La Bella Vita

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?

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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.



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?



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)

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

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

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"...

*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...

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?

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.

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...

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?

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.

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? ;-)

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? :-)

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

...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.

"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.

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...

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.

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.



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.

I avoid it like the plague. It is my way. Our way, really.


And yet somehow, some way, like gravity, we get pulled together. Objectively I can say that this universal pull is weighted evenly between the both of us. We are intertwined explicitly, probably forever.

Poetic shit like that.

Except our shit is less Love Jones and more Two Can Play that Game now. A ridiculous set of foolishness that you watch when nothing else is on, but you can't help but shake your head at because you know it could be, should be, better than this.

It used to be.


"Wear it."
"I can't."
"Keep it. It's yours. Ours."
"Ok."
"It will be there when I'm not."
"That sounds strange."
"What?"
"You not being there."
"I know, right?"
"It doesn't seem right."
"It isn't. I've loved you almost as long as I've been alive."


The mere demographics of the city, the specific niches in the city that our shared interests inhabit, almost guarantee that we will run into each other even if we avoid each other, like we used to try to do. We are still so inexplicably bonded that it seemed (and still seems) the universe was always conspiring against us, throwing us at each other full force, even when we were running as hard as we could in opposite directions.

"It's crazy how I know you're around before I know you're around."


We'd try, mostly in vain, to keep our distance. But it was inevitable that we'd see someone we once knew when we were We, and with the mere mention of the other's name, that delicate illusion of an island would be shattered. If we were very unlucky, we would be caught completely unaware by our running into each other; we'd look across the room and catch eyes at the same moment. The hair on the back of my neck would stand up straight and I'd know he was coming long before he ever put his large hand on the small of my back, slightly lower than where someone would who isn't as intimately familiar as he with my form.



Blood is hastening it's descent to my head, pooling and whipping ferociously in my ears. I am gasping for air, the pressure on my head mounting with every inch I slide backwards. I feel like I am being choked but his hands aren't around my throat. I feel his hands, large enough to hold an ample thigh in each one, radiating heat through my skin. He's talking to me, no language I could write but we are beautifully fluent. He rides me like a melody, I'm singing the notes and he's laying the track, each sound symphonic in a way unique to Us. His flute beckons me, pied piper to each vertebrae of my spine, arching indiscriminately, drawn to his melody, matching his beat.

We tumble, a blur of blue sheets and multi-hued limbs, his long legs supporting my own, my knees burning. I feel his hands on my hips, up my back, lifting the long hair matted to the center of my spine, twining it around his fingers, pulling. He's wrapped around me, close, his teeth on my ear.
"Tell me you love me."


I think we started reaching out to each other just to alleviate the tension, the surprise of not planning. We both enjoy control, the least of which should be within our power is the wrangling of the memories that are still too vivid, still too alive to all the senses to not be damn near debilitating.

It's easy to forget, when we retreat to our separate corners of the world, that even though we are now just me and him, we used to be Us. It's easy to shrug it off as childish dalliance. To shake our head at who the other has become in our absence. Intellectually, we know we are so far from Back Then.



"Sometimes I still think about us. I mean it's been so long, but I do."
"I don't."
"You don't? Not ever?!"
"No. Not really."
"Wow."
"It's just... it was so long ago. I've moved on. I don't see us together ever again. I don't love you anymore."
"I'm sorry... you what?!"
"I don't love you anymore."



I think I always thought that eventually we would be just memories. In many ways that has proven true, but, verily, we are part of a living history, an alive and breathing thing all unto itself. Impossibly, inexplicably, irrevocably intertwined.


We always come back to this.


"We were good together, once."
"Yep."
"Whenever I tell anyone how long we were together, they can't believe it."
"Yeah me too."
"It was good with us, right?"
"Yeah, it was. We were good together. Back then.
"Yeah. I think about it. I think about it alot actually."


I am, just by the sheer nature of my being, the type of creature that likes to pretend that I burst fully formed on the scene, no past to define me, no memories to haunt me.

I'm a liar to myself, that way.



"I know some things that...we...need to talk about."
"Ok. What do you want me to say?"
"You could say it isn't like I think it is."
"It wasn't. Isn't."
"Or you could just tell me you love me."



I recognize the inevitability of history, it's inherent need therein to be remembered and documented and shared. To be dissected and decided and to eventually, hopefully, become a part of your emotional landscape that still creates a beautiful terrain that you are familiar with. A place that all those that travel to that land afterwards can easily navigate.

Or, you could be us.



"Shawty you what?!?!?"
"Oh, like you even surprised."
"I mean, I'm not, but I am, you know? Shit."
"It was so obvious to everybody else."
"Yo' ass didn't know."
"That's real talk."
"Well, goddamn. You taking this shit a little bit too far, ain't you?"
"What shit?"
"Is there anything wrong with yo' ass."
"Come on now. Let's keep it trill; ain't nothing the fuck wrong with me."



It doesn't matter the evasive maneuvers. We are always found because at the end of the day, we are always us, gravitationally attracted to each other, the polar ends of a magnet still complimentary. We still find each other, fit together like Back Then, even though we are no longer who we once were, are more than We were.



"I hear you're in my city."
"It's more my city than it ever will be yours nigga."
"You been gone too long."
"Shut the fuck up with that bullshit."
"Fine. I heard you in Our City."




Yeah. Here we are.

There is a man that goes to my gym. Let's call him... Joe.

My Gawd.

And the man who started it all...

Joy tagged me on Facebook... but since I am rarely all that in depth with my Facebook-ing. I figured I would do it here. Plus, you know, I can't bring myself to write about any of the substantial things I need to write about. Oh well, lol. Here are the rules...





Once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 16 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 16 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it’s because I want to know more about you!


1. I am almost scarily clean. Clutter makes it harder for me to think and since my very existence depends on me being able to do just that and overdo it, I keep everything neat. But not just neat. We're talking everything arranged in right angles or by height, or separated by color or type or shape or the order in which I use them. That's right, I'm THAT guy. Bob is gonna hate living with me. :-(

2. When I was younger I wanted to be Jessica Rabbit... literally. and sometimes I still do. I wasn't quite clear on why I couldn't be a cartoon. And furthermore, I felt that if I really could be anything I wanted to be, then why WOULDN'T I pick the ultrahot redhead bombshell? All you kids who wanted to be a smurf, THAT was stupid.

3. I often make up words... and use them so often that I forget they are not in fact real words. I have had to retire my La-speak, and pull out my King's English for job interviewing and such, and often I find myself wanting to say things like 'skepty' which has become a shortened version of 'skeptical' in order to be joined with other words and phrases; i.e. 'giving u the skepty eye'. I don't think that my potential employees will find this practice an indication of my ability to think outside the box.

4. I didn't get my license til I was 21. Mostly because when I was in high school, instead of getting my permit at 15 and then my license like everyone else, my mother had the bright idea to send me to defensive driving before I got mine. Which woulda been fine except we were broke. And I was taking 8 classes (2-3 of which were Honors or AP), in no less than 6 clubs and after school activities, and worked 2 jobs. When the hell was I gonna go?! Luckily I went to college in a city where a car wasn't absolutely necessary, but to this day I maintain that "I want you to take defensive driving" is really just Hebrew for "I wanna know where you are at all times and this is the best way I know to control that."

5. I skipped more class than should ever be allowed in both high school and college. So I see how well that whole thing above worked out for my mom. It all started my 10th grade year when I realized that I could get away with stuff because my teachers liked me and the coaches and resource officers patrolling the hallways in between classes always assumed I was in the hall for a legitimate reason. Pretty soon, I stopped going to classes I didn't particularly wanna sit through, instead opting to go to the library, or go sit in on another class of a favorite teacher. In 11th grade, I was vice president of my class so I had the excuse that I was handling "class business". And my boyfriend was a senior so we spent his senior skip day at his house. Senior year I all but stopped going to class except to take tests, instead opting to go pick up an extra dance class or voice lesson. Unfortunately for my professors, this trend continued throughout college, although I did go with a bit more frequency (when I had to).

6. I have excellent gaydar... now. Despite a number of high profile failings, one in particular, my gaydar is now the intuitive equivalent of a finely tuned Bentley. I am happy to report that since we worked out the last of the software kinks, I have yet to be wrong. I can pretty much pick a homo out anywhere... yes, even via blog. I see you niggas.

7. I used to be deathly afraid of hospitals. Like, to the point where I could only make it a few feet within the door without hyperventilating and passing out. Once, a friend of mine (also deathly afraid of hospitals) was in the hospital so I spent the night camped out on the grass beneath her room window, talking to her before her surgery.

8. I have semi good reason to fear that there is something very seriously wrong with my health... like, if I ignore it could possibly kill me. I refuse to go to the doctor.

9. I once had the opportunity to move to London a few years ago. I can't believe I didn't go. I think about it at least once a week and feel like shit because of it.

10. I am good... at everything. No bullshit. With the exception of parallel parking, which has thus far eluded me, even the things I don't already somehow know how to do, I can pick up and master fairly quickly. I cook things I have never cooked before with no recipe, I can play most sports really well, I read superfast, a million other things that I do without trying and do well. You can feel free to hate me but...

11. I am deathly afraid of doing most of the things I really wanna do because I fear I might actually be as amazing as I think I am.

You don't get it either, huh?

12. I secretly think I am Britney Spears. Ok... not in real life. But I have come to realize why I always cut her so much slack; I have lived a mostly tightly controlled, proper life. I have done and said all the things I am supposed to say and do, been the model student/leader/girlfriend/daughter that I was taught I was supposed to be. With a few notable exceptions, I have always been fairly responsible, and downright wise beyond my years.

And I am SO SICK of the shit.

I find myself wanting to rebel in all sorts of outrageous and extra and foolish ways, only because I haven't before. You know those years everyone has where they spent all their time doing whatever they pleased, worrying little about the consequences, satisfying all their whims, living life, you know, just generally acting their age?
Yeah.
I've never had those.
And I fear my window to do so is closing swiftly. And so, to avoid having some kinda Britney style, head shaving meltdown or a hell of a mid-life, I feel like I should get all of those things out of my system that I haven't truly done before. That being said...

13. Going to Madrid and Paris for my 16th birthday was one of the best moments of my life. Graduation was another. But this tops them both. Isn't that sad?

14. I am OBSESSED with gadgets. I am always searching for the newer, better version of the thing I got a year ago that I absolutely HAD. TO. HAVE. Which is why I really need to work for Apple, ASAP.

15. I always make friends unless I am PMS-ing. I have no idea where I get it from, but I can make a friend pretty much anywhere. I am always talking to strangers. I didn't so much get that memo as a kid that you were supposed to not talk to them. I especially love to make friends when I am travelling. People tell fellow travellers in the airport any damn thing, lol.

16. With the above being said, I am AWFUL at networking. Or at least I am in environments and at events where I am supposed to be networking. I hate it. It feels so forced and pretentious. Can't I just keep the drink and lose the pretenses? Bah.



I ain't tagging nobody, but if, like me, you are at a loss for anything substantial to write about (and if, also like me, you can't seem to be able to finish this list), feel free to steal!

I have been doing a lot of reflecting lately, so I had prepared myself for this beautiful post answering the first of these questions, but then something else pulled my focus. So walk with me for a minute...

Lord knows I try my hardest to disagree with everything that comes out of Diddy's mouth. More often than not, every single thing that nigga coon says is in direct conflict with A. How intelligent I am and B. How intelligent I have to believe he is. So I try to dismiss it as pure coonery and tom foolery.
But maybe he was on to something when he was discussing the epidemic of Bitchassness.

Lately, for some reason, I have been astounded by reports of widespread Bitch Ass Nigga Syndrome from my friends, co-workers, random bloggers, the news, people I eavesdrop on. It is beginning to become quite a serious condition that is affecting all of us. And in the spirit of national unity that my president has inspired, I think we should all do something to help. I have devoted more than a few posts to extreme cases of Bitchassness. I consider this doing my part, raising awareness of the early warning signs.

Such as this one...



If the guy in the office who is smarter/more attractive/more driven than you gets praise, and you spend the next hour on the phone in your cube whispering feverishly and then whining until 5pm when I clock out... you are a bitch.

And since you asked, like only a pussy would, HELL YEAH I'D LET HIM HIT. Have you SEEN this dude?!?

Fucking hater.


You ever fucked with a real dude? I don't mean that in the literal sense. But I mean, have you ever dealt with a truly REAL ASS NIGGA? Personally, trill is an attribute like swagger that, like air, I simply cannot do without. Lord knows I've dealt with a bitch ass nigga a time or two in this here life, but I have also had the distinct pleasure of being involved with some who registered off the meter in trill.


Remember back when you could take niggas at their word? When even the grimiest most criminal dude had some kinda honor to himself as part of his constitution. Remember back when niggas didn't do things like...
... leaving packages of things she left at your place on her doorstep and busting windows out of cars... like a bitch?

What in the bitch nigga hell?


Remember how when a dude was through with you, he actually came out his mouth said he was through rather than acting like an ass til you said it was over...
... rather than calling and crying at 3 o'clock in the goddamn morning on a Tuesday because you cheated on her and want her back?

Remember when a man's idea of grooming was making sure he kept his nails cut short so he didn't scratch you when... well, just so that he didn't scratch you?
... Instead of coming and getting a milk bath soak and body wrap with me.

Oh my God do you remember when dudes could LAY IT DOWN? And I don't mean they were simply just good in bed, I mean all out-sweat-out-your-hair-pull-a-muscle-in-your-back-I-have-absolutely-no-choice-but-to-pass-out-because-I-am-so-completely-worn-out-but-I-cant-wait-to-tell-my-best-friend kinda dick. Just a little note... if you're complaining about having to cuddle with your girl after sex, you have no one to blame but yourself because if you'd fucked her til she PASSED THE FUCK OUT then she wouldn't need to cuddle.
And you mean to tell me there are still niggas in the world that don't eat pussy?

Sir, please go outside and kill yourself.


I am missing men the way they used to be. The ones that didn't take no shit, but didn't have to be overtly aggressive to prove the size of their balls.

The ones that recognized that providing for his family was mandatory, not an option.

Ones that realized that loving a woman with everything they have was a badge of honor, not a flash of weakness.

Men that know how to use a power drill and grill a steak. Men that play hide and seek and set bedtimes. Men that knew how to be self assured without being arrogant.

Who don't talk to me while the Cowboys are playing.

Who wouldn't know cashmere or mink if you wrapped it around a stripper while she gave him a lap dance.

Who recognize that talking louder or more doesn't mean you're saying anything worth listening to.

Who didn't get angry with their partners for trying to get their lives together, instead figuring out how they could get their shit to follow suit.
I miss men who didn't snitch.
Who didn't gossip.

Who knew how to be their mother's son without trying to turn their mother into their wife.



So why is it that we have to settle for this new breed of bitch? We didn't sign up for this shit. Why it is that you, in your childish pursuit of passive aggressive no fault emotional cheating, can't stop pissing her off but yet you can't deal with her being angry? Get off the fence. Your balls have got to hurt from straddling it so long.


I think the issue is that for too long, women have been the ones complaining and reporting these instances of Bitch Ass Nigga Syndrome. I would think that more real niggas would be complaining about it; after all you are the ones that end up looking bad. Or are you too much of a dying breed, too concerned with fighting off extinction that you don't have time to speak out?


I'm not sure what the case is. However, I certainly do wish that there were more men hollering present when the real nigga roll is called so less women were hollering about dogs.





If nothing else, do it for me. I can't stand these whiny bitches any more than you can.

By virtue of being the oldest, I naturally believe that I am the smartest, the wisest when it comes to all matters trivial and beyond.

But I'll be damned if my little brother isn't trying to prove me wrong.

Last night as I was pretending that I didn't have insomnia, my little brother texted me to tell me he was having yet another major surgery this week (see how I'm glossing right over that? See the glossing? **covering my ears** la la la la la la la la la la la laaaaaaaaaa) and we started texting back and forth for the better part of three hours or so. It was probably the best conversation I have had in a very long time.

Somewhere around around three, I texted Joy...

Um... when did this child get to be so SMART?!?!?

It was quite a beautiful thing to recognize that my brother is no longer the impressionable kid who may or may not have let me put him in the dryer just to "see what it was like". Sure, I hope against all hope that he still thinks I am the coolest thing since Scooby Doo in technicolor, but I realize that he is his own person, with his own definitive ideas.

He's like, almost a grown up.


So after I have a slight anxiety attack, and then sob into my pillow that is already damp from the tears I'd cried earlier, I decided to indulge him. I tried to measure my words so that I could give him advice or spur him to say something without him feeling like I was judging or being overbearing. We talked about everything from video games to college to religion. At one point, after he'd made a particularly vague point about God, I asked him to clarify his position and prayed the entire time I was waiting on his next message, please God don't let my little brother be some kinda Bible thumping Jesus freak he sent me this:

I don't really believe there is a god as in only one superior being watching
over us and having all the power in the universe... I'm more on the positive and
negative energy kind of thinking, as in the way we use those energies affect our
lives... to me there is something like God but it isn't necessarily a being; its
the universe and the way the energy within makes things happen.

I'm sorry... WHAT SIR?!??!?! Did I mention my brother is 19 years old?!?! Granted, I don't necessarily share his view, but I WISH I could have articulated my religious beliefs that well at his age. And as if that wasn't bad enough, he went on to talk about religious doctrine (specifically Christianity) as it relates to slavery, stem cell research, abortion, separation of church and state, slavery, civil rights, The Crusades, terrorism, segregation, the historical accuracy of the book of Revelations, and masturbation.

Oh my God. My little brother said masturbation.


I cannot.


Even more interestingly enough, we discovered that we both have very different ideas of what it was like for us growing up together, but separate. As we talked, it was nice to be able to fill in the blanks for him, to be able to gently correct some of the inaccuracies he'd been told. It was nice to be able to talk about what it was like for me growing up, and have the person responding be someone who was a part of that living history. I recognize that he is at that age now where he will either find out or need to be told some of the things that were kept from him because he was a child. But I enjoyed just getting inside his head a little, I appreciated the honesty. Who knew we both thought that we both thought the other was better liked?


ohmygodmylittlebrothersaidmasturbation



I am incredibly in awe of how smart he is, how funny and opinionated, and sure of himself he is at 19. Hell, at 19 I was a drunken, reeling, emotional mess, despite my other positive qualities. Who the hell raised this kid? lol


As I sit at my desk at work, surrounded by pictures of him from shortly after he was born, all the way up to high school, I can't help but smile at this new picture I have of him as it exists; an incredibly intelligent, astute and handsome young man who is rapidly outgrowing the childhood that I treasure. Sure, it's bittersweet, but it's kind of amazing to witness as well.

"Need was like a weed, a virus, a mold. Once you admitted to it, it spread
and ruled."

I wish I were more like Joy. She thinks that love should always win. Though I can't bring myself to cosign, I have always believed that there is a particular strength in that mindset, a certain hopeful fearlessness, that very few people have the cajones to posses, let alone govern their lives by.

Least of all, me.


See, I am less familiar with the land of Faith and more comfortable in the land of Real; people lie. They cheat. They steal. They fall in love. They get married. They get divorced. They spend the rest of their lives hating themselves and the other for ever loving the other. Real people have regrets. Things fall apart.

That isn't to say that I believe that Joy is anyway immune or naive to these things. No, instead she possess a certain balance, if you will, that I cannot seem to ascertain myself.

And kinda don't want to...?


I have never been particularly comfortable with having needs. Or rather, certain needs. The need to eat? Of course. Sexual needs? I'm all over that. But my life has been engineered and lived in such a way that has taught me the inherent danger in needing certain things, in needing someone.

Personally, I'd rather not.

"Need was like a weed, a virus, a mold..."

It kinda takes over you, doesn't it? Needing? Not to be confused, of course, with needy. But it always seemed to me that the danger in needing was not necessarily the possibility of being disappointed; any and all interaction, even that of a non-emotional nature, bears the possibility of that. And moreover, it's simply just stupid to think that avoiding interaction with people will protect you from disappointment. That isn't gonna happen.

But rather, the danger always seemed to me what happens after a need isn't fulfilled...

How do you deal with the possibility that your needs may not be being met by the very person that you need? And how do you reconcile that with the fact that not only has the need not been met, but you still need it?


I will cop to resentment (of myself mostly) when I feel as though there is something I need that I cannot somehow satisfy myself. And while I recognize that being a completely self satisfying creature in and of itself is improbable, if not impossible, I still feel that way. But what I resent even more is catering to the needs of others, no matter how unhealthy or hurtful, and still not having my needs met.

I resent that shit.

So much so in fact that it makes me question why I even bother.


I recognize, in my more objective moments, that I bother because it is my nature, because it is human to desire to be both needed and to need someone else. I know intellectually that I try because I am a good person, because I am, by the design of life experience, a nurturer who wants more than anything to provide a place where the people that I love can feel free to be themselves, no matter how ugly themselves may be at the time. That is important to me. It is a part of who I am. And maybe I have no always done enough to maintain a balance in this endeavor, but it's a part of me. And one that I am proud of.

I know, even more than that, I try because it matters to me and it's important.


But some days I just wanna be like, fuck it.


At this point, I can't think of much I have to show for it.
Unless you count my weight in gold in the currency of resentment, of course.

"Once you admitted to it, it spread and ruled."

Admittedly, I have always struggled with a deep seated fear of admitting to needing someone or something. Mostly because, when I was younger, I believed that doing so gave someone else a certain amount of control or power over you that I have never been altogether too comfortable with relinquishing. I recognize as I get older, that this isn't really the case unless you are dealing with a controlling and superbly flawed individual. (Which I have been known to do.) But rather I find, that in the instance of gambling on the possibility that the people in my life can somehow serve the needs that I expect them to, I am losing far too much. I keep losing the gamble.

And I can't afford that shit.


I wish I were more like Joy. Not in the way that I wish we were more similar, but more so that I could bring myself to believe that the gamble was always worth it. Because I don't.
And more and more, I start to believe that I am right.


Love always wins...it's the lovers that sometimes lose.

Hey people!



First things first... thanks for all your well wishes about my brother. He is out of the hospital and home and doing well. :-)



I am all over the place and trying to come up with a real post for you guys but you will have to deal with this randomness like...





I spent my Thanksgiving in Vegas/L.A. What did you do? **batting my eyelashes innocently**





I finally got a new camera. I am pretty sure that it is all I need in this world to survive... that and some more Roscoe's. Jesus. SOOOOO good, lol



Speaking of LA... I got to meet mia. She is every bit as gorgeous, fantastic, warm and funny as I thought she would be. It's ok to be jealous. We understand.

We also went to see BBD at the House of Blues on Sunset.





I'll hold for your jealousy and hatred...





If BBD comes to your town on tour (because, oh yes, they are TOURING) then do yourself a favor and GO!!! It was a damn good show. Probably the best I have seen since Stevie Wonder. Pics and a video of Poison will be posted later.



GO SEE THEM!!!!





Why is it that I get so completely swept up in the last scene from The First Wives Club when they are singing "You Don't Own Me"? It's gotta be one of my all time favoritest scenes from a movie. So much so that I have the song on my ipod. And may or may not have busted out singing it in the middle of LAX... complete with choreography.

Anywho, forgive this lack of a real post. I'll work on it... maybe. Or, I'll tell you that I will but instead will settle in for a Clean House Marathon. Either or.



So far my holiday season doesn't suck horribly. Let's hope it sticks!!! lol



P.S.

I just saw this video on Perez Hilton and nevermind that I agree with almost every point that is made, the most important thing is...

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! THIS SHIT IS FUNNY!!! LOL

The phone feels hot against my face, but I'm not sure if the phone has gotten hotter or if suddenly my body temperature has shot up 100 degrees.

"Hey La. I gotta talk to you about something."

I can hear the trees whipping by my car. The air they slice through breaks to either side loudly, telling me I am probably driving far faster than I should be. But my body feels heavy, and subsequently, the pedal is closer to the floor than it would be if I were in my right mind.


From behind the bars of the crib come little squeals, staccato and quiet at first, quickly escalating to a rolling forte, waking me from my sleep. I crawl over the wide expanse of the mattress, pulling myself upright at the carpeted floor. At the crib, I pull the small step stool from underneath and mount it, releasing the catches on the bars as I go, sliding them down enough so that I can reach in. His tiny red face calms slightly, his mouth still poised in an open 'O', ready to start howling again at a moments notice. I run my tiny fingers through his soft tuft of curly hair and murmur to him quietly. His tiny hands grab at my fingers and he kicks in glee. Bracing myself against the side of the crib, I lift him in my arms, the entire length of his body stretching more than half the length of mine. Even as an infant his size belies that he will one day be taller than me, despite him being almost 6 years my junior.

"What?!?!" I screech, swerving to barely miss a truck I am about to sideswipe because I drifted into his lane. "What happened?!?"

I walk both of us as best I can back to my bed, laying down and curling my tiny body around his even smaller one. I burrow him into the recess of my torso, singing and talking to him softly, letting is head rest against my chest so he can hear my heartbeat. Before long, he has drifted back off to sleep and I, after one final inhale of his baby scent, follow off to sleep behind him.


"One of your brother's lungs collapsed."


He falls while going for a layup, scraping his knee on one of the ragged boards on our porch. I swoop him up and carry him inside, cleaning his scrape while simultaneously correcting his form. I finish it off with a scooby band-aid because, like his big sister, he likes Scooby.


"They found fluid on his lungs so they are draining it..."


Behind me he wrestles with his long and awkward limbs that his trunk has not yet grown into, trying to ascend the ladder as effortlessly as I just did. We sit up on the roof watching the sky and listening to the insects chirp from the grass below. He tells me he wants to be an astronaught and I immediately begin trying to figure out how to get him into MIT.


"They are going to keep him for observation a little while longer..."


He launches himself towards me in an unsteady stagger, grinning his toothless smile and reaching for me with his fat arms. Barely a foot away, he hesitates and starts to plummet to the floor. In a flash, I catch him in my arms and hug him to my chest. "You walked baby!" I murmor into his hair and he giggles, trying to wiggle himself as best he can into the space between my chest and arms.


"They aren't sure what caused it exactly, maybe how thin he is. But they are watching him..."


The blue of his shirt ripples behind him as he runs, trying in vain to out run our huge golden retriever before getting tackled, his laughs carried high on the wind. That sound touches me so deeply it makes my heart leap into my chest.


"They want him to put on some more weight..."


He holds my hands firmly in front of me, steadying me, determined to teach me how to skate on rollerblades.


"The doctors are going to try to drain the fluid so it doesn't happen again..."


We ignore the begininngs of purple sunlight cresting the window sill and instead concentrate on the colors on the screen in front of us. We're both jerking and jumping, trying to supress our outburst of glee, lest we wake his parents. After another minute the screen bursts into confetti and his arms shoot up in the air. "We beat it!" he says, the sunlight catching his braces.


"Don't worry about him..."


I turn to from the mirror to face him and even though he has a good foot on me, my gaze makes him shrink and appear smaller. "You have to do this for yourself," I tell him, so angry that I am trembling. "No one is going to give you anything. But I will not have you waste all this talent. You are too damn smart for it. I wish I was half as smart as you are and I am pretty damn smart. You will not waste this life, do you hear me?"


"You don't have to come home. Everything is fine."



When I finally make it back to my house, I fall on my knees, sobbing, gasping for air, big, shuddering tears that make my body shake violently. I feel like I am choking. I say the only prayer I can think of in that moment, over and over.

Dios conmigo y yo con El. Su será hecho.
Dios conmigo y yo con El. Su será hecho.
Dios conmigo y yo con El. Su será hecho.


I curl up on the floor and stay there for as long as I can stand.





This holiday season be thankful that you can go home and spend it with your family, even if it isn't always your first choice. I know I am. Life happens faster than any of us can fathom.



I am out of town until next week. Be safe and well. Happy Holidays. :-)



Love,

La

From the first day I saw you, you felt like home to me. I see the way you look at me, straight through my skin, and I feel it. I know that this is real.

It's like a song that I forgot a long time ago. One who's melody is familiar but I can only remember parts of it. It's running loops on my mental stereo system.



Do you think we could get this right in our next life?





If lies were rape, I would be more violated than I choose to mention. If deception and dishonesty were outlawed I'd have enough to put you to death. If treading in vague were water, all the non-details I have swallowed would make me choke.



There are a million questions that I'll never ask. This too is an unspoken boundary of this semi successful threesome of ours: don't ask and I won't tell you what you really might not wanna know anyway. Aren't these kind of emotional threesomes far more treacherous?

It's when you realize the depth, the width, the length of the deception, the totality of it all, that you realize just how wrong, how unhealthy, how toxic it all was.

I love you and I know you love me. You don't have to say anything.

I wanna vomit but I don't want to waste the energy. Carrying this new knowledge, this weight of everything I didn't know is like fighting quicksand. I'm drowning in it. Just like I did in you, once.

I should have known better.

It's amazing how, if we close our eyes and wade out into the calm waters of the ocean, we are under water before we ever knew the bottom was too deep to tread.

I know, intellectually, that even I, as mistrustful as I am, could not have even fathomed this kind of sociopathic lying in the onset. There's no way I could have even dreamed the lengths that you would go to design your life as you wanted, to depict yourself as whoever and however you felt you needed to manipulate me.

I never would have imagined that all the things I didn't know added up to this.

Don't be scared.

I have travelled so far from where I was. I have evolved so past who we were that I barely recognize me. But still I can't help but feel some kind of enormous pity for a man so worthless, so small, so nothing that he had to lie about his entire existence. I won't even bother being mad.

Unless of course it's at myself.

I will sweep this all up, gather it like dust and pack it in boxes, store it in a basement in my mind somewhere deep and dark to be eventually ruined by time and mold until it disintegrates and becomes part of the foundation. Maybe I'll come across a surviving scrap one day, after trodden underfoot for so long, and look at it fondly, allow a melancholy smile to touch my lips at the memory. But today is not that day.

I should have known better.

And now I do.

"This is crazy."
"I know, but I have to know."
"Are you sure about this? My investigative skills are seriously unparalleled."
"I don't know if I am totally sure, but I have to know."
"Lemme get on the computer and make a few calls. Give me a couple of hours"
"Ok. Let me know."

My friend J is gorgeous. And not like, "oh she's my friend so I have to say she's pretty" pretty. She is a damn near 6 foot, model type. Think a slightly more Black looking version of Cassie's face on Hoopz's body.

Yeah, chick is COLD.


If that wasn't already reason enough for me to hate her, she's incredibly smart and successful, she makes a ton of money, she's almost unrealistically sweet, and one of the most thoughtful and loyal things on earth next to a golden retriever. Yeah, we hate her.


I say all this to say, she isn't really the type you woulda wanna fuck over.


Unless of course you're her fiance.



J has been engaged for a year to Mr. Perfect. Well, Mr. Perfect to everyone else. To me he was Mr-I-got-something-to-hide-because-my-shit-is-always-a-bit-too-together. And before you go all buckwild in my comments hollerin' about how women don't know a good man if they see one and prefer someone all fucked up, let me clarify that I am not talking about simply a man with no baggage. I mean he's Guy who has a Seemingly Rehearsed Answer for Everything but Never Says Anything. You know I mean?

So they have been engaged for a year, ever since last year when he made a big show of flying home with her for Thanksgiving, asking for her father's permission, and getting down on one knee after dinner and making her whole family sob at his proposal. They have yet to set a date. And, in the interest of transparency, I will admit that this was mostly her doing.

Or so he would have her believe.




Over the spring this year, they separated for a time. They quickly started doing the whole counseling/dating again thing to see if they could reconcile their differences. They started out with one counselor, but after a few sessions J decided she didn't like her and they switched to another who started helping them through their issues. By late summer, the wedding was back on, the ring was back on her finger and they had set a date for spring of '09. Despite everything, their work to reconcile was all good.



Except once.




One weekend he went missing. "Coincidentally" it was July 4th weekend when she would be in Chicago with her friends for The Taste and he would be in the city where they both live "working."

Now of course Mr. Too Perfect is far too perfect to just get missing like trill niggas would. But suddenly, her calls that always get answered roll to voice mail. He's responding to her texts all weekend, but his answers are delayed. When they do speak, the convo doesn't last longer than 10 minutes. just long enough not to be missed.


Over the months since then, they have rebuilt their bond, and started making strides towards the alter. But for some reason, J just can't shake feeling some kinda way about that weekend.


And that's when she calls me.

"I need you to find out some information for me."
"What kinda information?"
"The kind I need to know before I get married."
"I need his full name, where he works, the kinda car he drives and his email address."

I will admit to doing this quite a few times over the years. Sometimes it's as simple as a G.oogle search. If we know some of the same people without them knowing we know some of the same people, I make a few calls. (Even for significant other's I haven't met, it's hard to get around this. I know alot of people. God bless any meccas of young black people up to and including Atlanta, DC, Howard, and NYC.) But in this day and age of technology, there are no secrets. Or at least not for long.



A few hours later, she calls me before I can call her. Her breathing is shallow and anxious.

"You must have found something," she says to me. "Otherwise you wouldn't be taking so long."
"I found something."

She takes a deep breath on the line. I can almost hear her preparing herself.

"What is it?"
"When's the last time you've been home?"
"Home like California or Mexico?"
"The latter."
"Oh God. Like, 2 years ago for Christmas. I haven't been since."
"Oh yes you have. You went the weekend of the 4th. Stayed from Thursday the 3rd to Monday the 7th at the Hotel Riu Palace Cabo San Lucas."
"What? No I haven't. I made a reservation there for our honeymoon."
"Well, Mr. Too Perfect stayed there that weekend with someone he called his fiance."
"How on earth could you possibly know this?"
"He wrote a review about it on some travel site. He said he stayed there on those dates with his fiance."
"But no hotel in Mexico showed up on our account."
"That's because she paid for it."
"WHAT?!?! How do you know that?!?"
"I had the hotel fax me a copy of the bill."
"Who is this woman?"
"Does the name __________________ mean anything to you?"


There is silence on her end of the phone. I hear her already shallow breathing come faster and harder.

"J?"
"That was our fucking counselor."
"WHAT?!?!?" I screech, forgetting that I am sitting at my desk at work.
"Yeah. Our first counselor we got rid of. That's her."
"Well, you said you didn't care for her."
"Now I see why."
"There's more, sweetie."

She takes a deep breath on the other line and I wonder if I have made a mistake in telling her. Even though she's angry now, I am sure she will be devastated soon.

"Send it to me. Send me everything. He has to get out of my house today."



I'd like to be able to say that Mr. Too Perfect was a good dude who just made some bad choices. But whether we like it or not, it's the things we hide that detail who we really are. It's our silences, not our words, that shade people's perception of us, add dimension. If the things we don't say are a shade of gray, consider our secrets the long shadows we cast.

The thing about secrets is that they are never really secrets. They never stay in the dark because really, they are not composed entirely of such; darkness is but a composition of light. The thing about darkness, and secrets to be assumed, is that they are conditional. They are subject to outside influence. And whether or not we trick ourselves into thinking so, they are never just ours to keep. They affect us, yes, but they also hold captive those who share our lives. They sense something behind the scenes even when you say nothing is there. They see the large shapes casting shadows, even when they can't make out the distinct form.

They use google to go looking for what you won't tell them because you're blocking their light too.



There are no such things as secrets.





I hope you're listening. Because she is gonna catch you.

If I wasn't sure that I have aligned myself with the right party, all I needed to do was look at the shenanigans of Ralph Nader and his one word press conference, and then, at 11pm when John McCain announced that he was a loser, and his supporters, ever the class acts, booed.