Doing Too Much

I push send and wait for the confirmation. That's five texts in less than five hours, with no response in sight. Each message is more desperate than the one before it. "Hey! What's up," turns into "Are you there?" which turns into "I need to talk to you," which runs headfirst into "I miss you." Nothing works, and I am starting to wonder what I have to do to get a reply.

It wasn't like this before. I never had to wait to hear from him or have my calls returned. I didn't have to walk on eggshells, avoiding the landmines of desperation and the pitfalls of too much pressure. I had access whenever and wherever I wanted. But it's no longer like that. I'm shut out now, banging my head against a bolted door hoping that it will open. I can wait it out.

Then I start to think. What if I wait and what if he opens up again. Then what? Is he mine? Not necessarily. And what does having him really represent. Will he communicate, tell me how he feels, be there when I need him? Probably not. Five texts, two voicemails, countless calls. What the hell for? Why am I begging him to want me again. So we can be us for a second time? We were issues oriented at our best. I'm putting myself through hell waiting on him to tell me yes. I'm doing way too much for what I might get in return. Fuck it. I'm done.

Persistance Overcomes Resistance

Two months before my 20th birthday, I made a decision. I was going to get married before my 30th birthday. Although ten years is plenty of time to make it happen, I had the feeling that I didn't have any time to spare. My prospects were bleak, and if past performance is a good indicator of the future, they would remain bleak for a while. Not wanting to make my mission any harder than it already seemed, I decided I would not press my luck. Thinking about all of my friends, I realized that if they got married before me I'd probably be a bridesmaid more times than I could stomach. Everyone says, "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride," and I didn't want that to apply to me. Yet, I still wanted to be a part of my friends' wedding days (whenever they would be). Then it hit me, I could still play a major part in any friends' nuptials. They may say, "always a bridesmaid, never a bride," but they don't say anything about being a flower girl.

At first it seemed like a radical idea. Who ever heard of an adult flower girl? Especially an adult flower girl who's taller than many grooms. But one day while discussing weekend plans with a classmate, I learned that adult flower girls were not a mythical species.
"Yeah, so I'm going to my cousin's wedding this weekend," she said.
"Oh, that's cool. Are you in the wedding?" I replied.
"Nope, but my twin is gonna be the flower girl."
And with that sentence hope was born.

I presented the idea to all my close friends, who immediately laughed in my face.
"Umm, isn't the flower girl supposed to be a little girl? Don't you think you're too old? Yeah, you're too tall to be a flower girl."
I had expected some resistance to my plan, but the outright opposition surprised me. I'm absolutely adorable! How could anyone not want me as their flower girl. Obviously, they would need more in order to see the vision.

A campaign was born, complete with flower throwing demonstration and visualization exercises.
"Aren't flower girls supposed to be little girls?"
"Little girls have temper tantrums and can ruin the wedding."
"You're too tall!"
"I'll wear flats."
Whatever the objection, I had an answer. I even considered having head shots made so people could get a better idea of just how cute I can be. Even with my full fledged "Liz For Flower Girl" campaign, my friends still refused to support. Refusing to be thwarted, I offered my services elsewhere. Whenever anyone mentioned an engagement the first thing I said was, "I'm available if you need a flower girl." It didn't matter if it was an acquaintance, coworker, perfect stranger, I put it out there. I figured, I wouldn't know for sure unless I asked. I got five consecutive years of "No!"

In December 2005 when my good friend and sorority sister announced her engagement, I went through the routine.
"Can I be your flower girl?"
"No."
"But a little girl can ruin the wedding."
"I don't even think I'm gonna have a flower girl. I don't want kids in the wedding."
I didn't realize it then, but that would be the silver lining in the dark cloud of rejection. Normally when I put in my application to be a flower girl, I'm competing with several four year olds with cherubic cheeks and wide eyes. This time I had no competition, I only had to overcome her hesitations.

Several months later in a bridal shop in Brooklyn, I got the assistance I needed. While my friend was in the fitting room trying on a gown, I flipped through a magazine.
"If only they made these flower girl dresses in my size. I would be so adorable."
"Liz, you're too big to be a flower girl!" she admonished as she stepped out of the fitting room.
"Actually, I've heard of older women being the flower girl," the shop owner chimed in.
Finally a voice reason.
"Yeah," she continued, "Of course they don't wear white like a little girl would, but I've definitely heard of it. They're called flower maids or something like that."
I shot my friend a hopeful glance and I could tell she was mulling over the idea. The seed was planted.

Two months later I got a phone call.
"So, I wanted to ask if you'd like to be in my wedding. I don't really know the exact capacity. But would you like to be the flower maiden or something like that?"
"I'd love to!" I was beaming. After years of trying, I would finally get my chance. We decided I would wear a pink A-line halter dress with ballet flats. I'd also have a basket with flowers to throw down the aisle. There would be no little girls, just me. I was estatic!

On June 10th, 2006 I woke early to prepare for my big day. I washed and detangled the fro, shaved my legs and got a pedicure. The next few hours I practiced looking as innocent as possible. I kept the makeup and jewelry to a minimum in order to help the effort. Then at 6 p.m. I lined up outside the Grammercy mansion in Baltimore, MD. The processional music started and the wedding planner cued the bridesmaids. One by one they walked down the aisle towards the awaiting pastor.
"Now go!" the wedding planner pointed at me.
Clutching my white basket filled with pink and orange rose petals, I walked to the threshold. I took a step, then threw a handful of flowers in front of me. The guests stared, initially confused. The giggles started when they finally comprehended what I was doing. I looked to my left and saw my sorority sisters shaking their heads at me in disbelief. Step by step I made my way down the aisle, leaving a trail of rose petals in my wake. My basket was empty just as I reached my destination. I had done it! I had proven all of my detractors wrong. Grown women who are nearly six feet tall make exceptional flower girls!

Resume Dating

She was on the verge of tears for the second time in one night. He'd done it again and she couldn't understand why he treated her as though she didn't matter.
"Why do you still want him?" I asked.
"I don't know," she answered between sobs. "He's a really good guy, and I know that I'm not going to find someone that has all his qualities."
"Ummm, what's so great about him?"
"Well, he's college educated, got a good job, his own place, no kids. Plus he's really good looking, goal oriented and all that stuff."
And there it was. Like so many women before her, including me, she had mistaken qualifications for qualities.

Everyone has standards. Whether they write it on stationary and tuck it under their pillow at night, or keep it stored in a corner of their mind, everyone has a list of everything they want in a mate. Honest, kind, loyal, smart, funny, musical, artistic, educated, driven, spiritual, logical, sane, and the list goes on and on. And as much as people are loathe to admit it, the packaging those qualities come in is pretty darn important as well. Personally, I prefer honest, kind, loyal, smart, funny, etc. to come in a very tall, very cute, gainfully employed package.

It seems the older and more accomplished my friends and I become, the more emphasis we put on the packaging rather than the contents. Whenever we brag about the men in our lives (they brag, I listen) it usually sounds like, "He's 2_, an engineer, has his own house, and is working on his masters degree." Then we all agree that our friend really has found a wonderful man. Fast forward two weeks when he's stood her up for the fourth time in five dates and won't return her calls and we're calling him the scum of the Earth. But the worst part of it all, is that no matter who this happens to, we still want to hang on to him, cause we're sure that he really is a great guy. I mean, he's an engineer with his own house whose working on his masters degree. That says it all.

In the last few months, I've learned a valuable lesson from Chesty LaRue. Since the turn of the century, Chesty has had the misfortune of dating several successful men (in addition to the Broke Ass Niggas she also attracts.) She's dated a Wall Street trader, an engineer, and something else that I can't remember right now. All of them were supposedly a good catch, except for the fact that they lied, cheated, and basically treated her like shit. After the last "great guy" acted a damn fool, Chesty decided she was taking a break from men. And the moment she stopped looking, someone found her. She met a man who is attentive, kind, funny, and best of all adores the ground she walks on. And she got all these things in an unemployed, ex-con, multiple babies' daddy who's an aspiring rapper. He's by no means a perfect man, as he does have a tendency to stupid shit on occassion. However, he makes her happy which is more than I can say for the others.

Dating is a lot like job searching. You present your qualifications, go on a few interviews, hope for a call back, go on some more interviews, and hope someone picks you for the job. I think a lot of women wind up falling for a guy's resume before he ever has an interview. But it's important to remember that just because a guy looks good on paper, it doesn't mean he's a good guy.

Join the Club

I spent almost two hours of my evening plastered to You Tube. It's Nick at Nite's fault. Ashley was singing on Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire. She was on a stage, dressed in Cross Colors, a bra top, and Doc Martins. Suddenly I'm back in 1993 sitting cross legged on the living room floor enraptured by different teens on a different screen. I saw Rhona and Ricky and Britney and Justin and Christina. I saw flannel and velvet body suits. I saw the Mickey Mouse Club and in that moment I had to see it again for real.

Seek and ye will find. And find I did. The Season 6 opener, the Season 1 ending credits, Dale/Justin/JC/and Ryan singing "Cry For You," Christina singing "I'm Not Over You," and so much more. I watched it all. And once the laughter dissipated, the longing set in. Thirteen years later, I still want to be a Mousketeer.

I never watched, I studied. Every song, every dance, every skit. I would stand up in front of the television and copy their choreography, just to make sure I could keep up. Thanks to six years of dance lessons I could. And I sang a mean rendition of that song that goes, "Too many walls have been built in between us. Too many dreams have been shattered around us. If I choose to give up, I still never win. Deep in my heart I know that truth is within." All I had to do is wait for the auditions to roll into my town and I could join the Club.

Unfortunately I'm still waiting. The show got cancelled, and even with the renewed interest due to the success of several alums, I doubt they'll bring it back. But if by some miracle The Disney Channel recognized the error of its ways and resurrected the Mickey Mouse Club, then what? According to a friend, I'm too old and too tall to audition. Plus, my voice isn't what it used to be and could possibly be mistaken for a dying hyenna.

Even though I know time has passed me by, I'm still preparing for my shot. I still study, except now BET and MTV are my teachers. Not one video can play without me getting up just to make sure I can do it too. My latest inspiration is Danity Kane (courtesy of Diddy!). Today, I felt an inexplicable compulsion to stay in front of the mirror in only a bra and panties, practicing the dance in their Show Stopper video until I could smell myself. I was gyrating, popping, and winding my heart out. And when I fell on my ass for the fifth time because my knees just can't handle dropping it like it's hot, I had to wonder why the hell I can't just let it go?

A Real Boy

I need someone to talk to and just anyone won't do. I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts. Name after name rolls by, but none makes me want to dial. Not that one or this one. They're girls. No girls allowed. Hmmmm, him? No, too boring. How about him? Too much trouble. I'm related to him, so that's a no. Him? Nah, we're just friends. Damn it, the list is exhausted and I can't find even one.

Sometimes when it's late I'd rather talk than sleep. I want to speak in hushed tones and say one thing but mean another. I want to giggle and blush. Some butterflies in my tummy would be nice too. I want to hear a well placed "what if" that I'll forget about in the morning. Nothing serious, just a hit to get me through the night. What I wouldn't give to know a real boy.

Easy

It doesn't take much. A single word usually does the trick. "Hello." It's enough for me. One hello, and all is forgiven. Every slight, all negligence, each missed opportunity, erased. Our slate is clean, except for the stains the disappointment left behind. But that doesn't matter, because he's here saying, "hello." Availability. He's available now, and that's what's important. So what if he doesn't offer an explanation and an apology never falls from his lips. Hello means "I want you." And "I want you" is better than "I'm sorry."

And there are times when no words are needed. Memories work everything out. That time when we sat on the couch. My head in his lap, his hand in my hair. I see it playing before my eyes, with different people on a different couch in a make believe place. They're not real, but we were. So what if he doesn't call. Who cares if he doesn't write. I'll let it slide, just to sit on the couch again.

What can I say? I'm easy.

Don't Believe The Hype

"I don't really connect with this story."
"You're telling the reader what happened, instead of showing."
"It doesn't feel personal. It has a slick journalistic quality to it."

I nod my head as the feedback flows. It's not quite what I expected. Where is the worship, accolades, and adoration? I wait for someone to say, "Amazing! Truly inspiring work!" or something along those lines. Instead all I hear is criticism eventually tempered with, "But, it's well written."

When I decided to attend the Writer's Studio sponsored by the Urban Institute of Contemporary Arts, it was a strategic move. I'd been writing for nearly a year, and my work was running headlong into a wall called "BRILLIANCE!" Each piece was revealing new depth, creativity, and wit. I was better than good. I was that good! I was the undiscovered wunderkind, capable of crafting a masterpiece on the first draft. At least that's what nearly every comment on my blog told me. The only logical step was to share my genius with the world through a reputable print medium. Problem was, I had no idea where to start. I figured a group of my peers would confirm my greatness and point me in the write direction (damn, I'm clever).

The afternoon of my first workshop, I printed a couple of pieces to share. An excerpt from the novel I'm perpetually pushing aside and some personal essays. My friends had already told me that the pieces were superb, so I didn't bother with too much editing. I figured we'd break off into pairs, read each other's work then offer constructive feedback. Of course the feedback for me was to consist of excessive gushing and some punctuation tips.

I was a bit disappointed to arrive in the tiny meeting room and discover that one by one we would read our excerpts aloud for the entire class and receive their critiques. I sat through tales of murder and intrigue in the Roman Empire, Dutch Reformed Christian adolescence, and elderly adventure seeking. Some stories were interesting, others dull. I offered my opinion as I saw fit. "You should describe the facial features your character has in common with his father. Makes it more visual." I feigned patience and sometimes interest as I waited for my turn. It didn't arrive that evening. Class ended with a promise to put me near the top of the reading order at next week's studio. I felt bad. They would all have to wait an excrutiating seven days to be graced with my genius.

A week later I printed sixteen copies of O-R-E-O and brought them to studio, ready to be revered as the second coming. Several blog commentors had already told me that the essay should be published, if it hadn't been already. I just needed the final go ahead from my new audience, and maybe a suggestion or two on decreasing the word count before I shipped it off for an editor's critical eyes.

Their less than enthusiastic response shocked the hell out of me. What did they mean they "didn't really connect"? That's not what my blog readers said. They were totally affected. And what was wrong with sounding journalistic? Aren't magazine essays supposed to be that way? Above all, did their criticism mean my writing wasn't print ready on the first try?

I thought back on the one or two essays I'd e-mailed to a couple of magazines on a whim. Never did get a response. Could it be that the writer's studio participants had picked up on something my readers hadn't yet noticed? Sure, I could write and make words sound pretty. But maybe, just maybe I could benefit from a good editor. Perish the thought. If my writing needed editing, that had to mean it wasn't very good to begin with. I didn't want to fathom that idea. For the past 10 months my aspirations hinged on being the best thing to hit Barnes & Noble since, well since ever. How could I be great, if I couldn't get it right on the first try?

Really, what did these pseudo writers know anyways? I hadn't even heard of a single one of them. If they were such writing gurus why didn't they have a byline attached to their work. Oh, but they did. From books available for purchase at the local bookstore to short stories inside the pages of a recent anthology. Okay, so maybe they did know a thing or two about what it takes to get published. But how could all my blog readers be so wrong about me. How could they see polished and professional when the studio saw rough potential? Is beauty truly in the eye of the beholder.

Or maybe the original audience wasn't as discerning as I initially thought. It's not difficult to find "Superb writing" and "You're such a great writer" on even the most mediocre blogs. The blogosphere might not be the best judge of "great writing." For every reputable writer and savvy reader there are a hundred more hacks who think People magazine sets a literary standard.

Perhaps my writing needs a few rounds of revisions. I probably won't see my writing on glossy pages based solely on talent. I just might have to work at this. Yes, I am definitely good. But honestly, I'm not that good. Yet. Oh, it's so much easier to fill my head with the praise and believe the hype.

These Dreams

It's late. The time has come to bury myself beneath low thread count cotton and billows of soft down. I'll sleep. But before conciousness fades, I hope that I can get through the night in peace. I'm scared of the visions I might see when I close my eyes.

The possibility of nightmares doesn't make me anxious. They only scare me until they pass away into the night. But the beautiful dreams, they haunt me even when I'm awake. They're what I remember, what I wish I could forget.

I fall asleep alone, but when I awake he's with me. There is no shouting, no silence, only security. We're okay. For a second, I think about our problems and wonder if we can really work. He folds me into his arms and my questions are gone. I run my fingertips along his forearm. He's solid, flesh and blood man in my midst. It can't be real, but it is. I can see him, hear him, feel him. I don't know how we got here, but I'll stay a while.

Then a sound in the distance pulls me away from him. And when I come back, he's fading from my sight. I try to reach him again, but something in me knows I won't. I blink, and he's gone for good. Suddenly, I'm aware of waking up. Sweet memories dance in my head and I want to relive them. My heart sinks with the realization it was just a dream, and I can't.

Grow Up

I turn 26 today. I'm officially closer to 30 than to 20. Yesterday, my employer gave me an early birthday present....my annual review. It was my party and I definitely had reason to cry if I wanted to.

For the past 10 months, I've been acting like a petulant child. I don't like my job. It doesn't stir any of my passions and I'd rather be doing something else. And something else is exactly what I've been doing. Actually, anything else but work. I'm not going to get into the laundry list of activities I engage in from 8 to 5 that aren't technically part of the job description. But the list is extensive. I kept telling myself that my passive aggressive behavior wouldn't exist if I was doing the job I was meant to do (writing and/or non profit fundraising). The slacking has caught up with me, because I know for sure that they notice my lack of motivation.

It's difficult to hear about your shortcomings from a group of people you feel no need to impress. I was defensive, recalcitrant, and a tad confrontational. But while some of the evaluation was absolute bullshit, most of it was true. I do have great potential, and I'm not realizing it in my current role. I really don't show a "bias for action," because honestly that requires caring. I stopped doing that a while ago.

I've been subsisting in this role under the assumption that I would land the job I really love and then blow this popsicle stand. Aaahhhh, the best laid plans. Eight months into the search and I got zilch, except this pesky little job that keeps demanding my attention. I'm starting to think I'm not deserving of much more. Yes, I know I have the skills to do whatever it is that makes my heart go pitter pat. But I haven't been a good steward over what I already have. No one can say, "well done good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things."

Yes, I have accomplished a great deal this year, and I made sure to put each achievement on my resume. But I neglected to cover the basics because I just didn't feel like taking the time to do it. Why bother, if I don't like it and it's not the right job for me anyways? Well, part of being a responsible adult is following through on commitments whether I want to or not. My company kept up their end of the bargain, they pay me. If they are doing their part, not liking this gig is not a good reason to not do mine. Just because I am actively looking for a new job, that does not mean I don't have to give my all in this one. I can't pretend that I love this stuff when I don't. But I can at least give my company what they're paying for.

Today, I took another step towards growing older, but yesterday I took an even bigger step towards growing up.

Job Opening

Job Opening

Job Category: Relationship
Type: Full time, plus overtime
Salary: It's gonna cost ya
Languages: Anything that sounds sexy
Last day to apply: My wedding day
Compensation: Me
Job Title: Boyfriend

Responsibilities:
Responsibilities will include, but are not limited to:

• Saying and doing the right things to properly convey your undying adoration, admiration, and lust for me.

• Managing all shopping bags while touring Westchester Mall/SoHo/Madison Ave/any similar location
• Arguing when necessary, but ultimately realizing the error of your ways
• Footrubs, backrubs, assrubs on request
• Researching and evaluating what is really meant when hearing the words, "I'm fine."
• Maintaining daily communication via telephone, email, text messages, and telepathic senses
• Coordinating dinner dates, movie nights, surprise parties, and other special events
  
• Watching All My Children, One Life To Live, and General Hospital

Qualifications:
All candidates must have the following qualifications,

• A J.O.B. (Doctors, lawyers, bankers, engineers, professional athletes, high level managers, music industry execs, Hollywood producers, and other ballers only)
• 6'0 and above
• size 13 shoe and above (hint, hint)
• College Degree (advanced degree preferred); a shit load of money is good enough if no degree has been earned.
• Solo residential accomodations
• No criminal record
• No kids
• No pending kids, or possibles either
• Never married
  
• No restraining orders
• Non smoker, ocassional drinker (non drinking is cool too)
• hella sex appeal
• Possess all teeth in some semblance of order
• Must be practicing _____________________ (Christian/Jew/Muslim/Buddhist/Hindu/Agnostic/Atheist/whatever floats your boat)

New York Knicks fans need not apply.

Tell Me All Your Thoughts on God

During the question and answer session I conducted last month, one reader sent me a very interesting question via email. I didn't answer it along with the others because I felt it deserved its own post. When I sat down to try and write it, I couldn't. Nothing sounded honest. So this time I'm not going to think about it. I'm just going to write and whatever answer comes out is the answer that's in my heart. Lord help me.

Q: Religion...what's your take on God? Do you believe in Jesus?

A: I'm not a fan of religion. Religion is the rituals, traditions, and practices of a faith. It's often the manifestation of faith, but in no way is religion synonymous with faith. Going to church every Sunday, lighting candles, pouring out oil. None of it (in and of itself) is faith. Faith can manifest itself in the form of religion, but religion is not a substitute for true faith.

When I was deciding on a spiritual path, I came to two conclusions. First, I can't decide what I want God to be. Crafting an image of God that conforms to my wants, desires, and needs would be backwards. If I was creating the "creator" where exactly would I be putting my faith? Any god that would bend to my whims couldn't possibly be God.

Second, I had to choose what to believe, because I couldn't believe everything. Logically speaking there can't be one god, yet multiple gods. God can't have a son, but yet not have a son. The son of God can't be the only means to salvation, yet not be the means to salvation (or even worse a heretic). Salvation can't be based on grace and sacrifice, yet based on good works alone. While the differing paths definitely have similarities, the differences require a decision.

I choose Jesus Christ. I do believe that Jesus is God in the flesh. I do believe that he died on the cross for the sins of mankind. I do believe that he rose on the third day (the Jewish day begins at sunset so he actually died on a Thursday, not a Friday). I went through a period of intense exploration, trying to find the facts behind the faith. Fortunately there was lots to find. There's evidence of a great flood, the Hittite civilization, the walls of Jericho. It makes it easier to believe that which I can't see.

I'm not a perfect person. And no matter how much I try, I never will be. I do believe that God set a standard for all humans and that standard does not change. I know that I fall far short of it. Paul said it best, "For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God." I place my faith in Christ because he bridges the gap between me and God. I have no fear that I'm not good enough, because being in Christ I am. It makes sense that salvation can't be based on works alone. If we all fall short, then what ratio of good deeds to bad can get us into the pearly gates? Grace is a beautiful thing.

Still faith without works is dead. Jesus said you can recognize a person by the fruit they bear. Just saying I believe isn't enough. If I do, it will come across in my actions. I know the Lord's commands, but I do tend to ignore them when they don't suit my personal purposes. That's my nature and it's a constant struggle for me. I don't believe that grace is a free pass to do as I please, and I pray constantly that God will change me into the person He wants me to be. The biggest thing for me to remember is that it's a journey and not a destination.

Lately that journey has taken me down an interesting path. About a year ago, I started wondering if contemporary Christianity was really the faith Jesus and the Apostles had left us with. I began to think about what man might've changed over the last two thousand years. That led me into studying Christian apologetics and the Hebraic roots of the Christian faith. I can't say that I believe what many other Christians do. I don't believe in the doctrine of the Trinity, nor do I believe that Jesus nullified Mosaic law, nor do I recognize Sunday as the Sabbath. I believe that many of the differences between Judaism and Christianity were created long after the apostles died. I've come to think that the only true difference between Judaism and Christianity is Jesus. Christians believe that He's the promised Messiah, Jews do not. They're still waiting.

I love being a Christian, however there are many times when I really don't like identifying as one. A lot of believers have given the entire faith a bad name. Jesus called tax collectors, terrorists, liars, and other sinners to be his disciples. He never lowered his standards in regard to sin, yet he didn't make them change who they were in order to love them. I think many Christians forget this whenever they are "lovingly" rebuking the "unsaved." For some reason, I just don't hear "I love you" in "You're going to hell!" Jesus' love and example changed Peter, Thomas, Matthew, and company. If people could see Jesus in today's followers I'm sure more people would be open to letting Him in their lives.

I hope that one day others can see Christ in me.

You Started It

I didn't ask for this. My life was fine. I wasn't checking for, concerned about, or conscious of you. You came at me. You called my phone asking where I was, what I was doing.
"When can I see you?" That's what you asked.
Boredom is a bitch, and you were something to do, nothing more. I wasn't interested. You weren't even my type. But the attention was nice, and being with you passed the time.
You wormed your way into my head saying "us," "we," "ours." I was featured in your future. But I resisted, keeping you at a distance.
"What are you scared of?" you asked. You dismantled my defenses bit by bit. You did the little things, the basics no one else bothered to do.
"I'll call you at 9." My phone rang at 8:55.
"I'm coming over to see you." I buzzed you in before we hung up.
You did this, not me. It wasn't my idea, definitely not a part of my plans. You wanted us. You worked your magic and now I'm convinced. The only problem is now you're not so sure.
"Let's be together." Your words, not mine. I'm trying to be with you and you want to tell me, "I ain't ready for all that."
All of a sudden, I'm asking too much. It was nothing for you to call me when you didn't know my last name. Now when I say I want to talk, you avoid me like the plague. "Not now." or "I can't." Or some other lame excuse. I used to see you everyday, but lately I can't even get five minutes of your time. You say I'm too needy, that I'm asking for too much. Damn, I'm just asking for what you offered in the first place.
You're asking me why I can't let go. Shit, you were the one who told me, "Hold on."

Selfish

Dear Short Bitch,

I'm going to need you to do me a favor. You know that guy you're dating. The one whose navel you barely graze because you're 4'11 and he's 6'5. The cute one with the fresh Ceasar and sexy goatee. Yeah him. I'm gonna need you to break up with him. Now!
You don't need all that height. It's wasted on you. Yeah that's what I said, WASTED! It's not cute to see man who damn near has to break his back just to give his woman the sexy, yet subtle forehead kiss. Not cute at all. You don't look like his girlfriend, you look like his child. And together, you both look stupid.
I am by no means saying that you shouldn't date men who are taller than you. But be reasonable. Is a 12 inch height difference really necessary? Wouldn't 6 inches suffice? If you're 5'2 and your man is 5'8, he still towers over you! You can wear your 4 inch heels and still rest your head on his chest. What more do you need? Yeah, I've heard all your reasons before. "I like a man who's tall because he makes me feel safe/secure/dwarfed." Because of your inability to grow, that's not difficult to accomplish. A man does not have to qualify for the NBA in order to be significantly taller than you. Anything more than a 6" to 7" height difference is just overkill.
Contrary to whatever is going on in your little head, there is not a plethora of tall men available for any woman who wants one. Height is relative and your perception of what is tall is greatly skewed due to your close proximity to the ground. Just because a man looks tall in comparison to you, does not mean that he is.
Resources are scarce, and basic human decency teaches that resources should be left for the people who need them most. In this case, those people would be women like me. Women over 5'10 who are constantly attacked by little men who love tall women. When you take the tall men, there is no one to save your longer limbed sisters from the pint size Lotharios who place themselves in our paths. Do you not think of anyone but yourself?!
So how about we make a deal. You stay away from the 6' and over crowd and I won't kick your vertically challenged ass. Sound like a plan? Great! Hopefully we won't have this problem again.

Thanks!

His Shit

They're sitting in my suitcase, stained with hot sauce and soiled with sweat. I know they'll go in the next load of laundry, but after that their fate is uncertain. They could go back in the dresser drawer that has been their home since last September. Or I could put them in a UPS box and ship them back to their original owner. Technically, they belong to him.

"Do you have a pair of sweats I can sleep in?"
He rummaged through his closet and handed me his favorite pair. I slept in the soft gray cotton, then wore them home the next morning. Day after day I wore them until my scent replaced his and finally Tide erased both of us.
"What are you wearing?" he would ask periodically.
"Your sweatpants."
"When am I going to get those back?"
"You're not."

I'm not so sure about that anymore. I kept them as a reminder, and now I don't want to remember. Memories are the reason I put the past aside and decided to try again. A conversation here, a text message there. Little by little we started to act like us again. And us feels so good, until we get to the part of us that doesn't work. The part where I need him and he lets me down.

Disappointment reared its ugly head again. My first instinct is to pack up his shit and send it to him. No note needed for him to get the message loud and clear. "I'm done!" But I haven't followed through. Instead I'm sitting on my bed weighing my options while this song fucks with my head. "Part of me says to think it through, part of me says I'm over you, part of me wants to say goodbye..."It plays over and over in mind on a continuous loop. Giving back the sweats means I'm giving up on us. He won't give me what I need, so I should just let him go. Find someone else to meet my needs. That's common sense. The problem is, I don't want someone else, I want him to do it. Making a return would say, "don't bother." Why do it, if I don't mean it.

Skeletons fill my closet. This man's t-shirt, that man's pants, another's hat. I could dress myself from head to toe in their remnants and not even think about it. But his remains, they don't just go on me, they get in me. Sleeping in his sweats is like sleeping near him. I can almost feel his arms and the rise and fall of his chest when he breathes. It doesn't help me move on. But I doubt giving them back will help either. And when it's all said and done, I don't want to move on. I want us to work. Until that happens, the sweatpants are mine.

Not Right Now

Okay I know I haven't been updating as often as I used to and I feel really bad when days go by and there's nothing new for folks to read. I've been travelling a lot this month (Nashville, Albany, Bumblefuck, MI), plus my job is making me work whenever I am in town. All of my spare time is focused on finding a new job, pursuing professional writing endeavors, and maintaining basic hygiene. I still distract myself periodically from 9 to 5 by reading several blogs a day, but I just don't have the time to really take the ideas in my head and make them sound remotely engrossing in print. I'll be back to my regular routine as soon as everything calms down. In the meantime enjoy the archives if you haven't done so already. If you already have, do it again damn it.

I Don't Wanna Know

He shouldn't have told me. Yes, I begged him for the details. "Tell me exactly what was said,"I pleaded. He was vague, talking around the issue. If he was a woman it wouldn't be so difficult. If he was a woman he could give me dates, times, locations, and a detailed rundown of who said what first complete with commentary on facial expressions and body language. But he's a man, so he couldn't do that. I pressed and needled and whined until he told me everything he could remember about the conversation that took place over a year ago. They say that knowledge is power. Why do I feel so powerless now that I know?

I thought knowing that I wasn't the only one who remembered what we used to be would make me feel better, a little less alone and a lot less pathetic. But when the grapevine brought the good news, the relief wasn't attached. Okay, so he gave an FYI, a brief heads up to let someone else know that he had first dibs once upon a time. On some level he still cares what I do (becauese he wouldn't have opened his mouth if he didnt). Why don't I feel vindicated?

The information is useless. One big so the fuck what. It doesn't warrant a "we need to talk" or "how do you feel about me?" It's just a bug that planted itself in my brain and triggers things that don't need to be triggered. A couple of errant what ifs are not what I need right now. There's no moral victory in hearing that I'm not the only one who talks about it (yeah, I'm at a one million to one advantage, but once is better than not at all). More than anything it pisses me off. On 90210 Dylan once told Brenda, "You gave up any right to ask about my sex life when you decided you didn't want to be a part of it." And I must say that I agree. The day he dumped me he gave up any right to care about who I see or what I'm doing. If he wanted to care he should've done so 2 years ago when that was what I needed. Right now, it would be easier to continue thinking that I don't cross his radar. Stirring up old shit just brings flies.

Attempted Robbery

I was dancing by myself in a satiny red party dress, while couples danced around me. They were 16 going on 17, I was 15. The prom was for juniors and seniors, but I got grandfathered in via the planning committee. I looked at the faces around me, some familiar others strange. Were they looking at me? Could they tell I didn't belong there? Leaving the dancefloor could draw more attention to myself, so I stayed put and pretended to have fun.
Then suddenly, I wasn't alone. Tall and confident, he came towards me. Two feet away, I couldn't tell if he was dancing with me. When he took my hand, I knew he was. I stared at my feet and concentrated on matching his every move. It was imperative that I danced well. No mistakes. I caught his rhythm then took a chance. I looked up at him, and studied his face. Round, yet mature with a well grown goatee. He was beautiful and I was in love.
Several songs later, I was alone again. But he came back to me periodically. When the last song of the night was played I looked for him. He was on the dancefloor again, but he wasn't alone. His girlfriend got the last dance.
I walked into the warm spring night with a new determination. My mission was clear. I was going to make him mine. I wanted what I wanted and a girlfriend wasn't going to stop me from getting it.
My first move was to find a way into his life. Although we went to different schools, it was easy. Before that prom we didn't know each other, but we knew the same people.
"Oh yeah, he's cool peeps." I'd work his name into conversations, pretending we were the best of friends. I doubted he knew my name.
I went to college fairs, football games, parties, anywhere I knew he'd probably be.
"Hey you! What's up?" I'd say when we "accidentally" bumped into each other. He always gave me a hug and talked to me for a few before heading off with his friends.
In the fall, I took my scheme to the next level.
"Hey, so this party we're planning for Jack and Jill. Who should we invite?" I asked my friend.
Of course she mentioned his name.
"Maybe, we should call him on three way to see if he knows anyone else who wants to go," I suggested. "Do you have his number?"
She did. We called. He answered. We talked, and not just about the party. Jokes were made, gossip was shared. It went perfectly. So did the next three way call a week later.
After a month, I no longer needed a buffer. We talked every night, because I called every night. He never asked for my phone number, but he always took my calls. We were friends. Phase 1 was complete.
Phase 2 was simple. Stay close and wait. Wait for him to break up with her. Wait for him to fall for me. She was clingy, jealous, insecure and annoying. I was cool, laidback, fun, and quite adorable. It was only a matter of time before he moved on to someone better, and I was going to welcome him with open arms.
They were always on the precipice of a breakup.
"Damn, she's always starting drama," he'd complain. I listened and sympathized, but never suggested they break up. I refused to be a homewrecker. If he broke up with her, it had to be of his own volition, preferably because he realized he was in love with me.
She knew about my friendship with him, and I knew she didn't like it. But I didn't care. If she really made him happy, he wouldn't need to talk to me all the time. Besides, it's not like he was cheating on her. We just talked and hung out. Nothing wrong with that. So what if he occasionally said things like, "With legs like yours, you should wear miniskirts all the time." That didn't mean anything. Well, it didn't mean everything. I took every flirtatious comment as a sign. He wouldn't flirt if he wasn't attracted to me and being attracted to me was just one step away from being in love with me. Or so I thought.
Then one day it happened. He did what I never thought he would, what I never wanted him to do. He cheated on her. The problem was, he didn't cheat on her with me.
"I kissed him," Diesel Girl told me on the phone one night. We were friends, but so were they. I never told her how I felt about him, but she had to know. His name was always coming out of my mouth.
How could he do that to me? I was supposed to have him next, not her. How did she even get in the picture. I never saw it coming, but it couldn't happen again.
"Liz, why are so dressed up today?" Stumpy asked after last period gym class.
"I'm not."
"Liz, why are you fixing your hair?"
"What?" I stared at my light blue skirt and white tank top in the mirror as I brushed the sides of my hair into a twist.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere."
"Why are you lying to me?"
"I'm not."
"You're going to see him today aren't you!"
"Yeah, I am! So what." I was defiant. I had every right to put on a miniskirt and go to his house to hang out. We were friends and friendship was about to have its privileges.
We sat on his couch and listened to music and eventually I was laying in his arms. I held him tight and enhaled his aftershave. His face was inches from mine. I looked up at him and our eyes met. His dark brown eyes were intense. So intense I couldn't take it. I closed my eyes and buried my head in his neck. Several cheap feels later, I took the bus home.
"Why did you go there?" my friends asked me the next day at lunch.
"Because, we're friends and he wanted to hang out."
"He's got a girlfriend. He's an asshole, who's just leading you on. Why do you let him?"
"Whatever. First off, she's a bitch and he can't stand her anyways. Second, he's not an asshole. We get each other. I really love him."
"You don't know him to love him," they argued.
They were wrong. I didn't have to be his girlfriend to love him. 90210 and My So Called Life had proven to me over and over again that it's possible to fall for your best male friend. The person didn't have to love you back in order for you to love them.
I tried on several occasions to recreate that moment on his couch. It never happened. He stayed with his girlfriend and kept cheating on her with the other girl. And I kept waiting, waiting for him to be done with both of them and finally see me for what I was. The one he was supposed to be with. The one who understood him and loved him unconditionally. I wouldn't let him go. I had held on too long and I was entitled. There were too many tears, too much longing, and too many opportunities for me to walk away with nothing. I had earned the right to be liked by him. To be the girl everyone knew was his. I deserved that.
I stopped talking about him all the time. Not because he wasn't always on my mind, but because no one would listen to me anymore. They were sick of my one sided love affair and refused to indulge my whimsical fancy any longer. I listened to Jewel and distorted her lyrics to fit my life. I wallowed in the depths of heartache and reveled in the delicious pain. Oh this was love. It was so big and all consuming I was sure it would conquer all, his apathy, his mistress, his girlfriend. EVERYTHING! Love would prevail.
But it never did. And "Near You Always" started sounding redundant. So did "I Miss You," "Glycerine," and "Wonderwall." The thought of him stopped making me cry on cue and I was having a hard time remembering exactly why I loved him so much. He went away to college the next summer and I went to a summer program. I played my sad songs, but forgot what they meant to me. Trying to remember it all was tiring and by the 2nd week of summer college I didn't feel like expending the energy. It had all grown old and very sickening. For goodness sake, he had a girlfriend and was an unrepentant cheater.
Several months ago I was on the phone with the Angry Black Man.
"My girlfriend doesn't like the fact that we talk so much," he said.
"Why?"
"I don't know. She knows we're friends, but it just makes her uncomfortable."
"Why?" I rolled my eyes at the absurdity of the situation.
"Well she thinks that you might try to turn the friendship into something more."
"What! Please. We're just friends. I don't even see you like that. Besides, I would never try to take another woman's boyfriend. I'm not trifling like that."
Thank God for convenient amnesia.

Metamorphosis

February 21, 2001

Dear Diary,

I just don't get it. It's Grammy night and I'm at home. I wasn't even asked to go. This is just like that time when I was the only member of Kids Inc who didn't get an invite to the new rich kid's birthday party cause I was too young. Except, well, this time I'm totally old enough and it's like, for real. This is so freaking unfair. I mean really! What's the big deal about J Lo anyways? Hello! I'm the original triple threat. She doesn't even sing and act at the same time, like I did. And I'd bet all of Wild Orchid's album sales that she can't play the tambourine like I did. Oh, there's Britney and ughh, Christina too. Copy cat bitches! I'm the Disney channel's original cute blonde girl! And excuse me Brit, but you totally stole my singing style. Nasal whining?!! That's all me, you lyrca wearing Lolita!
OH MY GOD!! Is that...? It is! Jennifer Love Hewitt?!! What's she doing there? Wasn't Party of Five cancelled? How in the world is she more famous than me? Does anyone even remember her character's name on Kids Inc? I don't think so! It's gotta be the boobs. That's it. Who cares if she has an album coming out. She could never sing like me, anyways.
You know something, diary. I was so sure that leaving the band when I was 14 was the right decision. Well, that and the producers said I was too old to do another season, which was total bullshit cause Ryan stayed til he was like 18 or something. But I was way confident. If Martika could make it all the way to #1 with a depressing ditty like Toy Soldiers, then I was definitely going to be a star. So what the fuck happened?!! Renee promised me that Wild Orchid would be huge. Lying tramp. No one even remembers our hit "Talk to Me." Do I remember it?
This is depressing. I've gotta find a way to get back on top, where I belong. Oh wait...who are those guys. Hmm, some rap group with a Philipino and two black guys. Hey, are they wearing Jordache? I totally rocked Jordache back in '84. I could show them a thing or two. That would be so funny. A white chick leading a rap group. Well, we did sing "Can't Touch This" on Kids Inc that one time. And I did learn the running man. What if...nah, that's crazy. But maybe, just maybe....hmmmm. BRB, diary......

All it took was some self tanner, hair dye, collagen, heavy black eye liner (you know, to make my eyes all slanty), and some new threads (Latin logo T was totally brilliant), but I did it! Who says you can't go from white to ethnically ambiguous? Watch out world, here comes Stacy Fergu.....oh no, that's too vanilla. Gotta be exotic. Think, think, think. Yes, that's it! Bye bye Stacy Ferguson

HELLO FERGIE!!!

21 Questions.....or Something Like That

You had questions, and I have the answers.

Q. If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?
A. Who thinks about stuff like that? Honestly! Can you name one person who sits around and ponders what life would be like as a tree? No? I didn't think so. But if I have to answer I guess I would be an apple tree. I like the idea of having a self made supply of food.

Q. How do you know how many readers you have?
A. I check sitemeter every 80 seconds to track visits. It tells me how many people are on, where they are located (or the location of the IP), how many pages they view, where they linked from (or if they linked to my site at all....some of you have the url memorized. good shit!). It's free and mildly addicting. www.sitemeter.com

Q. If you could have a dinner party and invite 5 people dead or alive who would it be?
A. First, I probably will never have a dinner party. That requires cleaning the house. I've tried it before and it never really works. Plus that's a lot of cooking and I'm too cheap for catering. But just for shits and giggles, let's say I did have a dinner party. I'd invite Jesus Christ (cause I want to hear exactly what he expects right from the horses mouth); Jay-Z (can't have a dinner party and not invite my husband); my paternal grandfather (he died before I was born, so I want to say wassup and ask him why he had 5 baby's mamas); my childhood friend Aimee (so we could catch up again); Notorious B.I.G. (I'll always love Big Poppa).

Q. Did you study writing? What are your inspirations? When do you write? And what kind of writing do you most enjoy?
A. Umm, Sober, that's more than one question. But since you're my internet doppleganger, it's all good. Okay, so my college major was Policy Analysis and Management. I don't know what it is, or what it means, or what type of job it correlates to. I do know that the major only requires 1 basic math class and 2 remedial science classes. Perfect for me. I hated writing papers in college and pretty much thought writing was a drag. Usually, my best grades were on papers (even papers written 2 hours before the deadline). When I was a kid, I loved to write. I even founded a school newspaper in 4th grade (which turned into a political bloodbath by 5th grade...long story). I took creative writing classes in high school. But by college I completely forgot that I enjoyed this stuff. Decided I wanted to be a lawyer, then changed my mind and decided that business was my path in life. It took writing this blog to remind me of my 1st love. So that's the long and short of did I study writing. I guess I could've just said, "No!" As for my inspirations, well that comes from everywhere. Sometimes it's something someone says, other times it's a song, and there are times when it's something I read. Basically an idea pops into my head and plants itself as a seed. Sometimes it sprouts, sometimes it wilts. Inspiration strikes at the most inopportune time, which brings me to your next question. When do I write? All the damn time. Most of my writing occurs in my head. It sucks because I'll be writing brilliant paragraphs in my head, with no paper or pen in sight to preserve it. Then when I finally get a chance to write it out I remember the general idea, but not the specific words, and it irks the hell out of me. I started carrying a journal and pen with me a lot, so I can record my thoughts as soon as they come.
Personal essays are my favorite things to write. That's why I love to blog so much. I don't have anyone telling me what topics I have to cover. Since I'm my favorite subject, I get to speak at will. Running a close second to the personal essay would be satire. Fiction is cool, it just takes a lot of creativity and effort to write a compelling story. My attention span is really short, so it's difficult for me to complete an entire piece of fiction. But I'm working on it.

Q. Shorty, how'd you get so fly?
A. I was born this fly! Plus, I think the fro just adds to the flyness!









Q. Why Chesty Larue? Why not Busty Lebouffe or Betty Boobies...or just my Dominican Diva from the Bronx!? Why even reference my mammary glands? As if they don't get enough abuse from perverted men, jealous flat-chested females and random passers-by? But you???
A. Chesty, I have a question for you. Would you prefer that I use your government so your exploits can be known to the world. Or do you like the protection of anonymity your alias has given you? Hmmm, what was that? You don't want your cover blown? Then quit all your whining and suck it up! Chesty LaRue is a beautiful name. Makes you sound foreign and exotic (which you are). I don't hear Flatty Girl or Jailbait complaining about their names.

Q. What song best represents your life? (Your theme song or songs) Best memory? what do you hate / love in others? Whats your worst sex moment ever? What do you think would surprise people most about you and have you ever slobbed a stinky nob??
A. Damn you Cece! You OD'd on the questions too. But let's see what I can do. I basically think that damn near every song written speaks to me. I think it has something to do with my complete self absorption. If I had to pick a theme song that really describes my life it would have to Jay-Z's "Where I'm From" (Cough up a lung/Where I'm from/Marcy, son/Ain't nothing nice.) All jokes aside, I've gotta go with a classic. My theme song is "Like a Virgin."
Best memory. That would definitely have to be Minority Hosting Weekend at Vanderbilt University, April 1997. There was this party at "The Black House" and it was packed. I was sitting on the couch next to this fine ass dude. And I remember he looked at me and I looked back at him. Lord Tariq and Peter Gunz was blasting and that was my JAM!! I straddled dude and gave him a lap dance for the next 20 minutes. Damn, I miss high school.
Worst sex moment. You already read about it.
The thing that surprises people most about me is that I'm still a virgin (technically speaking). Chesty LaRue calls me a two bit virgin since I've done almost everything else. Jailbait thinks I'm the world's biggest dick tease. Both of them are entirely correct. About 6 years ago, one guy told me, "Don't take your clothes off if you're not going to have sex." I still haven't learned that lesson. And honestly, I can't remember if I've ever slobbed a stinky nob.

Q. I want to hear your craziest sex stories.
A. I don't have crazy sex stories, but plenty of crazy foreplay. I think the craziest one was the time I was in my basement messing with this guy I was dating while my parents were upstairs. My underwear was around one ankle and I was topless and I heard my mom open the basement door to do a load of laundry. I've never put my clothes on so quick.

Q. How did you get 65 readers??? will you tell me your secret?
A. Shameless pandering and self promotion. I leave my link in my email signature and IM away message. I put it on my myspace page. And I'm loathe to admit this, but I read a lot of other blogs and commented. Then I updated damn near everyday. I had delusions of blogging grandeur. They quickly subsided. Now I write whenever I feel like it (which is still pretty often) and only visit the blogs I truly enjoy (which is still an exorbitant number). I regained my senses and realized blogging is not the means to an end.

Q. Is string theory the ultimate theory of everything?
A. Does string theory have anything to do with tampons?

Q. What famous person (living or not) would you let smack you in the face and you woldn't be mad?
A. I'd let Martin Luther King slap me. I'm sure after all those days in jail and the fire hoses and the police dogs he wanted to slap someone. So I'd let him slap the taste out my mouth, just so he can release some frustration.

Q. Who's your favorite Piston and why?
A. Ben Wallace, because we have matching hair.

Q. I want to know what you makes you happy and what your favorite thing is to do to make someone else happy.
A. Shoes always make me happy. But if you're looking for something not so shallow, I'd say that quality time with loved ones makes me happy. I'd say that my favorite thing to do to make someone else happy is to do something for them that they wouldn't expect. I can be very selfish, so when I do something selfless it's a really big deal for people who know me.

Q. what would you get printed on 'the ultimate' tshirt?
A. Great question. "Don't touch the fro...grow your own"

Q. If there was one thing you could change about your self thats non-physical what would it be and why?
A. Procrastination is a bitch. I would change that for sure. Reasons are obvious.

Q. If you could have any job in the world, any job at all, what would it be and why?
A. MTV VJ. I'd get to live in New York and be paid to act like a damn fool. Plus, I'd have better access to Jay-Z.

Q. If you were a heffa (as in female cow) would you be better equipped to tolerate bullshit???
A. I don't think so.

Q. When you sell your first essay, what are you going to spend the money on?
A. 10% off top goes to my tithe. I'd put another 5% into savings. I might pay a bill or two, but more than likely, I'd buy shoes. Now if I sell my first piece for only 10 bucks, that would definitely limit my shoe choices.

Q. Who are your favorite authors? What are you reading right now? And what are you willing to recommend?
A. I'm a book slut, so I spread the love around to many authors. Hmmm, I went through an Eric Jerome Dickey phase, followed by an E. Lynn Harris moment. I used to love Francine Pascal when I was younger, but I doubt you'd be interested in the Sweet Valley High series. I'd say at the moment Curtis Sittenfeld is one of my faves. Right now I'm reading her 2nd novel, "Man of my Dreams." I recommend her first novel "Prep." EXCELLENT! I'm also working my way through Memoirs of a Geisha. Oh, and I like Dan Brown's books as well. He's an average writer, but he's a damn good storyteller. Ummm, that's about all I can think of at the moment.

In the words of the immortal Porky Pig....That's all folks!

A Very Special Blogisode

It started as boredom relief. A place to dump the contents of my brain when I had nothing better to do. But with one simple look at male/female friendships it turned into so much more. One faithful reader in Atlanta, GA grew to 65 fans all over the world. And now 10 months, 2 weeks, and 2 days later, it has finally arrived, the 100th post to The Brain Dump.

In honor of this momentous occassion I could trace the progression of this blog from Random Thoughts up to now. Maybe examine how the writing has changed, how life has unfolded, and other shit like that. But I don't feel like it. Or, I could take this opportunity to thank everyone for reading, commenting, lurking, stumbling here on a google search for "pussy rope," and what not, but I already did that, and I don't like to repeat myself.

Then it hit me, how about a 100 Things About Me post. But then I tried to think of 100 Things and came up with two. So then I thought, how about a little Q&A. Readers question, I answer. But then several readers (i.e. Cece and Jailbait) came to mind and I realized that might not be the smartest move. Some people don't know how to question responsibly. Then I mulled it over some more and realized a Q&A would absolve me of thinking of a topic. Besides, how much harm could really come from a bit of reader participation? We shall soon find out.

It's your turn. Ready, aim, fire away....


Lord help me!