Address

For as long as I can remember I have had a thing for buildings. Not necessarily the architecture, but more so for the lives, the stories contained inside the construction.

In my mind, each house is a curtain to be lifted, revealing the show inside. Each home its own stage, replete with all the trappings, each front door the portal to whatever lives are contained therein.

When I was younger and attending a tony private Catholic school on the north side of my hometown, I remember riding through the streets with my face pressed up against the window, looking at the houses and mentally painting the stories of the people inside. Were they married? From the South? Did they live alone? Did they have a dog? A pool? Did they like the color purple? Were they good at math?

As a child it seemed just the fanciful wonderings of a highly creative kid prone to daydreaming. Now that I am older, only slightly wiser, I mostly see it for what it is.

I was a kid always looking for home. I never really had that particular place where I felt safe or welcomed or comfortable. I always thought that everyone had a kind of homestead; that house that, even if it was a grandparent's or friend's, where you felt some sort of peace. Where you knew you could always go to when you needed to just be ensconced in warmth. As an adult, I recognize that isn't really the case. But it never stopped me from wanting one anyway.

I moved around as a kid, luckily not as much once I reached puberty years. But for a time, we never had a house either. We did eventually come to rent a place on the southwest side of the city that I affectionately referred to as The Dollhouse. It was great. And comfortable. But still not really our own. We moved out when I was in college 800 miles away. I didn't even pack up my own things. As strange as it sounds, I always wished I'd said goodbye.

All my life I have been searching for my own space in the world, some physical manifestation of home. I certainly have amassed a small army of people who love and adore me despite knowing me wholly. But I still would like that place to call my own. I don't even really want a house per se. Just...

Home.

I've always wanted a place to send my magazines to. A carved out place so that I wouldn't feel a dull pain low in my belly at the sight of blank lines on a form asking for a permanent address. Maybe a stain on the carpet from that time the dog knocked over a bottle of red wine. Familiar perches and pictures and pipes and planes that I know intimately. It's silly, I know, to put so much stock in a structure. But for little La, it's still a very fervent desire.

I'd like my own curtains to my own stage, holding the theater of my life.

Lose.

I am a girl who loses.

So by definition I am a loser. But not the kind that doesn't win things. More so the type that just loses things.
People.
Faith.

And sometimes I am still reeling from the loss of one thing when another fatality happens suddenly, so fast in fact that I am still stumbling from the previous loss, far too consumed to deal with the present one.

My life has been an exercise in One Thing After Another. In the interest of perspective, I remind myself daily that I am not alone on this path to the inevitable Next Thing.

But I still reserve the right to be tired.

Because I lose things. Sometimes in the most spectacular fashion.

It is part of the reason I haven't been around here much. When I have good or funny and introspective things to say, I try my best to write them, to put words to my exuberance or mirth or growth. But sometimes, often times, the words I love so much fail me.

It's one more thing that I have loss.

I am not in the business of complaining. I am too tired for it. I am mourning so many deaths so often and totally that I can't fathom adding the exhaustion of rehashing it on top of it all.
Nor do I believe in putting all that doom and gloom out into the universe.

So I am here. Around. Living and, if I am to be honest, mostly well.

But still I lose.
Optimism.
Dreams.
Faith.

And I miss them.

Being a Big Girl

...Apartment 204.

That's how Peter Parker's text ends. Before it is a long string of directions that, despite having lived here for 3 years now, I have to admit I am woefully unfamiliar with.

What is this directions to?


My place.

Back story...

Even though I am enjoying single life and all it has to offer, not all of my friends seem to be frolicking in the Jack Daniels fun with me. In fact, many of them are being institutionalized.

No, no, they are not making the mistake of going to Hampton. They're getting married, that is.

To date, I have attended three weddings, been invited to seven and have two more on the calendar before the year is out. By 2010 I should have pretty nicely performing stock in Bed, Bath and Beyond.

Generally, I take a wedding for what it is; the opportunity to get drink, eat and be merry on someone else's dime, and still have the choice to retire to my own bed to sprawl out as I please or choose to invite one of the groomsmen home to spoon me.

I take my choices very seriously.

But every once in awhile, a very rare occasion occurs. A wedding I am actually excited for.

You know, one where the couple might actually not get divorced?

It's as elusive as the goddamn yeti. So when it comes, I am all in.
This particular wedding was one of those such occurrences.


As is customary, I bought presents, a new dress and 4 inch heels and invited my Favorite Gay Boy to do my makeup, be my arm candy, and talk about people with me at the reception. All was in place.

Until of course the Sunday before the Friday wedding. FGB texts me of a job he is flying out of town for...
On the Friday morning of the wedding.

Sonofabitch.

So here I am, all new dressed and no date to go.

There is a reason I ask FGB to accompany me to these things. Because when you ask a guy you are even remotely involved with, even if the involvement is only in his mind, he spends the whole damn wedding tense and paranoid waiting on you to turn to him with googly eyes and start mentally planning your own wedding to HIM.

To put it frankly, I'm not that chick.
And that particular brand of bitchass don't go with my new 4 inch heels dress.

After much deliberation, and consultation with both my female and male friends, I decide to ask a friend of mine. Immediately he gets his Savion Glover on.

"Can I let you know by Tuesday?"

If this were a sitcom, this is about the moment where I would side eye the camera.

Since this is not my first rodeo, I know better than to wait around. Rather than trying to find another last minute date for myself, I decide to go alone. I won't break. (I don't think, though I must cop to being a going-at-it-alone virgin.) At least then when I am swapping drunk stories with my friends at the table at the reception, I don't have anyone I have to turn to and explain the back story.

On Tuesday, the inevitable sheepish text comes...

How important is it that I go on Friday?


To keep it 100 it's not important at all that YOU go.


It's just I don't do weddings...


It's fine. Really. We're good.

And unlike most women, I am not being passive aggressive. I actually mean it.

But then, for some reason come Friday evening, when I am running around like Madoff at a stockholders' meeting trying to make it clear across town in rush hour traffic in time for the sunset wedding that SEEMED like a romantic idea before factoring in Houston traffic and bugs, I get another text.

I am really dragging ass getting ready. But I don't wanna let you down. Do you mind if I don't go?

*snatches needle off the album*


Err?
Didn't we already discuss this days ago?
You're a wrap.
You're Mike Vick circa 2007.
You're my favorite chicken gyro at Niko Niko.
Michael Jordan the 3rd time.
Isaiah Washington's career.
You're Kim Kardashian if ass and sex tapes ever go outta style.

It's cool. I already made plans with another date.

I hadn't of course. But this is poker. I don't make it a habit to show my opponent my hand.

All the while I am texting Peter and giving him the blow by blow. He's entertained but shaking his head. He texts me and says...

You really don't care?

You're new here. I don't believe in monkeys.



It's about this time that I get the text....

*      *      *      *      *

I am at first equal parts grateful and turned on. Grateful because I won't have to be the 7th wheel to all my friends' coupledoms. Turned on because I do so love when a man takes charge and tells me what to do.

I kinda go hard for that shit.

I tell him I will pick him up as soon as I find my damn shoes.



On the drive I start thinking. Which is never good. But necessary nonetheless.

Do I really wanna be that girl? You know, girl who can't go places by herself? I'm running late anyway. Do I really wanna go outta my way to pick him up? Am I really that desperate to have a date that I would actually miss my friend walking down the aisle just so I would have someone to giggle in the buffet line with?

I. Just. Can't.

I'm not coming.


You don't want me to come?


It's not that I don't want you to come. It's just that I don't need you to come.


Is it because you are afraid I will show up in an all plaid suit and docksiders?


LMAO! I am nothing but confident in your ability to dress like you have both sense and the desire to get laid.


Well I would like to think so. What is it then?


Sometimes a girl just has to man up and go places by herself.

And so I do. I would be lying if I said there wasn't a moment when all the couples took pictures at our table at dinner and I was literally singled out when I wished I wasn't there alone. But the fact of the matter is, until I decide otherwise, I am not a plus one. I am just a one.
And if I am going to be as grown as I am always saying I am, then I have to be ok with that.

So I smile for the camera. I take the photographer’s compliments and his card when he tells me I should consider posing for portfolios. I take the hands of my girls and dance under the tiny stringed lights to a song we requested just for the bride. I take my tired ass home when dancing on stone floors in heels gets to be just a bit too much on my rapidly getting older knees. I take the long way back to the house, and stop by Peter's. I take the drink he gives me on his balcony, my face tilted to the stars. I even take his amusement and mix it with my own peace when he asks me what I am thinking about.

"Nothing. I'm just taking it all in."

And I didn't even break.

One Night, Two Dates

I have never been here before. But it’s quintessential me. It's all no sign outside, hole in the wall, only certain people know about it and not in a VIP kinda way. Peter obviously has been here more than once, because the bartender and waitress greet him like he's the king come home. I am watching him, his easy, affable way with him. And I like it.

No seriously. I like that shit.

The thing is, I am Girl People Gravitate To. If you have a sudden urge to spill your guts on a plane, your subconscious will seek me out. I am center of attention, story telling, drink making, laughing too loud, cooking too much food because I like to entertain girl.

And I like the idea of having someone to hold court with.

"La, do you want something to drink?"
"Stoli peach and grapefruit."
"You have been mixing liquor all night; tequila, Jack, now Stoli. Are you sure you aren't gonna get sick?"
"Boy, stop."

He orders my drink, some appetizers for us, and jokes a bit with our waitress before he turns his attention to me.
"So. Tell me who you are."
"Who I am? Like, you want my Social and shit?"
"No, girl. I mean like who you are. What you stand for. What you know. What you've seen."


And so I do.
Just like that.
Which is rather unlike me.

He's a great listener, breaking in when he can't hold in his commentary, pulling my card when I am being purposefully vague, making a joke when the subject turns a bit too heavy.

Seriously. This nigga- errr... man, is something like amazing to talk to.

"Your mom is a minister? And she didn't flip the fuck out when you told her you were dating a girl?"
"She didn't. She was so great about it. I think she knew. She was kinda fishing. I mean, I never tried to hide it. And at that point she had already seen Bob and I together. My mom is pretty but she ain't dumb."
"Wow. That's great.”
“Yeah it was. I was lucky. I wish it was that easy for everyone else.”
“When my best friend came out to his mom she literally threw him out into the street."

If this were a movie, this is where the record would screech to a halt.

"Your best friend is gay?"
"Oh. Yeah. He's been my best friend since Transformers and Thundercats. He came to live with us when his mom put him out."

Wait, wait, wait. He’s beautiful, he’s funny, AND he has a gay male friend? Is it possible he is MADE FOR ME?!?

He takes out his beloved i.phone again and shows me a picture of the two of them, double fisting beers, arms around each other, grinning like they just won someone's Mega Millions. David, the best friend, is handsome. It's almost sinful. He reminds me almost of Gay Husband but he's much thicker.
Much.

And also, black.

WTF?!

"Ok," I start, completely cognizant of how ignorant and/or racist I may be about to sound, "I have to ask. Your ex is black. Your best friend is black. I heard you blasting UGK when we stopped on Gray. You do know that you are a white boy right?"

He laughs at me. HARD. And I don't appreciate that shit. I asked a semi valid question.

"I'm just sayin'," I say to his guffaws, "I don't wanna be a part of some strange fixation you have with black people."

Without bothering to answer me and still chuckling to himself, he picks his phone up from where he had to place it on the table when he was dying laughing at my expense. He holds the phone out to me.

"That is my mom. And that guy with her, is my step dad."

I take the phone from him to get a better look at the picture. His mom is a stunning, leggy brunette with the same blue eyes as Peter. She is impossibly fly in her skinny jeans, towering heels and what looks like it might be a Chanel jacket.

In the picture, both of them are laughing heartily at some joke the picture taker isn't in on. But their intimacy, their affection crackles off the screen. His stepfather is looking down at his wife, even in her heels, his beautiful locs falling into his face, his smile stretched wide and white like snow against the terrain of his dark skin.

"Your stepdad is black too?!?!?" He laughs at my shock.
"Yep. I am well aware of the fact that I am white, La. But I also know where, and most importantly WHO I came from. My stepdad has raised me since I was little. His family has taken me and my mom in like their own, even when our own family couldn't or wouldn't be there for us. So no, I don't have some weird fascination with black people. I am not trying something new or different or talking to you on a dare. I'm comfortable with my life and the people in it. Are you?"

I'm speechless. Not only has he politely just cussed me out, but his sincerity is palpable. He is certainly not of the I-can't-be-racist-cuz-I-have-a-black-friend-and-once-gave-to-the-NAACP variety.

"I am."

By now the waitress has bought our food, and we settle back into easy conversation and laughs, punctuated perfectly by slight invasions of my space that he doesn't think I notice.

His cologne is magnetic.
His voice, low and warm in my ear makes the nerves in my back tingle at him in my space.

At one point I am talking and he reaches over to tuck a wayward curl back behind my ear that has fallen into my eyes. The pads of his fingers trace the rim of my ear, lightly down my hairline, across the sensitive skin on my neck.
My nipples take notice.

"So tell me," he says like he's known me since Skip Its and Skittles, "how you came to be single. We are on our second date. You're not being emotionally slutty."

His smile is absolutely disarming but I am no less aware of the fact that I don't wanna be That Girl.
"It's like this," he continues, his big hands kneading the knots that have clenched in the back of my neck, "your heartbreak is you. It's a part of you. It's a part of your life's landscape, a part of your skin. And I am very interested in getting familiar with the lay of your skin."

Shit.

"Well, it's simple really. There was no big blow up or drama. Essentially, I guess the problem was that I believe too strongly in living authentically. You asked me who I am. Well, that is the very foundation of my personal constitution and she did not compliment that. Sure, she's come to terms with her attraction to women, but she was always sneaking around and hiding it and lying about it. And she felt NO kinda way about being deceptive. I always used to think in the back of my mind, if she feels no kinda way about lying to people she has known longer than I have been alive, then what's REALLY keeping her from lying to me when it suits her? To me, that's just as bad as the men who think they're not gay just because they're a top. It is absolutely delusional. And after damn near two years, I was tired of being a player in the farce.
I mean even more so than that, the shit was hurtful. Do you know how many times I pretended to be her friend or her roommate when her friends were around? Or how many times we stayed in since it was the only place we were allowed to act like a couple or all the places we couldn't go to avoid running into someone she knew? And God forbid we did go out. It was like two cousins hanging out. If you didn't know us, and know that we were together, you'd never know. I mean, do you know what it's like to have to stop yourself from wanting to hold your significant other's hand in public because you're not supposed to exist? I felt like a mistress or something. I felt like I was helping her cheat on who I am with who I had to be to be with her. And all I wanted was just to exist.
I think the worst part is that I participated. Knowingly. Willingly. I knew better. I have always been very clear about who I am. I knew better. I'm just fucking hard headed."

I don't notice that I have progressively gotten louder the more worked up I get until I look up. Peter is looking at me, soft around the eyes, his hands on my thigh. It's the waitress that is looking at me like I just punted a puppy behind the bar.

"So, um, yeah, anyway, who's on your fantasy football team?"

I'm met with silence. And I am sure I have said way too much. I'm already plotting a way to make a graceful exit when he busts out laughing.

This motherfucker is laughing at me?!

"Damn La," he says between chuckles, looping his long arms around me, "you just looked so..." He trails off looking for the right word as I continue to shoot him looks of death.
"Shook."
"Blow me."

I sip my drink, more relieved than a mistress with a negative pregnancy test that he broke the tension with a laugh.

He tucks me underneath him like a doll, the top of his head in my hair.
"I'm sorry La."
"Thank you."


Funnily enough, those three words were all I had been waiting to hear from anyone I'd shared this pain with.
Somehow, he knew.

As though I never said anything emotionally slutty, we go back to our easy conversation and laughs until the lights came up, signaling that we have overstayed our welcome. I pay our bill, against his protests, and follow him outside, maybe or maybe not sizing up his ass in his dress pants.

I can neither confirm nor deny.

At my car, he opens my door for me and watches me get settled inside, standing with his hands resting on the door and the roof.

"I am not supposed to be dating."
"I'm not either."
"But I would like to maybe not date you again sometime."

I smile at his awkwardness because it is so. Damn. Cute.

"I would like that."

He hands his phone to me saying, "Put your number in there."


And I would be lying like Bill Clinton at a perjury hearing if I said I didn't like when a big ass man tells me what to do.

"I will call you," he tells me, dropping his phone into his pocket and then leaning into me. He's inches from my face, watching me, gauging my reaction, careful. He uses one long finger to tilt my face up to the angle he desires and kisses my chin... my nose... my forehead... my hair... before reversing his path and pressing his lips to mine. He's soft. Gentle. But authoritative, parting my lips with his tongue, holding me in place with a single finger. Somehow, he has managed to stay minty throughout all the rounds we have had. Before he pulls completely away, I gently catch his bottom lip in my teeth, pulling lightly, before I move out of his personal bubble,

"You just had to have the last word didn't you?" He's looking down at me, that damn smirk from back at the bar across his mouth.
"I like having the last word."
"Oh we will just see about that." He smiles at me all big like a kid and his dimple shows. Again I am struck with the urge to kiss it.

So I do.
While raking my nails through his hair.
I am nice enough not to comment on the fact that it makes him shiver.

"I'll call you tomorrow," and with that he closes my door, motioning for me to lock it, and strides to his car. I watch him walk away, simultaneously impressed and turned on and wistful.

A white boy on that act right. Who knew?

Ebony and Ivory

I adore my friends. I really do. But I don't see them as often as we all would like because I just cannot go out and get shit faced every weekend.

I do that shit at home.


But because I love them, and indulge them every once in awhile, I found myself running to meet them after work at happy hour and an undisclosed hole in the wall Mexican place with cheap drinks and a great salsa band.
What I meant was, cheap, STRONG drinks. Hence, my presence there.

I'm all about priorities, people.


About two hours in, I am holding my liquor quite nicely and my girls are loaded, out on the dance floor and making out with random guys they would never look at while stone sober. But that's what makes the pictures I am taking with my Black.berry funny.

I am sipping on margarita #6 #3 when I feel someone's warm breath funnel into my ear.

"You look like someone I know."
"Do I look like someone whom that line might work on? Cuz if so, I need to go home and change my face."

He's minty, and his cologne smells like Eau de Throw my Panties at Your Face so at least I don't so much mind him in my space. I turn to face him and have to damn near lay the back of my head back on the bar to make my way up to the top of his head.
This motherfucker is big.
Damn.
I do love a big man.
"That was pretty bad right?" he says to me, and I can see him flush a muted shade of cherry that I find amusing.

"It was a bit like watching kittens drown."
"Forgive me. I haven't hit on a stranger in years. I'm newly dumped."
"Ah. Me too. All is forgiven."
"I'm Peter Parker."
"I'm La."

I motion to the unoccupied bar stool next to me, and I am very interested to see if his massive weight turns the poor stool to kindling.
This man is that. big.

"So how long were you guys together?" he blurts out awkwardly, almost despite himself.
"Two years. What about you?"
"Four years."
"Oh wow. You win. I'll buy you a shot. You drink the Gentleman?"
"I do but I don't know many women who do."
"You apparently don't know many women from the South. Where are you from?"
"Los Angeles." I make a face. "Did you just make a face at LA?"
"Yeah I did. But only cuz I know my big sis, who is an LA native, will feel it wherever she is and hit me in the back of the head for it next time I see her. I love LA."
"Me too. I miss the weather mostly. I've been considering a move back."
"Cutting your losses and running for the hills, huh?"
"Yeah. I'd rather go lick my wounds on the beach."
"I'll drink to that."

So we do. Out of the corner of my eye I am watching him slyly, taking in his short Ceasar, the definitive set of his jaw line, the deep dimple to the corner of his mouth that I have more than a slight urge to kiss.

"So. Let me guess," I say before he can catch me looking. "The breakup is fairly recent. You've been keeping to yourself trying to heal, your boys are having none of it so they dragged you out and told you to take someone home."

He laughs at my astute observation.

"That's it exactly. How did you know?"

"It's not my first rodeo. I am fairly fluent in the language of heartbreak. Besides, my girls did the same thing to me," I say pointing in their direction. "Plus, I'm really good at these things. I know that you hit on me because you knew I'd turn you down, but at least you could tell your boys you tried. Right?"
"Wow, you're good."
Pointing to my head I say, "Not just a hat rack my friend. No guy in his right mind hits on the girl sitting alone at the bar and not socializing. Not unless he's a masochist. Or has a REALLY big dick."

He raises his eyebrows at me and smirks. It takes all of my god given self-control to not let me eyes wander down to the zipper of his dress pants.

"Most of that is true. It's been barely 2 months. I'm not dealing with the break up as quickly as my boys would like. However, they've failed to factor in that their longest combined relationship is 3 months."
"And that was probably just with girls who wanted to pretend they had morals so they made them wait to hit."
"Wow! You're outta control."
"You know I've heard that. If people don't stop saying it I might start to believe its true."
"I bought a ring." He blurts into the margarita that has just arrived for him. He's so damn adorable and awkward right now I just want to give him a hug.

"Lemme see."
"How did you know-"
"Cuz you're still hurting. So you're still holding on to anything that gives you hope that everything you built that she threw away wasn't just a mirage on the sand. So I'm willing to guess you either still carry it with you or you have a picture."
"Damn you ARE good. If you're this good with men why did u get dumped?"
"Because I wasn't with a man. And women are like geometry. I'm not good at either but I certainly gave it my best. Once. And only once. And no more now that I don't have to anymore." He laughs and pulls out his phone.

"Here's the ring."
"Goddamn. I'm marry you. This ring is gorgeous." He beams with no small amount of pride.
"I spent 6 months learning about diamonds and settings and metals and designing the whole thing myself."
"Where on EARTH did she find you?"
"At a club."
"BullSHIT."
"Yep."
"Wow. Guess I gotta throw my prejudice against club dudes out the window." He uses his thick fingers to scroll through a few pics.

"This is her."
"Wow. She's gorgeous." He looks pained for a moment. "But obviously a moron," I continue. She really is quite exquisite. Flawless chocolate skin from which a thick curly mass of ringlets sprout, perfect cheekbones, full lips, nice rack.

"She was. Is. Beautiful, I mean," he stammers, and I notice that he can't quite bring himself to look at the picture.
"I'd smash."
"She'd prob let you. Hence why we aren't together anymore."
"Oh shit. She just figured out she was completely into chicks?"
"She always kinda knew. But she played it down a lot. I just thought, wow I've got a cool ass girlfriend. We'll have threesomes! She and her family are really conservative and Catholic. I think she was just scared to come out. Then she met this woman at an art show. And then she wasn't scared anymore."
"An art show? Could that be more dyke-y? Jeez."
"I know right?"
"I had the opposite problem."
"What?"
"Two years in some of her friends still thought I was her homegirl and/or roomate. None of her fam even knew I existed."
"Ouch."
"To say the least. Sometimes you just wanna exist, you know?"
"I don't actually. But I can imagine."

He's given his eyes back to the picture on his phone; what looks like an intimate picture of them still in bed, his arms around her from behind, her leaning into him with her eyes closed, a contented look on her face.

"So," I say, because I am sympathetic, "tell me about her."

He does. Throughout his entire story I find myself both jealous of her and very in awe of the kind of man he is. And then jealous of her a little more. I'm adding up all my collective relationship failures in my head as he's talking and I am pretty sure that I have only one ex as great as he seems to be.

His story winds to a close and though he looks a little pained, I can see that he also feels relieved.
"Better?"
"Yeah. I have never sat down and just said all of that before. I feel..."
"Lighter?"
"Precisely. Thank you."
"I'm a pretty good listener."
"You really are. I am surprised you didn't get up leave."
"Well I was gonna but then I realized that my car key's are in my homegirl's purse so I figured I would power through."

He laughs, long and hard, like he hasn't laughed in awhile. It makes me smile, not only because I find myself kinda digging his laugh, but because I know what it's like to need to so desperately and have nothing to smile about. I like to pay it forward.

"So now tell me about your break up."
"No thank you."
"Oh no. You not gonna have me spilling my guts and you don't."
"That's different though."
"How?"
"Just because you were all emotionally slutty the first time we met doesn't mean I am gonna put out that easily. I'm a lady."

He looks at his watch. "I tell you what," he says to me while motioning to the bartender, "if you come with me now we can go on our second date and you can tell me all about it then."

By this time, he has paid both our tabs and gotten off his bar stool.
"You coming?" he asks, his hand held out.

I hesitate. I don't know this guy. There is no way I am going to date him because he is fresh out of a relationship and so am I. So what is the point of going anywhere with him?

But he's funny. And he made smooth reference to James Baldwin without blinking.
And he's just... so... big.

"I'm driving my own car."
"Thank God. My truck is a mess. And I am pretty sure you are too tiny to get up in it."
"Shut it. I'm following you."

He takes my hand and that is precisely what I do.


And that's how La went on 2 dates in one night with her first ever white boy.

Innocent Enough

January 2007



-----Original Message-----
From: La
To: Bob
Sent: Sat, 13 Jan 2007 2:27 AM

…Goddammit, why can't you be goin to sin city the weekend of April 5th, on MY b-day weekend like the rest of us? Geesh. Change your plans!

From Bob
To: La

Hey girlie...long time.:) You going to Vegas for real? Last year we changed dates like 3 times so this year, since my bday is on a saturday, I copped my ticket EARLY so as not to give my friends any room to try to shift and cause confusion. lol

So i say all that to say...you change your date! :)


From: La
To: Bob

*shaking her fist* damn you and your preplanning! LOL I'd love to change the weekend we go but unfortunately I can only get one weekend off a month and that's it. So you'll have to go twice, lol.

Rockferry

North Avenue Beach- Chicago, September 2009



My skin feels damp. For a moment, despite the fact that I know better, I think that I might be crying despite the fact that I have yet to cry. I realize with relief, and maybe a little frustration, that it is merely the dampness hanging in the air that has evaporated off the water.

I am cold. Shivering, actually, but I refuse to ball up. I let the wind hit me at all odd angles, and watch the goosebumps rise like waves on my arms. I want to just feel it.
Or feel something, really.

The longer I sit here on this hard ass bench, the rougher the waves get. They swell higher, crash harder, cresting and falling over those in front of it before they can break on the shore.


It seems an appropriate metaphor; sitting and watching helplessly as something so beautiful turns so ugly and angry.


I try to call my big sis because I know I need to hear what I know she is going to tell me:

"...It hurts me to think my normally warm and vivacious La is feeling remote and cold. There is one thing, though... I don't want you to become habitually numb. I don't like it. I would rather see you cry and curse (in moderation, of course) than become this cold, remote, heartless woman. We are too much the same and if it can happen to you, then it can happen to me - and we can't have that."

Cuz, you know, stuff about me is about her :-)


But we keep missing each other some kinda way. Maybe this is the universe's way of telling to me to sit with it on my own for awhile.
So I do.

I root around for some remnants of the rituals I usually go through when mourning the loss of love.
And find nothing.

I look around for some feeling other than resentment; some small scrap of fear or sadness or anger or resolution or peace.
Nothing.


So I just sit with it. I watch the waves. I watch the people. I twirl my small fingertips in the sand. I ignore the cold.

Because really, that is what I do.


At the end of the rickety pier jutting out into the middle of the water, I try to make sense of the patterns of the waves as they reach for the shore. There is a definitive rhythm, yes, but no rhyme. Beauty in chaos; such is life.

I imagine jumping in. Not in any melodramatic Ophelia type of way. More in exploration of the tenets of baptism; in hopes that when the top of my curly head breaks the surface again, I will be washed clean and renewed. Revived. Ready.


There are no melodramatic bouts of hopelessness. Maybe some bitterness, but I've gained enough years on this side of the womb to know that it will pass. I will not die. I will not break. There will be some bending, sure. But I know I will heal, in some way. In as much as at least the scars won't be a part of my everyday ensemble.

The difference this time, I think, is that I am interested in totality. Not just getting over things, but truly being done.


I have certainly tried the other way.
 
 
If you are looking with the wrong eyes, it seems like waves have no origin. But there has to be some sort of occurrence, some sort of phenomenon, to move it towards the shore. There is no movement without a catalyst. So I start to trace back how I got here...

The Set Up

I am not particularly smart.

I mean sure, the last time I took an IQ test I tested off the charts. And yes, I'm fairly well read and can hold a conversation about anything from Stanislavsky to Star Ship.

What I mean to say is, I'm not people smart.


I can read people fairly well. I have a keen sense of personal energy and all that new age bullshit.

I guess though, the real problem is, I don't listen to what I perceive. Because I want so badly to be wrong sometimes. I know that most people would kill to be as accurate and precise as I.
But for once I'd like to be proven wrong.

I'd like someone to prove to me that they are what they seem. I'd like to rest assured that feelings don't have to be unreliable. That there are some things that are sacred, solid.

I'd like someone to prove to me that love is enough.


The problem is, of course, that I am always right.

And I don't believe any of those things

I have learned though, when to say when. I wasn't always great with it, sometimes I'm still not. Sometimes it takes me longer than is good or healthy or sane.

But when I say uncle, I mean it.




This is a story about saying when. Even if you're two years too late.



Like most stories, mine at least, this one is makes the most sense if you start at the ending...

The Rebirth

At first, I was going to get rid of the archives.

Seriously.
I was gonna toss every single entry like emotional trash, proverbial spring cleaning, if you will.

Because everytime I re-read them, and I do re-read them more than I will ever admit to anyone who isn't a mental health professional, it's like tearing open old sores with my fingernails, watching the tears I cried bubble up over the jagged skin not quite healed together prettily.

I'd be lying if I said I was over it all.
That I'd dealt with all of it appropriately or totally.

But then I thought, they're my scars. They're my stories.
They belong.

So forgive me if I don't regale you with tales of my day or the books I'm reading or the joys of cheese stuffed chicken. If that's what you're looking for, this is not the place for you.

And if you'd like to judge me for my content...

Fuck you.

And welcome.

Black People's Version of Wealth Building

It would take something this ass foolish to get me back to blogging. Please see video below. Don't worry. I'll wait...




What in the extra coontastic hell?!?!

Son, there are far too many things wrong with this video.

In case you ain't heard Soulja Coon, we are in a recession. And you are 13 years old. And you have no discernible talent to last you in this music game once you and your fans grow up and realize that the word 'swag' is deader than Elvis and therefore should not ever be turned on. So in the interest of your future, you should be saving that money. Because in a few years you will be hosting Tupperware parties in your mama's basement to make ends meet and this black diamond remote controlled chain with matching bracelets will seem like a dumb ass idea.

If you have an ounce of sense in your little pea head, which I am not so sure about.

Yes, I heard he got it for free too. And I am not buying it. And even if he did, it is such a stupid and unnecessary display of tom foolery, that I simply cannot stomach it.

I thought we were beyond the 90s era of ostentatious rap?

The sad thing is, this is so very indicative of the idea of wealth building in the black community. Get a grip, or in this case, an "advance" and don't put any of it into savings, don't invest it. Blow it on supporting companies and people who DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOU. Increase their net worth while blowing your own.

For some reason, people period, but to a far more detrimental extent black people, equate success with things. Not with longevity. Not with business accoutrement. Not with the size of their investment portfolio, but the size of their Big Ass Chain.

Get the fuck outta here.

So many complain about "The Man" and how "The System" is designed to keep us subjugated, but we are buying into our own financial demise, one gaudy ass Ed Hardy shirt at a time.

Let's keep it 100; money is power. Not in the traditional sense that it automatically commands respect or lends relevance *cough* Paris Hilton but in that it is a means to an end. Said end could be a multitude of things based on your own personal goals, but there is no way you can amass any kind of power if every chance you get you are pissing away what little money you have on European cars you are barely old enough to drive.

I can't stomach this particular brand of coonery another second. Not even because it is so incredibly wasteful. Mostly because it is so patently ignorant that I can't believe that this false illusion of self worth is still bought into. Things do not make you worthy.

And for the record, neither does half ass talent and a best selling ringtone.

Things are not power. They are items...
...which can be seized by the IRS and sold at auction if/when necessary.

Obnoxiously ridiculous chains are not status symbols...
...merely just another sign that we are even more oppressed at our own hands than we accuse others of perpetuating.

They don't make you relevant. They don't lend you talent in the face of obvious musical ineptitude. They aren't even cool.

Grown ass men don't need to wear big ass chains to justify the size of their balls.


Try it sometime.

Sense Memory

Heartbreak has a sound.

But it is muffled, faded. An echo of past laughter long gone silent, but still ringing in the long, dark corridors that you now travel alone. It whispers on the wind, reverberating deep in your mind's eardrums, imprinting your brain with the familiar melody of love, as it was.



It has a smell. A mélange of the meals you shared, the mingling of their skin on yours. It smells like the air right after it rains, heady and suffocating, slightly stale, like things that are slowly going bad.

There is a distinctive taste, salty and melancholy, dry tracks of tears that have made their way past the parting of your lips, fusing on your tongue with the flavor of the kisses you swear you can still taste.

It paints the places you once loved with its pallor. It becomes sight slightly muddled, no longer rose colored, awash in sepias and grays. It is a hidden image, looking inside every interaction you see for the telltale signs of inevitable loss.

It's like water on your skin, its touch cold and clammy, weighing you down. Its molecules still linger on the air around you, enveloping you again in the weight of it just when you think you have wiped yourself clean.

Much like love, heartbreak assaults all the senses, taking them over, arresting their function for their own desires. Crippling you beneath their powerful manipulation of your emotions. It is your senses in retrograde; where love once heightened them, they are now but a shell of their abilities, slave only to the memories ingrained in their very functions.

I've known this kind of assault far more times than I care to recall.

And yet each time, the wounds rupture anew, splitting wide open, blossoming scarlet just under the skin, mostly out of sight but still painful to the touch.

Each time, it never hurts any less.

Is This not the Cutest Thing?

Frequent Flier

I have done a significant amount of travelling.

Not the literal kind, though I have done that too. The metaphorical kind. The lyrical kind.

The love kind.

I am as familiar with the terrain as I have ever been. I have been all over Emotionally Unavailable Alley. All up and through It's Just not Meant to Be. I've dragged myself over the broken glass strewn across Brokenhearted Boulevard time and time again to get back to Safely Single.
I don't even need a map anymore.

I even liked It's too Hard to Let Go Even if it's Best so much that I went back...
Twice.

I have an insane number of frequent flier miles. I know all the rules and the customs, even recognize some familiar faces. I know all about the taxiing, the gathering of power until takeoff. I know how to just chill in my seat until we've passed the turbulence, until we reach cruising altitude.

I know all about the inevitable crash landing. At this, I am a pro.


Under my bed is a box. Simple in it's design, it is wholly unremarkable. But the life it contains inside is remarkable. In it are the remnants of every trip I have ever taken, tokens and scraps of these miles I have travelled. The box is a stronghold of sorts, though it looks like no safe you have ever laid eyes on. It protects those memories that have shaped me. From the elements; from myself. It holds onto all of those things I can't bear to hold in my hands.

Because I still have to go pick up my load from baggage claim.


Sometimes I wonder, what if I had missed that flight? What if I had flown another airline? What if I hadn't been two hours early or ten minutes late?

That is the kind of thing you cannot store in any box.


No matter how many times you cash in your frequent flier miles for some indiscernible perk, the
trips are always there, a part of your travel history, a stamp in your passport if you have been taken that far.

Just because they are over doesn't mean they go away.


I travel, I fly, I guess, because it is in my nature. It might not always nurture but it is natural, I suppose. I've learned so much about the world, but it never quite seems to be enough to satisfy my need to explore the next uncharted terrain.

But really, I am tired. I miss home, wherever that is. I miss that sense of relief that comes from dropping my baggage at the door, wandering familiar earth unrestrained. I long for stairs that creak a recognizable symphony under my weight. And the particular hue that my own sheets turn under early morning sunlight. I miss space where I am free to exist as I am, not as I should or could be, if only...


In many ways, I will miss the routine, the familiarity of a journey that I have become so familiar with. But I have done so much travelling.

And where do you go when there is nowhere left but away?

This is Awesome.

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Tom Hanks Care Package
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Stephen Colbert in Iraq

Reflection

As I have found myself moving solidly into grown womanhood, I have been doing quite a bit of self reflection lately. It's actually been pretty good for me. I have been able to settle and rectify alot of things in my mind, put alot of old issues to rest, and make some really good ground on dealing with some that are still present.

A few days ago, The Notorious B.O.B. says to me, "You consider yourself a good judge of character. Maybe you should rethink that."

At the time, the shit offended the hell outta me. Of course I'm a good judge of character! I wanted to yell. I dated your ass didn't I?!

But, again, having transitioned into grown womanhood, I decided to sit with it a moment, really turn it over and consider if there was any validity to this statement.

I was still sitting with it when I received a text from First Love this morning...


Back Story...

First Love and Almost Fiance coincidentally share the same forename. And, while it made it easier to remember who's name to call in bed, it has created multiple entries of said name in my cell phone. I have also had both the pleasure and displeasure of working with and befriending 3 more people who share this same, extremely common first name. So there are 5 entries of said name, or some variation there of, in my cell.

I say this to say, in a drunken haze one night around 11pm, I mistakenly texted a message to First Love that was meant for another person. Said message was nothing vulgar or ridiculous. I believe it said something like...

"Hey I just got your message. I am gonna go pick up Abe and then just meet
us at 300."

Something like this.

For clarity's sake, I also have to reiterate that, while there is a 300 in both Houston and Atlanta, I live in Houston, he lives in Atlanta, and in 13 years of friendship, we have not shared a friend named Abe.

The night goes on, bowling and drinking ensues, and I am not at all aware that the person I meant to text didn't receive my message because he shows up at the venue and buys me a Jack and Coke.

(We heart him.)

The next morning, still quite drunk and very asleep, my phone rings multiple times. On time, lets say 4, I finally get my bearings enough to realize that it is not in fact a part of my dream involving me and Idris Elba and I answer.

On the other side of the country, First Love is throwing a bitch fit.

Being again, drunk and asleep, I don't quite put 2 and 2 together. He is bitching and I am drifting in and out of consciousness. I gather that he is bitching at me about texting him. I figure that it's because his broad was with him at the time. I apologize for the mistake.

He hangs up on me.
I take my drunk ass back to sleep.

Around 3pm when I finally wake up, bits and pieces of the convo start to drift back to me.

What in the bitch nigga hell?!?!?

Sir did you really call me from 800 miles away to question me about a text that was obviously not meant for you, all because your chick, who is damn near 40 fucking years old, likes to conduct her relationship like you're high school seniors?

WHO STILL GOES THROUGH NIGGAS' PHONES THESE DAYS?!?!

I contemplate, for a split second, calling him back and cussing him out for calling me with this kinda foolishness early on a Sunday morning, but I'm hungover, dehydrated and most importantly, grown.

I bitch about it to B.O.B. for a second, then put it out of my mind.


Back to the present...


I am at my desk knocking out some paperwork when I get a text. I get all excited when I first read the name because I think it's Almost Fiance, although, realistically, clearly he ain't carrying around his Black.berry in Iraq and texting niggas. I realize it's First Love.

Hey it's First Love. Thought about you and didn't realize that I didn't apologize for blowing up. My old lady was tripping and I took it out improperly, forgive me.

La wants to say...

Look what I need is for you to quit dating these crazy and insecure bitches that can't handle the thought of me even though I live 800 miles away, we haven't been together in 7 years, and I don't particularly care for the man you've become. And if you can't seem to do that then at the very least don't bring that kinda foolishness to me.

Trying to earn her grown woman stripes, instead La says...

I understand that it must have been hard for situation for you but please don't let it happen again. I do not appreciate being involved in your relationship drama over an obvious mistake.

And I get back to my paperwork, because I think this will be the end of it.

Instead I get a text that says...

Whoa, maybe to you, but the mistake wasn't THAT obvious. I wanted to show love because we are good like that. I still feel the same, I was just rude about it. Nevermind.

La REALLY wants to say...

SIR. Don't apologize to me like you are doing me a fucking favor. And when, in the history of us knowing each other have we ever shared a friend named Abe? And when have I ever come to Atlanta without first giving you a head's up? And why in THE FUCK is it ok for you to wake me up on a Sunday morning being rude because your chick is acting a fool, but I can't tell you I don't appreciate it?!

Instead I say...

If we were "good like that" you never would have called me early on a Sunday morning and been rude to me. As I said then, I apologize for the mistake. And don't let it happen again.


Now, to me, I have twice been calm and deliberate, very clear about both my apology and my displeasure at the way I was spoken to. And TWICE I have said so in such terms that could completely dead this conversation.


And so I think that's the end of it.
Except not.


I then receive a 3 page long text as follows...

Confused... if you text someone on mistake and they communicate to you that it's a problem, that's not the time for self defense. You express your intent and don't let the shit happen again, simple. I valued our friendship and am big enough to look at things whollistically. You are obviously somewhere else with it. But that's ok too. Me the bad guy, don't think so. Have a good one.


Err?

In this edition of La Wants to Say, she decides to show her ass...

First of all sir, whollistically is not a word. I cannot endure such abuse of the King's English in an attempt to sound intelligent. Actually, no, first things first, we are NOT friends sir. We are people who have known each other since we were 12 and used to date. Let's be clear. And whether my texting you was a problem or not, which I apologized for then, you do not call me on the phone that I pay for being rude and expect it to be ok. It was in your best interest that I was asleep and still drunk, otherwise I woulda surely cussed you and your silly broad out for that childish foolishness. Don't call me with drama. Pull your balls outta your ass, man up and handle your relationship business at home. Tell your bitch to act like the 40 year old she is and not a high school senior and dead the issue. And by all means, if you cannot be man enough to do that, please give me her number and allow me to do it for you.

Instead I say...

You too.



WTF?!?!

I simply cannot deal with the Bitch Nigga sneak attacks that these dudes are out here perpetrating.


And looping around to my initial point, how is it that I have managed to accumulate a roster of such bitch ass niggas? Maybe B.O.B. is right; maybe I simply am not the judge of character I thought I was.


So tell me, men especially, am I just not seeing his point of view? Did I miss the point? Is it generally ok to bitch up like this when under fire from your insecure ass broad and pull this kinda high school "call her while I am standing right here listening to what she says" bullshit?




(p.s. I am EXTREMELY interested in knowing wtf he tells this hoes about me, because ALL his chicks hate my ass, lol)

Almost Always Counts

Sometimes the internet is the devil. Because of it, have I...

a. bought $50 worth of hair products
b. entertained the comedic timing of porn starring Asian girls
c. given I.tunes half my paycheck
d. plotted spending the next paycheck at I.kea
e. been found via face.book by that Harlem cutie who couldn't hold a convo worth a damn but knew how to...


So anyway...

If you guessed all of the above, you are correct.

But sometimes the internet is not the devil. Like when it allows me to get in contact with someone who would otherwise be too far away for me to chat with.

Say if they were in, I dunno...

Iraq.


Like Almost Fiance.

Again.


Geesh.


I would like to pretend that it isn't as hard on me now as it was back then as we are no longer We. But the truth is, I have known this man for seven years. I know his mama and his sister and his grandmother. I've seen him naked and held his hand and cooked for him and travelled with him and slept in his (hairy) arms and watched football with him and talked to him for countless hours on end. Even if we rarely talk, it makes me feel some kinda way to know that I can pick up the phone and call him whenever, which is why it makes me feel some kinda way that right now I can't. And it makes it decidedly harder to commit to an unflinching optimism for President Obama and his policies on the "wars on terror" when you are still getting messages that someone you know and love is doing a six month tour in Iraq. (Seriously though, Air Force, why can't you ever send his ass to like... Greece? We ain't fighting nobody there or something?)

The thing is this; we are no longer We. But he's still my favorite ex-boyfriend. And I still know his mama. And he is the only ex to speak of that I can talk to like the friends we once were before he seduced me. (My story and I'm sticking to it.)

And I want him home.


At work, I am surrounded by some ex-military men, some war veterans, some Republicans who would kindly risk a million more soldiers for the chance to find Bin Ladin, some Democrats who don't understand that there is no such thing as world peace, thereby necessitating the need for a strong military. They debate all the time about the two wars we are fighting, what they would do if they were in power, what they believe, what the military needs to do... blah blah blah.

But I can never quite bring myself to join in. Not because I don't care. Not because I am not just as passionate.

But because this is not a general discussion for me. This is not an intangible scenario of what if. This is not a meeting of ideals and ego.

This is a friend. This is family.
He's 24 fucking years old. He'll be a daddy in December. He's his mother's only son. And the only man alive who has ever bothered to remember my favorite flower.

So forgive me if I can't quite grasp your talking points.


Talking to him made me feel better. No it's not easier now that we are not We. It's still a question mark, looming but unspoken, of whether or not he will get home safely, no matter how good I know he is at his job. It's six months where I won't be able to stand watching or reading the news. 180 or so days where if I hear from someone we both know that I haven't heard from in a long time, or see a number I don't recognize pop up my cell phone display, I will get nervous.

Because that is who I am to the We that we are now.

Sure, sometimes Almost Fiance can be a dick. And yes, he was always a bit too enamored with how attractive my sister is. And true, our breakup hurt and he's a perfectionist, and there are no more romantic feeling between us anymore and we bicker and he's a Redskins fan for whatever inexplicable reason, but I almost married him.



I almost married him.



And I know his mama. And his smile. I love his friends. And I have memorized the way he drives. I believed him when he called me beautiful. I love his little sister like my own. I've talked to him for hours without realizing it.

We are We, even if no longer in the romantic sense.


And I want him home.

*sigh*



I dug this up out of the archives. I can't believe I never posted it.




New Year's Eve 2007



I'm nervous as shit.

Which is hilarious in and of itself.
I'm not sure why. I have no reason to be. None whatsoever. This is not unlike a million times we've done this.
Except it kinda is.

I fuck up the directions. Even with the help of the new navigation system The Notorious B.O.B. got me for Christmas after taking extreme pity on my lack of ability to decipher directions in the vast wasteland that is Texas.

I can't even listen to random white woman's computerized voice telling me where to go? I don't know my right from left now? I haven't even been drinking!

If I really sit and think about it, I can recognize that I'm only nervous because I am always nervous before the first time I see him after a long absence. Because our friendship is dear to me, because I always worry that time will have corrupted what was always, fundamentally, a crisp and strong connection before life got in the way. I'm nervous because our friendship means alot, and I would hate to happen upon one of those instances wrought with tension that is usually the precursor to even more extended bouts of separation that eventually lead to eternal silence.

But I don't have time to contemplate all that because I see him driving up. Granted, I can't really see him but I recognize his fast-for-no-logical-reason-other-than-I-can driving skills. He pauses briefly in front of me, long enough for me to put my car in drive and follow him through the gates onto base. He parks and jumps out and he's still the Almost Fiance I remember. He's smiling that cute smile at me. I'm immediately comforted as I sweep him over head to toe... and realize he's in basketball shorts.

"Uh you do realize it's goddamn December."
"This is not cold."
"I guess if you're not auditioning for the role of token nigga eskimo up in Alaska this ain't shit," I mutter under my breath as I climb outta the truck, thankful that he didn't hear me because surely I would have been setting myself up for failure.

We laugh and we joke all the way inside as I give a blood sample and a lock of my hair to the person working the desk so she'll allow me onto base, and we go on about our way.

"I haven't planned anything for tonight. And it's cold. And you wanna go down to the Riverwalk."
"What?!? YOU didn't plan anything for the evening?!?! Who ARE you?!?" I ask all incredulous.
"I know right. I was gonna make us reservations for dinner on one of the river boats, but it's fucking freezing."
"Yeah... about that..."
"I said I didn't."
"Good job, Almost Fiance."
"You women are never satisfied. Which shirt?" he asks me, holding up my two options. Knowing he's gonna be contrary than whatever I say, I respond, "The gray one."
"I kinda wanna wear black," he says hanging the gray one back in the closet.
"That's what I wanted you to wear too." He looks at me, his lips slightly parted, ready to ask me something and I cut him short. "Six years, Almost Fiance."
He smiles and starts to iron.

While he's getting ready, we talk and laugh and joke, probably far too loudly for whoever lives next door. At that point, I find myself so incredibly silly for being even the least bit nervous.

In the cab on the way downtown, we come across the most socially inept cab driver on earth. When "Hood Nigga" comes on, he turns it up amidst his exclamations of, "Yeah homies!" and throwing up faux gang signs. And while Gorilla Zoe is in fact MY.SHIT. I refuse to so much as push my lips up into a smile. Is he serious? And then he regales us for about 10 miles with his stories about some foolishness that the military gives you to eat and the explicit details about what it did to his digestive processes. Oh for real? Mmhmm. That's tragic.

We finally make it to the Riverwalk, stupidly let them give us a table right on the water and spend all of dinner huddling under the sorry ass little heater they have set up outside, which clearly woulda worked, if only the wind hadn't been blowing. Did I mention I didn't have a coat?

Yeah. About that...

We decide our only recourse is drinking. So we do.

As we drink and eat, we talk about our lives as we left them, who we've become, friends we used to share. He starts telling me about some foolishness with a previous sideline hoe and then his most recent ex.

"I really thought I was gonna marry that girl, have kids with her," he says.

As he's telling me about her, I check inside myself for any signs of jealousy. It's there, but very tiny, hiding in the corner, barely even visible. Mostly I find myself wishing it works out for him. He's a good guy. He's going to be a great husband and an even better father.

He can't be too bad. I almost married him.

We swap stories, him telling me about his ex and his exploits, me telling him about the Ex and Bob, and all the other ridiculousness that has occurred since Us. It is amazing to me how comfortable it is between us. I'm not entirely sure why I'm surprised. It was always this way with us.

We head home and pass out far earlier than we mean to, probably indicative of our old age. We spend New Year's Day together before I get back on the road. Even in our silences, there isn't a moment where I feel uncomfortable or where our jokes and laughter don't reverberate in my ears, where I can't still feel how the chemistry between us radiates into my bones.

As I'm driving back home, I feel pretty peaceful. It's funny how, when life happens, sometimes the thing you're left with is more profound than all the other things you were trying to build.

A friend.
A refuge.



Love.





And because I am just conceited enough to believe you stop by here from time to time to check up on me...

come home, ok?

- L

GO VOTE FOR MY MAMA! NOW!!!!

Hey blog fam!

My mom was selected to receive a mini makeover with TLC's Clinton Kelly of "What Not to Wear". She really enjoyed herself and she looks GREAT! (and she has some fabulous Michael Kors shoes that she doesn't know yet that I am going to steal, lol) But that was only the first part of the process. She wants to win a head to toe makeover and shopping spree in NYC with Clinton and to do it, she needs your help. Please go to http://www.macysmakeover.com/vote.html and vote for her. The last time we checked she was behind in votes so every vote counts! Please feel free to pass this along to anyone that might be willing to support her. You can find her original email below with a bit more info. Thanks so much for helping her dream come true!!!!

http://www.macysmakeover.com/vote.html


Love,

La :-)


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

All,

Some of you were aware that I was blessed to be a winner of the “ Clinton Kelly/Macy’s Makeover America-Austin” on last weekend. Well the before and after pictures are finally posted on the website and I need your votes to win the grand prize to visit Clinton in NY for the full head-to-toe makeover.

All you have to do is click the link below and vote for me, I’m listed as “Vicky R.”! Then pass this along to all of your friends, extended family, and anyone else who would like to support me in this effort and have them to do the same. I currently only have 8% of the votes…EVERY VOTE HELPS! J

Thanks,

http://www.macysmakeover.com/vote.html


Vickie

The Block is Notsomuch Hot

Welcome to this edition of writer's block. In it, I ramble on about nothing because I cannot seem to form a complete, rational, written thought of any kind. So instead, you get this.


X Factor finished the Avon Walk this weekend! Woo! Go congratulate her on Face.book and such.

I haven't been much for TV lately, (with the exception of Keeping up with the Kardashians which, for some reason Kim's ass I am totally obsessed with) but I have been going hard with the music. For some reason, it has taken me this long to completely fall in love with "Rockferry". I've had it, but haven't really been giving it much play. And then this weekend... I dunno, maybe it was my current emotional state, but I am pretty sure this is what love is. One of my favorites, "Stepping Stone"...

You used to call me up from time to time

And it would be so hard for me not to cross the line

The words of love laid on my lips just like a curse

And I knew, oh yes I knew, they'd only make it worse

And now you have the nerve to play along

Just like the maestro beats in a song

You got your kicks you get your kicks from playing me

And the less you give the more I want so foolishly

But I will never be your stepping stone

Take it all or leave me alone

I will never be your stepping stone

I'm standing upright on my own

*swoon* Also, I was listening to Pandora while doing some pretty serious manual labor with my co-workers on Friday (you're right, that's not in my job description) and it was apparently 90s rap day. I could barely work for being so distracted. So now I desperately need to get my 90s rap game together via I.Tunes. Any and all suggestions for downloads should be left in the comments and would be greatly appreciated.



I hate growing up.


And, more importantly than all of that, is this. I've stalked Michael's blog The Cynical Ones for the longest, ever since Shani hipped me to it a few years back. He's an excellent writer, extremely funny and insightful, a little snarky... basically all the things I look for in a blog crush. But every once in awhile he writes something so incredibly great and right on point, that I can't help but envy his talents and honesty just a bit more. Go on over to The Root, read his article there and show him some love.


In the meantime, I will continue to pretend I have something worthwhile to say...

Simmer

Today I wore makeup.

A pretty bronze-y pink that I picked up from MAC as a treat for myself on my birthday (while doing the self pity shopping) complimented by various shades of gold and chocolate brown. The colors blended nicely under perfectly sculpted eyebrows and mascara to give me that doe look. Since it's warming up, I opted for just a little bronzer, neutral colored lips. I looked beautiful, if I do say so myself.


Underneath it though, I was blazing.

I have been for awhile now. Outwardly cool and calm and collected, inwardly seething. Absolutely simmering with fury.

I am angry all the time.
And I have no idea why.


To be fair, there have certainly been valid reasons to be angry; there have been more than a scarce amount of slights and resentments and neglects and arguments to certainly fuel my wrath. But mostly it's just a lingering boil, simmering right beneath the surface, spilling over, scorching everything when I least expect it to rise over the edge.

The only way I know to deal is to stick to myself for a little while until I can get a lid on it or find the cause of it or at least turn down the temperature on my anger.

But it seems like everyday, every slight, everything that just has to become a full on production just because of the orchestration of my life, turns the temperature up 10 degrees.

Goddammit I am hot.
And not in a cute way.


Just writing this, I feel my body heat inching up. My palms are getting sweaty. My heart is beating faster in my chest. I'm clenching my teeth. I feel short of breath. It's like even acknowledging it reveals a draft, lets the air in to bolster the flames.


But I am out in the world so I smile, albeit tightly. I try to be polite. I try to stick to myself. I try goddammit.

And it's not helping.


Underneath the MAC, something is festering, putrid and fluid, splashing over all the contents of my life. On the inside I am seething, hot and humid, barely managing to act like I have any modicum of sense.

Today, I wear makeup.


Tomorrow... who knows?

25 Things About 25

Here are some things I have learned since turning 25 that I think are important to share with you... you know, cuz I'm so wise and shit.




1. When you're feeling sorry for yourself, you SHOULD NOT go shopping.

2. Tattoos hurt. Especially on thin skin. Since it's been 3 years since your last one, you'll forget this and think you're a soldier, but alas... you are not. You may or may not wind up straddling a chair looking topless and whimpering like a little bitch.

3. Birthdays are not for diets. Or at least not diets that don't involve cupcakes and Mexican food.

4. Boys in basketball shorts are insufferably sexy. If said boys can actually ball, I may or may not entertain putting out at half court.

5. You should always get laid on your birthday.

6. Someone will always find a way to ruin your day if they can. The trick is to get so drunk that you don't care. Also...

7. Drinking is more fun if you do it in the middle of the afternoon.

8. Getting older sharpens your math skills. I.e. Vin Diesel + fast cars = wet dreams.

9. When it feels strange that you've not gotten fucked up and/or gone to the strip club, you've gone over to the bad place.

10. Friends are better when you know how to appreciate them.

11. Just like dick.

12. You know you've grown up when you stop before going shopping to... pay bills.

13. It really isn't them... Its you.

14. You know you love someone when you will share your space with them... And not kill them when they eat in your bed.

15. Blackberries are the devil... dance around the flames.

16. You're nobody til somebody side eyes what you're wearing.

17. Its ok to freak out about a gray hair... If for no other reason than it will prepare you for how you'll react to the others that are soon to follow.

18. Psycho calling/texting gets even less cute with age.

19. Find a good pedicurist... Your days of being able to reach your toes are numbered.

20. On your birthday (especially in the case of #1) you can convince yourself that you absolutely need that $200 pair of shoes or other ridiculous item. You absolutely do not. That being said...

21. I need a meerkat.

22. If you don't want to hear from people you long convinced yourself you didn't know, don't put your birthday on face.book.

23. No, the aquarium ISN'T less fun because you stopped to pay your Cap One bill before you went.

24. Sometimes speeding is good for the environment... or... the... greater good of... humanity. Yeah.

25. Twenty-five feels different than twenty-four. No bullshit.

Quarterlife Notsomuch

You know how usually I am all atwitter (not to be confused with Twit.tering) about my birthday, planning for the annual trip, posting pics of the fab hotel we will be staying in, taking wagers on how drunk I will be?

Yeah... about that...


This year there is none of that. I am not excited. I am not looking forward to it. Matter of fact, until my co-worker asked me yesterday, I had forgotten that my b-day is even Sunday. (And I may or may not have forgotten that I have to pick Joy up from the airport tomorrow.)

I'm just... not feeling it. At all.

I would like to blame it all on the whole 25 milestone and such, but the truth is, I am just not feeling anything lately. Honestly, I would like to just nap through it.

No seriously. I am all about the Lunesta nap.

I'm not excited. I am going to be happy to see Joy, sure, but other than that...

**crickets**


I'm not even excited about getting a new tattoo (or two). Does that even sound like the La you've come to know and shake your head at?


Bah.


I wonder if Joy will just let me lay on the floor with Honey with a straw in a Grey Goose bottle...

The Cycle

It's been like this for awhile now.

It's almost midnight and I am awake. Mostly because I quite literally passed out earlier in the evening. Because I am exhausted all the time. Weary. And now I am up. But sleepy. My eyelids feel heavy. But when I lay down (as I did for about an hour and a half before writing this), I am wide awake. My mind is working. So I get up. I watch Sex and the City reruns and count the number of times they change the dialogue in the episodes I know by heart. I play Fish Frenzy on MSN. I explore the new laptop. I always say I am gonna be productive, blogging or finishing some more chapters of the book I told myself I would finish this year. But instead...

I watch the episode of Friends where Chandler and Joey leave baby Ben on the bus.
I pick my hair up off my chest and marvel at how long it's gotten, twirling the soft strands around my fingertips.
I pick at my cuticles.
I download music from i.tunes.
I wish I had more West Coast friends who are up at this hour rather than all my friends being firmly planted on the Right Coast who are asleep, as normal people should be.
I reorganize my closets and drawers and clean my shoes.
I sigh alot.

Earlier today I was so damn sleepy at work (after struggling to get out of bed and getting to work late of course) that I took my lunch hour at 11am, and went and took a nap in my car. I fell fast asleep only to be awakened an hour later confused and still utterly exhausted. So I sucked down caffeine for the rest of the day so I wouldn't fall asleep at my desk.

When I got home, still exhausted, I ate, and laid across the bed to check my email... and woke up 2 hours later. Confused and still utterly exhausted.

And then so begins the cycle mentioned before.

Such seems to be my life. This kinda cycle that I can't get out of. If I were in a book (read: a rich, white, trust fund baby) this is the part where I would escape for months to an ashram in India to do yoga at sunrise. I'd salsa with a darkly handsome man in Spain. I'd swim naked in the crystal blue waters in Grecian isles. I'd climb mountains in Italy. I'd drink blood red wine in France and spend the day walking to the top of the pyramids in Egypt.

But I am not that.

Instead, I lay across the pile of clothes on my floor giggling in my head to Phoebe's attempt at guitar playing and singing and hoping that the carpet is clean. I attempt to remember any one of the myriad of things that I have surely forgotten. I try to tell myself I need to go downstairs and cook the chicken I took out for lunch tomorrow. But notsomuch.


I am around. Just uninspired. And of course, entirely too dysfunctionally tired. Anybody wanna sponsor my Europe trip?

Go Girl

It's funny because this is so not my scene.



I am chilling, glass of wine in hand, sipping and surveying the crowd. I am well aware of the fact that I am under dressed in this crowd of posers and even more aware of the fact that I don't really give a shit. The white girl in front of me is laughing a little too hard at a joke the Slim Thug looking brother in front of her didn't tell. The elderly group of women to my left discuss homos and their contribution to the destruction of marriage, forgetting apparently that gay people aren't contributing the 50% divorce rate.

But whatever.

I am pretending not to notice the waiter that keeps making his way conveniently back over to clock my homegirl TRS. Or the group of black girls complete with obligatory gay boy who are throwing looks at my small group of three and hating. You would think, after damn near 3 years of living in Texas, that I would be used to not only the white folks looking at me like I don't belong, but the ordinary ass niggas doing the same.
I'm still not though.

My eyes drag the crowd. I am crowd watching, checking the outfits, compulsively crotch watching. I catch the eye of a tall light skinned dude across the crowd and I smile a bit, long enough to not be rude, short enough to not issue an invitation to invade my personal space. I slide my eyes away, but not before resting them quickly on the bulge in pressing against his zipper.

Nice.

During my optical escape from the guy single-handedly trying to bring light skinned boys back, I spy a very familiar blazer. I smile at what used to be fond memory. Before...

I've seen a blazer like that.

And then he turns...

I helped pick out that blazer.

Jesus.


KB catches my eye and smiles that perfect smile that used to turn me on so much. For a split second, I remember who he was Back Then and why I was so attracted, so bewitched with him, until I remember who he turned out to be. You know it's time to move when you can't go anywhere without bumping into mistakes. Repeatedly. I smile tightly, slightly raising my wine glass, and turning pointedly back to the conversation my two friends are carrying on with the extra black men far too excited to have business cards.

Fuck.


For the rest of the evening, I pointedly concentrate solely on the conversation happening in front of me, but still trying to stay aware of my surroundings. I mingle only a little, distracted, unable to carry any real conversation with TRS because I can still feel his eyes on my neck.

I'm sweating.
Like I'm trapped.

TRS and I part early after only a few after parties, partly because we have to get up in the morning, mostly because we both unwisely wore four inch heels. As I make my way to my car in the parking garage, I become immediately aware that the easy rhythm of my boots on the concrete are harmonized by the shuffle of a heavy foot and the click of a stiletto. Under any other circumstances I would be a bit worried. But I know it's him.

I turn at the driver's side of the my car, as he approaches. I size up the model chick on his arm. I would be lying if I said that she didn't make me feel bad about myself. That is of course until I notice her eyes lingering a little too long on my lips after awkward introductions, and sliding down to my chest.

"Babe could you wait for me in the car please? I will only be a minute," he says to the Rosario Dawson ringer, tossing her the keys. I smirk at the disrespect. Surely had he done that to me, his keys would be laying on the ground. Or, more accurately, if he were dismissing me so he could chat it up in a parking garage with some chick he used to fuck, he would find himself stranded.

But she ain't me.

"Hey stranger."
"Well hello. What are you doing here? I heard you'd moved."
"I did move. We are just in town for a long weekend."
"We?"
"Yeah. Rosario and I."
"Oh ok. Gotcha. You guys are dating?"
"Yeah. Pretty seriously for 6 months now."
"Well congrats. Though I hate to tell you, I think your girl," I lean in conspiratorially, "might be a dyke."
"What?"
"Just a feeling."
"You're just saying that."
"I'm just saying that because I know."
"Because the last time I was that distracted by a woman's lips, I fucked her."

He laughs, the sound echoing in the empty garage before we fall into silence.

"How are you?" he asks me, struggling to maintain neutrality.
"I'm good."
"Still wifed?"
"Very happily."
"That's good."
"You don't mean that."
"You're right. I don't."

Silence engulfs us again, him regarding me carefully, taking in the changes since he saw me last.

"You got your braces off."
"I did."
"Your smile is beautiful."
"Thank you."
"Happiness agrees with you."
"I think so."

When he doesn't follow up his comment I make a move towards my car, deactivating the alarm so I can leave Rebound Hell.

"I keep running into you," he says.
"God has a strange sense of humor."
"I think it's for a reason." I raise my eyebrows at him. "So I can say I'm sorry," he blurts out before averting his eyes like a child being scolded. "I said some... pretty awful things. And you didn't deserve it. And you apologized to me for what you did. And I treated you like shit. And I'm sorry. That isn't the kinda person I want to be."

I search his eyes for any hint of manipulation.

"Apology accepted."

He smiles, attractive and lively again, and I hope he can hold on to that. Even if he is with Rosario the Model with No IQ.

He leans in to hug me, positioning his body for a close, intimate hug, as I shift away and give him obligatory stranger distance, complete with the 2 taps on the back. For a minute, I remember that once, I used to like him in my space.

Used to.

In my ear he says, "Be well," and turns to walk towards his rental. He turns back about halfway across the distance.

"You're still beautiful. And I still miss you sometimes. Sometimes..."

He trails off, presumably because he notices my raised eyebrow, my look of skepticism.

"Goodnight La."

I jump in my car shaking my head, simultaneously buckling up and turning on my radio. Remember how I told you my i.pod was psychic?

I'm the shit
And your lady wanna be me
That's a fact
Know that
Yes indeedy
Yeah I can hang
I think that's why they call me
Go girl
Cause I be goin' on em
Oooh they couldn't stop me if they wanted to

My i.pod ain't funny.



I turn it up and pull off fast, swerving, windows down, leaving Back Then in my rear view mirror.

The Lies We Tell Ourselves

Humans are creatures who, at their core, want nothing more than to belong to a group. We are by nature pack animals, feeling most secure and validated when we are in like groups that we can readily identify and identify with. In order to become one of a pack, people more often than not try to make themselves resemble as closely as possible the other creatures they want to become a part of. It can be both subconscious and necessary; the kinda tomboy girl wants to be a Tri-Delta, so she starts wearing girly clothes. The scrawny kid wants to play basketball so he works out. The new kid wants his coworkers to like him so he joins in the office gossip session.

It's human nature. I get it.

But alas, this desire also leads us to lie. And even though we pretend that they aren't lies because they are oft repeated phrases, I think there are a few lies we should really stop telling ourselves. They are as follows...



1. He's leaving his wife.
No he isn't. Ever. And if he does, he will continue leaving his wife... next time, it will just be you.

2. Childbirth is beautiful.
Bullshit. No it's not. Sure, you get a kid out of the process which, if you like that sorta thing, is great. But let's keep it 100; there is nothing beautiful about the process or the pain... or the episiotomy. I am OUT.

3. It's "more cushion for the pushin'", or "more to love", or "voluptuous".
No it's not. Nor are the clothes in this store "cut smaller". It's just fat because you are not 16 anymore. I have admitted it to myself and now, so must you.

4. Size doesn't matter.
Surely some little dick dude started this rumor and I have to tilt my fitted to his hustle. But seriously though, it matters. "Motion in the ocean" isn't gonna do anything but make me sick to my stomach.

5. News is truthful.
I assume, of course, that this is repeated only by those who have never watched Fox News. Or MSNBC for that matter. The news is a direct reflection of the person who owns the medium. Journalists my have to be impartial, but more likely than not, their paychecks are signed by someone who is not.

6. "I'll just put the head in."
There is no such thing. There are a million "just put the head in" babies in the world and everyday their mothers shake their head at themselves for being so gullible.

7. White lies are harmless.
If you lie, you are a liar. There is no such thing as "an innocent lie". That's just something liars with a conscience made up to make themselves feel better. Lying is still lying, no matter the degree. That's like killing someone "a little".

8. George Bush is not a war criminal.
Please. Presidents are not invincible. Even my dog knows Bush was that bullshit.

9. "I'm not gay... it was just that one time in college when I got really drunk..."
Bwahahahahahahaha! Right. And the dancing queen in the skinny jeans and baby tee with the pink feather boa singing the Pussycat Dolls at the top of his lungs is a Mormon minister. Well, actually...

10. "I'm not drunk."
If you have to explain it, you're fucked up. Just enjoy and hope someone gets you to the kneeling position in front of a toilet by the time the clock strikes midnight.

11. Sarah Palin was a victim of sexism.
The only thing Sarah Palin was a victim of was stupid. It must be nice to be able to get away with such foolishness with a wink and the gun (read: be an attractive white woman.)

12. If I love them, they will change.
Sure they will, they will change who they are dating. There is no such thing as the girl who was loved so hard she was no longer afraid of commitment, or the emotionally retarded guy who proposes after 15 years. You are not a Sex and the City character, and these are urban myths. Think of one person any of those things or something like it has successfully happened to. Don't worry. I'll wait...



...






.........



Right.


I am sure to think of a few more to add to this list so check back. In the meantime...


You like how I just slid back in here like it hasn't been weeks since I posted anything of substance, don't ya? ;-)

Happy V-Day

Yes, I'm late, but I got it like that. Just a little bit of sweetness that I was to post from B.O.B. and to hopefully make up for the fact that I have absolutely nothing to talk about.

10 Things You Bloggers Don't Know About My Valentine, La
By B.O.B.

1. She is super romantic.
So last week we were in San Fran, hands down the most beautiful city in the country and our new favorite spot (big ups to Chi), and she took me on a date (because she believes you should never stop dating, but really was exacting revenge on a particularly fantastic date I planned almost exactly a year ago. You win). We went to the pier and boarded a boat that took us across the Bay, over to an extravagant island, where we had a wonderful seafood dinner overlooking the water. Then we took a trip across the Golden Gate bridge. It was perfect. She plans shit like this in her sleep.

2. She is thoughtful.
For a year she insisted that I was the drunk one. But then one day in one of her more pensive moods she finally THOUGHT about it and realized that in the past year I was fucked up maybe twice while she may or may not have been out of sorts on several occasions. And upon making the realization she promptly apologized... and was devastated. Awww.

3. She talks tough on the blog, but she is a softy.
For your own safety, please don't get it twisted. Ma will let you HAVE it. But only when provoked. She is a naturally compassionate and caring woman, who is fiercely loyal and giving, not only to me but to her friends. Today she was in tears over some orphan puppies. Literally.

4. She's talented.
No bullshit she's one of those people who is good at just about everything and knows a little something about everything. But YO when she DOESN'T know how to do something (like parallel park) she goes NUTS. She can't stand it. But she will do what it takes to learn (after flipping the fuck out).

5. She is a generous and thorough lover.
If you're not grown please cover your ears for a moment...
I know niggas wanna be all up in other niggas' bedrooms so Ill just say this: She has this amazing capacity for giving. And she is skilled at memorizing every line and expression and response and muscle and inch of my skin like they're lines in a script. And you know that John Mayer song "Your Body is a Wonderland"? That's La. She would say her rack is her best asset (well.) and she might acknowledge her lips (MA'AM). But it's her eyes. Hands down. She makes love with them.

6. Don't try to surprise her.
I take that back. I've pulled off a couple, but do not let her know that you're planning ANYTHING. Her favorite line is, "Tell me EVerything", and you just get so tired of her prodding that you end up telling. But it's still worth it when she starts gasping and bouncing up and down and shit.

7. She can cook.
And she's not one of those corny Rachel.Ray wannabe girls that has to constantly talk about how great she is (though shes not above the occasional frequent self proclaimed, "I'm awesome!"). I think those girls are really just trying to convince themselves and hope people start believing it too. So the first time she cooked for us was real low key and on the humble. But she shut it down. Oh and she only lets me in her kitchen to pour us drinks or to slow dance.

8. She is attentive.
Which is ironic because she is also attention deficit and gets bored very quickly. I can't think of a single time when I needed her that she wasn't there. It's probably the reason we've survived a year long distance.

9. She's out of her mind.
Shorty is crazy. Whether its the time she wanted to fight after an incident at a strip club, or a lil scrap we avoided while going inside a party, or how she has to have all of her toiletries lined up with the labels out, how it drives her mad when I (used to) leave toothpaste in the sink, or like how she enjoys autographing certain body parts of mine then taking pics of it then later emailing them to me randomly, or how she kept saying 'cracker' at the civil rights museum in Memphis IN FRONT of white people. Out of her mind is what she is. It's cute.

10. She has a 'that's my shit' dance and face.
Let that Neyo shit "Miss Independent" come on. That's. Her. Shit. And she will tell you. Over and over. And she will do her little T.M.S. dance where she looks like she's hula hooping and she pouts up her mouth all cute while she dances. (And if a Ri.hanna song comes on she will sing over it because she don't respect her vocals (and sounds better anyway))

*Bonus... She likes when I write for her. Happy V Day, LaDiDahDi



I'm lucky, right? :-)

I Promise to Write a Real Post Soon but in the Meantime...

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

Is it Just Me...

...or does this commercial get you too?








Anyway, wish me luck. I can't tell you for what yet because I don't wanna jinx it. But wish me luck anyway.

DO IT!!!

I Walk Around Like I Got an 'S' on my Chest

"Hi."

I look around dumb confused because I don't know this dude. And yet he's all up in my personal space. And me being me, I am a stickler about my bubble.

"Hello...?" I reply like a question, leaning back and away from him.
"I'm That Guy."

I'm still looking around wondering what could have possibly prompted him to come over here because I am not wearing makeup, I have on glasses and Howard sweats, and my hair is in a curly ball of foolishness atop my head. Moreover, I was perfectly content with my nose buried in my hard to track down copy of Fuente Ovejuna and yall know good and well I don't play with niggas who try to pick up girls at Starbucks.

I mark my page carefully and look up at him.
"I'm La."

That Guy is plenty attractive, maybe not drop dead so, but definitely not painful to look at. He's maybe in his late 30s, and trying a bit too hard in his all Columbia ensemble but I recognize that every dude that graduated from there is trying to grab their corner of that Obama swag.

Understood.

He's a bit shorter than I prefer, because I prefer my men of damn near Grecian god stature, but not horribly so. He's got cute freckles that have been dripped from one cheek, across his nose, and over to the other. I won't even burst his bubble by telling him that light skinned boys went out with bamboo earrings for me. He has a cute smile and what seems like it could be a nice build out of his sweats.

But off top I don't trust dude.

And not just because he is all up in my space and I am pissy about it. It's just... something. He's smiling a bit too big. He's dipping his voice a bit too low, a bit too intimate for my taste. And dammit if he ain't all up on me, but not in an innocent I-have-little-to-no-concept-of-personal-space kinda way. More in a maybe-this-is-intimidating-and-will-throw-you-off kinda way. If he was a cartoon, he'd have a long red tail poking out of the back of his grey sweats.

"May I join you?"
"I'd prefer it if you didn't.

*sidenote: there is something quite comforting about being about overwhelmed with you life; you get to the point where you can and will say just about anything without worrying about being offensive or vulgar*

He, of course, sits anyway. As much as I love cocky, I cannot stand arrogant niggas.

You know, those dudes who were the only cute one at their church growing up so all the little girls were sweating them when they shoulda been taking Sunday School notes, so he thinks he's all that, when really, he was just the only that? Or dude who has a degree, is marginally attractive and has a bit of money so most dirt bag hoes with no constitution throw themselves at him so he's deluded himself into thinking he's That Nigga? (By the way- you're SUPPOSED to have that stuff sir. You don't get a medal.)

He's That Guy- not to beconfused with That Nigga, no matter how hard he tries to convince him.

"I'm not from around here..."

I side eye him. Let's have every man on earth pick up some new game on the way home from work, shall we?

"I'm not single."
"Well, of course not. I wouldn't imagine you'd be. You're beautiful."
"So the only reason I'm not single is because I'm beautiful? Not because I'm smart? Not because I am incredibly witty? Not because I am a fantastic writer, cook, carpenter, lover, and car afficianado?"

I can tell he is thrown off but only momentarily. That Guy is used to getting his way with dirt bag hoes, of which I am ashamed he's even thought to associate me with.

"I am certain you are all of those things. But I haven't been afforded the opportunity to get to know that side of you. Yet."

He puts emphasis on 'yet' as though it were some kind of invitation. If I were to close my eyes and concentrate, I am sure I could hear him hiss, but I tend not to want to close my eyes on snakes.

"I am all of those things. It's a shame you'll never get the opportunity to get to know them. But I will send your regards to my significant other."


I pick up my book and slide my glasses back up the bridge of my nose, in what I hope is a pretty clear sign that this conversation is over and done with.

Notsomuch with That Guy. That Guy, in case you didn't know, doesn't get the subtle.


"You're fairly young right?"
"Very legal. Though last time I checked, I didn't need to be carded to have coffee." He laughs.
"You're sharp. Nononsense. I like that."
"Exactly. Nononsense. And yet, here you are."
"What if I told you that I could set you up with the kind of lifestyle to which you could easily get accustomed and help you build the rest of your life into whatever you want it to be?"


It's then that I start to take in the details that I missed out of irritation.

The coat thrown over his arm isn't a couple seasons old Calvin Klein picked up from your neighborhood Macy's. It's Burberry, and not the ostentacious display of plaid foolishness either.
The briefcase said overcoat is hanging over is no mere Coach assembly; this is Vuitton. At first glance, this one.
The watch on his wrist is no watch; it's a Cartier timepiece.

All of that registers, and right around that time is when I start to get both appalled and offended.

Is this what's hot in the streets now?!

I've certainly never been one for archtypical romance, never really bought into the whole marriage and white picket fence hype, but really? This is getting a bit ridiculous.

Let's not even mention that while spying his "timepiece", I peeped a faint hint of wedding band tan line.


"Look," he says to me, "you're a beautiful girl. And in my life, I believe in two things; getting what I want and treating beautiful women a certain way-
"Oh you mean like accosting them and offending them in public?"
"No. I mean like keeping them as pampered and spoiled and well taken care of as I have the means to. And I most certainly have the means to do just that."
"Sir, I don't mean to be rude, but your offer is both insulting and honestly just beneath me. I can't even imagine what I would have to do to earn and retain such favor-"
"Just think about it. Don't decide now. Here's my card," he says as he hands me a heavy, plain black card with just his name and number on it. I imagine that he had these cards made expressly for this purpose. I vomit in my mouth a little. And I don't fail to notice his sudden haste replacing where improvised cool had once been.

"Call me anytime."

He walks away, a combination of what I guess he presumes to be a confident gait but it's a bit too hurried for that farce. Overall though, he has all but wrecked my concentration so I'm ready to get up out of there. As I'm packing up, I notice a beautiful woman breeze through the door, her long hair whipping in the wind behind her, her cocoa skin made up perfectly. She looks around briefly before heading to the counter. She's friendly, smiling beautifully at the young girl behind the counter, laughing and joking. As I am walking out, she walks past me with a smile of acknowledgement and I think that she is heading to the cushy chair that I just vacated.

Instead, she continues past it... back to the back table in the corner partially hidden from view where That Guy has taken up residence. I watch her lean over and kiss him before sitting, reaching across the table to hold his hand with her left... which is all but crushed under the weight of what has to be at least an 8 carat cushion cut diamond.

What in the married nigga hell?!?

This be what I be talking about. Not only are you trying to convince me that I wanna be your concumbine but you are MARRIED?!?
My God.

No wonder the divorce rate is at 53% in this country. The sanctity of marriage has all but been destroyed, and no, you Bible thumping right wing nuts, gays have nothing to do with it.

I recognize, wholeheartedly, that many women in my position might have jumped at this opportunity. But all I can do is shake my head. I would hope, if I ever do decide to get married, that my husband would never treat me this way. And if he did, I'd hope that some other young woman would have the personal constitution to walk away just like I did.
At first.

As I opened the door to my car I thought to myself, hoping just ain't enough.


I walked back inside as quitely as possible, so that he wouldn't see me walking towards them until I was at the table. He looked up, mildly irritated at first, then wildly panicked when he saw me. I looked him square in his eyes, smiling my sweetest, most sincere phony smile.

"I just wanted you to know, that I might be interested in your... proposition," I say, dropping my voice to the low, smoky tone I usually reserve for the bedroom. "I have your information. My number is on the back." I drop the card on the table between them and walk away without looking behind me.

On my way out of the parking lot, I drive past the window they are sitting in. I can't hear what they are saying, but the woman's beautiful face is contorted into all manner of angry shapes. She is standing over him yelling, and he is recoiling, like the snake that he is.

Yes ladies and gentleman, I am a goddamn marriage superhero, saving one marriage at a time.

Fast Car

"I am so mad I'm not in DC right now."

I balance my phone between my left shoulder and ear, taking the key out of the ignition, and grabbing my things from the passenger seat with one hand as I open the door with my other hand.

"Right? This is that bullshit. Damn near everyone I know is there. I can't believe I'm missing it."

I struggle to balance the slushie I grabbed on the way home in my hand along with my keys and a book, taking care to not let my over sized bag slide off my shoulder, or move my ear from the phone. I balance on one precarious heel while kicking the door closed with the other. I manage to open the door with my forearm, while reaching for the light switch with my shoulder.

"Oh my God you got tickets?! HOW?!"


My nerves start firing messages before my brain can comprehend them.

"You better wear gloves."


The door directly across from me going into the backyard is standing open.


"I know right."


And the frame is completely shattered. I trip over the remainder of the lock in the middle of the kitchen floor.


My God.



"Babe I have to call you back. I think someone broke into my house."


For some unrealistic reason, despite my haste to leave the house, I am unnaturally concerned with maintaining the balance of everything in my hands. In the movies, when this has happened, the person drops all the items in their arms, the camera panning their fall to the floor in slow motion, maybe in silence.

In real life, and if you are me, you are so wildly concerned with somehow hanging on to a snatch of control in this alternate universe that used to be your home, that making it back to the driver's seat without dropping anything feels like a significant victory. I'm so frazzled I almost drive through the closed garage door.

I drive, fuzzy around the edges, all while frantically calling my stepdad. In my mind I run a mental list, try to prepare myself for what I may find.


What if Honey is hurt? The TV, the DVD player, probably the cable boxes. SHIT! I left my camera on the dresser! And my diamond earrings! Goddammit!!!


I park in the lot at the school up the street from my block. Every shadow, every sound, makes me jump. After about 30 minutes I can't stand it anymore. I have to get back to Honey and make sure she's ok.

The garage is open when I return, my stepdad's truck parked on his side. I park and jump out without even bothering to grab my bags.

Inside, the door is still open, a barely less than frigid draft whipping through the kitchen. I take deep breaths to try to calm myself. I hear my stepdad walking around upstairs as I rush to the bathroom where I left Honey when I left for work this morning. She is fine, a bit shaken and leery, more clingy than usual. But all in one piece. I make my way upstairs.

In the loft, the TV has been knocked over. Wires are draped over the entertainment center where the thieves took the cable box and DVR, as I suspected they would. Other than that, the room seems mostly untouched.

The guest room door is open, but not much appears to be touched there. My bathroom is exactly as I left it, as is both the hall closets, and my dad's room. All appears to not be too awful.


Until I get to my room.


It looks like someone picked up the entire room and dropped it upside down. The TV and it's stand are toppled over, DVD player and cable box, gone. Clothes and purses are pulled from my closet, strewn about the floor. An entire drawer opened and dumped on the carpet. All the things on my dresser out of place. Nothing as I left it just a few short hours ago when I left for work.

While we wait for the cops, I take stock of what's missing. All in all, about $3,000 worth of my stuff has taken flight. I sit down on my bed, exhausted. Before I know it, I am crying. Not because of the things that I have lost, though I worked quite hard to get them. Instead, I am overwhelmed by feeling that my space dirty. All I keep thinking in my head is, someone has been here.

It barely feels like home.


I try, as much as I can keep it together. I call Bob, trying to pretend like I am not that upset, that this hasn't shaken me as much as it has. Before long, I am merely holding the phone and struggling to control the panic attack coiling inside me. I have no words for this feeling, this kinda empty. I'm not sure how long I sat there before I muttered the only thing I felt;

"I don't know what I did."


I fix myself a drink and gain control just long enough to manage to compile a list of items that I have noticed missing and their value for the officer that has shown up to survey the damage. As I am writing and looking around the room, I realized I've not looked in my jewelry box, having been mildly placated by the fact that my diamond earrings that I got as a graduation gift from my parents aren't gone. With a shaky hand I lift the lid.


It's damn near empty.


My favorite silver hoops that it took me a year to find. My 2 favorite bracelets, handmade by Mo. Quite a few necklaces, earrings, a watch, 3 pairs of shades.

No.
No no no no no.


My grandmother's pearls are missing.

I simply cannot.


I feel like someone is sitting on my chest. I bite the inside of my lip until it ruptures, sharp, metallic blood seeping into my mouth. The sensation has somehow stopped the sting of tears behind my eyes.

I can't replace that.


After all the business is settled, I decide to stay in town at my mom's. I can't bear the thought of being in that house, especially since the door can't yet be fixed and all that is standing between me and the next person that decides they wanna kick the shit in, is a small piece of plywood.

That night, I am restless. When I finally do fall asleep, I am scared awake by every sound I hear. I am having long, dark nightmares that I can't wake up from. I am sweating profusely, tossing and turning, waking up absolutely on fire.

I wake up at 7am, done with trying to force myself to sleep.


I spend the following day and the next trying to keep busy, part time working, going to dinner, running errands. Eventually though I find that I can't bear to go another step to do another thing and I make my way back to my mom's, still too shaken to go back home. I spend hours in front of the TV and pacing the floor, willing my body to shut down so I can go to sleep. It isn't trying to hear it. I decide to make a trip to the store to grab some bottles of water and ice cream. If I am gonna be up all night, it at least better be enjoyable.

I find myself at the 24 hour Walgreen's on the corner, wandering the aisles aimlessly, looking at nail polish and light bulbs, Hallmark cards and tampons. I am not particularly in a rush, and there is something mildly comforting about the fact that despite it being 1am, the store is still bright and awake. By the time I finally make it over the ice cream, the muzak playing from the overhead speakers actually starts playing something I know.

You gotta fast car, I wanna ticket to anywhere

I stop short. It's as if all of a sudden the song is on surround sound, like there is a concert in my head.

You gotta fast car, but is it fast enough so we can fly outta here?

Before I even recognize it, I am sliding down the wall in front of me, hot tears escaping from my eyes. It feels like my legs have disappeared from under me, and I crash to the ground far harder than I would prefer. I hardly feel the pain. I am too busy curling up on my side, tucking myself as tight as I can in the fetal position. I feel a puddle of my tears pooling on the floor under my face, but I am far too weak to care. In my head, I hear my grandmother singing this very song.

And suddenly I felt the weight of the past 5 years or so firmly assert itself on my shoulders.

In my mind, I am repeating the same thing I could only say sitting in my bedroom and taking in the mess that had been made of my sanctuary'

I don't know what I did.



It's silly of course. Logically speaking, I could say that I had the most stuff stolen, that my room was the most ransacked because I had the most to steal. Logically I could say that I came to Texas with good intentions and a plan and got waylaid. Logically I could rationalize that it could always be worse.

But this is how I feel. It's not always logical.


At some point, I must have done something. Although for the life of me, I sincerely can't recall my transgression, at some point I must have acted in such a way to turn my Karma on it's head. These last few years have been far too painful, too difficult, to0 insanely heavy and impossible to merely be the standard trials of life. The things I have pushed through, the things I have gotten up from, would without a shadow of a doubt take most people out, especially when they have fallen in such close proximity to each other as my tribulations have. But I've kept trying haven't I? I never gave up, did I? I still did good and tried to be positive for the most part, right? I kept praying and pushing and trying and laughing and living, didn't I?

So maybe something is telling me not to get back up.


I take stock of my life, as it is today, the things that have rendered me unrecognizable. My self imposed extradition from a city I love all because I fell in love there. Separation from my friends who are like family. A lover more distant and furtive than I prefer. Family ties severed beyond repair. A job I hate. A thoroughly slaughtered psyche, complimented by a ruined emotional landscape.


I cannot live this way.



After longer than I can measure, I finally pick myself up off the floor, scurrying out of the door with my head down, ashamed. I hear the girls that work there whispering and giggling about me before I even hit the doors.

I jump in my car and start to drive. Maybe if I go far enough, I will get somewhere.

Get up, get out, and get SOMETHING

First, the formalities...


My holidays were good for the most part. I was off for two weeks, travelling, eating, socializing, enjoying my share and a few other people's of Jack Daniels single barrel, sleeping like a hibernating bear cub, trying that thing on page 34 of Hustler Cosmo. With the exception of the usual family drama and frustration, all was well that is at least until I had to come back to work. And with that out of the way, let's talk about a convo that dominated most of the talk with my family and friends this holiday season...


Second, the set up...


I have a whole heap of cousins, all of whom are married, except for three (including me). Of the ones that are attached (7), all but two are having all kinds of issues.

That's right... FIVE marriages having issues.


Granted, each of their issues are unique(ly foolish) to the individual situation, but there seems to be one underlying theme at the heart of all the problems...

THESE NIGGAS REFUSE TO WORK.

Now, because I am so liberal with the word 'nigga' let me clarify; I don't mean 'nigga' in the traditional 'that's-how-La-refers-to-everybody-regardless-of-race-and-gender' way you're used to me using it. In this case assume that 'nigga' is an appropriate substitute for 'worthless ass husband'.

K?
Ok.


Now, I could write a whole post about the sorry ass nigga related to me that up and left his wife with two kids (and a third kid elsewhere in the world with his baby mama) to move up north with some random sideline hoe he met on the internet, and take care of her three kids while forsaking his own.
But I don't even feel like wrapping my head around that shit right now.

Instead, I will present the case of my female cousin, who's husband is the most egregious nigga of allllllll these niggas.


Cousin and Nigga have been married now for... 4 years? Maybe 5. Quote me not. In the interest of transparency I will disclose that they met while he was in/on his way to/just getting out of jail, that in the beginning of their relationship he got her hooked on drugs, convinced her to run away and all but devastated my aunt who was just recently devastated by her husband of 30+ years passing. (Alot right?)

So off top, he ain't THAT NIGGA.


But in the last few years or so, they have gotten their shit together. My cousin got a good job with the city, they got married, Nigga was holding down a full time job (albeit at McDonald's but as long as he was bringing in a steady paycheck LEGALLY, I am all about it) and had even found himself a mentor that was helping him get his GED, learn business, and generally just better his life. Last year around this time, they had a beautiful ten pound baby boy that you couldn't have paid me a million dollars and regular blow jobs from Will Smith to get me to carry and deliver and all seemed to be not just on track, but going well.


About that...

About six months ago, Nigga lost his mind. Quit his job out the blue. Was too proud to work at (insert random ass fast food chain here). Got fired from Wendy's after a week. "Couldn't" find another job. So Cousin was supporting both Big Ass Baby and Nigga.

No ma'am.

Furthermore, Nigga was NO PARTS of interested in finding another one. He WAS, however, interested in sleeping all day, eating up all the food in the house, smoking until he looked Chinese, not taking care of his own kid. He had his hand out for money every two weeks Cousin got paid religiously. Coming and going as he pleased, out until all hours of the night.

You know, bitch nigga shit.


It didn't take long for Cousin to be done with that foolishness, and get rid of Nigga. He is gone to parts Unknown, and she is doing the single parent thing pretty damn well.

Except this nigga is like that package. He just don't go away.


Every two weeks, like clockwork, he's calling her for money. Most recently, after he saw her in Walmart with another broad, he calls her asking for money with the excuse, "Baby we in a recession! I can't find a job."

**blink**


I'm sorry sir...

**blinkblinkblink**

What?!?!?!?


Lawd who taught this nigga a new word?



Aside from the absurdity of this nigga, it really seemed to be a running trend in my family, and with random friends. I literally heard at least one new story of Niggadom once a day. From everywhere and everybody. And these aren't just young, shiftless dudes that dropped outta high school to be street pharmaceutical distribution agents may not be legal but at least them niggas are working. These are married men, men with babies, men old enough to know better. These aren't men who have just fallen on bad times and need the support of their woman.

THESE NIGGAS FLAT OUT REFUSE TO WORK.

Wtf is going on here?!?!


I'm no man, but if I were, I am pretty sure I would feel some kinda way about my wife working all day everyday to support me and I'm not doing anything. Not being in a situation where I'm trying to find a job, and its just difficult with the state of the economy and job market. But I feel like I would not be ok with being worthless for a living. I feel like maybe it would challenge my manhood a bit. Like it would go against the very basis of my constitution. Like my balls would feel a little smaller.

Guys, your balls don't shrink a little when you realize that your girl is the man in your relationship?

Granted, maybe I am a little conservative. Maybe I am wrong for believing that in order to consider yourself a real man, you have to, I dunno, have a job, be able to provide for yourself, you know...

BASIC SHIT.


But shit, I work TWO jobs, so you better believe you at least need to have ONE nigga.


The sad part is, there are men in this world that would work at the zoo shovelling elephant shit in the snow if it meant he could take care of himself and his family. If it meant that he wasn't constantly begging, snivelling, trying to get a handout.

And there are men that genuinely ARE falling victims to the recession and ARE having a hard time finding a job and FEEL LIKE SHIT about it.

Not using it as an excuse so you will give them $12 to put on their Breeze Card.


And these men are the ones you need to answer to Nigga. Because they are the ones you are making look bad.


On the flip side of course, there are those women who allow these men to sit at home on their asses watching Young and the Restless and wearing their pampered status like a Purple Heart. Those bitches should be shot.
But that's another post for another day.


Mostly, niggas, you're bothering me.

Sir please go outside and kill yourself.



That is all.







p.s. I promise that I have pretty top notch grammatical skills, unlike those this post implies. But I just came from home, so I'm still talking all Atlanta and plus, I had some stuff to get off my chest. But don't side eye my grammatical stylings; I got a degree and shit.