Archive for the 'parents' Category


A Preface…..

“Your father says you wrote a blog entry, yesterday,” my mother offered.

My mother seldom inquired about my blog as my father had long-ago forbidden her to read it. Still, the narcissism propelling my ongoing attempt at internet validation piqued her interest, every fair to fair.

“Yep,” I answered.

“Block over?” she followed.

“Only time will tell. Seems so for the moment, however,” I casually replied.

“Anything interesting?” she asked.

“Nope. Not particularly,” I answered. “ More humdrum meanderings about my romantic life and personal convictions.”

“What romantic life?” she snapped.

“Precisely, my dear Watson.”

My mother contributed one of her long, resigned sighs. The kind she reserved exclusively for her only child who would never give her grandchildren. “For the life of me, I don’t know how you came to be so cynical.”

“Oh?” I responded, my voice full of mock surprise. “Not exactly a sunny rainbow of starbursts and ju ju bees, over there, Sweetness.”

My mother’s reply was swift. “There was love in our home! There IS love in our home. I bet your readers would like to hear about that, for once. Instead of all this ‘I’m not getting married’ foolishness.”

I was certain my mother could feel the strength of my eye-roll from the backwoods North Carolina farm from whence she’d called. “I never said I wasn’t getting married, Smitty.”

“Well, are you?” she asked saucily.

“I’d sooner chew off my foot.” I replied.

“You are so unbelievably negative. I can hardly stand it.” I could sense the irritation in her voice. We had, after all, had this very conversation one thousand times.

“Negative? I’m PRO- love. I’m PRO-marriage. It’s because I respect them so much that I bitch. These are serious things that people enter into blindly; with little more consideration than one selects a window treatment.” I hoped my impassioned rationale would calm her before she suggested I sire a bastard.

Battle worn and wary, my mother relented. “It takes me a long time to pick out window treatments.”

“Well you, Madame, are a member of a very distinct minority. Besides. You’re a snob,” I teased.

“Do something for me?” my mother asked abruptly.

I sighed, then. Nothing good could come from this. “Yes, Mommy?”

“Just this once, write something nice about love. Do it for your Mother.”


because you’re never too old to be permanently scarred…..

so….this week, twitter was all awash with this accent challenge….i didn’t do one…butttttttttttt, it *did* give me the idea to record me reading an entry….why? because i’m a narcissist. if my voice annoys you too much, the published entry is below……..but…i *do* do voices…

ps..y’all know i’m not web-wise….there’s this annoying whistle in the background….but, i couldn’t record it over again….apparently, my entries are long as FUCK. who knew?

agnes final sound ii

I am fairly well-versed in the language of me.

That is to say—I get me. I get how I work; how I “do.”

I spend a great deal of time keeping to my own counsel.

You aren’t going to enlighten me on too much shit concerning the body of work that is me.

That said, a rather large part of being an adult—a well-socialized adult—is one’s ability to be receptive of criticism; particularly criticism coming from those that wish you well.


So my mama thinks I’m stuck up.

I’m not going to elaborate on this, as it’s ridiculous, but, that’s what my mother says—I’m stuck up.

Now, as the only child of a Southern Black woman, I, of course, trained myself, at an early age, to distinguish between sage wisdom and unfounded-potentially-hurtful shit.

But I lend considerable weight to anything my mother tells me.

Some of her advice gets thrown out with the wash, but never ever before I’ve turned it over in my mind and examined all the angles.

I had been at my parents’ house an entire thirty-six hours before my mother accosted me with her most recent allegation of sadditty-ness.

I was certain the arguments my mother used in support of her assertion were fundamentally flawed, but, her accusations loomed dark and foreboding; eagerly awaiting any concession, or breakdown of my resolve—prepared to play vulture to my carrion.

Sunday morning came, however, with little to no incident.

And the day had started out pleasant, enough. My father, recuperating from surgery, had suggested that we skip church in favor of a restful morning at home. My mother, eager to tend to her flowerbed, had whole-heartedly co-signed.

And it was quite nice, actually. My father had ultimately found sleep in our den. My mother, sun-weary, napped in the chaise longue beside her bed. And finally convinced that our three dogs were no longer trying to murder each other, I, myself, was nearing slumber.

The dogs heard her first.

All three had been tucked away with me on the third floor, but they’d heard her. One after another they went barreling down each set of staircases, barking in righteous indignation at the audacity of someone entering our home, uninvited.

But that was how Cousin Agnes always entered our home.

Just walked the fuck in.

What you should know about Cousin Agnes is that she is my father’s cousin. Like, fifth or sixth. I don’t really know as I prefer not to dwell on any genetic predeterminates that legitimately bind us. Cousin Agnes isn’t so much a relative, as she is a threat you wield over the heads of misbehaving children (e.g. “Keep it up…I’ma sit you over at that table with Cousin Agnes and ‘em.”)

While Cousin Agnes isn’t necessarily an unattractive woman (as I’m sure her five previous husbands will attest to), a cursory overview of her will let you know, straightaway, her elemental truth; a truth that will be confirmed the second she opens her mouth—

Cousin Agnes is hood.

Real hood.

Malt-liquor drankin’, misquoted-Bible-verse-interspersed-with-her-profanity spoutin’, hootie-hoo my dude we-fittin-to-go-to-the-grocery-store-and-cash-this-good-check-so-we-can-buy-us-some-stretchy-clothes-


And she’s like, sixty.

Matter of fact, in my sheltered childhood, Cousin Agnes was my first indication that old people could actually be hood. I think I thought that hoodness was some shit that you eventually grew out of. Cousin Agnes destroyed that illusion for me.

Now, the most important thing you need to know about my Cousin Agnes is that she’s a whole lot of woman.

She’s tall—about 5’10, and stocky. Not obese or any other descriptor of gratuitously fat—just stocky.

But check this—

She seems bigger….on account of her voice.

Like, think Jim Carey’s “Vera” on In Living Color.

Cousin Agnes likes to call it “husky.”

But, on everything, I swear that shit sounds like she waits til low tide to emerge from the Deep, and feed upon the small children of aboriginal island-dwellers; like, twenty years ago, unbeknownst to the world, Cousin Agnes managed to get her hands on some deceased Andre The Giant DNA, and through the miracle of modern medicine cultivated some Andre The Giant stem cell in a petri dish until her clone Andre The Giant baby reached the age of maturation, when she promptly murdered him and used his dissected testosterone sacs to line the walls of her larynx—

Like….no bullshit.

‘Shit’s that deep.


Cousin Agnes was standing in our kitchen, nearly beside herself with fright at the onslaught of our raging dogs. I greeted her, warmly, and calmed the animals, offering her a drink and a seat. She refused.

“Uh uh. Where yo’ favvvva at? I wanna see yo’ daddy? Where yo mama? Where yo mama?”

I tried to explain to her that they were both asleep, but she was having none of that, and insisted I take her to my dad.

Begrudgingly, I led her up the back stairs, and nudged him awake.

As my father begin to engage her, I started to walk away when Cousin Agnes called after me: “Go get yo’ mama too! Wake huh up! I wanna see yo’ mama too!”

I bit my tongue, and walked in the direction of my parents’ bedroom. I reluctantly woke my mother, and let her know that we had company…and that that company was Cousin Agnes. I then beckoned the dogs to me, informing my mother that I would be upstairs.

That’s when I caught it.

My mother’s look.

She hadn’t uttered a syllable, but the narrowing of her brow said it all. Stuck up.

I met her gaze in silence, the unspoken language of her challenge clear. Turning stiffly back to the direction from whence I’d come, I returned to the den, three dogs in tow, my mother not far behind me.

Everything was going fine—well, typical of any Cousin Agnes visit—

I offered up commentary when I managed to manipulate my way through the veritable sea of her verbal ratchetry—

Through a series of well-applied pinches to my forearm, I trained myself not to laugh-outright, or visibly cringe at the cascade of horrors flowing from her mouth.

And things were going smoothly—and I was proving my mother wrong….when it happened.

Somehow my mother and Cousin Agnes had stumbled upon some salacious piece of gossip concerning a man they both knew who had left his wife for another woman.

My mother received the information with no real problem, but Cousin Agnes could not seem to get over the injustice of the man’s lover not being up to her apparently exacting physical standards.

Over and over she slapped the tops of her thighs with her heavy, open palms, protesting, “She ain’t even cute, doe!!! She ain’t even cute!!! Look, doe!!! She ain’t even cute!!!”

My mother, in her gentle voice, and I thought, rather patiently, tried to explain to Cousin Agnes—who now sat comfortably amongst our couch cushions like some retard giantess—that sometimes, appearances counted little in matters of the heart.

And even as my father and I nodded in tacit agreement, Cousin Agnes remained undaunted. “She ain’t even cute, doe!!!”

My mother was shaking her head in casual resignation, when Cousin Agnes perked up. I could nearly see the light-bulb go on in her thicket of unkempt, ratty braids, and my gut warned that I should fear it.

“But you know what doe,” she began, “Dat guhl is younga dan him doe…She is younga dan him.”

No one commented, and she continued. “And you know how dem young guhls like to do…they know what men like and they be givin’ it to ‘um…Dey be givin’ it to ‘um.”

In the next moment, my whole world would come crumbling down at my feet.

Cousin Agnes looked first to me, saying: “You know how dey do…” then looked to my father, saying, “Excuse me Jay-rome,” then half-cupped her left hand, covering the left side of her mouth, but absconding nothing from view. Her gaze returned to me as she made her open mouth into an oval, and proceeded to bob her head backward and forward.

I whipped my head away, pretending that I had not seen, what my racing mind was telling me I had. “Cousin Agnes!” I cried out, in pleading—

She didn’t give the FIRST FUCK…

Cause she did it again….

Simulated oral sex in the den of my parents’ home—the home my parents had lovingly built from carefully-spun dreams——on the Sabbath…A day the Lord God Himself had admonished us to honor; to keep holy. She simulated oral sex in front of BOTH of my parents…my mother AND my father…..

And she had done so, whilst looking directly at ME…looking directly into my thirty year old eyes for confirmation, for acknowledgment.

My father sat so quiet, and so still, but my mother wore a look of confusion on her face. I like to pretend that she was in a sort of fugue state—like her body had gone into shock to protect it from the trauma her whole being had just experienced.
But Cousin Agnes wouldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, cause she took their quiet as indication for her need to clarify.

AGAIN, looking to me, she called out my name, and said, “Fooler knows….BLOWJOBS…”

I’d liked————————to have knocked———————alla the shit in that room——books on shelves, trophies in cabinets, crystal in curios, chess pieces on chessboards———-I’ddddddddddd liked to have knocked allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllla that shit down………………..


WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY in the MOOOOOOOOOOOOOTHERFUCK are you looking into MMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYY eyes, saying words like “blowjob” to my parents??????



And I was concerned, like, on a multitude of levels.

I didn’t know if she looked at me and saw like, some kind of neon halo of dick residue all up and around my person; I didn’t know if I’d been traversing this land, all these years, with the faint echoes of blowjobs-past nipping at my dick-sucking heels—-Why had she chosen me?

And what had she wanted from me?

Was there some expectation of high fives; of chest bumps? Were my parents gonna stand on either side of us as we formed a soul train line and did the give-head dance around my mother’s art collection?

I didn’t linger long in my mental landscape of uncertainty.

At THAT moment, I realized I didn’t give a damn what my mother thought of my temperament if it meant enduring one millisecond more of the indignity that aged broad had brought to my home.

I picked up as many of my dogs as I could carry, and ZackGalifianakisWalked my sweet ass the FUCK out.

Cousin Agnes bellowed after me in her hobo-baritone, but I did not look back.

I did not look back.


my very near surrender to love, and how one lone, bitchass apple spoiled the bunch…

I was awash with love, today.

I’m fresh off a weekend with my linesisters and their extraordinary husbands and boyfriends; fresh from the nuptials of our 9 to yet another extraordinary husband.

I was awash with love.

And it is, perhaps, for this reason, that, in an about-face from my traditional measured dose of snark, I afforded my mother some contemplative sincerity when she inquired about my love life.

Still, despite my best intentions, I had nothing new to offer when she asked for the one millionth time, this life, “What are you looking for in a partner?”

I had no clue.

And why should I?

I’ve been unwavering in my praise of previous romantic interests.

They’ve all been great people.

Sure, Matt wasn’t nearly as cautious as I thought he should be when it came to open, public display of his baby-Negro chest hairs from generously unbuttoned shirts.

And Eric’s excessive use of faucet water during these eco-conservative times certainly earned him a questionable frown or two from my general direction.

But, for the most part, I was a woman of few complaints.

I could ask nothing more from a future partner than I’d already been lucky to find in ones past.

Not until I’d finished speaking with my mother did it dawn on me that she’d asked the wrong question. All of this time, she had been asking the wrong question.

This was not about what I was looking for in someone else.

This was about what was—what is—lacking in me.

Frankly stated—

A desire to put another person’s needs before my own.

That variable, that lone compulsion, so entirely absent in my own selfish heart, rang out so true and so sound in the shared whispers, shared laughter, shared glances, shared touches between my linesisters and their mates.

But not within me.

Rather, mine is an only child’s well-constructed cynicism.

I’ve dedicated years to this doctrine of self-reliance, unapologetically putting my own self first. I’ve expended countless hours proselytizing the responsibilities one has to herself, and only herself; how we enter this world alone and die alone; how we must comport ourselves accordingly in light of this stark truism.

But, when you embark upon a relationship, you are vulnerable to the elements. You are expected to forfeit this mentality. You must conceptualize an appropriate model of trust, and incorporate it into your sensory framework.

Enter my reticence.

This act of forfeiture—this veritable surrender of guard—is far too high a price for my risk-averse pocket.

But, in a perfect world, where all conditions are met, and a suitable, trustworthy partner chosen—you relax.

You disable your selfish.

You put your partner’s needs first, and he/she yours.

And there are no worries, for each of our respective fronts is covered. Each of our respective sets of needs met.

In the face of my epiphany, I was forced to consider all of it. And I did. I tossed it all around; I moved the mountains of my mind and forged every briar-laden pass my overly-analytical psyche could conjure, until I reached a conclusion:


I don’t wanna do that shit.

Like, not at all.

And let me tell you why….with a story…because, you know….that’s my way.


Jack Jacobsen had hired me to be his attorney.

He was neither a defendant in an action nor a plaintiff. Rather, he was summoned by the Commonwealth to be a witness in a criminal action against his wife (don’t bother to question the basis of this or worry your precious minds with concepts like “spousal privilege.” Just trust your narrator when she informs you that there was no such protection in this case).

You’ll also have to trust me when I tell you that his wife, Molly Jacobsen, had done nothing wrong. An unfortunate set of circumstances, and a naïve faith in the police and municipal government had landed her on the wrong side of the law. Be that as it may, no crime was afoot.

So, Jack Jacobsen had hired me to be his attorney—to apprise him of his options and represent his interests to the Commonwealth’s Attorney, and if need be, the Court.

Essentially, Jack needed to know the ramifications of not testifying, and wanted the prosecution to be aware of his position that his wife had committed no crime, and that he would never say she had.

Upon meeting Molly and Jack, my sympathies immediately went to Molly. She was clearly fragile and overwhelmed by the situation she’d created for herself and her family. The both of them were in their early fifties, and only married for a few years. The thought occurred to me more than once that the two were castoffs, hopelessly destined for a life of solitude ‘til finding their other misfit counterpart (which I’d suspected had happened through the miracle of

Jack was all fire and bluster, and given to lengthy speeches about his commitment to family, and dedication to his wife. I watched, time and time again as his eyes brimmed over with hot, fast tears, as he became swept away by the conviction of his own oratory. He used powerful words like “Gestapo” and “attack” to describe the prosecution’s relationship with his home. He was adamant about his decision not to testify; to not be his wife’s condemner. He repeatedly drove his stubby index finger into the rich mahogany of the conference room table to emphasize his willingness to defy the Commonwealth, the world, even God if it meant preventing undue harm to his wife.

From our first handshake, and my inhale of his stale, tart breath, I’d sized Jack up. I’d known that he was all false bravado, and feigned masculinity. I would help him, certainly. I would attempt to shield this family he claimed to be the sworn protector of. But I would unveil his inner bitch, too. And I’d take pleasure in so doing.

So I’d sat quietly in that conference room amidst the boom and thunder of his voice. I’d sat, slightly slouched, legs crossed, chin resting on my thumb, index and middle fingers pressed comfortably to my temple. I’d let the sonorous timbre of his voice ricochet between the walls that housed us, my face impassive, unaffected by his demonstrative changes in inflection.

And only when he’d cried his last tear; only after he callously (though guised as reassuringly) rubbed the back of his lady-love and declared himself the last good man; only after he’d dulled the finish of the table with his tiny, closed fists while volunteering himself up as a lamb to the slaughter—only then did I speak.

“I understand and respect your position, “ said I. “I appreciate your willingness to convey how sincere your affections are with regard to your family. My job is to protect you. Not your wife. I am here to advise you.”

He interrupted, then, as I’d known he would. “MY job is to protect my wife. I will protect my wife at all costs. YOUR job is to help me understand how I can protect my wife.”

My face remained unchanged, but I was all smiles inside. I began, again.

“Very well,” said I. “I will communicate what you’ve shared to the Commonwealth’s Attorney. It is possible that she will consider your unwillingness to testify, and re-evaluate her desire to pursue an action against your wife.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Jack demanded. He was playing right into my hands.

“You are under subpoena. If she doesn’t, she will insist you take the stand anyway. If your aim is to protect your wife, you will do so and respectfully decline to answer any questions,” I calmly replied.

“Then that’s what I’ll do!” he asserted. He looked dramatically into the eyes of his wife, just then, and softly repeated for effect, “That’s what I’ll do.”

“At which point you’ll be cited for Contempt of Court, and face a maximum $250.00 fine, and up to ten days in jail,” I stated plainly. Gotcha bitch!

Jack’s face jerked back to mine. “What?!”

I watched as all the blood drained from his face, and the fire fled from his tear-filled eyes.

My eyes never straying from his, I said, in even tones, “Molly, why don’t you leave us, now. Have a seat in the waiting room, and we will be with you, momentarily.”

Molly’s shoulders slumped under the weight of her guilt, as she shuffled from the room. There had been a palpable shift in power. I pulled my chair close to the table, and sat upright for the first time since our meeting began. I gently latticed my fingers, and placed them before me, waiting for Jack to speak. I knew he would not long keep me. Weak men grew quickly uncomfortable with silence.

He didn’t disappoint.

“Ms. Fooler,” he began, “I want you to know that I love my wife.”

I said nothing.

“You have to know that I do not want to testify against my wife.”

I held up my right hand to indicate that I would hear nothing further. “The time for talk of what you want is done. That is over. Your wife is no longer here. The time has come to speak of what you will do.”

Breaking my gaze, and looking down at the table he had pummeled in fury only moments earlier, he whispered demurely, “I cannot go to jail.”

I picked up my pen, and opened the file folder that had lain, untouched, before me throughout the entirety of our meeting. “Then let’s discuss your testimony.”


Molly Jacobsen has no idea what was discussed in that room.

She left, confident in her husband’s commitment to her; certain of his willingness to put her needs before his own.

And he fucked her.

My mother will have to forgive me if I hold fast to my own self-reliant, survival ideology for a little while longer.

*Quite naturally, the names have been changed to protect the…..well….to protect myself.


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 “”

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?




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.

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.



Do you know how ridiculous you sound?

Do you know how many fucking channels there are?



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,

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.


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.


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.


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.

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—“ :


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 the greatest lesson a child will ever learn is the value of just shutting the hell up sometimes…

Before I tell this story about this thing I did, only this morning; a thing some of you will surely hate me for, let me begin with the most basic of revelations: I love kids.


 I do.

 My views on marriage and cohabitation change with the wind, these days, but on one, lone domestic thing am I steadfast—I love kids. I want children of my own one day.

 Thing is, I hate bad kids.


 And really, bless those of you who are of the belief that there are no bad children. Honestly. Your reward is in Heaven.

 But, I happen to know there are some rotten little sonsofbitches out there.

 Anyhow,  I digress.

 You should know that I own a condo in a highrise, where I’ve lived almost five years. The composite of tenants in the building is the most diverse I’ve ever personally experienced, but certainly nothing special in terms of the Greater DC Metropolitan Area.

 The vast majority of the owners are older people (who come with a very unique set of melodramas, I might add). There is, however, a significant younger contingent of persons and families who rent out units. Subsequently, there are a hundred thousand million point six children in residence.

 But not a problem, right? Cause I love kids.

 Now, behind my building, there is an older neighborhood that has seen some wear and tear over the years. Its inhabitants are slightly more hood in makeup, and it is also overrun with children.

 Still not a problem, right? Why? Cause I love kids.

 Now, the children of the not so hot neighborhood, and the kids in my building all go to the same school. And while a separate bus comes for the children in the not so hot neighborhood,  it arrives earlier than the one that comes directly to my building.

 That earlier arrival time, combined with the ass of kids already living in my building are enough to make the kids from the not so hot neighborhood forego their own bus, morning after morning, opting, instead, to sleep in, and play with their friends in my building, while catching the later bus.

 With me so far?


 I was up with the sun, this morning, determined to get as much as possible done before my 9:30 docket.

 So, I was more than pleased when I managed to shower, and get fully dressed and ready to go before 7.

I gathered my dogs for their morning walk, and was absently playing with my phone, standing on my building’s main sidewalk, as I waited for Topher and Cooper to fertilize the Earth.

 Out of nowhere, a boy and a girl, both about age 11, came running and screaming around the corner, laughing loudly and not watching where they were going, nearly tripping over both of my dogs.

 Topher, almost trampled, and taken completely unaware, growled at the kids, with Cooper quickly following suit.

 Startled, and not wanting the kids to be frightened of the dogs, I quickly squatted to grab at their harnesses, assuring the dogs it was okay.

 “Your dogs are mean,” said the little girl¸ jumping in front of Topher, and then jumping back, in quick, repeated steps, taunting her.

 I was still struggling to calm the dogs when Topher growled again, in response to the little girl’s hand that had jutted in her face, and then jutted back.

 The little girl let out an ear piercing scream, but continued to taunt the dogs.

 “Sweetheart, don’t yell at them,” I said, softly. “And don’t put your hand in front of her face like that. She’s scared. She doesn’t bite, but you’re scaring her. That’s why she’s growling.”

 It was only then, when speaking to her, that I actually had an opportunity to assess her. She was taller and darker than her counterpart, and round all over. Her hair was braided into a series of cornrows on either side of her head, that all came together to form one French braid virtually glued to her scalp.

 I could tell she hadn’t expected me to say anything to her by the way she began to size me up in equal measure.

 She ran toward my building with the little boy, and I released the harnesses and began to make my way up the sidewalk in the same direction, when I heard her say, “She can’t tell me how to use my voice! It’s my voice. I do what I want to do with it. Who is she?! Who is she?! I do what I want!”

 Now, I’m a grown woman, so I pride myself on my ability to be honest with myself and my limited spectrum of emotions.

 And I was hot.

 Like, HEATED.

 I couldn’t believe she was trying to break bad to her little friend.

 Like, seriously, what a little shit.

 I was just trying to look out for her monkey ass.

 “Let it go, girl. She’s a child,” I said, to myself. “Who cares? She’s a fuckin kid.”

 I held tighter to the dogs’ leashes, and determined to just go about my business…

 But not a minute later, her friends—the ones who let her in my locked building—came outside, and she repeated the refrain to them, “It’s my voice! Who is she?!!? I do what I wanna do with my voice! I do what I want with it! I do what I want!”

 The children were now very near the entryway, outside in the parking lot, playing and kicking around something or other. I could see her in my periphery pointing and indicating in my direction, and I could certainly hear her loud, sassy mouth.

 And, juvenile as it sounds, I just became angrier and angrier.

 She just kept saying it, seemingly louder and louder each time. “I do what I want! I do what I want!”

 And something about her—she was entirely reminiscent of the hoodrat, pushy girls of my youth. The ones who’d chastised me for my proper speech and “goody goody”ness.

 And all at once, I was back in the same conflicted position as I’d been in as a child. Offended, incensed, and unable to do anything about it. I would spend my whole life, it seemed, confronted with these arrogant, mouthy, hoodrat children–only to be suspended in a constant state of inaction.

 I let out a pathetic, resigned sigh, confident in my inability to snatch her up by her meaty forearm and give her a piece of my mind, and proceeded up the stairs.

 By this time, the little girl’s friends had assembled in the lobby. She had initially been inside with them, but appeared to have forgotten or lost something in the parking lot where she’d been playing.

 I was just inside of the glass door with the dogs when I saw that she had found what she was looking for, or abandoned it as a lost cause, and was headed up the stairs in my direction.

 And, God forgive me, I waited.

 I had been willing to let it go, but her virtual CAMPAIGN of shit talking had set something off inside of me.

 Because damnit, I’m not the person I was in sixth grade.

 I am a grown woman. I have a profession. I make an income. I pay a fucking mortgage. I deserve respect.

 So, I waited.

 I waited behind that locked, glass door.

 Her eyes got big when she saw me, too.

 She knocked softly, politely even. I was close enough to hear her “Can you let me in?” through the glass.

 I looked at her, then; square in her almond-shaped eyes.

 Shaking my head from left to right, I said, slowly, annunciating each word, “It’s.My.Building. IIIIIIII.Do.What.IIIIIII.Want.”

 I could see panic set in and she started to shout, frantically, “I’ma miss my bus! I’ma miss my bus!”

 I turned to see the crowd of children in the lobby progressing out the front doors, toward the curb, and then returned my unwavering gaze to her.

 “Then you’d better hurry, and run around then, huh?”

 Picking up Topher and planting a kiss on her forehead, I turned my back to the little girl, and proceeded through the second set of glass doors to the elevator.

 As I continued to walk Cooper, still holding Topher, I leaned down, my lips just brushing her ear, and murmured, “Who am I? I’m the bitch with a ride.”


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.


(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])


Just another day in the life of a raunchy blog. Your balls, your relationships, my answers……..fooler fridays…

Thanks for the questions, guys…keep them coming….

Fooler, What are your thoughts on “manscaping?”

This is a GREAT question.

Let’s address the neck and up areas first.

Okay. I’m something of a purist, myself. I can appreciate a man getting haircuts on a regular basis, and even getting his beard edged up if he wants to keep a mean case of the Anthony Hamiltons at bay. But that’s about where I draw the line. I cannot abide any eyebrow arching (my apologies to the entire televised white, male population of New Jersey), or facial hair removal efforts beyond a shave and obligatory nose-hair plucking.

Now to the good shit.

I know I’m a dying breed, but, I’m a fan of male body hair. I dig it. It’s masculine and all burly and Marlboro-man-y. And, frankly, I think the idea of a man paying too much attention to how neat and orderly his chest hair is falls a mite close to the effeminate line for my tastes. I mean, obviously, if you drew the short end of the yeti stick in your gene pool, by all means, take it down a bit, but…personally, I’m for it.

Now to the really good shit.

You know the first thing I thought of when answering this question? That Chappelle’s Show sketch where Dave Chappelle mentions having “balls smooth as eggs.” I didn’t really know that men “manscaped” this particular area until like, three years ago. Sue me. I thought balls came smooth. I’m sure if you ask around you’ll find I’m not the only woman with a hard time conceptualizing twin chia pets clanging behind some dude’s nether-meat.

Look, uh…as long as he doesn’t stencil little pictures down there, and it’s not one of those “can’t see the forest for the trees” situations, I think everything will be fine.

I can’t believe I just answered that fucking question.

Hey Fooler, Great blog! Keep it up. So, you don’t want to be in a relationship? Ever? What do you have against relationships?

Wow. Did I say I had something against relationships? I don’t have a problem with relationships. I have a problem with people saying blanketly that they want to be in relationships. I don’t even have a “problem” with it per se. I just don’t get it. I can’t understand why you’d blindly assume that you want to be tethered to another person; the caretaker of his/her wants and needs.

In my view, a better statement is, “I’m really into Johnny. I want to be in a relationship with Johnny.” See the distinction? In my scenario, you’ve met someone you’re into. You can’t stand the thought of that person passing his time with someone else. And that person, that “Johnny” makes all of the hard shit that comes with relationships worthwhile. By my way of thinking, anyone who just wants to be a part of a couple, without a clear idea in mind of who the second part of that union is, or whether he’s worth the trouble, hasn’t ever been in a real relationship. Either that or she doesn’t remember it well enough.

So, do I want to be in a relationship? No. I love my freedom. I work a lot. I enjoy the company of my friends. And frankly, every day that I live and breathe in this city I meet another man for whom I’d gladly accidentally get pregnant on purpose.

But is there a man out there for whom I’d set it all aside and stand still with from now until eternity? Absofuckinglutely.

 Hey Fooler, Did you really talk to your dad about a 3-some? BTW—ever done one?

I did. I really did. Look, as far as “The Smiths” are concerned, the jig is up. I’m a bag of rotten, nasty, perverted, foul-mouthed apples. They pretty much take me at face value, and without comment, and try not to ask too many questions. They’ve had to learn the hard way that this approach is far safer than the alternative.

 But, just to be clear, my father and I weren’t discussing me having a threesome. I was telling my father about one of my clients. I will say this, though. We have discussed my strip club (mis)adventures, and during one unfortunate summer after my first year in law school, “Ben’s” impromptu cleaning out of my old college car produced a king’s ransom in flavored condoms—the discovery of same, from which he has never quite recovered. Also, there was that one fateful snow storm when we were stuck on the highway in traffic for 7 hours, when he had occasion to admonish, “If a man ever asks you to have anal sex, put your clothes on and go home.”

There are only three of us. We’re a tight-knit group.

 Nope, no threesomes for the kid, to date. I appreciate the subtlety of your query, though.

Hi!! I’m new to your blog but I LOVE it. I read almost all of it in one sitting. Me and my sister have a question but it’s more in the form of a scenario. You have one night left on this Earth. Do you spend it making sweet, passionate love to your soulmate, or do you have hot, nasty sex with a complete stranger?

I love that you’re “new” to the blog but jump right in there with the sex question. I really gotta work on my content.


Um. Yeah, I’m gonna go with Option 2. Technically, if Dude from Option 1 is my “soulmate”, aforementioned “soul” will see his later, right?

Dear Fooler, I really love this blog. You have such a strong voice. Here’s my question. Why do you think men cheat? My man is such a dog. Why do men think that women are stupid?

I don’t think that men think women are stupid any more than women think men are. I also know for a fact that men aren’t any more inclined to cheat than women.

Look, I don’t know your situation, and I’m so sorry that your relationship is not where you think it should be. The truth of the matter is, I have no idea why people cheat. I mean, I have a pretty well-nursed theory, but, I don’t know why your man is cheating. It could be any number of things. I’ll share my theory with you, but, that’s about all I have.

So, I basically think that there are three reasons why anyone cheats.

Here goes.

Ego—The person wants to see if she still has it.

Getback—The person wants to teach her partner a lesson.

Boredom—The person doesn’t have shit else to do or her current sexual situation has grown stale.

That’s it. That’s my pontificated genius.

Now, these things are simply foundation. There are plenty of reasons why people cheat, I’m sure. It’s just that, in my mind, these three things are the building blocks from whence other explanations like, “opportunity,” and “a temporary lapse in judgment“ come. And the words are far more all-encompassing than they appear. “Ego” could be as simple as taking your ring off at a club so men will holler at you and taking it too far; or as complicated as starting to feel old and needing to do something reckless and young. “Getback” can be as simple as walking out on your woman in an argument and going home with some broad from the bar; or as complicated as feeling ignored and unappreciated, and carrying the secret of your one night tryst with your downstairs neighbor to your grave. And “boredom”—this one, by far, is the most deceptively simple of the lot. “Boredom” can be nothing more than getting tired of the same piece of ass day after day; but it is often something far more complex–being perfectly content in a relationship with your amazing girlfriend until you one day happen upon a woman the likes of whom you’ve never seen or met.

And, when the above are all too complicated for me to grasp, my standby explanation for why people cheat carries me over—


Sometimes, people just want to fuck someone else. It might not be a commentary on you or your relationship. And, I’ll draw some heat for my next statement, I know, but I’ll risk it. It might not even be a commentary on him. We’re all animals (I know women get tired of hearing this but it’s true). At our core, we are motivated almost entirely by self interest and instant gratification. Sometimes, no matter how happy you are, no matter how great your partner is, no matter how awesome everything in your relationship is—you just wanna fuck someone else.

I’m not giving this type of behavior any specific moral assignation.

 I’m just calling the situation as I see it. And if that simplistic truism is the “reason,” the only remaining question is why one chooses to act on it.

And then we’re right back to my three prong theory.

If you want to know what I think—which I assume you do—it doesn’t matter why a person cheats, or why he or she wants to.

What matters is whether he or she is willing to control that want. Only you can decide if your man’s inability or unwillingness to discipline and hone the impulse makes him unworthy of your time.

Good luck.

Did you and your friend find a church yet? What are you both looking for? Why is it taking so long, if not?

 Wow. I will accept this question and consider it the result of your natural curiosity. I will further try to quell the budding suspicion I have that it is predicated on your conclusion–having read my blog– that I need to get to the House with a fair degree of urgency.

No, “Michael” and I have not found a church home yet. Truth be told, between my work and his phD program, and our travel habits of late, I don’t think we’ve seen the inside of a sanctuary in two months.

But, I will have you know that we’re back on schedule for this coming Sunday.

 It is taking so long because we want it to be right. Church is like a marriage, or buying a house. You have to be all in if it’s going to work at all. And believe me, I’m accumulating sins by the minute. We want it to work.

 What are we looking for? Hmmm.

We want to go some place where the pastor isn’t going to tell Michael—who has one of the most beautiful hearts I’ve ever known—that he’s going to Hell.

We want to go some place where there is room for us to grow and to be a part of a community.

We want to go some place that has a decent choir, but that doesn’t have a “show” choir.

We want to go to a church that has an inspiring pastor. He doesn’t have to have twelve degrees. As a matter of fact, I’d personally prefer that he had no over-inflated theological background at all. By that same token, I don’t expect to have to sit in the sanctuary biting my lip to keep from laughing at the fact that he graduated from a high school accredited in Pootie Tang’s basement.

We want to go to a place that is situated in a relatively safe neighborhood. It would be nice to leave a Beautification Ministry meeting on a Wednesday night in the same un-sodomized way that I arrived Wednesday afternoon.

The list goes on and on. The truth of the matter is, I could build a dream church in my mind, only for it to still be not right for our purposes. It’s just a feeling we expect to get. We actually were both felled, not too long ago, by this amazing pastor at a church with no choir, no ancillary ministries, and frankly, no real “church” even. It met in a movie theater. When we left we were thunderstruck. That one is still in our prayer basket.

Hey Fooler, LOVE the blog, girl. You crack me up. Can you be more clear on the type of men that you like? You know, just out of curiosity. 😉

Hmmm. The kind of man I like. Physically, I think I’ve expressed a desire for him to have functional limbs.

 Outside of that, I mean it, the aesthetics aren’t really what get it moving for me. I like a good looking man as much as the next one, don’t get me wrong, but, personality goes a long way with me. It can bring you up from a 4 to an 8 in no time.

I will say that a dimple, a nice set of white teeth, and long eyelashes coupled with a pair of strong hands will incline me to overlook the occasional lull in conversation here and there.

Generally speaking, I like men who are smarter than me. I like men who read. I like men who get so impassioned about things that they are overly excited to explain them to me blow by blow.

I like men who like to do things themselves; who like to try and fix shit themselves or build things.

I like laid back men. I like men who aren’t showy or vain or determined to display to everyone who passes by what kind of car they drive or how many degrees they have.

I like men who are funny. I like men who make me laugh. I like men who smell good. I like men with dreams. I like men with the ambition to make their dreams come true.

Finally, I like men who blow my back out.


A romantic notion is fine, but, I’m more the practical sort.

Oh yeah… I like men who are disinclined to express themselves using emoticons.

July 2019
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a history of my meanderings….