30
Dec
09

i resolve not to resolve, part I: how a few tweaks to your shit can make my shit better in 2010

I have determined that it is almost wholly useless to go about New Year’s resolutions in the traditional vein that has so occupied all of my Januarys for the last 29 years. In lieu of my epiphany, this year, I’ve elected to make a radical departure from society’s group-think, self improvement, new beginnings bullshit. I will demonstrate said departure by way of this two part series entitled: I Resolve Not to Resolve.

I’d like to spend today reflecting on some things/people/circumstances that had occasion to really piss me off in 2009. As such, I’d be much obliged if the following things/people/circumstances would consider the weight of their actions, and how these actions negatively affected my life. That’s right. Part I is about what everyone else can resolve to do about their own behaviors that I might have a more awesome 2010.

4 things/people/circumstances that brought fuckery to my 2009 and need to shape it up for 2010:

–hand to hood lady-

Hand to Hood lady, you are a dark horse in the race, as you only  made an appearance yesterday, 2 days before the start of the new year. Boy, did you make an impression. I have to commend you. I was entirely caught off guard when you slammed your hand down on the hood of my car in righteous indignation because it was situated a little in the crosswalk. Now, my immediate rolling down of windows, and exclamation of, “that’s how bitches get choked out!!” was a little unbecoming for a person of my relatively good breeding, I’ll grant you that. But as I’ve indicated, it is not my behavior that we’re modifying for the new year. It’s yours. So I need to know right now, straight up. Are you out of your fucking mind? Seriously. Don’t answer right away. Just let the question sink in and marinate. Are you out of your motherfucking mind? You are lucky I didn’t raise up out of that car and smack you squarely in your petulant mouth, the way you did my car. I could tell by your stunned demeanor that you took my outcry as a threat. But it wasn’t. It was a declarative statement of empirical fact. Slamming your hands down on the hood of random strangers’ cars in the middle of the day in a high traffic, high stress area like the Greater Washington DC Metropolitan area is EXACTLY how bitches get choked out. Read the paper. Watch the news. I’d wager slamming your hands down on the hood of random strangers’ cars in the middle of the day in a high traffic, high stress area like the Greater Washington DC Metropolitan area is the leading cause of choked out bitchedness, today. Check yourself, pedestrian. A choked out bitch is of little service to anybody.

–racist senior partner-

I don’t know why you continue to regale me with your tales of the glory days, Racist Senior Partner. The days when black people couldn’t get jobs in any positions outside of custodial work, but “loved, loved, loved” cleaning. I don’t know why you think it’s appropriate to convey to me how “overwhelmed” and “shocked” and “pleased” you are that so many people in my family were able to go to college. I’m made uncomfortable by your laughter at the fact that, “all of the clubs were open to people of all ethnicities and nationalities…except, of course, for blacks. Ha ha.” Look it—we don’t have to talk about my race, every time you override my cascade of lies and excuses and insist that I meet you at your office. Believe it or not, we CAN, in fact, just talk about the practice of law. As a matter of fact, if we could limit ALL of our discussions and interactions, period, and restrict the remaining few (preferably EMERGENCY situations) to conversations regarding little trifles like, “work” or “my fucking job,” I might be persuaded to set aside that hair-wrapped voodoo doll the shaman of my tribe in Africa sent along with my slave ancestors; you know, the one that has been passed down many generations, enduring the stains of chit’lin and collard greens juice,  and now pleasantly rests atop the monster sound system I have in my low-riding tricked out car, where I love to sit and blare my rap music.

(editor’s note for the daft* Sr. Partner has referenced “Africa,” “slavery,” “spicy ethnic food,” and “loud rap music” in several of our conversations.)

–sexy men who don’t want me-

Now, thankfully, to my knowledge, there was only one of y’all who came into my existence in 2009. But he was more than enough. I’m gonna be honest, the blow to my ego was a great one; a crippling one, in fact. Now, in hindsight, it was probably a necessary exercise as that thing had swollen to catastrophic proportions. Just the same, my heart still palpitates when I consider Captain Rejection’s unparalleled sexiness, and his as-subtle-as-a-boot-to-my-ass “no thank you.” So, any sexy men that I’m interested in, I need you all to shower me with your affections in 2010. No more of this “no” shit. Seriously. That’s complete rubbish. Feel free to convey these affections with such classics as, “the dinner invite,” “the innovative-think-outside-the-box-wild-date invite,” and my personal favorite, “the why-don’t-i-come-over-so-we-can-watch-some-movies invite.”

–metabolism-

Ummm…Metabolism? Are you depressed? I’m staging an intervention right now, Metabolism. I know that we haven’t always been the best of friends, but, lately, I can’t help but notice some strong hatred vibes coming from you. Do you remember, back in ’94 when we discussed my unwillingness to buy clothes in the double digits until my womb was thick with child? Remember that? I just need to know when the playbook changed, is all. I’m out there on the field with grit in my eyes and dirt under my fingernails, time eating away at the clock, all ready for an eagle swing right, and you’re callin’ fucking audibles. Get your shit, together, Metabolism. How are you gonna let a few late night pizza runs and a little bit of hard liquor come between us, Metabolism? It’s game time, right now, Metabolism! Get your face on! We’re within arm’s reach of 30, and I have 21 year olds questioning my youth, my sexy, and my overall spry-ness at every pass. I cannot effectively rally against them wearing Spanxx.

Metabolism, this morning, when I put on my slacks, I heard this woeful cry of agony. I looked around to see if I’d stepped on one of the dogs’ paws. I had not. I inclined my head to see if somewhere, off in the distance, a lone child, somehow separated from his mother, was weeping. There was no such child. Sadly, I looked down at my pants, overflowing with the coffers that once were my buxom backside. All that remained was a fat ass. Surrounding my fat ass like so much sausage casing, were the strained, wailing fibers of my very expensive 120 count sailor pants. My ass-fat compelled my inanimate clothes to speak, Metabolism. In 2010, a bit of hyper-speed mercy, if you please.

T-minus 24 hours, people.  Get it right. Get it tight.

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2 Responses to “i resolve not to resolve, part I: how a few tweaks to your shit can make my shit better in 2010”


  1. 1 Anonymous
    December 30, 2009 at 6:44 pm

    you’re wonderful!! bravo

  2. December 31, 2009 at 5:30 pm

    Hi! New reader here- I absolutely LOVE your writing.

    Can I ask you to shoot me an email at heylivitluvit at gmail dot com? I have a somewhat private comment but couldn’t find your contact info. 🙂

    And Happy New Year!


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