for old times sake……

Should
auld acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

and days of auld lang syne* ?

For auld lang syne, my jo,

for auld lang syne,

we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,

for auld lang syne.

Robert Burns

******

One of life’s greatest untold ironies, and indeed, most significant
disappointments, is the truism that we all end up in the same place.

Most of us, anyhow.

Certainly, we’re taught, from a very early age that, should
we put forth our best efforts, and keep our noses clean, a wealth of
opportunities and riches await us in our futures.

Some years later, myself now fully grown, I’ve began to take
stock of this much-fabled do-better-in-the-long-run theorem of childhood
development.

And it’s crap.

Absolute crap.

The real truth is that with a few minor exceptions, the kids
who stole from Spencer’s will end up in lives nearly identical to the kids who
placed first at science fairs.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

There I was, three weeks ago, at the corner of Wilson and
Courthouse. The day was bitter cold, and the wind was whipping at my
extremities with a brute force that made my knuckles weep.

Though overburdened with a laptop satchel, purse, and
bookbag, the heels of my pumps etching life from the Arlington pavement with my
every slew-footed step, I could tolerate the frost at my fingertips no further,
and stopped, suddenly. I wasn’t going to move another inch until I’d donned a
pair of gloves.

I furtively rustled through my purse, shifting receipts here
and there, fumbling over pens, glasses, business cards, but nothing, nothing with
the familiarity of kid leather.

I scrunched my nose as it started to run, sniffing
fervently, willing myself not to focus on the cold, or my growing frustration, when
my hand snagged at something smooth. I recognized, immediately, that whatever I
was grasping wasn’t a glove, but curiosity demanded I withdraw it from my bag’s
hollows.

One lone pair of hot pink boycut boxer briefs.

I had stuck my hand in my purse, and pulled out a pair of
drawes on the corner of Courthouse and Wilson.

I rushed to put my findings back where they’d been
discovered, only to have my hand caught, again, by a smooth fabric-y something
or other. Removing my hand, once more, I looked to my palm.

“Son-of-a-BITCH!” I exclaimed. Black, satin panties.

Jamming the underwear back in my bag, I assembled my things about
my person, and proceeded to the parking deck, hands freezing, nose running, and
several curses ever-present on my lips.

It is not often that I reflect upon the manner of woman I’ve
become, but, on this day in particular, the expensive lining of my bag being
kept warm by my unmentionables, I paused.

Like……..how was I living? Was my life so crazy? Were my nights so wild
that I couldn’t deign to sleep at my own house, everything in its proper place,
panties on poon, not in purse?

At that moment, all became clear to me.

My great revelation.

The unexpected synchronicity of life’s experiences between
myself and a teenaged slut I once knew.

And an auld acquaintance I’d
long forgotten sprang to mind once more….

*******

Okay, so, truth be told, I never personally smelled Meka.

Like, I’d never, you know, experienced her rumored wet-assy odor, first hand.

But, she looked like she stank, or was, at the very least,
musty-as-a-motherfucker-seeming to my 13 year old eyes, so I didn’t really fool
with her too much.

Besides, she was new to school (in so much as she hadn’t
attended any of the 3 elementary schools whose graduates now teemed the halls
of Brandon Middle) and had every appearance of trouble about her.

That she’d consented to being the doormat in Remonica
Jenkins’ motley assortment of derelict girls didn’t bode well for her either.

I kept my distance, and merely watched from afar, seldom
offering up opinion on her presence at our school, even when asked directly.
But her every move captured my attention. Something about this girl fascinated
me.

Meka was of above average height and dark brown in color. I
suspect her hair was originally fashioned in the style of a bob, but had
somehow lost its way when she’d elected to deprioritize consistent relaxers.

She had a rather nice set of teeth, I always thought. I was
keenly aware of this fact, as Meka had the misfortune of being something of a
mouth-breather.

While she was nothing to really look at, all in all, she
fared no better or worse than any of us, but for one distinguishing set-apart:
Meka’s face was covered in a veritable sea of blackheads; blackheads that she,
by all appearances, was rather fond of
picking at.

When I say that Meka was a doormat in Remonica’s crew, I do
so without the slightest touch of hyperbole.

On Monday, they’d be nice to her, inviting her to lunch, and
joking with her. By Wednesday she’d be “stinky, ugly” Meka, on whose desk they’d
deposit a wash cloth and soap before class. True story.

It didn’t help that she was a little on the fast side. Boys
lined up to get at her, as her virtue was said to be free for the taking.

And that was how things were at Brandon Middle, on and on ad infinitum until the unthinkable
happened…Meka got a steady boyfriend.

None other than Justin Dart, brother to Monique Dart, best
friend of Remonica Jenkins.

A brief word on Monique Dart.

They say she went crazy.

I don’t know if that’s true or not.

What I do know is, that back then, Monique was a bully of
the first water. She was tall and slight of frame, but scary as all hell,
repeatedly in trouble, and awash with enthusiasm at the prospect of fucking up
anyone who dared step in her path.

She had less hair than you could snap your fingers at, but miraculously
defied known science day after day, and managed to put it in a ponytail (think
of one of those ittybitty dwarf ponies that only come to your knees, and make
you kinda sad to look at).

But what was most fascinating, and indeed, spectacular,
about Monique, was the ever-present layer of dry, crusty, chappy, rashy ash
that circled her full lips in a perfect oval.

Why spectacular?

Because she insisted upon concealing said oval of dry,
crusty, chappy, rashy ash at all costs.

And she didn’t employ a traditional method of concealment,
like, say, oh….idunno…CONCEALER….

Oh no.

Monique covered her mouth………

With her fucking hand.

Like…..

All the time.

She talked THROUGH her hand.

Like a horrible puppeteer, or that black beat-boxing dude
from Police Academy.

Let’s say we were in class and Monique had to use the
restroom. She’d raise her left hand, whilst covering her mouth with her right.
When called upon, she’d mumble her request THROUGH her fingers.

And her hand was ALWAYS there. I bet it was balmy as FUCK
under there, and I’m certain that mushrooms thrived in the webbed cartilage between
her fingers.

Whatever the case, I’m sure her being mean as the devil was
directly related to the chronic slow burn plaguing her forearm that never
deviated from its 45° angle.

But I digress.

Meka, a sucker for a bad decision, had taken up with Justin
Dart, and by all accounts, was giving up the bads to him on a fairly regular
basis.

She continued to abide the constant demoralization of
Remonica and her crew, trying desperately to win their affections—some days she
was the bird, but most days she was the statue.

Then, one day, it all changed.

I’d left my classroom a little late, staying behind to speak
with a teacher, and by the time I hit the halls for a quick run to my locker
the corridor was thick with a crush of seventh graders.

Everyone seemed really excited, and loud for some reason.

Moreso than usual. The crowd of kids was jeering and a thicket of boys were at
the very center, hands outstretched above their heads, fingertips avidly reaching
for something. I saw something being passed from person to person, and I couldn’t
make it out, but the mystery object was driving my schoolmates into a frenzy.

“What’s up?” I asked Melanie, a friend of mine, who had
appeared by my side, giggling and grinning.

“Giiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirlllllllllllllllllllll…”
she drawled before firing out the next sentence with a rush of information, “MekaputherdrawesinanenvelopeandtriedtogivethemtoJustinbutRemonicaandthemgotemandnowtheypassinthemaroundeverywhere!!!”

I looked up, again, and now, fully apprised of the
happenings, noted that the object did
appear to be a pair of women’s underwear—black, satin panties.

Meka, in a last ditch attempt at sexy, had put her rank,
rancid drawes (I’m taking some license,
here) in an envelope, brought them to
school, and tried to give them to
Justin.

Setting aside the fact that drawes in an envelope don’t so
much give off “sexy” as they do “evidence collected from a crime scene,” they
were now being passed around from person to person, her humiliation more
profound now, than ever before.

I saw her then, in the midst of the chaos, standing there
looking dumbfounded. She wasn’t even trying to get them back as much as steel
herself from the noise all about her. She looked a bit bewildered; as though
she couldn’t comprehend how things had gotten to this point.  And I remember, for the first time, feeling
truly sorry for her.

*********

My unexpected encounter with my own unmentionables made me
think of Meka, that cold day in December.

I mean…our dissimilarities are many.

She was a child of 13, and I am a woman of 30.

She was a social pariah, and I’ve always enjoyed the warmth
of good friends.

She was hot and loose with the ass, and I am……..less hot and
loose with the ass.

But somehow, someway…

Despite passage of time and difference of circumstance……

We both own the
same pair of black, satin drawes.

And neither she, nor I, had the good sense, presence of
mind, or common damned decency to leave those sonsofbitches at home.

On a cold, windy day in December, I was Meka. And by Jove,
Meka was me.

So, to Burns’ query, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot and
never brought to mind?” I say, “Shit, no!”

And tonight—

Tonight,  I’ll raise
my cup o’ kindness to the tarnished memory of Meka, the slut that Time may have
forgot, but not I…..

Not I.

My super-duper, unapologetically long manifesto, or, “yes, i’m 30. whooptee fuckin doo.”

I began this blog a little over a year ago.

I was finally dealing with a breakup from a man I’d dated on and off for the better part of six years, and coming to grips with what I’d considered an indeterminate future.

I was 28, roughly a year into my second law firm job, and a little uncertain with respect to what a rational, responsible adult my age was supposed to look like.

A year prior, at 27, I’d come to the conclusion revelation that nothing in this world truly mattered. Not in the way we all seemed to think it did, rather. I wasn’t becoming cynical, or apathetic; it just occurred to me that I’d spent the majority of my life placing great emphasis on so many bullshit things, never stopping to consider the temporal nature of it all.

New me was on some “We pass this way but once” type shit.

New me was in the midst of a full on conversion to Epicureanism.

New me codified her sentiments in an idiom she proclaimed to whoever would listen. “Life is long, but youth is short,” New me would say.

The expression gave me life, and indeed, some limited sense of purpose. Every time I breathed it, aloud, into open air, it was a license to tomfuckery.

While I was taking babysteps to my freedom from institutionalized patterns of thought and behavior back then, it would be another two years before I crossed into full-fledged i-don’t-give-a-damn-ery.

Which brings us to present day.

In less than one month I will be 30.

As I couldn’t give a hearty damn about some arbitrary number the world at large has capriciously designated a milestone in my own personal life—a life, about which “the world” knows nothing—I’ve given the occasion little thought.

But all about me, everyone seems to care.

I mean care, care.

Like, 30 is big shit to a lot of people.

Everywhere I turn, there are these lists—Things to Do Before You’re 30, What You Should Know By 30, 30 Things to Do Before You’re 30­—and it all just seems like hogwash to me; a complete waste of time. If a naturally occurring, chronological determinate date, over which you have absolutely no control, is the marker by which you assess your current life state, you need to get another fucking life. Like, ASAP.

But………..from all I’ve observed, some cursory bout of self-reflection, demonstrated in list-format is appropriate.

I’ll comport with custom—kinda—one final time, for the cheap seats….

10 Things You Should Do When You Finally Wake Up and Realize It Doesn’t Fucking Matter 

 

1. Give in to your anger and tell someone who deserves it an emphatic “Fuck you,” “Fuck Off,” or “Go Fuck Yourself.”

Thoreau said, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Seriously, there might not be a more depressing quote in existence.

It’s true, though. We expend immeasurable portions of our lives trying to perfectly fit into clearly-defined lines, telling ourselves to “grin and bear it.” In order for civilization to remain “civilized;” to prevent reversion to Rosseau’s proverbial “state of nature” where we fight it out like savage beasts at every pass, each of us must be occasionally willing to concede some ground in the face of conflict.

Fair enough.

The problem is, we’re conceding more and more, every day. This is particularly true for those of us set up in our dignified, hyper-educated, professional spaces. Our lives become this predictable pattern of acquiescence.

Here’s what you need to know. People can smell it on you. They can tell that you’ve been trained, systematized. And they will feed off of it; talk wild to you, firm in their reasoning that “You.aint.gon.do.sheeit.”

This is what I believe. You can stay in your lane every day of your life, if you so choose. It’s not going to make you successful; or a titan of industry. The real winners are the rogues, the cowboys, the desperadoes who are willing to occasionally push propriety aside and live on the margins.

Alas! Get thee to an f-bomb. If there is one message I’d like to leave this world with, upon my departure, it is, that nobody but NOBODY is above a well-timed f-bomb. NOBODY.

To date, I have told one client, and one doctor proclaiming himself to be terminally ill that they could go fuck themselves.

I have told one lawyer that he could represent to his client, on my behalf, my desire for him to go fuck himself.

I have told two men, with whom I’ve been romantically acquainted, to fuck off.

I have told the friend of one of one of those men,  that said romantic attachment could “Go fuck his mother.”

I’m still here.

And know what?

ALL of those people came back.

2.  Accept that honesty is NOT the best policy. You’re living in a fucking fantasy.

Anyone who tells you that honesty is the best policy lives one of two diametrically opposed realities: 1. He/She is *the* biggest asshole on the planet, or 2. He/She has the most bullshit ass monotonously boring life ever.

Look, I’m gonna give you some advice that is going to free you, okay?

Ready?

Lie.

Just.lie.okay?

You know the most popular thing people say when they’ve just revealed some great truth to another party? “I felt so relieved. It was as if this huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.”

Anyone wanna hazard a guess as to where all of that “lifted weight” goes?

Thhhhhhaaaaat’s right. Square on the shoulders of that motherfucker you just saw fit to bulldoze with alla that truth.

You think you’re this bastion of ethical righteousness because you chose to tell the truth? No, no. Try again. You’re a selfish asshole.

Look. If you love me, you need to go ahead and lie to me. Tell me I look thin. Tell me you like my blog. Tell me you didn’t fuck that girl. Just lie. Don’t think that our love is strong enough to overcome these monumental acts of betrayal. It’s not. Stop thinking that I’m a big enough woman to see to the heart of your affection for me and give you another chance. I’m not. Lie to me, baby. I’d do it for you.

The flip side is that you’re this mouse of a person, always dutifully seeing to the needs of others, putting your wants and desires behind everyone else’s. You’re this chaste virgin of the Hearth, ever-campaigning for wholesome happiness and sprinkles and rainbows to be spread throughout the Earth. You want for nothing but quiet simplicity, and to be a living, breathing personification of Christ’s love.

You don’t lie because you have nothing to lie about. You literally spend your days doing good deeds, or no deeds at all.

Really, good for you.

Personally, I’d rather die.

3.  Get up and wordlessly walk out of a room. Hang up on someone.

Look. I don’t know about you, but, my time is precious. I don’t have a whole lot of excess seconds and minutes to be passing time with a bunch of dicks. So, when I feel like a conversation has gotten to a place where I am no longer interested, or a place that is particularly aggravating or patently offensive, I simply take my leave.

I will walk out of a client meeting. I will walk out of an argument or a would-be argument with a friend or romantic interest. And you can bet that sweet ass I will hang up on a motherfucker. With a quickness.

But here’s how you have to do it in grown up stance—wordlessly.

Don’t knock any desks over. Don’t make any violently loud protestations. Only a bitchass makes a demonstration of strength only to dip and not deal with the repercussions. No, no. Yours is a quiet exit. It’s not about the physical act of your departure or the physical reality of the now-dead phone line. It’s your mental state of no-longer-give-a-fuck-ness that is important, here. It’s not about the other person at all. You are saying to yourself, “Wait.a.minute. I just stopped giving a damn. I’m gonna go.”

And here’s why.

Because.you.fucking.can.

It’s high time we all start to acknowledge the fact that we are grown ups. And you know what—save some jarringly illegal exceptions—I can do whatever the hell I want.

So I will.

4.  Be unapologetic about the amount of television you watch.

Okay. So right. There’s this “movement” among academics and intellectuals that’s been underfoot for a while. And it’s rooted in this hoity-toity, “I’m too smart to waste my time watching television; there’s nothing but trash on it anyway” stream of thought.

FUCK.

YOU.

Do you know how ridiculous you sound?

Do you know how many fucking channels there are?

Really?

Really?

There’s nothing of merit, nothing worthy of your attention, in a thousand channels?

How about the news, Numbnuts? You don’t think live broadcast programming of an interview conducted with Hamid Karzai is worth your time? Oh. Okay.

My love of television doesn’t make me an idiot, or some mindless nothing. And when I get home from my relentlessly demanding job, I watch “Bad Girls Club,” the entirety of the “Real Housewives” franchise, “Maury”—the trash of the trash, people. And, you know what, “I feels jes fine” about it ( © Shug Avery).

5.  Stop worrying about how fat/ugly you are.

Seriously. Just stop. It’s tired.

Do something about it, or shut the fuck up about it.

Just stop worrying about it. Stop letting that shit run you. 

If I could go back in time and tell my 15 year old self just one thing, it would be that personality is what matters the most in the get-ass game. Personality.

It’s what matters in the friendship game. It’s what matters in the professional game. Personality is everything.

You know the reason why everyone hates your ugly girlfriend, ladies? It’s not because she’s so ugly.

Oh, no. It’s because her ugliness has metastasized into this black nebulous of hateration. She’s discontent in her ugly status, and is prepared to use the full throttle of her ugly resources to bitch, whine, ruin your good time, cockblock you, and ultimately, attempt to slowly suffocate any happiness you are able to actualize.

NOT because she’s so damned ugly.

But because she can’t get over that shit.

Look. They can’t all be bangers. Some of us are destined to be trolls; “swamp donkeys” ( © S. Bernard Shaw, front-free.com).

Write some shitty spoken word about it and get the hell over it. You are a grown ass woman. What in the fuck do you look like crying about how you look? I need to go grab a drink and figure out how to make income in the midst of a recession, and your monkey ass don’t wanna go out because you got a pimple. Grow the fuck up.

6.  Put something ridiculous on display in your office and refuse to comment on it.

In my last office, in the midst of diplomas and law stuff, I had: a plastic, bloody, severed arm, a book on my desk called Apes and Monkeys, and a stapler completely bejeweled in pink rhinestones.

The point?

Even if your job is serious, it’s not that serious.

I don’t give a damn what you do.

“You are not your job.”–Tyler Durden.

That’s right.

Fight Club.

I just went there.

You’re welcome.

The truth of the matter is, no matter what you do; no matter how good you are at it; no matter how many awards and accolades you receive—no one will ever be able to truly appreciate how much you give, or how much you contribute. Even if you devote all of your time to making other people’s lives better. When it’s all said and done, we’re all too caught up in our own shit to ever truly understand the extent of the sacrifices others have made on our behalf. It’s fucked up, but true.

And, oh yeah, by the way—

You’re expendable.

Like FUCK.

So go ahead and cover the back of your laptop with SpongeBob stickers. I guarandamntee it won’t matter worth a damn.

7.  Say something inappropriate to your parents.

This shit should actually be Number One on this list.

At the most elementary level, your parents are unable to see you as an adult until you force them to see you as an adult.

Now, this is largely because the majority of us engage in childish shit.

The fact remains, however, that we are adults.

And I am a firm believer that parents have as much to learn from children as children their parents.

Now, my parents were UNCOMMONLY strict when I was growing up.

And through some very expensive, carefully orchestrated psychotherapy sessions, I am learning to come to terms with some of the perhaps irreparable damage done during the course of my childhood.

All of that aside, when I finally started to show my parents the real adult me (through a series of awkward sexual references and well-placed “Damnits”), they began to see me as the real adult me. Not some well-assembled genetic replica meant to be doted on and showcased. And I actually think they like me more, because I like me more when I’m not playacting for their benefit. They trust my adult judgment, even if they don’t understand it.

And you know what? While plenty of y’all are faking the funk, pretending to lead these virginal lives, and getting drawes and socks for Christmas—

My parents just returned from vacation bearing gifts of shotglasses and booze.

Really.

Who’s winning, here?

8.  Take an afternoon and just dedicate it to pornography.

I’m looking at you, ladies.

For the life of me, I will never understand how we all became so vehemently anti-porn.

I don’t wanna hear shit about porn objectifying women, and the hazards of porn. Don’t say it to me, ladies. I don’t wanna hear it. And let me tell you why.

I know that 89% of y’all making these protestations haven’t seen any porn.

And even if you have seen some, you haven’t seen a broad cross section of it.

I’m not telling you that you have to derive some sexual gratification from it. I’m not saying that you have to like it. I’m not even suggesting that you engage in some anti-Christine O’Donnell to it.

I’m just telling you that you need to see what’s out there.

Odds are, if you haven’t peeped any, you are the absolute worst where it counts. And you might not even know that you’re the worst. But you are.

More to the point, men watch porn.

Some less than others, sure.

But, men watch porn.

Are you telling me  you feel comfortable with a group of people who constitute half of this nation’s demographic watching some shit you’ve never seen before?

It’s like those people who brag, “I’ve never seen one episode of Seinfeld,” or “I’m happy to say I’ve never seen one episode of Friends.”

Well now. You’ve just shut yourself out of a solid 15-20 years of cultural references that everyone else around you can—at the very least—recognize.

You’ve successfully managed to stay in the dark. Congratu-fuckin-lations.

Trust me, ladies.

Take a day.

I personally like to call it, “Self-Abuse Saturday,” but, whatever your pleasure—

Open a bottle of wine.

Draw the blinds.

And watch a few flicks.

You may not know it now, but this is the exact reason you moved out of your parents’ home.

It might not change your life, but, you can probably stand a temporary disruption from our normally scheduled programming.

BTW—

Don’t download that shit.

9.  Stop being a pussy about being alone.

I’m an only child, so perhaps I have the advantage here, but, I can never get my mind behind these need-to-be-all-up-under-you types. You have to be on your phone. You have to be with your friends. You have to be with your girlfriend/boyfriend.

If you can’t stand to be around just you, why in the holy fuck do you think anyone else will want to?

That doesn’t even make sense.

It will not kill you to have a drink by yourself.

It will not kill you to just sit in your home and stare up at the ceiling for a bit.

If we, indeed, grow from our experiences, a great many of us are missing out on vital parts of our personal progression when we shuck aside the value in experiencing ourselves. Like, in our truest form. Stripped of makeup and fancy clothes. Devoid of business cards, and explanations of comings and goings. Completely protected from our friends’ prying eyes or judgment.

You know the number one complaint of my married/parent friends? They don’t have any time to just be by themselves.

And here we all are, imprisoned by this seemingly-flip expression that has been drilled into our heads for the better part of two decades: “single and ready to mingle.”

No, Boo boo.

Try, “single and ready to roll dolo because I ain’t got no muthafuckin kids, what what!!! Hootie hoo, my dude!!”

My periodic absences from civilization are LEGENDARY in my friendship circles.

I’m finding more and more inner peace by the day.

10.  Stop looking to everyone else for the answers to shit.

I know, I know.

Really?

After I’ve just dedicated 2,000 words of “to do?”

Hear me out.

It has been said that only a fool relies on his own counsel.

I totally agree.

As a matter of fact, in my estimation, the only thing better than a sound piece of advice is a sound piece of tail.

And if anyone has any sound advice as to how to effectively pursue a sound piece of tail…whoaaaa buddy.

My apologies.

We’re nearing the end, it’s been a long road, and I’ve digressed into ass-talk. Forgive me. Habit.

The point is, there is no harm in seeking advice. Or giving it when solicited (*cough* I’m pretending y’all solicited this shit *cough*).

We just need to take care about that which we’re seeking—advice. Counsel.

NOT “answers.”

I watched this episode of Real Housewives of Atlanta the other day (Fuck off, tv haters), and saw that countless Black women had piled themselves into a seminar on how to find love taught by some asshole named “Dr.” Tiy-E (see, tv haters—you’d KNOW why I put the “Dr.” in “ “s and called him an asshole if you’d WATCHED. Now you have to google it, while everyone else can just flow, knowingly with the remainder of the entry).

These bitches PAID a SINGLE man to tell them HOW to find love.

Are.you.fucking.serious?

Like, they paid good money, with the understanding that this follicle-ly challenged court jester would give them the answer to why they’re single.

People have been finding love for centuries, FOR FREE AS A MOTHERFUCKER, and they paid this monkey for an *answer.*

Well, merrymakers, here’s some advice for the “bargain price of –on the house—“ :

Stop.looking.for.the.answers.

There aren’t any.

Got it?

The answer is literally, whatever the hell you say it is.

Start making your own answers.

Better yet, find the maverick in you and have the courage to do as Rilke suggested—

“Live the questions now. Perhaps, someday, far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answers.”

(Kudos to my angel, “Michael,” for putting me on to this particular quote.)

This is the only life we’ve got, people.

With odds like that, who the fuck can afford to waste time worrying about 30?

because it’s hard for me to relax when i’m worried about getting arrested or catching VD….or, the most recent time my linesister was right.

The truth of the matter is, I’ve spent much of my life in a state of closemindedness.

I was entirely unaware of it, however, so I’m inclined to think that all sins performed while still-swathed in its swaddling bindings are absolved.

And though I hate to admit it, the herald of my freedom, my savior from my own ignorant self, has been my linesister.

It has been my linesister—my Number 10, to be precise—who has encouraged me to push boundaries I never knew I had; to travel the world, to begin a blog, and last weekend—to get naked in a room full of bitches.

I’ll walk it back.

A little over a year ago, Linesister began frequenting this spa in Nowheresville, Virginia. From the start, she raved about the potential for cathartic release, for ease of mind, and unparalleled relaxation.

She began taking our friends to said spa, and, as it was open 24 hours a day, would find often find herself there at the witching hour, attempting to detox from her latest night of hard living.

For a year I’ve resisted her invitation.

You see, while no one would ever accuse me of modesty, I have a strict can’t-get-naked-in-a-room-full-of-bitches policy.

Granted, there was that exception for one lone, teensy tiny, girl on girl on girl on girl shower orgy. But that was a dream.

Anyway.

I relented, last weekend.

And, once again, Linesister was right. When I walked out of that sonofabitch eleven hours later, I was opium den relaxed.

But getting to my state of zen was a hard-fought mental battle.

This is the part when I share my fears/obstacles…..

1. Hookers

That’s right. Hookers.

Look. I spend a significant amount of my legal career in the practice of criminal law. And over the years, I have found that there is no greater friend to a hooker than a mild-mannered john with a sound heating system.

But second to him is the spa.  

Hoes love the spa. The discretion offered by four walls; a cubby to tuck away their ho-gear; non-asphalt surfaces on which to stretch their otherwise-cramped-up-in-ho-shoes-ho-toes; and clearly defined exits with which they can become easily familiar makes for a veritable ho-oasis. A hoasis.

Hoes love the spa. It’s empirical fact.

Quite naturally, as an officer of the court—an arguably shady one, but an officer of the court, nonetheless—I shy away from places where lawbreakers can be found in strong numbers. Like, a crackhouse, or….the darkened basement at a houseparty, or…..a “spa” that could potentially be chock full of hoes.

Linesister assured me that her spa of choice was a ho-free zone, but when we she parked her car in the lot of a strip mall, and began to walk in the direction of a rather large building that appeared to be a former grocery store with the words “Spa World” illuminated in bright, glowing, blue letters, I remained unconvinced.

I spent the first 45 minutes waiting for Fairfax Vice to barge in and arrest us all.

But they didn’t. And I’m happy to report that I did not bear witness to one act of fellatio throughout the entirety of my stay.

Then again, I slept most of the time.

1. Linesister, naked.

Yeah, yeah. Of course, there was a time in our lives when Linesister and I spent a great deal of time together in very close quarters. And yes, during that time, Linesister and I had occasion to see each other in in various states of undress. But, no. I never saw Linesister’s nether regions. Like, not.neva.

And I’m a grown up. I can appreciate the fact that friends should be comfortable with seeing their friends naked. And, but for 2 notable exceptions, I’m closer to Linesister than I am to anyone in the entire world.

But I didn’t want to see her mons, k? I didn’t want to see her mons. While we’re on the topic, I didn’t wanna see her pert, baby nips, either. But I most especially didn’t wanna see her mons.

Down to the wire, I was grappling with this struggle.

Here’s a snippet of the phone conversation we had prior to her picking me up:

Me: “Uh. Can I bring a towel for me?”

L/S: *exasperated sigh* “Look, if you insist, you can bring a towel, okay? But you’re gonna look like the biggest loser ever if you’re the only one there with a towel.”

Me: “The covered up loser. I’m okay with that in a room full of nude bitches. Um….”

L/S: *another exasperated sigh* “What is it?”

Me: “Can I bring a towel for you?”

When we entered the locker room, the first thing I saw was a naked sixty-something year old Korean woman with a pot belly, pale tiny legs, and an exceptionally large triangle of a vagina.

After that, Linesister could have done a handstand, spread eagle, with my nose eye-level with her bare, Nigerian ass.

I was cured.

Besides that, I never actually saw Linesister’s hotbox of love.

Pretty sure she got an iris-full of mine, though.

1. My less than perfect body; my smattering of tats; and the child who couldn’t get enough of either

So, you know how there are women who just have these amazing bodies from the break? Who never watch what they eat or work out?

Right. I’m not one of those. And, in times of happiness and contentment, I’m not careful about my body at all. And I just quit my job and now work for myself.

Right. Happy as a motherfucking lark.

Consequently, I’m a little thicker around the middle than I would like. And naturally, this makes me even more reluctant to bare it all before a crowd of strangers.

The other thing is…I have these tattoos, see? Like, not ridiculous ones, and not many…but I have them. And the whole point was to get them in places where no one would ever see them. No one but the people who would…you know…see me naked. And then they’d think, “Wow, she’s got this super conservative job, but underneath her suit she’s all badass and freaky and nasty, and all Suicide Girl-y, and man, oh man I wanna slide all up in them half dignified/half dirty guts…”

You take my point.

So, right. I wasn’t over-enthused at the prospect of a gang of middle aged women who didn’t know that I have a perfectly respectable job peeping out my inked up thickyness.

But, when I walked into the locker room, no one was paying me any heed. I loosened up, a bit. I began to undress.

Then I saw her in my periphery.

This little 9 year old Korean girl was taking me all in.

And like, unabashedly doing so.

Her eyes were fully focused on all of my lady parts, sizing me up from head to toe.

Even when I pointedly met her gaze, giving her my full scale, Black girl, “The fuck you lookin’ at?” stare—she simply stared back.

And I began to get really uncomfortable. 

But we aren’t talking normal level of getting-stared-at-whilst-you’re-naked discomfort.

I’m talking, this-pervy-little-bitch-is-young-like-a-motherfucker-can-i-get-arrested-for-this-shit-what-in-the-fuck-is-she-looking-at-where-in-the-fuck-is-her-mama-hottdamn-is-this-whore-still-looking-at-me-it’s-not-a-show-you-little-shit discomfort.

I told myself that she wasn’t really there. That she was my mind’s little Korean embodiment of my super-critical, overly analytical inner child; the one who tried to act as a roadblock to my peace, even in this most relaxing of environments.

When that shit didn’t work, I crouched, cupped at my crotch, and Cupid Shuffled past that little ass until I was out of her line of vision.

1. Wait—can I get VD from this shit?

I’ll grant that this is, perhaps, a silly question. But, the world’s a silly place. And really, wouldn’t it be the height of all things ironic if, i—having showcased my privates all about the Eastern Board, and a couple of spots out west—developed a permanent case of the itchy-scratchies the one time I was stark, bald naked, and didn’t put my mouth, hands, or ass on anything?

And I live wrong, too. Like, I’m literally looking for my karmic retribution at every pass, behind every zipper.

So I don’t think it’s beyond the pale if I happen to wonder whether my gyno is gonna give my genital ju ju bee the sadface/two-thumbs-down at my next appointment after I roast my vag in a cauldron of piping hot water where two other potentially whorey-er stranger/dangerbox broads are sitting.

I’m  just saying. It’s something to consider.

But, once you got past all of that—

Shit was cool.

shit i never got over volume ii: an essay on my most unforgettable kiss, and the first time i didn’t lose my virginity.

I want to tell you about the second boy I ever kissed on the mouth.

I’d tell you about the first, but, in retrospect—there may or may not have been a slight inference of Contributing to the Delinquency of a Minor involved with that one, in that I was a mere 16, and he was, you know—27. Bygones.

Now, perhaps you’re thinking, “Wow, 16. That’s awfully old to have a first mouth kiss.” You’re right. It is. The reason for this is two-fold:

1. I was freakishly scared to kiss a boy. I know, I know. Strange. But, I was terrified that I’d try it and be horrible at it. In my ridiculously paranoid juvenile mind,  a kissing disaster would prompt a rapid spread of news  that I was, in fact, the world’s worst kisser, and no one would ever, EVER want to kiss me again. Please bear in mind, I was an only child whose parents placed absolutely zero parameters on my television-watching privileges. You try watching Mickey Rourke slather bitches down with his tongue and then peep a couple of soft core Emmanuelle-style delicate, baby kisses at age 13, and see if you aren’t intimidated to inaction until assured of your own ability to perfect the deed.

So, right.  I was scared. But also, and perhaps, more importantly:

             2. Nobody wanted to kiss me on the mouth.

Now, perhaps you’re wondering why I’m placing such emphasis on “on the mouth.” There is the small matter of that one time in the mall when “Rob” was trying to give me an awkward goodbye kiss, and I inclined my head too much, and my lips brushed his Adam’s apple. It was too mortifying an event to regroup and make a second attempt for the actual targeted lips, so I just let the embarrassing sleeping dog lie on his neck where it was. (I was so easily humiliated back then. Years later I’d go to the wedding of my friends “Art” and “Carly,” effectuate too brisk a pivot in my spaghetti strapped Max Azria dress, and bare one full, dusky-nippled b-cup breast to an entire row of Art’s Trinidadian cousins, hardly breaking a sweat.)

But I digress.  I want to tell you about the second boy I ever kissed on the mouth.

He was, coincidentally, the finest man with whom I have ever shared even the slightest intimacy. As I live and breathe let me assure you that should I roam this earth another eighty years, he will continue to be the finest man with whom I’ve ever shared any intimacy.

Let’s call him “Lee.”

So right, there I was, 16 years of age, confident that the world was my oyster, and quite assured that I knew all there was to know about anything that was even remotely important. I was Junior Class President. I was in the top ten percent of my class. I had a brand new car. I had never terminated a pregnancy. By all accounts, things were comin’ up roses.

Now, being a brainiac goody-goody had its downsides. I’d never had a boyfriend. None of the boys I’d had crushes on were particularly feeling me. And, truth be told, I’d made peace with this. I was content to like the boys that I liked from afar.

And granted, I’d noticed the new boy like everyone else. Tall, fairskinned, head full of the most beautiful locks I’d ever seen. He had an accent that betrayed a background so entirely different than any of ours. He was rough around the edges, and had rasp in his voice to prove it. Better still, he’d perfected that i-don’t-give-a-fuck-one-leg-propped-behind-him-lean-back-against-the-wall-stance that left your mouth dry, your thoughts hazy, and your panties square around your ankles if you weren’t paying attention.

But I was paying attention. I’d barely spared the interloper a second glance, save to admire those resplendent locks he’d absently whisked from his face with a flicker of his neck.

I’d known his name was “Lee.” We’d all known that. But boys like that—quiet, sexy as hell boys—they weren’t checking for me, and I was all crushed out.

Until the day that changed everything.

My girl, “Amber,” had mentioned that Lee had asked about me. When I’d inquired as to what, she’d smiled coyly, and said that he’d thought I was cute; that he’d wanted to know if I had a boyfriend.

I was so confused by this. What would this dude want with me? Boys with creamy smooth skin like that, with hair like that, didn’t want me. I’d thought that Amber was surely mistaken.

But, as it happened, she wasn’t.

Lee was actually feeling me.

We began this phone interlude that largely consisted of him calling, and me talking. I’d go on and on about some this or that, and he’d laugh, occasionally, but mainly just listen. I wasn’t certain whether this was a function of my talkativeness, or his retardation and inability to understand what I was saying. But I didn’t care. I was on Cloud Nine. My ascent into oblivion was complete. At long last, Fooler had made good. Fooler was gonna get the guy. And damnit, Fooler was gonna kiss this motherfucker SQUARE on the mouth!

And a few weeks later, when Lee asked me to come over to his house after school, I was ready.

Granted, it was on a side of town that my mother had preferred I not frequent, but, my mother had never known fineness like this. Seriously, this man’s hair was so thick, and so lustrous, and so beautifully maintained. These were not the locks of a 17 year old boy. Oh no. These were grown man, well tended locks. These were locks that had seen love, and affection, and nurturing. These were spiritual locks.

And Lee was so spiritual.

He was a man of few words, but, he was Muslim—and by “Muslim” I mean, he called himself a Muslim and said “Allah” as opposed to “God”—that had been the extent of our religious discourse.

But he wanted to be on a higher level with me (I should note, at this point, that he was the first in a long line of men who wanted to be on a “higher level” with me. As an adult, I now know this to mean “fuck you without calling you my girlfriend”).

We’d gone to the mall, once, and he’d bought some sneakers, and as we were walking around a department store he’d asked, “Do you want anything? I’ll get you anything you want.” I’d never been the kind of girl to take anything from a man (this was hypothetical, of course, because no one had ever offered…but I’d assumed that should the occasion ever arise where a man would make such an offer, I’d be exactly the kind of girl to politely decline.  I’ll note here, that this was an awfully progressive line of thought for an adolescent black girl at the time, coming up in an era when a boy was expected to show his affection for you via purchase of herringbone necklace). I’d shook my head, “no,” and smiled. He’d returned the smile and kissed me on my forehead, saying softly, “I really like you. You’re different.” It was all I could do not to strip naked then and there in Greenbrier Mall, demanding that he make nonexistent the irksome virginity that so intrudingly stood between my legs, and by proxy—us.

So, you see, it was a non-issue when my beloved had requested my presence at his familial homestead, on the not so pleasant side of town in complete defiance of my parents, when his guardians were conspicuously absent.

No one could understand our bond.

His fineness.

His spirituality.

His seemingly non-committal, but fuck it, what did I care Muslimness.

His locks.

When I got to his house, he showed me around. I noticed the furnishings, some pictures here and there.  We talked, briefly, about his family, about school. There was little to say as we had absolutely nothing in common, but I was so drawn to him. He excused himself to the adjoining room and told me to make myself comfortable.

I was trippin.

Girl, what are you gonna do? This dude is fine as hell.  You’re sittin up in this motherfucker’s house like you fittin’ to do somethin’. Okay, okay, relax. You can kiss him. You can kiss him and go home, but that’s it. That.is.it.

Unless it’s good.  If it’s good, he can feel your titties, but that’s it. Titties is all. Don’t take your shirt off. If you take your shirt off, he’s gonna take his shirt off, and then y’all are gonna be almost naked, and then you gotta do it. You can’t do it with this dude. You’re not ready to do it.

Damn, he’s sexy. Fuck it. I’ma do it.

No. No. No. I can’t do it. I can’t. I don’t even know him. Titties. JUST. TITTIES. 

(Sadly, this would not be the last time I ever had to have this conversation with myself while waiting on the return of a suitor.)

“Lee, you all right in there?” I called out, when he didn’t return, immediately.

“Yeah, just a sec,” he’d replied.

I heard it before he re-entered the room.

Lee had turned on “mood” music.

Only it was K-Ci and Jo Jo’s “All My Life.”

I fucking hated this song.

Lee stood there in all of his spectacular, winsome glory, smiling broadly. “I love this song.”

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

Standing before me, extending his hands to mine to help me from my seat  and draw me nearer, he asked, “Do you like this song?”

We were standing so close that our noses were touching. My heart was pounding so firmly in my chest I thought my passion for him was going to burst forth, all blood and guts, straight from my rib cage.

“I love this song,” I answered, in barely a whisper.

And then it happened.

My second on the mouth kiss.

We were all wild and wet tangled tongues, his mouth swallowing mine in a fit of ill-tempered, frenzied youth.  His fingers interlocked at the small of my back, and I stood on my tippy toes, eyes closed, nails gripping at his shoulders trying to show him how good at this I was; how completely and totally not amateur I was.

Only…

It was bad.

Like, awkwardly, suffocatingly, excessively liquid-y bad.

I couldn’t focus.

Gremlin K-Ci and fatassed Jo Jo were winding their monster-faced grooves into my mojo, their shrill cries metastasizing on my lust like some dark, sickly, two-most-fucked-up-members-of-Jodeci-sized cancer.

Lee broke away from our kiss.

Could this be? Could he feel it too? Did our connection run so deep that he knew when the beat was off? Was his super spiritual Muslimmy nature attune to the fact that this would be so much better and less manufactured if he’d simply slip in the Tony Rich Project “Like a Woman” like he’d done so many times in my fantasies?

He whispered then—

And  my world came crumbling to an embarrassing halt.

“Pull my hair,” he said.

* insert mental scratched record sound *

“What?” I’d asked.

“Pull my hair,” he repeated.

I knew this was God’s way of punishing me for my wanton streak of harlotry. I didn’t want to disappoint Lee. I mean, maybe this was what people did when they made out.

I reached my hands upwards to the mane that I’d coveted so desperately in my heart, and when I was but a breath away from it, I hesitated.

“Go ‘head. Pull it. Pull my hair.”

He kissed me hard, then, and I gripped the coarse tendrils firmly in my hands as he moaned in my mouth.

This wasn’t sweet at all.

Or sexy.

This was porn-y.

And fucking weird.

It went on for another full cycle of the song (the bastard had put that horrible shit on repeat) before I pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. It’s just getting late. I have to go.”

I rushed out of there like there was fire to my ankles. 

I would later give a more civil explanation to my friends when they inquired about the cool down between me and Lee.

In reality, the depth of his ardor was too much for me at the time.

I was class president for fuck’s sake. What the hell did I look like acquiescing to dudes’ fetishes at 3:00 on a Thursday afternoon to R&B power ballads?

In hindsight, Lee was fine as shit, and leaving was a weak bitch prude move.

I didn’t know I’d one day be 30, with the most mild of sexual requests being the shoving of inanimate objects up a companion’s backpipe.

Lee, to this day, I can’t listen to K-Ci and Jo Jo without thoughts of your nappy ass hair making ashy the skin between my fingers, running through my head.

If you’re out there, if you’re reading—I’m sorry.

Call me.

I’ll yank the scalp out that shit.

the return of Fooler Fridays part ii: my take+rob’s take+tre’s take+an experiment…

 

Fooler—

Your opinion on women approaching men?  Had a discussion about this with one of your sorors, and the idea was deemed ridiculous. A man should approach a woman and blah, blah, blah. That traditional bullshit makes no sense to me. It seems to me that a woman approaching a man would cut through a lot of bullshit on both ends…Anyway, hope you discuss.

This is such a fantastic question, I don’t even know where to begin.

Full disclosure.

I was totally going to answer this question with some quippy, snarky, retort, heavy on the progressive, modern woman sentiment, light on the substance.

But my point was going to be simple: It’s 2010. Of course women should hit on men. I was going to regale you with all of my thoughts on the matter, and then laughingly conclude with, “But I seldom hit on men.”

Fate intervened, however, and I will now commence presenting you with both my researched findings on the matter at hand, as well as—do try and contain your excitement—an experiment on the same.

First of all, let me give you my prevailing theory on why more women don’t hit on men.

Wait.

Lemme see if I can draw you a diagram. This blog has never utilized a diagram. You will see why, shortly.

                        TYPES OF WOMEN WHO DON’T HIT ON MEN

                                                                      /\

                                                                   /      \

                                                              /                \

       Women who don’t hit on men b/c                     Scared Broads

      they think it goes against the  natural                                /\           

      order of things & men should be the                               /         \

       aggressors.                                                                           /                \

                                                                                                  /                         \

                                         Women who are embarrassed                      Women who believe

                                       about the nature of the potential                  that a man would

                                       rejection.                                                                  hit on you if he were

                                                                                                                             truly interested.

 First things first.

Forget about those broads in category 1. Lost cause.

Category 2, however, and its subsequent subsections—there’s hope, there.

I happen to generally fall into category 2, both subsections.

Now, when I got your question, I was with my friend, Rob, who gave me tremendous insight with his own male perspective.

However, to understand his perspective and appropriately qualify his rationale, you must first hear mine.

And it goes like this:

Granted, while many of us can agree that women should hit on men, there are external forces to consider; namely, rejection.

And, realistically, that’s all category 2 boils down to: rejection.

Here are our dominant thoughts on the matter:

The Object of My Affection (OMA) Might not Like me Physically-

-This is absolutely more significant in the realm of women hitting on men than the inverse. Why? Because women are infinitesimally more forgiving of what we perceive to be physical flaws/defects than men.  And I stand by this shit so firmly. (I know many of you will have examples of this not being true, but keep them. You cannot dissuade me of this notion. ) A broad will date a gremlin and talk up his dickmedown abilities so strong to her friends, and dare anyone to challenge the mythicalbeastiness of his grill. A man could love the shit out of a homely broad; I guarandamntee his friends won’t see hide nor tail of that ass until he’s engaged to be married to her, his betrothal ring solidifying her entrenchment in the youbetternotmakefunofthisbitchcauseshe’sabouttobethemotherofmychildren camp. Thus, the probability of not liking how the other looks and it affecting one’s willingness to engage  is greater for you than me.

Despite Allen Iverson’s Vehement Protestations to the Contrary, Practice DOES Affect the Outcome of (the)Game, and We Ain’t Practiced.  Like, Not Neva.

-No matter where you stand on the issue, you cannot refute (as you will be bested by history) that women have not been raised in the tradition of hitting on men. Throughout the ages, the exact opposite has been the case.  So, we have no definitive mating cry; no well-honed skill-set designed to suavely come-hither the menfolk with our words. And we have thrived within the confines of the existing schematic—men,  aggressively driving it down the middle in the hopes of a layup; women, off in the wings of the foreground, prepared like fuck to rebound that shit, and pass it back. And we’re GREAT at passing the ball back. I can assist like you wouldn’t believe. Take my panties off and wrap them around the ball and eva-ree-thang. Only now, the tables have turned. Life has fouled me. And suddenly I’m at the line with Shaq hands, and the ball I’m trying to get in might as well be a screaming baby. And everything that occurs to me to say to you sounds so lame when I play it back in my mind. Lame and creepy. Lame and creepy and desperate. Like, not smooth at all. Bumpy and acne’d as a bitch. And even if I pass your physical standards, you might be disinclined to forgive my lame ass wack ass delivery. Cause no matter how open-minded you are, you don’t particularly fancy broads with muscular dystrophy of the mouth.

Women are Sometimes Immobilized by Rejection.

-Everybody simmer down. Not all women. Certainly not the types who eagerly hit on men.  And I don’t mean throughout life. I just mean in terms of male/female romantic interaction. And there’s a reason for this: we’re not used to it. And there’s a reason for that: we aren’t traditionally charged with the responsibility of hunting dudes. So when a woman puts herself out there, takes a risk, and babysteps into foreign territory, only to be told “No,” she is devastated. Know the last time I was rejected by a man when I put myself out there? 1992. Know when I recovered from it and tried again? 2009. Men, on the other hand, are rejected by women all of the time. This isn’t a matter of right or wrong, just simple statistics. Men hit on more women than women hit on men, therefore, more women will reject men than vice versa. And the likely result—men are more accustomed to rejection. Y’all have developed—through an evolution of rejection—a tougher skin when it comes to things like this; you know, romantic webbed feet, if you will. Y’all can just bounce back and move on to the next one. My friend, Justin, used to say, “If you hit on 100 of them in one night, 98 will probably say ‘No,’ but, who cares? 2 will say ‘Yes’!!!” You see that? You see the optimism that man exhibited? If 98 dudes told me “No” in one night, I’d kill myself. Tout de suite.

But, I digress.

On to Rob.

His answer to all of this? In a nutshell—Bullshit. Who cares. Get over it. Be me, ho! (He didn’t say the “ho” part, there, but I took some license as it’s my blog)

To my “What if he doesn’t like me physically?”—

-Relax. Nine times out of ten, any man that you hit on is going to be nice to you, and engage you. No matter what. This necessarily excludes jerkoffs, who will be rude and vile irrespective of how you look, and really, who gives a damn about them? The guy is going to be so impressed by the fact that you came over in the first place, and so flattered, he’s going to talk to you, and make you feel at ease. Women shouldn’t even give this any consideration. He’ll probably find your boldness, itself, attractive.

To my “I’m going to sound like a complete jackass when I approach him.”—

-The answer to this one is similar in kind to the first. The fact that you even bother to approach sets you apart from all of the women in the room. You are immediately in a better position than the legions of women occupying bar space, whose sense of entitlement inclines them to do little more than look pretty while awaiting the generous outpouring of drinks his wallet is expected to produce. He doesn’t expect you to be a comedian or a pimp (although both are appreciated); your sincerity and brazen attempt at forwardness are enough.

To my “But y’all are used to rejection. We’re not.”— Though I will paraphrase, note the quotes

-“Seriously? In your lifetime, how many men have hit on you? How many? I bet HUNDREDS. I bet HUNDREDS of men have probably hit on you. Do you know how many women have hit on me? NOT.ONE. NOT.ONE. For every man that rejects you, there are another ten, in your direct line of vision who won’t. So, let’s say you get up the nerve and hit on a guy and he’s not interested. So what? As soon as you climb down from your seat and turn around, you got ten other dicks there in the room pointed straight at you. Yeah, the first guy rejected you. So.the.fuck.what. Know what happens when a girl rejects me? I gotta start alllllll over again, from scratch, and build up the confidence again to hit on another girl, who will probably, also reject me. Why? Cause that’s just what girls do. And then they want to get mad when we build up these super arrogant alter egos to counter all of this rejection we get. Then we’re douchebags. I tell you what. Women create the traits they loathe in men.”

I was floored. Floored.  I’d never considered half of the knowledge Rob was dropping on me. I should state, for the record, that Rob is really good looking.  It was unfathomable to me that no one had ever blindly hit on him in a bar.

And while all of his wisdom was something of a roundhouse kick to the throat, I needed to be sure. He was vehement in his assertions, yes. But was he right?

I needed an experiment.

Yes.

An experiment.

I hit Tabaq with a determined sense of purpose. I was clad in my special iridescent JudyJetson-style dress that I’d had delivered from the UK, and my gorgeous, exceedingly high, dominatrix-strappy, giveittomehardandfast pumps.

Your girl was going all out.

The trick would be to find a man who wouldn’t normally be attracted to me (in my estimation—I won’t fall into the trap that would entail telling you who this type of man is; damned if I’m gonna let y’all flay me over that shit) initiating a conversation with him, and making a pass at him.

The night, overall, was a resounding failure. When I’d start to give a man that knowing look, he’d give me that knowing look, back.  Or hit on me outright. No bueno. I needed the stakes to be high in order for my venture to be legit.

I had almost given up all hope (I had no idea so many men would be responsive to my completely ridiculous dress), when—

There he was.

Christopher Williams lookin’ dude, clad in a seer-sucker jacket, posted up by the bar, cold chillin’, not saying shit to anybody, encircled by a group of his friends, looking disinterested in the array of people before him.

The moment I spotted him, I knew he was perfect.

He wasn’t my type at all, either (and that’s saying something, believe me).

And I knew this was an experiment. Not real in the slightest. In real life, I didn’t give a fuck if this man found me to be a belching, putrescent troll, and yet—

I was scared as a motherfucker.

I could hear my heart banging in my ears. My palms got a little sweaty.  Ohmygod! What if he hates me?! What if he thinks I’m lame?! What if his friends laugh at me!?

I took a deep breath, and, quite literally, manned up. Relax, Fooler. You’re clever as a bitch. And you’re naked. And you just got your hair cut. You’ve got the smoothest taper in three states right now. Don’t let this baby-haired man bitch you up.

So I sauntered over—this is the part where I like to fantasize that my mere presence parted the body-bumpin’ dancers like Moses and the Red Sea, however blasphemous that may appear on paper—and took a spot next to him at the bar. I observed him in my periphery as I requested a Chardonnay from the bartender.

This was my moment.

I took that bitch.

Me: “So, I came over here and ordered this drink just as a diversion.”

New Millennium Christopher Williams (NMCW): “Oh yeah? What’s the diversion for?”

Me: “I needed it as an excuse to come and talk to you.”

*imaginary fist pump to the sky* You-a pimp, bitch!!!

NMCW: *chuckle, smile, chuckle, laugh*

Me: “So, as a precautionary measure, as I care a great deal for my general safety, are you with any of the women here?”

NMCW: “Nope. I came with my boys, here.”

Me: “And you left your girlfriend/wife at home? (I should note, I HATE it when dudes don’t just come out and ask me if I have a boyfriend rather than dance around it like this—that shit is NOT cute at all—but, alas, I was new at this shit, and nervous.)”

NMCW: “No wife. No girlfriend.”

*imaginary double fist pump to the sky*

And on and on we went, in that fashion, for a solid 10 minutes. And after a while, he was asking me the questions. He was engaging me like hell, and I easily fell into the rhythm, that, honestly, was similar in kind to that which I’m generally accustomed.

 It ended with his boys getting ready to leave, and him saying his goodbyes.

And all I could think about was how right Rob had been. This man hadn’t been interested in me, no. But he’d engaged me—been a willing and active participant, as a matter of fact—in conversation. He wasn’t rude at all. Quite the contrary. And, true to form, when he and his friends left, 4 other men ended up hitting on me, and making sure that the man with whom I’d been talking hadn’t, in fact, been my man.

By the way, I hasten to note that I’d thought my experiment (conducted over a month ago) had yielded perfect results ——————–until 3 nights ago…

My friend, Tre, brought up—quite casually, really—that I hadn’t taken the experiment to its full finish. As a matter of fact, I’d taken it all the way to the edge, only to turn around at the last moment.

You see, I’d expected to do all of the work: the initiation, the flirting, whathaveyou; but in the back of my mind, I was still thinking that, at the end of the day, my boy counterpart would take the reins, and bring it home, with a request for my number.

Tre’s revelation almost made me crash my car.

I should have asked NMCW for his number!!!

Then, and only then, would my makeshift foray into the woes of man-kind have been complete.

I’ll have to try that next time…

And by “next time,” I mean, “in a couple months.”

Really fellas, that shit right there is HORRIFYING.

Well done, you.

I’m giving ALLA Y’ALL my number on GP, next time I’m out (now, it might be an office number, but y’all brave bastards will NOT walk away empty handed).

But, the takeaway is the same—

Outside of the initial buildup of anxiety, ladies—nothing to fear, here.  Holler at those sexy ass men.

The return of fooler fridays, part I.: the post men will hate me for…

Fooler,

I have a request. This is not about single women, this is about women in relationships. Can you address two things: 1. the imaginary man and 2. the apparent need for some women to be taken care of and in charge at the same time?

The imaginary man is the ‘idea’ a particular woman has in her head that she compares to the man she is with instead of taking stock of the reality of the men in existence and seeing where he falls into that realistic scale. There are standards, and then there are fantasies. There is a difference.

The second one, wanting to be spoiled and pampered but be in charge of everything too, is fascinating to me because while it may work out for some women by and large this appears to be an unreasonable if not damn near impossibility of personality deconfliction. Progressive cooperation; sure. Responsible leader; that sounds reasonable. Traditional roles (by choice) while exercising influence within that structure; seems to me that has worked for a lot of people. But pampered and babied princess that calls _all_ the shots, sets the tone and has to approve of everything (at the extreme end even taking issue with a man’s thoughts and feelings); not so much. Like not at all.

I am fully aware that you may agree, disagree or even laugh out loud at the thought that these things even exist, and that I may be ‘wrongheaded’ in my thinking about what the real issues are. Either way, I would really love to hear your views on these two things as I am in dire need of some insight about such things, and I appreciate your keen insight and frankness.

My views on these two things….

Hmm.

Well, frankly, I think I disagree with both of your premises.

I’ll start with “the imaginary man.”

I take issue with your suggestion that a woman “tak[e] stock of the reality of the men in existence…”

I take issue because it is an impossible thing for any woman to do. Or any person to do, for that matter.  No woman knows all of the men in existence.  You wouldn’t wife her if she did. She’d be a complete ho-bucket.

She is only capable of establishing a basis of comparison (if one takes the position that she should be acknowledging any such comparison in the first place) between you and the men she knows or has known; the men who constitute her reality.

I read the most brave and honest thing in a blog a few weeks back that said (and I’m paraphrasing, here): my reality is the only reality that is important to me (www.deathofagenius.com ).  

For instance, I happen to have three or four friendship circles that consist of unbelievably awesome men. I am enamored of my father, impressed by my employer, on good terms with all of my exes; even my preferred brand of ignorant reality television specializes in largely female villains.

So my reality is consists of “upwardly mobile” men who all have multiple degrees, are white collar in occupation,  who are quick of wit and easy of temperament, and generally speaking, of above-average height.

So, were I to “take stock of” my “reality,” which I’ve already determined is the only logical one for which I am responsible, I shouldn’t date men who are short, or who didn’t go to college, or who work on cars for a living. That would be my “reality.” Don’t expect me to congratulate a man I’m dating for not taking his socialization cues from “The Wire.” That shit’s not my reality. (Now is a good time to note that I don’t co-sign on the assignation of “realities” or any such rigid comporting to them.)

Now, if you are okay with her taking stock of her reality, and therefore, by default, going along with this idea that it is okay to compare the one you’re with to the ones you’re not, you necessarily set yourself up for the example I present. Maybe in her reality, men do all the shit you don’t.

For me, the problem isn’t some perceived incongruence between her reality and fiction.  Rather, it is what I’m picking up in your tone (correct me if I’m wrong, here), which suggests an air of, “She should be grateful for this good shit she has.”

This is bothersome because you obviously feel like you are going above and beyond, and she obviously thinks you’re a) doing what you’re supposed to be doing, or b) not doing enough. The problem isn’t with her reality’s incongruence with the world at large. The problem is her reality’s incongruence with your reality.

If this discordance manifests itself in relatively smalltime issues, this is easily rectifiable.

e.g. Where Ole Girl comes from, Dudes pay for 100% of all shared meals. Where you come from, women occasionally pick up the tab, or pick up the tab 50% of the time (As my friend “Ron,” once artfully put it: “So, I’m supposed to pay for every single meal that goes into your mouth for the rest of your life?”) This is a situation that has a solution. This is a situation that can have a reasonable middle ground.

However, if the issues are more substantial…

e.g. Ole Girl thinks it’s okay to fuck your friends as a showing of welcome, and you’d rather she didn’t—

It might be time to move on.

Okay, now to, issue #2: Being spoiled and pampered, yet desiring to run the show.

Again, I disagree with your basic premise, which, I believe, is that these two concepts are diametrically opposed.

I don’t think they are.

I think the woman who makes as large a demand as having her fully functioning adult person taken care of is entirely the type of woman who would demand that she have the final authoritative say in all matters.

I don’t find it surprising at all that a woman who expects a man to foot all of her bills and pay for all of her extravagances is unreachable when it comes to compromise; unwilling to demurrer irrespective of her faulty posture in an argument.

Here’s what I will say about the gold-digging ego-maniacal woman.  That bitch is honest.

And more of us should be like her.

Not gold-digging or ego-maniacal, but, honest about what our realities are; about what our dealbreakers and end-games are.

Because when we’re honest about these things from the gate, our separate “realities” don’t have to become a competing duality. We can both agree that I’m an ain’t-shit-bitch with a tragically over-inflated estimation of self and am deluded in my thinking that I am different from everyone else in the world who has to actually work for a living. We don’t have to fight over me being a harpy shrew intent on emasculating the very heart of you til your friends and the people who knew you when once you were great are entirely incapable of regarding you as anything more than a giant puss.

And then we can move together in cohesive unity.

As an aside—

(And please note, that I don’t subscribe to the “men ain’t shit” school of thought. I have zero complaints in the boy department. At least, no complaints that I can’t work with. Most of the men I deal with meet my standards with relative ease. This may or may not be due to the fact that I have low standards.)

Something I do concede to thinking, while addressing these remarks:

Everywhere women turn, some man is telling us to be more “realistic” in our thinking. Men are telling us to adjust our standards so that they might more easily mirror the manner of man that is truly out there.

Women are expected to modify their standards to accommodate this not-clearly-defined gray area of “what’s truly out there.”

I’ve already addressed our inability to properly assess “what’s truly out there.”

Here’s what I’m thinking, though.

Women constantly make amendments to accommodate what we believe men want. Constantly.

Women nip and tuck their bodies. Get bigger breasts, get bigger asses. We put hair in our heads, we wax it off our vags. We shut the fuck up during the game, we don’t call you a crybabyassbitch when you KNOW you deserve it. We show a willingness to step it up in some attempt to meet man-kind’s exacting  physical standards, and most of us work so we can go half on whatever we intend to build together.

If my law firm expects me to bill 2100 hrs a year, I don’t think to myself, “That’s some ole bullshit. Booboo’s firm only requires 1800 hrs a year. Shit, most firms only require 1800 hrs a year. I’ma talk to the Partners about how this shit they want isn’t realistic. Fuck this.”

I deal. This is where I choose to work. Its high hash-marks are my new reality.

If men live in a world where women have ridiculously high standards, then maybe ridiculouslyhighstandardville is your new reality.

Maybe it’s time for men to start stepping it up, no matter how unattainable the goal. Maybe men should stop focusing on how crazy our standards are, and just start focusing.

Unless she’s a total assbag. Then, treat her as you will.

*********

because i’m the kinda girl who takes a straight white man to meet a bunch of black gays…

I took my very heterosexual, very white friend, Rob, to an all-black, all gay barbecue last weekend.

Now, before you conclude that I hung Rob out to dry, please be advised that I did consult one of the two hosts about the okay-ness of him accompanying me. It went like this:

Me: “Mark, will it be okay if I bring my friend, Rob?”

Mark: “Sure. Is he gay?”

Me: “Nope. And he’s white.”

Mark: “Mmm. I think he’ll be okay. I mean, we’ve got a keg. Straight white boys like kegs, don’t they?”

Me: “Every one I’ve ever known.”

So, it was with an excited heart, and a nervous Rob that I trotted out to Loudoun County for the barbecue.  

Now, while I, of course, described the party’s potential happenings in painstaking detail, and absolutely alerted Rob to the overall uber-gayness of the event, I may have neglected to mention that the party would be all black.

Bygones.

****

“Don’t act funny.”

When we arrived I introduced Rob to everyone that I recognized, and mapped out the lay of the land. Just as I suspected, nothing but immaculately attired, fresh tapered good looking man-loving men everywhere I turned.

Upon entry, Rob’s face definitely bore that look one gets when he’s unaccustomed to being the only minority in a space (Remember that feeling, black people? Remember ages ago when we used to feel self-conscious about being the only black person in a room—you know, before we realized that it was going to happen on and on ad infinitum for the rest of our natural black lives?).

Now, Rob is something of a beer aficionado, and given the generally high alcohol volume of the fancy beer he traditionally drinks, he’s kind of a two beer per night kinda guy.  But, recognizing the expression he wore, I asked, mockingly, “So—what are you thinking? Two-beer kinda night?”

Laughing  softly, he looked around and said, “Um…. I’m pretty much going to drink as much beer as I can handle.”

So, I inquired as to the whereabouts of the keg, and Mark directed us to the patio where Rob’s salvation awaited him.

As he was filling his cup, I noticed a quartet of cute boys assembled around a table, smoking, and talking amongst themselves. I introduced myself and Rob (I should point out, that while I’m generally quite social when I have a mind to be, I was especially social on this particular occasion. Standing around and skulking in a corner is a luxury the bringer-of-the-white-man can ill afford) and we relaxed for a bit, taking in the gay scenery.

“I thought you were hungry,” said I. “You should eat. Looks like there’s plenty of food.”

“Yeah,  I am pretty hungry. I’ll get something,” he responded.

“Well, let’s go in and get a plate.”

Rob tensed a bit. “Maybe I’ll hold off for a sec. I don’t really have to eat.”

From the corner of the patio, the tall man with fantastic eyebrows, who’d introduced himself as Matt, called out, “I thought you said you were hungry.”

Rob, confused and surprised, stuttered a bit, “Well, I mean, I’m not really…I mean, I am, but—“

Matt was not in a state of mind to brook any refusal. “You just said you were hungry. And she said you were hungry. You think there’s something wrong with that food?”

Rob tried to put his words right, “No, I just—“

“Then go get you some food then. What are you trying to say? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that food. You better go get you some food. Don’t act funny, now. Don’t act funny.”

I looked at Rob, and tried my best not to laugh. He just exhaled, dejectedly.  “Yeah. I can go get a plate. I’ll go get a plate. Let me just get another beer, first.”

It wasn’t until a few hours later that we learned that Matt had catered the event.

*****

“Fooler, I think….I think these might be—greens?”

Back inside, Rob and I talked to fellow party goers. I could see that the beer was loosening him a bit, and I felt less compelled to glue myself to his every movement.  Rob surveyed the generous spread of food lining the countertops, and began to compile a plate. I made the rounds and also relaxed. Bringing him had been a good move. He was an easy, go-with-the-flow kinda guy; even when said flow was black and overwhelmingly gay.

A few minutes later, I found him, full plate in hand,  biting into what looked to be an eggroll.

“How is everything?” I asked.

“Really, really good,” said he. “Hey, I think I found something you can eat. These eggrolls are really good, and they don’t have any meat in them.”

“Oh, yeah?”  I said, inching closer. “What’s in them?”

Rob extended a half eaten eggroll, when my heart stopped dead in my chest. A confused furrow adorned his brow. “I’m not really sure. It’s either spinach or…I mean…”

I could hear my heart, again, only now it was thumping loudly between my ears.  I deliberated about whether it was best to tell the truth or remain mum.  Fuck it. The motherfucker’s here. Welcome to my world, White man.

“Rob, I think, that they are definitely not filled with spin—“

“Fooler, I think….wait…I think these might be….greens?” Rob stood there, examining the half-eaten article, slowly coming to the realization that Matt had masterminded perhaps the most unbelievable—and apparently delicious—fusion of Southern (black) cuisine and Asian cuisine mankind has ever known.

“Yeah, homie. Those are definitely greens,” I said, shaking my head.

“These are really, really good,” he repeated, before downing what remained of the eggroll, and helping himself to another.

Jesus Christ, I thought to myself. Everything anyone has ever said about black people anywhere in the world, at any time, ever, is true.

I watched Rob slowly and almost systematically eat and love every single thing on his Dixie plate.

Everything anyone has ever said about white people anywhere in the world, at any time, ever, is true.

****

“ ‘I try hard to fight it/no way can I deny it…’ “

Everyone who attends parties or frequents bars or clubs knows that, as the night begins to wind down, the motivation behind music selection shifts. While the beginning of the night is spent trying to get people hyped up, and the middle, focused on maintaining the momentum, the end is generally something of a free for all. The end of the night is where shit gets really good. The dj is under less pressure, and he can be a little more experimental with his choices. He can whip out the classics, the oldies but goodies, and be confident in his belief that the audience will appreciate his moxie, his defiance of the mainstream.

And you know what happens when the dj plays that magic song? Thaaaat’s right. Everyone closes their eyes, extends their arms above their heads, and sings at the top of their drunken lungs. And that’s the sweet spot at a party. The drunken group belt-out.

Now, in my humble experience, a good shut-it-down song at a predominately white venue is some 80s rock gem, like “Livin’ on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi or “Don’t Stop Believin’” a la Journey.

And for the traditional predominately black venue—I think we can all agree that a solid dose of Maze featuring Frankie Beverly  “Before I Let Go” gets the job done.

Right.

Hearken back to the part where you recall that I was at an all black, all gay barbecue.

Now, shame on me for letting my guard down.  Prior to this point in the night, I’d drunkenly reflected–as I often do when at all-gay events—what a shame it was that people were so bigoted; that if everyone would stop prosthelytizing or agendizing, or fucking hating for one second in time and just open their eyes, they’d see that who you choose to fuck has nothing to do with who you are as a human being; that this barbecue was like every barbecue I’d ever attended in life (only in a fancier space, with no girls, and men whose freshness-of-edge-up defied all heretofore known bounds of logic). People are people, I’d naively concluded. Gay, straight, in between—it makes little difference in the end. We all do the same shit.

But eight melodic words pouring in over the speakers brought me back from my ideological reverie. Eight little words put black gay smear all over my beautifully sentimental rose-colored lenses.

“Can’t explain why your lovin’ makes me weak…”

“Oh.fuck.no.”

Before I knew what was happening, Coco, Taj, and Lee Lee, the most regular-looking trio of broads to ever top the R&B charts, who’d tauntingly provided the soundtrack to my romantically-tortured adolescence, washed over me.

I began to panic. This isn’t party music! This isn’t shut it down music! This is a ballad! This is an early 90s ballad! We’re at a party! This won’t stand!

I looked accusingly at my friend, Michael, who’d been drunkenly manning the ipod-of-steel all night, and who I’d earlier narrowly saved from pushing “play” on a particularly gospel-ly Kim Burrell selection.

But his hands were remote control free. Everyone’s hands were remote control free. I saw this clearly because everyone’s hands were extended—-above their heads.

Everyone’s eyes were closed.

The keyboard lulled into a delicate pianissimo and gave way to Coco’s exasperated, emotionally-tormented alto.

But I only had to endure her arguably not-so-hot voice momentarily.

Because just then,  the clouds parted, the heavens opened, and a lo, a chorus of gays sang along right with her, rhythmically swaying as if their black gay lives depended on it.

I can’t.

Surely someone will turn this off, thought I.

Nope.

Didn’t happen.

No one even made a move to change that shit.

And then it hit me. Oh, fuck! Rob!

I’d left him on the patio.

I hurriedly opened the glass door, and there he stood, tall, straight, white, unmoving—

Amidst a backdrop of arms raised, eyes closed, gently swaying, sangin’ ass, gay ass blacks.

I approached. “Hey. Ummmmm. Errr. Uh. Yeah, I don’t really have an explanation for this.”

“Is there an explanation for this?”

“Right,” said I. “Um. No. I mean, this usually happens, yes. But, uh. The SWV is new to me.”

“They’re singing all of the words,” said he.

“Yeah. Yeah they are.”

“And there are a lot of words.”

“Yes. Yes there are.”

I looked around us, then. I looked at our patio counterparts. I listened to the whole party stop everything everyone was doing just to slow bop and sing to this one monkey-ass song, that had, at some point, endeared itself to all of us during our youth.

Smiling, I looked at Rob before downing the remainder of what proved to be a bottomless cup of red wine, and said, “God, I love black people.”

Fin

Letting color go….for alh, and damn……..that leona lewis bitch, too…

“I call this one, ‘Miss Celie’s Blues’….cuz she scratched my head when I’s was ailin’…”

Dark skinned broads of the universe; failers of paper bag tests worldwide—

We owe our redboned counterparts an apology.

For hating.

You heard me.

Fine, fine.

I can sense your reticence.

I’ll kick it off.

Good Afternoon. My name is Fooler. And I owe a gang of lightskinned bitches, and bitches with baby hair, thick, long, luxurious hair, and crazy, funky, wild spirally hair an apology.

Alla y’all.

Now, take heart. This apology comes years upon years after the discovery of my hater-antics. But, I never issued a formal apology, and—well, now seems as good a time as any.

Lightskinned bitches, and bitches with baby hair, thick, long, luxurious hair, and crazy, funky, wild spirally hair—you all are not the enemy. You never have been. Some of you all are dimes, some of you all are treasure trolls. The exact genetic predeterminates of your beauty or fugliness is frankly, none of my business.

I bore you all so much animus for so many years, adjusting my ire and contempt only  when the inclusion of a new lightskinned, baby haired/thick,long,luxurious haired, crazy,funky,wild spirally-haired bitch in my friendship circle necessitated an exception.

And, for the longest time, it entirely escaped my attention that your numbers in my friendship ranks were beginning to swell; that I had surrounded myself in a veritable sea of amazing women who defied every loosely-constructed stereotype my own ignorance wouldn’t allow me to view as false.

Similarly escaping my attention was the fact that I am, in fact, cute as a motherfucker. Seriously. I’m on some cute shit. I have some true cuteness going on all up in my face space.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let me take you back.

My mother—my amazing, can do everything in this world mother–grew up dirt poor in  a town with an unrecognizable name in Nowheresville, North Carolina. Her particular melanin composite never garnered her any popularity contests in those days, and when she married my father, a man whose hue was identical to hers, she suspected any children of theirs’ wouldn’t fare much different.

According to my mother, the people of her town, her peers, and virtually everyone with whom she had any significant contact, was “color struck.” Most Blacks, grappling with our own identities, replete with the psycho-socio far-reaching implications of second class citizenry, had turned our attentions inward, and set about creating hierarchies within our own ranks; where education and affluence wouldn’t suffice to separate us, fairness of skin would suit just fine.

The lighter (and by proxy, more White-looking) the better.

When I came around, my mother took proactive steps in making certain that I never felt the dejection that she’d experienced as a child.

Lightskinned girls were no better than me. Girls with hair that brushed their hips had to come home at night and wash their little stankin asses just like I did. If a boy preferred another girl to me, he only liked her because she was lightskinned. If the boy I liked didn’t like me back, who was he, oh, that lightskinned boy? *insert eye roll*.

My mother was trying to prepare me for the “color struck” world at large.

But, all the while, she was making me “color struck.” Stuck hating on lightskinned bitches who had a gang of hair, and absolutely nothing the fuck to do with me.

I love my mother, and all that she tried to do for me. She inspired confidence where there otherwise would have been none. And maybe sometimes a boy I liked had a preference for lightskinned girls. But you know what? Maybe sometimes a boy I liked didn’t have a particular fondness for chunky bitches with a lotta mouth and a sad, sad proclivity for Karl Kani jeans.

The truth of the matter is, whether the world at large thinks that fairer skinned women are more attractive has little bearing on my own reception.

The truth of the matter is, I should only be focusing on me. On whether my toenails are painted; whether my elbows are ashy; whether my upper lip is a replica of Tom Selleck’s.

My crew of girls, dark and light, alike, aren’t divided among color lines with respect to heartache; they’ve all known it in equal measure.

My crew of girls, dark and light, alike, aren’t divided among color lines with respect to their loyalty to me and nourishment of our friendship; they’ve all born my monkey idiosyncrasies with casually amused dismissal.

And men—the truth about them is, if they’re with you, they’re with you. If a man likes you, he likes you for you. The end.

Sure, maybe he wishes he could skim a few pounds off of your carb-indulgent, though steadfastly determined to rock a two piece ass, but– if he likes you, he likes you.

Granted, maybe he wishes you’d given a bit more forethought to that upper arm or upper titty tat you were so insistent on getting at 18, and now your ridiculous ass is 30 and relegated to a life of long sleeves and turtlenecks, but—if he likes you, he likes you.

He doesn’t wish he had a lightskinned, long-haired bitch in your stead. He likes you.

(Now, don’t be a dumb bitch. Please bear in mind that he will fuck her, too. If he isn’t shit, he probably won’t shy too far away from fucking her in addition to you. But that’s not the point. The point is, that for whatever fraction of attention space he has designated to you, your black, monkey ass is what he wants.)

And me—my own personal truth—is that I can’t think of one instance when a lightskinned, baby haired/thick,long,luxurious haired, crazy,funky,wild spirally-haired bitch maligned me. Not one. Remonica Jenkins—black as coal. Any collegiate issues I had with women—all my complexion or darker (except that one time, and really, she wasn’t at fault at all. Oh no, wait. There was one. Damn. I STILL hate that bitch. Okay, so that’s one. Really though. One).

But I can think of a hundred times when my 5 re-assured me;  a thousand when my girl, “Law School Logan” held my crazy ass down; a million when a particularly new trio of beauties amped up my blog and encouraged me to keep writing; and an infinite number still when the woman who inspired this post (not Leona Lewis, geniuses) listened to my troubled meanderings, withholding judgment in favor of support.

The point is that I, for one, am done. I am long done.

My matriculation to adulthood has seen Halle Berry get beat by two men and made a black fool of by one, Vanessa Williams get married twice and left with a hundred children to raise all by her lonesome, Stacey Dash take an asswhooping her damned self, Rhianna get stomped unconscious in a Lamborghini (a feat I didn’t even know possible), and Leona Lewis get slapped the shit out of in public by a complete stranger.

My mocha-colored juvenile angst put so many bad vibes into the Universe, I’m starting to feel halfway responsible for some of that shit.

So, for all of the unnecessary hating—

For the animus rooted in my own insecurities, and reinforced by societal standards of beauty that I so enthusiastically took to heart–

And damn, for Leona Lewis, who I gotta believe didn’t deserve that open fist to the mouth—

I apologize.

Come on, brown broads—

I know someone else has some “I’m sorrys” to go around, too.

p.s.

(not to mention every lightskinned broad that is dominating my universe now, but….lol…lessssssssst y’all get at me….i’ve reserved mad love for a freckled nigerian, a fashion savvy cropped coiffed beauty who Baltimore has stolen from me, and, as always…….the timeless……”natalie.” [note which name i put in quotes...cause your real name is sometimes your fake name])

The entry I swore I’d never write. It is complete bullshit that i even have to say this. Regretfully yours….

I would like to begin, with an apology.

I apologize, in advance, for this post.

Given the fact that this blog is young yet, I am not foolish enough to state, plaintively, things that it will never address; things that it will never cover. I am fully aware of the potential, and indeed, likelihood, of writing dry spells.

For instance, I would love to say that I will never comment on celebrity comings and goings—those people are already famous. Fuck them. I’m a hater.

But I might.

I would love to say that I will never discuss my own personal politics. In my view, if opinions are like assholes (as the saying goes), political opinions are the dingleberryest of them all.

But I might.

But I will say this.

And mean it.

And own it.

I am going to address something, briefly, today, and it will NEVER be seen or read about on this space, again.

And I am coming from a place motivated by my disappointment in the recent postings of one of my favorite bloggers—my premiere internet crush.

So here goes—like it or lump it—

(I hardly give a damn as it will never be seen or heard from me on this space again either way.)

STOP FUCKING TALKING ABOUT THIS BLACK WOMAN DATING CRISIS.

PLEASE.

SHUT-THE-FUCK-UP about it.

SERIOUSLY.

QUIT.

Stop it.

There is NOT a dating crisis. There is NOT a marriage crisis.

The reality of the situation is far, far worse than either of those two concepts can ever comprehend.

The true situation is way more fucked up.

There is, in fact, a PERSPECTIVE crisis. Got it?

Of like, EPIC proportions.

There is a nationwide, motherfucking pandemic surrounding the malnourishment, starvation, and disease infestation of our collective perspective.

Black women—you can get a man, okay?

You can get a man. You can get a black one. You can get a black one that is educated, and employed and good to you. You can even get one that’s none of those things if you so choose.

Know what else you can get? A white man. You can get one that is educated, and employed, and good to you.  You can even get one that’s none of those things if you so choose.

Know what you can also get? And I must profess, this one is nearest and dearest to my heart—

You can get passionately, thoroughly, deliberately, and wantonly fucked to Kingdom Come (literally) while you are trying to make up your mind between the two.

Anybody who tells you that you can’t—and I will definitively say this irrespective of how it comes off—ANYONE who tells you that you cannot—any statistical data, any blogger, any pastor, any radio personality, even your own mother—

ANYONE who tells you otherwise—

Is a mother-fucking-lie.

NOT a “liar.”

I took it there.

Good, southern, and black fo’ dat ass.

Anyone who tells you that you can’t have these things is a mother.fucking.lie.

Don’t believe me?

Let me tell you how I know.

On my BEST day—

Are you listening, bitches?

On my BEST day—

Like, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, all the lights on the roadways are green—

I am a strong

SEVEN.

On my BEST day.

I am short, black. No real hair to speak of. Sassy in the mouth, wide in the ass. And I have two little raggedy ass dogs that I take wherever I go.

Yet, I have miraculously convinced some of the best men I’ve ever known to fall in love with me; to want to be with me. I’ve even taken a few of them up on their offers and loved them back.

Me.

Janky ass ole me.

(I mean, I could get it. Don’t get me wrong. I’d definitely get it. But ain’t nobody gonna break through traffic trying to give it to me.)

And believe me—believe me when I tell you, as I come from a place of truth and reflection, and not modesty (as I have no talent for it), the ONLY thing special about me at all; the only thing that sets me apart from the ravenous, wedding hungry, WE-Channel watching devotees in this city is my constant state of being un-pressed.

I could give a damn about matrimony or andbabymakes3.

Listen.

There is no shame in having an ideal; of having an expectation of a life, or a dream.

But the reality is, that if you simply chill for a moment, and breathe—if you stop searching for something in nothing—

If you ignore your friends in their seemingly blissfully happy marriages and relationships and simply focus on this isolated moment in time that you have to be free; to be unencumbered by children, a man, or obligations greater than yourself—you will realize how truly lucky you are.

Love is a many splendored thing, yes. But is also a laborious thing.

That man and that relationship that you will work so hard to get, will necessitate double the effort to maintain and keep.

I worry that there is this movement afoot to convince us that we need to be married and that we need to rush and that the chances of us getting married are slim so we better buckle down and hustle. I don’t know who sparked it off, but I tell you who is not perpetuating it: married people.

Because they know the shit that everyone else isn’t saying. Marriage, and indeed, serious relationships, are a marathon, not a sprint.

They are absolutely and unequivocally a marathon.

And know what?

I.don’t.like.to.run.

Don’t you want to walk for a bit?

There’s no shame in a brisk walk.

I, personally, enjoy walking with two or three people.

Sometimes even at the same time.

(Okay that last part was probably a joke).

The point is, there are plenty of men out there.

And there’s not just one good man out there for you. There are ten or twelve within a two mile radius of where you’re standing this very second. Maybe you can’t see them (two miles is actually quite a bit of fucking space), but they’re there.

And they will be there, whether you’re 25, or 35, or 45.

You have an infinite amount of time to boo up and settle down. Trust me.

Put Steve Harvey on mute, tell the statisticians to go fuck themselves, give your mother an endearing frontal lobe kiss and then walk away.

And then come out and meet me for some DRANKS, bitches!!

We’re fittin’ to get fuuuuuuuuuuucked up and make some HORRIBLE decisions like only a bunch of hard-living 7s can.

*sigh*

Okay, okay…..

8s and up can come too.

lesbians, reefer, and the “n-word”, oh my! fooler fridays…..

Thanks soooooooo much for the submissions, guys!!!  This one ran long as y’all LIT ME UP on facebook and by blog-mail.  Same caveats apply. I profess to know nothing about anything.  Enjoy-

Fooler—

Love the blog, girl. Okay, here’s my question. Marijuana?

Now, is that an inquiry as to how I feel about reefer, or an offer for me to smoke reefer with you?

 I’m an officer of the court, so my position, of course, is that drugs are bad. Don’t do them. They’re illegal. Especially reefer. It makes you do terrible things like, talk out of your ass about nothing, tell a bunch of your friends crazy shit like, “I can hear my heart whispering to me,” or, smile lazily to the boy sitting right next to you and slowly mouth the words, “You trying to leave?”

 Look, I’m a lawyer (though lawyers probably make up 70% of the drug-purchasing population), so you’re never going to catch me saying anything positive about drugs (in print), whether they’re perceived to be innocuous or otherwise.

 My personal stance, for a myriad of reasons running the gauntlet from political to practical is—“legalize it.”

 In saying that, I will, however, note 2 caveats. First, I didn’t adopt this viewpoint until I started practicing criminal law a few years back. Second, because I still take criminal cases, I will probably ultimately renege on this perspective. Frankly, the more people smoke, the more people will have to hire me when they get busted smoking.

 Don’t judge me too harshly. I’m generally a live and let live kinda broad, but hey—I’m a capitalist first.

 Fooler—

   I scored a 25 on your thug test! You’re killing me. You have to make a provision for “reformed” thugs, and take some points off for that. Here’s my situation. My “reformed” thug still drops the “n-word.” Even when we’re in public. It embarrasses me but he maintains that it’s just a word black people use. I don’t think I’ve seen you use it. What are your thoughts on it?

 Wow. Okay.

 A “25,” huh? Girl, if he’s dropping the n-bomb all out in the open around old people and whites,  how “reformed” could he be? I think I need to add some points for that shit.

 It’s funny that you should ask this given the week that I’ve had. I make it a practice nnnnnnnnnever to use it unless I’m in the company of my closest (blackest) friends. Frankly, I’m ashamed that I ever use it at all.

 I will say, that it takes time and practice to grow out of. That shit is so thoroughly ingrained in our collective black psyche. In my opinion, we’re all a product of two generations of black entertainers who use it for sport, and one generation of musicians who use it for endearment.

 Now, as I’ve hinted, this past week was a rough one, for me, and for the first time in my professional life, I used it TWICE at my job.

 This horrible client of mine got me so upset that I forgot myself, while on the phone with my extremely non-black, Nicaraguan secretary. Said secretary was innocently trying to relate some recent ridiculousness my retardemus client had inflicted on my office while I was away at court. I kept telling my secretary that I’d handle it when I got back, and she—agitated by him—kept countering with, “But, Mr. X said,” “But, Mr. X said.” Finally, pushed to my limits by work, and this petulant man’s incessant demands, I yelled out, “I don’t give a FUCK what that crazy nigger said.”

 It was followed by this monstrous silence.

 I must have apologized one thousand times.

 The second time happened the very next morning when I went to my office and opened up my msn.com news page and saw that Lawrence Taylor had gone on a sodomy bender. Before I realized my assistant was at my door; before I even knew what was happening, I let out a harsh, “AWWDAYUMNiggaDAYUM.”

 *sigh*

 Again, I apologized another one thousand times.

 Tell him that it makes you uncomfortable. Don’t be harsh, or condescending, or overly-critical—but let him know. Don’t say, “Shhh!!!” or “Stop!!!!” Grown people hate it when you tell them what to do, particularly in public. And if he is truly a “reformed” thug, he might give you that, “Who in the fuck do you think you’re talking to” side-eye which is equally embarrassing. So just tell him that it makes you feel awkward. Generally, when you tell a man that something he’s doing is making you ill at ease, he’ll stop.

 Now,  if he hit’s you with a shoulder shrug “I don’t give-a-fuck” or “Ain’t no thang to me,”  you know what to do—

 That’s right.

 Add +6.

 P.S. I’m sorry to anyone reading this who’s disappointed in my revelation.

 But for real—

I gotta at least get a pass on the LT one…

 Fooler—

Is it me, or do you date a lot? What’s up with that? I just asked out a girl at my job yesterday and I’m trying to take her out Saturday night. Any recommendations? What’s the best date you ever had?

 That’s a lot of questions.

1. It’s you.
2. I like boys.
3. Honestly, this really depends on the girl, so, without any real information about her I’m reluctant to give you any suggestions by way of activities or venues.

 If I were to offer any advice to a man taking out a woman for the first time, it would be to take her flowers. Men don’t do it anymore. It’s kind of a lost art. Even chicks who don’t dig flowers will appreciate the gesture. It says, “You’re not just some broad I want to bone. Those bitches don’t get flowers. You, I kinda like.”

 Hmmm. The best date I ever had.

 I asked an acquaintance to a firm dinner last year. I was having a rough time of it, and I really didn’t want to go to the dinner, and it was one of those over-the-top black tie affairs that generally make me overwhelmingly uncomfortable.

 I was so shocked when he agreed to go. He was a little bit older than me, and fairly well versed in occasions like this, so, he was perfect as far as appropriate dates were concerned. And my Lord, could this man hang a tux.

 We arrived at the restaurant, and were immediately swarmed by partners and their curious wives. I was so nervous I drank two to three glasses of champagne during the cocktail hour. Each time my glass was empty, he made sure I had another in hand (for the record, I don’t think he meant for me to down them at the rate I was going).

 When we sat down to dinner, we were seated with some members of my firm, and this random solo practitioner and his wife. My date, possessing precisely the type of aesthetic  that makes middle-aged white women tingle, struck up a conversation with the solo’s wife. Meanwhile, I fidgeted nervously and took to the wine.

 Now, while I didn’t mind him talking to her at first, the more time that went on (and the more I drank), the more aggravated I became. I mean, this bitch was totally bogarting my date. I couldn’t, for the life of me understand why she thought it was acceptable  to be on this non-stop campaign of not-shutting-the-fuck-up.  I was shooting her every manner of nasty black girl look, but she was so befuddled by my date’s eyelashes, she hardly noticed.

 When the salad course came, the waiters placed little pewter pitchers of dressing sporadically about the table. When I moved to put my own pewter down, a previously unforeseen rift in the table caused it to tumble, and deposit vinaigrette all over the white table cloth. I clumsily attempted to place my napkin over it and rub the mess out, and I could feel the heat rising about my neck. Never even missing a beat, my date placed his hand over mine and whispered, “Leave it. It’s fine.” He then diligently returned to the conversation he was having with Overly-Aggressive-Desperate-Housewife—only, before I knew what was happening, and without him so much as turning his head in my direction, he slid his own dinner napkin off of his lap, and placed it in mine.

 My heart burst into one million pieces.

 I tried desperately to subdue the Miss Celie smile that threatened to break my face in half, and contentedly picked up my fork and knife to begin on my salad.

 When I went to cut into some foreign object—that I will assert to this day had absolutely no place in a salad—be it pear or parsnip or some other such nonsense, I overestimated, and before I knew it, my weighty knife went clanging to the floor.

 My date, still seemingly firmly gripped in the bowels of this woman’s mouth space, never looking up or inclining his head, gently slid his knife next to my plate.

 What remained of my heart burst into a million stars.

 And, ultimately, the woman shut the fuck up.

 And it was a great night. Not because we had done some spectacular anything, or gone on some awe-inspiring outing.

 It was his consideration and thoughtfulness when I was at my worst, that made it amazing.

 Even sassy-mouthed bitches need to be taken care of every fair to fair.

 Even when (especially when) we don’t say so.

 Here is my fooler question..

I’ve been dating this chick off and on (and by dating I mean the white people slang version of the word) for almost two years. I’ve been with men, but there is something about THIS broad that warms me in all the right places.

This bitch is certifiably crazy, possessive, and an overall psycho. But I love it. Seriously it attracts me to her. Makes me lust for her even more. But now she wants to be in a relationship, and I would like that, but that takes the whole “dating” thing to another level I’m not sure I want. Now she has cut me off from the sex because I won’t give her an answer. What a selfish bitch!!!

What do I do???

 Wait. Before I answer. Let me get something out of the way first.

 Hahahahahahahahaahhahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahaha.

 Ha.

 Wait. There’s still a little left. Hold on.

 Hahahahahahaahahahahahahahhahahahahaahahahahahahahahahaha.

 Okay. I’m ready.

 I’ll hit up the bigger issue first, and then we’ll move to your Fatal Attraction fetish.

 You, my friend, are in the gray zone.

Which, if you haven’t guessed it, is a no-no.

 We all do it from time to time, but it seldom ends well.

 Here’s my theory. Relationships should be black or white. No in between.

 You’re in-betweening this chick right now.

 You either wife her or fuck her.

 That’s it.

 If you select option A, you make a respectable woman out of this broad, you half-hearted lesbian, you.

 If you select option B, you screw around with her, don’t engage her on any significant level, and keep your interaction purely physical.

 The problem is, that no one ever wants to do this. When we find someone we’re attracted to mentally as well as physically, we want to kick it with them, and talk to them all the time, and blah blah blah, in addition to the 90s era boot-knock. Meanwhile, we’re reluctant to get into a full-fledged relationship because we have commitment issues, we’re not sure he/she is worth the hassle, or, you know, said party is fucking certifiable.

 Wife her or fuck her, homie. Two years is an awful long time to not be sure.

 Now, as to her being crazy….

Ummmm….I’ma give this one a firm two thumbs down. But, hey, to each his own. “Relationship” means that I’m going to have to sleep with you. Not simply sex you. Sleep with you. As in, be able to comfortably close my eyelids, with the knowledge that I won’t wake up in the middle of the night dead. Or, with you hovering over me, just watching.

 So, I personally don’t go for the mfs I have to monitor at all times. Like, if we’re going out with my friends, I have to be able to trust that you’re not going to kirk out if your dinner roll is cold. I have to be confident in our ability to agree to disagree; confident in my ability to leave my car in the lot wheels un-slit, paint job un-keyed. Can a crazy bitch give you such assurances?

 And nooooooooow she won’t even give up the drawes.

You can’t even see it, but I’m shaking my head, so slow and deliberate.

A crazy bitch-

Who you have been sleeping with-

For TWO YEARS

won’t give

up

the

drawes.

That’s just plain foolishness.

 Look, if you don’t take any of the advice I’ve offered above, please—whatEVER you do—don’t beg.

Please don’t beg.

 Just take it in stride, and see how long she can hold out.

 You know that the person who begs loses, right?

 Girl, please don’t beg.

Fooler—

The thing I like best about your blog is that you seem to say everything everyone is thinking, but is too scared to say. Are you afraid of anything?

 Hmmm. Yes.

 In no particular order, I am afraid of:

 1. caterpillars

2. the partners of my firm finding this blog

3. disappointing anyone who’s placed his trust in me

4. forced anal sodomy

5. caterpillars

 Hey Fooler—

 I promise you I sent that post you wrote about getting your back beat out to every woman I know. Here’s what I want to know. You said you wrote another post but wouldn’t publish it. Why? Now you’ve got us all curious. Will you post it, please?

 Wow, every woman you know? LOL. Thanks, I appreciate it.

 Can’t tell you why. If I could tell you why, I’d be able to post it.

 And no, I can’t publish that one. Not ever. Please see the preceding question, answer #2 for details.

Go ahead…pour a lil’ out for the homies who ain’t here…

Tupac once told us, not too long ago, that, if you mix a drink that is one part Alize, and one part Crystal, you will magically be transformed into a thug.

Prior to ‘Pac’s elucidation, I profess to having always deemed malt liquor and “Henny” to be the preferred refreshments of thug greats.

He blew my whole mind with that revelation.

But, the man was a legend.

As I sat here, tonight, working, listening to the song that compelled so many of us from the depths of our thug ignorance, I began to wonder whether I’d ever kicked it with a thug.

I concluded that I’ve certainly passed time with some rather sketchy characters.  I kept reaching a mental impasse, though,  with respect to actual application of the “thug” label.

So, I did what any intellectual worth her salt would do.

I devised a “thug test.”

That’s right.

A thug test.

I’ll walk you through it.

There are eleven categories crafted to encapsulate the complete thug experience. Within each category you will find several thug identifiers to which I’ve assigned point values, ranging from 1-10.

After having finished the test, participants can rank their potentially thuggy candidate by way of the thug scale I’ve designed. See below:

0-10 pts—Your man possesses thug attributes, but falls short of needing to be kept a secret from your parents and work colleagues.

11-21 pts—Thug. Abort.

21+ pts—Really, bitch? Are you really fucking this dude? Really?

Without further Ado, I give you…..

THE FOOLER THUG TEST

(I kept the title basic. Thugs hate complicated shit.)

 Category: Guns

-Your man has a gun at home +1

-Your man is not a cop/security guard/bodyguard and keeps a gun on his person in the event that he might have to a) jack some fools, or b) lest he, himself, become a victim of jack-timization +4

Category: Smoking

-Your man smokes Blacks, Swishers, Newports, or Parliaments +2

-Your man smokes one of the aforementioned and places one behind his ear for safekeeping +4

-Bitch, please. Cigarette smoke is nasty. That’s why your man only smokes weed. ‘Cos it’s from the Earth +4

                –Add +2 bonus points if your man pronounces “Earth” “Earph.”

Category: Children

-Your man has a child +1

                –You may deduct a point if the child is the product of a marital union

-Your man has two or more children +2

                –same deduction applies

-Your man has two or more children by two or more women +4

                –don’t deduct shit

-Add +2 bonus points if your man refers to his child/children as his “seed(s).”

 Category: Apathy

-Your man, at least once daily, can be counted on to give a vehement assertion of any of the following:

                -“I don’t give-a-fuck.” +4

                -“Ain’t no thang to me.” +4

                -“I’ma make it do what it do.” +2

-Add +3 bonus points if he precedes any of these with an, “Ay, you know me.”

-Add an additional +1 point if the “Ay, you know me” is accompanied by a shoulder shrug.

Category: Fighting

-Your man won’t shy away from a fight in public +3

-Your man starts fights in public +4

-Your man tries to fight you +6

                –in public +3

 Category: Drugs

-Your man has had any drug selling experience +3

-Your man has referred to said experience through a series of colloquialisms thereby romanticizing it and emphasizing his thuggyness (including but not limited to: “flippin’ pies,” “bakin’ cakes,” “slangin’ yay”) +4

 Category: Undershirt Savvy

-Your man expresses his creativity through his undershirt, and to this end:

                -ties it around his head in a fashion akin to Islamic Jihad +4

                -swings it around in the club when he’s hype +4

                -tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans and lets it hang down +2

                -wears a wifebeater outside of the home as a mainstay of his outfit +2

 Category: Jail/Prison

-Your man has been arrested +1

-Your man has been in jail for a period exceeding two days +4

-Your man has been to prison +6

-Your man has referred to any of the aforementioned time as having done a “lil’ bid.” +10

 Category: Tats

-Your man has a tat of praying hands anywhere +2

                –Add +2 if you’ve never seen/heard him pray

-Your man has a tat on his neck +4, knuckles +4, or face +6

-Your man has a tat of a person’s face anywhere +2

                –Add +2 if the person is his child or very much alive mother

 Category: Alcohol

-Your man drinks malt liquor +1

-Your man drinks malt liquor from a brown paper bag +2

-Your man drinks malt liquor from a brown paper bag while sitting on a stoop or front porch +4

-Your man refers to Hennessy as “Henny” +1 and/or Cognac as “Yak” +1

 Category: The life

-Your man refers to street life as “the game” +2

-Your man refers to his childhood or neighborhood friends as his “soldiers” +3

-Your man has lost two or more “soldiers” to “the game” +4

 Enjoy!

A rather lengthy dose of nostalgia or, if you see this broad in the street, tell her i’m looking for her, or, shit i’ve never gotten over volume 1….

I don’t believe in regret.

In keeping with this disbelief, I generally do whatever the hell I damn well please.

Further, I’m almost recklessly liberal with respect to my own self governance, and for the last five years I’ve oft erred on the side of adventure as opposed to caution.

As a matter of fact, whenever called to task on account of my established and frequently-articulated disbelief in aforementioned concept, I can only call to mind lamentation over that which I didn’t do, rather than that which I did.

And while there are, sadly, several events to consider (my meanderings seem to suggest that I pussied out a good bit during my formative years), my mind always goes back to one day in particular.

Third semester of my 8^th grade year in middle school.

Of all the days of my life, if I could have back but one isolated moment in time, it would have been that early spring afternoon, just outside the cafeteria, in the hallway of Brandon Middle School.

Walk with me down memory lane, for a spell…

You see, when I was a young woman of 13, I wasn’t exactly the tightest kid on the block. I was a little on the chubby side, clad in the latest baggy, androgynous fashions, and was a “brain” in the most pejorative sense of the word.

I’d recently liberated my hair from the domination of my Southern, black mother, and an excess of black beauty products leaking from my greasy scalp had made my forehead a hotbed of dermatological malfeasance.

Now, back then, the process before officially “going out with” or “going with” a boy was called “talking.” It was the infant phase of early 90’s pre-pubescent courtship. You were “talking” to someone if you carried on constant phone conversations with him, or passed him notes, and it was generally agreed that you liked him and he liked you, but he hadn’t “officially” asked you “out” yet.

While I can’t remember all of the details that orchestrated the events I’m about to set forth, it is significant to note that my two best friends and I had all began “talking” to a group of boys who didn’t go to our school at all. In fact, these boys were 16 (right, not at all winners by any stretch of the imagination), and happened to live 25 minutes away. Now, while my two friends had met the boys they were “talking” to, for some reason (perhaps the fact that I was 13 fucking years old with vigilant parents), the boy I was affiliated with (we’ll call him “Rob”) had never actually met or seen me. He simply liked my personality. Rob had asked me what I’d looked like, and I’d told him, and that was it. It was never really a big deal.

Now, there was, on the periphery, this girl, who also knew these boys. We’ll call her “Remonica Jenkins.” While my friends and I knew that Remonica and her crew of friends had contact with the guys, we never bothered ourselves with the extent. And I was so smitten with Rob and his cleverness that I couldn’t be caught up in details.

Here’s what you should know about Remonica.

That bitch was a hoodrat. Through and through. And she wasn’t tight, either. Her hair was always super thick at the root, but tightly curled at the ends. She was loud, both in volume as well as dress. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t cute at all.

Back then, the word “hater” hadn’t come into existence, but looking back, that’s exactly what the fuck that bitch was. A hater.

And, for whatever reason, my presence on this planet seemed to offend her more than anyone else.

************

One night Rob and I were discussing our upcoming plan to meet at the mall, when he said to me, “You know, I think you’re really cool. I can’t wait to finally see you.” My heart beats began to rumble together, and I responded with some sheepish, girlish, “Me too.” I was doing pirouettes on Cloud Nine when he countered with, “And I just want you to know, I don’t care what you look like. I’m not worried about it.”

Everything came suddenly to a halt. “Why would you worry about it?” I asked, the hairs on the back of my neck beginning to rise. Rob then let out a deep exhale. “Well, you know Remonica? She kinda said that you were busted. She said you were ugly, but, I want you to know that I don’t care.”

Now, at nearly 30, I can still remember that night so clear. I can hear the raspy tenor of Rob’s voice, and his miscalculated and boyishly feeble attempts to reassure me. But the damage was done. I could hear blood pumping in my ears. I was embarrassed and hurt and any number of emotions that the most confident of girls would have felt at that precise moment.

But more than anything, I was angry.

Now, my Southern, black mother had always warned me that, should I ever get into a fight at school, I was going to get into a whole other one when I got home.

I shoved all of her admonitions, as well as my good girl persona aside the remainder of that night, and the entire morning of the next day. I had been dishonored in the most significant court of public opinion in our fragilely strewn together world—boy court.

I could barely concentrate all day. Hour after hour passed by, my determination growing with each stroke of the minute hand. I had discussed my plan thoroughly with my two best friends and we’d all agreed that something had to be done. Remonica had to be confronted.

The only problem, of course, was that– as previously indicated—Remonica was a hoodrat.

Now, I don’t know what all everyone knows about hoodrats and their comings and goings, but, among their manifold attributes, to include: gratuitous and conspicuous consumption and spitting out of sunflower seeds, talking really loud indoors, chewing gum as if it were barbecue flavored, splitting infinitives and dangling participles, and gesticulating wildly so that their well-tended acrylic nails are on open display—

Hoodrats can fight.

Usually pretty well.

And Remonica had been in numerous fights.

And I had never been in one.

But there I stood, at 12:30, outside of the cafeteria waiting for her to come out in all of my Doc-Holiday-I’ll-be-your-huckleberry glory.

And when she casually strolled through the doors, talking to her friends, barely pausing to acknowledge me, I called out after her, “REMONICA!!!!”

Nothing.

So, I, again, called out, “REMONICA!!!”

She turned to me, then, scrawny and wiry, but nevertheless menacing, and approached me, without a care in the world.

“Wassup?” she lazily inquired.

I cautioned my voice not to quiver and said in bold intonations, “You told Rob I was ugly?” Though my speech was posed as an interrogatory, the declarative certainty was clear.

Her brow furrowed. “Nah. I ain’t tell him you was ugly.”

I could feel my ears getting hot, and I took note of the crowd of peers beginning to form around us. This was it. I got louder. “Well, I talked to him last night and he told me that you told him that I was busted and ugly.”

Her campaign of denials continued, “I ain’t tell him you was ugly.”

Faint “Ooooos” were starting to sound in the background.

I was relentless. Who in the fuck did this gremlin bitch think she was? This ragtag bitch had the nerve, the sheer audacity to call someone else ugly? “Yes.You.Did. YOU TOLD ROB I WAS UGLY.”

Here’s another little known fact about hoodrats. They have the remarkable ability to go from zero to “fuck it” in a split second.

I literally saw the change in Remonica’s eyes. I saw her flick that “fuck it” switch. Assuming an aggressive stance, she bucked up, and countered, “FINE THEN. WHATEVER. I DID SAY YOU WAS UGLY. ANNNNNNNNNNND WHAT?  (that was how you showed you were “’bout it” back then—a wild and elongated cry of “annnnnnnnnnd what?”). ANNNNNNNNND WHAT? YOU GON’ DO SOMETHIN’? YOU GON’ DO SOMETHIN’? YOU WANNA FIGHT???”

At this point I began to panic. OH SHIT. This bitch is trying to fight me. Awww damn. I thought she was gonna back down. Now everybody’s lookin’. She looks crazy as shit in the eyes. This bitch is fittin’ to whoop my ass. She fights allllllllllllla the time. I heard she put a padlock in a sock and hit NeNe with it last week. Damn. My mama’s gonna beat my ass, too. What if I get suspended? I can’t get suspended. I’m a straight A student. This bitch ain’t got nothing to lose. I don’t even know if this bitch can read. DAMN. She’s REALLY trying to fight me. FUCK. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

I felt all eyes on me as Remonica continued to stand there at the ready. I had to turn it around so that I didn’t look like a punk, but I couldn’t fight this bitch. It was too much of a gamble.

I called to mind every hip hop video I’d ever seen in my life, and doing my best rapper-dismissive-slight-of-hand, said, “Man, whatever. You’re not even worth it. Whatever.”

She continued to shit talk as I walked away, and I continued to counter with “Yeah, yeah, whatever, whatever *interject rapper-dismissive-slight-of-hand* whatever.”

*****************

I made it out alive.

No harm to my physical well being, no smear to my reputation, academic or social, and no unrest in my home life. And ultimately Rob and I connected, and were able to touch and agree on my unugliness.

But whenever I’m pressed to remember the tragedy of inaction, this story comes to mind, and I relive it, again, as if it were yesterday.

I don’t know what ultimately became of Remonica Jenkins. I don’t know if she made somebody of herself or if the sins and misgivings of her youth were redeemed in adulthood like so many of mine.

But I know what became of me. I know that I have attended some of the nation’s top schools. I know that I sat through one of the country’s hardest Bars and passed it on the first go round. I have managed to surround myself with loving family and friends. I have a career and make a better than average living when the economy hovers on the brink of a recession. Sexy men always want to see the inside of my undergarments.  Frankly, at the moment, it’s pretty fucking awesome being me.

But, in a moment’s time, all of that could be taken away. We are often felled by circumstance when we least expect it.

Which is why, I sincerely and truly wish that I had fucked that bitch up when I had the chance.

I wish I had whooped her narrow black ass and then walked around her defeated frame, taunting her with cries of “Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd what?”

To this day, I hate that broad. I hate that broad so desperately and so truly.

And to that end—

I don’t know where…

And I don’t know how….

And I don’t know when…

But, “Remonica” I’m comin’ for that ass.

I got an asswhoopin’ in my back pocket with your name on it, bitch.

The beginning………..perhaps………of the end. Fooler Fridays…

First of all, I would like to thank everyone for submitting questions for this first installment of Fooler Fridays. Seriously, I appreciate the feedback.

I didn’t know where everyone stood on anonymity so, I’ve erred on the side of caution.

Also, I haven’t posted all of the questions because a lot of you asked about my personal life, which I found a bit surprising. I’m happy to answer them in due time, but it seemed a little bit of a dick move to spend the whole forum talking about how awesome I think I am.

Oh, also, one more thing. Just so we’re all clear, I’m not a relationship expert. Like, at all. I’m actually the worst person in the entire world from whom you should expect any Oracle at Delphi relationship wisdom. I just thought, you know…y’all outta know that. If you’re relying on my representations, you will totally F yourselves in the A every.single.time.

So, without further ado………

Dear Fooler,

I am a male reader, and I love your blog. I am always a little surprised when you talk about the male/female dynamic. I guess I always thought that women didn’t go for sex outside of relationships like men do. Have I been wrong? If I have been, how can I get more of this in my life?

–Hmm. I have it on good authority that all women aren’t the same. My own group of friends is split firmly down the middle with respect to the clandestine encounter/jumpoff vs. relationship sex debate. Some go for it, some don’t.

So I guess you haven’t been wrong, per se.

LOL. You want me to tell you how to score a jump, huh? I don’t know that I can answer this to your satisfaction. I will say this, though. I truly believe that a man’s ability to get a woman into bed depends more on the man than the woman. If a man is confident, and not a complete jerkoff; if he doesn’t talk too much (seriously, this is the death knell of passion—I don’t know when y’all will learn to just not speak); if he’s not horrifically ugly (emphasis here on the modifier…we WILL fux with a little bit of monsterface if his game is right); and if he can (sparingly)say one or two of the right things—a cocktail or 3 later should find you, at the very least, in the back of her car with your hand down her blouse.

Okay, maybe it’s not that easy, but, you get the gist of it. I think that’s the best I can do without knowing you.

Hey Fooler! Great blog! Cupcakes: good or bad?

–Omg, are you kidding me?!!? GOOD! THE BEST!! Okay, as it happens, I have been on a mission I’ve entitled the Great North American Cupcake Hunt since 2007. Seriously. I’ve been trolling this country in search of its finest cupcakes for 3 years, and have only been met with moderate success. Mine is a merit-based system predicated on 3 main categories: aesthetics, actual cake-in-a-cup-ability, and handle-ease.

Aesthetics: The cupcake has to look awesome, but not at the expense of taste. I once caved and bought these beautiful poinsettia cupcakes from Whole Foods around Christmas, and those fuckers tasted like recycled toilet paper.

Cake-in-a-cup-ability: Now, there are two schools of thought on this. Some people prefer cupcakes to have a little less substance than an actual cake; to be a little lighter; to be a less heavy alternative to an actual slice of cake. Personally, I’m a strict constructionalist with respect to my cupcakes. I’m looking for the actual cakeness of cake——-in a cup.

Handle ease: This is where people in the District fuck up. Y’all are doing too much. I have to be able to hold the cupcake and transport it. It’s supposed to be easier than a piece of cake that requires a plate and utensils. Stop putting gummi worms and loads of frosting and shit on these cupcakes, people. Bitches with sticky fingers are not welcome in my vehicle or home.

Good morning, Fooler—
Me and my co-worker have an ongoing bet based on the fact that you talk about your linesister all of the time. I’m a Delta. She’s an AKA. I say you’re my soror, she thinks you’re an AKA. Who’s right?

—You are, Soror. _______________ Chapter of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated. Spring 2002, #2. The LS to which I consistently refer is my #10 out of our line of eleven. As you can imagine, we look quite ridiculous while in public, together. Doubly so as she refuses to acquiesce to my persistent request to not wear 4 inch heels.

Dear Fooler,

I love your blog. You are hilarious. I forward it to everyone I know. Me and a couple of my girls want to know why you never talk about love. Have you ever been in love? Do you think it’s harder to find as a black woman in DC?

—WOW. Okay.

Simply put, love is hard, ass is simple. As I—above and beyond all things, perhaps—appreciate simplicity, I focus on ass. There’s not enough room in the blogosphere to support the one hundred million thoughts I have on love, or my own ability to mishandle it.

Have I ever been in love? Yep.

Do I think it’s harder to find as a black woman in DC? Nope.

I do question, however, women who are on the active hunt for “love.” Like, why is “love” something that anyone is “looking for?” I can guarandamntee any love that’s hiding under a rock waiting to be found is not what you want.

In my experience, people who are looking for “love” really mean that they’re looking for “romance.” The two are not one in the same. Not at all. Romance is flowers, and handholding, and hushed whispers in the dark, and knowing glances across the dinner table.

You ever travel forty-five minutes through Metro traffic with a bag full of medicine and a bottle of OJ to reach your phlegm-spewing, puffy-eyed girlfriend whose face has doubled in size overnight? Cause that’s love.

Fooler, please fill in the blanks—

My friend _________ has the cutest child in the whole wide world.

My friend _________ has the smartest child in the whole wide world.

I am fairly certain that my friend _______’s child is going to be the President of the United states one day, or maybe a Supreme Court Justice if he/she decides to go to law school.

Hint: All three blanks should be filled in with the same friend’s name.

—-FYI, I never had any doubt in my mind where this question came from. You’re an asshole.

*sigh*

My friend, Kelly, a jackass, has the cutest child in the whole wide world.

My friend, Kelly, a jackass, has the smartest child in the whole wide world.

I am fairly certain that my (jackass) friend, Kelly’s child is going to be the President of the United States one day, or maybe a Supreme Court Justice if he/she decides to go to law school.

Fooler Fridays……

So, my postings are a tad on the irregular side….
what, with my paying job and all….

A friend of mine has suggested that I open up this page to reader questions…and, while I must wholeheartedly concede that I am qualified to advise absolutely no one person on any one thing, I do think a Q and A forum might help with my consistency….

So, starting tomorrow, Friday, the 7th of May, I will open this space up for questions. I’ll try to post the queries and my responses every Friday for as long as they come.

No topic is verboten, obviously, save legal questions, as I’m fairly certain blindly responding to legal questions on a blog space is, at its worst, malpractice, and at its best, malfeasance.

So, by all means, indulge my internet narcissism.
And with that…let the Friday fuckery begin……

Remember that singing homeless man on the skateboard from “kids”?

We have not yet broached the topic of the types of men that I like.

I’m glad you asked.

I like men who smell good.
I like men who have deep-set dimples and long eyelashes.
I like men who have pretty teeth.

And that’s about it, physically.
Yep.

Given the fact that the above is a relatively short list, I won’t fault you if you assume that I’m attracted to a lot of ugly guys.

Cause, I kinda am.

As it happens, I’m a true “personality” girl. And I’ve sung my song of physical acceptance to the masses. I’ve brought shame on the heads of my girlfriends who’ve rejected suitors on the basis of appearance. “I don’t care what a dude looks like!” I’ve shouted wildly. “Do your worst,” I’ve reflected to myself. “If he’s funny and is confident in his ugly ass shit, I’m down.”

Or so I thought.

Until this morning.

Now, for the record, the main character in today’s story wasn’t “ugly,” per se.

He just didn’t have any legs.

Wait.

That’s not wholly true.

He had about ½ of his left leg, and about ¾ of his right leg (I profess to not knowing how, exactly, this happened, as I’m an even-stevens kinda girl, myself).

But, if you added it all together by my rough, cursory once-over, Dude had like, about 1 and ¼ legs.

Now, no one get defensive.

Please, don’t leave me a host of angry comments about how your daddy left ¾ of his leg in Korea and how he’s an incredible man and I should be honored to meet him.

The purpose of this tale is not to make fun of people with a sum total of 1 and ¼ leg (if my rough, cursory once-over is, indeed, accurate). I’m simply trying to flush out why the Universe makes a point of carrying the shit out of me at every pass.

I’ll set it up for you.

I was checking the mail at the front desk of my building, and trying to keep a reign on my overly-excited dogs. When, all of a sudden, this 55ish black man, clad in a cardigan, some sweats, and no legs rolled up on me.

Literally.

My dogs about flipped out.

I can only assume that the addition of a pair of wheels in a typically pedestrian area was the bacon-flavored treat on a day that had, up until then, promised staid monotony.

They excitedly began trying to stand up on their tiny legs to get at the half man/half mechanical wonder. My youngest, Cooper, took the left (1/2) leg, and the elder, Topher, the (3/4) right, and both began an avid sniff-the-stumps fest.

Immediately, I panicked. (As it happens, Topher and I had a rather unfortunate incident when I was still in law school, and she was but a puppy. This very pushy quadriplegic woman insisted that I lay Topher across her chest and over her shoulder so she could “hold” her. Still ignorant due to the blush of my relative youth, I obliged her and did as she’d commanded. Everything was cool until Topher got really excited and started licking all over the woman’s face. But the woman started making these awful wheezing and gasping noises cause she couldn’t breathe. And I tried to pull the dog off, but Topher’s nails had gotten all caught up in the woman’s sweater. Anyway, after a random passerby saw that I was about to commit involuntary manslaughter, he helped me pry Topher off. The woman lived, but the memory still lingers.)

“Topher! Cooper!” shouted I, “Stop it! Get down!”

The man simply laughed it off. “They’re all right. They’re fine. I love dogs.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

He laughed again. “I’m telling you, they’re fine.” He introduced himself as CharlieorCrispinorChristopherbutYouCanCallMeChris.

“Hi,” said I, trying to control the monsters at his missing feet.

I returned my attention to the desk where the doorman was searching through a sea of packages.

“What’s your name, Dimples?” said CharlieorCrispinorChristopherbutYouCanCallMeChris from behind me.

Gross.
(Not because he didn’t have any legs, mind you. I’m just saying. It was gross because he was old and pervy in addition to being no-leggy.)

I sighed. “Fooler.”

“You lookin’ mighty fine in that suit, Fooler.”

Insert extended sigh here. “Thank you.”

He didn’t seem to notice. “Where your man at?”

Okay, at this point, I was simultaneously incredulous and angry.

1. I couldn’t believe that NoToes was hitting on me. At like, 8 am no less.

2. I couldn’t believe that he was hitting on me with like, regular game—tired game, mind you, but, for all intents and purposes, regular game—like, saying shit to me that motherfuckers with feet would say.

3. He was doing so with a LEGITIMATE expectation of reciprocated interest. (I mean, I’m not saying I’m entirely against dating people without limbs—I’d just prefer to like, meet you when you have limbs, fall in love with you, and then stoically stand by you when some tragedy befalls you and leaves you a shell of a man with nothing but 1 and ¼ leg [if my rough, cursory once-over is to be believed].)

“Fooler, where’s your man at?” he repeated.

Like, I couldn’t even formulate an answer. “Ummm—“

He continued, “Cause if you were my woman, you wouldn’t ever walk these dogs alone, girl. I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

Okay. Two things here.

1. CharlieorCrispinorChristopherbutYouCanCallMeChris, if you were my man, you’d have some prosthetic limbs on those absentee, phantom feet. And…

2. YOU DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKIN’ LEGS, DAWG!!! YOU DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKIN’ LEGS! YOU’RE NOT “WALKING” ANYWHERE!!! AND NOT JUST WITH ME, EITHER. YOU’RE NOT WALKING ANYWHERE———NOT WITH ANYONE——————————————-NASTYASSBASTARD.

At this point, I could literally feel the eyes of this differentlyabledpervbot looking me up and down—like he was trying to do a rough, cursory estimate of how many legs I had (2, you piece of shit).

“You must not have no man. Why you ain’t sayin nothin? You shy?”

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. “I just have a busy day ahead. I’m just thinking about all the stuff I have to do,” I answered.

“And you don’t have no boyfriend to help you?”

Dawg—the Americans with Disabilities Act must be self-empowering as a bitch.

“I have a boyfriend,” I finally answered.

CharlieorCrispinorChristopherbutYouCanCallMeChris was undaunted. “Where he at?”

And you’ll have to forgive me for this, but I said, rather harshly, “He’s at work.” The implied, “where yo’ ass would be—if you had ¾ more legs” was barely disguised at all.

“Aight den,” he simply said, as he pridefully rolled away. I mused that there must be plenty more bitches where I came from.

*Moral of the story*

My righteously indignant protestation of “I don’t care what a man looks like” is patently false.

And I apologize for my superficiality in advance, non-walkers.

My bad, America.

Motherfuckers need legs to date me.

Pretty Woman II: So you Married the Ho, Dirty Dancing Redux: Johnny Probably Can’t Spell and Baby only knows 2 Dances, or Valentines Day pt. I.

One dollar a day.

One dollar a day.

That is not how much it costs to keep a starving child alive in the Sudan.

No.

One dollar a day is the amount Redbox charges my friend, Michael, every day he does not return the movie that he rented from them.

Well over a month ago.

Is Michael a billionaire? Is Michael free from worry and a devil-may-care persona?

No.

Michael is a gay.

He is a funny, over-educated, good looking, well dressed, gay, who has single-handedly hip-hop ab’d his way to a waistline smaller than mine.

But it’s overwhelmingly tough out there on the mean streets of the DC gay market (which we affectionately refer to as the “garket”). His last encounter with a seemingly well to do lawyer type resulted in him leaving said lawyer’s posh, upscale pad in such a state of disarray that he forgot his rented Redbox movie.

One dollar a day.

One dollar a day.

Because, to add insult to injury, psychogaylawyer won’t return the movie.

I’d like to know, Valentine’s Day, oh maker of all things both lovey and dovey—does Hallmark make a “Thought our shit had promise, then you acted a fool, so give me back my movies you sad, thieving, motherfucker” card? Does Harris Teeter carry a double sided balloon with “Redbox” on the front and “$1 a day, bitch!” on the back?

I didn’t think so.

Sixty dollars a month.

Sixty dollars a month.

That is not how much it costs to keep two starving children alive in the Sudan.

No.

That is how much it costs me to get a mani/pedi every two weeks.

Do I have a problem with how my feet feel? Do I hate my feet in their natural state?

No.

They’re my fucking feet.

But I pay a delightful Vietnamese woman named, Sunny, sixty dollars a month of my hard-earned cash so that the edges of my heels don’t feel like dried out biscuits when they rub up against the calves of the man I love.

Riddle me this, Valentine’s Day—does 1-800-Flowers make a “Baby I love your ashy, chappy, rock-kicking, sandy biscuit hobbit feet” arrangement?

Does it?

I didn’t think so.

What about my girl, Michelle, Valentine’s Day? Is there a “Yeah, whatever, call the cops. Yeah, I keyed that bitch’s car. What the hell is she doing in your house with the lights turned off?” box of specialty chocolates that Godiva makes?

Are there Sweethearts candies available that spell out, “I-swear-to-God-this-baby-is-yours” or “False-alarm-it’s-not-vd?”

Let me guess. No.

Here’s the thing.

I hate you, Valentine’s Day.

And this isn’t one of my misanthropic, self-indulgent wallow sessions, either. I’m not decrying the legions of people forced to affect sentiment through a meticulously-calculated, mass-marketed, grossly-commercialized completely made up faux holiday, whose origins have absofuckinglutely nothing to do with love.

I hate you because your existence is the epitome of taxation without representation.

Me and my friends—we spend good money on love/lust’s pursuits. We invest time and expend effort. I let some random chatty bitch touch all on my feet two times EVA-REE month, and none of your day’s lilac-scented, sugary prose ever even hints at our struggles.

And I’m not asking for the moon, Big V.

I don’t need a Pretty Woman II: So you Married the Ho; or a Dirty Dancing Redux: Johnny Probably Can’t Spell and Baby only knows 2 Dances.

I just want the tiniest smidge of reality. A dose. An e-card that says, “Every time I think of you I fist pump the sky.”

Somethin’.

Nobody puts Fooler in the Corner…

Melbourne, Edward–

I think there has been some confusion as to my role in your lives.

I want to start out by saying that I don’t blame you.

Necessarily.

No.

Wait.

That’s bullshit.

I do blame you.

But I do not blame you, entirely.

There has apparently been some world-wide misrepresentation of monolithic proportions, that you have blindly bought into, and attempted to apply to the relationship that exists between you and I.

So, I’m going to confront the fallacy of your thought processes head on.

Here goes.

My being a woman has absolutely no bearing on how “sensitive” or “caring” or “compassionate” I am, or how capable I am of “listening intently.”

Got that?

Any belief you have in my ability to successfully effectuate the foregoing—a belief that is entirely predicated on my biological composite—is woefully misplaced.

Now, I know what happened between us. I know the story all too well.

We started off sound enough. I was attracted to you, you were attracted to me. We exchanged numbers, struck up a flirtation, and to the fullest extent of my knowledge, were well on our way to a well-timed casual, bonefest, complete with late night phone calls, provocative text messages, and midday nooners. Score.

And, somewhere along the line, through no fault of our own—though, if we’re being entirely truthful, it probably had something to do with the fact that, Ed, your mama still makes your meals, and Mel,  you are steadfastly determined to marry “irrespective” with “regardless” resulting in that bastard child of vernacular, “irregardless”—we fell off.  We lost our sexy. Our jumpoff train was irreparably derailed.

And, though this fact is disappointing, it is what it is. I’ve accepted it. I’ve moved on. And, you know what? I’d assumed that the both of you had, too. Because y’all both have girlfriends. Well done, you.

And yet, I cannot seem to shake either of you. And it appears as though we’ve become ensnared in what I like to term, “the faux friend foible.”

The faux friend foible happens when two people, who have little to nothing in common, but share some mild acquaintance, are forced to be with each other in awkward situations, on a continual basis. You endure long, painful silences, and often, the person who cares the least about continuing the charade, and therefore opts to say nothing—typically me—is subjected to a never-ending stream of get to know you questions and stories so that the other, more caring conversationalist feels less like a huge dickhead.

It seems as though, both of you, are under the misguided impression that our attempted gallivant down beat-it-up lane should have resulted in a friendship.

Umm. This is incorrect.

I’m good. Really.

I don’t want to talk to y’all anymore. Seriously.

I need another male friend I’m not sleeping with like I need a hole in my fucking head.

That quota was damn near at capacity my senior year in college. I literally have no more room on my male friend roster.

And really, how dare you?

How dare you call my phone and proceed to bitch and whine about your girlfriend, Ed? Really, dude? Your girlfriend? You are going to call my house in the middle of the night, and talk about your girlfriend?

But the grande cajones prize really goes to you, Mel, cause you actually came over. You came over, and sat next to me on my couch, and looked at me longingly, and said flirty things to me, and then, you TOO wanted to talk about your girlfriend.

Now, like I said, you boys need not shoulder all of the blame yourselves, with respect to your faulty actions. We live in a society that has told you that women make great friends and listeners; that men can benefit from a woman’s perspective; that men should endeavor to facilitate more meaningful dialogues with the women in their lives.

That’s crap.

Unless you have an established friendship with a woman, these are the conversations/encounters you have with ugly bitches.

Ugly bitches don’t have anything better to do than sit around and hear about what’s going on in other peoples’ lives and relationships.  That is some ugly, self-loathing type bitch shit to do.

And maybe you don’t think I’m an ugly bitch. Maybe I’m not an ugly bitch. Completely irrelevant. You’re treating me like an ugly bitch. You’ve relegated me to ugly-bitchdom.

Mel, you sat here fully clothed for something like, two hours.

Two hours, Mel!

That was someone else’s time, you selfish sonofabitch. I know you love your girl, and I wasn’t expecting anything to pop off (this is obviously a lie) but, couldn’t we have talked about something else? It was pathetic. And then you were offended that I was blackberry messaging the whole time. Forgive me. I was talking to the dude who should have been in my house. The one who understands how to conjugate verbs and doesn’t whine like a bitchass on the couches of near-strangers.

I am NOT your shoulder to cry on.

I am NOT your willing ear.

I can’t be your ugly bitch, boys.

In an attempt to spare the remainder of my gender from the abject desexualization I suffered at both of y’all’s  hands, I’ve comprised a quick go-to list:

A Simple Rosetta Stone to Ugly Bitchdom—

Ladies, if you’ve known a man for less than 3 years and :

-he comes over in the middle of the night, just to chill, and doesn’t want nary a PIECE of ass—

You’re his ugly bitch. At the VERY least, there should be some semblance of sexual tension between the two of you. If there’s none, you’re like Sarah Jessica Parker’s redacted mole. You’ve got character, and you’re worth noting, but in the end, everyone can get on just fine without you.

Think about it. We’re grownups. Having your own crib, and being in close quarters within it is per se sexy.  It’s sexy of its own accord. The only factors which can detract from its innate sexiness are external ones like your socially retarded roommate, or your fatherless children, or internal ones—like this motherfucker thinking you’re his ugly bitch.

-he calls in the middle of the night to talk about other chicks—

BEST BELIEVE, you’re his ugly bitch. I don’t want to talk about your mama at 10 pm at night. Seriously, what man who has any interest in you at all calls you to talk about other girls? Right. No man. And if he’s your friend, that shit can be addressed between the hours of 9 am and 9:45 pm. A non-friend phonecall past 10 that isn’t a booty call is an ugly bitch call. That caller needs the wise, sage counsel of an ugly bitch.

-he says shit like, “you’re not like them, I can talk to you”—

You’re the ugliest bitch he knows. “You’re not like them…” should be read as, “You’re not [fine] like them.” “I can talk to you,” read as, “I can talk to you because I’m not intimidated by you on account of your intense grotesqueness.” Now, maybe I’m over-dramatizing. Maybe you’re just a down ass girl that men find it easy to talk to. But you wanna know another way to say “down ass girl that men find it easy to talk to?” “Ugly bitch.” And think about it. Do you really want to pour all your heart and soul into solving this man’s problems in the middle of the night so he can get off the phone with you and uncork someone else’s Moet? Really?  Hate yourself, much?

Mel, Ed.

I will be deleting your numbers henceforth.

Fuck what you heard.

I’m sexy as a bitch.

Endeavor to not be the dumbest bastard in creation, or, “getting your hair done in the hood.”

For the purposes of my tale, today, I should offer some cursory “better know a black person” background. And I must confess, my meanderings on the substantive nature of my story were compelled by the latest scandal rocking the Hill, regarding Harry Reid, and his comments on “Negro speak.”

While I’m far too superficial to delve into the miasma that is black myth and perception in this country, I definitely continue to be intrigued by the quandary this question of language presents; the idea of “talking black” and “sounding black.”  I cannot tell you all of the numerous times I’ve interviewed a witness and had he or she describe to me a person who “sounded black.” Equally infinite are the number of times I’ve surprised clients during our initial meetings when I’ve shown up to the office “black.”

That being said, I am the first to admit that the way I speak in certain circles of my private life is wholly different from how I speak in my work life. And I’m not talking about around my friends, mind you. I’m talking about people with whom I hold no close association.

Take, for instance, my beauty salon.

Like many black women, I prefer to get my hair done in the hood.

I enjoy the sound of expletives first thing in the morning. I like the idea of colorful euphemisms for race being bandied about when someone has articulated something evoking disbelief (e.g. “Colored girl, please!” btw, Senator McCain—the word “Negro” is alive and well in my beauty salon). I like to peruse a nice selection of bootlegged dvds while waiting for my conditioner to set. And yes, I like to bring a few extra fivers along as I never know when the incense man will come around with his array of oils, perfumes and assorted “WWJD?” bracelets.

I like to get my hair done in the hood.

And while frequenters of my salon initially treated me with some degree of standoffishness, they’ve now warmed to me, and the 4-6 hours that I usually spend there passes right on by.

But here’s the thing. Like all educated black people, I know that there is a fine line to be walked between smart and successful, and “uppity” and “too good.” Black people love you when you’re smart, but hate you when you’re uppity. As I am hyper educated, my odds of being humble and cool are greatly diminished, and my potential uppity douchebaggery quotient skyrockets.

So there are rules.

I can speak on a subject that I know about. But only if I’ve been asked directly. So, if someone says something that is blatantly stupid or wrong, and I haven’t been addressed, directly—that’s right. I have to shut the fuck up. Only uppity bitches pipe in when no one was talking to them in the first place.

Be mindful of the word “ignorant.” In fact. Don’t use that shit at all. If you can even remotely be perceived as an uppity bitch, just forget that you know the word. In all likelihood, the shit you think is ignorant is gospel in that salon. For instance, the television in my salon stays on TV One or BET. I don’t even know if it gets any other channels. And note how I don’t know. Cause I’ve NEVER asked to change the channel. You know why? Cause that’s some uppity bitch shit, right there.

Now, there are many more rules, but I trust you get the point.

Finally, we’ve arrived at the story that I intend to tell, today. I have many questions regarding this story. Note how the questions linger on in my mind. As in, I didn’t ask them Saturday while I was at the salon. Only uppity bitches ask a lot of questions. Down ass bitches just listen.

A group of us were all sitting around laughing and telling restaurant horror stories. Stuff we’d either seen or heard done at restaurants to food and customers. Now, I need to be absolutely clear. I wasn’t talking to a group of stupid women. Not by any means. Everyone participating in this conversation held reasonably good jobs, and was articulate. I was, by far, the youngest of the participants.

One woman, we’ll call her “Rose” began to relay her tale of restaurant woe:

Rose: “Let me tell you all about this thing that happened to this guy I used to work with. He had gone to lunch at this Mongolian place over near the Verizon Center. And, not too long after, he had become really sick. I mean, really, really sick. And, at first, everyone thought it was the flu, and that it would pass. But after a few weeks he just got sicker and sicker. Finally, he went to the doctor, and you know what he had? SYPHILIS! Turns out, someone had cut up some cat, and put it in the food, but the cat had had syphilis. So, my friend ate it, and that’s how he got it.”

Me: *blank stare*

Seriously, y’all. The blankest motherfucking stare possible.

Now, I’ve given you the rules of operation. But, I had to break from form, if only for a moment, to ask a question. Don’t get me wrong. I had a MILLION questions. But I knew I’d only get one bite out of the apple before I officially crossed into uppity bitch territory. I had to go for broke.

Me: “Ummmm…how would a cat get syphilis?”

Never even missing a beat, an older woman, we’ll call her “Odessa” said, “What do you mean, ‘How would a cat get syphilis?’ Same way as us! They nasty!”

Me: *blank stare*

Even blanker than the last one.

So, I want to break this down, right now, as I was precluded—note the aforementioned reasoning—from doing so on Saturday.

1. “Rose” repeated this story like this shit was true.

Now, granted, she hit us up with the, “wow this is some wild, crazy shit I want to tell y’all,” delivery, but…she repeated this shit like it was true. Would I have repeated the story? Sure. Absolutely. But it woulda gone more like this: “Yo. Listen to this ridiculous shit this crazy bastard I work with tried to tell me.” See that? See the difference between my delivery and Rose’s?

2. “Odessa” believed the story. “Odessa” believes that cats are sexually “nasty.” “Odessa” believes that as a result of their sexually nasty behavior, language that necessarily connotes sexual promiscuity amongst cats, cats can transmit syphilis to one another. “Odessa” believes that the “nasty” behavior of cats is similar to the “nasty” behavior of humans.

Um. Let’s get this out the way right now, Odeezy. I’ve never given syphilis to anybody. I’m not passing judgment on you or your apparently feisty, syphilis-y generation, but I’m going to immediately cry foul and remove myself out of your collective “us.” Way, way out.

Now, I’m no veterinarian. And I profess to know nothing about sexually transmitted disease among animals. I do know I’ve never seen any PSAs on protecting our pets. Neither do I own any buttons, ribbons, or other animal vd awareness insignia that might suggest that this shit is a problem amongst the masses. I’m just saying.

You don’t have any questions about the veracity of this story, “Odessa?” Really? I mean, I realize you’re a bit older and have seen remarkable things happen during your lifetime. But. Seriously? Not one question? This bitch just told you that a whoring cat got cut up in someone’s beef and gave a grown ass man syphilis. You’re just gonna accept that? Really?

3. Who is this asshole who told this story in the first place?

Like, think about the manifold elements here. The doctor tells him he has syphilis. Fine. Maybe this man is married. Maybe he has a long-time girlfriend. Maybe he knows that he didn’t get it from either one of those broads and he’s going to have to come up with an explanation, and quick. I can appreciate that. But…dude…WHAT A WHOPPER this bastard told. Like he went so far beyond the call, I can hardly get my mind around it.

Soooo….he got syphilis from his food??? And of course, he had to play upon the most deep seated anti-Asian prejudice in the book—that the restaurant cut up cat, and put it in his meal. But, the cat had the syphilis first. And it was probably an extra powerful cat-strain too, cause it lasted through the heated cooking cycle. And then he ate the cat/beef, and chewed up the syphilis all in his mouth, and then swallowed it. And then he got infected.

And now, legions of black women from parts unknown are repeating this story in beauty salons across the land. And people like me, have to just sit there, mute, ears BLEEDING, so as not to seem “too good.”

Well, I’m not at the salon, right now.

I’m in the safety of my plush office.

Degrees strewn across my four walls.

Clad in a three piece suit and 4-inch pumps that elicit sighs from every man I pass.

And I want everyone within the (theoretical) sound of my voice to hear this:

THAT IS SOME IGNORANT ASS, STUPID SHIT, PEOPLE.

THAT IS SOME IGNORANT ASS, STUPID SHIT.

THAT’S THE DUMBEST SHIT I’VE EVER HEARD IN MY ENTIRE BLACK LIFE.

THE ONLY “CAT” THAT HAS THE POWER TO GIVE A MAN SYPHILIS SITS BETWEEN A PAIR OF KNEES.

DUMMIES.

That’s all, I think.