Archive for the 'pregnancy' Category


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.


here’s a newsflash, quickie mart disciple: her period *could* be *your* friend…

This morning at 7-11 I stood behind this especially rough-looking young man who was on the phone with who I will presume was his girlfriend. He was letting her know all of the things that he was picking up–milk, a liter of fanta (don’t even pretend like fanta isn’t some of the most delicious carbonated sugar-water on the planet), a pack of AA batteries, and some cigarettes.

Now, as best I can tell, the woman on the phone asked this dear gentleman if he would be so kind as to—in addition to the rather meaningless assortment of price-gouged trifles he had at the register—grab her a box of tampons.

A virtual LITANY of almost indecipherable “English” burst forth from his ganja-black, chappy lips. “NAH SON, NAH. Ain’tnobodyupinhe-yeretryinagitchunotamponspadsnone-adat,ma!” (Translation: “I’d rather not.”) I can only surmise that his response was met with a case of “The woman doth protest,” as he went on and on while me and the rest of the store waited. “NAW!!! NAW!! WELLYOUJUSGONHAVETOGITUPANDGITCHUSOMEDEN!! YOUJUSTGONHAVETOGITUPANDGITCHUSOMEDEN!! I’m sorry! I’ma man, son! I’ma man. Ain’t nobody fittin’ ta buy no tampons, pads, none-a dat up in here! Call one of your girls to git chu some. I’m comin’ home.”

See that? This man was soooo put off by her womanly time and its accoutrements, that he couldn’t even process rational thought. He was on his way back to the place they shared in common. He was at the quickie mart where one traditionally buys last minute this and thats for sudden needs. And he suggested that this woman, who he obviously has some regard for, at the crack ass of dawn, get up, get dressed, and she, herself, come down to where he already was, to buy some shit that he just couldn’t bring himself to buy. He then supplemented that ridiculously fucked up suggestion with another liken unto it in fuckedupedness—that she call one of her friends—a stranger to their home—and have one of them, at the crack ass of dawn, come down to the store, where he already was, and buy some shit, that he just couldn’t bring himself to buy.


Now, granted, what happens to a woman’s mound of love during her monthly ladytime isn’t exactly a fistful of awesome. We’re not entirely over the moon about it, ourselves. But this campaign against a woman’s period has got to stop. Like, it has to stop. What that man did, today, was pure-tee ignorant. No other word for it.

And frankly, I don’t get what everyone is so up in arms about. In my mind, men who writhe and moan in disgust about a woman’s period are over-looking two very important factors.

  1. A woman’s period is not a time to fixate on or get disgusted by what her body is doing. Rather, it is a time to get hype about what her body isn’t doing.

Namely, carrying around your unwanted, bastard child. Let me tell you something right now. There are three things in this world that I hate the idea of going on in my belly. Number 3 is my period. Number 2 is the growth of a regenerated alien life form that has, unbeknownst to myself, used my womb to house and incubate its alien-spawn in an effort to proliferate its own kind on this Earth for the ultimate purpose of intergalactic species domination. Number 1 is carrying around your unwanted, bastard child. You just be glad that box of tampons you’re holding isn’t a box of pampers.

You know what’s really nasty, Ignorant7-11Man? The skidmarks that I bet are stained in your damned drawes. I bet you don’t have a bunch of unwashed drawes in your home because that good woman is too skeeved out to wash them. I bet she doesn’t suggest that you call your boys over to put your shitstained boxer-briefs in the gentle cycle.  I’m sure she is big enough to overlook it. Here she is, unable to control having her period, and you can’t even be bothered to wipe your own ass. Be quiet, grow the fuck up, and take that home-making, washing your dirty drawes bitch some tampons.

2. A woman’s period might shine a light on the closet freak you’re kicking it with.

(Ed. Note: I like to put the word “freak” in bold so you can comprehend just how emphatically I am saying the “fr” consonant blend.)

Generally speaking, most menstruating women are inclined to deem any advancing penis as persona non grata for the next three to seven days. EXCEPT for the wha-wha-wha-whats??? That’s right, the freaks. Freaks don’t have a problem with letting you in their little molten hot box of monthly-courses love. Those bitches will put a towel down so quickly and beckon you ever-onward with their come-hither-type stares. But you won’t be in a position to know this super-carnal knowledge-secret about your down-for-whatever girl until her period comes. Here you are thinking you’re dating some mousy, traditional, mealy-mouthed broad who barely communicates above a whisper. Little do you know, there’s a kotex-casting-aside, pop a midol and let’s roll, certified Adina Howard between those Wamsutta 600 thread counts. You could even mess around and find out that once monthly she’ll let you do that other thing in that other place……………….You know what I’m talkin’ about….

So, I’m saying, fellas…

A little perspective, if you please…


Fooler shorts: Meet the Smiths

So, I spent the weekend in the company of my parents. For the sake of the quasi-anonymity this space affords, we’ll call my parents, “The Smiths.” Let’s pretend that my mother’s name is Carole Smith, and that my father’s name is Benjamin Smith.

Here’s what you should know about the Smiths. They are the most unintentionally funny people you will ever meet. Ever. They’ve been married for about one hundred years, and it shows. It really shows.

I’ve taken the liberty of chronicling below several of our exchanges that took place over my 36 hour stint home.

Oh, one quick note that will help you navigate the convos a little better. My mother calls my father “Smith.” My father calls my mother “Carole.” I call my mother “Smith,” but to save you some confusion, I will refer to her as “Smitty,” today. I refer to my father, generally, as Ben (this has changed throughout the years—during my adolescence it was “Poppa Cash,” and “Poppa Ganoush”).


Me: “So, you know, I guess her maternity leave is going to start any day now. She’s managed her case load pretty well I think, considering how knocked up she is.”

Smitty: “Why do you keep saying that?”

Me: “Saying what?”

Smitty: “You keep saying she’s ‘knocked up.’ She’s a married woman with a child.”

Me: “So what do you want me to say she is?”

Smitty: “She’s pregnant! Sixteen year old girls get ‘knocked up.’ 35 year old married women get pregnant.”

Me: “Whatever, Smitty. You say ‘tomato,’ I say ‘knocked up.’”

Smitty: “You think you’re so funny.”

Me: “I do. I really, truly do.”


Me: “Smitty, it’s the new millennium. They don’t call it ‘porno’ anymore. It’s just ‘porn.’”

Smitty: “What difference does it make?”

Me: “A huge difference. The extra ‘o’ makes it sound so dirty.”

Smitty: “It’s porno! It IS dirty. What’s so funny?”

Me, laughing: “I said ‘The extra ‘o’ makes it sound dirty.’ ‘The extra ‘o’!’ Get it?!? ‘extra ‘o’’ !!!”

Smitty: “I don’t know whose child you are.”

Me, still laughing: “ ‘extra ‘o’’ !!!”

Daddy’s little girl:

Ben: “So, you didn’t bring anyone home.”

Me: “Nope.”

Ben: “You’ve been out a lot. No one to bring home?”

Me: “You want me to bring out everyone I’ve been ‘out’ with?”

Ben: “Why are you blushing?”

Me: “Ain’t nobody blushing, Ben.”

Ben: “Look, I didn’t ask you about your business.”

Me: “You’re trying to edge around it. You’re not gonna outsmart me, Ben.”

Ben: “You’re the one who’s blushing. I’m just saying. Your mother and I noticed that you’ve been out a lot.”

Me: “Whatever, Ben.”

Ben: “You think anyone wants to hear about your little nasty oats sowing? You think everybody’s interested in all your little DC nastiness? No one cares about your little nasty oats.”

Me: “Oh, why my oats gotta be nasty, Ben? Why my oats gotta be nasty?”

Interior Design:

Smitty: “What do you think of leather furniture?”

Me: “I generally hate it. It’s kind of a man thing, isn’t it?”

Smitty: “Yeah, I agree.”

Me: “Though I will say, I have seen a couple of leather couches of late that have been pretty nice. I don’t know that I’d buy one, though.”

Smitty: “What about accessory pieces? What about that one I bought for your father?”

Me: “Oh, I absolutely love, love, love that wingback and ottoman. That’s classic.”

Smitty: “Yeah. He’s gotten it all haggard and nasty and dirty and worn down. I swear we can’t have anything nice in this house. It seems like every nice thing I bring into this house he just tries to wear out. Do you know how much that set cost me? It’s my own fault. We just can’t have anything nice. And that’s a shame—“

Me: “Oh damn. Wow. I didn’t even see it coming this time, and you got me. Wow.”

Smitty: “See what coming?”

Me: “That wasn’t even a real question—whether I liked leather furniture. It was a setup so you bring in how much you hate dad. DAMNIT, SMITTY! Thwarted by your conniving, A-GAIN. At 29, no less. When will I learn?”

Smitty: “I don’t hate your father. I hate his nastiness.”


Smitty: “Shut up. We can’t ever have nice things.”


Smitty: “You always take his side.”


Smitty: “So are you going to go out with that guy or not?”

Me: “Dunno. On paper he kinda seems like a douche-nozzle.”

Smitty: “Being young and driving a fancy car doesn’t make you a jerk straight out, Fooler.”

Me: “Well, Smitty, I live in DC, land of the douche-nozzles, so I’ma throw a flag on that play.”

Smitty: “How about that Aaron. How’d that go?”

Me: “There’s no there, there.”

*my phone buzzes*

Smitty: “Who’s that?”

Me: “Some guy. Kevin.”

Smitty: “You gonna take that?”

Me: “Nope.”

Smitty: “So you don’t like him, either?”

Me: “Jesus. What is it with you, lately?”

Smitty: “You’re not getting any younger, you know! You’re always busy, but you don’t ever talk about liking anybody. Every time I ask you about somebody all you can tell me is how you don’t like them. It’s as if you don’t like anyone anymore. I just want to know what you do with these boys.”

Me: “Wait. You want to know what I do with boys?”

Smitty: “Oh, Lord. Stop it.”

Me: “Cause, I’ll tell you if you want. If you want to know what I do with boys.”

Smitty: “You better watch it.”

Me, rummaging through my phone: “I might even have some pictures saved up here if you want—“

*Smitty gets up and leaves the room.*

Animal husbandry:

Smitty, laying on the floor between my dogs: “You guys are going to have so much fun while you’re here. It’s so much better here than at your mom’s house.”

Me: “Please don’t start.”

Smitty, talking to the dogs: “There’s so much more room here, and a yard to play in. I don’t know why your mom insists on living in that nasty city with all of those nasty people.”

Me: “Immigrants aren’t nasty, Smitty. They’re just immigrants.”

Smitty, still talking to the dogs: “And you can run around and breathe fresh air. You don’t have to constantly smell all those crazy foods they’re cooking. Your home doesn’t have to smell like curry all the time does it? Oh no it doesn’t.”

Me: “Right. Cause they much prefer the bi-monthly waft of pig’s feet that comes from your kitchen.”

Smitty, ignoring me: “And me and your granddad keep our house nice and clean all the time. Not nasty like your mom’s house. You don’t have to worry about tripping over anything here, because we’ve got allllllllll this good, clean space.”

Me: “I can hear you, you know. I’m sitting right here, Smitty. Not like there’s this huge, soundproof shield surrounding you, or anything. Can totally hear every word you’re saying.”

The birds and the bees, plus another bee:

Me: “So, she’s alleging that he made her do all kinds of stuff. Sexual stuff, too.”

Ben: “Oh yeah? Like, kinky stuff?”

Me: “Mmm. In today’s world, I don’t know if it would necessarily qualify as ‘kinky,’ but he was definitely pushing her towards some threesome action.”

Ben: “Wow. And she wasn’t into it, but her husband made her do it?”

Me: “Well. I think she was fine if he wanted to add another chick, but he wanted other guys in the mix.”

Ben: “Other men? I can see if there was another woman but, no. No. That’s just nasty.”

Me: “You’re a man of strong convictions, Benjamin. I hope I’ve inherited that from you. I really do.”

Baked confections:

*After watching the SNL Betty White “muffin” sketch online*

Smitty to Ben: “Did you know what they were talking about the whole time?”

Ben: “Of course I did. Who wouldn’t get that?”

Me: “Smitty didn’t get it until like, three full minutes in.”

Ben, shaking head: “Come on, Carole.”

Smitty: “How was I supposed to know?! Who calls it a ‘muffin?’”

Me: “Everybody, at some time or another, I think.”

Ben: “You know, and those comedians talk about munching the muffin.”

Me, horrified: “BEN!!! I’ma need you to NEVER EVER say that again. Are you trying to kill me, Ben? Make it so I can never come back in this house???”

Ben: “I know with your nasty mouth you’re not talking.”

Smitty: “You don’t call yours a muffin, do you?”

Me: “I hardly think a conversation among the three of us about how I do or do not refer to my genitals is appropriate, do you?”


For my linesister, who has suffered as i’ve suffered…..

“ A bird and a fish can fall in love, but where will they build their nest?”

So, when you get to be my age—a whopping not even 30, all of your friends start getting engaged and married and having kids.

Which is fantastic—– if that’s your particular brand of awesome.

As it happens, my particular brand of awesome involves a little Woodford Reserve, a bit of sweet vermouth, a dash of bitters (if you’re being fancy), two Maraschino cherries and a couple cubes of ice thrown in; not to mention an especially witty young man, clad in his fresh-off-the-job-attire, top button undone, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to his sinewy forearms–who is quick with the jokes, easy on the eyes, and fairly comfortable noticeably, yet inoffensively resting his gently calloused hand three fourths of an inch above my knee.

It takes all kinds.

Here’s the thing. Unless you’re one of those single people who desperately wants to be a non-single person, there comes a point when you are forced to evaluate your relationships with these soon-to-be-indefinitely-booed-up types. Because people change.

The soon-to-bes, that is.

Y’all change.

We don’t change for shit. It’s completely you guys.

And that’s fine. You’re supposed to change. You’re adding a whole other entity to your dimension. And that’s amazing and wonderful and beautiful.

And I love your happiness, and respect it.

But there is a very real probability that you will not be able to affect this transition to domesticity without metamorphosing into a complete bag of feminine hygiene products. And I recognize this.

And I don’t love it. Or respect it.

So, around the time that you’re picking out your China pattern, and monogramming towels, and going on and on ad infinitum about the joys of little Mikey finally taking a shit in the potty (something, I personally, think he should come out of the womb understanding) I’m trying to determine the most diplomatic way to tell you that you are no longer welcome here.

And by “here,” I mean, “in this friendship.” You know…with me.

I love you, but I swear, some of y’all are on some whole other shit.

And I’m not jealous, Boo boo. I’m not a hater. I happen to know full well what marriage is. I’ve seen my parents do it for over 30 years. I can already see, 5 years down the road, that monogrammed towel being flossed between your monkey husband’s ricotta cheesy ass cheeks.

To me, engaged/married/parenting people have been perpetrating what can only best be described as “party fouls” against single people for years, and it’s time for it to stop. I’ma put the kybosh on this shit right now. Y’all better ship up, or ship the fuck out.

Now, I’m not waging war on all domestic types. Some are patently aware of their people’s proclivity for becoming the veritable pap smear on an otherwise perfectly good evening. These single-friend sensitive types are always welcome at a gathering. Not douchey at all.

But y’all are a fucking rarity.

Crouching Married Person, Hidden Tool: 5 Mentalities that Make Engaged/Married/Parenting Persons Intolerable to their Awesome Single Friends

1. “My married shit is private.”

Ooh ooh ooh. Look at me. I’m married. All of my shit is top secret. I can’t tell you my shit cause it violates the super secret trust that me and my soulmate have established. Okay, look , bitch. I don’t give a damn about your top secret marriage shit, okay? But since I’ve detailed all of my date’s bodily orifices to you and called them by name—at your request– I do think some small measure of reciprocity is in order. And news flash, SirMcSketchALot. I don’t really give a damn about your married life. I’m just trying to be polite. I could give a shit about Jimmy’s Roth IRA and the discoloration of his ruddy ballskin. But don’t prod me about my relationship difficulties, and reward me with a shrug and whispered, “You know, married people stuff—kinda private,” when I ask about yours. Why not float me the benefit of the doubt and assume that I’m not trying to get in your business. Just like I’ll float you the benefit of the doubt and assume that your repeated efforts to know the minutiae of all the goings on in my life is not a last ditch, pathetic, and desperate attempt to live vicariously through me.

2. “Be me, ho!”

Okay, this is the part where you do something deceptively innocuous like, ask me about my day or whatever, and I tell you that I had a rough day, and then you’re all, “Well if you think that’s rough, try having a husband away on business and a child that needs to be picked up from daycare.” Bitch!!! I didn’t ask you what in the whole expanse of the Universe could possibly be more difficult or long-suffering than my shit! This isn’t Show and damned Tell whose life is the most horrible-estshitever. Please stop thinking that no matter what I say, your shit is going to be harder because you decided to go the whole andbabymakes3 route. Number one, that shit does NOT presumptively equal “checkmate,” okay? You don’t instantly win. There is plenty of insurmountably hard shit going on in my life. Only you don’t know about it cause I don’t feel the need to cry about it cause this is the life I chose and I’m not a whinycrybabybitchass. Grab a pad and pencil and note how that’s done. Two, stop acting like being married and having kids is like, some hard shit that you decided to do, and no one ever told you that it was some hard shit to do; like, that marriage is hard is the world’s best kept secret. Um, look around, bitch. We all know it’s hard. That’s why we’re still out in these streets ho-ing and drankin’. Cause this shit is easy. It’s easy as a bitch. And I’ll demonstrate such by doing so just as soon as I finish this entry.

3. “I’m too old for that now.”

Umm. Don’t think I didn’t recognize that backhanded slight about your perception of my behavior as immature. And don’t ask me what the fuck I did last night if you’re only gonna be all judgey about what I tell you. This just in. I’m going to live to be about 85 (presuming my liver keeps). I’m not even 30. I’m spry as a motherfucker. And young. And you’re not too old for it. You’re too wack for it. Chronologically, is there a time to come out of the club? Yes. Is there a point where your presence there is more death-knell-of-pathos as opposed to SnoopDogg-life-of-the-party? Yes. Do you get to say when enough is enough? No. And here’s why. You’re the bitch who couldn’t stay all night the slumber party because you didn’t want to be too far away from your mom. You’re the bitch who didn’t want to play Tag anymore cause Matt hit you too hard, so now you’re just going home. You’re the bitch who lost the senior class treasurer election, so you don’t want to participate period, cause if they don’t want some of your help then they can’t have any of it at all. Bitch, you’re the bow-out bitch. You’re the forfeit bitch. You’re the early night bitch. And it just so happens that me and mine—we’re the ride it til the wheels fall off it, then coast on those motherfucking wheels bitches; we’re close out the party then hunt for the afterparty, oh, there’s no afterparty, let’s go get breakfast bitches. We go hard. So, all that “I’m too old for that” shit—is loosely translated to our awesome ears as, “I’m a weak, go easy type bitch.” And really, shame on you.

4. “Wait til you get married.”

Well now, that statement presupposes two very large assumptions, doesn’t it? The first being, that I’ll ever be married like you. More importantly, the second being, that I’ll ever be wack like you. I’ll acquiesce to the possibility of the former, and justifiably beat the hell out of you at the mere suggestion of the latter.

5. “You can’t have my life in the span of a weekend”/ “Stop tryin’ to get it back you look ridiculous.”

This one is nearest and dearest to my heart. This one is my gift to you engaged/married/parents. Look, I’m as down for a wifey’s/mommy’s night out as the next one. But, invariably, your otherwise repressed existence that is offered this brief reprieve and freedom takes it a little too far. You’re so intent on letting your caged bird sing that you end up doing some off the wall shit that is entirely unacceptable, even to the downest bitch. Cause, while I’m a go hard, type bitch, I can’t be mistaken for a go to jail type bitch, K? Ya’ll spend all of your time washing dishes and baking soufflés, so I’m honored to be your guide through the pathways of the Underworld. I’m happy to get you out on some so-there’s-a-party-goin’-on-in-there-well-let-me-shake-my-stankin-ass-in-there type shit. It’s an invitation to do some shots, dance seductively with strange men, and, idunno, I suppose if you want, I’ll turn a blind eye should you suddenly decide that you want to make out with some drunk, blonde, female co-ed. But that’s it. I don’t expect to have to pull you out of the car of aforementioned strange man intent on taking you home and doing things to your anus your rational, sober mind would never even conceive of. I don’t want to “fight” any “smack-talkin’ bitches” outside in the street. I don’t want to tear the bar apart trying to find the wedding ring you saw fit to take off somewhere between Jaeger bombs and flashing your little married titties. And I for damn sure don’t think that the only thing that could possibly make the night “more awesome” would be if we could someway, somehow “score some coke.” Bitch, you are off of the fucking reservation, and you need to find your way back. Stop trying to copy my life, ho. You can’t do this shit in a weekend. Or, at all. Cause you’re married. Put those titties away. Please.

And, just to be clear—

The aforementioned message isn’t going out to all of my engaged/married/parent friends—just the wack ones (who seem to comprise a significant majority of all of my engaged/married/parent friends).



Christmas makes me want to die…kind of.

So, the older I get, the more Christmas makes me want to die.

Now, please do not mistake my wish for my own demise as an indicator of the standard holiday blues type deal.

No, I want to die so that the people around me can know just how annoying they actually are. More like a, “See how annoying you are? See what happened? I just died. That’s how fucking annoying you are. Your annoying-ness induces death,” type thing.

And the thing is, I love my family. I’m crazy about my family. But, the older I get, the more intolerable everyone’s questions seem to be.

Here are the standard 3. See if answering these year after year don’t make you want to die in defiance too.

1. “Where’s your friend?”

Innocent enough, right?

WRONG. WRONG. This is old, southern, black people speak for, “Where’s your boyfriend?” (In these progressive times, please note, that “friend” can also mean “gay lover.” Old, southern, black people haven’t quite come round to the terms “gay,” “homosexual,” or “lesbian,” quite yet.)

Here’s the thing. There’s always a specter of the unsavory about the word “friend.” People always kind of whisper it when used in this context. What it really means is, “Where’s that man that you brought around last time that we all know you were having probably-nasty sex with, who you just couldn’t quite get to marry you?”

Now, you probably think that a question like this can be answered with a simple response like, oh, idunno, the truth: “We broke up.”

DON’T DO IT. Cause then, everyone who wasn’t listening, now is. And even though you JUST answered these questions at Thanksgiving, and at the family reunion, and on the Fourth of July before that, suddenly, everyone has degenerative memory loss. And when you try to simply answer their queries with basic responses like, “It just didn’t work out,” everyone will pounce on you like the bloodthirsty, carnivorous, feral wildebeests that they all are, and make all kinds of ludicrous suggestions as to why it “just didn’t work out.”

And if your family is like my family, it will lead you through this exercise for every man you’ve ever brought home, and make you re-live every breakup you’ve ever had, to the extent that, by mid-evening you’re feeling like some insufferable, relationship-unworthy, premarital-sex abusing, lonely-old-whore. Awesome.

2. “Have you gained weight?”

This is what I want to know. Has anyone EVER been asked this question, when the answer was “no?” Has that shit EVER happened? If you have to ask, the answer is “yes,” which, of course means, you really fucking shouldn’t ask. I work 6-7 days a week. I drink copious amounts of alcohol a solidly consistent 3 days a week. The quickest, easiest meal in the world to prepare is pasta with something. I get it. My ass is expanding with rapid, hulk-like speed. I don’t think we all need to weigh in on it (pardon the pun).

But, to add insult to injury (which, frankly, is the EPITOME of all inter-familial dynamics), there’s always “THE DEFENDER.”

Who’s The Defender? The person, who, JUST when the weight discussion is dying down, brings it back, in an attempt to restore honor to your figure. And, I don’t know how this happens, but, The Defender always has a way of making the word “weight” reverberate throughout the room.

“I don’t think she’s gaining WEIGHT.” “Shhh…just leave her alone about her WEIGHT.” “I can’t tell that she’s gained WEIGHT.” “I think that extra WEIGHT looks good on her.” “I love the way her dress looks. She’s just the right WEIGHT for it.” Now, Lord. Take me now.

3. “When are you getting married?”

Cliché? Yes. True? Sadly. My family is worried, too. Like worried, worried. Cause I should, at the very least, be navigating my way through marriage number one by now. I’m clever, educated; I have a good job and am not some boulder-dwelling troll. I should definitely be married. And yet, I’m not. Not even a fake proposal. More concerning is the fact that, I’m seemingly not bothered by my unmarried status. Ever helpful, my southern black family is ever-at-the-ready with positive input:

“Something must be wrong with you.”

“I hope you’re not ‘funny’ (read as: “gay.” My family puts any small measure of progressivism behind when we’re speaking in terms of my sexual orientation and any remote possibility that I will not find a suitable boy-match in this life)”

“You’re not getting any younger.”

“Marnita’s half-retarded girl—the one who use to be a crackhead—you know she just got married, don’t you?”

“I don’t know why nobody wants to marry you.”

“Maybe if you lost some of that WEIGHT you put on. It looks good on you, but it might be the reason you’re not married.”

“Keep on doing the way you’re doing, and you’re gonna get too old. Then nobody will want you.”

“You won’t be able to have any babies before long. All dried up.”

I’m fuzzy on the details, but i’m almost certain my Aunt Faye tried to sell me to my cousin, Josh’s, 21 year old unemployed friend a few years back.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but…I just turned 29.

All of this being said, I’ve elected to take a different approach, this year. I can’t spend the rest of my life wishing myself some violent harm because sensitivity training wasn’t a viable option for my father’s generation.

So, I’m telling everyone that I’m pregnant.

That’s right, pregnant.

Where’s your friend? –“He left me cause I got pregnant.”

Have you gained weight? –“Uh huh *insert abdominal pat here*. Pregnant.”

When are you getting married?—“Honestly, my number one priority right now is my baby.”

It’s the only way.

July 2019
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a history of my meanderings….