Archive for the 'religion' Category

25
Nov
10

because every good childhood anecdote needs a shaman…

For the past week, I’ve been biding my time in a little place called Red Springs, North Carolina.

Never heard of it?

I suspected as much.

I am down here to give my aunts and uncles some reprieve in their care of my grandmother, who is 86, and living with Alzheimer’s.

I am overcome with a great many emotions as I pass my time in her company­—joy, peace, frustration¸ pity—but the most pronounced of them all, is guilt.

I never appreciated my grandmother as much as I should have.

The reasons for this are many.

For one, she was sequestered out here, in this most remote of locations.

But, more significantly, perhaps, my grandmother was (and continues to be) a hard woman; built for hard living in a countryside that refuses to be domesticated despite mankind’s repeated attempts.

She had guns, knives, nun chucks (you think I’m kidding, but I’m not) under every bed. During my childhood there was a switch behind every door.

And when I was growing up, her competition was my father’s mother, a woman who I saw daily—who took care of me and showered me with affection and gifts; a woman who, in all of my days, never laid an offending hand on me.

I was well into my teens before I realized what an amazing woman my maternal grandmother was. Even then, the distance separating us posed a viable threat to any burgeoning relationship.

College offered some small change in this department, and I was able to visit more, and see to her more. I enjoyed those times with her; the delight my unexpected visits brought. I could tell that she saw a lot of her in me; the candor of my speech most especially.

But again, things changed with law school and my entry into the real job market. The last seven or eight years has gone by with my occasional letters, irregular phone calls, infrequent visits; and I am filled with remorse, and an almost suffocating sense of shame.

The truth of the matter is, my grandmother loved me very much. She enjoyed my company. She was very proud of me. The display of affection just never came easily for her, as it does not come easily for me.

But I can see the love she has for me during her coherent moments when she calls out my name. I can see it still when she reverts to the simple kindness one offers a stranger when her memory fails.

Anyway-

I’d like to tell you a story about my grandmother. It is a story I never quite forget, despite my numerous attempts. It is a story I only recently told my mother, though I suspect she still does not quite believe me. My own disbelief in the enormity of the circumstances is, in part, what fueled my reflections, today.

I’ll do you a solid and advance you the irony of the tale before we really begin.

Simply put, my background in criminal defense has led me to the conclusion that—everybody is trying to fuck your kids.

Fine.

Fine.

Perhaps “everybody” is a bit broad-stroked.

I suppose not “everybody” in the world is trying to fuck your kids.

But a solid 54-72% of it is/would/will probably try at some point—to fuck your children.

Don’t believe me?

Consult your nearest practitioner of criminal defense/prosecution.

Or Tyler Perry.

Now, as a child, I was woefully unaware of the intense vulnerability the mere fact of my youth presented.

My mother had, of course, done the cursory “You need to tell me if anyone tries to ‘mess’ with you or touch you ‘down there’” talk with me.

But I took it for granted that I would always be safely ensconced in the protection of my parents. Most children do.

Anyway, the summer that I was seven years old, I was to be sent away to my grandmother’s house for a month—a fate I feared worse than death.

I hadn’t spent a great deal of time with my grandmother that particular year, and she’d offered to care for me for a spell, giving my parents some much-needed alone time.

As an only child, I was relatively self-sufficient. My parents were generous, but strict, so my needs were few. And, although I generally erred on the sickly side, the dry heat of a summer in the Carolinas was bound to do wonders for my bronchitis-riddled lungs. From my parents’ perspective, it was too perfect.

The one hiccup had been the small matter of my left-hand index finger. The past few months had seen the development of a knot/cyst right at the joint that my mother had kept a watchful eye on. For months, its growth had not abated, and my mother finally relented to her hypochondria and took me to a dermatologist. While the doctor had not been able to precisely diagnose the nature of the knot, he’d found it harmless, prescribing me a topical ointment to rub on it, daily, with the hopes of improvement.

So, with that, a handful of toys, a suitcase of clothes, and a lifetime’s supply of Skin So Soft, my parents deposited me in the country, with naught but cotton, tobacco, and corn fields as far as the eye could see.

As I’ve stated, my grandmother was a hard woman. She beat my cousins and I the way most people beat—

Well, there is no appropriate metaphor, really.

No one really beats anything with the frequency my grandmother struck/switched us.

During the day we tore through the fields, sand dusting our feet, spurs splintering our heels. We caught frogs and grasshoppers. We played with dollbabies and watched daytime soaps in my uncle’s ramshackle house—the 5 roomed, rickety-foundationed A-frame that had housed my mother and her six siblings during her own childhood.

At night we had dancing and singing contests, and my grandmother would serve us vanilla ice cream with warm blueberry compote, or homemade fudge.

We carried on like that for weeks. Despite the daily whoopings for some this or that, that was, more often than not, the consequence of my cousins’ malfeasance as opposed to my own, I was fine. Content, even.

Then, one day, it all changed.

I’d woken up, and entered the kitchen, much in the fashion I always had. I ate breakfast and listened to my uncles talk about the goings on at work. If it had been unusually calm due to the absence of my cousins, I hadn’t noticed.

Gathering my plate and scraping its remains into the slop bucket (something she never did for me), my grandmother tersely instructed me to wash up and put on clothes. We were taking a trip.

I didn’t ask my grandmother any questions.

One didn’t ask my grandmother a lot of questions.

I simply assumed we were going to see one of her brothers or sisters somewhere in a neighboring town (she had 17, so this was an entirely real probability).

It was not until we got into her car that my grandmother mentioned, in the same terse tones, that we were going to see someone about my hand.

My hand!

I’d completely forgotten about my finger. My country misadventures had left little time to be bothered with something as insignificant as a finger. I’d neglected the ointment; hadn’t given it a second thought once my parents’ car disappeared down Grandma’s narrow, sandy drive.

But, it seemed odd that my grandmother would take me to see someone about my finger. Even though I was a child, and knew nothing of adult matters, I had the good sense to realize humble Red Springs paled in comparison to my home with respect to any type of sophisticated medical practice.

I was certain my mother hadn’t sanctioned this impromptu trip.

And what the fuck did “someone” about my finger mean?

She hadn’t meant “doctor,” that was for damned sure.

Grandma didn’t have the money to just up and take me to the doctor when nothing was bothering me. Plus, she hadn’t said “doctor.” Even then I knew that people said “doctor” when they meant “doctor.” Grandma had said “someone.”

I started to panic.

Like. In the car.

I started to panic.

Our long drive did nothing, and I do mean nothing, to assuage my growing apprehension.

I knew incessant nagging would only cost me later, but I was at a shitmyself level of fear, so I risked it.

“Grandma, how much further is it?” I asked.

My grandmother simply stared out above the steering wheel, not sparing me the slightest attention, or even the courtesy of a glance.

“Grandma, my finger doesn’t hurt or anything,” I offered. Surely this would make her turn the car around.

It didn’t.

She continued to drive in stony silence.

I looked out the window, despondence settling in due to the endless succession of trees that lined the lone two-lane highway.

“Grandma,” I tried for a third and final time, “Are we going to see a doctor?”

Though she continued to look ahead, she mumbled out, “Kind of doctor.”

After about 45 minutes my grandmother pulled off into a wooded alcove and parked her car.

We were not at a doctor’s office.

I was too young to process the “what in the FUCK” this particular set of circumstances warranted, but my small, undeveloped mind was nearly undone with fear.

I stayed in the car.

I knew in doing so, I chanced a very real dance with death at the hands of my grandmother, but I had to give it a shot.

She approached the passenger door. “Girl, if you don’t get out of that car,” she said, pulling the door open.

I reluctantly put both feet on the ground, and began to follow my grandmother into the woods.

We’d walked about a fourth of a mile when a man met us in a clearing.

He was about fifty years of age, and brown-skinned. I remember him wearing a red, plaid shirt and gray work pants.

My grandmother said a few words to him, and then the man offered out his hand. I looked at my grandmother.

“Go with him,” she said.

Was she serious?!

I didn’t even know this dude.

We were in the middle of the fucking woods.

This motherfucker won’t no damned doctor.

I stood my ground.

“Child, do you know how many switches there are out here?” my grandmother asked.

Truthfully, I hadn’t known. But I wagered there were a lot.

So I went with the man.

He took my hand and we walked deeper into the woods.

I didn’t know what exactly was going on.

But I knew it was some ole bullshit.

When we’d walked for about five more minutes, we came to an abrupt stop.

He looked me over in intense silence, and then looked around.

It was then that all of the conversations my mother and I had had about inappropriate touching and people “messing” with me started to sink in. This man was gonna do something bad to me. Something very bad. And I could feel it. And I’d been delivered directly into his calloused hands by one of my own.

His movements were gingerly as he reached into his right shirt pocket. With his right hand, he still held my left.

It was a full minute before I recognized the object he withdrew.

It was a pocket knife!

THIS was how they proposed to fix my finger?!

THESE MOTHERFUCKERS WERE GONNA CUT THE KNOT OUT?

I started to cry, then.

I was never particularly given to tears, as a child. In my household, I’d found they did nothing in the way of getting me what I wanted, so I’d abandoned them almost entirely—except when I was being sincere.

I was legitimately scared as fuck.

So cry I did. And loud.

“Noooooo!!!!” I screamed. “Don’tcutmeitdoesn’thurtleavemealoneNOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!” I rushed.

Emotion began to register on the man’s face. My outburst had surprised even him.

“Shhh shh shh!” he whispered. “Shhhhh!!!! Calm down! Calm down!”

I cried, still.

“I ain’t gon hurt you, none, Child. I ain’t gon hurt you, none. I swear it,” he said.

I knew from my days of endless television watching that that was precisely what would-be assailants said right before “messing” with you.

“Shhh! I ain’t gon hurt you. See?” And he took the knife and deposited it forcefully into the bark of the tree we were standing next to.

My tears began to subside into soft whimpers.

He turned to the tree and carved something I didn’t recognize.

He then gathered my hands into his and looked directly into my eyes. Holding my gaze for a moment, he threw his head back and cried out to the heavens in prayer. There were words I didn’t know mixed in, but he prayed for a while. I began to notice tracks of his own tears streaming down his face.

And, without warning, in a flash, it was done.

And he was walking me back to my grandmother. Completely unfucked.

In the car on the way home, neither one of us said anything to each other.

Only at the conclusion of our 45 minute drive, as we pulled slowly up the long, winding, sandy lane, did she break the silence, saying firmly, “Don’t tell your mother.”

In two days time, the knot was gone.

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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.

21
May
10

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

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

Fooler, What are your thoughts on “manscaping?”

This is a GREAT question.

Let’s address the neck and up areas first.

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

Now to the good shit.

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

Now to the really good shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay.

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

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

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

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

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

Here goes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ready?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck.

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

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

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

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

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

 What are we looking for? Hmmm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, I like men who blow my back out.

*shrug*

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

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

06
May
10

Fooler Fridays……

So, my postings are a tad on the irregular side….
what, with my paying job and all….

A friend of mine has suggested that I open up this page to reader questions…and, while I must wholeheartedly concede that I am qualified to advise absolutely no one person on any one thing, I do think a Q and A forum might help with my consistency….

So, starting tomorrow, Friday, the 7th of May, I will open this space up for questions. I’ll try to post the queries and my responses every Friday for as long as they come.

No topic is verboten, obviously, save legal questions, as I’m fairly certain blindly responding to legal questions on a blog space is, at its worst, malpractice, and at its best, malfeasance.

So, by all means, indulge my internet narcissism.
And with that…let the Friday fuckery begin……

12
Apr
10

i like my facebook the way i like my wall street: heavily regulated like a bitch

Take this down.

On Wednesday, April 14, 2010, I will eradicate I suspect upwards of 40 or so people from my life.

That’s right.

Your girl’s unfriending motherfuckers on Facebook.

Asshole move?

Maybe.

But trust me, this shit is LONG overdue.

There have been some BLATANT violations of heretofore unspoken rules of Facebook decorum.

Why unspoken?

Cause much of this falls under the general rubric of common damned sense.

But, as my father, quoting I’m sure some very important quote-worthy person, once told me: “The masses…..are asses.”

Now, I’m sure I do some annoying shit on Facebook, too. And, by all means, I encourage you to engage in a virtual “calling out” of me on my shit. Get free with it. Unfriend me. I’m sure I’ll somehow find the courage to go on (probably in a fashion similar to the past 10 years when I didn’t speak to you prior to my presence on Facebook).

7 Things that will get you unfriended on my Facebook D-Day:

1. You take multiple pictures of yourself without your shirt on.

A friend of mine brought this up the other day, and I WHOLEHEARTEDLY agreed that this is my NUMBER ONE Facebook pet peeve. Dude, where-in-the-FUCK-is-your-shirt? Put that shit on. And not a wife-beater, either. Put on a shirt with sleeves. Look. I know you were a tool in high school. I get that. I know you’ve worked hard for your new body. Well done, you. But, dawg, nobody feels bad cause they didn’t fuck you in high school. Nobody. You stuttered, dawg. And you said shit that wasn’t funny. Routinely. So this shirtless “getback” thing that you’re on—it’s doing nothing for me. Mixing creatine with your milk and bench pressing Ghanian villages will not erase the impact of your wearing Karl Kani into the late ‘90s. *whisper* You can’t get that time back, dawg.

Also, the one thousand near-naked pictures –they’re vain and effeminate. And I don’t have sex with gay boys. Not on purpose, anyway. And that’s the point, right? To show me how good you look so that I’ll want to have sex with you, right? FAIL. FailfailfailfailfailfailmotherfuckingFAIL. Now, maybe my opinion means nothing to you. Maybe you don’t want to fuck me anyway. Maybe you don’t give a damn what I think. Fine. Agreed. *delete.*

2. You’ve taken one million pictures of yourself posing, or with your camera phone in your bathroom.

Is this a fucking joke? Like, are you kidding me right now? WHOINTHEHELLDOYOUTHINKWANTSTOSEETHATMUCHOFYOURFACE,MONKEY?!?!? Like, you could be the flyest person in the world, you’re still not fly enough to have 200 photos of you in any flash-friendly venue eating up pixels on my Facebook wall. Like, when I see shit like that, I’m not even mad at you. I’m mad at me. I’m mad that I even know a you. I’m mad that you somehow made it past my fervent Facebook gatekeeping efforts, only to saturate this sacred space with 35 images of you lying on your side amidst a sea of Walmart throw pillows that you called your child in from playing outside to take. You are a ridiculous fool of a person. But, not shame on you. Shame the fuck on me.

3. You are suffocating me with your religion.

Look. I’ve reached the height of my tolerance with this. And I think I’ve been more than patient. Just to be clear, people with religious references and Bible verses are not the targets, here. I don’t mind that you choose to talk about the love of Christ in your status messages. I choose to address booze and partying. It takes all kinds.

But a few of you seem to think that this is a contest of sorts. Like, you need to prove to the world wide web how much more you love the Lord than us fallen sinners. Well here’s a word that Christ will never whisper in your ear, but that I want to make certain you hear: You.are.a.monkey. You are a vine-swinging primate, and NO ONE wants to be your type of Christian. YOUR type of religion keeps people FROM church. And I may be a whole host of unholy things, but none of those things keep people from wanting to be around me. But your fanaticism keeps people from wanting to be around you. Let me show you a prime example of this:

You added me as a friend on Facebook, ergo, you don’t mind my Wayside backsliding ways at all.

I’m deleting you from my Facebook wall, ergo, you’re a completebastardtool who supplants all of her/his life’s disappointments with religious fanaticism rather than facing the world—and even if I’m way off base, you’re still annoying the shit out of me.

4. Your poetry sucks.

I’m sorry. It just does. Your poetry sucks. Pretty much the worst shit I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. And I’m not saying this as a person who graduated from one of the nation’s foremost universities and happens to have a degree in English with a Concentration in American Poetry (okay, I made that “concentration” part up). I’m speaking purely from a lay standpoint; as a casual observer and commenter. Your shit sucks. Nobody can identify with your loneliness. Your metaphors fall flat—I can only assume because they’re stupid, but who am I to say? And the hundreds of poems that you’ve posted are one, long, endless succession of trite clichés.

More to the point, what kind of asshole posts their own poetry day after day (probably the same kind of asshole who posts links to her own blog day after day)? Like, stop trying to make us “go there” with you. Stop trying to take us “to that place” with you. If it’s anything like your poetry, it sucks. Also, this just in: IT DOESN’T ALL HAVE TO RHYME! LIKE, AT ALL. This shit is vaguely reminiscent of my first attempts at hiphop freestyle, which, if you haven’t guessed, were FUCKING HORRIBLE.

Don’t know if you’re “that guy?” Here’s a handy-dandy go-to: If you woke up in the middle of the night and your soul was crying out, your fingers aching with longing until you could finally transcribe every precious, melancholy iamb to paper—post it. Everyone else—get the fuck off my page.

5. You detail every phase of your wedding preparation.

MO-THER-FUC-KER. ARE YOU SERIOUS? REALLY? REALLY? Let me tell you something. This has got to be the most annoying shit ever. An occasional update with respect to the happenings of your forthcoming nuptials= okay. A step-by-step play by play, complete with exclamation marks and sentimental emoticons= FLAGRANT FOUL; unnecessary roughness like a bitch. I won’t be a bitch and tell you that no one gives a fuck about your wedding. But I’ll for damn sure risk it and tell you that no one gives a fuck about your wedding prep. No one. Not even those loser bitches that blindly encourage your tomfoolery when they *like* your statuses. Here’s something. Those bitches don’t care about you. They see you as a conduit for their own crazed obsession with getting married. Those bitches are brideophiles. When they *like* that you went to go get pictures taken for the announcements, they’re really *like*-ing the possibility that somehow, someway, some desperate man will overlook the fact that they live with their mother’s spinster aunt, and collect American Girl dolls. That shit’s not about you at all. Normal people, like myself, just think you’re a huge d-bag who’s overly-excited about some shit that, statistically speaking, probably isn’t gonna turn out the way you’d hoped.

6. You’re way too old to misspell shit as much as you do; also, why are you truncating words?

You’re= you are. Your=indicates possession. There=a place (it also equals a few other things, but we’ll stick to the basics for now). Their=indicates possession. They’re= they are. It’s= it is. Its=indicates possession. Who’s=who is. Whose=indicates possession. Than=notes a comparison. Then=a time.

Now, at this point you’re thinking I’m an asshole. Fine. I’ll be that. Kindly jot the aforementioned on the inside of your palm, and we won’t have to have this discussion again.

This shit is not a conundrum, people. It’s basic grammar. It’s like, the first shit you learn, ever.

I don’t have a problem with people who can’t spell. I have a problem with people who refuse to try; people who don’t think that how you sound is important. Well, it’s important to me. And if you think that makes me a bitch, just wait until the 14th.

Also, Facebook is not Twitter. Sooooo, why are you truncating words? And whyyyyyyyyy are you translating them into Ebonics? I’ve got to believe that it takes way more time to type “dis shit iz da bomb. R u ready 2 c me on dis shit?” than were it correctly worded. Like, it literally took me 2 whole minutes to get that down. And, you’re 30, dawg. 30. You look ridiculous. So, I’m giving all of you special eds the boot.

Why? “Cuz dat shit right they’re meanz u r 2 retarded.”

7. You use Facebook as an outlet for your Passive Aggressivism; and that’s WACK.

I wish y’all would just say what you have to say to the people you have to say these things to, and stop lighting up my homepage with all of your relationship strife. Stop changing your relationship status every other day. Stop sending all of these “hidden” messages to that dude who broke your heart but can still see your status updates so you need to let him know that he’s a complete shit and you’re gonna keep on keepin’ on so fuck him you’ll be just fine, but in case any of his friends are still watching, Marcus is a complete dick. Like, stop it. Stop talking about all of the tripped out shit that “people be doin’” when really, you’re just mad at Sarah. Sarah’s the one that did that shit. You’re mad at Sarah, K? Take that shit up with her. OFF of the Internet. Also, stop leaving these cryptic messages designed to prompt queries about your overall well being. Like, I guarandamntee your “I just don’t have anything to be happy about anymore,” post is going to get you the exact opposite response from me than what you envisioned. For instance, on the 14th, the culmination of those posts is going to get you squarely kicked the fuck off of my page.

Now, again, I realize that I am not perfect. In fact, I am deeply flawed. But I submit, that anyone offended by this post has committed one of the above-referenced slights.

In which case, let’s be honest—I probably don’t give a shit about your having taken offense.

05
Apr
10

8 Things that I say to you that I really don’t mean. Like, at all.

1. “Have some.”

Okay, do not ever, ever think that I’m sincerely offering you any of the food off of my plate. Ever. As a matter of fact, one of my greatest pet peeves is when someone gets food while we’re at dinner, and then offers me some. Immediately I am thinking, “Shit. Now I’ve got to offer yo’ ass some of my food.” Hence, the seemingly hospitable, “Have some.” Look. I don’t want to taste your food, okay? That’s why I ordered this shit right here. Cause this is precisely what I wanted in my mouth. If I want any of what is on your plate, I will order it for myself. And between you and me, I’d prefer that you not help yourself to any of that shit when it comes, either.

2. “If you need anything else, call me.”

Note the “else.” Odds are, if I’m saying this to you, we’re already at a place where I’ve performed for you some tremendous boon; done you some colossal solid. I’m just saying it to be nice. I’m fairly certain that whatever I’ve already done for you has more than met the requisites of any bullshit friendship be-there quota I’m obligated to fulfill. Do us both a favor and don’t take me up on my courtesy lend-a-hand/lend-a-hand. Cause you’re gonna ask. And I’m gonna make up some transparent excuse as to why I can’t really help. And you’re gonna get defensive cause I’m the one who made the offer. And I’m gonna get defensive cause you know I just got done doing some out of hand shit for your silly ass, and really, you should just take that and run with it you ungrateful, greedy sonofabitch. And then there’s gonna be all this awkwardness between us. When you could have just taken my statement for what it really meant: “Since I just got done doing shit for your ass, if you need anything else, call someone else.”

3. “If I don’t pick up, leave me a voicemail.”

Here’s a little freebie from me to you: I never check my voicemails—personal or professional. Period. Ever. Know why? They’re full of angry messages from people I never call back. I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.

4. “I’m actually looking at your file right now.”

HA! Only if your “file” has a picture of Sandra Bullock on the cover and an update as to how Kate Gosselin is doing on DWTS, suckaaaaa!!!

5. “I don’t think I’m better than anyone.”

I say this so that people will think, “You know what, that girl’s got all of that education, but she’s still so down to earth.” Total horseshit. I’m as bourgie as they come. As a matter of fact, I generally regard myself as being better than:

-bitches who wear white leather boots

-bitches who have neck tats

-bitches who pronounce “Maryland” “Murr-lan’”

-bitches who pronounce “available” “uh-vellable”

-bitches who say, “it’s the principality of the situation”

-bitches who justify things on the basis of “the simple fact reason”

-bitches who wear “suits” to work made of material that stretches

-Sarah Palin

6. “My dogs don’t bite.”

Now, I say this to my neighbors because my dogs are little hellraisers, and when sufficiently revved up, can be a mite rambunctious. I find that the above refrain creates a sense of calm, subsequently disinclining people to call animal control. The truth of the matter is, I really have no idea whether these fuckers will bite. And, frankly, were I a betting woman, my money would be on two terrier mandible prints being firmly embedded in your backside. I mean, they haven’t bit anyone yet, but, Dude—they’re animals. They shit outside and are amused by squeaky things. Mike Tyson has similar credentials, and he bit the shit out of Evander Holyfield—and he’s (arguably) human. My advice to you would be to tell your little monkey ass granddaughter to get out of their faces, and stop taunting them with sticks. I have one hell of a homeowner’s insurance policy. I guarandamntee it’s gonna cover any shit that might pop off surrounding me and mine.

7. “Nothing happened between us.”

Right. Be forewarned. I’m pretty much the shadiest broad I know. So, if I give you this answer, you should probably ask some legitimately thorough follow up questions. If at all possible, you should endeavor to look me in the eye and hold my steely gaze while doing so, for, in past, I’ve interpreted this to mean:

– (anywhere from) nothing good or noteworthy happened

-(to) just a little manly-calloused-palm-to-breast-action happened

-(to) he’s-just-a-little-bit-ugly-so-anything-that-did-transpire-doesn’t-count, and therefore, never happened

8. Any prayer that requires that I repeat something about the Lord’s Will being done versus my own.

Yeah, look. I know I’m not supposed to say this, or think this, but, we talk a lot in church about the Lord’s Will being done. Which, I might add, I’m all for. Here’s where I start to take issue. Obviously, what God wants for me is the right path to take. In my mind, that’s understood. So, all these long-winded prayers about throwing out what I want and only wanting what God wants, are, to me, a little excessive.

Frankly, I don’t know why a more appropriate hope isn’t simply that God’s wants and my wants coincide. I actually think that would be quite nice. Like if it just so happened that both God and myself wanted to pay off all of my law school debt. It would be as though God and I were simpatico. And I’ll be a John Brown if that doesn’t look just like a blessing to my little chesnut, sinning eyes.

All I’m saying is, I don’t know why these preachers want me get rid of all of my wants, and replace them only with God’s. I’m no theologian, but I don’t think that’s in “The Word.” I don’t think that “Thy Will be done” necessarily means, “bet not nobody else have no will.” See…it doesn’t even sound right when I try to conceptualize it in print. I had to revert to slave dialect just to even convey that point. So right, if Elder Reverend Doctor Bishop Pastor Williams wants me to repeat something to that effect, I’ll mouth the words so as not to be the Judas fly in the ointment, but I’m pretty much gonna have my fingers crossed the whole time on that one.

29
Mar
10

Preachers and Hoodhollas and Gold Fronts, Oh My! Or, 17 Things that Annoyed me this Weekend

-(fri) Paying $20 bucks to park across the street from the gay bar in Northeast. And while I was annoyed at the outrageousness of the sum, I was doubly so by the courage of the parking attendant to look me dead in my eyes and actually say, with a fair degree of confidence, “Twenty dollars.” In my mind, asking someone for twenty bucks to temporarily house a vehicle is some shit that should be mumbled in hushed whispers, and negotiated in back alleys under extreme cover of night. Reaching into my bag to grab the crisp bill, I returned his bold stare and said, “You know this is complete bullshit, right?”

-(fri) Standing in line, period. Standing in line in the cold. Standing in line in the cold at a place where no one is going to want to see the generous offering of flesh I’ve deliberately put on display. Standing in line in the cold at a place where no one is going to want to see the generous offering of flesh I’ve deliberately put on display and having two baby homothug queens come and cut line right in front of us. Standing in line in the cold at a place where no one is going to want to see the generous offering of flesh I’ve deliberately put on display and having two baby homothug queens come and cut line right in front of us and not being able to confront them because I wasn’t trying to get into a fist fight with two baby homothug queens.

-(fri) Getting to the front of the line, only to have the bouncer tell me that I had to throw away my brand new pack of gum, and spit out the piece in my mouth. Later on that evening, a grown man in a leather cowboy hat got on stage and performed a strip tease that ultimately culminated in him whipping out his engorged penis and simulating masturbation. But I couldn’t chew gum inside. Cause the joint was too classy for that.

-(fri) Ordering a gin and tonic at the bar, and having the bartender scoff when I requested Tanqueray. Know what, bitch? I just paid twenty bucks to park my car, 15 bucks to get inside, and $1.25 on a brand new pack of chewing gum that is now resting in a trash receptacle, outside. You can shove that Bombay Sapphire straight up your own ass.

-(fri) Resigning myself to biting my bottom lip when my mouth went dry while a grown man in a leather cowboy hat performed a strip tease that ultimately culminated in him whipping out his engorged penis and simulating masturbation, as my brand new $1.25 pack of chewing gum was resting in a trash receptacle outside.

-(sat) Dancing with a man (and, graciously doing so, as he was apparently part-Wookie), only to have him get overly excited and outright palm and cup my ass, mid-dance. Well guess what, Johnny Two-Thumbs? No more pity dances for you. I tell you what, no good deed….

-(sat) Dancing with another man who treated me like a simpleton. “You’re pretty,” said he (I’m not). “Add me to your facebook page” (I don’t even know your monkey ass). “I’ve been watching you and I can tell you’re a nice girl ( You “watched” me down 3 screwdrivers and a Chardonnay, and booty thrust to “Da Butt.” Not sure if I entirely trust your data compilation methodology).

-(sat) My linesister giving me the “thumbs up” on aforementioned idiot. #1. I’ma need her to NEVER give me the “thumbs up” on anything, ever again. The “thumbs up” met its demise as a respected means of communicating approval roughly twenty years ago. #2. While Jackass-part-deux wasn’t exactly unattractive, I would not have been entirely surprised if he counted among his active likes vigorously fist-pounding his chest, branch-swinging, and eagerly searching the scalps of his companions for tics and insects.

-(sat) The sexiest man in the club opening his mouth to reveal, among his pearly whites, a single, shiny gold tooth. Whoa!! Flashback, who’s that, dancin’ to the latest, Randy Watson! Really, dawg? Really? You don’t even have the decency to have a grill. Like, you’re rockin’ the granddaddy to the grill. And you lured me in all seductive like with that fedora and fitted vest. How you gonna have young ass clothes, and old ass fronts? It’s like your mouth is embroiled in a civil war with the rest of your body. I’ll pass, kind sir. You’re shit is all conflicted with itself.

-(sun) Reviewing some of the Saturday night pictures of me that my friends posted to facebook, only to realize that my forehead is huge. Like, unforgivably so. Seriously, I’m officially on the lookout for a second Census questionnaire in my mailbox as this shit is absolutely worthy of its own zipcode.

-(sun) Reviewing some of the Saturday night pictures of me that my friends posted to facebook, only to realize that all of those bitches have their own foreheads covered up. Like, that I was the only one that didn’t get the “Hey-we’re-all-going-out-tonight-ten-bucks-at-the-door-don’t-forget-to-cover-up-your-big-assed-forehead” text.

-(sun) Witnessing the christening of two children at the socially progressive church Michael and I were attending, and having the pastor begin, in measured, rhythmic steps; without musical accompaniment, and in complete and utter seriousness: “I believe—the children are our future. Teach them well—and—let them—lead the way. Show them—all—the beauty—they possess—inside. Give them—a sense—of pride. Let————the children’s——laughter….remind us how—-we—-used to be.”

-(sun) Witnessing aforementioned debacle, and having to look straight forward and not laugh (as Michael and our friend, Reggie, kept shooting me pointed looks that I saw in my periphery) when fellow parishioners urged the pastor on with outcries of “YES!” and “AMEN!” and “MMHMMM!!” and “SPEAK IT!”

-(sun) Witnessing, a mere 37 minutes later, the same pastor, take each child, hold him/her in the air above his head, and say, very solemnly, “Behold, (insert child’s name here) the only thing in this world greater than yourself.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Sound’s beautiful, right? Well, take some time out and check your betterknowablackperson archives, cause it should sound familiar, too. Who said it, first? John motherfucking Amos, during his portrayal of KUNTA KINTE in “Roots.” “Behold, KIZZY, the only thing in this world greater than yourself.”

That I did not stand up and walk out is a phenomenal testament to the existence of my oft-questioned maturity.

-(sun) Leaving church, huge palm leaf in hand, walking past a row of low-income buildings, where two men promptly shouted, “Damn, you sexy as a motherfucker. Sweetheart, come over here and sit down with us for a minute.” Word? Well let me just put my bible and HUGE PALM LEAF down right here, malt-liquor drinkers! Don’t mind if I do! (Editor’s note: I didn’t really have my bible with me, but the hoodholla was still wildly inappropriate.)

-(sun) Going to Panera and ordering a green tea with “little” ice, only to have my attendant reach behind herself, grab an already-prepared green tea that was obviously 75% ice, and hand it to me.

-(sun) Having to resist the overwhelming urge to say, “BITCH, DID YOU HEAR WHAT THE FUCK I JUST SAID???” because it would have been bad form, not to mention the fact that I was still carrying a rather large palm leaf in my hand. Upon greater reflection, the fact that I’m still having these urges post-Sunday Message is a troubling commentary on the depths of my depravity. Either that, or the Sunday Message completely lost its credibility amidst a barrage of Whitney Houston and John Amos quotes.




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a history of my meanderings….