Archive for the 'philosophy' Category

08
Feb
11

let’s call a spade a spade and a post a post, or, “a deluge of f-bombs & (non)sex talk….”

“Do you have a jumpoff?” I asked Kate over bbm.

I was doing that thing straight girls do when they’re trying to play it cool with gay girls they think are kinda cute.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but…I just thought I’d ask,” I anxiously typed in an attempt to preserve my awesome.
Kate gave me what I was beginning to recognize as her standard, initial “WTF…lol…” response, but followed it up with “No, I don’t have a jumpoff. I do have a cuddle buddy, though.”
So, here’s the thing.
I have this sort of disability where I ask a quick succession of questions, that, to a casual observer, might make me appear rude, or insensitive, or abrasive. I’ve been trying to work on it, and decided, immediately, that I would seize upon this opportunity to be diplomatic in my information-gathering. I would be respectful, and endeavor not to overburden Kate with queries that might make her feel uncomfortable, or stupid, or regretful that she’d shared.
“The fuck you mean you have a ‘cuddle buddy’? What the fuck is a ‘cuddle buddy’?”
(These techniques take time.)
Another “LOL” from Kate.
She began again. “You know, a friend who comes through every now and then to kick it. Nothing really happens. We mainly just chill and, you know, cuddle.”
Me, again. “Look. I’m doing the best I can not to throw up, here. Just walk me slowly through this. Am I to understand that this is a no-fucking arrangement?”
“Nope. No fucking,” answered Kate.
“Just *chokes back vomit* cuddling?” I asked
“Occasional kissing, but, yeah…generally…just cuddling.”
“But why?” I pressed. “Why would you do this?”
“It’s more for her, really,” Kate replied. “Her girl’s away, and she just needs a warm body. I like to think of myself as just being a good friend.”
“Riiighhht….even though you stand to benefit nothing from this arrangement?”
“Yep,” came her matter-of-fact reply.
“Have you never done this before?” she asked. “Never had a cuddle buddy?”
I didn’t even have to deliberate.
“No. I pay a mortgage in my house so that I can fuck here. You’re talking nonsense.”
My mind was reeling.
I could feel sweat beading at my temples.
My heart was practically skipping out of my chest, and these hot rushes of blood kept surging to my cheeks.
“What about this is so crazy to you?” asked Kate.
I ignored her question, momentarily, and made two frenzied phone calls, both confirming Kate’s dreadful account, and my worst fears.
This can’t be…This.just.can’t.be
…. I thought to myself.
I feverishly looked at my bbm, and saw Kate’s emboldened name staring back at me.
I consulted my contacts, and made one, final go at it.
I sighed with brutal resignation. This was going to be painful.
My thumbs flew across the qwerty keyboard.
Me: “Elodie, you’re soft. Lemme ask you a question. You ever heard of a ‘cuddle buddy’?”
Elodie: “Yes! Of course! It’s SO fun!”
*insert gnashing of teeth on my end*
Elodie: “It’s so much affection by definition. Essentially, it’s someone you spend quality time with. Holding and touching. Doesn’t involve sex. Maybe kissing. A lot of close proximity and time together.”
Me: “Oh. My.God.”
Elodie: “I love it. I personally enjoy the cuddle buddy who knows how to run his nose ever so lightly across my skin…”
(Look. I know y’all think I’m making this up, right now, but I swear, I’m not. This is all verbatim. This is so real.)
Elodie: “…massage my earlobes…”
Me: “Are you joking? Are you shitting me, right now?”
Elodie: “…intertwine my fingers with his….”
Me: “This is serious, Elodie.”
Elodie: “No,  I’m dead serious. Serious as a heart attack. It’s very special QT. It’s nice and really makes you feel special.”
Me: “I’ve heard enough.”
Elodie: “Oh! Don’t forget spooning. Are you about to get one?”
The fuck?
Me: “Have you ever met me? Like, ever? Ever talked to me at all? Had a conversation with me?”

Elodie: “I mean. You asked.”
I had. I had, indeed.
I returned my attentions to Kate.
“Sorry. This is so much. It’s just that…no man on eeeeeeeeeaaaaaaarrrrrpppppphhh would EVER agree to such a
thing…unless he was like….the loneliest, ugliest man ever,” said I.
There was a brief pause before I saw that she was typing, once more.
“I’m not a man, hon.”
No. No, she was not.
And she sure the shit wasn’t ugly.

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

Women of America—
What
In the
ENTIRE,
SPHERICAL
WORLD
Of FUCK
Is the matter with you?
Seriously.
I wanna know.
WHAT
In
THEEEEE
FUCK
Is the matter with you?
I KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW y’all are behind this shit.
I got two lesbians, one linesister, and one powerfully JuliaRoberts/CameronDiaz/JenniferAniston/AshtonKutcher straight bitch confirming the existence of what HAS to be THE most HERETOFORE INCREDULOUS nonromantic romantic institution known to man.
Really?
Look.
Overly-sentimental though she may be, my friend, Elodie, is the best. Really. She’s tops.
And I’m sure whatever lucky broad Kate idly passes time bunning up with is worth more than her weight in giggles and tickles.
But, notwithstanding these two…
And not to sound like some two-pence slut, but…
Ladies….
Who in the SHIT do y’all think y’all are?
That’s a serious question.
I mean it.
Who in THE SHIT do y’all think y’all are?
I’m gonna say something controversial.
Wait for it.
I get sooooooooooooooooooo tiiiiiiiiiiiiired of hearing about the fact that there are no good black men in this world.
Sooooooooooooo tired.
I don’t hear a lot of lesbians saying “Black bitches ain’t shit,” but….I’m certain, if black women, in any way, are able to corner the market and have the franchise on lesbianism, we’ll be sure to complain about a lack of appropriate girl on girlers as well.
Somebody, somewhere
has sold y’all broads a bill of goods.
Some lying, deceiving, misguided, trying/to/get/the/ass/quick/soul has convinced you all that your drawes are gilded in gold and your elbows can’t be ashy.
Every day, I see motherfuckers on Facebook giving themselves these empowered middle names; regarding themselves as the lost imperial Nubian queens of the Motherland, and can’t fry a damned fish.
Whoooooooooo are y’all?
AND nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow…..
To marry INSULT with INJURY in the UNHOLIEST of matrimony, I hear tell of women taking showers, doing their hair, and rolling up in cribs smelling good, titties riding high, jeans cut tight, to snnnnnnuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggle up in a dude’s arms  (or chick’s….whatever your pleasure)………………………..
And cuddle.
I don’t have the time or space to address the simpin’ ass mentality that permits such an EGREGIOUS violation of interpersonal relations.
So, let me just say my piece/peace, and be on about my own way….because this is a blog about me.
(friends, family, spouses of friends and family, colleagues, spouses of colleagues—please disregard)
*Ahem*
STAY
THEEEE HELLLLLLL
HOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMME.
Do NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT
Come in THIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS house
With annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnny expectations of preserving your chastity, your moral strongholds, your righteous high-ground………hell…..your fucking dignity……
STAY HOME.
If you come in THIS house….smelling good, showered, finely adorned under the cover of night, or at the occasional noonday hour, I’MA ASSUME……I’MA take it as GOSPEL TRUTH….
That you’re ready to rock.
Ain’t noooooooooooooooooooo cuddling going on in this house.
This shit right here…
NO
CUDDLE
ZONE.
DON’TYOUDARECUDDLEMEINTHISMOTHERFUCKER.
Does everyone understand that.
I pay real bills.
I want real sex.
This shit right here….
This “cuddle buddy” shit right here…
This is why we can’t have nothin’.

11
Nov
10

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?

24
Sep
10

Fooler Fridays: Because y’all looove advice from people unqualified to give it……..

Fooler—

How do you do the opposite of getting beyond the friend label? As in, let’s say you fuck the guy on the first date and you don’t really know each other and you sense that he wants to be friends. How do you slow things down when you’ve crossed the proverbial finish line? And like, what happens if you do slow things down and see each other in the daylight but you decide that you don’t really like him that much?

Nipple.Etiquette.

 Nipple.

 Etiquette.

 Some men have it.

 Some men don’t.

 Now—

 What exactly is nipple etiquette?

 Idunno.

 Varies from girl to girl.

 But, in the illustrious words of Justice Potter Stewart: “[It’s] hard to define…but I know it when I see it.”

 Or–feel it, as it were.

 In the prevailing, dominant relationship model—the one that advises friendship before courtship, and courtship before fucking—it will take months to determine whether a man has nipple etiquette.

 Now, maybe this isn’t a big deal for a lot of women.

 Particularly, married-minded ones who adhere to the strict dictates of The Rules, and believe there are sure-fire tricks to catch a man, keep a man, and bind him to your side from here to eternity.

 For me and mine, I’d just as soon take a pass on being your rib if it means a pair of bruised up, raisin-y nipples for the remainder of my days.

 Look—

 In the spirit of not having my intrauterine wall lined with a topcoat of scabies, I’m all about the wait.

 It’s good to know that the man you’re sleeping with isn’t some disgusting cesspool of malignant dick cooties.

 If you have trust issues or are prone to fall for those you allow in your hotbox, or just aren’t ready to make what is an entirely momentous decision in terms of genital to genital nekkidry—

 I’m all about the wait.

 What I’m not about, is some arbitrary timeline, we adhere ourselves to, with the ultimate goal of achieving some fictitious relationship ideal.

 And, if we’re being entirely honest– in a world where presiding elders of megachurches are being accused of kid-touching; where politicians are compelled to speak out publicly against something as innocuous (and arguably, beautiful) as masturbation—I couldn’t give two damns rubbed together about some organized concept of morality; some archaic paradigm of respectability.

 I mean, think about it.

 Really think about it the friendship/courtship/fucking model.

 What the kids today call “caking”— the initial getting to know him phase; this idea of talking to someone day and night, night and day; of expending time and money; of telling your girls all the funny things he’s said, sighing wistfully into the distance, wondering, absently, what he’s doing and if he’s out there somewhere, being adorable, and absently wondering about you—

 Shit’s exhausting.

 But we do it because crushes are a natural conduit of the getting to know you phase.

 And they’re fun.

 Crushes are fun.

 And unlike so many other things in our adult world that have the harsh smear of reality—of bills, and work, and uncooperative pockets of assfat– not to mention the staid monotony of familiarity—

 A crush is the standard bearer of all things hopeful; some unpioneered emotional landscape that has all the newness of birth, fresh as the coming dawn.

 It’s a lovely thought, no?

 Hold that close for a moment.

 Close your eyes and hold the downy, warm, softness of a new, exciting, and enthralling man close to you for a moment.

 Now think about him applying the suction of a Dyson and the mangy, rabid teeth of a wolverine to your nipple.

 Think about him leaving pools of spittle behind your ears, attempting artificial resuscitation on your navel, incessantly whimpering like a woman, and finally, ejaculating into his jeans, as he’s done all of this before removing his pants.

 Think about this not being a first time mishap, but the norm. The routine.

 This beautiful man, with whom you share so much in common—

 This wonderfully artful, articulate, and pathetically flaccid man is the one in whom you’ve vested so much time, so much wardrobe coordination, so much crush.

 Now, look at you.

 Now you gotta wonder if your unwillingness to battle out his propensity for failed cockery–despite his manifold stellar accomplishments—makes you a shallow bitch.

 Now you gotta think about shit like all the other broads out there in the world hunting, thirsty for a man as good as this– and how they’d be grateful just to bask in the glow of his premature ejaculation; offering up their own pair of mahogany coconuts or russet peaches (as this is a problem that affects black women as well as white) for his soggy-mouthed, aggressively dental obliteration, nipple etiquette be damned.

 Suddenly he’s not so funny.

 He’s not that cute at all.

 Now your friends, who wanted nothing more than for you to shut the fuck up these past few months, are questioning your newfound reluctance to mention his name.

 Now, when that divine man wishes you could be with him to see some soul-stirring piece of artwork, all you can think is, “I wish that you would fuck me right. How about that? Since we’re talking about wishes and shit.”

 And even though you will have played precisely by the rules of the friendship/courtship/fucking model–ultimately, y’all will argue; you will drift apart; and some inane this or that will be to blame for the dissolution of what, once, appeared to be a great thing in the making.

 When really, it was because you hated sleeping with him.

 Bad sex is the carbon monoxide of any relationship. Everything may look like it’s on the up and up, but in due time, that shit will MURDER all that ever once lived.

 I say all of this to say—

 Think outside the box (I’ll keep the pun) this one time.

 This one time, maybe sex isn’t the “finishing” line.

 Maybe it’s the firing shot.

 If y’all are compatible in bed, and he likes you enough to want to kick it with you outside of it, and you like him enough to consider it, maybe y’all have a head start on the race.

 Maybe you need not slow anything down.

 Maybe y’all exhaust yourselves sucking and fucking and burn out like two shooting stars—

 Maybe that would have happened anyway, even if you’d waited.

 And hey—

 If he ends up being horrible at life, but is still solid otherwise (again, I’ll keep the pun)—

 Hell, Idunno—

 Insist that he always pick you up for dates, drag him in and screw him, then feign fatigue and send him on his way.

 That ought to keep you for at least a month before he gets wise.

 The point is this—

 You’ve already gone against the grain. It’s too late to backtrack.

 Maybe stop examining the speed of your pace, and start examining the state of your nipples.

12
Sep
10

“songs by the Little River Band” or, “how a Mexican and 12 pack of cheap beer inadvertently changed my life…”

I resigned from my job, yesterday.

When I was a child, I always thought that resignations were the distinct province of older white men who worked for fifty years at important companies, and were rewarded at day’s end with a signet pen and a bottle of aged brandy.

As an adult, I, of course, realize that a resignation is what parents have when they accept that their nearly 30 year old daughter prefers a boozy night out to a domesticated night in; or, in my case, what one says to her wonderful boss to mean, “I quit this bitch—only not today,” whilst walking out on a perfectly good job in the middle of a recession.

But more on that, later.

Though I didn’t realize it at their respective times, I bore witness to two events, this week, which ultimately proved the catalysts for my untimely bow out:

Wednesday, September 8, 2010. 7:45 pm. Alexandria, Virginia.

I decided to take some work home, and had parked my car curbside to easily transport the box of files I‘d, in all likelihood, ignore. Upon my return to the office, I heard a rustling noise from the far end of the hallway.

There he was.

The short, gold-toothed man of the cleaning crew.

Now, sadly, like most members of professions who occupy fancy office spaces, I’d never taken particular note of the cleaning crew or Gold Tooth; never offered Gold Tooth more than a smile, and a general “hello/goodnight”  in the two years time that I’d worked at my firm. I didn’t know his name, or if he had children. I didn’t know if he enjoyed his job;  if he’d drawn a correlation between my fondness for late night Thai takeout and my ever-expanding hips while dispensing with the trash.

But all of that was forgotten, as I stood there, in that new moment, immobilized, watching him with avid fascination.

He was attempting to prop open the glass door of the business at the end of the hall.

Only, he wasn’t using a doorstop.

He wasn’t even using a brick, or heavy box.

He was using……

a watermelon.

Actually—

He was using two watermelons.

Or attempting to, rather.

You see, he’d get the door open and pushed to the side, and secured with one watermelon.

Then, he’d rush to get the other watermelon.

Only-

By the time he’d gotten back to square one with the second watermelon, the door was slamming with the first watermelon.

And it was slamming with force, too.

Like, it was sending Watermelon One rolling all the way down the hallway.

Then Gold Tooth would let out a curse, put down Watermelon Two, go rush off after Watermelon One, and start the whole thing all over, again.

As God is my judge, I watched him go on in this fashion for no less than two minutes before sparing him one last look, and a confused shaking of my head.

Enter life’s lesson number one:

Contrary to popular belief, most shit doesn’t make sense.

Our thinking that there is a determined model of how things are supposed to be is not a product of empirical fact as much as it is a general rationalization of something we’ve grown accustomed to seeing.

Thursday, September 9, 2010. 9:30 am. Alexandria, Virginia.

I was getting coffee at my neighborhood 7-11. Having been up since 7, dealing with the legal problems endemic to a society that permits marriage between two idiots but not two men, I wasn’t in the best of moods, and didn’t bother to look up when the usual band of ne’er do wells attempted to woo me with their early morning bird-doggery.

I was determinedly fixated on the perfect cup of Colombian roast, waiting impatiently for a fresh pot. As I stood there, staring angrily at the stainless steel java station, this loud woman entered the store, jovially greeting everyone with her raspy time-worn voice. Her movements were all at once shuffled and fast, blurry, but noticeably clumsy. She was about 55, and wore a dirty tee shirt and mom jeans, and a wig I would have easily described as the worstwigever prior to my move to DC (whose intimate familiarity with tragic wiggery has given me a newfound appreciation for the hair Afghanistan* that sat atop this woman’s head). Today I realize that hers wasn’t the worstwigever. It was just peasely/natty/nappy as FUCK.

Her outside voice belied an ease with the “s” consonant of which I took particular offensive note. I looked up to identify the source of my audio derision. There she stood, next to me, happily pouring old coffee into a cup and flooding same with milk and sugar; loud talking all the while, in a manner of speech marrying Daffy Duck with runaway slave. She had approximately four teeth in her mouth. 

Directing her conversation to a passerby I assumed she knew, she said, “I’m just trying to run these quick errands. Git these quick thangs. You know I gotta pick Mama up from her dialysis.”

I glanced over at the “quick thang” she was toting with her. It was a 12 pack of Natural Light.

She amicably chatted with the person at the station, making certain to mention two more times that she was in a rush to “pick Mama up from her dialysis.” It took everything within me not to roll my eyes or groan as I stood there waiting for the coffee I was certain would save some unexpected person from an unmerited curse out upon my entry to the office.

I nearly did a praise dance when I’d finally secured a cup.

Recalling that my assistant had asked me to bring her a pack of gum, I debated ,briefly, about what  flavor she’d like before remembering that she was my assistant, and I truly didn’t give a fuck.  Grabbing a packet of Big Red, I approached the cash register only to find myself behind the loud talking lacefront offender.

I once more fought the urge gouge my eyes out as she requested a pack of Parliaments and deliberated with her friend about which lottery tickets to purchase.

The doors opened, again, and the loudtalker eagerly greeted the new patron.

“Cousin!!!” she shouted (or said in a decibel natural to her).

“Hey, gal!” the woman replied.

The new woman appeared to be cut of the same cloth as the loud talker, and she inquired about Loud Talker’s comings and goings and the health of her mother.

She began, “Girl, what chu doin’ in here? Girl, look at you drankin that beer this early. I ain’t gon’ say nothin’. You know I ain’t gon say nothin’. How’s yo’ kin? How’s yo’ mama?”

Quite naturally, Loud Talker obliged her with the information she had been supplying the whole store, about her need to quickly complete her errands. “Chile, go on! You know I ain’t drankin’ this water beer, chile. If I was drankin’,  you know it’d be the bull, girl. You know I only mess with the bull. This here is for Miss Dena. You know I gotta hurry up cause Miss Dena gets her dialysis on Thursday, now.”

That’s when it hit me.

Miss Dena = Mama.

Mama = Miss Dena.

Loud Talker was in a rush to pick up beer for her old ass mother who she was also picking up from her dialysis treatment. At 9:30 am.

Enter life’s lesson number two:

There comes a time-

in every adult person’s life-

when you

just

have

to

STOP

giving a fuck.

Sometimes, the only shit that matters, is that shit don’t matter.

On Friday, September 10, 2010, at 7:15 am, I walked into my beautiful, wonderful boss’s office, looked him dead in the eye, and rejected nearly thirty years of indoctrination in favor of my own personal road less travelled.

It didn’t make perfect sense.

It didn’t have to.

I’d stopped giving a fuck.

*Afghanistan—Aff.gan.i.stan. n. A country in the Middle East bordering Iran and Pakistan; a generally fucked up situation.

26
Jul
10

there comes a time in every woman’s life when you have to take stock of yourself and your friends, and determine: “we ain’t shit.”

My weekend in four parts—my adventures with the new housekeeper, the part where I almost unceremoniously murdered six children at the movie theater, my hairdresser’s engagement, and my wildly controversial and bad language-infused dinner with an old law school friend notwithstanding.

(sat) “Clara’s” and “Jenny’s” crib: Me and Michael arrive at Clara’s house.  Clara and Jenny have never been to Lux, and Michael (who hates Lux) is reluctantly accompanying us.  Clara pours herself another glass of wine and asks if we mind her playing Lenny Kravitz to set the mood before we leave. Michael and I laugh at her for two and a half minutes. This bitch wants to set the pre-Lux mood with Lenny Kravitz. She hasn’t ever heard a word I’ve ever said.

(sat) New York Avenue: Me, Michael, Clara, and Jenny are walking to the club. Me, Clara, and Jenny are in various states of undress. A man in a “big body Benz” rolls his window down and attempts to holler at one or all of us. He inquires as to our destination. Clara (for reasons which will continue to elude me) tells him “Lux.” Our suitor then desires to know why we’re “going to that raggely[sic] ass ghetto ass hot ass ignant[sic] ass club.” He was clearly a cut above the traditional Lux-goer; as evidenced by his common ass hood-holla that called to mind Sir Lancelot, and the many romantic variants of the Chivalric Code.

(sat) Lux: My beer choices are Heineken and Miller. I opt for the Heineken. I consider that the beverage’s secret ingredient might be warm Nazi piss compote.

(sat) Lux: A man who looks like Rick Ross tries to effectuate the waist-grab-pull-close maneuver. I spurn his advances. The only man who looks like Rick Ross that is allowed to touch me is Rick Ross.

(sat) Lux:  My linesister and I venture to the 3rd floor. My linesister motions to the VIP section which, in an unexpected twist, has a disproportionate amount of white women within. I consider first, that the women are birds; second, that there must be an NFL player hosting a party inside. I determine to refer to the women as pelicans. You know. On account of them being white birds.

(sat) Lux: My linesister and I are both dancing, one goon, a piece, when suddenly, she cries out, “OhmyGod!!! He’s hard!” I keep dancing with my goon. It’s not like I don’t hear her. I’m just, you know, dancing. She cries out, again, the same refrain, “OhmyGod!!! He’s hard!” I continue dancing with aforementioned goonificence. She then effectuates the super-secret Delta distress signal. Soror down! Soror down!!!! I immediately shove off the hobgoblin trying to impregnate me through my dress, rescue my linesister, forcefully separate her from wildanegrobeast, and push her through the crush of people to freedom. All of my love, peace, and happiness, girl. All of my love, peace and happiness.

(sat) Lux: Michael and I try to determine the thought process that inclined a fellow patron to don a large, wide, floppy brimmed white hat to the club. I suggest that the headpiece once belonged to Shug Avery. Michael disagrees, as the “suicide doors” of the hat’s brim are clearly an indicator of a more modern era.

(sat) somewhere on 6th St:  Me, Jenny, and a very drunk Clara are looking for my car. Clara, who has a beautiful voice, keeps singing, “I’m more than just a numberrrrrr, hey hey heyyyyy.” That’s it. Like, no more of the song at all. Just, “I’m more than just a numberrrrr, hey hey heyyyy.” Jenny and I don’t ask where the remainder of Drake’s song went. Four blocks later, Clara mercifully switches up—to some Marvin Sapp song. Which she sings—in its entirety. Clara then looks at me and says, happily, “God is good!” I wordlessly continue to walk arm in arm with her. She looks at me, meaningfully. “Fooler, I said, ‘God is good!’”  “I’m not going to do this with you,” I say. She stops walking. “Come onnnn, you know the rest. God is good!” I try to inch her forward. “I refuse to do this with you,” I say. Clara is unrelenting. “Fooler—come onnnnnn. God is good!” I sigh, dejectedly. My voice drops two whole disgusted octaves. “All the time.” My participation gives her life. “And all the time?!?!” I sigh, once more, and look out into the street. “God is good.” Clara walk/jigs/church steps the next half of a block. “Hallelujah!” she exclaims. I’d be wrong if I kick this broad in her knees right now.

(sun) Northeast: I tell Michael that I think that I want to have a baby. Michael looks out of his passenger window. We continue ten of the twelve minute ride in complete silence. This silence is interrupted when I inadvertently drive my car into oncoming traffic.

(sun) church, Northeast: The church is really hot. Michael doesn’t want to take off his jacket because he is wearing a short sleeved button down that he’d accidentally purchased thinking it was a long sleeved button down. When it gets too hot for Michael to bear, he whispers to me “If I take my jacket off do you think I’ll look crazy?” I look around at our fellow congregants. The woman directly in front of me has a courtesy-of-my-auntie’s-basement tattoo covering the whole of her chubby forearm. She has brought with her a “purse” that can best be described as a white, pleather piece of carry-on luggage. Three rows in front of us, I watch as the bald head of another parishioner catches a stream of light from a stained glass window. Her entire head is bald. Save her natural, Ed Grimley-style bang… that is blonde. Directly beside Michael is the most beautiful transsexual I have ever seen. She also has the biggest, loud-clapping man hands I’ve ever seen. I wonder why Michael deems it appropriate to disrupt my salvation with his ridiculous questions.

(sun) church, Northeast: The pastor talks to us about taking Christianity into worldly places. He tries to identify with the “young people” and inform us that it is all right to go into Busboys and Poems[sic] if it is for the purposes of evangelism. He tells us that it doesn’t matter if people are in Busboys and Poems[sic] drinking alcohol and looking cute and picking up people, because we shouldn’t be afraid to go into the streets to spread The Word. I spend much of this portion of his sermon considering that I’ve apparently been away from Busboys and Poets too long. My friends go there to eat mac ‘n cheese, attend Alice Walker book signings, and hear spoken word poetry. I woulda been in there way more if I’da known it was the Devil’s hideout for drankin and ho-in’. This absence is easily remedied. Good lookin’ out, Rev.

(sun) Michael’s b-day dinner, Dupont: On more than one occasion, I’ve forbidden our friend, “Monty,” to tell stories, as they are always ludicrous, and, as far as I’m concerned, complete fiction. As Monty’s stories tend to fold into other outrageous fables, I admonish fellow listeners not to make direct eye contact with him, so as not to encourage him, or enable his tomfuckery. Despite my warnings, my linesister disregards my instructions. Monty proceeds: “Did I tell y’all about the lady who went to go get a mammogram and then went missing? She did. My daddy called and asked me, ‘Did you hear about Ms. Mable? She went to go get a mammogram and then up and went missing.’ I think doctors should do better than that. If they can find you when they want you to pay your bills, they can find you when you got cancer. She been missing 6 weeks.” He then folds this story into: “Did I tell you about the woman who never loved her daughter? She never loved her. My mama told me once to take her a plate but to be careful of the chain when walking up the front porch cause she had a whole chain that wrapped around her house. But she never loved her daughter. She stayed in bed all day, never wearing anything but a robe and some baby powder. Yes she did. She never loved her daughter. Never loved her.  And she had cancer, too.  She died.  But not because of the cancer. Because she never left the bed. She sat there  all day eating Tostitos. That’s what killed her.”

(sun) Michael’s b-day dinner, Dupont: My linesister and our friend “Anna” get into a heated debate about Anna’s boss, who is up for re-election. I watch as Anna and my linesister give meaningful arguments, but note that Anna obviously isn’t aware that my linesister is just baiting her. I shake my head, as at the height of their dispute, my linesister, having exhausted all of her educated responses, concludes: “I don’t care. I hate him. I hope he doesn’t win,” like the child that she is. Anna is temporarily stunned. I want to laugh, but I can’t, cause what she said is fucked up. Man, it’s funny, though.

(sun) 14th and K: Me and Michael go to meet up with my friend, “Maya” and her visiting best friend, “Kara.” Maya and Kara are wearing the same dress. On purpose. Maya is fairer skinned and has curly baby hair. Kara is darker than Maya, but has similarly curly baby hair. Having made fast friends with the patrons, they are the toast of the all-white bar where they are seated. Maya tells me that people have asked them if they are twins all night. You know, cause they’re black with curly hair, and are dressed alike. Not that they’re two grown assed women acting like asses. Maya informs me that they’ve told all of the patrons at the bar that they are “fraternal cousins.” All of the patrons at the bar have accepted this explanation. I immediately cast-aside any previously-held reservations about home-schooling one’s children.

(sun) 14th and K: Maya introduces me to Jamie, whose wife has left him for a woman, and Cristina, a haggard looking drunk woman who looks exactly how Sheryl Crow will look when she’s 80…and strung out on heroin. Cristina says to me, “Tell Jamie about how it’s better that his wife left him for a woman, cause it’s not like he’s competing with a man.” I look at a visibly intoxicated Jamie, and begin, “Well, actually, I read last week that it’s actually worse when your spouse leaves you for a woman. Because it’s like she’s completely emasculating you. Like, there’s nothing you can do .” Cristina signals violently to me, and starts mouthing that I’m going in the opposite direction of what she’d hoped. I hurry to fix the situation. “Actually, Jamie, what it means is, that your dick was probably too big for her. She took one look at your huge dick and just couldn’t do it anymore. You ruined her for all men. “ Jamie, happier with my newer answer, lazily smiles, and appears placated.  I briefly consider giving him a little piece on account of his troubles. I quickly reconsider, given his scruffy demeanor and overall drunkyness. I still congratulate myself for contemplating letting him bury his sorrows in my little mocha mons. I’m constantly thinking about how I can be of service to others. I’m a giver like that.

24
Jul
10

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.

23
Jul
10

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.

*********




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a history of my meanderings….