptight, and crazy is because you're no longer giving her a reason to be cool, calm, and collected. HHMMMMMM, there's a thought.
What you men don't seem to realize is that women are creatures of habit and women notice EVERYTHING. I've said it before and I'll say it again, if you get us used to things, the moment anything changes we're gonna think something is wrong. For some reason you guys have a tendency to get complacent. You don't say and do the things you initially did to get us. Well when that stuff stops, the crazy begins. But to us women, it's not crazy. We're simply trying to be mature adults and communicate our issues. The problem is, men don't see the issue. For some strange reason men think that as long as they're still with us, we're to assume that the feelings are still there and you still like us just as much as you did before. You always say, "I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be." But that's not really believeable when after a while your contribution to the relationship is just "being there." Taking up space on the couch next to us does not constitute showing interest. Having the same "Hey how ya doing?" conversation on the phone every night does not make us feel desired. Basically, Karen White said it best when she sang, "You're just going through the motions and you're not being fair." Going through the motions does not make a woman feel loved, wanted, appreciated, and all the other things she needs to feel in order to be laidback, cool, and carefree.
Playing games is for children and we're grown women now with jobs, bank accounts, and fuzzy pajamas with the feet. We're beyond the games. So we sit our men down and say, "We need to talk. I'm sensing that there's something wrong and I want to fix it," or something along those lines. So we pour our hearts out to you. We explain how we're feeling and why. And after we get it all out we look deep into your eyes and all we see is a blank stare of confusion. So we try to say it again. More blank stares. Then we try to use different words and different examples and analogies and you still stare blankly. After a while it seems like all we're doing is saying the same thing over and over and over again. All of a sudden we've gone from cool chick to crazy chick faster than it took Tom to knock up Katie.
Just so you know, we know we sound like a broken record, and we hate it. But all we want is to be understood. All we want is to just see the faint glimmer of comprehension in your vacant, childlike eyes. Well, that's not all we want. We also want you to do the things you used to do before you got in our pants. But that's secondary. When we feel like we're not being heard or understood we keep on harping on the same issues ad nauseum. We really don't want to do this. In fact, we can sense when we're about to do it and we're helpless to stop ourselves. It's like an out of body experience. We can hear how we sound and we know it's annoying you and we can sense the craziness, but it's out of our hands and beyond our control. We just have to keep at it until you get it. So please, do us and yourselves a favor....either never stop acting the way you did when we first met you or try to meet us halfway and say, "Baby, I understand." It'll go over so much better than saying, "Bitch, you crazy!"
Monday, November 28, 2005
Lessons Learned
I've been doing this blogging thing for about four months now; first on Friendster and now here at blogspot. When I first started doing this, I figured my blog would be a way for me to avoid work for a few hours each day. In all my writing, never did I imagine that blogging would do more than just give me an outlet for my random musings. This blog has actually taught me valuable life lessons.
Lesson 1: Be very careful about who gets the URL to your blog
From the jump I was always concerned about The Idiot Who Made Me Cry getting his hands on the link to my blog and reading everything I've said about him. Turns out, he wasn't the one I should've been worried about. When the blog used to be at Friendster I got in the sharing mood. I passed the link along to my friends and associates and let them get a good look at life as I know it. Well I must've been feeling really, really open because for reasons that escape me now, I even gave the link to my parents. I guess I had temporary amnesia and forgot about all the things I've written. They were all over my blog like flies on shit. Not a week would go by without a phone call or an email questioning me about my lost wallet (Priorities - 10/9 post), my belief in God (Not So Midlife Crisis - 10/30 post), and my love life (The Sixth Sense - 11/11 post). I don't know why I believed that they were mature enough to read my blog for literary enjoyment and not as a means to pry into my private life. Needless to say they did NOT get the memo that I've now moved to blogspot. It's a good thing because "Immaculate Conception" might have sent them to their graves.
Lesson 2: Blogging is a lot like high school
Everyone knows that in high school you had your popular kids and you had the kids who wanted to be popular. Same thing can be said about blogging. You've got the popular blogs like the Angry Black Bitch (http://angryblackbitch.blogspot.com) and you've got the blogs that really want to be popular like The Brain Dump (that's the one you're currently reading). So what's a blog to do when it's on the outside looking in, longing to be one of the cool blogs that everyone reads and talks about? You've got it! That blog gets as close to the popular ones as possible so that a little bit of their coolness can rub off. It's your basic principle of transferance (sp?). If you hang out at the popular blogspots long enough and let others folks know you're hanging out there, somehow you get popular by default. The strategy is working. In the last week, I've seen my hits skyrocket!! Thank you ABB and Cranky Professor (http://crankyprof.blogspot.com).
*Disclaimer: These blogs really are great and deserve to be popular. If you haven't already go check them out.
Lesson 3: Wit, Sarcasm, and Humor are lost on most folks
If everything written has to be prefaced with "I'm just kidding" it ruins the joke. However, a lot of blog readers don't get jokes. I'm noticing it more and more whenever I read the comments they post. I'm not going to say which posts shouldn't be taken literally, cause that would ruin all my fun. I sure do get a kick out of laughing at dim bulbs.
Lesson 4: Blogging saves money
I've just saved a ton of money on therapy bills by blogging. Who needs a therapist when you've got an open forum to air dirty laundry and countless strangers/voyeurs willing to play amateur shrinks and doctors. Thus far I've taken 2 pregnancy tests even though I'm riding the crimson tide, all at the behest of my concerned therapists. I would've shelled out a bundle of money just for a professional to tell me what an Anonymous commenter let me know for free: I'm crazy!
Lesson 1: Be very careful about who gets the URL to your blog
From the jump I was always concerned about The Idiot Who Made Me Cry getting his hands on the link to my blog and reading everything I've said about him. Turns out, he wasn't the one I should've been worried about. When the blog used to be at Friendster I got in the sharing mood. I passed the link along to my friends and associates and let them get a good look at life as I know it. Well I must've been feeling really, really open because for reasons that escape me now, I even gave the link to my parents. I guess I had temporary amnesia and forgot about all the things I've written. They were all over my blog like flies on shit. Not a week would go by without a phone call or an email questioning me about my lost wallet (Priorities - 10/9 post), my belief in God (Not So Midlife Crisis - 10/30 post), and my love life (The Sixth Sense - 11/11 post). I don't know why I believed that they were mature enough to read my blog for literary enjoyment and not as a means to pry into my private life. Needless to say they did NOT get the memo that I've now moved to blogspot. It's a good thing because "Immaculate Conception" might have sent them to their graves.
Lesson 2: Blogging is a lot like high school
Everyone knows that in high school you had your popular kids and you had the kids who wanted to be popular. Same thing can be said about blogging. You've got the popular blogs like the Angry Black Bitch (http://angryblackbitch.blogspot.com) and you've got the blogs that really want to be popular like The Brain Dump (that's the one you're currently reading). So what's a blog to do when it's on the outside looking in, longing to be one of the cool blogs that everyone reads and talks about? You've got it! That blog gets as close to the popular ones as possible so that a little bit of their coolness can rub off. It's your basic principle of transferance (sp?). If you hang out at the popular blogspots long enough and let others folks know you're hanging out there, somehow you get popular by default. The strategy is working. In the last week, I've seen my hits skyrocket!! Thank you ABB and Cranky Professor (http://crankyprof.blogspot.com).
*Disclaimer: These blogs really are great and deserve to be popular. If you haven't already go check them out.
Lesson 3: Wit, Sarcasm, and Humor are lost on most folks
If everything written has to be prefaced with "I'm just kidding" it ruins the joke. However, a lot of blog readers don't get jokes. I'm noticing it more and more whenever I read the comments they post. I'm not going to say which posts shouldn't be taken literally, cause that would ruin all my fun. I sure do get a kick out of laughing at dim bulbs.
Lesson 4: Blogging saves money
I've just saved a ton of money on therapy bills by blogging. Who needs a therapist when you've got an open forum to air dirty laundry and countless strangers/voyeurs willing to play amateur shrinks and doctors. Thus far I've taken 2 pregnancy tests even though I'm riding the crimson tide, all at the behest of my concerned therapists. I would've shelled out a bundle of money just for a professional to tell me what an Anonymous commenter let me know for free: I'm crazy!
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Immaculate Conception
People said it couldn't happen. They said it was completely impossible. The laws of nature don't allow for it. Well I'm here to proclaim that not only can it happen, it did happen. It's a miracle! I'm pregnant, yet I haven't done a damn thing that would lead to procreation. The last time this happened was roughly 2000 years ago somewhere in Galilee or was it Nazareth or maybe it was Jerusalem. Who knows, that's not the point.
So you're probably wondering why I believe that a child has been conceived without the help of a man. Well, I don't know how it happened, but I've got all the classic symptoms of being with child. Here's the evidence. Draw your own conclusion.
Exhibit A: I've got cravings.
For the past few weeks I haven't been able to get enough of baked Tostitos with extra spicy salsa and yogurt. I know it sounds gross. But I love it. I can't stop eating it. Who would like a concoction like that unless they were preggers?
Exhibit B: My bladder has shrunk
I pee every hour on the hour and sometimes twice in the same hour. Ingesting one drop of liquid will send me to the bathroom within 5 minutes to relieve myself. I'm going through toilet paper like J Lo goes through husbands. I'm going to attribute these frequent sudden urges to my pregnancy instead of a possible case of overactive bladder.
Exhibit C: The skinny jeans no longer fit
Okay, fine. My skinny jeans haven't fit in over a year. But being pregnant is a much better reason for not fitting into my clothes than acknowledging the fact that late night trips to Fridays for the Brownie Obsession have made me a fat cow.
Exhibit D: Gas
Don't nobody got gas like a pregnant woman. And I must say I've been blowing my house up as of late. It could be the oat bran, whole grain bread, whole grain cereal, whole grain pasta, and brown rice that I feast on everyday, but it's much more plausible that pregnancy is the reason why the faint scent of sulfuric acid follows me wherever I go.
Exhibit E: I'm already starting to show
I'm not quite sure of the date of conception, however I know I'm pregnant cause I'm showing. My tummy pokes out and it's not squishy when I poke it. If that ain't pregnant I don't know what is? I highly doubt that the two eggs, home fried potatoes, buttered toast, and soup that I had for lunch have anything to do with my present condition.
See! When you add up all the symptoms, I'm most definitely gonna be having a little squirmy, screaming, shitting bundle of joy within the next 6 to 8 months. I'm sure of it. I could take a pregnancy test and know for sure, but I never did trust those home tests (remember the folks in the commercial get paid to say that test is error proof) and I don't want to see the incredulous stares at the doctor's office when I explain the story of my miracle baby. So nope, I'll keep this to myself until it's time for someone to knock me the hell out and deliever my kid for me. In the meantime, I'm off to go feed the growing embryo.
So you're probably wondering why I believe that a child has been conceived without the help of a man. Well, I don't know how it happened, but I've got all the classic symptoms of being with child. Here's the evidence. Draw your own conclusion.
Exhibit A: I've got cravings.
For the past few weeks I haven't been able to get enough of baked Tostitos with extra spicy salsa and yogurt. I know it sounds gross. But I love it. I can't stop eating it. Who would like a concoction like that unless they were preggers?
Exhibit B: My bladder has shrunk
I pee every hour on the hour and sometimes twice in the same hour. Ingesting one drop of liquid will send me to the bathroom within 5 minutes to relieve myself. I'm going through toilet paper like J Lo goes through husbands. I'm going to attribute these frequent sudden urges to my pregnancy instead of a possible case of overactive bladder.
Exhibit C: The skinny jeans no longer fit
Okay, fine. My skinny jeans haven't fit in over a year. But being pregnant is a much better reason for not fitting into my clothes than acknowledging the fact that late night trips to Fridays for the Brownie Obsession have made me a fat cow.
Exhibit D: Gas
Don't nobody got gas like a pregnant woman. And I must say I've been blowing my house up as of late. It could be the oat bran, whole grain bread, whole grain cereal, whole grain pasta, and brown rice that I feast on everyday, but it's much more plausible that pregnancy is the reason why the faint scent of sulfuric acid follows me wherever I go.
Exhibit E: I'm already starting to show
I'm not quite sure of the date of conception, however I know I'm pregnant cause I'm showing. My tummy pokes out and it's not squishy when I poke it. If that ain't pregnant I don't know what is? I highly doubt that the two eggs, home fried potatoes, buttered toast, and soup that I had for lunch have anything to do with my present condition.
See! When you add up all the symptoms, I'm most definitely gonna be having a little squirmy, screaming, shitting bundle of joy within the next 6 to 8 months. I'm sure of it. I could take a pregnancy test and know for sure, but I never did trust those home tests (remember the folks in the commercial get paid to say that test is error proof) and I don't want to see the incredulous stares at the doctor's office when I explain the story of my miracle baby. So nope, I'll keep this to myself until it's time for someone to knock me the hell out and deliever my kid for me. In the meantime, I'm off to go feed the growing embryo.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Cosmic Joke
I have the most wonderful man in my life right now. He's smart, he's hilarious, he dresses well, loves God, loves his family, listens, gives great advice, and best of all puts up with me no matter what. Honestly, I really don't know what I would do without him. Our bond is amazing and I truly value it. Now you're probably wondering where this is coming from, since just last week I was blogging about male stupidity. Well obviously I'm not talking about the same person. And no I haven't met anyone new within the last 7 days. Nope! Mr. Wonderful has been in my life for years. And no, I haven't been doing any kind of extracurricular relationship activities either. I'm not that kind of person. Nothing would ever come between Mr. Wonderful and I, not even the man I marry. You know why? Because Mr. Wonderful is just my friend. Actually, I have several Mr. Wonderfuls in my life.
Now I'm sitting here all by myself blogging on a Friday night, instead of being curled up with something tall and scrum..scrump...scrumpteou, scrumptiou, scrumptous (?, aww screw the spelling). Yep I am unabashedly single. Whenever anyone asks me why I'm single, I always say it's because I don't know any good men to date. However, that's just not true. I know a ton of great guys who are eligible bachelors. The irony is, they just aren't available to me. It's the equivalent of having a PHAT tax return burning a hole in your pocket while sitting in the middle of a showroom filled with 80% off Mahnolo Blahniks that are all about two sizes too small. Right style, wrong fit.
Somehow, I have managed to meet the perfect guy about 10 to 15 times in my life. Well let me clarify, I've met the perfect guy for a woman who is NOT me. I seem to be skilled at developing relationships with everyone else's soulmate but my own. I'm not complaining due to secretly harbored feelings for my male friends. Actually the idea of touching them in any romantic way feels just downright dirty and incestuous. Since I didn't descend from a European monarchy and I'm not from Appalachia I've never found incest to be acceptable.
After deeper thought, I'm not even upset over the fact that I can't find the right guy for myself. I'm more upset with my female friends for not having their own supplies of Mr. Wonderfuls. How hard is it for these chicks to befriend Jay-Z so that me and him can hook up. And if they can't befriend Jigga Man, then Chris Webber, Clinton Portis, or that cute white boy from Coach Carter should be a bit more attainable. I'm bringing an investment banker, a rapper, a mama's boy, a former high school football star, and much more to the table. What have they got? A bunch of vertically challenged broke ass niggas who are going through some shit right now. Ain't that about a bitch!!
I think God has a twisted sense of humor. I will readily admit that I am blessed to have each and every one of my Mr. Wonderfuls in my life. But putting the goods in front of me when I can't and don't want to buy is a sick cosmic joke. I ain't laughing.
Now I'm sitting here all by myself blogging on a Friday night, instead of being curled up with something tall and scrum..scrump...scrumpteou, scrumptiou, scrumptous (?, aww screw the spelling). Yep I am unabashedly single. Whenever anyone asks me why I'm single, I always say it's because I don't know any good men to date. However, that's just not true. I know a ton of great guys who are eligible bachelors. The irony is, they just aren't available to me. It's the equivalent of having a PHAT tax return burning a hole in your pocket while sitting in the middle of a showroom filled with 80% off Mahnolo Blahniks that are all about two sizes too small. Right style, wrong fit.
Somehow, I have managed to meet the perfect guy about 10 to 15 times in my life. Well let me clarify, I've met the perfect guy for a woman who is NOT me. I seem to be skilled at developing relationships with everyone else's soulmate but my own. I'm not complaining due to secretly harbored feelings for my male friends. Actually the idea of touching them in any romantic way feels just downright dirty and incestuous. Since I didn't descend from a European monarchy and I'm not from Appalachia I've never found incest to be acceptable.
After deeper thought, I'm not even upset over the fact that I can't find the right guy for myself. I'm more upset with my female friends for not having their own supplies of Mr. Wonderfuls. How hard is it for these chicks to befriend Jay-Z so that me and him can hook up. And if they can't befriend Jigga Man, then Chris Webber, Clinton Portis, or that cute white boy from Coach Carter should be a bit more attainable. I'm bringing an investment banker, a rapper, a mama's boy, a former high school football star, and much more to the table. What have they got? A bunch of vertically challenged broke ass niggas who are going through some shit right now. Ain't that about a bitch!!
I think God has a twisted sense of humor. I will readily admit that I am blessed to have each and every one of my Mr. Wonderfuls in my life. But putting the goods in front of me when I can't and don't want to buy is a sick cosmic joke. I ain't laughing.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do
I miss junior high. It was so great. School dances, high school football games, cute boys, house parties, it was all great. You know what else was great about junior high school? Breaking up. True, at the time breaking up sucked, but looking back on it, break ups back then were easy! The break up rules were so easy to follow all those years ago. "Relationships" ended when one person stopped liking the other or when some egregious wrong was inflicted upon someone (i.e. dancing too close too another person at the last dance). Somewhere between then and now the rules changed. Sure, we still break up because somebody did us dirty or because we're just not feeling it anymore. But for some reason somewhere down the line we started breaking up even when no one has done anything really wrong and the feelings are just as strong as they've always been. Junior high never prepared me for this.
It's truly amazing how one day everything can be going so great that happy doesn't begin to describe it and then one day you wake up and that euphoria is a distant memory. Now I don't believe that any relationship can sustain the initial high indefinitely. After a while things settle into a comfortable rhythm in which both parties feel secure and content. But sometimes that high can gradually deflate like a balloon that's slowly loosing helium. It crashes to the ground in silence without that loud bang that lets you know that something is even missing. No matter how much you try to get that balloon to fly as high as it used to it just won't. It doesn't matter that you still want that balloon and never had any intention of letting it go. Also doesn't matter that you're still attached to that balloon completely. It just won't work.
Somewhere along the line I realized that certain relationships just don't work. There used to be a time when all two people needed was to just like each other a whole lot and that would be enough to keep them together. It's a really sad day when you realize that feelings alone won't resusicitate a dead union. Sometimes you can't love a person enough to make up for what it is they can't give you. The same conversation can only be had but so many times without anything changing.
Strange part of it all is that there isn't the fireworks that junior high breakups used to have as a weeklong courtship went down in a blaze of glory between 5th and 6th period. No yelling, no begging and pleading, no plots of revenge. Just a quiet resignation that it isn't working. I swear hating the ex is a whole lot easier than missing him like crazy and knowing there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.
It's truly amazing how one day everything can be going so great that happy doesn't begin to describe it and then one day you wake up and that euphoria is a distant memory. Now I don't believe that any relationship can sustain the initial high indefinitely. After a while things settle into a comfortable rhythm in which both parties feel secure and content. But sometimes that high can gradually deflate like a balloon that's slowly loosing helium. It crashes to the ground in silence without that loud bang that lets you know that something is even missing. No matter how much you try to get that balloon to fly as high as it used to it just won't. It doesn't matter that you still want that balloon and never had any intention of letting it go. Also doesn't matter that you're still attached to that balloon completely. It just won't work.
Somewhere along the line I realized that certain relationships just don't work. There used to be a time when all two people needed was to just like each other a whole lot and that would be enough to keep them together. It's a really sad day when you realize that feelings alone won't resusicitate a dead union. Sometimes you can't love a person enough to make up for what it is they can't give you. The same conversation can only be had but so many times without anything changing.
Strange part of it all is that there isn't the fireworks that junior high breakups used to have as a weeklong courtship went down in a blaze of glory between 5th and 6th period. No yelling, no begging and pleading, no plots of revenge. Just a quiet resignation that it isn't working. I swear hating the ex is a whole lot easier than missing him like crazy and knowing there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.
Friday, November 11, 2005
The Sixth Sense
Elementary schools across the country have failed our children. Introductory science classes are acclimating youth to the physical world around them. One of the first lessons these kids are taught is about how humans sense the world around them. Every year kids file into classrooms and learn that there are five senses: sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell. However, what they forget to teach these young impressionable minds is that boys have a sixth sense that develops with age. It's the uncanny sense to know when the woman he is involved with is just about done with his trifling ass so he better act right.
I have no idea how men do this, but I'm starting to believe that it's innate. Without a woman saying a word, they just KNOW when we are A) about to dump them B) almost over them or C) about to get serious with someone else. Amazingly sometimes depending on which stage you are in with different men, two of them will activate this sixth sense at once.
So, earlier this summer I started seeing this guy who while very cute (in a dopey sort of way) and an amazing kisser decided to start going through some shit about a month and a half into our courtship. Yes, he was another broke ass nigga going through some shit right now. Anyways, about a month after I started seeing him, I met the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry. Now keep up with me, cause it starts to get complicated. So the weekend after I met the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry, I spent a few days with Dopey Taylor. Everything was going fine with him and we were all nice and boo'd up (well us and all 20 of his closest friends who wouldn't leave the apartment). I was talking to The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry but only on a just friends tip cause I was all about Dopey. Well a few weeks later Dopey starts going through some shit and whaddya know the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry is there to pick up the slack. Within a month, Dopey's fallen by the wayside and I'm snug as a bug in a rug with the Guy.
Over the next month or so as we're coming into fall, things with the Guy are progressing very nicely. He's doing everything he should be to not only get me interested, but to keep me interested as well. I'm feeling him, and feeling him hard. In all this time, Dopey is nowhere to be found, so I'm pretty focused on the Guy. Well, as we all know when dealing with the Y chromosome, good behavior only lasts but so long before stupidity sets in. All of the tactics and measures that were employed to get me, are no longer being employed to keep me, and needless to say I am quite disgruntled. Now in the name of fairness, I've told the Guy over and over again that things are fizzling and we need to fix it. I've also played the obligatory "Nigga You Betta Act Right" games, up to and including the silent treatment and starting unnecessary fights and considering the Fallback Boy. NOTHING is working. That is nothing except considering letting the whole thing go. Somehow, everytime I'm about to pick up that phone and say, "I changed my mind," he picks up the phone first and says and does everything I've been needing him to say and do for weeks. WTF!! It's hard enough to make the decision to let someone go that you still really care about. You've gotta check with at least 5 of your girlfriends to figure out what majority opinion is. Then you have to go over and over in your head all of the things he's done wrong and document when the last time he actually did something right was. Next, you must listen to every sad/angry love song you can get your hands on in order to see how much of the lyrics relate to your current situation. After that, countless hours need to be spent agonizing over whether it's really time to throw in the towel. You then put it into a mental and emotional computer formula which spits out a decision whether or not to stay or let that dude go. To go through all of that, just for him to get his act together at the last minute is unfair and completely inconsiderate on his part.
If the Guy weren't bad enough, Dopey Taylor all of a sudden remembers I exist. Why is that? Could it be because that stupid sixth sense told him that I might like someone else enough to completely forget about his broke dysfunctional ass? And of course he would know to make his move right when I'm trying to work through issues with the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry. This is by no means a coincidence. He knew where my head was and just couldn't pass up an opportunity to screw with my already messed up head. Manipulative bastard!
Maybe if this were the first time I'd gone through this I wouldn't be so annoyed. But it seems to be a pattern with the male species. Mr. Way Too Into Himself had this unnerving habit of popping back into my life whenever I was just about to write him off completely (this was after the Valentine's Day betrayal). There was also Mr. Only Good For One Thing. He was great at returning my calls just in time to keep from getting permanently deleted. But the one who mastered that sixth sense the most has to be The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. Now that nigga had radar like a mofo! Every single time I had just about purged him from my system a siren went off in that little brain of his and he was back like the freakin Terminator.
I don't enjoy operating at a disadvantage. It makes it a lot harder to win and sometimes I'll even take winning over being happy. The way I see it, it took me years to learn about this sixth sense that men have and leverage at every turn. And I had to do it the hard way, by painful experience. So in order to even out the playing field I say we add this sixth sense to elementary school science curriculums so that little girls everywhere will grow up to be women with a fighting chance against it. All in favor, say "Aye!"
I have no idea how men do this, but I'm starting to believe that it's innate. Without a woman saying a word, they just KNOW when we are A) about to dump them B) almost over them or C) about to get serious with someone else. Amazingly sometimes depending on which stage you are in with different men, two of them will activate this sixth sense at once.
So, earlier this summer I started seeing this guy who while very cute (in a dopey sort of way) and an amazing kisser decided to start going through some shit about a month and a half into our courtship. Yes, he was another broke ass nigga going through some shit right now. Anyways, about a month after I started seeing him, I met the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry. Now keep up with me, cause it starts to get complicated. So the weekend after I met the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry, I spent a few days with Dopey Taylor. Everything was going fine with him and we were all nice and boo'd up (well us and all 20 of his closest friends who wouldn't leave the apartment). I was talking to The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry but only on a just friends tip cause I was all about Dopey. Well a few weeks later Dopey starts going through some shit and whaddya know the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry is there to pick up the slack. Within a month, Dopey's fallen by the wayside and I'm snug as a bug in a rug with the Guy.
Over the next month or so as we're coming into fall, things with the Guy are progressing very nicely. He's doing everything he should be to not only get me interested, but to keep me interested as well. I'm feeling him, and feeling him hard. In all this time, Dopey is nowhere to be found, so I'm pretty focused on the Guy. Well, as we all know when dealing with the Y chromosome, good behavior only lasts but so long before stupidity sets in. All of the tactics and measures that were employed to get me, are no longer being employed to keep me, and needless to say I am quite disgruntled. Now in the name of fairness, I've told the Guy over and over again that things are fizzling and we need to fix it. I've also played the obligatory "Nigga You Betta Act Right" games, up to and including the silent treatment and starting unnecessary fights and considering the Fallback Boy. NOTHING is working. That is nothing except considering letting the whole thing go. Somehow, everytime I'm about to pick up that phone and say, "I changed my mind," he picks up the phone first and says and does everything I've been needing him to say and do for weeks. WTF!! It's hard enough to make the decision to let someone go that you still really care about. You've gotta check with at least 5 of your girlfriends to figure out what majority opinion is. Then you have to go over and over in your head all of the things he's done wrong and document when the last time he actually did something right was. Next, you must listen to every sad/angry love song you can get your hands on in order to see how much of the lyrics relate to your current situation. After that, countless hours need to be spent agonizing over whether it's really time to throw in the towel. You then put it into a mental and emotional computer formula which spits out a decision whether or not to stay or let that dude go. To go through all of that, just for him to get his act together at the last minute is unfair and completely inconsiderate on his part.
If the Guy weren't bad enough, Dopey Taylor all of a sudden remembers I exist. Why is that? Could it be because that stupid sixth sense told him that I might like someone else enough to completely forget about his broke dysfunctional ass? And of course he would know to make his move right when I'm trying to work through issues with the Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry. This is by no means a coincidence. He knew where my head was and just couldn't pass up an opportunity to screw with my already messed up head. Manipulative bastard!
Maybe if this were the first time I'd gone through this I wouldn't be so annoyed. But it seems to be a pattern with the male species. Mr. Way Too Into Himself had this unnerving habit of popping back into my life whenever I was just about to write him off completely (this was after the Valentine's Day betrayal). There was also Mr. Only Good For One Thing. He was great at returning my calls just in time to keep from getting permanently deleted. But the one who mastered that sixth sense the most has to be The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. Now that nigga had radar like a mofo! Every single time I had just about purged him from my system a siren went off in that little brain of his and he was back like the freakin Terminator.
I don't enjoy operating at a disadvantage. It makes it a lot harder to win and sometimes I'll even take winning over being happy. The way I see it, it took me years to learn about this sixth sense that men have and leverage at every turn. And I had to do it the hard way, by painful experience. So in order to even out the playing field I say we add this sixth sense to elementary school science curriculums so that little girls everywhere will grow up to be women with a fighting chance against it. All in favor, say "Aye!"
Monday, November 07, 2005
You Need An Alignment
There are certain concepts in this world that aren't very difficult to understand. What comes up, must come down. A closed mouth don't get fed. $13.95 + tax is NOT too much to spend on lip glass. If you break it, you buy it. Simple right? That is unless you were born with that defective Y chromosome. It seems as though basic rules of human interaction float right over their heads without them ever noticing. One in particular really stumps them. They just can't seem to master the concept of actions speaking louder than words.
If you've ever been in a room full of women there are always one or two who seem to be involved with a guy who just doesn't want a relationship. You'll hear them complaining about how the man won't commit. Of course these women won't break up with the men who don't give them what they need. They stick around hoping the man will one day change his mind and decide to give a full fledged relationship a shot. I used to look at these women and think that they were dumber than rocks. Common sense would tell you that if a man repeatedly says, "I don't want a relationship," then that's exactly what he means. If these women were being strung along, it was their own faults. That was my opinion and I was sticking to it.
Then something interesting happened. I befriended some guys. Any woman who has been friends with the male species soon realizes that as a friend, men don't find any reason to censor themselves around us. As a result, we become privy to all their dirty little secrets. After befriending several Purple People Eaters, all of whom were involved but didn't want to be in a relationship, something dawned on me. Maybe it wasn't the women who were being stupid. Perhaps they were sticking around because although these men said one thing, their actions didn't match up.
Let me break it down for you. Dude says, "I don't want a relationship." Same dude spends majority of his free time with one lady. Same dude attends family, work, and social functions with said lady. Same dude does the holiday thing with the lady (and not just Veteran's Day, Christmas and Valentine's Day included). Same dude is sleeping with this lady damn near every night for almost a year. Now it might just be me, but this seems like relationship behavior. Excuse me Dude, you might not want to admit this, but you're ass is in a relationship. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck....you can fill in the rest. A man can't say he doesn't want a relationship, fill the boyfriend role, and then wonder why a woman is constantly saying, "we need to talk." If you don't want to be with the woman don't act like it! Let me show you what that looks like. Don't hang out more than once a week. Don't have her meeting your folks, and don't meet hers. Don't discuss having feelings for her. Don't do the holiday thing. Basically don't do jack! Because anything you do can and will be used against you in relationship court.
The only thing that irks me more than a man who says he doesn't want to be in a relationship with a woman who he's been relationing with for ages, is a man who won't let go of a woman he says he doesn't want to be with. It seems to me that if you don't want us, you should be happy to see us go. But for some reason it never works like that. It's not fun to have to get over someone who's just not that into you. So imagine doing all the hard work of exorcising some man from your system, only to have him pop back up the second he senses you might be getting over him. He never actually wants to be together, he just doesn't want you over him. Now this is just purely selfish bullshit. Listen guys, after the age of 5 playing the "I don't want it, but I'm not going to share it" game is unacceptable. You know maybe if you're having that hard a time letting her walk away, you just might want her a little more than you thought you did. MESSAGE!!!
Now this can also be turned around to apply to those guys who claim to want to be with a chick but should have the words "disappearing acts" spray painted across their forehead. If you don't call, don't spend time, and aren't there when she needs you, then don't bother telling her you like her and want to be with her. It just causes unnecessary confusion. And no it's NOT all in her head. Trust me when I say that women keep track of how much you call (and I don't mean call back, I mean call first), when you ask to see us, everything you do and don't do for us, and every little word you say. We tabulate it all up into a does he really like me chart! When the stuff that comes out of your mouth doesn't match up with things you do, the only calculation we get is a big fat ?
So do us and yourselves a really big favor. Say what you mean and mean what you say and then back that bitch up with whatever you do. This has been a PSA from women everywhere to you!
If you've ever been in a room full of women there are always one or two who seem to be involved with a guy who just doesn't want a relationship. You'll hear them complaining about how the man won't commit. Of course these women won't break up with the men who don't give them what they need. They stick around hoping the man will one day change his mind and decide to give a full fledged relationship a shot. I used to look at these women and think that they were dumber than rocks. Common sense would tell you that if a man repeatedly says, "I don't want a relationship," then that's exactly what he means. If these women were being strung along, it was their own faults. That was my opinion and I was sticking to it.
Then something interesting happened. I befriended some guys. Any woman who has been friends with the male species soon realizes that as a friend, men don't find any reason to censor themselves around us. As a result, we become privy to all their dirty little secrets. After befriending several Purple People Eaters, all of whom were involved but didn't want to be in a relationship, something dawned on me. Maybe it wasn't the women who were being stupid. Perhaps they were sticking around because although these men said one thing, their actions didn't match up.
Let me break it down for you. Dude says, "I don't want a relationship." Same dude spends majority of his free time with one lady. Same dude attends family, work, and social functions with said lady. Same dude does the holiday thing with the lady (and not just Veteran's Day, Christmas and Valentine's Day included). Same dude is sleeping with this lady damn near every night for almost a year. Now it might just be me, but this seems like relationship behavior. Excuse me Dude, you might not want to admit this, but you're ass is in a relationship. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck....you can fill in the rest. A man can't say he doesn't want a relationship, fill the boyfriend role, and then wonder why a woman is constantly saying, "we need to talk." If you don't want to be with the woman don't act like it! Let me show you what that looks like. Don't hang out more than once a week. Don't have her meeting your folks, and don't meet hers. Don't discuss having feelings for her. Don't do the holiday thing. Basically don't do jack! Because anything you do can and will be used against you in relationship court.
The only thing that irks me more than a man who says he doesn't want to be in a relationship with a woman who he's been relationing with for ages, is a man who won't let go of a woman he says he doesn't want to be with. It seems to me that if you don't want us, you should be happy to see us go. But for some reason it never works like that. It's not fun to have to get over someone who's just not that into you. So imagine doing all the hard work of exorcising some man from your system, only to have him pop back up the second he senses you might be getting over him. He never actually wants to be together, he just doesn't want you over him. Now this is just purely selfish bullshit. Listen guys, after the age of 5 playing the "I don't want it, but I'm not going to share it" game is unacceptable. You know maybe if you're having that hard a time letting her walk away, you just might want her a little more than you thought you did. MESSAGE!!!
Now this can also be turned around to apply to those guys who claim to want to be with a chick but should have the words "disappearing acts" spray painted across their forehead. If you don't call, don't spend time, and aren't there when she needs you, then don't bother telling her you like her and want to be with her. It just causes unnecessary confusion. And no it's NOT all in her head. Trust me when I say that women keep track of how much you call (and I don't mean call back, I mean call first), when you ask to see us, everything you do and don't do for us, and every little word you say. We tabulate it all up into a does he really like me chart! When the stuff that comes out of your mouth doesn't match up with things you do, the only calculation we get is a big fat ?
So do us and yourselves a really big favor. Say what you mean and mean what you say and then back that bitch up with whatever you do. This has been a PSA from women everywhere to you!
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