The change was subtle, but unmistakeable. She folded her arms across her chest, shielding herself from me. The gregarious energy that had drawn us together a few hours ago was replaced with a weary countenance. She was still friendly and engaging but she was no longer open. I had trespassed and was no longer wanted.
When he grabbed my waist and pulled me close I saw her staring at us.
"You see that guy right there," she had said a half hour after our initial introduction. "He's so cute. I want him tonight."
We had both arrived alone, but she didn't plan to leave that way. Dancing was her angle. She sashayed toward him and swung her hips to get his attention. Much to her dismay it wasn't enough to keep him entertained. He found his way to me and kept finding me the entire night. I didn't beckon, but I didn't turn him away either. She was the one who wanted him, but I knew I was the one who would get him.
As I watched her over his shoulder, I recognized the look in her eyes. I had been her on so many other nights. I had stared, danced, and flirted to the best of my ability only to watch my target use the same moves on another woman. I had gone home empty handed on more than one occassion, wondering what the other girl had that I didn't. And I had felt the irrational feeling of loss over something that was never mine.
I felt bad being the cause of her disappointment. And I felt worse because I had participated knowingly. But feeling bad didn't stop me from walking over to him at the end of the night and getting his phone number as she looked on.
Subscribe To
Posts
All Comments
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Pits
She emerged from the murky lake water, dark hair dripping and water glistening on her olive skin. Her smile was triumphant and proud. She had not backed down, refused to hesitate, and met the challenge.
"Umm, that's not Lake Minnetonka," The Kid informed her.
Triumph dissolved into mortification as she realized her mistake. She had been duped into disrobing in front of a man she had known mere hours.
"You! I'll kill you!" she screamed, trying to wrest leather pants over her wet thighs.
At five years old I couldn't quite grasp the subtleties of what had transpired between Prince and Appolonia as the VHS tape played. What I did know was that I wanted boobs just like hers. Round, ample, perky boobs that bounced when I ran. Even without a lesson on puberty I knew that although my chest looked no different from my older brother's, one day fleshy orbs would grow where none existed.
Then it happened. My best friend KP got her first training bra. She was eleven, I was nine and completely jealous. Although it made sense for her to develop first, I was desperate to play catch up. I spent the entire summer staring at the buds that pressed against her bathing suit's nylon fabric while lamenting the way my pink polka dot bikini top sagged against my body.
The next summer was the same. She kept blooming and I remained dormant. By the time I turned evelen a year later my patience was wearing thin. Fifth grade sex education had taught me about more than just the boobs I desired. I learned that a monthly period, body odor, and pubic hair were going to accompany them. So when I noticed a faint dusting of curly ques sprinkled underneath my arms, I was pretty excited. I was positive that my long coveted breasts were sure to follow. And sure enough they did. That summer two definitive bumps materalized on my chest.
"Do you want to come over and go swimming?" KP stood on my front porch with a beach towel in her hand.
"Yeah, let me go ask my mom."
Within seconds I had permission to play in the new underground, heated pool her grandparents had put in at their home across the street. Immediately I changed into my new black and green two piece. Eager to show off my new figure to the neighborhood kids, I left the T-shirt I normally wore over my bathing suit inside before I sprinted out the door to join the fun.
"Hey! Watch this," I screamed.
I took a running start and jumped off the diving board, tucking my knees to my chest to form the perfect cannon ball. Water flew in all directions. I surfaced and swam toward the shallow end. My next door neighbor, Puny Gonzalez, created a similar splash seconds later, followed by KP's younger brother BP. We dunked each other under the water and sent gallons of water flying onto the surrounding patio. It was sunset when we finally tired of the swimming pool.
I grabbed my towel off a lounge chair and stetched it behind me like a cape.
"Eww, what's that?" KP asked, pointing towards my raised arms.
"What?" I looked around me for a slimy creature of sorts.
"No! Under your arms."
I looked at my armpits to see the the straggly hairs that had been there for the last several weeks. I had no clue what was grossing her out.
"You have hairy pits!" she shouted. "Hey everyone, look at Liz's pits."
Immediately, I clamped my arms to my sides. Puny and BP rushed to where we stood, curious to see the cause of the commotion. KP grabbed my right hand and thrust it into the air.
"Pits!" she yelled. Puny and BP stared at my underarms as she doubled over in laughter.
"Ah, gross. You got bith under your arms," BP said.
I struggled to wrest my hand from her grasp. They were laughing, but I found none of it funny.
"Stop!" I commanded. I jerked away from her and wrapped my towel around my body, wishing I hadn't left my trusty T-shirt at home.
Children have short attention spans, so they left me alone to focus on other endeavors.
"Who wants to play Bloody Murder?" BP asked. The last strains of daylight were fading and the time had come to play our favorite game.
"Yeah, I'll get the other kids," Puny offered. Without waiting for a response he ran off to find The 6 Grade Heartthrob and his younger brother The Verbally Challenged Youth. I ran home to lure my older brother out of his bedroom.
Minutes later we reconvened on my front lawn, KP, BP, Puny, The Heartthrob, TVCY, my brother, and me.
"Who's gonna hide first?" The Heartthrob asked.
Wanting to be the first one to scare the pants off everyone else, I shot my hand into the air.
"Me! I'll hide first."
"Pits!" KP screamed, once again pointing and laughing.
My body tensed and I quickly lowered my hand. I had forgotten to put on a T-shirt while I was in the house. Everyone seized upon me at the same time. For the second time that day, KP lifted my arm in the air to expose my burgeoning pubes.
"Pits!" BP and Puny joined the chorus.
"That's gross," The Heartthrob said.
I tried to wriggle away from KP, but this time she was too strong. She waved my arm in the air and giggled. Under the glare of their ridicule, the hair that I had once been so proud of became toxic.
"Why do you let it grow like that?" BP asked.
I didn't know that I wasn't supposed to "let it grow like that." When the teacher taught us about body hair, she neglected to mention anything about hair removal. Desperate to stop their teasing I rushed inside my house. I ran up the front stairs two by two and headed straight to my parents bathroom. Opening the drawers on my mother's side of the vanity, I searched for the tool to end my problems. I found it in the bottom drawer.
Within seconds, the electric razor was against my armpit removing all evidence that I was in the throes of puberty. There wasn't much hair so the mission was completed within minutes. I cleaned up the hairs that had fallen in the sink and placed the razor back where I found it. I examined my armpits once more to make sure every last hair was gone. Satisfied, I returned to the front yard where everyone was waiting for me.
"What did you go inside for?" KP asked.
I said nothing. The few minutes I spent inside did nothing to curb her desire to tease me. This time when she reached for my arm, I didn't fight her.
"Pits!" she yelled as she hoisted my arm over my head.
A smirk tugged at the corners of my mouth. There was no way they could make fun of me if there was no hair to poke fun at. Their laughs turned to whimpers soon enough.
"Oh, she shaved," BP said. Disappointment tinged his voice.
"It doesn't matter," KP declared. "You're still Pits."
Everyone laughed at her assertion. Although I had rid myself of all evidence, there had been witnesses. It wouldn't matter if I shaved my underarms everyday for the rest of my life because to them, I would always be the girl with the hairy armpits. The humiliation followed me through junior high and most of high school. And to my ultimate dismay, while the armpit hairs grew steadily, my boobs did not.
"Umm, that's not Lake Minnetonka," The Kid informed her.
Triumph dissolved into mortification as she realized her mistake. She had been duped into disrobing in front of a man she had known mere hours.
"You! I'll kill you!" she screamed, trying to wrest leather pants over her wet thighs.
At five years old I couldn't quite grasp the subtleties of what had transpired between Prince and Appolonia as the VHS tape played. What I did know was that I wanted boobs just like hers. Round, ample, perky boobs that bounced when I ran. Even without a lesson on puberty I knew that although my chest looked no different from my older brother's, one day fleshy orbs would grow where none existed.
Then it happened. My best friend KP got her first training bra. She was eleven, I was nine and completely jealous. Although it made sense for her to develop first, I was desperate to play catch up. I spent the entire summer staring at the buds that pressed against her bathing suit's nylon fabric while lamenting the way my pink polka dot bikini top sagged against my body.
The next summer was the same. She kept blooming and I remained dormant. By the time I turned evelen a year later my patience was wearing thin. Fifth grade sex education had taught me about more than just the boobs I desired. I learned that a monthly period, body odor, and pubic hair were going to accompany them. So when I noticed a faint dusting of curly ques sprinkled underneath my arms, I was pretty excited. I was positive that my long coveted breasts were sure to follow. And sure enough they did. That summer two definitive bumps materalized on my chest.
"Do you want to come over and go swimming?" KP stood on my front porch with a beach towel in her hand.
"Yeah, let me go ask my mom."
Within seconds I had permission to play in the new underground, heated pool her grandparents had put in at their home across the street. Immediately I changed into my new black and green two piece. Eager to show off my new figure to the neighborhood kids, I left the T-shirt I normally wore over my bathing suit inside before I sprinted out the door to join the fun.
"Hey! Watch this," I screamed.
I took a running start and jumped off the diving board, tucking my knees to my chest to form the perfect cannon ball. Water flew in all directions. I surfaced and swam toward the shallow end. My next door neighbor, Puny Gonzalez, created a similar splash seconds later, followed by KP's younger brother BP. We dunked each other under the water and sent gallons of water flying onto the surrounding patio. It was sunset when we finally tired of the swimming pool.
I grabbed my towel off a lounge chair and stetched it behind me like a cape.
"Eww, what's that?" KP asked, pointing towards my raised arms.
"What?" I looked around me for a slimy creature of sorts.
"No! Under your arms."
I looked at my armpits to see the the straggly hairs that had been there for the last several weeks. I had no clue what was grossing her out.
"You have hairy pits!" she shouted. "Hey everyone, look at Liz's pits."
Immediately, I clamped my arms to my sides. Puny and BP rushed to where we stood, curious to see the cause of the commotion. KP grabbed my right hand and thrust it into the air.
"Pits!" she yelled. Puny and BP stared at my underarms as she doubled over in laughter.
"Ah, gross. You got bith under your arms," BP said.
I struggled to wrest my hand from her grasp. They were laughing, but I found none of it funny.
"Stop!" I commanded. I jerked away from her and wrapped my towel around my body, wishing I hadn't left my trusty T-shirt at home.
Children have short attention spans, so they left me alone to focus on other endeavors.
"Who wants to play Bloody Murder?" BP asked. The last strains of daylight were fading and the time had come to play our favorite game.
"Yeah, I'll get the other kids," Puny offered. Without waiting for a response he ran off to find The 6 Grade Heartthrob and his younger brother The Verbally Challenged Youth. I ran home to lure my older brother out of his bedroom.
Minutes later we reconvened on my front lawn, KP, BP, Puny, The Heartthrob, TVCY, my brother, and me.
"Who's gonna hide first?" The Heartthrob asked.
Wanting to be the first one to scare the pants off everyone else, I shot my hand into the air.
"Me! I'll hide first."
"Pits!" KP screamed, once again pointing and laughing.
My body tensed and I quickly lowered my hand. I had forgotten to put on a T-shirt while I was in the house. Everyone seized upon me at the same time. For the second time that day, KP lifted my arm in the air to expose my burgeoning pubes.
"Pits!" BP and Puny joined the chorus.
"That's gross," The Heartthrob said.
I tried to wriggle away from KP, but this time she was too strong. She waved my arm in the air and giggled. Under the glare of their ridicule, the hair that I had once been so proud of became toxic.
"Why do you let it grow like that?" BP asked.
I didn't know that I wasn't supposed to "let it grow like that." When the teacher taught us about body hair, she neglected to mention anything about hair removal. Desperate to stop their teasing I rushed inside my house. I ran up the front stairs two by two and headed straight to my parents bathroom. Opening the drawers on my mother's side of the vanity, I searched for the tool to end my problems. I found it in the bottom drawer.
Within seconds, the electric razor was against my armpit removing all evidence that I was in the throes of puberty. There wasn't much hair so the mission was completed within minutes. I cleaned up the hairs that had fallen in the sink and placed the razor back where I found it. I examined my armpits once more to make sure every last hair was gone. Satisfied, I returned to the front yard where everyone was waiting for me.
"What did you go inside for?" KP asked.
I said nothing. The few minutes I spent inside did nothing to curb her desire to tease me. This time when she reached for my arm, I didn't fight her.
"Pits!" she yelled as she hoisted my arm over my head.
A smirk tugged at the corners of my mouth. There was no way they could make fun of me if there was no hair to poke fun at. Their laughs turned to whimpers soon enough.
"Oh, she shaved," BP said. Disappointment tinged his voice.
"It doesn't matter," KP declared. "You're still Pits."
Everyone laughed at her assertion. Although I had rid myself of all evidence, there had been witnesses. It wouldn't matter if I shaved my underarms everyday for the rest of my life because to them, I would always be the girl with the hairy armpits. The humiliation followed me through junior high and most of high school. And to my ultimate dismay, while the armpit hairs grew steadily, my boobs did not.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Drowning
Everything was beautiful. Incandescent lights reflected off the freshly polished hard wood floors. Unknown flowers with long tubular stems that explode into white canopy petals sat in tall vases at the center of all twenty three tables. Fine china, wine glasses, champagne flutes, and flatware were perfectly arranged on the unadorned linen table cloths. The moon, the Hudson, and the Jersey City lights created a surreal backdrop in the ceiling high picture windows. The scene was exquisite, elegant.
They stood in the middle of the floor wrapped in each other's arms. Him in a black tuxedo. Her in a shimmering white gown. Music filled the air, slow and melodic with words no one understood. It didn't matter. The meaning was clear. They were in love and now it was official. They were enchanted by one another and everyone was enchanted by them. I couldn't watch. I didn't want their joy to taint my sadness.
It was too perfect and even though I felt beautiful in my new dress that wrapped around my body, traced my curves and revealed my bust, I knew that I didn't belong. The night was about love, and all I knew was loss. I escaped to the patio. The open bar called.
"I want a screwdriver."
The bartender poured a steady stream of Kettle One into a glass, followed by a splash of orange juice.
"Thank you," I said, taking the glass into my hand. I took a deep breath. It was my fourth visit to the bar that night, but the first to yield more than a chaser. I prepared my throat for the cool burn it hadn't felt in over six years, and took a gulp. The vodka met my lips like a kiss from an old friend. I shuddered at the aftertaste and walked back to my table. I wondered how fast the drink could make me forget.
Being there reminded me that I was alone. I was surrounded by familiar faces that I had known for years, but never really knew. There was nothing to say in college, and even less to say that evening. The seating arrangement was strategic. All of the people who couldn't quite figure out how to find and keep someone were seated together at a table in the back corner, lest we curse the happy couples around us. Or maybe it was a set up so we could find each other. The only person I wanted to find wasn't present.
Two more sips and I was still empty. Red wine, then white wine, a swig of champagne. Nothing worked. I took my phone outside to try and fill the void.
"I'm drinking."
"You're not!" Chesty LaRue was incredulous.
"I want to call him so badly. He would so understand what this is like for me right now. I mean c'mon. A singles table? Please shoot me."
"I know. Just give it some time," she soothed.
Too much time had already passed. He needed space and I needed him. I broke down and sent him a text.
"I'm drinking vodka and it's all your fault," I wrote.
He should've been there with me. It was difficult to remember that even if we were speaking he wouldn't have been by my side. My invitation was for one. I missed him anyways.
My unfinished drinks beckoned. Before I could touch them I was led to the dancefloor. I allowed the man to twirl me around and move in a figure eight. Then I moved to his friend.
"What you want, baby I got it!" I pointed at my partner as I sang along with Aretha. Faking it wasn't a problem. And when the song changed, I nursed more alcohol and hoped an empty stomach and a low tolerance would push me past drunk before I finished the glass. It didn't work.
So I flirted with the guy next to me over baked cod bathed in peanut sauce, with aspargus and potatoes. Then I danced with the best man's father, shaking my hips as fast as I could. I shared a dance with the groom, and moved on to a groomsman. I laughed with a bridesmaid and drank some more with a new "friend." And for a moment the fun was real and I enjoyed myself. When the groomsman took my hand and asked me for another dance, I obliged over and over again until the strains of the last song faded in the air.
I would've gone home happy if my text was returned. But it wasn't. Nothing could feel right because we were all wrong. I was hollow. And leaving with the groomsman's phone number safely stored in my Treo 650 didn't make me feel any better.
They stood in the middle of the floor wrapped in each other's arms. Him in a black tuxedo. Her in a shimmering white gown. Music filled the air, slow and melodic with words no one understood. It didn't matter. The meaning was clear. They were in love and now it was official. They were enchanted by one another and everyone was enchanted by them. I couldn't watch. I didn't want their joy to taint my sadness.
It was too perfect and even though I felt beautiful in my new dress that wrapped around my body, traced my curves and revealed my bust, I knew that I didn't belong. The night was about love, and all I knew was loss. I escaped to the patio. The open bar called.
"I want a screwdriver."
The bartender poured a steady stream of Kettle One into a glass, followed by a splash of orange juice.
"Thank you," I said, taking the glass into my hand. I took a deep breath. It was my fourth visit to the bar that night, but the first to yield more than a chaser. I prepared my throat for the cool burn it hadn't felt in over six years, and took a gulp. The vodka met my lips like a kiss from an old friend. I shuddered at the aftertaste and walked back to my table. I wondered how fast the drink could make me forget.
Being there reminded me that I was alone. I was surrounded by familiar faces that I had known for years, but never really knew. There was nothing to say in college, and even less to say that evening. The seating arrangement was strategic. All of the people who couldn't quite figure out how to find and keep someone were seated together at a table in the back corner, lest we curse the happy couples around us. Or maybe it was a set up so we could find each other. The only person I wanted to find wasn't present.
Two more sips and I was still empty. Red wine, then white wine, a swig of champagne. Nothing worked. I took my phone outside to try and fill the void.
"I'm drinking."
"You're not!" Chesty LaRue was incredulous.
"I want to call him so badly. He would so understand what this is like for me right now. I mean c'mon. A singles table? Please shoot me."
"I know. Just give it some time," she soothed.
Too much time had already passed. He needed space and I needed him. I broke down and sent him a text.
"I'm drinking vodka and it's all your fault," I wrote.
He should've been there with me. It was difficult to remember that even if we were speaking he wouldn't have been by my side. My invitation was for one. I missed him anyways.
My unfinished drinks beckoned. Before I could touch them I was led to the dancefloor. I allowed the man to twirl me around and move in a figure eight. Then I moved to his friend.
"What you want, baby I got it!" I pointed at my partner as I sang along with Aretha. Faking it wasn't a problem. And when the song changed, I nursed more alcohol and hoped an empty stomach and a low tolerance would push me past drunk before I finished the glass. It didn't work.
So I flirted with the guy next to me over baked cod bathed in peanut sauce, with aspargus and potatoes. Then I danced with the best man's father, shaking my hips as fast as I could. I shared a dance with the groom, and moved on to a groomsman. I laughed with a bridesmaid and drank some more with a new "friend." And for a moment the fun was real and I enjoyed myself. When the groomsman took my hand and asked me for another dance, I obliged over and over again until the strains of the last song faded in the air.
I would've gone home happy if my text was returned. But it wasn't. Nothing could feel right because we were all wrong. I was hollow. And leaving with the groomsman's phone number safely stored in my Treo 650 didn't make me feel any better.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
In The Morning
The air is tense, thick with anger, hurt, regret, and longing. It suffocates me. I pick at the untouched breakfast sandwich beside me. Made out of obligation with a splash of contempt, I'm nauseated by the sight of it. My stomach turns and my diaphragm tightens. I double over and rest my head against my knees. Another dry heave.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
The sensation passes and I nod my head. I'll be fine, physically at least. I raise my head and look at him through the screen door. He's bathed in the porch light's glow. Steady rain falls behind him in the morning darkness.
"Now you can tell all your friends I literally made you sick." His laugh is joyless.
I want him to shut up. I wrecked us, but he's determined to destroy anything that's left. This isn't the way we should be, but I seem to be the only one who knows that.
"It's not you," I say. It's the truth. I'm sick of the situation and sick of myself, unfortunately I know I'll never be sick of him. I just want to go back in time and get a do over. I'd retrace my steps and change the last 48 hours. Then I would be munching on the wheat toast, fake eggs, and turkey bacon. He wouldn't be mad.
I rest my head on the kitchen table. I broke it, but I want him to fix it.
"See what you're making me do," he says.
He brings the cigarette to his lips and pulls hard. His bare chest expands. I can sense the heat rushing down his throat, the physical pain matching the inner turmoil. He exhales a cloud of carbon monoxide and toxins, then brings the silver thermos to his mouth. I have nothing to say. I hate cigarettes. He knows that. Without a word he takes another drag. In the moment of silence, with a smoky haze surrounding him, he's beautiful. I could sit there forever watching him smoke and drink coffee.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
The sensation passes and I nod my head. I'll be fine, physically at least. I raise my head and look at him through the screen door. He's bathed in the porch light's glow. Steady rain falls behind him in the morning darkness.
"Now you can tell all your friends I literally made you sick." His laugh is joyless.
I want him to shut up. I wrecked us, but he's determined to destroy anything that's left. This isn't the way we should be, but I seem to be the only one who knows that.
"It's not you," I say. It's the truth. I'm sick of the situation and sick of myself, unfortunately I know I'll never be sick of him. I just want to go back in time and get a do over. I'd retrace my steps and change the last 48 hours. Then I would be munching on the wheat toast, fake eggs, and turkey bacon. He wouldn't be mad.
I rest my head on the kitchen table. I broke it, but I want him to fix it.
"See what you're making me do," he says.
He brings the cigarette to his lips and pulls hard. His bare chest expands. I can sense the heat rushing down his throat, the physical pain matching the inner turmoil. He exhales a cloud of carbon monoxide and toxins, then brings the silver thermos to his mouth. I have nothing to say. I hate cigarettes. He knows that. Without a word he takes another drag. In the moment of silence, with a smoky haze surrounding him, he's beautiful. I could sit there forever watching him smoke and drink coffee.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Oops I Did It Again
When I go to New York City, I spend money, lots of it. Between dining at the finest chicken spots on the corner of E 219 St and White Plains Road, the small boutique on 135th Street between 7th and 8th, and cover charges and drinks (that I don't partake in) at the club on 54th between 2nd and 3rd, my money drains from my account faster than I can keep track of. Knowing this, I prepare for the spending spree. I make sure all of my bills are paid, then I designate a few hundred to my weekend excursion and hope there's just enough left over to get me to my next check without dipping into my savings account. I'm all about fiscal responsibility. Yes, I will spend and then spend some more, however I will not spend money that I do not have. At least not so far from my next check.
After the last time I threw my bank account into chaos, I promised myself that I would be more diligent about tracking my finances. I balanced my checkbook regularly, paid off all of my credit card debt, cancelled unused accounts, and budgeted my money. I even increased my investment capital, hiding a large percent of my liquid assets in untouchable savings vehicles. I was being responsible with my money and felt perfectly fine with my financial situation when I embarked on my Labor Day journey to the happiest place on Earth. I had a good amount of money to spend on my usual pursuits and felt perfectly capable of staying within my budget.
Five days later, I am once again wondering how my bank account will recover. Oh why did I hide my money from myself? Maybe because I knew I would spend it if I didn't. It started with "necessary" cell phone equipment that I still can't figure out how to use and probably doesn't work anyways. Then there was the unexpected five hour hotel stay (I was by myself so get your mind out the gutter), which really wasn't that expensive, but still cost money I didn't have. Now, most people would make adjustments when emergency expenses happen. Cut back here and there to make up for it. Not, I. I go shopping and purchase a $250 shirt and justify it by passing it off as a dress ($250 for a dress is definitely reasonable). Spending $250 on one item was more than I could handle, so I decided to spend $400 in total on three items to make myself feel like a saavy shopper. I knew I was going over the edge when I stood at the check out counter at my favorite store trying to convince Capital One to give me the account number for the credit card I cut up so I could purchase a $350 snakeskin purse that perfectly matched a reasonably priced wrap dress that was only worth purchasing if the purse was part of the transaction. Thank God, Capital One told me no. The weekend could've gotten very ugly.
I'm back home now and my account is obliterated. Decisions I made several weeks ago are making it difficult to cover my ass while each transaction materializes and gets deducted. I don't get paid for over a week and I have nada to get me through to the next cycle. At least I'm not in debt. That's the only good thing I can hold on to. I could live with no dinners, movies, and shopping trips. And I do have some amazing clothes in my possession (which I will wear everyday and twice on Sunday to get my money's worth). But my stomach is grumbling and I have no groceries and no money to buy them. Too bad I can't eat my new shirt/not quite dress.
After the last time I threw my bank account into chaos, I promised myself that I would be more diligent about tracking my finances. I balanced my checkbook regularly, paid off all of my credit card debt, cancelled unused accounts, and budgeted my money. I even increased my investment capital, hiding a large percent of my liquid assets in untouchable savings vehicles. I was being responsible with my money and felt perfectly fine with my financial situation when I embarked on my Labor Day journey to the happiest place on Earth. I had a good amount of money to spend on my usual pursuits and felt perfectly capable of staying within my budget.
Five days later, I am once again wondering how my bank account will recover. Oh why did I hide my money from myself? Maybe because I knew I would spend it if I didn't. It started with "necessary" cell phone equipment that I still can't figure out how to use and probably doesn't work anyways. Then there was the unexpected five hour hotel stay (I was by myself so get your mind out the gutter), which really wasn't that expensive, but still cost money I didn't have. Now, most people would make adjustments when emergency expenses happen. Cut back here and there to make up for it. Not, I. I go shopping and purchase a $250 shirt and justify it by passing it off as a dress ($250 for a dress is definitely reasonable). Spending $250 on one item was more than I could handle, so I decided to spend $400 in total on three items to make myself feel like a saavy shopper. I knew I was going over the edge when I stood at the check out counter at my favorite store trying to convince Capital One to give me the account number for the credit card I cut up so I could purchase a $350 snakeskin purse that perfectly matched a reasonably priced wrap dress that was only worth purchasing if the purse was part of the transaction. Thank God, Capital One told me no. The weekend could've gotten very ugly.
I'm back home now and my account is obliterated. Decisions I made several weeks ago are making it difficult to cover my ass while each transaction materializes and gets deducted. I don't get paid for over a week and I have nada to get me through to the next cycle. At least I'm not in debt. That's the only good thing I can hold on to. I could live with no dinners, movies, and shopping trips. And I do have some amazing clothes in my possession (which I will wear everyday and twice on Sunday to get my money's worth). But my stomach is grumbling and I have no groceries and no money to buy them. Too bad I can't eat my new shirt/not quite dress.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Don't Speak
Women talk. It's a fact of life like taxes, underpaying jobs, and the freshman fifteen. We talk when we're happy, when we're bored, when we're sad, when we're angy, when we're confused. We talk all the damn time. We even talk when we're not supposed to.
It's difficult for me to keep my life to myself. I like confirmations and validations regarding what I think, feel, and do. Advice. That's what it's called. What should I do? What does this mean? Advice isn't free, though. I have to give the story to get the answers I seek. Usually there's no harm in telling a story. It's my business and if I choose to let someone in on my world the only person it affects is me. But sometimes it's not just my story. When it's our story, it's not mine to tell.
I couldn't help myself. I was happy, confused, giddy, and in desperate need of an outlet. I called Chesty LaRue and told her everything. She listened as I recounted the details. How it started, where it was going, the potential pitfalls, and why I was out of my blasted mind for even putting myself in the situation. Chesty is awesome. She's objective and tells me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. She made me think, and the thoughts weren't pretty. Talking to Chesty wasn't a mistake. Telling him I talked to Chesty was.
Normally, I'm an excellent liar. Spinning believable stories is an artform I've mastered. But there are some people I can't lie to. They ask, I answer. Hell, sometimes I even offer information. Certain situations require full disclosure. When it's all said and done, they can't say I lied to them. When I brought my doubts to him, he asked where they came from. I told him the truth.
"Why did you say something to her?"
Because women talk. It's a fact of life.
Saying something to Chesty wasn't a big deal. Saying something to my other friends was. Friends call and ask about my life and I tell them. It's not a big deal to me, but it is to him. In my mind he was overreacting. What could possibly go wrong. Yes, my friends ask questions, make comments, and give suggestions. But in the end, I always do what I want regardless. Their views may plant seeds, but they never sway me. He said it would only lead to trouble. I didn't believe him. He was right.
Sharing isn't caring when all parties are gathered at the same location and large amounts of alcohol are being consumed. Sharing turns into melee. He said this, she said that. "Listen to me. I'm your friend." "No, listen to me, I won't lie to you." All of a sudden, we're no longer in our mid twenties with good careers. We're 16 years old arguing in the middle of the cafeteria. Scenes are memorable in high school, not so much at 3 a.m. outside a packed club.
I have no clue how it all snowballed out of control. Maybe we were in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. Maybe talking is okay when the parties talked to never meet the parties talked about. Maybe I should just keep my damn mouth shut for once. Maybe I haven't learned my lesson because all I really want to do is call a friend and spill my guts.
It's difficult for me to keep my life to myself. I like confirmations and validations regarding what I think, feel, and do. Advice. That's what it's called. What should I do? What does this mean? Advice isn't free, though. I have to give the story to get the answers I seek. Usually there's no harm in telling a story. It's my business and if I choose to let someone in on my world the only person it affects is me. But sometimes it's not just my story. When it's our story, it's not mine to tell.
I couldn't help myself. I was happy, confused, giddy, and in desperate need of an outlet. I called Chesty LaRue and told her everything. She listened as I recounted the details. How it started, where it was going, the potential pitfalls, and why I was out of my blasted mind for even putting myself in the situation. Chesty is awesome. She's objective and tells me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. She made me think, and the thoughts weren't pretty. Talking to Chesty wasn't a mistake. Telling him I talked to Chesty was.
Normally, I'm an excellent liar. Spinning believable stories is an artform I've mastered. But there are some people I can't lie to. They ask, I answer. Hell, sometimes I even offer information. Certain situations require full disclosure. When it's all said and done, they can't say I lied to them. When I brought my doubts to him, he asked where they came from. I told him the truth.
"Why did you say something to her?"
Because women talk. It's a fact of life.
Saying something to Chesty wasn't a big deal. Saying something to my other friends was. Friends call and ask about my life and I tell them. It's not a big deal to me, but it is to him. In my mind he was overreacting. What could possibly go wrong. Yes, my friends ask questions, make comments, and give suggestions. But in the end, I always do what I want regardless. Their views may plant seeds, but they never sway me. He said it would only lead to trouble. I didn't believe him. He was right.
Sharing isn't caring when all parties are gathered at the same location and large amounts of alcohol are being consumed. Sharing turns into melee. He said this, she said that. "Listen to me. I'm your friend." "No, listen to me, I won't lie to you." All of a sudden, we're no longer in our mid twenties with good careers. We're 16 years old arguing in the middle of the cafeteria. Scenes are memorable in high school, not so much at 3 a.m. outside a packed club.
I have no clue how it all snowballed out of control. Maybe we were in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. Maybe talking is okay when the parties talked to never meet the parties talked about. Maybe I should just keep my damn mouth shut for once. Maybe I haven't learned my lesson because all I really want to do is call a friend and spill my guts.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Doing Too Much
I push send and wait for the confirmation. That's five texts in less than five hours, with no response in sight. Each message is more desperate than the one before it. "Hey! What's up," turns into "Are you there?" which turns into "I need to talk to you," which runs headfirst into "I miss you." Nothing works, and I am starting to wonder what I have to do to get a reply.
It wasn't like this before. I never had to wait to hear from him or have my calls returned. I didn't have to walk on eggshells, avoiding the landmines of desperation and the pitfalls of too much pressure. I had access whenever and wherever I wanted. But it's no longer like that. I'm shut out now, banging my head against a bolted door hoping that it will open. I can wait it out.
Then I start to think. What if I wait and what if he opens up again. Then what? Is he mine? Not necessarily. And what does having him really represent. Will he communicate, tell me how he feels, be there when I need him? Probably not. Five texts, two voicemails, countless calls. What the hell for? Why am I begging him to want me again. So we can be us for a second time? We were issues oriented at our best. I'm putting myself through hell waiting on him to tell me yes. I'm doing way too much for what I might get in return. Fuck it. I'm done.
It wasn't like this before. I never had to wait to hear from him or have my calls returned. I didn't have to walk on eggshells, avoiding the landmines of desperation and the pitfalls of too much pressure. I had access whenever and wherever I wanted. But it's no longer like that. I'm shut out now, banging my head against a bolted door hoping that it will open. I can wait it out.
Then I start to think. What if I wait and what if he opens up again. Then what? Is he mine? Not necessarily. And what does having him really represent. Will he communicate, tell me how he feels, be there when I need him? Probably not. Five texts, two voicemails, countless calls. What the hell for? Why am I begging him to want me again. So we can be us for a second time? We were issues oriented at our best. I'm putting myself through hell waiting on him to tell me yes. I'm doing way too much for what I might get in return. Fuck it. I'm done.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Persistance Overcomes Resistance
Two months before my 20th birthday, I made a decision. I was going to get married before my 30th birthday. Although ten years is plenty of time to make it happen, I had the feeling that I didn't have any time to spare. My prospects were bleak, and if past performance is a good indicator of the future, they would remain bleak for a while. Not wanting to make my mission any harder than it already seemed, I decided I would not press my luck. Thinking about all of my friends, I realized that if they got married before me I'd probably be a bridesmaid more times than I could stomach. Everyone says, "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride," and I didn't want that to apply to me. Yet, I still wanted to be a part of my friends' wedding days (whenever they would be). Then it hit me, I could still play a major part in any friends' nuptials. They may say, "always a bridesmaid, never a bride," but they don't say anything about being a flower girl.
At first it seemed like a radical idea. Who ever heard of an adult flower girl? Especially an adult flower girl who's taller than many grooms. But one day while discussing weekend plans with a classmate, I learned that adult flower girls were not a mythical species.
"Yeah, so I'm going to my cousin's wedding this weekend," she said.
"Oh, that's cool. Are you in the wedding?" I replied.
"Nope, but my twin is gonna be the flower girl."
And with that sentence hope was born.
I presented the idea to all my close friends, who immediately laughed in my face.
"Umm, isn't the flower girl supposed to be a little girl? Don't you think you're too old? Yeah, you're too tall to be a flower girl."
I had expected some resistance to my plan, but the outright opposition surprised me. I'm absolutely adorable! How could anyone not want me as their flower girl. Obviously, they would need more in order to see the vision.
A campaign was born, complete with flower throwing demonstration and visualization exercises.
"Aren't flower girls supposed to be little girls?"
"Little girls have temper tantrums and can ruin the wedding."
"You're too tall!"
"I'll wear flats."
Whatever the objection, I had an answer. I even considered having head shots made so people could get a better idea of just how cute I can be. Even with my full fledged "Liz For Flower Girl" campaign, my friends still refused to support. Refusing to be thwarted, I offered my services elsewhere. Whenever anyone mentioned an engagement the first thing I said was, "I'm available if you need a flower girl." It didn't matter if it was an acquaintance, coworker, perfect stranger, I put it out there. I figured, I wouldn't know for sure unless I asked. I got five consecutive years of "No!"
In December 2005 when my good friend and sorority sister announced her engagement, I went through the routine.
"Can I be your flower girl?"
"No."
"But a little girl can ruin the wedding."
"I don't even think I'm gonna have a flower girl. I don't want kids in the wedding."
I didn't realize it then, but that would be the silver lining in the dark cloud of rejection. Normally when I put in my application to be a flower girl, I'm competing with several four year olds with cherubic cheeks and wide eyes. This time I had no competition, I only had to overcome her hesitations.
Several months later in a bridal shop in Brooklyn, I got the assistance I needed. While my friend was in the fitting room trying on a gown, I flipped through a magazine.
"If only they made these flower girl dresses in my size. I would be so adorable."
"Liz, you're too big to be a flower girl!" she admonished as she stepped out of the fitting room.
"Actually, I've heard of older women being the flower girl," the shop owner chimed in.
Finally a voice reason.
"Yeah," she continued, "Of course they don't wear white like a little girl would, but I've definitely heard of it. They're called flower maids or something like that."
I shot my friend a hopeful glance and I could tell she was mulling over the idea. The seed was planted.
Two months later I got a phone call.
"So, I wanted to ask if you'd like to be in my wedding. I don't really know the exact capacity. But would you like to be the flower maiden or something like that?"
"I'd love to!" I was beaming. After years of trying, I would finally get my chance. We decided I would wear a pink A-line halter dress with ballet flats. I'd also have a basket with flowers to throw down the aisle. There would be no little girls, just me. I was estatic!
On June 10th, 2006 I woke early to prepare for my big day. I washed and detangled the fro, shaved my legs and got a pedicure. The next few hours I practiced looking as innocent as possible. I kept the makeup and jewelry to a minimum in order to help the effort. Then at 6 p.m. I lined up outside the Grammercy mansion in Baltimore, MD. The processional music started and the wedding planner cued the bridesmaids. One by one they walked down the aisle towards the awaiting pastor.
"Now go!" the wedding planner pointed at me.
Clutching my white basket filled with pink and orange rose petals, I walked to the threshold. I took a step, then threw a handful of flowers in front of me. The guests stared, initially confused. The giggles started when they finally comprehended what I was doing. I looked to my left and saw my sorority sisters shaking their heads at me in disbelief. Step by step I made my way down the aisle, leaving a trail of rose petals in my wake. My basket was empty just as I reached my destination. I had done it! I had proven all of my detractors wrong. Grown women who are nearly six feet tall make exceptional flower girls!
At first it seemed like a radical idea. Who ever heard of an adult flower girl? Especially an adult flower girl who's taller than many grooms. But one day while discussing weekend plans with a classmate, I learned that adult flower girls were not a mythical species.
"Yeah, so I'm going to my cousin's wedding this weekend," she said.
"Oh, that's cool. Are you in the wedding?" I replied.
"Nope, but my twin is gonna be the flower girl."
And with that sentence hope was born.
I presented the idea to all my close friends, who immediately laughed in my face.
"Umm, isn't the flower girl supposed to be a little girl? Don't you think you're too old? Yeah, you're too tall to be a flower girl."
I had expected some resistance to my plan, but the outright opposition surprised me. I'm absolutely adorable! How could anyone not want me as their flower girl. Obviously, they would need more in order to see the vision.
A campaign was born, complete with flower throwing demonstration and visualization exercises.
"Aren't flower girls supposed to be little girls?"
"Little girls have temper tantrums and can ruin the wedding."
"You're too tall!"
"I'll wear flats."
Whatever the objection, I had an answer. I even considered having head shots made so people could get a better idea of just how cute I can be. Even with my full fledged "Liz For Flower Girl" campaign, my friends still refused to support. Refusing to be thwarted, I offered my services elsewhere. Whenever anyone mentioned an engagement the first thing I said was, "I'm available if you need a flower girl." It didn't matter if it was an acquaintance, coworker, perfect stranger, I put it out there. I figured, I wouldn't know for sure unless I asked. I got five consecutive years of "No!"
In December 2005 when my good friend and sorority sister announced her engagement, I went through the routine.
"Can I be your flower girl?"
"No."
"But a little girl can ruin the wedding."
"I don't even think I'm gonna have a flower girl. I don't want kids in the wedding."
I didn't realize it then, but that would be the silver lining in the dark cloud of rejection. Normally when I put in my application to be a flower girl, I'm competing with several four year olds with cherubic cheeks and wide eyes. This time I had no competition, I only had to overcome her hesitations.
Several months later in a bridal shop in Brooklyn, I got the assistance I needed. While my friend was in the fitting room trying on a gown, I flipped through a magazine.
"If only they made these flower girl dresses in my size. I would be so adorable."
"Liz, you're too big to be a flower girl!" she admonished as she stepped out of the fitting room.
"Actually, I've heard of older women being the flower girl," the shop owner chimed in.
Finally a voice reason.
"Yeah," she continued, "Of course they don't wear white like a little girl would, but I've definitely heard of it. They're called flower maids or something like that."
I shot my friend a hopeful glance and I could tell she was mulling over the idea. The seed was planted.
Two months later I got a phone call.
"So, I wanted to ask if you'd like to be in my wedding. I don't really know the exact capacity. But would you like to be the flower maiden or something like that?"
"I'd love to!" I was beaming. After years of trying, I would finally get my chance. We decided I would wear a pink A-line halter dress with ballet flats. I'd also have a basket with flowers to throw down the aisle. There would be no little girls, just me. I was estatic!
On June 10th, 2006 I woke early to prepare for my big day. I washed and detangled the fro, shaved my legs and got a pedicure. The next few hours I practiced looking as innocent as possible. I kept the makeup and jewelry to a minimum in order to help the effort. Then at 6 p.m. I lined up outside the Grammercy mansion in Baltimore, MD. The processional music started and the wedding planner cued the bridesmaids. One by one they walked down the aisle towards the awaiting pastor.
"Now go!" the wedding planner pointed at me.
Clutching my white basket filled with pink and orange rose petals, I walked to the threshold. I took a step, then threw a handful of flowers in front of me. The guests stared, initially confused. The giggles started when they finally comprehended what I was doing. I looked to my left and saw my sorority sisters shaking their heads at me in disbelief. Step by step I made my way down the aisle, leaving a trail of rose petals in my wake. My basket was empty just as I reached my destination. I had done it! I had proven all of my detractors wrong. Grown women who are nearly six feet tall make exceptional flower girls!
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Resume Dating
She was on the verge of tears for the second time in one night. He'd done it again and she couldn't understand why he treated her as though she didn't matter.
"Why do you still want him?" I asked.
"I don't know," she answered between sobs. "He's a really good guy, and I know that I'm not going to find someone that has all his qualities."
"Ummm, what's so great about him?"
"Well, he's college educated, got a good job, his own place, no kids. Plus he's really good looking, goal oriented and all that stuff."
And there it was. Like so many women before her, including me, she had mistaken qualifications for qualities.
Everyone has standards. Whether they write it on stationary and tuck it under their pillow at night, or keep it stored in a corner of their mind, everyone has a list of everything they want in a mate. Honest, kind, loyal, smart, funny, musical, artistic, educated, driven, spiritual, logical, sane, and the list goes on and on. And as much as people are loathe to admit it, the packaging those qualities come in is pretty darn important as well. Personally, I prefer honest, kind, loyal, smart, funny, etc. to come in a very tall, very cute, gainfully employed package.
It seems the older and more accomplished my friends and I become, the more emphasis we put on the packaging rather than the contents. Whenever we brag about the men in our lives (they brag, I listen) it usually sounds like, "He's 2_, an engineer, has his own house, and is working on his masters degree." Then we all agree that our friend really has found a wonderful man. Fast forward two weeks when he's stood her up for the fourth time in five dates and won't return her calls and we're calling him the scum of the Earth. But the worst part of it all, is that no matter who this happens to, we still want to hang on to him, cause we're sure that he really is a great guy. I mean, he's an engineer with his own house whose working on his masters degree. That says it all.
In the last few months, I've learned a valuable lesson from Chesty LaRue. Since the turn of the century, Chesty has had the misfortune of dating several successful men (in addition to the Broke Ass Niggas she also attracts.) She's dated a Wall Street trader, an engineer, and something else that I can't remember right now. All of them were supposedly a good catch, except for the fact that they lied, cheated, and basically treated her like shit. After the last "great guy" acted a damn fool, Chesty decided she was taking a break from men. And the moment she stopped looking, someone found her. She met a man who is attentive, kind, funny, and best of all adores the ground she walks on. And she got all these things in an unemployed, ex-con, multiple babies' daddy who's an aspiring rapper. He's by no means a perfect man, as he does have a tendency to stupid shit on occassion. However, he makes her happy which is more than I can say for the others.
Dating is a lot like job searching. You present your qualifications, go on a few interviews, hope for a call back, go on some more interviews, and hope someone picks you for the job. I think a lot of women wind up falling for a guy's resume before he ever has an interview. But it's important to remember that just because a guy looks good on paper, it doesn't mean he's a good guy.
"Why do you still want him?" I asked.
"I don't know," she answered between sobs. "He's a really good guy, and I know that I'm not going to find someone that has all his qualities."
"Ummm, what's so great about him?"
"Well, he's college educated, got a good job, his own place, no kids. Plus he's really good looking, goal oriented and all that stuff."
And there it was. Like so many women before her, including me, she had mistaken qualifications for qualities.
Everyone has standards. Whether they write it on stationary and tuck it under their pillow at night, or keep it stored in a corner of their mind, everyone has a list of everything they want in a mate. Honest, kind, loyal, smart, funny, musical, artistic, educated, driven, spiritual, logical, sane, and the list goes on and on. And as much as people are loathe to admit it, the packaging those qualities come in is pretty darn important as well. Personally, I prefer honest, kind, loyal, smart, funny, etc. to come in a very tall, very cute, gainfully employed package.
It seems the older and more accomplished my friends and I become, the more emphasis we put on the packaging rather than the contents. Whenever we brag about the men in our lives (they brag, I listen) it usually sounds like, "He's 2_, an engineer, has his own house, and is working on his masters degree." Then we all agree that our friend really has found a wonderful man. Fast forward two weeks when he's stood her up for the fourth time in five dates and won't return her calls and we're calling him the scum of the Earth. But the worst part of it all, is that no matter who this happens to, we still want to hang on to him, cause we're sure that he really is a great guy. I mean, he's an engineer with his own house whose working on his masters degree. That says it all.
In the last few months, I've learned a valuable lesson from Chesty LaRue. Since the turn of the century, Chesty has had the misfortune of dating several successful men (in addition to the Broke Ass Niggas she also attracts.) She's dated a Wall Street trader, an engineer, and something else that I can't remember right now. All of them were supposedly a good catch, except for the fact that they lied, cheated, and basically treated her like shit. After the last "great guy" acted a damn fool, Chesty decided she was taking a break from men. And the moment she stopped looking, someone found her. She met a man who is attentive, kind, funny, and best of all adores the ground she walks on. And she got all these things in an unemployed, ex-con, multiple babies' daddy who's an aspiring rapper. He's by no means a perfect man, as he does have a tendency to stupid shit on occassion. However, he makes her happy which is more than I can say for the others.
Dating is a lot like job searching. You present your qualifications, go on a few interviews, hope for a call back, go on some more interviews, and hope someone picks you for the job. I think a lot of women wind up falling for a guy's resume before he ever has an interview. But it's important to remember that just because a guy looks good on paper, it doesn't mean he's a good guy.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Join the Club
I spent almost two hours of my evening plastered to You Tube. It's Nick at Nite's fault. Ashley was singing on Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire. She was on a stage, dressed in Cross Colors, a bra top, and Doc Martins. Suddenly I'm back in 1993 sitting cross legged on the living room floor enraptured by different teens on a different screen. I saw Rhona and Ricky and Britney and Justin and Christina. I saw flannel and velvet body suits. I saw the Mickey Mouse Club and in that moment I had to see it again for real.
Seek and ye will find. And find I did. The Season 6 opener, the Season 1 ending credits, Dale/Justin/JC/and Ryan singing "Cry For You," Christina singing "I'm Not Over You," and so much more. I watched it all. And once the laughter dissipated, the longing set in. Thirteen years later, I still want to be a Mousketeer.
I never watched, I studied. Every song, every dance, every skit. I would stand up in front of the television and copy their choreography, just to make sure I could keep up. Thanks to six years of dance lessons I could. And I sang a mean rendition of that song that goes, "Too many walls have been built in between us. Too many dreams have been shattered around us. If I choose to give up, I still never win. Deep in my heart I know that truth is within." All I had to do is wait for the auditions to roll into my town and I could join the Club.
Unfortunately I'm still waiting. The show got cancelled, and even with the renewed interest due to the success of several alums, I doubt they'll bring it back. But if by some miracle The Disney Channel recognized the error of its ways and resurrected the Mickey Mouse Club, then what? According to a friend, I'm too old and too tall to audition. Plus, my voice isn't what it used to be and could possibly be mistaken for a dying hyenna.
Even though I know time has passed me by, I'm still preparing for my shot. I still study, except now BET and MTV are my teachers. Not one video can play without me getting up just to make sure I can do it too. My latest inspiration is Danity Kane (courtesy of Diddy!). Today, I felt an inexplicable compulsion to stay in front of the mirror in only a bra and panties, practicing the dance in their Show Stopper video until I could smell myself. I was gyrating, popping, and winding my heart out. And when I fell on my ass for the fifth time because my knees just can't handle dropping it like it's hot, I had to wonder why the hell I can't just let it go?
Seek and ye will find. And find I did. The Season 6 opener, the Season 1 ending credits, Dale/Justin/JC/and Ryan singing "Cry For You," Christina singing "I'm Not Over You," and so much more. I watched it all. And once the laughter dissipated, the longing set in. Thirteen years later, I still want to be a Mousketeer.
I never watched, I studied. Every song, every dance, every skit. I would stand up in front of the television and copy their choreography, just to make sure I could keep up. Thanks to six years of dance lessons I could. And I sang a mean rendition of that song that goes, "Too many walls have been built in between us. Too many dreams have been shattered around us. If I choose to give up, I still never win. Deep in my heart I know that truth is within." All I had to do is wait for the auditions to roll into my town and I could join the Club.
Unfortunately I'm still waiting. The show got cancelled, and even with the renewed interest due to the success of several alums, I doubt they'll bring it back. But if by some miracle The Disney Channel recognized the error of its ways and resurrected the Mickey Mouse Club, then what? According to a friend, I'm too old and too tall to audition. Plus, my voice isn't what it used to be and could possibly be mistaken for a dying hyenna.
Even though I know time has passed me by, I'm still preparing for my shot. I still study, except now BET and MTV are my teachers. Not one video can play without me getting up just to make sure I can do it too. My latest inspiration is Danity Kane (courtesy of Diddy!). Today, I felt an inexplicable compulsion to stay in front of the mirror in only a bra and panties, practicing the dance in their Show Stopper video until I could smell myself. I was gyrating, popping, and winding my heart out. And when I fell on my ass for the fifth time because my knees just can't handle dropping it like it's hot, I had to wonder why the hell I can't just let it go?
Monday, July 31, 2006
A Real Boy
I need someone to talk to and just anyone won't do. I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts. Name after name rolls by, but none makes me want to dial. Not that one or this one. They're girls. No girls allowed. Hmmmm, him? No, too boring. How about him? Too much trouble. I'm related to him, so that's a no. Him? Nah, we're just friends. Damn it, the list is exhausted and I can't find even one.
Sometimes when it's late I'd rather talk than sleep. I want to speak in hushed tones and say one thing but mean another. I want to giggle and blush. Some butterflies in my tummy would be nice too. I want to hear a well placed "what if" that I'll forget about in the morning. Nothing serious, just a hit to get me through the night. What I wouldn't give to know a real boy.
Sometimes when it's late I'd rather talk than sleep. I want to speak in hushed tones and say one thing but mean another. I want to giggle and blush. Some butterflies in my tummy would be nice too. I want to hear a well placed "what if" that I'll forget about in the morning. Nothing serious, just a hit to get me through the night. What I wouldn't give to know a real boy.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Easy
It doesn't take much. A single word usually does the trick. "Hello." It's enough for me. One hello, and all is forgiven. Every slight, all negligence, each missed opportunity, erased. Our slate is clean, except for the stains the disappointment left behind. But that doesn't matter, because he's here saying, "hello." Availability. He's available now, and that's what's important. So what if he doesn't offer an explanation and an apology never falls from his lips. Hello means "I want you." And "I want you" is better than "I'm sorry."
And there are times when no words are needed. Memories work everything out. That time when we sat on the couch. My head in his lap, his hand in my hair. I see it playing before my eyes, with different people on a different couch in a make believe place. They're not real, but we were. So what if he doesn't call. Who cares if he doesn't write. I'll let it slide, just to sit on the couch again.
What can I say? I'm easy.
And there are times when no words are needed. Memories work everything out. That time when we sat on the couch. My head in his lap, his hand in my hair. I see it playing before my eyes, with different people on a different couch in a make believe place. They're not real, but we were. So what if he doesn't call. Who cares if he doesn't write. I'll let it slide, just to sit on the couch again.
What can I say? I'm easy.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Don't Believe The Hype
"I don't really connect with this story."
"You're telling the reader what happened, instead of showing."
"It doesn't feel personal. It has a slick journalistic quality to it."
I nod my head as the feedback flows. It's not quite what I expected. Where is the worship, accolades, and adoration? I wait for someone to say, "Amazing! Truly inspiring work!" or something along those lines. Instead all I hear is criticism eventually tempered with, "But, it's well written."
When I decided to attend the Writer's Studio sponsored by the Urban Institute of Contemporary Arts, it was a strategic move. I'd been writing for nearly a year, and my work was running headlong into a wall called "BRILLIANCE!" Each piece was revealing new depth, creativity, and wit. I was better than good. I was that good! I was the undiscovered wunderkind, capable of crafting a masterpiece on the first draft. At least that's what nearly every comment on my blog told me. The only logical step was to share my genius with the world through a reputable print medium. Problem was, I had no idea where to start. I figured a group of my peers would confirm my greatness and point me in the write direction (damn, I'm clever).
The afternoon of my first workshop, I printed a couple of pieces to share. An excerpt from the novel I'm perpetually pushing aside and some personal essays. My friends had already told me that the pieces were superb, so I didn't bother with too much editing. I figured we'd break off into pairs, read each other's work then offer constructive feedback. Of course the feedback for me was to consist of excessive gushing and some punctuation tips.
I was a bit disappointed to arrive in the tiny meeting room and discover that one by one we would read our excerpts aloud for the entire class and receive their critiques. I sat through tales of murder and intrigue in the Roman Empire, Dutch Reformed Christian adolescence, and elderly adventure seeking. Some stories were interesting, others dull. I offered my opinion as I saw fit. "You should describe the facial features your character has in common with his father. Makes it more visual." I feigned patience and sometimes interest as I waited for my turn. It didn't arrive that evening. Class ended with a promise to put me near the top of the reading order at next week's studio. I felt bad. They would all have to wait an excrutiating seven days to be graced with my genius.
A week later I printed sixteen copies of O-R-E-O and brought them to studio, ready to be revered as the second coming. Several blog commentors had already told me that the essay should be published, if it hadn't been already. I just needed the final go ahead from my new audience, and maybe a suggestion or two on decreasing the word count before I shipped it off for an editor's critical eyes.
Their less than enthusiastic response shocked the hell out of me. What did they mean they "didn't really connect"? That's not what my blog readers said. They were totally affected. And what was wrong with sounding journalistic? Aren't magazine essays supposed to be that way? Above all, did their criticism mean my writing wasn't print ready on the first try?
I thought back on the one or two essays I'd e-mailed to a couple of magazines on a whim. Never did get a response. Could it be that the writer's studio participants had picked up on something my readers hadn't yet noticed? Sure, I could write and make words sound pretty. But maybe, just maybe I could benefit from a good editor. Perish the thought. If my writing needed editing, that had to mean it wasn't very good to begin with. I didn't want to fathom that idea. For the past 10 months my aspirations hinged on being the best thing to hit Barnes & Noble since, well since ever. How could I be great, if I couldn't get it right on the first try?
Really, what did these pseudo writers know anyways? I hadn't even heard of a single one of them. If they were such writing gurus why didn't they have a byline attached to their work. Oh, but they did. From books available for purchase at the local bookstore to short stories inside the pages of a recent anthology. Okay, so maybe they did know a thing or two about what it takes to get published. But how could all my blog readers be so wrong about me. How could they see polished and professional when the studio saw rough potential? Is beauty truly in the eye of the beholder.
Or maybe the original audience wasn't as discerning as I initially thought. It's not difficult to find "Superb writing" and "You're such a great writer" on even the most mediocre blogs. The blogosphere might not be the best judge of "great writing." For every reputable writer and savvy reader there are a hundred more hacks who think People magazine sets a literary standard.
Perhaps my writing needs a few rounds of revisions. I probably won't see my writing on glossy pages based solely on talent. I just might have to work at this. Yes, I am definitely good. But honestly, I'm not that good. Yet. Oh, it's so much easier to fill my head with the praise and believe the hype.
"You're telling the reader what happened, instead of showing."
"It doesn't feel personal. It has a slick journalistic quality to it."
I nod my head as the feedback flows. It's not quite what I expected. Where is the worship, accolades, and adoration? I wait for someone to say, "Amazing! Truly inspiring work!" or something along those lines. Instead all I hear is criticism eventually tempered with, "But, it's well written."
When I decided to attend the Writer's Studio sponsored by the Urban Institute of Contemporary Arts, it was a strategic move. I'd been writing for nearly a year, and my work was running headlong into a wall called "BRILLIANCE!" Each piece was revealing new depth, creativity, and wit. I was better than good. I was that good! I was the undiscovered wunderkind, capable of crafting a masterpiece on the first draft. At least that's what nearly every comment on my blog told me. The only logical step was to share my genius with the world through a reputable print medium. Problem was, I had no idea where to start. I figured a group of my peers would confirm my greatness and point me in the write direction (damn, I'm clever).
The afternoon of my first workshop, I printed a couple of pieces to share. An excerpt from the novel I'm perpetually pushing aside and some personal essays. My friends had already told me that the pieces were superb, so I didn't bother with too much editing. I figured we'd break off into pairs, read each other's work then offer constructive feedback. Of course the feedback for me was to consist of excessive gushing and some punctuation tips.
I was a bit disappointed to arrive in the tiny meeting room and discover that one by one we would read our excerpts aloud for the entire class and receive their critiques. I sat through tales of murder and intrigue in the Roman Empire, Dutch Reformed Christian adolescence, and elderly adventure seeking. Some stories were interesting, others dull. I offered my opinion as I saw fit. "You should describe the facial features your character has in common with his father. Makes it more visual." I feigned patience and sometimes interest as I waited for my turn. It didn't arrive that evening. Class ended with a promise to put me near the top of the reading order at next week's studio. I felt bad. They would all have to wait an excrutiating seven days to be graced with my genius.
A week later I printed sixteen copies of O-R-E-O and brought them to studio, ready to be revered as the second coming. Several blog commentors had already told me that the essay should be published, if it hadn't been already. I just needed the final go ahead from my new audience, and maybe a suggestion or two on decreasing the word count before I shipped it off for an editor's critical eyes.
Their less than enthusiastic response shocked the hell out of me. What did they mean they "didn't really connect"? That's not what my blog readers said. They were totally affected. And what was wrong with sounding journalistic? Aren't magazine essays supposed to be that way? Above all, did their criticism mean my writing wasn't print ready on the first try?
I thought back on the one or two essays I'd e-mailed to a couple of magazines on a whim. Never did get a response. Could it be that the writer's studio participants had picked up on something my readers hadn't yet noticed? Sure, I could write and make words sound pretty. But maybe, just maybe I could benefit from a good editor. Perish the thought. If my writing needed editing, that had to mean it wasn't very good to begin with. I didn't want to fathom that idea. For the past 10 months my aspirations hinged on being the best thing to hit Barnes & Noble since, well since ever. How could I be great, if I couldn't get it right on the first try?
Really, what did these pseudo writers know anyways? I hadn't even heard of a single one of them. If they were such writing gurus why didn't they have a byline attached to their work. Oh, but they did. From books available for purchase at the local bookstore to short stories inside the pages of a recent anthology. Okay, so maybe they did know a thing or two about what it takes to get published. But how could all my blog readers be so wrong about me. How could they see polished and professional when the studio saw rough potential? Is beauty truly in the eye of the beholder.
Or maybe the original audience wasn't as discerning as I initially thought. It's not difficult to find "Superb writing" and "You're such a great writer" on even the most mediocre blogs. The blogosphere might not be the best judge of "great writing." For every reputable writer and savvy reader there are a hundred more hacks who think People magazine sets a literary standard.
Perhaps my writing needs a few rounds of revisions. I probably won't see my writing on glossy pages based solely on talent. I just might have to work at this. Yes, I am definitely good. But honestly, I'm not that good. Yet. Oh, it's so much easier to fill my head with the praise and believe the hype.
These Dreams
It's late. The time has come to bury myself beneath low thread count cotton and billows of soft down. I'll sleep. But before conciousness fades, I hope that I can get through the night in peace. I'm scared of the visions I might see when I close my eyes.
The possibility of nightmares doesn't make me anxious. They only scare me until they pass away into the night. But the beautiful dreams, they haunt me even when I'm awake. They're what I remember, what I wish I could forget.
I fall asleep alone, but when I awake he's with me. There is no shouting, no silence, only security. We're okay. For a second, I think about our problems and wonder if we can really work. He folds me into his arms and my questions are gone. I run my fingertips along his forearm. He's solid, flesh and blood man in my midst. It can't be real, but it is. I can see him, hear him, feel him. I don't know how we got here, but I'll stay a while.
Then a sound in the distance pulls me away from him. And when I come back, he's fading from my sight. I try to reach him again, but something in me knows I won't. I blink, and he's gone for good. Suddenly, I'm aware of waking up. Sweet memories dance in my head and I want to relive them. My heart sinks with the realization it was just a dream, and I can't.
The possibility of nightmares doesn't make me anxious. They only scare me until they pass away into the night. But the beautiful dreams, they haunt me even when I'm awake. They're what I remember, what I wish I could forget.
I fall asleep alone, but when I awake he's with me. There is no shouting, no silence, only security. We're okay. For a second, I think about our problems and wonder if we can really work. He folds me into his arms and my questions are gone. I run my fingertips along his forearm. He's solid, flesh and blood man in my midst. It can't be real, but it is. I can see him, hear him, feel him. I don't know how we got here, but I'll stay a while.
Then a sound in the distance pulls me away from him. And when I come back, he's fading from my sight. I try to reach him again, but something in me knows I won't. I blink, and he's gone for good. Suddenly, I'm aware of waking up. Sweet memories dance in my head and I want to relive them. My heart sinks with the realization it was just a dream, and I can't.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Grow Up
I turn 26 today. I'm officially closer to 30 than to 20. Yesterday, my employer gave me an early birthday present....my annual review. It was my party and I definitely had reason to cry if I wanted to.
For the past 10 months, I've been acting like a petulant child. I don't like my job. It doesn't stir any of my passions and I'd rather be doing something else. And something else is exactly what I've been doing. Actually, anything else but work. I'm not going to get into the laundry list of activities I engage in from 8 to 5 that aren't technically part of the job description. But the list is extensive. I kept telling myself that my passive aggressive behavior wouldn't exist if I was doing the job I was meant to do (writing and/or non profit fundraising). The slacking has caught up with me, because I know for sure that they notice my lack of motivation.
It's difficult to hear about your shortcomings from a group of people you feel no need to impress. I was defensive, recalcitrant, and a tad confrontational. But while some of the evaluation was absolute bullshit, most of it was true. I do have great potential, and I'm not realizing it in my current role. I really don't show a "bias for action," because honestly that requires caring. I stopped doing that a while ago.
I've been subsisting in this role under the assumption that I would land the job I really love and then blow this popsicle stand. Aaahhhh, the best laid plans. Eight months into the search and I got zilch, except this pesky little job that keeps demanding my attention. I'm starting to think I'm not deserving of much more. Yes, I know I have the skills to do whatever it is that makes my heart go pitter pat. But I haven't been a good steward over what I already have. No one can say, "well done good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things."
Yes, I have accomplished a great deal this year, and I made sure to put each achievement on my resume. But I neglected to cover the basics because I just didn't feel like taking the time to do it. Why bother, if I don't like it and it's not the right job for me anyways? Well, part of being a responsible adult is following through on commitments whether I want to or not. My company kept up their end of the bargain, they pay me. If they are doing their part, not liking this gig is not a good reason to not do mine. Just because I am actively looking for a new job, that does not mean I don't have to give my all in this one. I can't pretend that I love this stuff when I don't. But I can at least give my company what they're paying for.
Today, I took another step towards growing older, but yesterday I took an even bigger step towards growing up.
For the past 10 months, I've been acting like a petulant child. I don't like my job. It doesn't stir any of my passions and I'd rather be doing something else. And something else is exactly what I've been doing. Actually, anything else but work. I'm not going to get into the laundry list of activities I engage in from 8 to 5 that aren't technically part of the job description. But the list is extensive. I kept telling myself that my passive aggressive behavior wouldn't exist if I was doing the job I was meant to do (writing and/or non profit fundraising). The slacking has caught up with me, because I know for sure that they notice my lack of motivation.
It's difficult to hear about your shortcomings from a group of people you feel no need to impress. I was defensive, recalcitrant, and a tad confrontational. But while some of the evaluation was absolute bullshit, most of it was true. I do have great potential, and I'm not realizing it in my current role. I really don't show a "bias for action," because honestly that requires caring. I stopped doing that a while ago.
I've been subsisting in this role under the assumption that I would land the job I really love and then blow this popsicle stand. Aaahhhh, the best laid plans. Eight months into the search and I got zilch, except this pesky little job that keeps demanding my attention. I'm starting to think I'm not deserving of much more. Yes, I know I have the skills to do whatever it is that makes my heart go pitter pat. But I haven't been a good steward over what I already have. No one can say, "well done good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things."
Yes, I have accomplished a great deal this year, and I made sure to put each achievement on my resume. But I neglected to cover the basics because I just didn't feel like taking the time to do it. Why bother, if I don't like it and it's not the right job for me anyways? Well, part of being a responsible adult is following through on commitments whether I want to or not. My company kept up their end of the bargain, they pay me. If they are doing their part, not liking this gig is not a good reason to not do mine. Just because I am actively looking for a new job, that does not mean I don't have to give my all in this one. I can't pretend that I love this stuff when I don't. But I can at least give my company what they're paying for.
Today, I took another step towards growing older, but yesterday I took an even bigger step towards growing up.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Job Opening
Job Opening
Job Category: RelationshipType: Full time, plus overtime
Salary: It's gonna cost ya
Languages: Anything that sounds sexy
Last day to apply: My wedding day
Compensation: Me
Job Title: Boyfriend
Responsibilities:
Responsibilities will include, but are not limited to:
- Saying and doing the right things to properly convey your undying adoration, admiration, and lust for me.
- Managing all shopping bags while touring Westchester Mall/SoHo/Madison Ave/any similar location
- Arguing when necessary, but ultimately realizing the error of your ways
- Footrubs, backrubs, assrubs on request
- Researching and evaluating what is really meant when hearing the words, "I'm fine."
- Maintaining daily communication via telephone, email, text messages, and telepathic senses
- Coordinating dinner dates, movie nights, surprise parties, and other special events
- Watching All My Children, One Life To Live, and General Hospital
All candidates must have the following qualifications,
- A J.O.B. (Doctors, lawyers, bankers, engineers, professional athletes, high level managers, music industry execs, Hollywood producers, and other ballers only)
- 6'0 and above
- size 13 shoe and above (hint, hint)
- College Degree (advanced degree preferred); a shit load of money is good enough if no degree has been earned.
- Solo residential accomodations
- No criminal record
- No kids
- No pending kids, or possibles either
- Never married
- No restraining orders
- Non smoker, ocassional drinker (non drinking is cool too)
- hella sex appeal
- Possess all teeth in some semblance of order
- Must be practicing _____________________ (Christian/Jew/Muslim/Buddhist/Hindu/Agnostic/Atheist/whatever floats your boat)
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Tell Me All Your Thoughts on God
During the question and answer session I conducted last month, one reader sent me a very interesting question via email. I didn't answer it along with the others because I felt it deserved its own post. When I sat down to try and write it, I couldn't. Nothing sounded honest. So this time I'm not going to think about it. I'm just going to write and whatever answer comes out is the answer that's in my heart. Lord help me.
Q: Religion...what's your take on God? Do you believe in Jesus?
A: I'm not a fan of religion. Religion is the rituals, traditions, and practices of a faith. It's often the manifestation of faith, but in no way is religion synonymous with faith. Going to church every Sunday, lighting candles, pouring out oil. None of it (in and of itself) is faith. Faith can manifest itself in the form of religion, but religion is not a substitute for true faith.
When I was deciding on a spiritual path, I came to two conclusions. First, I can't decide what I want God to be. Crafting an image of God that conforms to my wants, desires, and needs would be backwards. If I was creating the "creator" where exactly would I be putting my faith? Any god that would bend to my whims couldn't possibly be God.
Second, I had to choose what to believe, because I couldn't believe everything. Logically speaking there can't be one god, yet multiple gods. God can't have a son, but yet not have a son. The son of God can't be the only means to salvation, yet not be the means to salvation (or even worse a heretic). Salvation can't be based on grace and sacrifice, yet based on good works alone. While the differing paths definitely have similarities, the differences require a decision.
I choose Jesus Christ. I do believe that Jesus is God in the flesh. I do believe that he died on the cross for the sins of mankind. I do believe that he rose on the third day (the Jewish day begins at sunset so he actually died on a Thursday, not a Friday). I went through a period of intense exploration, trying to find the facts behind the faith. Fortunately there was lots to find. There's evidence of a great flood, the Hittite civilization, the walls of Jericho. It makes it easier to believe that which I can't see.
I'm not a perfect person. And no matter how much I try, I never will be. I do believe that God set a standard for all humans and that standard does not change. I know that I fall far short of it. Paul said it best, "For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God." I place my faith in Christ because he bridges the gap between me and God. I have no fear that I'm not good enough, because being in Christ I am. It makes sense that salvation can't be based on works alone. If we all fall short, then what ratio of good deeds to bad can get us into the pearly gates? Grace is a beautiful thing.
Still faith without works is dead. Jesus said you can recognize a person by the fruit they bear. Just saying I believe isn't enough. If I do, it will come across in my actions. I know the Lord's commands, but I do tend to ignore them when they don't suit my personal purposes. That's my nature and it's a constant struggle for me. I don't believe that grace is a free pass to do as I please, and I pray constantly that God will change me into the person He wants me to be. The biggest thing for me to remember is that it's a journey and not a destination.
Lately that journey has taken me down an interesting path. About a year ago, I started wondering if contemporary Christianity was really the faith Jesus and the Apostles had left us with. I began to think about what man might've changed over the last two thousand years. That led me into studying Christian apologetics and the Hebraic roots of the Christian faith. I can't say that I believe what many other Christians do. I don't believe in the doctrine of the Trinity, nor do I believe that Jesus nullified Mosaic law, nor do I recognize Sunday as the Sabbath. I believe that many of the differences between Judaism and Christianity were created long after the apostles died. I've come to think that the only true difference between Judaism and Christianity is Jesus. Christians believe that He's the promised Messiah, Jews do not. They're still waiting.
I love being a Christian, however there are many times when I really don't like identifying as one. A lot of believers have given the entire faith a bad name. Jesus called tax collectors, terrorists, liars, and other sinners to be his disciples. He never lowered his standards in regard to sin, yet he didn't make them change who they were in order to love them. I think many Christians forget this whenever they are "lovingly" rebuking the "unsaved." For some reason, I just don't hear "I love you" in "You're going to hell!" Jesus' love and example changed Peter, Thomas, Matthew, and company. If people could see Jesus in today's followers I'm sure more people would be open to letting Him in their lives.
I hope that one day others can see Christ in me.
Q: Religion...what's your take on God? Do you believe in Jesus?
A: I'm not a fan of religion. Religion is the rituals, traditions, and practices of a faith. It's often the manifestation of faith, but in no way is religion synonymous with faith. Going to church every Sunday, lighting candles, pouring out oil. None of it (in and of itself) is faith. Faith can manifest itself in the form of religion, but religion is not a substitute for true faith.
When I was deciding on a spiritual path, I came to two conclusions. First, I can't decide what I want God to be. Crafting an image of God that conforms to my wants, desires, and needs would be backwards. If I was creating the "creator" where exactly would I be putting my faith? Any god that would bend to my whims couldn't possibly be God.
Second, I had to choose what to believe, because I couldn't believe everything. Logically speaking there can't be one god, yet multiple gods. God can't have a son, but yet not have a son. The son of God can't be the only means to salvation, yet not be the means to salvation (or even worse a heretic). Salvation can't be based on grace and sacrifice, yet based on good works alone. While the differing paths definitely have similarities, the differences require a decision.
I choose Jesus Christ. I do believe that Jesus is God in the flesh. I do believe that he died on the cross for the sins of mankind. I do believe that he rose on the third day (the Jewish day begins at sunset so he actually died on a Thursday, not a Friday). I went through a period of intense exploration, trying to find the facts behind the faith. Fortunately there was lots to find. There's evidence of a great flood, the Hittite civilization, the walls of Jericho. It makes it easier to believe that which I can't see.
I'm not a perfect person. And no matter how much I try, I never will be. I do believe that God set a standard for all humans and that standard does not change. I know that I fall far short of it. Paul said it best, "For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God." I place my faith in Christ because he bridges the gap between me and God. I have no fear that I'm not good enough, because being in Christ I am. It makes sense that salvation can't be based on works alone. If we all fall short, then what ratio of good deeds to bad can get us into the pearly gates? Grace is a beautiful thing.
Still faith without works is dead. Jesus said you can recognize a person by the fruit they bear. Just saying I believe isn't enough. If I do, it will come across in my actions. I know the Lord's commands, but I do tend to ignore them when they don't suit my personal purposes. That's my nature and it's a constant struggle for me. I don't believe that grace is a free pass to do as I please, and I pray constantly that God will change me into the person He wants me to be. The biggest thing for me to remember is that it's a journey and not a destination.
Lately that journey has taken me down an interesting path. About a year ago, I started wondering if contemporary Christianity was really the faith Jesus and the Apostles had left us with. I began to think about what man might've changed over the last two thousand years. That led me into studying Christian apologetics and the Hebraic roots of the Christian faith. I can't say that I believe what many other Christians do. I don't believe in the doctrine of the Trinity, nor do I believe that Jesus nullified Mosaic law, nor do I recognize Sunday as the Sabbath. I believe that many of the differences between Judaism and Christianity were created long after the apostles died. I've come to think that the only true difference between Judaism and Christianity is Jesus. Christians believe that He's the promised Messiah, Jews do not. They're still waiting.
I love being a Christian, however there are many times when I really don't like identifying as one. A lot of believers have given the entire faith a bad name. Jesus called tax collectors, terrorists, liars, and other sinners to be his disciples. He never lowered his standards in regard to sin, yet he didn't make them change who they were in order to love them. I think many Christians forget this whenever they are "lovingly" rebuking the "unsaved." For some reason, I just don't hear "I love you" in "You're going to hell!" Jesus' love and example changed Peter, Thomas, Matthew, and company. If people could see Jesus in today's followers I'm sure more people would be open to letting Him in their lives.
I hope that one day others can see Christ in me.
Monday, July 10, 2006
You Started It
I didn't ask for this. My life was fine. I wasn't checking for, concerned about, or conscious of you. You came at me. You called my phone asking where I was, what I was doing.
"When can I see you?" That's what you asked.
Boredom is a bitch, and you were something to do, nothing more. I wasn't interested. You weren't even my type. But the attention was nice, and being with you passed the time.
You wormed your way into my head saying "us," "we," "ours." I was featured in your future. But I resisted, keeping you at a distance.
"What are you scared of?" you asked. You dismantled my defenses bit by bit. You did the little things, the basics no one else bothered to do.
"I'll call you at 9." My phone rang at 8:55.
"I'm coming over to see you." I buzzed you in before we hung up.
You did this, not me. It wasn't my idea, definitely not a part of my plans. You wanted us. You worked your magic and now I'm convinced. The only problem is now you're not so sure.
"Let's be together." Your words, not mine. I'm trying to be with you and you want to tell me, "I ain't ready for all that."
All of a sudden, I'm asking too much. It was nothing for you to call me when you didn't know my last name. Now when I say I want to talk, you avoid me like the plague. "Not now." or "I can't." Or some other lame excuse. I used to see you everyday, but lately I can't even get five minutes of your time. You say I'm too needy, that I'm asking for too much. Damn, I'm just asking for what you offered in the first place.
You're asking me why I can't let go. Shit, you were the one who told me, "Hold on."
"When can I see you?" That's what you asked.
Boredom is a bitch, and you were something to do, nothing more. I wasn't interested. You weren't even my type. But the attention was nice, and being with you passed the time.
You wormed your way into my head saying "us," "we," "ours." I was featured in your future. But I resisted, keeping you at a distance.
"What are you scared of?" you asked. You dismantled my defenses bit by bit. You did the little things, the basics no one else bothered to do.
"I'll call you at 9." My phone rang at 8:55.
"I'm coming over to see you." I buzzed you in before we hung up.
You did this, not me. It wasn't my idea, definitely not a part of my plans. You wanted us. You worked your magic and now I'm convinced. The only problem is now you're not so sure.
"Let's be together." Your words, not mine. I'm trying to be with you and you want to tell me, "I ain't ready for all that."
All of a sudden, I'm asking too much. It was nothing for you to call me when you didn't know my last name. Now when I say I want to talk, you avoid me like the plague. "Not now." or "I can't." Or some other lame excuse. I used to see you everyday, but lately I can't even get five minutes of your time. You say I'm too needy, that I'm asking for too much. Damn, I'm just asking for what you offered in the first place.
You're asking me why I can't let go. Shit, you were the one who told me, "Hold on."
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Selfish
Dear Short Bitch,
I'm going to need you to do me a favor. You know that guy you're dating. The one whose navel you barely graze because you're 4'11 and he's 6'5. The cute one with the fresh Ceasar and sexy goatee. Yeah him. I'm gonna need you to break up with him. Now!
You don't need all that height. It's wasted on you. Yeah that's what I said, WASTED! It's not cute to see man who damn near has to break his back just to give his woman the sexy, yet subtle forehead kiss. Not cute at all. You don't look like his girlfriend, you look like his child. And together, you both look stupid.
I am by no means saying that you shouldn't date men who are taller than you. But be reasonable. Is a 12 inch height difference really necessary? Wouldn't 6 inches suffice? If you're 5'2 and your man is 5'8, he still towers over you! You can wear your 4 inch heels and still rest your head on his chest. What more do you need? Yeah, I've heard all your reasons before. "I like a man who's tall because he makes me feel safe/secure/dwarfed." Because of your inability to grow, that's not difficult to accomplish. A man does not have to qualify for the NBA in order to be significantly taller than you. Anything more than a 6" to 7" height difference is just overkill.
Contrary to whatever is going on in your little head, there is not a plethora of tall men available for any woman who wants one. Height is relative and your perception of what is tall is greatly skewed due to your close proximity to the ground. Just because a man looks tall in comparison to you, does not mean that he is.
Resources are scarce, and basic human decency teaches that resources should be left for the people who need them most. In this case, those people would be women like me. Women over 5'10 who are constantly attacked by little men who love tall women. When you take the tall men, there is no one to save your longer limbed sisters from the pint size Lotharios who place themselves in our paths. Do you not think of anyone but yourself?!
So how about we make a deal. You stay away from the 6' and over crowd and I won't kick your vertically challenged ass. Sound like a plan? Great! Hopefully we won't have this problem again.
Thanks!
I'm going to need you to do me a favor. You know that guy you're dating. The one whose navel you barely graze because you're 4'11 and he's 6'5. The cute one with the fresh Ceasar and sexy goatee. Yeah him. I'm gonna need you to break up with him. Now!
You don't need all that height. It's wasted on you. Yeah that's what I said, WASTED! It's not cute to see man who damn near has to break his back just to give his woman the sexy, yet subtle forehead kiss. Not cute at all. You don't look like his girlfriend, you look like his child. And together, you both look stupid.
I am by no means saying that you shouldn't date men who are taller than you. But be reasonable. Is a 12 inch height difference really necessary? Wouldn't 6 inches suffice? If you're 5'2 and your man is 5'8, he still towers over you! You can wear your 4 inch heels and still rest your head on his chest. What more do you need? Yeah, I've heard all your reasons before. "I like a man who's tall because he makes me feel safe/secure/dwarfed." Because of your inability to grow, that's not difficult to accomplish. A man does not have to qualify for the NBA in order to be significantly taller than you. Anything more than a 6" to 7" height difference is just overkill.
Contrary to whatever is going on in your little head, there is not a plethora of tall men available for any woman who wants one. Height is relative and your perception of what is tall is greatly skewed due to your close proximity to the ground. Just because a man looks tall in comparison to you, does not mean that he is.
Resources are scarce, and basic human decency teaches that resources should be left for the people who need them most. In this case, those people would be women like me. Women over 5'10 who are constantly attacked by little men who love tall women. When you take the tall men, there is no one to save your longer limbed sisters from the pint size Lotharios who place themselves in our paths. Do you not think of anyone but yourself?!
So how about we make a deal. You stay away from the 6' and over crowd and I won't kick your vertically challenged ass. Sound like a plan? Great! Hopefully we won't have this problem again.
Thanks!
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
His Shit
They're sitting in my suitcase, stained with hot sauce and soiled with sweat. I know they'll go in the next load of laundry, but after that their fate is uncertain. They could go back in the dresser drawer that has been their home since last September. Or I could put them in a UPS box and ship them back to their original owner. Technically, they belong to him.
"Do you have a pair of sweats I can sleep in?"
He rummaged through his closet and handed me his favorite pair. I slept in the soft gray cotton, then wore them home the next morning. Day after day I wore them until my scent replaced his and finally Tide erased both of us.
"What are you wearing?" he would ask periodically.
"Your sweatpants."
"When am I going to get those back?"
"You're not."
I'm not so sure about that anymore. I kept them as a reminder, and now I don't want to remember. Memories are the reason I put the past aside and decided to try again. A conversation here, a text message there. Little by little we started to act like us again. And us feels so good, until we get to the part of us that doesn't work. The part where I need him and he lets me down.
Disappointment reared its ugly head again. My first instinct is to pack up his shit and send it to him. No note needed for him to get the message loud and clear. "I'm done!" But I haven't followed through. Instead I'm sitting on my bed weighing my options while this song fucks with my head. "Part of me says to think it through, part of me says I'm over you, part of me wants to say goodbye..."It plays over and over in mind on a continuous loop. Giving back the sweats means I'm giving up on us. He won't give me what I need, so I should just let him go. Find someone else to meet my needs. That's common sense. The problem is, I don't want someone else, I want him to do it. Making a return would say, "don't bother." Why do it, if I don't mean it.
Skeletons fill my closet. This man's t-shirt, that man's pants, another's hat. I could dress myself from head to toe in their remnants and not even think about it. But his remains, they don't just go on me, they get in me. Sleeping in his sweats is like sleeping near him. I can almost feel his arms and the rise and fall of his chest when he breathes. It doesn't help me move on. But I doubt giving them back will help either. And when it's all said and done, I don't want to move on. I want us to work. Until that happens, the sweatpants are mine.
"Do you have a pair of sweats I can sleep in?"
He rummaged through his closet and handed me his favorite pair. I slept in the soft gray cotton, then wore them home the next morning. Day after day I wore them until my scent replaced his and finally Tide erased both of us.
"What are you wearing?" he would ask periodically.
"Your sweatpants."
"When am I going to get those back?"
"You're not."
I'm not so sure about that anymore. I kept them as a reminder, and now I don't want to remember. Memories are the reason I put the past aside and decided to try again. A conversation here, a text message there. Little by little we started to act like us again. And us feels so good, until we get to the part of us that doesn't work. The part where I need him and he lets me down.
Disappointment reared its ugly head again. My first instinct is to pack up his shit and send it to him. No note needed for him to get the message loud and clear. "I'm done!" But I haven't followed through. Instead I'm sitting on my bed weighing my options while this song fucks with my head. "Part of me says to think it through, part of me says I'm over you, part of me wants to say goodbye..."It plays over and over in mind on a continuous loop. Giving back the sweats means I'm giving up on us. He won't give me what I need, so I should just let him go. Find someone else to meet my needs. That's common sense. The problem is, I don't want someone else, I want him to do it. Making a return would say, "don't bother." Why do it, if I don't mean it.
Skeletons fill my closet. This man's t-shirt, that man's pants, another's hat. I could dress myself from head to toe in their remnants and not even think about it. But his remains, they don't just go on me, they get in me. Sleeping in his sweats is like sleeping near him. I can almost feel his arms and the rise and fall of his chest when he breathes. It doesn't help me move on. But I doubt giving them back will help either. And when it's all said and done, I don't want to move on. I want us to work. Until that happens, the sweatpants are mine.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)