I just realized something. Midlife crises are not the exclusive domain of 50 year old men who are dependent upon Rogaine and Viagra. In fact perfectly well adjusted single 25 year old black women who live in Grand Rapids Michigan can go through this debilitating phase too.
When you wake up one day and you realize that your life isn't how you thought it would be and isn't what you want it to be, it's a sad feeling. Even when you have the job, the home, the car, and the shoes the world says you should want, you're still not happy. Feelings of guilt and ungratefulness just sweep over you, because you should be satisfied with all that you have, but you're not. It's not even that you want more money or a nicer car or more shoes (well maybe you do want those bronze BCBG pumps at Marshall Fields). It's moreso a feeling that there has to be more to life, that time is passing you by and you're not doing something vitally more important than what you're doing now.
So what do you do when you're feeling like this? Some folks buy a new car. Others get depressed and stay in bed all day. Me. I decided to consult God on this one. Oftentimes I feel as though my life is out of control, with absolutely no direction. The more I try to get things under control myself, the more out of control I feel. I figured, I might as well stop making a mess of things and figure out where God wants me to go in life. I may not listen to Him some of the time (alright fine, I spend most of my time either ignoring Him or fighting Him), but I really wanted to give His guidance a chance. So I opened up my Bible and started reading. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the book of "Liz." Nor did I find any passages in any of the canon dedicated to what I should do with my life. I did find out some pretty useful stuff in the Book of James about learning to control my temper. I filed that in mental rolodex for future reference. I was on a mission to find MY mission. Next, I got down on my knees and had a lengthy conversation with God. Unfortunately, I did all the talking. Maybe He tried to get a word or two in, but I must've missed it.
Not hearing anything directly from the Source, I decided that patience was a virtue I didn't have, so I'd ask folks at church for some Godly advice. I mean if He spoke through man to write the Bible, why couldn't He speak through folks at church to give me a bit of direction. I talked to one woman at my church, we'll call her Church Lady. I pour out my heart to her about my issues and wait anxiously for her words of wisdom. For some reason all I got was, "Have you prayed about it?" Daggone it!!! How come whenever you got an issue or a dilemma, the first thing someone wants to say is, "You should pray." I know they are trying to be helpful, but I'll give em a hint. That ain't helping. In fact, that's the last thing I want to hear. Nor do I want to hear someone tell me to go read the Bible. While I love that book to my core, there are certain things that it just doesn't cover. Sometimes folks are so quick to minister, they forget how to just listen and empathize.
Then a funny thing happened. I went to church one Sunday and the pastors are starting a series on the most important questions we'll ask in life. Questions about who God is, who we are, what we're supposed to do, how important time is. And I'm not talking about those sermons that quote one line of scripture and without fail end in the typical, "When I think about all that God has brought me through, I just wanna praise Him!! Who wants to praise Him? Has God been good to you?!! He's been good to me!!" Complete with organ accents, jumping in the pulpit, and a brisk jog down the center aisle before one final scream and then passing out in the big pastor's chair. No folks, these sermons actually practically applied scripture to my everyday life. And then suddenly, the light went off in my head. I'm not saying that I've gotten it all figured out, cause I don't by any means. But I'm clear on a few things now. God created me with a purpose. And He gave me gifts and talents and abilities that He wants me to use. If I'm not content with where I am right now, it's probably because I'm trying to fit into a box that's not designed for my SHAPE. Now I can try and twist myself into someone I'm not to try and fit where I am at this moment. But I'm no contortionist and don't have any desire to be. Thankfully, He doesn't deire that either.
Subscribe To
Posts
All Comments
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Cruel To Be Kind
I whole heartedly believe that no woman can change a man, unless he is in diapers. There is no way to make him do anything he ultimately does not want to do. No amount of begging, pleading, reasoning, bargaining, cajoling, whining, nagging, and harassing is going to produce the desired effect. All a man will do is grunt, scratch, and nod his head in agreement before going right back to doing the same damn thing he was doing prior to the ranting and raving: NOTHING! This is extremely frustrating even for the most laid back woman. The more we try, the less they change. It's worse than beating your head against the proverbial brick wall. However, there is a strategy that concussion prone women world wide have begun to employ to stop the madness. So I'm gonna let the rest of you women who are not so quick in on a little secret. Are you alone? Come closer, we don't want the opposite species in on our secret. Okay, here it is. The most effective way to get what you want out of a man is to do nothing.
Yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but I swear it works. It seems to be a rule of inverse relationships. There is a direct equal and opposite correlation between the amount of attention a woman gives a man and the amount of attention she gets in return. The more we call, IM, email, write, and try to spend time with them, the busier and more neglectful they are. And usually this causes us to to increase our efforts 100 fold just to get a 1% increase from the man. I dare you to try something new. Don't call him. Don't go see him. Don't do anything. All of a sudden something amazing will happen. He'll remember you exist, the second you pretend that he doesn't.
It's sad but true, in order to make a man do something he wasn't doing, he basically needs to be treated like shit. When we act like we don't want them or at least act indifferent they are in full on pursuit mode. The moment we acquiesce and return the attention and interest a man goes colder than a shower after someone flushes the toilet. Now, logically, it would seem that when someone returns our affection it would cause us to like them more. Not so with the dingaling species. They actually like it when a woman doesn't want them. So in order for women to succeed under these circumstances we must never like him too much.
I've got a real world example for you. The other day I was talking to my best friend, let's call her Chesty LaRue. So Chesty and I were chatting and she mentions that she's having a lengthy IM conversation with a country bumpkin with whom she used to have relations. For a period of time in their friendship, the country bumpkin wasn't acting right and she was upset that he was devaluing their friendship. When she finally got tired of his bullshit she decided to give him a BDR and his walking papers. Well that did the trick. There's nothing like being told that he sucks in bed to straighten a man out real quick.
Yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but I swear it works. It seems to be a rule of inverse relationships. There is a direct equal and opposite correlation between the amount of attention a woman gives a man and the amount of attention she gets in return. The more we call, IM, email, write, and try to spend time with them, the busier and more neglectful they are. And usually this causes us to to increase our efforts 100 fold just to get a 1% increase from the man. I dare you to try something new. Don't call him. Don't go see him. Don't do anything. All of a sudden something amazing will happen. He'll remember you exist, the second you pretend that he doesn't.
It's sad but true, in order to make a man do something he wasn't doing, he basically needs to be treated like shit. When we act like we don't want them or at least act indifferent they are in full on pursuit mode. The moment we acquiesce and return the attention and interest a man goes colder than a shower after someone flushes the toilet. Now, logically, it would seem that when someone returns our affection it would cause us to like them more. Not so with the dingaling species. They actually like it when a woman doesn't want them. So in order for women to succeed under these circumstances we must never like him too much.
I've got a real world example for you. The other day I was talking to my best friend, let's call her Chesty LaRue. So Chesty and I were chatting and she mentions that she's having a lengthy IM conversation with a country bumpkin with whom she used to have relations. For a period of time in their friendship, the country bumpkin wasn't acting right and she was upset that he was devaluing their friendship. When she finally got tired of his bullshit she decided to give him a BDR and his walking papers. Well that did the trick. There's nothing like being told that he sucks in bed to straighten a man out real quick.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
House of Representatives
Have you ever looked at your significant other and asked yourself, "Who are you?" What happened to the person you met 3, 6, 12 months ago? Where is the guy who called all the time and wanted to spend every free second in your company? Where is the girl that dressed to kill and shaved her legs on a regular basis? It looks like the person you initially started dating. It even smells like them. But unfortunately, it's just not that person. I hate to be the one to break this to you, folks. But that person never existed. They were just a phantom. You didn't fall for the person that stands before you right now. You fell for their representative.
The first time I heard about this representative concept was about 2 years ago when I started dealing with Mr. Way Too Into Himself. He made it a point to tell me that he was not sending out his representative to meet me. What I see is what I get. What I saw was a guy who spent a bit too much time trying to figure out which tie matched his salmon pink shirt, and what I got was a guy who flirted with another chick right in front of my face on Valentine's Day. I don't know how the two correlate, so I'm not sure if I should've seen that debacle coming. But that's neither here nor there. Ever since then I've given a whole lot more thought to the idea that when two people first begin dealing with each other they aren't really dealing with each other. The representatives are sent out in place of the actual person.
It looks something like this. A man and woman meet. They find each other attractive and decide they want to get to know each other better. The man calls all the time. He is attentive, sensitive, giving, all the things a woman needs him to be in order to for her to fall butt crazy in love with him. In turn the woman is always gorgeous, in training to be the iron chef, and the coolest most non clinging chick a guy has ever met. After both parties are past the point of no return, something happens. Dude stops calling 3 times a day. All of a sudden weekends are for football and you don't exist. All of the cute things he used to do when he first met you don't get done anymore. In the blink of an eye old girl has traded in skirts and dress and heels for sweats, t-shirts, and flip flops. She gives the leg stubble some time to really sprout before she shaves it, if she shaves it at all. And almost overnight, she forgets where the kitchen is. Both parties are suddenly aware that the person they are involved with is NOT the person they met. The end result is incessant fighting, whining, and nagging.
People send out their representative because they know that no one in their right mind would willingly date them if they knew what they were really like. The representative is there to do the dirty work. They're the one that gets Mr. or Ms. Wonderful to fall and fall hard. They're the one who hammers out the relationship contract. And once the unsuspecting party has signed on the dotted line with their heart, the old bait and switch happens. The representative is gone and the real person takes their place. So basically you're stuck with a relationship that isn't even worth the experiences it was built on. Yes my friend, you've been hoodwinked, bamboozled, led astray, and run amock. Sucks to be you.
But don't feel bad. I've been there. More times than I care to count. Hell, now that I think about it, I've sent out my representative on numerous occassions. Anyone who knows me is well aware that shaving my legs rarely makes it onto the priority list. However, if I've got a date with a nice tall piece of man candy you better believe my legs will be as smooth as a baby's butt. I do realize the unfairness that the representative brings, so I've made it a point to never shave again, so that no man can say that I've misled him.
On my end, I've become so familiar with the representatives that men send up to bat for them, I can spot them a mile away. I've now adopted a warning that I give to all men I deal with. If you cannot or will not keep up a certain positive behavior for more than several weeks, don't start doing it in the first place. If you don't like the phone, don't call me every night and talk to me for hours on end. Women are creatures of habit and once you get us used to something, we're gonna come to expect it. The second you stop doing that thing, we're going to think that something is wrong and nag you without rest until that behavior resumes. Men don't want to hear it and we don't want to do it, but we're forced to. If you don't like spending all your free time with me, don't even start doing it in the first place. The second you're unavailable, we're gonna go into clingy mode. Once again, neither party wants that, so don't set it up so it will occur.
How about we make a pact. Guys you promise not to make us think you're prince charming and ladies, let's promise not to make them think we're June Clever and Heather Hunter all rolled in one. Now, let the dating commence.
The first time I heard about this representative concept was about 2 years ago when I started dealing with Mr. Way Too Into Himself. He made it a point to tell me that he was not sending out his representative to meet me. What I see is what I get. What I saw was a guy who spent a bit too much time trying to figure out which tie matched his salmon pink shirt, and what I got was a guy who flirted with another chick right in front of my face on Valentine's Day. I don't know how the two correlate, so I'm not sure if I should've seen that debacle coming. But that's neither here nor there. Ever since then I've given a whole lot more thought to the idea that when two people first begin dealing with each other they aren't really dealing with each other. The representatives are sent out in place of the actual person.
It looks something like this. A man and woman meet. They find each other attractive and decide they want to get to know each other better. The man calls all the time. He is attentive, sensitive, giving, all the things a woman needs him to be in order to for her to fall butt crazy in love with him. In turn the woman is always gorgeous, in training to be the iron chef, and the coolest most non clinging chick a guy has ever met. After both parties are past the point of no return, something happens. Dude stops calling 3 times a day. All of a sudden weekends are for football and you don't exist. All of the cute things he used to do when he first met you don't get done anymore. In the blink of an eye old girl has traded in skirts and dress and heels for sweats, t-shirts, and flip flops. She gives the leg stubble some time to really sprout before she shaves it, if she shaves it at all. And almost overnight, she forgets where the kitchen is. Both parties are suddenly aware that the person they are involved with is NOT the person they met. The end result is incessant fighting, whining, and nagging.
People send out their representative because they know that no one in their right mind would willingly date them if they knew what they were really like. The representative is there to do the dirty work. They're the one that gets Mr. or Ms. Wonderful to fall and fall hard. They're the one who hammers out the relationship contract. And once the unsuspecting party has signed on the dotted line with their heart, the old bait and switch happens. The representative is gone and the real person takes their place. So basically you're stuck with a relationship that isn't even worth the experiences it was built on. Yes my friend, you've been hoodwinked, bamboozled, led astray, and run amock. Sucks to be you.
But don't feel bad. I've been there. More times than I care to count. Hell, now that I think about it, I've sent out my representative on numerous occassions. Anyone who knows me is well aware that shaving my legs rarely makes it onto the priority list. However, if I've got a date with a nice tall piece of man candy you better believe my legs will be as smooth as a baby's butt. I do realize the unfairness that the representative brings, so I've made it a point to never shave again, so that no man can say that I've misled him.
On my end, I've become so familiar with the representatives that men send up to bat for them, I can spot them a mile away. I've now adopted a warning that I give to all men I deal with. If you cannot or will not keep up a certain positive behavior for more than several weeks, don't start doing it in the first place. If you don't like the phone, don't call me every night and talk to me for hours on end. Women are creatures of habit and once you get us used to something, we're gonna come to expect it. The second you stop doing that thing, we're going to think that something is wrong and nag you without rest until that behavior resumes. Men don't want to hear it and we don't want to do it, but we're forced to. If you don't like spending all your free time with me, don't even start doing it in the first place. The second you're unavailable, we're gonna go into clingy mode. Once again, neither party wants that, so don't set it up so it will occur.
How about we make a pact. Guys you promise not to make us think you're prince charming and ladies, let's promise not to make them think we're June Clever and Heather Hunter all rolled in one. Now, let the dating commence.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Priorities
I'm currently on the phone with Erica, Operator WS413 with Visa. Why am I on the phone with Erica? Oohh, cause I lost my Visa check card. I also lost my Capital One Visa, my Macy's card, my health insurance card, my Bank One Visa Check card (that don't matter cause there's only .26 cents on that one), my Circuit City credit card, and my Limited credit card. How did I manage to lose all of these tiny rectangular pieces of plastic with random numbers on them? I left my wallet in a NYC yellow cab. I think Homer Simpson said it best when he said, "DOH!!!"
Considering the fact that my entire life has basically vanished in the back of some nameless, faceless cab, I must say I'm rather calm. Hell, I'm blogging about it, so I must not be too bothered about this current state of affairs. Financially, I'm screwed. I have no cash, and no way to get cash. Not only that but I have no means to use credit either. I'm not really lamenting their loss all that much though. The one thing in my wallet that I am missing most right now is that 3.5" X 1.5" card that has my date of birth prominently displayed right alongside my bright, smiling face. Yes, folks, I am missing my driver's license!! Now why would I be missing my driver's license so much when I don't even have my car around me to drive. Could it be because I have a plane to catch tomorrow and without government issued ID I can't board any flights? Nope, I could really care less about that little detail right now. I'm missing my driver's license so damn much right now because I've got on the cutest dress, with the hottest pair of hooker boots, banging accessories, and a matching clutch. I am all dressed up with somewhere to go, and I'm shit out of luck.
You would think that in light of my current situation my focus would be elsewhere, but alas, it's not. The only reason I'm talking to Erica and not hunting down a spare ID from all of the 5'11, 21+ black females I know is because my friend with the cool Brooklyn apartment won't let me. Friend with the cool Brooklyn apartment, if you're reading this, YOU SUCK!!! I spent 30 bucks on a cab from midtown Manhattan to Flatbush Brooklyn just so I could shower, shit, and shave in enough time to get into the club free 'fo midnight. It's now 37 minutes after the midnight hour and I am sitting here in a state of dejection that not even the 1st runner up to Miss America could understand. I was so ready for tonight damn it!! I had brought all my cute clothes that I never get to wear in West Bumblefuck. I made sure my hair was clean and perfectly fro'd. I bought new jewelry. I shaved my legs. I waxed my armpits. Everything was set. And now, NOTHING. This is like getting amazing head and not having an orgasm. Frustration at its peak.
I don't think I can fully make anyone understand just how badly I needed to go out tonight. It's been roughly 5 weeks since the last time I set foot in a bar/lounge/club type place. And it's been about 12 weeks since I had a kick ass time surrounded by grown folks of the Negro persuasion while listening to misogynistic rap music and drinking a cranberry and sprite as I bent over to the floor and touched my toes. Withdrawal symptons were a bitch and tonight was supposed to be my cure. Now some Eastern European cabbie is cruising around the city with my access to all NYC nightlife. Who the hell cares if Habib finds my wallet and charges $2500 worth of porn to my cards? That is such a little thing in comparison to being forced to stay home on a Saturday night.
Considering the fact that my entire life has basically vanished in the back of some nameless, faceless cab, I must say I'm rather calm. Hell, I'm blogging about it, so I must not be too bothered about this current state of affairs. Financially, I'm screwed. I have no cash, and no way to get cash. Not only that but I have no means to use credit either. I'm not really lamenting their loss all that much though. The one thing in my wallet that I am missing most right now is that 3.5" X 1.5" card that has my date of birth prominently displayed right alongside my bright, smiling face. Yes, folks, I am missing my driver's license!! Now why would I be missing my driver's license so much when I don't even have my car around me to drive. Could it be because I have a plane to catch tomorrow and without government issued ID I can't board any flights? Nope, I could really care less about that little detail right now. I'm missing my driver's license so damn much right now because I've got on the cutest dress, with the hottest pair of hooker boots, banging accessories, and a matching clutch. I am all dressed up with somewhere to go, and I'm shit out of luck.
You would think that in light of my current situation my focus would be elsewhere, but alas, it's not. The only reason I'm talking to Erica and not hunting down a spare ID from all of the 5'11, 21+ black females I know is because my friend with the cool Brooklyn apartment won't let me. Friend with the cool Brooklyn apartment, if you're reading this, YOU SUCK!!! I spent 30 bucks on a cab from midtown Manhattan to Flatbush Brooklyn just so I could shower, shit, and shave in enough time to get into the club free 'fo midnight. It's now 37 minutes after the midnight hour and I am sitting here in a state of dejection that not even the 1st runner up to Miss America could understand. I was so ready for tonight damn it!! I had brought all my cute clothes that I never get to wear in West Bumblefuck. I made sure my hair was clean and perfectly fro'd. I bought new jewelry. I shaved my legs. I waxed my armpits. Everything was set. And now, NOTHING. This is like getting amazing head and not having an orgasm. Frustration at its peak.
I don't think I can fully make anyone understand just how badly I needed to go out tonight. It's been roughly 5 weeks since the last time I set foot in a bar/lounge/club type place. And it's been about 12 weeks since I had a kick ass time surrounded by grown folks of the Negro persuasion while listening to misogynistic rap music and drinking a cranberry and sprite as I bent over to the floor and touched my toes. Withdrawal symptons were a bitch and tonight was supposed to be my cure. Now some Eastern European cabbie is cruising around the city with my access to all NYC nightlife. Who the hell cares if Habib finds my wallet and charges $2500 worth of porn to my cards? That is such a little thing in comparison to being forced to stay home on a Saturday night.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Glory Days
The days are shorter, the evenings are getting chilly, and the leaves are beginning to turn. It's that time of year again. Summer is basically over and fall has arrived. And with fall comes the return of those extracurricular activities that have been on hiatus since June. Not only do the little kiddies get to spend 7 hours of the day in school, off the streets away from good tax paying citizens such as myself, they're also occupied until nightfall with a wide range of lessons, sports, and clubs. That means no more visits from the 6 year old camaflouged would-be assassin who lives next door to me. It also means I have a life again! Tap dancing and tae kwon do started again last week, YIPPEE!!!
When I moved to this place of boredom and brats I knew the only way to survive my indefinite stay would be to get out of town once a month and to find something or someone to keep me distracted while time sailed by. Getting out of town once a month was the easy part. Chicago is just a 3 hour drive away and credit cards cover plane tickets to NYC. That just left finding a suitable distraction. Initially I tried distracting myself with the men of Grand Rapids but quickly realized that I needed a distraction to keep my mind off the fact that Grand Rapids has no men. So I said to myself, "Self, we won't be getting any loving for a while, we need to find a hobby to keep ourself busy." I sat back and I pondered. A hobby. Well a hobby should be something I like to do. I like to shop! But I don't consider T-J Max and JC Penny suitable outlets for that pasttime. So I'd have to find something else. I enjoy a good club or lounge on the weekend. Unfortunately, all Grand Rapids had to offer was the Howlin Moon Saloon. The name alone says it all. With my options rapidly running out, I decided to think outside the box. I started looking back on my life to all the things that I've enjoyed over the years. Turns out I had to think all the way back to elementary school in order to find something that Grand Rapids couldn't totally fuck up for me. So I decided to relive the 4th grade and rekindle my passion for tap dancing and martial arts.
Hobbies were the perfect solution to my problem. Think about it. Not only do I live in West Bumblefuck, not knowing a soul out here, I also work from home. If I found hobbies, I'd find people and possibly even a social life, plus I'd get out of the house as well. So I went around the corner to the local dance studio and signed up for Monday night adult tap class. After that I signed up for Thursday night tae kwon do through the City Parks and Recreation Department. And you know something, the plan worked. Well sort of. Tapping and tae kwon do definitely filled up some time. But I didn't count on dancing with a bunch of retirement aged ladies with bladder issues. Nor did I expect tae kwon do class to be like this*:
But hey what can you do?
I may not have gained a single friend (well in a round about way tap classes brought the Curly Haired Stick Figure into my circle of friends) out of all this activity, but at least I have a reason to shower and leave the house two nights a week.
*Click on fuzzy picture
When I moved to this place of boredom and brats I knew the only way to survive my indefinite stay would be to get out of town once a month and to find something or someone to keep me distracted while time sailed by. Getting out of town once a month was the easy part. Chicago is just a 3 hour drive away and credit cards cover plane tickets to NYC. That just left finding a suitable distraction. Initially I tried distracting myself with the men of Grand Rapids but quickly realized that I needed a distraction to keep my mind off the fact that Grand Rapids has no men. So I said to myself, "Self, we won't be getting any loving for a while, we need to find a hobby to keep ourself busy." I sat back and I pondered. A hobby. Well a hobby should be something I like to do. I like to shop! But I don't consider T-J Max and JC Penny suitable outlets for that pasttime. So I'd have to find something else. I enjoy a good club or lounge on the weekend. Unfortunately, all Grand Rapids had to offer was the Howlin Moon Saloon. The name alone says it all. With my options rapidly running out, I decided to think outside the box. I started looking back on my life to all the things that I've enjoyed over the years. Turns out I had to think all the way back to elementary school in order to find something that Grand Rapids couldn't totally fuck up for me. So I decided to relive the 4th grade and rekindle my passion for tap dancing and martial arts.
Hobbies were the perfect solution to my problem. Think about it. Not only do I live in West Bumblefuck, not knowing a soul out here, I also work from home. If I found hobbies, I'd find people and possibly even a social life, plus I'd get out of the house as well. So I went around the corner to the local dance studio and signed up for Monday night adult tap class. After that I signed up for Thursday night tae kwon do through the City Parks and Recreation Department. And you know something, the plan worked. Well sort of. Tapping and tae kwon do definitely filled up some time. But I didn't count on dancing with a bunch of retirement aged ladies with bladder issues. Nor did I expect tae kwon do class to be like this*:
But hey what can you do?
I may not have gained a single friend (well in a round about way tap classes brought the Curly Haired Stick Figure into my circle of friends) out of all this activity, but at least I have a reason to shower and leave the house two nights a week.
*Click on fuzzy picture
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
5 Simple Rules
Whoever said that it's possible to be friends with an ex obviously never tried being friends with an idiot who made them cry. I wouldn't say it's impossible, but it damn sure isn't easy. When there is an ocean of bullshit so wide and so deep you can't build a bridge over it, friendship doesn't really seem like an option. However, after a few faulty attempts at being friends with The Idiot Who Made Me Cry, I think I have finally found a way to make it work. All we have to do is a follow a few simple rules and friends we are.
Rule #1: Steamroll his cell phone/blackberry/two way before you go anywhere.
All his cell phone does is give you insights into his personal life that you really do not need nor want to know. There are few things that are more annoying than watching your ex calling every chick in his phone book looking for a date for later on that evening. Almost as annoying is hearing the voice of the last chick he boned blaring through the receiver because that woman never learned how to use her "indoor voice."
Rule #2: Do NOT reminisce!
The relationship is over. Keep it that way. There is no need to talk about what once was, because it is no longer. There are only two things you can reminisce about. The good times and the bad ones. Taking a stroll down good time memory lane will bring back warm fuzzy feelings and makes all of the bullshit he put you through seem minimal. Inevitably, you'll want to relive the past and that's just something that can't be done. On the other hand, flashing back on the cess pool that your relationship turned into isn't a good idea either. Within minutes you'll want to make sure that steamroller runs over him as well as his cell phone. Not the makings of a healthy friendship.
Rule #3: Do NOT discuss any lingering issues.
What's the point? Will it really change anything? Trust me when I say NOPE! Knowing that you could've spent the night at his place instead of driving home in the middle of a winter storm 4 months ago changes nothing about the current situation. What he would've done, meant to say, and used to feel is irrelevant. Don't torture yourself with useless information.
Rule #4: Only spend time together one on one.
Whenever you hang out with the ex turned friend be sure that it's always just you and him. This is not to say that you can't go out in public, it just means that you won't be hanging out with his other friends and he won't be hanging out with yours (which is probably a good thing since most of them would probably like to burn is ass at the stake). Hanging out in groups of friends invites too much room for invasion into personal lives. Dangerous territory you must stay away from. Besides you two need to be alone because privacy is needed when practicing a policy of issue avoidance.
Rule #5: Do NOT spend more than 2 hours together.
Anything worth doing can be done in 2 hours. A movie takes 2 hours. Dinner takes an hour and a half. A game of bowling takes 2 hours. There is no reason to spend more than 2 hours together. After the 2 hour mark something interesting happens. You run out of things to say and do. Then you realize that there is something you could do and normally would be doing but can't do because you are no longer supposed to be doing it.
Rule #1: Steamroll his cell phone/blackberry/two way before you go anywhere.
All his cell phone does is give you insights into his personal life that you really do not need nor want to know. There are few things that are more annoying than watching your ex calling every chick in his phone book looking for a date for later on that evening. Almost as annoying is hearing the voice of the last chick he boned blaring through the receiver because that woman never learned how to use her "indoor voice."
Rule #2: Do NOT reminisce!
The relationship is over. Keep it that way. There is no need to talk about what once was, because it is no longer. There are only two things you can reminisce about. The good times and the bad ones. Taking a stroll down good time memory lane will bring back warm fuzzy feelings and makes all of the bullshit he put you through seem minimal. Inevitably, you'll want to relive the past and that's just something that can't be done. On the other hand, flashing back on the cess pool that your relationship turned into isn't a good idea either. Within minutes you'll want to make sure that steamroller runs over him as well as his cell phone. Not the makings of a healthy friendship.
Rule #3: Do NOT discuss any lingering issues.
What's the point? Will it really change anything? Trust me when I say NOPE! Knowing that you could've spent the night at his place instead of driving home in the middle of a winter storm 4 months ago changes nothing about the current situation. What he would've done, meant to say, and used to feel is irrelevant. Don't torture yourself with useless information.
Rule #4: Only spend time together one on one.
Whenever you hang out with the ex turned friend be sure that it's always just you and him. This is not to say that you can't go out in public, it just means that you won't be hanging out with his other friends and he won't be hanging out with yours (which is probably a good thing since most of them would probably like to burn is ass at the stake). Hanging out in groups of friends invites too much room for invasion into personal lives. Dangerous territory you must stay away from. Besides you two need to be alone because privacy is needed when practicing a policy of issue avoidance.
Rule #5: Do NOT spend more than 2 hours together.
Anything worth doing can be done in 2 hours. A movie takes 2 hours. Dinner takes an hour and a half. A game of bowling takes 2 hours. There is no reason to spend more than 2 hours together. After the 2 hour mark something interesting happens. You run out of things to say and do. Then you realize that there is something you could do and normally would be doing but can't do because you are no longer supposed to be doing it.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Lies, Lies and More Lies
Ambition sucks. Ambition is highly overrated. Whoever said ambition is noble or some other crap like that needs to be shot. Ambition is the reason I'm chained to the house this beautiful Saturday evening (well that and I'm looking like Buckwheat's cousin). Ambition made me think I could handle two aerobics classes back to back. Ambition has rendered me an invalid.
I know I said that I'm perfectly content to be a fat cow, but after careful consideration I've determined that I'm just too shallow to start shopping for plus sizes. The fact that I live with The Curly Haired Stick Figure doesn't help my body image issues, either. I tried losing weight by adopting her diet of fruit snacks and Faygo Root Beer, but it left me feeling a little less than satiated. As a mere mortal I've got to do it the old fashioned way: sweat and junk food deprivation. Goodbye Haggen Daaz, hello Stair Master!
With a recovered body (read the previous post) and renewed motivation I woke up this morning at 8 a.m. to go to a 9 a.m. cardio kickboxing class. I spent an hour throwing jabs, right hooks, and left uppercuts at exercise induced mirages of my boss and The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. I especially enjoyed kicking out their knee caps and throwing an elbow to their skulls. By the end of class I was sufficiently sweaty and out of breath and ready to go home. As I gathered my keys, membership card, and empty water bottle the instructor mentioned something about staying for the next class, Body Step. Of course I completely ignored her since I had burned the obligatory 450 calories for the day. I walked out of the group fitness studio and what happened next is sort of a blur. What I do remember is seeing a poster advertising the newest craze in fitness, Body Step. It's step aerobics without all the stupid dance moves that have people looking like rejects from a Richard Simmons' video. Hmmm, doesn't sound totally heinous. I don't know how or why it happened, but I asked the instructor for more details. She proceeds to tell me that the class is a lot of fun and how it's designed for strength and conditioning training. So far it sounds good. I ask her, "Does it hurt?" She says, "Hurt? No!! It's just a really good good workout. Plus it really tones the hips and thighs." Tones hips and thighs? Ding ding ding ding ding!!! She just said the magic words to get me to refill my water bottle, set up my step and get ready for another class. I was feeling a bit worn out from kickboxing class, but desperation to fit into the skinny jeans trumps muscle fatigue any day. Besides, she said it doesn't hurt.
The beginning strains of Brittany Spear's "Toxic" filled the room signifying the start of class. I should've known I had bitten off more than I could chew when the step together step combination in the warm-up proved to be a bit too complex for me. Still, I persevered, spurred on by the allure of smaller thighs. We get through the warm-up and stretching and into the strengthening and conditioning. That lying heffer was so full of shit! It hurt and it hurt badly. She's having us squat and lunge and fly across the step to the extended version of "Yeah" sped up on meth amphetamines. To add insult to injury she keeps telling us to kick up the intensity by power jumping off the step after every move. The best I could muster was a feeble stumble that might have resembled a bunny hop. Yet still I press on. As the hell continues that fibbing tramp starts adding dance moves into routine. I distinctly remember being told there would be no dancing. Shit, I may be Black, but I can't do this shit. Step, kick, cha cha cha...WTF!! The white chicks in class had more rhythm and coordination than I did. I was looking like a crackhead doing the Harlem shake. Why in the hell am I doing this crap? Oh that's right, those infernal skinny jeans. Class finally ended and after all that pain and suffering my thighs were no smaller than they were before class. I'd been hoodwinked.
Things went from bad to worse when I got home. All of that exercise rendered my limbs useless. I've since lost all feeling (except for pain) in both arms. My abs are so worn out that it hurts to breathe. I get a charlie horse in my inner thighs every time I attempt to cross my legs. It seems as though I have to keep inflicting this shit upon myself before I see even minimal results. If exercise is supposedly so damn good for us, then why has it left me in need of a full body cast and traction? Somebody has made a lot of money feeding that propaganda to the masses, but now I know what fat people everywhere know. Physical fitness is BULLSHIT!
I know I said that I'm perfectly content to be a fat cow, but after careful consideration I've determined that I'm just too shallow to start shopping for plus sizes. The fact that I live with The Curly Haired Stick Figure doesn't help my body image issues, either. I tried losing weight by adopting her diet of fruit snacks and Faygo Root Beer, but it left me feeling a little less than satiated. As a mere mortal I've got to do it the old fashioned way: sweat and junk food deprivation. Goodbye Haggen Daaz, hello Stair Master!
With a recovered body (read the previous post) and renewed motivation I woke up this morning at 8 a.m. to go to a 9 a.m. cardio kickboxing class. I spent an hour throwing jabs, right hooks, and left uppercuts at exercise induced mirages of my boss and The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. I especially enjoyed kicking out their knee caps and throwing an elbow to their skulls. By the end of class I was sufficiently sweaty and out of breath and ready to go home. As I gathered my keys, membership card, and empty water bottle the instructor mentioned something about staying for the next class, Body Step. Of course I completely ignored her since I had burned the obligatory 450 calories for the day. I walked out of the group fitness studio and what happened next is sort of a blur. What I do remember is seeing a poster advertising the newest craze in fitness, Body Step. It's step aerobics without all the stupid dance moves that have people looking like rejects from a Richard Simmons' video. Hmmm, doesn't sound totally heinous. I don't know how or why it happened, but I asked the instructor for more details. She proceeds to tell me that the class is a lot of fun and how it's designed for strength and conditioning training. So far it sounds good. I ask her, "Does it hurt?" She says, "Hurt? No!! It's just a really good good workout. Plus it really tones the hips and thighs." Tones hips and thighs? Ding ding ding ding ding!!! She just said the magic words to get me to refill my water bottle, set up my step and get ready for another class. I was feeling a bit worn out from kickboxing class, but desperation to fit into the skinny jeans trumps muscle fatigue any day. Besides, she said it doesn't hurt.
The beginning strains of Brittany Spear's "Toxic" filled the room signifying the start of class. I should've known I had bitten off more than I could chew when the step together step combination in the warm-up proved to be a bit too complex for me. Still, I persevered, spurred on by the allure of smaller thighs. We get through the warm-up and stretching and into the strengthening and conditioning. That lying heffer was so full of shit! It hurt and it hurt badly. She's having us squat and lunge and fly across the step to the extended version of "Yeah" sped up on meth amphetamines. To add insult to injury she keeps telling us to kick up the intensity by power jumping off the step after every move. The best I could muster was a feeble stumble that might have resembled a bunny hop. Yet still I press on. As the hell continues that fibbing tramp starts adding dance moves into routine. I distinctly remember being told there would be no dancing. Shit, I may be Black, but I can't do this shit. Step, kick, cha cha cha...WTF!! The white chicks in class had more rhythm and coordination than I did. I was looking like a crackhead doing the Harlem shake. Why in the hell am I doing this crap? Oh that's right, those infernal skinny jeans. Class finally ended and after all that pain and suffering my thighs were no smaller than they were before class. I'd been hoodwinked.
Things went from bad to worse when I got home. All of that exercise rendered my limbs useless. I've since lost all feeling (except for pain) in both arms. My abs are so worn out that it hurts to breathe. I get a charlie horse in my inner thighs every time I attempt to cross my legs. It seems as though I have to keep inflicting this shit upon myself before I see even minimal results. If exercise is supposedly so damn good for us, then why has it left me in need of a full body cast and traction? Somebody has made a lot of money feeding that propaganda to the masses, but now I know what fat people everywhere know. Physical fitness is BULLSHIT!
Friday, August 26, 2005
Ouch
I am currently walking around looking like I had an encounter with an erratic vibrator. But don't worry, I haven't seen any action from B.O.B. in a while. The reason why I have an imaginary pole up my ass is because I made the mistake of trying to lose weight.
This all started 9 months ago when my favorite jeans started chanting "HELL NO! WE WON'T GO!" once they reached my hips. I knew this was a problem, but I let it go. All I needed to do was lose a few pounds and they would fit again. Fast forward 4 months later and those pants still don't fit, aren't close to fitting, and I'm starting to wonder if they ever will fit again. The final straw came this past weekend while trying on crop pants in the fitting room at BCBG. Now BCBG does ego sizing better than any brand out there, but even they couldn't make a size 10 that gets over my ever expanding rump. Right then and there I decided I needed to get back into shape. And I needed to do it by any means necessary. That's it! I'm getting a personal trainer.
I'm all fired up and motivated now. So Monday morning I march right into the gym, go up to the front desk and tell them, "I want a trainer!!" When I sit down with one of the Personal Training Coordinators I let her know that I want results and I want them fast. I need a trainer who's insane. I want someone who I'm gonna hate. I want someone that's gonna kick my lazy butt into shape. Oh yeah, and I want to start immediately. So the lady writes all this down and tells me she'll review the list of trainers to see who is available and have one of them call me that evening. Around 7 p.m I get a call from one of the trainers. We chat about my goals and time availability and then decide to meet at 6 a.m. the next morning. So far so good.
The next day I'm up before the butt crack of dawn and arrive 10 minutes before my scheduled appointment. I warm up by jogging a couple of laps on the track and stretching out. I'm ready to go! At 6 a.m. sharp I meet my trainer. He looked cool. Tall guy with an athletic build and a friendly smile. Little did I know that I had been paired with Satan's Henchman In Charge of Torture. That Fascist dictator took extreme pleasure from my extreme pain. I have the feeling that he was taking out all of the frustrations from his childhood on me. I could just see it in eyes. Mommy wouldn't give me a cookie...5 more reps for Liz. Santa didn't bring me a bike...add another 20 pound weight plate for Liz. Prom date wouldn't give me a hand job...15 more crunches for Liz. He wouldn't even stop when halfway through the workout I told him he was about 2 seconds away from seeing my breakfast on his Nikes. He just looked at me and said, "That's nice, keep lifting, you've got 8 more to go." At 7:10 I limped back to my car, drove home, and put myself to bed.
The next day I wake up to pain coursing through every fiber of my body. Everything from my back to my abs to my thighs was aching. I couldn't even stand, let alone walk. Stairs were completely out of the question. The worst pain was in my ass. Every time I attempted to sit it felt as though I was getting kicked in each cheek with a steel toe boot. The lean and plop method of sitting often used by pregnant women had to be employed just to get on the toilet seat. I didn't ask for this!! I said I wanted a trainer who was insane, not criminally psychotic. I said I wanted a trainer who will kick my butt into shape, not try to kill me. I said I wanted a trainer who will make me hate them, not make me want to hire a hitman. The most bullshit part of this is that I'm actually paying Satan's Minion to do this to me. I'm beginning to think that getting back into my skinny jeans isn't worth it. Screw it, I'll just be a fat cow. MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
This all started 9 months ago when my favorite jeans started chanting "HELL NO! WE WON'T GO!" once they reached my hips. I knew this was a problem, but I let it go. All I needed to do was lose a few pounds and they would fit again. Fast forward 4 months later and those pants still don't fit, aren't close to fitting, and I'm starting to wonder if they ever will fit again. The final straw came this past weekend while trying on crop pants in the fitting room at BCBG. Now BCBG does ego sizing better than any brand out there, but even they couldn't make a size 10 that gets over my ever expanding rump. Right then and there I decided I needed to get back into shape. And I needed to do it by any means necessary. That's it! I'm getting a personal trainer.
I'm all fired up and motivated now. So Monday morning I march right into the gym, go up to the front desk and tell them, "I want a trainer!!" When I sit down with one of the Personal Training Coordinators I let her know that I want results and I want them fast. I need a trainer who's insane. I want someone who I'm gonna hate. I want someone that's gonna kick my lazy butt into shape. Oh yeah, and I want to start immediately. So the lady writes all this down and tells me she'll review the list of trainers to see who is available and have one of them call me that evening. Around 7 p.m I get a call from one of the trainers. We chat about my goals and time availability and then decide to meet at 6 a.m. the next morning. So far so good.
The next day I'm up before the butt crack of dawn and arrive 10 minutes before my scheduled appointment. I warm up by jogging a couple of laps on the track and stretching out. I'm ready to go! At 6 a.m. sharp I meet my trainer. He looked cool. Tall guy with an athletic build and a friendly smile. Little did I know that I had been paired with Satan's Henchman In Charge of Torture. That Fascist dictator took extreme pleasure from my extreme pain. I have the feeling that he was taking out all of the frustrations from his childhood on me. I could just see it in eyes. Mommy wouldn't give me a cookie...5 more reps for Liz. Santa didn't bring me a bike...add another 20 pound weight plate for Liz. Prom date wouldn't give me a hand job...15 more crunches for Liz. He wouldn't even stop when halfway through the workout I told him he was about 2 seconds away from seeing my breakfast on his Nikes. He just looked at me and said, "That's nice, keep lifting, you've got 8 more to go." At 7:10 I limped back to my car, drove home, and put myself to bed.
The next day I wake up to pain coursing through every fiber of my body. Everything from my back to my abs to my thighs was aching. I couldn't even stand, let alone walk. Stairs were completely out of the question. The worst pain was in my ass. Every time I attempted to sit it felt as though I was getting kicked in each cheek with a steel toe boot. The lean and plop method of sitting often used by pregnant women had to be employed just to get on the toilet seat. I didn't ask for this!! I said I wanted a trainer who was insane, not criminally psychotic. I said I wanted a trainer who will kick my butt into shape, not try to kill me. I said I wanted a trainer who will make me hate them, not make me want to hire a hitman. The most bullshit part of this is that I'm actually paying Satan's Minion to do this to me. I'm beginning to think that getting back into my skinny jeans isn't worth it. Screw it, I'll just be a fat cow. MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
FAQs
The male species seems to have a bone to pick with women. Lately it seems I can't go anywhere without some guy saying, "Yo, why do chicks go to the club, if they don't want a man to holla?" Men just do NOT get it. It doesn't seem to matter how many times it is explained or how slowly a woman speaks when explaining, they just can't wrap their little brains around the idea. We go to the club to kick it with our girls, get our drink on, and dance our little behinds off to songs that degrade us. It has NOTHING to do with you! Since it seems as though this a really difficult concept for men to comprehend, I'm going to answer several frequently asked questions. Hopefully this will once and for all end the incessant whining.
Question #1: If you don't want men to try and holla why do you dress that way?
The way a woman dresses when she leaves the house has nothing to do with trying to attract a man, and everything to do with how she wants to feel about herself. Yes, I put on my tightest jeans, my lowest cut top, the come fuck me heels, and sexify my hair just for me and me alone. It is not an invitation for any man to palm my ass, talk to my chest, or breathe their hot breath on the back of my neck. Sorry guys, but the sexy is for me, not for you. I'm not trying to attract some guy that probably only looks good under minimal lighting.
Question #2: Why you gonna let a guy buy you a drink if you ain't interested?
Now this is just a dumb question. Why would I pay $10 or more for a drink when someone else is willing to do that for me? I didn't ask him to buy me that beverage, he offered. It's his fault for thinking that drink somehow bought him a friend for the night. Here's a suggestion, if you don't want to spend money to get nothing in return, stop offering to buy us drinks. Wait, scratch that. Don't stop offering, just stop complaining.
Question #3: Why don't ya'll dance when you're in the club?
Actually, we do dance. We dance in a circle with each other. It's fun, we like it, don't question it. To be honest the circle dancing eases us into dancing with men. First we dance in the circle, then we move on to the testosterone. Stop trying to rush the process.
Question #4: If you want to dance, why turn guys down when they ask you to dance?
Let's get something straight. Most men do not ask a woman to dance. Pointing to your crotch while wiggling your hips and telling me to come shake it right there is NOT an invitation to dance. Nor is sneaking up on me from behind and poking me in the rear with Mr. Weasel. Oftentimes it's all about the approach, and oftentimes your approach sucks. Plus, just because we want to back it up on someone, doesn't mean that just anyone will do. Even though I'm not looking for a relationship on the dance floor, giving Quasimodo's twin the same treatment the driver's seat of my car gets whenever "Some Cut" comes on the radio isn't gonna happen. Although a dance is just a dance, part of the fun is pretending it's something more. For the 3 minutes and 50 seconds that I'm grinding my little money maker on his nether regions, we're together. He holds my waist, I throw naughty glances over my shoulder, we act like we actually know and like each other. When the song is over, so is the fantasy. He goes back into the sea of nameless faceless men and I adjust my top and go back to the circle from whence I came. It's like playing make believe for a few minutes. I don't know too many women that like to pretend with dudes that got hit with an ugly brick. Plus, the ugly ones never know you're just pretending.
I hope this list of FAQs clears up any and all questions any male has regarding women in the club. And to be honest, even if it doesn't, who cares!! We're women, and our rationale doesn't have to seem rational to men. So Black girls, you dress like a Hunt's Point professional whenever you go to the club! White girls, you make out with each other on the dance floor while your boyfriends watch! Hispanic girls, you do the merengue with one another instead of that short greasy Mexican. And Asian girls, hhhmmmm....well I don't really know what the hell ya'll are doing, but just keep on doing it. We're women, and if it makes sense to us, that's all that really matters anyways.
Question #1: If you don't want men to try and holla why do you dress that way?
The way a woman dresses when she leaves the house has nothing to do with trying to attract a man, and everything to do with how she wants to feel about herself. Yes, I put on my tightest jeans, my lowest cut top, the come fuck me heels, and sexify my hair just for me and me alone. It is not an invitation for any man to palm my ass, talk to my chest, or breathe their hot breath on the back of my neck. Sorry guys, but the sexy is for me, not for you. I'm not trying to attract some guy that probably only looks good under minimal lighting.
Question #2: Why you gonna let a guy buy you a drink if you ain't interested?
Now this is just a dumb question. Why would I pay $10 or more for a drink when someone else is willing to do that for me? I didn't ask him to buy me that beverage, he offered. It's his fault for thinking that drink somehow bought him a friend for the night. Here's a suggestion, if you don't want to spend money to get nothing in return, stop offering to buy us drinks. Wait, scratch that. Don't stop offering, just stop complaining.
Question #3: Why don't ya'll dance when you're in the club?
Actually, we do dance. We dance in a circle with each other. It's fun, we like it, don't question it. To be honest the circle dancing eases us into dancing with men. First we dance in the circle, then we move on to the testosterone. Stop trying to rush the process.
Question #4: If you want to dance, why turn guys down when they ask you to dance?
Let's get something straight. Most men do not ask a woman to dance. Pointing to your crotch while wiggling your hips and telling me to come shake it right there is NOT an invitation to dance. Nor is sneaking up on me from behind and poking me in the rear with Mr. Weasel. Oftentimes it's all about the approach, and oftentimes your approach sucks. Plus, just because we want to back it up on someone, doesn't mean that just anyone will do. Even though I'm not looking for a relationship on the dance floor, giving Quasimodo's twin the same treatment the driver's seat of my car gets whenever "Some Cut" comes on the radio isn't gonna happen. Although a dance is just a dance, part of the fun is pretending it's something more. For the 3 minutes and 50 seconds that I'm grinding my little money maker on his nether regions, we're together. He holds my waist, I throw naughty glances over my shoulder, we act like we actually know and like each other. When the song is over, so is the fantasy. He goes back into the sea of nameless faceless men and I adjust my top and go back to the circle from whence I came. It's like playing make believe for a few minutes. I don't know too many women that like to pretend with dudes that got hit with an ugly brick. Plus, the ugly ones never know you're just pretending.
I hope this list of FAQs clears up any and all questions any male has regarding women in the club. And to be honest, even if it doesn't, who cares!! We're women, and our rationale doesn't have to seem rational to men. So Black girls, you dress like a Hunt's Point professional whenever you go to the club! White girls, you make out with each other on the dance floor while your boyfriends watch! Hispanic girls, you do the merengue with one another instead of that short greasy Mexican. And Asian girls, hhhmmmm....well I don't really know what the hell ya'll are doing, but just keep on doing it. We're women, and if it makes sense to us, that's all that really matters anyways.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Sister to Sister
Dear Star,
I think there is something you should know. I don't quite know how to tell you this. Alright, I'm gonna let you in a little secret. Are you alone? Okay, here it is. Star, you're husband is GAY! Aww, whatever! This ain't a secret. In fact, Star, you seem to be the ONLY person who doesn't know that he's gay. Star, look at him. Go on, really look at him.
There is not a straight man alive who sits up that straight while showing everyone his crotch. No straight man's jeans would fit that tightly either. Let's examine some more evidence. I mean, do I really have to point out the obvious?! Just look at him. He just screams, "I'm HERE, I'M QUEER!!" Oh Honey, why can't you see what we see. 
I realize that you have been deluding yourself for a while, so this may come as a shock to you. But I think that deep down, you know that EVERYONE is right. If you were wondering why you've never actually had sex with your husband, it's because he thinks your vagina is icky. Oh there, there, Star. Don't take it personally, he thinks ALL vaginas are icky, not just yours. This explains so much! The excessive toiletries, the hair styling, the time he spends with that guy 'Twan, everything!!
Girl, don't feel bad. You are NOT the first desperate woman over 35 to be turned into a fag hag. You're in great company. Let's see, there's Diana Ross and Liza Minelli. You're in the company of legends! A Supreme and an Oscar winner. Look at it like this. Knowledge is power. Now you can go warn others before they turn into you. In fact, you could help out poor Katie Holmes. She's about 2 words away from becoming Tom Cruise's 3rd official beard. Help the poor girl. Help her.
Star, the reason I'm telling you all of this is because I care. It hurts to me to see you gushing about your ring, your wedding, and "your" man on The View everyday. It especially hurts whenever the camera pans to your co-hosts looking at you with eyes that are saying, "Riiiiiiiiiiight." Actually, everyone on the set is looking at you that way. Someone needed to tell you the truth, instead of just laughing at you behind your back. Now I know it's going to be difficult being all alone again, but you can do it. Dry your eyes, put on that wig, and cake on that make-up and you go out there and find you a man (preferably one who's NOT into other men).
In Sisterly Love,
Liz
I think there is something you should know. I don't quite know how to tell you this. Alright, I'm gonna let you in a little secret. Are you alone? Okay, here it is. Star, you're husband is GAY! Aww, whatever! This ain't a secret. In fact, Star, you seem to be the ONLY person who doesn't know that he's gay. Star, look at him. Go on, really look at him.
There is not a straight man alive who sits up that straight while showing everyone his crotch. No straight man's jeans would fit that tightly either. Let's examine some more evidence. I mean, do I really have to point out the obvious?! Just look at him. He just screams, "I'm HERE, I'M QUEER!!" Oh Honey, why can't you see what we see. 
I realize that you have been deluding yourself for a while, so this may come as a shock to you. But I think that deep down, you know that EVERYONE is right. If you were wondering why you've never actually had sex with your husband, it's because he thinks your vagina is icky. Oh there, there, Star. Don't take it personally, he thinks ALL vaginas are icky, not just yours. This explains so much! The excessive toiletries, the hair styling, the time he spends with that guy 'Twan, everything!!
Girl, don't feel bad. You are NOT the first desperate woman over 35 to be turned into a fag hag. You're in great company. Let's see, there's Diana Ross and Liza Minelli. You're in the company of legends! A Supreme and an Oscar winner. Look at it like this. Knowledge is power. Now you can go warn others before they turn into you. In fact, you could help out poor Katie Holmes. She's about 2 words away from becoming Tom Cruise's 3rd official beard. Help the poor girl. Help her.
Star, the reason I'm telling you all of this is because I care. It hurts to me to see you gushing about your ring, your wedding, and "your" man on The View everyday. It especially hurts whenever the camera pans to your co-hosts looking at you with eyes that are saying, "Riiiiiiiiiiight." Actually, everyone on the set is looking at you that way. Someone needed to tell you the truth, instead of just laughing at you behind your back. Now I know it's going to be difficult being all alone again, but you can do it. Dry your eyes, put on that wig, and cake on that make-up and you go out there and find you a man (preferably one who's NOT into other men).
In Sisterly Love,
Liz
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Cuckoo Cuckoo
I'm listening to the Emancipation of Mimi ad nauseam. It has suddenly dawned on me that Mariah Carey has issues. Really deep seeded, personal issues. And I'm not just talking about that stint she did in the looney bin a couple years ago. Wait, excuse me I mean her 6 month "hospitalization for exhaustion." Honestly, I don't even know why people were surprised about the whole situation. Just listen to her music, the signs were there the whole time. That bitch is crazy.
Have you ever really paid attention to what she's saying? I mean really, really paid attention. Alright, take that song "Always Be My Baby." Yeah, I know you've heard it a thousand times, but I bet you totally missed the fact that Mariah is a freakin psycho ass broad. Don't let the dulcet tones of her voice fool you into thinking that it's just an ordinary love song. Hell no it ain't! Mariah Carey is a stalker. Check out these lyrics: "You'll always be a part of me/I'm part of you indefinitely/oh Boy, you know you can't escape me/oooohh Darling, cause you'll always be my baby/It'll linger on/time can't erase a feeling this strong/there's no way you're ever gonna shake me/oooohh Darling, cause you'll always be my baby." Looks kind of scary when you see it in print now doesn't it. Personally, it conjures images of Mariah being carried away from the object of her affection in a straight jacket, with those light brown locks flying everywhere, as she's kicking and screaming, "NO WAY YOU'RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME!!!!!! NO WAY YOU'RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME!!! YOOOOOOUUUUUUU AND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII WILL AAAALLLLLLLWAYS BEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
Don't get me wrong, a little bit of stalking is normal. There's not a single red-blooded woman alive who hasn't stalked a man to some extent (remember Denial is not just a river in Egypt). I'll be the first to admit to it. Back in high school I was butt crazy in love with this boy who had a lazy eye and a receding hairline. Oh, he was so fine!! I used to make my older brother drive by his home really slowly so I could maybe catch a glimpse of him coming out the house. I don't do stuff like that anymore. Nowadays what I'll do is come into town without telling a guy. Then I'll call up one of his friends (but not good enough friends to call him and tell him we spoke). In the course of conversation, I'll ask what's going on for the evening, weekend, or whatever. When I get the goods on where stuff is gonna pop off, I casually ask who's expected to be where. Nine times out of ten, the friend will tell me where old boy will more than likely be. After that all I have to do is call one of my girls to come along as a buffer, put on something that shows plenty of cleavage or thigh (not both, cause that looks so desperate), show up at the designated location, and "accidentally" bump into the object of my affection. This is perfectly NORMAL and ACCEPTABLE behavior. It can't even be considered stalking because the person doesn't feel stalked. What Mariah is raving about, on the other hand, is definite cause for a restraining order. If someone said that stuff to me, I wouldn't want them within 500 feet of me. I'm telling you, the chick is just CRAZY!!
Have you ever really paid attention to what she's saying? I mean really, really paid attention. Alright, take that song "Always Be My Baby." Yeah, I know you've heard it a thousand times, but I bet you totally missed the fact that Mariah is a freakin psycho ass broad. Don't let the dulcet tones of her voice fool you into thinking that it's just an ordinary love song. Hell no it ain't! Mariah Carey is a stalker. Check out these lyrics: "You'll always be a part of me/I'm part of you indefinitely/oh Boy, you know you can't escape me/oooohh Darling, cause you'll always be my baby/It'll linger on/time can't erase a feeling this strong/there's no way you're ever gonna shake me/oooohh Darling, cause you'll always be my baby." Looks kind of scary when you see it in print now doesn't it. Personally, it conjures images of Mariah being carried away from the object of her affection in a straight jacket, with those light brown locks flying everywhere, as she's kicking and screaming, "NO WAY YOU'RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME!!!!!! NO WAY YOU'RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME!!! YOOOOOOUUUUUUU AND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII WILL AAAALLLLLLLWAYS BEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
Don't get me wrong, a little bit of stalking is normal. There's not a single red-blooded woman alive who hasn't stalked a man to some extent (remember Denial is not just a river in Egypt). I'll be the first to admit to it. Back in high school I was butt crazy in love with this boy who had a lazy eye and a receding hairline. Oh, he was so fine!! I used to make my older brother drive by his home really slowly so I could maybe catch a glimpse of him coming out the house. I don't do stuff like that anymore. Nowadays what I'll do is come into town without telling a guy. Then I'll call up one of his friends (but not good enough friends to call him and tell him we spoke). In the course of conversation, I'll ask what's going on for the evening, weekend, or whatever. When I get the goods on where stuff is gonna pop off, I casually ask who's expected to be where. Nine times out of ten, the friend will tell me where old boy will more than likely be. After that all I have to do is call one of my girls to come along as a buffer, put on something that shows plenty of cleavage or thigh (not both, cause that looks so desperate), show up at the designated location, and "accidentally" bump into the object of my affection. This is perfectly NORMAL and ACCEPTABLE behavior. It can't even be considered stalking because the person doesn't feel stalked. What Mariah is raving about, on the other hand, is definite cause for a restraining order. If someone said that stuff to me, I wouldn't want them within 500 feet of me. I'm telling you, the chick is just CRAZY!!
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Test
Beeeeeeeeeeeeep Beeeeeeeep Beeeeeeep This is a test of the Recently Updated Blog System. If this were a real update to my blog my pithy rantings about the thoughts in my demented head would follow. However, this is only a test. Thank you.
Aspirations
Don't judge me. I want to be a video girl. Yep, that's right, I want to be one of those chicks that everyone sees on BET shaking their ass in music videos. I too want to climb on top of a red Caddy and jiggle my ass on it's roof. Wait, I hear the ice cream man. I'll be right back. Mmmmkay, remind me to never again run barefoot down a half paved street in pursuit of a rinky dink ice cream van (yeah I said van, not truck) that doesn't even have the decency to stock 10 cent rainbow gumballs and blowpops. Trifling bastards.
Now, back to the lecture at hand: my upcoming video girl career. After watching the making of Sean Paul's new clip for "We Be Burnin" on BET's Access Granted I'm so positive that I'm more than qualified. I can gyrate with the best of them. I'm especially adept at running my hands across my writhing body while giving sultry stares to anyone who glances in my direction. I can also pop it, drop it, pick it back up, then bend it over and shake it (I follow Lil' John's instructions well). The wardrobe isn't a problem either. My underwear only half covers my ass anyways, and a t-shirt and panties is my favorite outfit.
Some might say that I'd be wasting my Ivy League education if I left my job counting Cheerios to be the newest addition to 50 Cent's next video shoot, but I disagree. I honestly think I'm wasting my talents now. My butt ain't always gonna look this good so I might as well get paid for it now. Plus, I spend countless hours watching the current video hoes (oops I mean entertainers) doing their thing and then practicing in the mirror. Besides Candice from Lloyd Bank's "On Fire" video has a law degree from Northwestern* and that cost way more than my piddling Bachelor of Science in Policy Analysis and Management (whatever that is). That chick is a lawyer, and if she's not too good to walk out of a hot tub dripping wet in 2 scraps of cloth resembling a bikini, well then damn it, neither am I!!!
Just so that there is no confusion, I have no intention of being just anybody's video chick. You won't catch me doing low budget videos for the likes of Webbie, Mike Jones, and Won G. Oh no, I'm high class with mine. Only the top selling rappers like 50, Ludacris, and Jigga can pour Cristal all over my chest. Cause I respect myself, damn it!
*King Magazine - March 2005 Issue
Now, back to the lecture at hand: my upcoming video girl career. After watching the making of Sean Paul's new clip for "We Be Burnin" on BET's Access Granted I'm so positive that I'm more than qualified. I can gyrate with the best of them. I'm especially adept at running my hands across my writhing body while giving sultry stares to anyone who glances in my direction. I can also pop it, drop it, pick it back up, then bend it over and shake it (I follow Lil' John's instructions well). The wardrobe isn't a problem either. My underwear only half covers my ass anyways, and a t-shirt and panties is my favorite outfit.
Some might say that I'd be wasting my Ivy League education if I left my job counting Cheerios to be the newest addition to 50 Cent's next video shoot, but I disagree. I honestly think I'm wasting my talents now. My butt ain't always gonna look this good so I might as well get paid for it now. Plus, I spend countless hours watching the current video hoes (oops I mean entertainers) doing their thing and then practicing in the mirror. Besides Candice from Lloyd Bank's "On Fire" video has a law degree from Northwestern* and that cost way more than my piddling Bachelor of Science in Policy Analysis and Management (whatever that is). That chick is a lawyer, and if she's not too good to walk out of a hot tub dripping wet in 2 scraps of cloth resembling a bikini, well then damn it, neither am I!!!
Just so that there is no confusion, I have no intention of being just anybody's video chick. You won't catch me doing low budget videos for the likes of Webbie, Mike Jones, and Won G. Oh no, I'm high class with mine. Only the top selling rappers like 50, Ludacris, and Jigga can pour Cristal all over my chest. Cause I respect myself, damn it!
*King Magazine - March 2005 Issue
Saturday, August 13, 2005
You Again?
I've been dating the same man since I was 18 years old. Sure, over the years he's had different names, but still in all, it's the same man. Who is he? Why none other than Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now. Say word? You dated him too? The dude that can't call, can't email, can't see you, can't function because he's going through some shit. Wow, and all this time I thought I was the only woman he was with. Cheating ass bastard.
Some shit comes in all types of different degrees, but the two most common types are Ex-Girlfriend/Baby Mamma Drama and Broke Ass Nigga Issues. It's all about those Broke Ass Niggas for me!! In my own defense, let me just say that I do NOT intentionally date financially challenged men. They don't appear to have money issues in the beginning. This is not to say that they come off as ballers, cause I have never been lucky enough to find me one of those. But they don't fit the typical scrub stereotype either; meaning they have a job, a place to live besides Momma's basement, and a reasonable mode of transportation. Heck, they've even taken me out to eat and let me supersize and everything. Definitely not the actions of a man who's hurting for cash.
My first exposure to Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now came when I was 18 years old and started seeing Sweet but Sporadically Employed Boy. Now when we met he had a promising career as a UPS stockboy, but that gig ended about 2 months into the courtship. From that point on, he never held a steady job. The less he worked, the more I heard, "I'm going through some shit right now." He doesn't call. "I'm going through some shit right now." He doesn't come visit me (he lived 2 hours away). "I'm going through some shit right now." I knew for damn sure he was going through some shit when he asked me to let him hold some money from my hard earned financial aid refund check.
Even though I broke up with Sweet But Sporadically Employed Boy after a few short months, I kept on dating Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now Cause I'm a Broke Ass Nigga. Let's see...there was Broke Ass Auto Mechanic, Broke Ass Student, Broke Ass Property Owner, Broke Ass County Employee. You name it, he was broke. But I was always the last one to figure it out. Looking back, I should've known something was wrong because when we would go out he would pay for everything in cash. He might as well just put it in neon lights. "Broke Ass Nigga who's about to be going through some shit." If a man pays for dinner, a movie, popcorn, soda, and jujubees without once pulling out a credit card, RUN, don't walk, to the nearest exit and never look back. More than likely if he's carrying cash like that, he doesn't even have a bank account. If Visa, Mastercard, American Express, and Discover won't take a chance on his broke ass, why should I.
I have to admit that oftentimes, I wasn't even feeling Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now like that. Actually, I didn't feel much of an attachment until he started going through some shit. All of a sudden he's hanging on to the bottom rung, and I'm experiencing this uncontrollable urge to be there for him. It's funny because when I think he's just being a prick and ignoring me I'm ready to say screw him. But the second I find out that he's "going through some shit right now," I morph into Captain Save a Scrub. Obviously I'd been listening to way too many rap songs about Shorty standing by her nigga when he ain't have nothing and blah blah blah. Somehow I got hoodwinked by every rapper (and the cluck clucks like Ashanti and Charli Baltimore backing them up) running around extolling the virtues of being a down ass chick. In reality, what exactly is the benefit in being by dude's side when he's going through some shit? You help him get the keys to that V.6 and then what? Oh yeah, that's right. He starts fucking them girls, but don't worry cause he's gonna get right back.
I'm not trying to invalidate the issues people go through. However, going through some shit is not an excuse to effectively check out for an indefinite period of time. Basically saying that you're "going through some shit" is a crock of shit. Unless you're homeless or in jail, going through some shit doesn't prevent someone from living their life. I go through shit all the time. Hell, every month I go through shit for 5 days straight, but you don't see me hiding under a rock until everything is okay. Not communicating for days on end is completely unacceptable. And 5 orgasms in one night is NOT going to make us forget that we ain't seen or heard from you in damn near 10 days. Well at least not entirely.
Some shit comes in all types of different degrees, but the two most common types are Ex-Girlfriend/Baby Mamma Drama and Broke Ass Nigga Issues. It's all about those Broke Ass Niggas for me!! In my own defense, let me just say that I do NOT intentionally date financially challenged men. They don't appear to have money issues in the beginning. This is not to say that they come off as ballers, cause I have never been lucky enough to find me one of those. But they don't fit the typical scrub stereotype either; meaning they have a job, a place to live besides Momma's basement, and a reasonable mode of transportation. Heck, they've even taken me out to eat and let me supersize and everything. Definitely not the actions of a man who's hurting for cash.
My first exposure to Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now came when I was 18 years old and started seeing Sweet but Sporadically Employed Boy. Now when we met he had a promising career as a UPS stockboy, but that gig ended about 2 months into the courtship. From that point on, he never held a steady job. The less he worked, the more I heard, "I'm going through some shit right now." He doesn't call. "I'm going through some shit right now." He doesn't come visit me (he lived 2 hours away). "I'm going through some shit right now." I knew for damn sure he was going through some shit when he asked me to let him hold some money from my hard earned financial aid refund check.
Even though I broke up with Sweet But Sporadically Employed Boy after a few short months, I kept on dating Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now Cause I'm a Broke Ass Nigga. Let's see...there was Broke Ass Auto Mechanic, Broke Ass Student, Broke Ass Property Owner, Broke Ass County Employee. You name it, he was broke. But I was always the last one to figure it out. Looking back, I should've known something was wrong because when we would go out he would pay for everything in cash. He might as well just put it in neon lights. "Broke Ass Nigga who's about to be going through some shit." If a man pays for dinner, a movie, popcorn, soda, and jujubees without once pulling out a credit card, RUN, don't walk, to the nearest exit and never look back. More than likely if he's carrying cash like that, he doesn't even have a bank account. If Visa, Mastercard, American Express, and Discover won't take a chance on his broke ass, why should I.
I have to admit that oftentimes, I wasn't even feeling Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now like that. Actually, I didn't feel much of an attachment until he started going through some shit. All of a sudden he's hanging on to the bottom rung, and I'm experiencing this uncontrollable urge to be there for him. It's funny because when I think he's just being a prick and ignoring me I'm ready to say screw him. But the second I find out that he's "going through some shit right now," I morph into Captain Save a Scrub. Obviously I'd been listening to way too many rap songs about Shorty standing by her nigga when he ain't have nothing and blah blah blah. Somehow I got hoodwinked by every rapper (and the cluck clucks like Ashanti and Charli Baltimore backing them up) running around extolling the virtues of being a down ass chick. In reality, what exactly is the benefit in being by dude's side when he's going through some shit? You help him get the keys to that V.6 and then what? Oh yeah, that's right. He starts fucking them girls, but don't worry cause he's gonna get right back.
I'm not trying to invalidate the issues people go through. However, going through some shit is not an excuse to effectively check out for an indefinite period of time. Basically saying that you're "going through some shit" is a crock of shit. Unless you're homeless or in jail, going through some shit doesn't prevent someone from living their life. I go through shit all the time. Hell, every month I go through shit for 5 days straight, but you don't see me hiding under a rock until everything is okay. Not communicating for days on end is completely unacceptable. And 5 orgasms in one night is NOT going to make us forget that we ain't seen or heard from you in damn near 10 days. Well at least not entirely.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Crack Kills
I think I now know how a crackhead feels. You don't want to get high, but like Pookie said, "That shit just be callin, man." Well my drug of choice called at 12:08 a.m. and I answered. I swear I didn't mean to fall off the wagon so soon. I had just received my 48 hour sobriety pin and I was going for 72. The phone rang while I was laying on my couch dozing in and out of sleep while watching Sideways. Mr. Can't Get Right in Chicago was supposed to be calling, so without even looking at the caller ID I picked up. Wrong move there, Lizzie. "Hey, did you forget about me?" he says. SHIT!! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Wrong Y chromosome. Not him, anyone but him!! Hang up, STAT!! "No, I didn't forget about you." Shouldn't have said that.
You can learn a lot during a 15 minute conversation with The Idiot Who Made You Cry. I learned that he and the perfectly nice woman with the big hips are seeing other people now. I learned that I have a place to stay the next time I come home. I learned that he was worried about me when I didn't call. I learned that he's planning a trip to my neck of the woods later this month. I also learned that I am completely incapable of having a backbone where he is concerned. How difficult is it to just say that I'm sleeping and I can't talk right now. Or even better, say that I don't want to speak at all, period. He could totally sense that something was wrong with me and kept asking what's the problem. I don't quite know how to tell him that HE is the problem. How do you tell someone that? Especially if technically, besides existing, they haven't done anything wrong (at least not lately).
This wasn't intentional. I didn't mean to pick up his call. I didn't even know it was him. He no longer has a distinctive ringtone since I decided that playing "99 problems but a bitch ain't one" whenever he calls was a tad juvenile. Until 12:08 in the morning, I was doing just fine not speaking to him. Withdrawal symptoms were minimal. It only took 15 minutes, but that's all down the drain. I already know where this is going. Damn, I should've looked at that caller ID.
You can learn a lot during a 15 minute conversation with The Idiot Who Made You Cry. I learned that he and the perfectly nice woman with the big hips are seeing other people now. I learned that I have a place to stay the next time I come home. I learned that he was worried about me when I didn't call. I learned that he's planning a trip to my neck of the woods later this month. I also learned that I am completely incapable of having a backbone where he is concerned. How difficult is it to just say that I'm sleeping and I can't talk right now. Or even better, say that I don't want to speak at all, period. He could totally sense that something was wrong with me and kept asking what's the problem. I don't quite know how to tell him that HE is the problem. How do you tell someone that? Especially if technically, besides existing, they haven't done anything wrong (at least not lately).
This wasn't intentional. I didn't mean to pick up his call. I didn't even know it was him. He no longer has a distinctive ringtone since I decided that playing "99 problems but a bitch ain't one" whenever he calls was a tad juvenile. Until 12:08 in the morning, I was doing just fine not speaking to him. Withdrawal symptoms were minimal. It only took 15 minutes, but that's all down the drain. I already know where this is going. Damn, I should've looked at that caller ID.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Delete
Thank God for unlimited text messages. I text messaged damn near everyone in my phone book with the good news. I finally did it!! I was finally able to do what I couldn't do for the past 3 years!!! I deleted him.
I turned my cell off Sunday night because the battery was basically dead. When I woke up Monday morning and turned my phone on it immediately went off with a voicemail notification. So I check my messages as I'm brushing my teeth. The recorded voice lady is saying some crap that I'm not paying attention to, when all of a sudden I hear a voice that I recognize but can't place. Then he says it. "Liz, this is The Idiot Who Made You Cry. Call me back. Lata." WHAT!! I'm so NOT expecting him to call. He hasn't called in a month. I press repeat. "Liz, this is The Idiot Who Made You Cry. Call me back. Lata." Repeat ".....Call me back. Lata." Repeat "...Call me back.." Repeat "...Call me back.." Arrggghhhhh. DELETE! Now what?
I didn’t call back. I have no clue what he wants or if he wants anything at all. I’m past the point of caring really. I won’t pretend that part of me doesn’t want to speak to this man. I will readily admit that a big part of me does. But that is the last thing I need to do right now. Getting sucked back into the abyss that is me and him is pointless. I didn't quite get that when he broke up with me via voicemail and then didn't speak to me for 10 months. I missed the memo again when I wound up in his bed a year and a half later only to not speak to him afterwards. And I wasn't quite grasping the concept when him saying, "I want to see you when you come home," turned into watching the NBA finals with him and his new girlfriend. But I think I've finally got it now. And it only took me three years to figure it out (I wasn't in the gifted classes for nothing ya know). This isn't going to work out. It's the same damn thing over and over again. We start getting remotely close, he disappears. In 3 years the story has never changed and it never will.
For so long I thought that whenever he came back in my life (sometimes with a little help from me...okay damn near all the time) after being absent for weeks or months that I had won some sort of victory. I mean, he contacted ME first, not the other way around. So of course if he initiated contact, he must want something, right! Ummm, how about WRONG! He never wants anything. The second I make myself available again, he's suddenly unavailable. I'm home for weeks and barely see him. The second I leave he's calling me to ask when I'm coming back. He never wants me around unless I'm not around. It drives me crazy.
The worst part about it all is that I blame myself. I let him do this to me. I may be really good at not calling him, but I'm really bad at not picking up the phone when he calls me. I answer the IMs, I return the phone calls, I go to his place to kick it whenever he invites me. I just keep it going. The strange thing is that if I'm honest with myself I don't want to be with him. Seriously! I don't! I talk to him and hang out with him because I genuinely do like him as a person. I want to be friends with him. He's a great guy and we get along splendidly. There's just this thing between us that gets in the way. It's always been there and it doesn't go away. The more we hang out the more obvious that thing becomes. But all that chemistry is just a bridge going nowhere. I don't know why I even get my hopes up and start thinking that maybe for once in his life he'll drink his ackrite and stop acting like an overgrown toddler. But I do, and he always disappoints me. Why stay on this ride when it keeps making me ill? So this is where I get off. I'm done. He's sending me instant messages now, "Hello....Hello....Hello....You there?...." Oh well. DELETE.
I turned my cell off Sunday night because the battery was basically dead. When I woke up Monday morning and turned my phone on it immediately went off with a voicemail notification. So I check my messages as I'm brushing my teeth. The recorded voice lady is saying some crap that I'm not paying attention to, when all of a sudden I hear a voice that I recognize but can't place. Then he says it. "Liz, this is The Idiot Who Made You Cry. Call me back. Lata." WHAT!! I'm so NOT expecting him to call. He hasn't called in a month. I press repeat. "Liz, this is The Idiot Who Made You Cry. Call me back. Lata." Repeat ".....Call me back. Lata." Repeat "...Call me back.." Repeat "...Call me back.." Arrggghhhhh. DELETE! Now what?
I didn’t call back. I have no clue what he wants or if he wants anything at all. I’m past the point of caring really. I won’t pretend that part of me doesn’t want to speak to this man. I will readily admit that a big part of me does. But that is the last thing I need to do right now. Getting sucked back into the abyss that is me and him is pointless. I didn't quite get that when he broke up with me via voicemail and then didn't speak to me for 10 months. I missed the memo again when I wound up in his bed a year and a half later only to not speak to him afterwards. And I wasn't quite grasping the concept when him saying, "I want to see you when you come home," turned into watching the NBA finals with him and his new girlfriend. But I think I've finally got it now. And it only took me three years to figure it out (I wasn't in the gifted classes for nothing ya know). This isn't going to work out. It's the same damn thing over and over again. We start getting remotely close, he disappears. In 3 years the story has never changed and it never will.
For so long I thought that whenever he came back in my life (sometimes with a little help from me...okay damn near all the time) after being absent for weeks or months that I had won some sort of victory. I mean, he contacted ME first, not the other way around. So of course if he initiated contact, he must want something, right! Ummm, how about WRONG! He never wants anything. The second I make myself available again, he's suddenly unavailable. I'm home for weeks and barely see him. The second I leave he's calling me to ask when I'm coming back. He never wants me around unless I'm not around. It drives me crazy.
The worst part about it all is that I blame myself. I let him do this to me. I may be really good at not calling him, but I'm really bad at not picking up the phone when he calls me. I answer the IMs, I return the phone calls, I go to his place to kick it whenever he invites me. I just keep it going. The strange thing is that if I'm honest with myself I don't want to be with him. Seriously! I don't! I talk to him and hang out with him because I genuinely do like him as a person. I want to be friends with him. He's a great guy and we get along splendidly. There's just this thing between us that gets in the way. It's always been there and it doesn't go away. The more we hang out the more obvious that thing becomes. But all that chemistry is just a bridge going nowhere. I don't know why I even get my hopes up and start thinking that maybe for once in his life he'll drink his ackrite and stop acting like an overgrown toddler. But I do, and he always disappoints me. Why stay on this ride when it keeps making me ill? So this is where I get off. I'm done. He's sending me instant messages now, "Hello....Hello....Hello....You there?...." Oh well. DELETE.
Monday, August 08, 2005
WMDs
The U.S. has been fighting this war in Iraq for about 2 years now give or take a year or 2. Our ever effective leader, G-dub, was on the hunt for WMDs, Weapons of Mass Destruction. But little did he know that the WMDs aren't in Iraq at all. Oh no, the weapon of mass destruction that can do the most damage has been sitting right under Bush's nose right here in the USA. And what pretell would this WMD be? None other than AOL Instant Messenger. And the worst part of this whole sordid ordeal is that AIM has been doing unspeakable damage for years and no one has tried to stop it.
AIM's treachery first became apparent to me my sophomore year of college. I was away from campus my 2nd semester doing an internship at the state capitol. Since free nationwide long distance didn't exist in those days, I had to use Instant Messenger to keep in touch with my friends at school. One night I was chatting with my friend, let's call him Jock Boy. So we're chatting up a storm when out of nowhere he takes offense to something I've said (I can't remember what it was...that was 5 years ago). Now I'm sitting there thinking relax it's a freakin joke, obviously. Little did I know that sarcasm doesn't translate well via instant messenger. Next thing I know he's bringing up OLD shit from 10 months ago and we're having the worst instant message fight in the history of AIM. I'm talking CAPS lock and everything!!! Needless to say we didn't speak for weeks and it took us months to get back to how we used to be. Now that I think about it, I don't think we've ever truly gotten back to the way we were before that night. AOL Instant Messenger destroyed us.
I see AIM ruining lives everyday. Normal, well adjusted women are becoming crazed baboons all because of AOL Instant Messenger. Anyone who has ever dated has played the "I'm not speaking to him until he speaks to me first" game. The rules are simple under absolutely no circumstance are you to call, email, instant message, or contact him in any way shape or form until he does so first. This game is usually played once at least 3 conversations have been initiated by you without one from him. Before the advent of AIM, the telephone was the only tool of emotional torture used. But AOL decided that 1 wasn't enough. Oh no, women needed more ways to feel the neglect. Enter the Buddy List. No weapon in the history of dating warfare has been more lethal. You can see him there. You know he's at home. There's no away message, the screen name isn't dim. He's there, happily chatting the hours away with EVERYONE else but YOU!! And the worst part is, you know he sees your screen name too, he's just choosing not to run his mouse over your name and double click. It's as if he wants you to know that he's purposely ignoring you. If that wasn't enough AOL likes to twist the knife even more with those damn IM sounds. Everytime that door slams shut you gotta check the Buddy List to make sure that man did not just log off without saying nathan for the past 2 hours. Now you could end your torture by logging off, but that's not gonna happen. Cause what if he all of sudden wanted to send you an IM but you weren't logged on. We can't have that now, can we. Another option is to just block him so you don't see him online, but the problem with that is he can't see you online either, and he must be able to see you are online and available just in case. So you decide the best way to end the torture is to just take him off your buddy list so you don't have to see him there. However, without fail, within 72 hours of you removing his name from your list you get the notification from AOL that sHiTHead2005 is sending you an Instant Message. And without fail we accept. AIM is a crafty son-of-a-bitch, because the second you click Accept, sHiTHead2005 goes right back on your buddy list and the cycle begins all over again.
It's sad that our government is much more concerned about terrorists and nuclear and biological weapons. The real terrorists are right here at home and they use their WMD at leisure. They fire away from college computer labs, public libraries, home offices, EVERYWHERE. But have Bush, the Cabinet, or Congress called for any widespread campaign to snuff them out? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Probably cause they're using AIM themselves. Freakin terrorist bastards.
AIM's treachery first became apparent to me my sophomore year of college. I was away from campus my 2nd semester doing an internship at the state capitol. Since free nationwide long distance didn't exist in those days, I had to use Instant Messenger to keep in touch with my friends at school. One night I was chatting with my friend, let's call him Jock Boy. So we're chatting up a storm when out of nowhere he takes offense to something I've said (I can't remember what it was...that was 5 years ago). Now I'm sitting there thinking relax it's a freakin joke, obviously. Little did I know that sarcasm doesn't translate well via instant messenger. Next thing I know he's bringing up OLD shit from 10 months ago and we're having the worst instant message fight in the history of AIM. I'm talking CAPS lock and everything!!! Needless to say we didn't speak for weeks and it took us months to get back to how we used to be. Now that I think about it, I don't think we've ever truly gotten back to the way we were before that night. AOL Instant Messenger destroyed us.
I see AIM ruining lives everyday. Normal, well adjusted women are becoming crazed baboons all because of AOL Instant Messenger. Anyone who has ever dated has played the "I'm not speaking to him until he speaks to me first" game. The rules are simple under absolutely no circumstance are you to call, email, instant message, or contact him in any way shape or form until he does so first. This game is usually played once at least 3 conversations have been initiated by you without one from him. Before the advent of AIM, the telephone was the only tool of emotional torture used. But AOL decided that 1 wasn't enough. Oh no, women needed more ways to feel the neglect. Enter the Buddy List. No weapon in the history of dating warfare has been more lethal. You can see him there. You know he's at home. There's no away message, the screen name isn't dim. He's there, happily chatting the hours away with EVERYONE else but YOU!! And the worst part is, you know he sees your screen name too, he's just choosing not to run his mouse over your name and double click. It's as if he wants you to know that he's purposely ignoring you. If that wasn't enough AOL likes to twist the knife even more with those damn IM sounds. Everytime that door slams shut you gotta check the Buddy List to make sure that man did not just log off without saying nathan for the past 2 hours. Now you could end your torture by logging off, but that's not gonna happen. Cause what if he all of sudden wanted to send you an IM but you weren't logged on. We can't have that now, can we. Another option is to just block him so you don't see him online, but the problem with that is he can't see you online either, and he must be able to see you are online and available just in case. So you decide the best way to end the torture is to just take him off your buddy list so you don't have to see him there. However, without fail, within 72 hours of you removing his name from your list you get the notification from AOL that sHiTHead2005 is sending you an Instant Message. And without fail we accept. AIM is a crafty son-of-a-bitch, because the second you click Accept, sHiTHead2005 goes right back on your buddy list and the cycle begins all over again.
It's sad that our government is much more concerned about terrorists and nuclear and biological weapons. The real terrorists are right here at home and they use their WMD at leisure. They fire away from college computer labs, public libraries, home offices, EVERYWHERE. But have Bush, the Cabinet, or Congress called for any widespread campaign to snuff them out? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Probably cause they're using AIM themselves. Freakin terrorist bastards.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Obsession
Spoiled, rich bottle blondes who all look alike, with a combined IQ of about 12, saying like at least eleventy times in the same sentence, flipping their hair, and traipsing around Daddy's house for approximately 30 minutes every Tuesday night at 10. I'm so hooked. La la la Laguna!!! I LOVE Laguna Beach. I love watching a bunch of rich white high school kids that live on the other side of the country. These teens are so vapid they make Paris Hilton look like Socrates. I can't get enough of the drama that is Laguna Beach. Because I have no life out here in Grand Rapids, MI, I just live vicariously through my Laguna friends. I think I've broken half the Commandents watching this show. Thou shalt not covet (or something like that). Well let me tell you, I'm coveting LC's house like a mugghhh!! I'm coveting her wardrobe and her car too. It's not right that someone who can't even vote gets to wear clothes I can't even afford. Thou shalt not lust (is that one of them?). Well I'm lusting after that fine piece of white meat Stephen. Don't tell anyone I said this, but those pouty lips and that bird chest make me just a wee bit moist. Kristin and LC aren't the only ones that wanna tap that. Oh and before you say anything, that boy is 18 so that makes molesting him perfectly legal. Speaking of Kristin and LC, I just don't get why Stephen waffles between the two of them. Sure, Kristin is a "hot" party girl with big boobs and skirts shorter than the time it takes J Lo to get married and divorced, but LC would drink Stephen's bathwater. That's gotta count for something, right? LC has made staring longinly at a boy who doesn't want her into an artform. Let's applaud that woman! And Kristin...as much as I want to hate on her, I can't. Hell, I want to be her. That bitch has her own theme song ("we've got more bounce in California than all of ya'll combined...). How tight is that? I want my own theme song that'll play everywhere I go! She dumped Stephen cause she started dating someone else while they were still together, and dude still wants her. That chick must got gold b/w her legs cause that dude's whipped. Not to mention that this girl is dumber than rocks and still managed to make it to her senior year of high school. I'm in awe of her really.
Season 2 just started and I'm still getting used to the new cast members. Here's what I know so far. Casey's got more extensions than AT&T, but she lives in a phat ass crib. Jessica's nose is wide open over her boyfriend Jason who's trying to bang Alex M.'s back out. There are other folks who I can't remember right now, but I'll be sure to get to know them too. Stay tuned...
Sunday, July 31, 2005
What a Waste
I'm a waste. A complete and total useless waste and there's really nothing I can do about it. You see, I'm 5'11". That's it, there's nothing more to me. I'm just 5'11" of wasted space. I've lost count of the number of times this conversation occurs. I meet a new person and they say, "Wow, you're so tall." Then I smile and nod cause I really can't say thank you. It's a statement of fact, not a compliment. Then New Person says, "So do you play basketball?" I say, "Nope." New Person says, "Do you play volleyball?" I say, "Nope." New Person says, "Do you run track?" I say, "Nope." With each negative response I can see the chances of any decent conversation slipping away. Still grasping for any hope to converse, New Person looks at me with expectant eyes and says, "Well have you ever modeled?" I just shake my head and once again say, "Nope. I'm just tall." And with that bubble bursting "nope," I've dashed any chances of holding a meaningful conversation. Disappointment washes over their face, followed by a fleeting then-what-the-hell-are-you-good-for look. Then New Person finally gives me a nervous, but polite smile and says, "Well it was really nice meeting you." Another one bites the dust.
It's not as though I meant to waste my height. I tried playing basketball in high school, but the only position I ever got to play was right or left bench (if I was really lucky the coach might move me to the middle of the bench.) Volleyball never agreed with me. I kept running into that damn net every time we played in gym class. The highlight of my track and field career was trying to keep my spankies up while running the 200 yard dash. As for modeling, I have yet to be discovered by a famous photographer while walking the streets of New York City. I fear at the age of 25 that window of opportunity is closing rather quickly. So what's left? It seems the only thing my height has been good for is giving short men a chest to lay their heads on while slow dancing. It pains me to know that somewhere out there is some beautiful girl who at 5'6" and 98 lbs dreams of being the world's next supermodel. Alas, she is about 4 inches too short to make that dream a reality. Oh, how I wish I could give her 4 of mine, because obviously I'm not using them for anything important. What a waste.
It's not as though I meant to waste my height. I tried playing basketball in high school, but the only position I ever got to play was right or left bench (if I was really lucky the coach might move me to the middle of the bench.) Volleyball never agreed with me. I kept running into that damn net every time we played in gym class. The highlight of my track and field career was trying to keep my spankies up while running the 200 yard dash. As for modeling, I have yet to be discovered by a famous photographer while walking the streets of New York City. I fear at the age of 25 that window of opportunity is closing rather quickly. So what's left? It seems the only thing my height has been good for is giving short men a chest to lay their heads on while slow dancing. It pains me to know that somewhere out there is some beautiful girl who at 5'6" and 98 lbs dreams of being the world's next supermodel. Alas, she is about 4 inches too short to make that dream a reality. Oh, how I wish I could give her 4 of mine, because obviously I'm not using them for anything important. What a waste.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Yep, You Really Are That Stupid
About a year ago I decided that I was no longer going to chemically relax my hair. I missed my fro and wanted it back. So I grew my hair out, cut off the relaxed ends and "went natural." In the 7 months that I've been completely perm free I've learned a lot. I've figured out how to flat twist, braid, style, and moisturize my hair. But I think the biggest eye opener in all this time as been that Black people say the dumbest shit!!
Scenario #1
I was at a barbeque kicking it with friends. We were all chatting it up and laughing when one girl looks at me and says, "I really like your hair. How'd you get it like that?" Now, I expect white folks to ask me stupid questions about my hair (Note to Suzie: If my hair is 12 inches longer today than it was yesterday I didn't put miracle grow on my head; they're called extensions!!). However my mind absolutely wobbles when a black person looks at my fro and has the audacity to say this dumb ass shit. Excuse me, but WTF!!! Bonkweetah, I sincerely hope that you are not so delusional that you believe that blonde silky straight Yaki #5 that you're sporting actually grew from your scalp. Dumb ass. Seriously people, has it been that long since you've seen your natural hair texture that you forgot that you too are Negro and you too grow napps.* FYI: I sat on my black ass and breathed and that's how I got my hair like this.
Scenario #2:
So I'm on a date with a guy I met in a Walgreens parking lot (look, times are hard). As we're driving to the movies, he looks over at me and out pours this nonsense, "You're really afrocentric aren't you?" Okay so where the hell did that come from? Ahh yes, that's it: my freakin hair. Note to Stupid: It's a hairstyle! That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. It's not that I have a problem identifying as afrocentric, because if I think about it, I am. However, it has absolutely NOTHING to do with my hair. I was just as afrocentric when I was sitting in my stylist's chair with my scalp on fire making sure every last kink got straight. Why does my afro have to automatically mean that I rock a koofi and sport the red, black and green Africa medallion? I bet he doesn't walk up to Becky wearing her natural straight blonde hair and ask her if she's down with the White Power movement. So for the record before I get asked another idiotic question I'm just gonna let ya know. No, I am not a vegan. No, I'm not "natural everywhere" (that's nasty). No, I do NOT burn incense. No, I do not listen to Jill Scott, Floetry, or any other neo soul artist. No, I do not meditate. No, I am not a Planeteer. No, I am not bohemian. No, I do not feel at one with the universe. Any other stupid questions?
Scenario #3
If you're going to insult me, please say something about me that I would actually be embarassed or offended by, otherwise you just look like an idiot. I'm chillin with a group of my sorors and some bruhs after my chapter's ball. One of the bruhs digs his hands in my fro and says, "Dag girl, you need a perm, yo hair is NAPPY." Oh really?!! No shit, Sherlock. But thanks for letting me know cause obviously I wasn't aware. Do you seriously think you're gonna play me by telling me my hair is nappy? Am I supposed to be insulted by that? Newsflash: I want it this way. Calling someone nappy headed like it's a bad thing only says one thing about you: Your shackles are showing. And oh yeah Shit For Brains, you ain't fooling nobody with that Scurl you got dripping all over your forehead.
Can someone please tell me what the hell is the big deal about a black woman wearing her hair the way it naturally grows out her head? Why must anything about my lifestyle, interests, spirituality, or anything be inferred just because of a fro? You don't see me walking up to chicks with perms or weaves saying, "You must have a lot of self-hate going on." Why? Cause I don't make those assumptions just cause of a freakin hairstyle. Really people, it's just NOT THAT DEEP!
*Unless of course you've got some White, Injun, or Meskin in your blood and got that "good hurr"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)