Stop hating on me, old, black ladies. my shit is awesome.

There is no creature on this earth more invasive, and by that same token, more ignorant of contextual clues, less inclined to give a fuck about propriety and universally adopted social cues, than an old, black woman.

I had occasion to think this, Saturday—not for the first time, mind you; in fact, in all likelihood, for the one millionth time—while at the beauty salon. I was being harangued, you see, by not one, but 2 such women.

OBW1: “Baby, that sure is a pretty sweater you got on.”

Me: “Thank you.”

OBW1: “It looks new. Is it new?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am.”

OBW1 to OBW2: “CherylAnn, isn’t that a pretty sweater she got on?”

OBW2: “It is. It really is.”

Me: “Thank you.”

OBW2: “Did your husband buy it for you?”

Me: *pause*

Me: “Uh…no, ma’am.”

OBW1: “She don’t have a husband, I don’t think. Do you, sweetie?”

Me: “Um…no, ma’am.”

OBW2: “No husband! Pretty thing like you?! What you doin’ with no husband?”

Me: “Well…Uh….I don’t know, really.” Not exactly a husband store out there is there, you old cow.

OBW1: “I’m sure she has time. How old are you, honey?”

Me: “Uh, 29.”

OBW1 and OBW2 in unison: “29?!?!”

Me *trying to return to my book, which, ironically, was a copy of Walden and Civil Disobedience by Thoreau*: “Mmmhmm. 29.”

OBW1: “Chile, by the time I was 29, I had a husband, a house, and 2 babies to feed.”

OBW2: “Girl, I had more than that.”

Me: *trying to ungrit my teeth*: “Well, I have a condo, a law degree, and 2 dogs.”

OBW1: “Hmph. Things sure have changed.”

OBW2: “29?!?!?”

Now, this exchange sent my mind on a whole new plane of thought. I wasn’t bothered by the women, necessarily. I was less annoyed by the nature of their queries and moreso at the intrusion their ramblings brought to my quiet.

At any rate, I couldn’t help but think how much it would absolutely blow to have the lives that they depicted. Not the whole andbabymakes3 (or 4 or 5) shit they were trying to peddle me. Husband, hearth, home, passel of brats is all well and good and I certainly wouldn’t mind having that for myself in the abstract.

No, rather, it was their frame of thinking—that the lives they described were all there was. Like nothing else existed. I don’t want a husband and child to be my lot in life. I want them to be my choice; a choice I’ve very carefully deliberated after I’ve drank, partied, fucked my way through DC lived single life to the fullest.

So, in homage to those women, who are no doubt somewhere knitting scarves for their grandchildren right now, feeling sorry for my pathetic existence, I’ve comprised this list of 4 ways my life remains awesome in spite of its decided lack of husband and passel of brats.

4 Ways my Life is Still Awesome In Spite of its Decided Lack of Husband and Passel of Brats:

4. Alcohol.

Last Tuesday night I was stressed so I called a few friends to go out, no destination other than “wasted” in mind.

And you know what? That was a top night.

Know what happens when you leave your kids alone at home to go get shitfaced on a Tuesday? You get arrested, that’s what. And then Department of Social Services and Child Protective Services, and the Juvenile Courts wanna toss around big words like “unfit,” and “negligent,” and “best interests of the child are not to be with this bitch.” Shit like that. All of this because you wanted to go out and have some drinks.

Know what I did Tuesday when I came home?

Don’t worry about it.

Just know that “arrested” wasn’t it.

3. My Money is My Money (unless you count Sallie Mae, The College Foundation, T-Mobile, and the bank holding my mortgage).

Let me tell you about this little girl—around age 15– who sat next to me at the drying station on Saturday.

-she had her hair relaxed, set, and styled at a cost of probably           around $75

-she was wearing a pair of Coach wellingtons, and had a Northface jacket draped in her lap, while playing with her iPhone

-Her mother came back in and gave the stylist a wad of cash for the little girl’s hair AND her sister’s hair

Ummm. I’ll pass.

This broad wasn’t even old enough to work. And she’s a human. Not like she can make up for her intake by manning the perimeter and notifying me of intruders, like my dogs. She’s like this thing that you have to feed and nurture, and the only return is the pleasantness of her company. Like some five foot five inch chia pet. And she was looking FRESH when she sashayed out of that salon. FRESH. Like, that type of freshness that you can only affect when you haven’t paid for a damned thing. I bet when I walked out of the salon I didn’t look half as good as that young bitch did.

Know why? Cause I paid for all of my shit.

And everyone knows that paying for your own shit is an automatic fresh deductible.

Even if a nosey do-gooder neighbor wouldn’t call the cops or the appropriate acronym’d watchdog agency—how in the hell could I afford a bi (sometimes tri) weekly bender if I had to break these little monkeys off a grip of my hard-earned cash just so some other woman’s equally over-dressed 14 year old named Marquita wouldn’t announce that my babies wear Bobo shoes in her facebook status?

No, thank you.

2. Cursewords.

I’m sorry. I love ‘em. I –just—love ‘em. I’m already obsessed with language and its usage. And I am certainly overcome by the magic a perfect word and its appropriate, grammatically correct sentence can have on a listener/reader. But if—in all of that—in your big, fancy college words, you can squeeze an unexpected “fuck”—it’s like—idunno—fairy dust?

In spite of my sincere love of profanity, I cannot help but feel that there is something inappropriate about cursing in the presence of children. Something about it is just wrong. Granted, they will hear bad words everywhere else, but—it just seems off.

The only thing more inappropriate? A grown ass person, with no religious or otherwise propriety-related qualms, struggling, in earnest, to make a “dang” out of a “damn;” a “shoot” out of a “shit.” It sounds ridiculous, people. If I slam my hand in a cabinet drawer, and have to mumble out a “Fudge!” because my precious angel is looking up at me with her curious big, brown eyes, it will only quadruple my frustration.

Nah, dawg. Fuck that.

1. Sex. And with people (note the plural) not directly sanctioned by God.

Seriously, if you need elucidation on this point and you’re single, you’re a moron. If you need elucidation on this point and you’re married, you need not be.

Lookit, old ladies. Maybe a life of quiet, domestic tranquility is in the cards for me. Maybe it isn’t. But the life I have now is the only one I got, and, from the looks of this list, it ain’t half bad.

So, really.

Suck it.


7 Responses to “Stop hating on me, old, black ladies. my shit is awesome.”

  1. January 11, 2010 at 6:23 pm

    Your ‘conversation’ with the older ladies was real. I quite enjoyed it. Thanks for the smile!

  2. 2 Nicole
    January 11, 2010 at 7:46 pm

    Hear! Hear!

    I so needed to read this post after just returning from another baby shower for yet ANOTHER friend who’s gone and jumped onto the preggo bandwagon. And hearing that ANOTHER acquaintance of this circle of friends is now expecting. And hearing my in-laws complain that while all of their friends are becoming grandparents, they will (*siiiiigh*) probably never live long enough to have any grandchildren of their own.

    Did I go to a top-25-ranked College to get an “MRS” degree? No.

    Did I bust my ass for a Juris Doctor degree AND my State law license just so I could sound witty and well-read at your Junior League Bunco Party? Hells no.

    Do you think I’m driving a 10-year old car with over 130K miles on it so I may appear all cheeky and retro, while all my college friends who didn’t take out loans for grad school drive their new BMWs? Lawd no.

    It’s like I keep telling them, it doesn’t matter how old I am if and when I ever feel like having kids. My surrogate will be of suitable child-bearing age, and I’ll actually be able to afford to send the little brat to boarding school. In Switzerland.

  3. January 12, 2010 at 1:00 am

    One other point that a friend of mine recently noted at her blog: You can toast to “No Babies” while washing down a birthcontrol pill with a cold beer and a clear conscience.

  4. 4 haha
    January 13, 2010 at 7:50 pm

    (Rapid clap) Bravo! Honest & soooo funny. Live ur life girl.

  5. 5 Anonymous
    August 29, 2010 at 4:28 am

    Holy shit you have a jd. I’ve never encountered anyone with such a pedigree. A condo? I could handle such sacrilege, but then you dropped the motherloving bomb: two dogs. Two! Dogs! And you have a vagina! And you are a lawyer! Holy shit! Doors! Kicked! Down! Fuck! I think I might need a vicodin! Fuck! Shit! 29! Single! Vagina! Single! Lawye!r! Agghhshshghghgh! You must be the very fucking best of the best, what wit yo jureezy docteezy! Bitch, please.

  6. 7 Donn
    November 5, 2010 at 4:18 pm

    A friend gets the “you’re selfish” when her married friends and new acquaintances hear about her lack of intent, desire or remote inclination, on one single day of her life, to ever have kids. I’ve known her longer than I have just about anybody I still know, and she knew from the start: NO KIDS.

    But misery has an unquenchable lust for company. Living well really is the best revenge.

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a history of my meanderings….


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