De Facto Circle Jerks, Stupid Shit and The Confrontational Me...

This week has been a doozy already.  If you're not familiar with my random, you will be soon.

Had a conference on Monday with The Nature Boy and his 7th grade teachers.  I'll share the reason for that conference later when I resume the Nature Boy Series.  For now, let's just say I basically called his Language Arts teacher a liar - because she is, she got snarky and as a result I fully wanted to beat that bitch upside the head with my new Rocket Dog clogs.

And how many times in a week would you imagine one without a penis gets to participate in a circle jerk at the office?   It's only TUESDAY people!!!  And for the record, I'm the one without the penis.  And if you don't know what a circle jerk is, urbandictionary.com should set you straight.  Personally, I like definition number 6.

Tonight my dumbass managed to foursquare myself a little too close to home.  Who does that shit in this day and age of lunatics and people you have to fuck up in the parking lot of Wal-Marts? Then Facebook's "People You May Know" feature presented me with a crazy I knew from back in the day.  Took me a while to get rid of that crazy, so I can only hope that my face didn't show up on HIS page as well.  Now I'm all freaked out and I have to move.  

And did I lose myself?  Again?  The kids are with their father this week.  Until late tomorrow at least.  I have been BORED off my ass.   Since when have I not been able to find something to do?  Read?  Blog?  Shop? Thought about scrubbing floorboards for a quarter of a second, settled on e-screaming at people on FB. 

Now that I think of it, last week was a doozy too.  Got into a couple of Facebook fights.  Yes, it's juvenile.  Yes, I'm better than that.  Yes, I have better things to do... oh wait, see paragraph above.   Actually, neither fight was my fault.  I was just minding my business, fa la la la la, and watching the posts of a hundred other people who didn't have anything better to do either and finally, finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

If you say stupid shit on Facebook, or in the real world even, eventually someone's going to come along and call you on it.  Every now and then, that someone has to be me - because sometimes I have no self-control.   Most of the people on my facebook page are friends or family, but there are more than a couple that I know through the blogging world or some chatroom.  You can't choose your family, your friends are people so near and dear that you tend to overlook a lot of their stupid, but the people you don't know in real life - well, they're fair game.

Stupid shit on FB #1:  FB friend (terribly) misquotes Bill Gates.  More than once.

I responded, short and sweet - "Not Bill Gates.  Check snopes.com"

FB friend responded - "It's still good information, doesn't matter where it came from."

Umm, yeah the hell it does, you dope.  As a teacher and grad student, your ass oughta know better.  Conversation went downhill from there and ended with her calling me a petty, caddy (that's how she spelled it, not me), hater.  THEN it took me the next day and a half to get "Cadillac Car" from Dreamgirls out of my head.  "Got me a Cadillac, Cadillac, Cadillac... got me a Cadillac carrrrrr...."

Stupid Shit on FB #2:  Someone said:  "Kanye West called George Bush a Racist during the Hurricane Katrina telethon."

Umm, no he didn't.  He surely MEANT that George Bush was a racist, he surely wanted to INFER that George Bush is a racist, and if you ask him today, he might flat out tell you that he thinks the Goober is a racist.  However, that ain't what he said in that particular moment in time.  I am no Kanye fan, I think he's an ass, but if you're going to play the he-said-she-said race card, get that shit right.

The poster replied with a textbook definition of racist.  "Racism is defined as the hatred or intolerance of other races.  So yes, Kanye West DID say that George Bush was a racist." 

What the hell kinda math is that?  How do you get from one sentence to the other?  What he said and what he inferred is two different things.  And thanks for defining racist for me, after 34 years of being black - and I mean failed-paper-bag-test black, I really had no idea!!!

Well, conversation deteriorated from there and ended up with the poster calling me a ghetto baby-mama mad at the world because my welfare check hadn't arrived on time and telling me to get a dictionary and an education. 

Life would be less adventurous if I knew how to shut my mouth, wouldn't it? 

I should go to bed.  

And why is this heifer upstairs vacuuming her floor at 10:35 at night?  Do that shit in the daytime (or don't do it at all)... like normal people. 

Peace,

~N

Every Now and Then...

...I have to take a moment to remember why I am.

No, that was not a typo.  I did not intend to say who I am, I mean to say why I am.

A lot of us spend a good portion of our lives trying to figure out who we are.   Can you do that without understanding why you came to be the person that you are?

~N

The Inaugural Poo...

When you're in a new relationship, unless you're just rude as a rule, you go out of your way to make sure your bodily functions are on their best behavior, especially if you're the female portion of the duo.

No peeing, burping, farting, pooping, pooting, shitting, sharting ANYwhere in his vicinity... for a while.

In the beginning, it's ok.  You don't see each other that often so you can continue with your normal rituals without any interruption. 

I'm pretty regular so if I don't get home to my toilet/office by 5:30, I tend to get a little cranky.  Back then, I'd never see him until after 6 p.m. during the week and by that time I'd already shit and showered and was sitting pretty as a peach by the time he arrived.

As the relationship progressed and we begin to spend more time together routines became easily altered.  Once I had to go straight from my work to his house so we could go see a play.  Had to figure out before hand when I was going to be able to get my toilet time in...  I decided I would just go to the bathroom in the theatre and hope that things were... quick...  You know... 

Fast forward to today.  I've been seeing him for a while.  It's time we share some things, right?  He needs to know that my ass doesn't always smell like roses and sunshine.  He knows that I'm lactose intolerant, but he also needs to know that I'm regular.  When I gotta go, I gotta go, and when I gotta go and I can't go, it sometimes becomes painful. 

Ever wonder why I have such a bad attitude on a regular basis?  9 times out of 10 it's probably because I have to shit and my asshole hurts. 

And, he needs to know that there are times when I take a damn book into the bathroom so I can get my read on while my bowels are getting their move on.  I consider it an activity of liesure.  Don't be askin' me why I'm still in the bathroom.  I'm reading, shit. 

What?

Hey, if you're gonna love me, you gotta love ALL of me.  That's what Lysol is for.

Anyway, this past weekend, I said to hell with it, and I took my inaugural dump in my boyfriend's toilet. 

Why should I be all cramped up and cranky all out of some strange, misplaced sense of propriety? 

I was so nervous it took me 3 matches to light the candle on the stand beside the toilet.  *And I didn't bring my own matches and candle, so I guess somebody else is regular too, huh?*  Sat down, made myself at home, scrolled through some Facebook updates on my phone, read a few online articles, handled my business.  When done, I flushed the toilet and proceeded over to the sink to wash my hands.  I noticed that the toilet was still running loudly so I turned around to look. 

There is no better word to describe what I saw but HORROR.  The toilet wasn't flushing properly.  The water was going the wrong way.  Up.  Up!!!!!!  The excrement that was formerly P.F. Changs, Chicfil-A and I believe a Snickers bar was swirling around near the top of the toilet bowl, dangerously close to the top of the toilet bowl.

No, no,  no!!!!  I started to panic, whispering, "Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!!!!"  Thinking, "I'm going to have to call him in here to help me with the toilet!  Whispering, "I've already taken my quick-weave off and there's shit in the toilet!  Oh God! Oh God!!!!!"  Thinking, "No, no, no!"

Then I imagined the look of HORROR and disgust that would be on his face if he opened the bathroom door and saw what I was seeing and then immediately began to think, 'Oh Shit! Oh Shit!  Ohhhh Shit!!!"

Literally, OH SHIT!!

Can you imagine the embarassment?  Can you imagine that shit? 

I almost slapped myself to assert some control over the situation... really, what else can you do when your boyfriend's toilet is about to overflow with stuff that came outta your ass?

I stood there, disgusted, watching the shit go round and round, wondering, hoping, praying... and then, the toilet stopped running. 

"Whew!"  (for real)

In the silence, over the thud of my thumping heart, I strained trying to hear what he was doing in the other room.  I heard music playing so I hoped he hadn't heard my panicked, whispered meltdown.  Better yet, I hoped he hadn't heard the toilet still running and even better, I was glad he hadn't come to investigate. 

Now, the water and my parcels of poo were still at a dangerous level in the bowl.  The water wasn't subsiding, but it had at least stopped churning. 

What to do?  If I flush it again and it's still stopped up, then it's definitely going to overflow this time and then the shit won't be in the bowl, the shit will be on the floor. 

HORROR!!!

I begin to lose it again and self-dialogue. 

"N, I canNOT belieeeeeeeeeve the first time you decide to take a dump in his toilet you clog it up!  What the heck were you thinking?!?"

"Well, I was thinking I needed to take a dump, I wasn't thinking it'd be a good day to introduce him to the offspring of my innards in such a... disgustingly intimate way..."

"Still, you couldn't have held that shit until you got home?"

"Umm, no.  When you're on the toilet and you get the urge, sometimes you just gotta shit, location be damned!"

"You shoulda held it.  You coulda held it."

"I betcha shoulda-coulda woulda taken a dump if he'd had the opportunity.  I did, so I did!  Question is, what to do now?!?!"

See why I wanted to slap myself?

I decided to flush the toilet.  First though, I removed anything that was in the floor around the toilet, just in case.   It probably would have been a good idea to locate a plunger, but I didn't want to have to ask where it was and I didn't want to go rambling through his cabinets. 

For the record, please see the following graphic for generally accepted plunger placement.  I'm just saying. 

I flushed.

I watched.

I prayed.

It swirled.

It disappeared with a nasty, wet whoosh sound.

Thank GOD.  It worked.

Shit-storm averted. 

I leaned back on the counter watching the now emptied toilet look all... empty.  I thought about what could have been and the embarassment easily resurfaced.  What's the best way to get over something like that? 

Tell it. 

So I told him.  "Hey honey, I was takin' a dump in your toilet and you know what?  For about 5 minutes there, everything went all to shit."

~N

May I Have an STD Test, Pretty Pretty Please?

Yesterday I went to my gynecologist for my annual physical exam.  I'd only been to this particular doctor once before, last year, and it was the first time in my life I'd ever had a female gynecologist.  After having my vagina abused for years and years by sadistic male gynecologists (It takes a special kind of man to enjoy finger-punching vaginas all day long... or does it?), I decided I'd try a female touch.  Because she was a woman and had probably had her vagina battered by male doctors before, she took great care to be very gentle with mine, which I appreciated. 

So I saw her again yesterday, and I actually arrived on time.  You'd think a gyn visit would be the one thing I'd want to arrive late for.  When the nurse initially took me to my room to take my blood pressure and go over any concerns I might have, I was frank.   I had STD tests done last year, and I really think this is something that should be done every year, so I told her that I wanted to have the whole battery of STD tests again. 

Sidebar:  The velcro on the blood pressure cuff was malfunctioning so as it got tighter and tighter, the velcro started peeling apart rather loudly.  Nurse comes back over and readjusts it.  It must not have gotten a good read the first time, so the machine reset and started taking my pressure again.  Nurse walked over whacks the machine and says, "Stupid, crappy, shitty piece of shit equipment."  After I got over my initial shock, it was all I could do to not laugh.  Unprofessional and inappropriate, but funny as hell.

Anyway, back to my request for STD tests...

"Are you worried about something in particular?" she asked in a whisper.

"No, I just want to stay on top of things and make sure I'm healthy." 

"Oh, ok.  We can test for gonorrhea and chlamydia from your pap smear." Again, the whisper.

Is the damned door not closed?  I looked.  It was.  "What about the others?  HIV, HPV, Herpes....?" I asked.  

"So you want blood tests?"  At this point, she had my chart up in front of her face, all I could see was her eyes and the whisper had dropped even lower.

I stared at her.  "Blood, pee, however you figure out if somebody has 'em or doesn't have 'em, yes." 

Duh.  But I didn't say anything else, mainly because I didn't want her to end up calling me, "stupid, crappy, shitty piece of shit patient" ...because that wouldn't have been funny at all ;)

Instead, she says, "Ok, well we can do those if you want."  

Umm, I'm asking you for them, that means I want...  Why am I beginning to feel like I'm pleading with this woman to give me tests they should be happy to give me?  Really, I have an annual every year, mammograms twice a year, why wouldn't I have STD tests done on a yearly basis as well?  Is this a request they don't normally get?  Do women not ask for these things?

Doc comes in, does my annual, we talk for a bit.  She hands me some sample birth control and bids me good day. 

"Wait, is the patient whisperer... I mean, the nurse coming back in to draw my blood?" I asked.

She give me a blank look.  I explain, "I wanted to have STD tests done...?"

"Oh!  Ok, well...", she glances at my chart, "ok, after you get dressed then head over to the lab and they'll get you all set."

I get dressed and head out the door.  Look to my right and left, see nothing but offices, no sign that says "LAB".  I walk over to the nurses station which is currently home to two patient whisperers.

"Where's the lab?" 

I get another blank look from the other nurse standing there.  My patient whisperer raises her head, "Oh!  That's right, you wanted...."  She grabs my chart, scribbles something on a piece of paper, folds it in half and whispers, "Take this, go down this hall and make a left, the lab will be on your left.  Sign in and someone will be right with you."

Good effin' grief, what does it take to get an STD test done around here?  30 minutes later, vein freshly pricked, I leave.  Just like last year, they will send me the results of the test along with the results of my pap smear in the mail as long as everything's fine.  If something's not fine, then I'll get a phone call. 

But on the way home, I'm wondering why no one asked ME if I wanted the tests done, why did I have to ask THEM? 

If it's not standard practice, it should be.  Women (and men too) need to pay closer attention to what's going on with our bodies.  I think we do a pretty good job of early detection of breast cancer with the self-checks and mammograms, etc.  However, it's just as important that we stay on top of our sexual health and well-being, don't you think?

~N

Don't Mess With My Food...

Lately I've been dining out a lot, probably too much.  Have you ever had such a bad experience with a restaurant or vendor that you just couldn't WAIT to tell somebody about it?

That was me at a restaurant called Eggheads this past weekend. 

It's a breakfast/brunch spot, new to the uptown area, looks like a family owned establishment.  Things were going along nicely until I sat down, but I won't bore you with the slow, nasty, cold details. 

That place was so bad I was trying to Urban Spoon them from my cell phone.  Now, that's bad.  Using my dumbed-down blackberry, I couldn't connect through my FB account and couldn't remember which e-mail address I'd used to sign up so I couldn't log-in to rip them right then like I wanted to.  Oh, but I tried.  When a skinny bitch is hungry, you DO. NOT. MESS. WITH. HER. FOOD.

In the end, I ended up posting a review on yahoo.  THEN when I got home that weekend I went back to Urban Spoon, who conveniently had never heard of the establishment, and kindly suggested that they add an Eggheads page so I could rip them like I still wanted to. 

Sure, let it go N, let it go.  Let it go, you say? Unh-unh.  Don't mess with my food.

Since I'm still miffed about this place and their attempted ruination of my day (don't mess with my food, especially my breakfast!)  I went back on the site to check today and the page had been created.  Thank you Urban Spoon. 

I promptly clicked "Don't Like", then went back to yahoo to find my review there, cut and pasted it into the Urban Spoon review while adding a few more colorful descriptions of my displeasure (read: it's the longest review you've ever seen on Urban Spoon - don't mess with my food, I'm trying to tell you...), clicked save and now I feel like my ire has run it's course.  Well, hopefully.  Although, if I think about it long enough, I'll get an Urban Spoon badge to add to my blog, where I can review restaurants with no holds barred.

I won't subject you to what I wrote on either site though, I'll just sum it all up with this. 

Don't eat at Eggheads.  They suck and the servers suck and the food sucks.  They better be glad that I wasn't paying, please don't get me started on tipping servers who don't deserve one...  some of you are nice like that, I however, am not. 

Which brings me back to my original question, have you ever been that upset with a place, restaurant or otherwise that you went out of your way to review them to death?

~N

The Letter S...

The other day I ran across this site that gives out weekly writing prompts for those of us who find ourselves in that writing funk. I think it was called plinkyprompts.com. Don't bank on that, I'm going by memory and I'll fix it later if it's not correct.

Anyway, one of the prompts was to write an entire poem only using words that began with the letter:

 

That was really hard, but hard in a way that got my creative juices flowing, if only for a minute.  Made me think.  So, I thought I would share a couple of the things that I came up with.

Stars supervise skies soundlessly

Sea sirens seek sinking ships

Sensual stow-a-ways survive. 

Sex, sustains. 

Not too bad, right?  Well, um, it only gets worse.  Actually, I think I'm probably MOST proud of the next one because I can already imagine your facial expressions after reading it. 

Now, imagine a dark stage with a single jittery spotlight dancing upon my head.  You and your reader-friends are in the audience, sippin' on some 'gnac.  (People still drink that, right?)  Mic in hand, I clear my throat, and then, I begin to speak.

*Ahem*

Shit stinks.

Stained silk.

Skidmarks.

*Silence*

I drop the mic on the floor and walk off the stage.  You all are too stunned to respond to the awesomeness that is my poem, but it's all good, I feel the love in the form of a thousand stares upon my back as I exit.  That's love. 

Ok, so that was nasty.  I hope you've eaten lunch already.  I'm sorry, but the first word I thought of when I read the prompt was sh*t and it just went downhill from there, lol.  The next word I thought of was "Superhead", but I decided not to go there. 

You should thank me.

*Muah*

~N

Yes, I Will Punch You in the Throat...

People get on my nerves with all their judgments about me, which are really more accurately mis-judgments.

If you know me personally, you know by now that when I don't want to be bothered, it's written all over my face.  You probably also know from reading me that I'm not a person you physically back into a corner without regretting it.  I don't respond well to aggression, and by that I mean any kind of aggressive tone in your voice, posture or movement. 

No, I don't walk up to random people and punch them in the face for no reason.  But yes, if you put me in a position where I feel like I have to physically defend myself or be hurt, then I will most certainly punch you in the throat.  Have no qualms about it.  More than likely I'll follow that up with a kick in the head once you bend over in pain, too.  I'm just saying.  

No, I don't walk up to random people and pick verbal fights with them.  Wait, I do.  No, I don't!  No, wait, I do, but that's only on Facebook, doesn't count.  So, I don't PHYSICALLY walk up to people and pick verbal fights with them.  But, yes, if they choose to engage me - then 8 times out of 10 we're going to go at it.  Verbal evisceration is my thing.  I'm very good at it.  I like it.  Sue me.  

I digress.  What I would like most in the world right now (besides a million dollars, a silent yet cooperative baby-daddy and a vehicle that doesn't currently smell like dog's ass), is for people to let me have my little moments of pissiness, anger, or literary vitriol without making dumb judgments.  Or, if ya gonna make 'em, at least keep 'em to your self. 

Yesterday, I made the bad decision to stop at the ghetto Wal-mart right after work.  It was on the way home, I needed something specific, and I would have had to drive out of the way during rush hour to get to the hoity-toity Wal-mart, not to mention pay $2.00 more for the product.  Yes, the Wal-Mart by Lake Wylie charges more, because the hoity-toity people can afford to pay more.  My bank account is not currently earmarking any hoity-toity funds and it therefore directed my black ass to the ghetto Wal-Mart. 

So, I'm in Wal-Mart, and there are masses upon masses of people.  People stepping on my foot, people banging into my cart, people not paying attention to where they were going, it was crazy.  It would have been a perfect time to bring the camera for several submissions to www.peopleofwalmart.com, but I was on a different mission.

I get my items, and head to the register.  Long line, so as I'm waiting, the lady behind me was ALL up on my ass.  If there was more than an inch between my ass and her body, that would be news to me.  I didn't say anything though, just kept trying to inch up and keep as much space between she and I as possible.  It's irritating that some people don't understand and respect your personal space, but I dealt with it.   I updated my FB status to say something like it would be a miracle if I got out of there without having to punch anyone in the throat.  Meaning, the lady on the verge of involving me in an impromptu ass-raping Wal-mart sex-tape fiasco without my permission (or contract) was gonna get punched in the throat if she didn't back off.

 But, after moving and putting a hunk of shopping cart in between us, I make it through the register and with a sigh of relief begin to make my escape.  A man suddenly steps in front of my cart, forcing me to stop walking.  From the register, I'd seen him earlier sitting on the benches in front of the bathrooms, just sitting there, looking lost and just a tad bit pointless.  As I walked past his bench, he decides to stop me. 

He says, "Excuse me, miss, I just have to say.... you're a beautiful woman."

"Well, thank you.  I appreciate it."  I replied while backing the cart up just a fraction so I could swerve around him. 

As I started to push forward again, he backs up and steps over in front of my cart again.  "You ought to let me take you to dinner."

"No thank you, I'm not interested."

"You married?"  I saw his eyes dart quickly from my face to my left hand, checking for a wedding band

Well shit, there goes that excuse.  Clearly irritated now, I replied, "No, but I do have a boyfriend, and I'm not interested.  Thank you."  I'm moving the cart now, again having to back up first so I can go around him. 

He says, "Oh, well, you're not married, so I still have a chance.  Let me help you out to your car with your groceries."

I had three bags in my cart.  Idiot.  Your game is wack, and tiring.   "Umm, no you don't and no, you can't.  I'll be fine, but thank you."  Finally, I swerve enough that he can't just sidestep and block my cart when I move. 

I'm walking past when I hear him call out, "You know you're breaking my heart right?  My heart is broken!"

I shake my head and keep walking.  As I'm about to encounter the oxygen tank wearing, hover-round riding senior citizen door greeter/receipt-cop, dude mysteriously appears by my side. 

"Well, I'm going to walk you to your car so we can talk about this."

*Record scratch*  He's about to do what?  For a split second, I thought about shouting into the door greeter's hearing aid ear that this man was harassing me.  Then, no, I should tell him I saw dude steal something, I'd probably get a better reaction that way.  Then I thought, again, he's about to do what?  Follow me to my car?  Oh, no the hell he ain't!

I stop my cart again and turn to the side to look him fully in the face.  In the most dangerous voice I could muster, "Man, if you follow me out to my car, I WILL fuck you up in the parking lot.  I promise." 

His mouth dropped, the what I'm sure he thought was a charming smile faded, and he just stared at me.  I stared right back.

He started backing up to go back to his bench I presume, and with a nasty sneer said, "That's what's wrong with black women these days anyway, don't know how to take a compliment."

I'm thinking, really?  Really?  Harassment is not complimentary, and it certainly ain't sexy!  No means no, and if you don't understand a verbal NO, then I'll show you a physical NO that has my foot attached to it.  Maybe you'll understand that. 

Game over.  I had what I needed, which was him getting out of my face and my space, and I went on out the door with just a quick glance behind me to make sure he wasn't following anyway.  On my way to the truck, I typed a quick FB status with what I'd just said to the man. 

And the commentary that flowed forth (from that and the previous status) was all about me being violent and someone asked if I needed anger management.

What the?

Do I need anger management?  I've never claimed to be a gentle soul, never.  But, I think I handle my anger pretty gosh-darned well.  I need for men to leave me alone when I've made it clear I'm not interested and don't want to be bothered.  I need for men not to waste 5-7 minutes of my life trying to convince me to go out with them when I've already said no.  I need for bustas to leave me the hell alone and not try to get aggressive with me.   That's what I need. 


I let ya'll have your moments, let me have mine, I'll get over it quickly, and everything will be all right.  I'm good, you're good, we're good, all is good.  If not, well, come over here and violate my space so I can punch you in the throat.

~N

Back to Center...

Lately I've been hearing a lot about how "free" I am with personal information on the internet.

Most painfully, I got in trouble with my mom - there I go, sounding and feeling 15 again - for some rants I posted on facebook about a family matter I'm going through with my step-children.  The way she initially put it, she wanted me to remove the posts because she didn't want what I said getting back to that side of the family.  Then, I need to be careful because there are people on my FB who don't need to be all up in family business.

The thing those kids did to me was so hurtful that I sat at work for most of the day trying not to cry.  Can't talk about it with co-workers, can't be on the phone about it all day while I'm at work...  As soon as I got home, I did what I do best.  I wrote it out.  I wrote out my anger, I made some jokes about it so I could stop being angry and hurt, and I was in the process of dealing with and getting over it.

One of the rants I wrote really WAS too much information and I deleted it, and I told the person I was replying to that I deleted it.  Do I really care if my friend Joe Schmoe disapproves of my FB rant?  I think Joe Schmoe 'oughta damn know me pretty well by now to realize that I get over it faster once I can laugh about it. 


I rarely curse in front of my mother, but at that point I came dangerously close to saying, "I don't give a flying f*ck if it gets back to them.  I HOPE it gets back to them because they need to SEE in print how d*mn stupid they are."  But, I didn't say that, I just thought it.

I was so upset that I removed all the posts.  Then I got pissed off about allowing myself to get pissed off enough to remove the posts.  I can't even remember the last time I deleted something I wrote because somebody else didn't like it.  Tell you what, it won't happen again.  Like my friend put ever so nicely the other day, you can't tell someone who expresses themselves through writing NOT to write.  You just can't.  For my mom to tell me that is akin to me telling her to go to church and ignore the Holy Ghost.  She would look at me like I was crazy, right?  Right.

And believe it or not, I don't tell everything.  Everyone doesn't know EVERYthing about me.  The ones who think they do just because of what they read most often end up with their feelings hurt and looking stupid.  My journals have my deepest, darkest secrets and thoughts.  Trust me, the good stuff is NOT on FB.

After pondering all of that, I became even more angry.  When someone hurts me like they did (and it's the last in a long list of hurts), I guess I'm supposed to internalize that, because you do?  I guess I'm supposed to sulk and be mad and take it out on everybody else, because that's what you do?  I guess I'm supposed to just retreat into myself and feel bad, because you do?  Stress out about it and grow more gray hair because that's what you do?  Should I call a minister, because you do?  Should I write it down on a piece of paper and then burn it because that's what you do?  Maybe I should just journal it and stick it in the section titled "For MY eyes only", because that's what you do?  Maybe all that works for you. 

But I'm not you.

I feel good?  I write, and I just may post it on the internetz.
I feel bad?  I write, and I just may post it on the internetz.
I feel funny?  I write, and I just may post it on the internetz.
I question?  I write, and I just may post it on the internetz.
I answer?  I write, and I just may post it on the internetz.
I'm in love?  I write, and I just may post it on the internetz..  No, that's inaccurate - I HAVE learned to keep that juicy to myself.
I have an upset stomach?  I write.  I just may post on the internetz:  "PSA: You probably don't want to go in the bathroom for 35-45 minutes."

So? So? So?  And, SO WHAT?

Everybody doesn't always have a feel-good, inspirational message for you.  Everybody doesn't always greet you in the morning with a 'Good Day!' and a smile.  Everybody doesn't have a book of favorite quotes to pick a post from, and dangonit, everybody isn't always in a good mood.  I, am not even willing to fake one just for the sake of not hearing someone else say, "Dang, she's got drama!"   Yes, I do, and I embrace it.  It isn't going to make me, I'll be damned if I let it break me. 

If you don't have any drama, or nothing bad, icky or uncomfortable EVER happens to you, I feel pretty comfortable calling you a liar.  Quit pretending like your shit smells like roses on a regular and you wake up on the right side of the bed every morning.  LIAR.  There, I said it. 

You may choose not to share your drama, bad times, ick or ill-feeling with the world (FB or otherwise) and that's your prerogative.  Don't beat me up for sharing mine.  I do try to share good news, funny news too.  Don't beat me up for being human.

Don't tell me what to post on my FB page or my blogs and I won't tell you what to post on yours.  Better yet, just delete me so that the news of my migraine, the fact that I stubbed my toe or wanted to choke the rent lady, or the fact that my son peed on the bathroom wall once at summercamp, or that he ordered porn on Directv, or the fact that I laughed heartily at the motorist who cut me off in the parking lot and ended up sideswiping someone else 5 minutes later, or that I was traumatized at discovering that my daughters are already developing pubic hair, or that the results of my overindulgence in cheese the night before resulted in a hemorrhoid doesn't impede upon your happy-happy-joy-joy.

I would never, ever want to affect your day with my TMI posts.  But admit it, don't you get tired of seeing the inane?"

I'm going to work. ~  I'm getting off work.  ~ I just bought garbage bags.  ~ I just ate a hot dog.  ~ I'm  on I-77.  ~ It's hot outside.  ~ It's cold outside.  ~ It's hot outside and cold inside.

You know you do.  You know you'd much rather read, "My bra is too tight and my nipples are sweating", so you can either empathize, sympathize or imagine.

Anyway, I'm getting back to center.  I'm going to be me however I feel like being me.  If you don't like it, hey, that's YOU not liking it.  Not my problem. 

Love you mom, but that goes for you too.

~N

**Oh, and because some people are DUMB, when I say "you" and "your" without having addressed anyone specifically, I'm speaking to the collective, not any one person.  Please don't e-mail me and ask me if I'm talking about you.   I will hurt your feelings.

Unsolicited...

I used to think it cruel to sit back and watch other people make mistakes without trying to warn them or give them a heads up.  When you see an uncovered manhole right in front of someone and it's blatantly, screamingly obvious that they're gonna walk right into it, how do you not say anything?

Every now and then a situation comes along to remind me that some people want what they want so badly that they don't care about the potential for disaster, they ignore common sense in just hoping that things work out in the end. 

Yeah, um... I'm going to jump out of this airplane... I know I don't have a parachute, but hopefully I won't... you know, die when I hit the ground.  All signs logically point to my being real fucked up once I meet terra firma, however I have faith that this is going to work out well and in my favor - because I really, really hope it does. 

Really?

I'll give you an example.  A guy I went out with a long time ago (a formerly written about first date disaster), is now about to get married.  Two months ago, this same guy was texting me and asking to try again.  Presuming he correctly translated my non-response as the answer: "Not interested, keep it movin'" and presuming he didn't know this woman when he was trying to get with me, that would mean he's only dated her seriously for two months, right?   And he's going to get married now.  Then it comes to light that it's a long-distance relationship, so two months of "knowing" her is probably more accurately two weeks of "knowing" her.  Again, I ask, really?   (And for those of you thinking this guy was probably juggling several women at once...  I don't think so.  He just didn't strike me as being that quick... or capable.)

He wasn't a bad guy, there was just no chemistry with us...and the first and only date was absolutely awful.  However,  I don't have any ill-will for him which is why on some level I feel it cruel not to say anything.  I want to reach out to him and say, can you think about that a little more?  Can you give that some more time, because if it's meant to happen, waiting for a bit longer while you truly get to know one another shouldn't be an issue. 

On another level - the most important one - I then remember that it's none of my damned business. 

Not my business, therefore my unsolicited opinion shall only be heard in the minds of those that read this blog.  For that reason alone (well, plus the fact that he hasn't asked for my two cents, lol), mistake or not, my mouth stays shut.  It's his mistake (or not) to make, and I'll leave him to his life lesson, good or bad.

I Write Because it Releases Me, and Maybe You Too...

If you are anything like me - outspoken, fairly moody, mean sometimes, smart, proverbially corny, politically incorrect, foul mouthed, fascinated by taboo, stubborn, yet loving and still kind and unbelievably loyal  - you find yourself surrounded by people who don't always get you.  They don't always understand.  You can express yourself all day long, but you don't get an honest impression, reaction, or any kind of legitimate feedback from them because instead of accepting you as presented, they're too busy trying to figure you out.

Stop trying to figure me out.  Your role is one of three:  Love me, hate me or otherwise leave me be.  Choose one and let's be on about our business.

My business, currently, is getting my shit together so I can realize the goal I've always entertained of writing a book.  Why?  As has always been, most often, I prefer the company of books over people.  Why?

I don't have to explain myself to a book, it doesn't judge me or mis-characterize me because it doesn't understand me.  I don't have to answer as to why I think a certain way, choose to look a certain way, date the men I date or dump the ones I dump.  Books open themselves up to a mind willing to absorb and feel, and hope and wish, they accept me both beautiful and flawed and in return, I give them all the love I have.

Within a book, those words that I read lead me to thoughts that I think, questions that I ask and wonders that I ponder - those words that I love fill me up and in turn - must be given back to the world again.  That's my circle of life...  You ain't gotta be in my circle if you're not sure you want to be, however, I think that in any book I write, if you're honest, you might just find a little bit of you too. 

I write because I love putting the words together that tell my story.  I write because I learn a lot about me when I do.  I write because my story is not just mine all the time, sometimes they're other people's stories too.  Sometimes it's yours and maybe you just can't tell it, but I can and if you allow me to live it with you, we can tell together.  You don't have to love me or my story, but my words are real, and true, and mine and I hope that you at least respect my want to share them with you.  Maybe that's really what's behind my desire to be published someday, validation that there are people who appreciate that I choose to share my story.  And I choose not to self-publish, because anyone can do it, and again - maybe I seek validation that my story was worth the pains and the joys of living it long enough to retell.  This, writing, is my gift - one I want to share.

While I write of my journey and you read, again, I ask you to choose one of the three:  Love me, hate me or leave me be.  I know how to deal with all three of those, but I'm not sure I can figure me out and try to figure out what you want from me too.  Ya'll motherfuckers should know by now I can't multi-task.

Someone posed the questions: "Who do you think you are and what makes you think you could write a book anyone would want to read?", and this blog is my response.  So, yes, I prefer books over people, but people aren't always so bad.  One of the values of the anonymity of the internet is that people ask you questions they wouldn't normally ask you to your face, but if in turn you get to look inside yourself just a little bit deeper as a result, there's nothing wrong with that.  I welcome it.   

Thank you.

Yeah, I Still Stuff My Bra...

I had  the hardest time picking a shirt this morning.  It's been 1000 degrees lately so I wanted to wear something I'd be cool in while outside.  While it's 20 below in the office which is where I'll be for most of the day, walking outside on my lunch hour in a long sleeve shirt just will not do.  Also, the company is treating us to a baseball game tonight at the Knights Stadium and I don't know if I'll have time to get home and change. 

The shirt I picked is one in which I need to wear a strapless bra under it.  If you don't know already, I have a hard enough time finding enough breast to fill a bra with straps, so a strapless bra is an extreme pain in the ass.  Unless I buy it super small, most times the elastic in the bra is simply not enough to hold it up and it ends up sliding down throughout the day and I gotta stay on a vigilant nipple watch. 

Yep, that's what boobs are for - to hold your bra in place. 

Shut up. 

I have some pads that I removed from previous bras that weren't up to the task of boosting/padding these babies sufficiently, so today, I admit, I have stuffed my strapless bra - double layers. 

I would say "Don't judge me!", but there's really no need.  I know some of you have enough cleavage that you've never felt the need to self-enhance, but I also know that some of you are just. like. me.  Padded. 

Judging by the picture I'm looking like a comfortable C cup (alright, alright, C-) right now rather than a B-.  But understand, now I'm no longer just on nipple watch, I'm also constantly checking to make sure my pads don't fall out.  Help a sista out.  If you see a breast that looks lower or higher than the other, misshapen, or just downright odd, pull me to the side and let me know so I can re-adjust or replace.  And if you see a bra pad laying on the floor by my cubicle and I'm not around, just pick it up and put it in my inbox.  

Us girls, we gotta stick together. 

 

Shut Up Usher Raymond!

Lyrics:  Do I remind you of the pain that he put you through?  Is that the reason I'm to blame before I do it?
Is it because he treated you badly?  I always stand accused.  Protecting yourself from somebody else, I'm not whose hurting you.  And it's killing me knowing you compare me to him, always guilty before the sin.  I can't win, I can't win.  I'll do anything to prove I love you but I refuse to pay for something I didn't do.  I love you girl, but I refuse to stay,  paying for his mistakes.





Shut up, Usher Raymond!

On some levels, with some women he may have a valid point.  There are a lot of women who don't know how to recover from past relationship hurts.  As a result, all the hurt from the sins of the previous boyfriend is visited upon the next - whether new guy deserves it or not.  She may not realize that's what she's doing for years, until after she's (as my grandma would have put it) run him off.  Some man (or men) really hurt her and up until her epiphany, she's living that pain out loud.

I admit, I was "her" at some point.  I was hard on a man.  When I left the kids father, I didn't trust men and I'd always find myself thinking of various creative and fun ways to "accidentally" remove their reproductive organs without getting in trouble.  I developed a mental and (I must confess) a physical kick-your-ass attitude because I was determined no man would ever put his hands on me again.  Ask the next ex who chipped his tooth by breaking my laptop with his face.. he won't ever touch another woman in the wrong way without remembering the lisp and that Toshiba imprint across his forehead.  To this day, you still can't physically back me into a corner.  I. Will. Fuck. You. Up.

Learning how to let go of being wronged isn't any kind of easy, but it can be done.   Eventually, I came to realize that every man I met was not my ex incarnate, and it wasn't fair to them or me that we never had a clean shot at making each other happy.   I know of at least two who would have given me the world but I wouldn't allow them to because I was still angry.  While at one point I wished I could go back and try again, I understood that those relationships were meant to play out the way they did - so I could learn. 

I learned some things, you should too.

What I need for those who live by Usher's "His Mistakes" mantra to learn is that a lot of men aren't paying for another man's mistakes, they're making and paying for their own!  You can't be a complete shithead and then say, "Just because your ex was a certain way, doesn't mean I am.  Don't make me pay for his mistakes."

Durrrr.  The fact that you just did the same thing that he used to do and that's why you're both now ex-boyfriends is simply an unfortunate coincidence.  

So, shut up Usher Raymond!

No, don't shut up just yet.  Write me some pretty lyrics and croon this:  Tell all your boys to stop leaving a wealth of hurt and broken women in their wake and you won't have to worry about catching flack for something the last guy did.  Don't be an asshole, then you can be accountable for your mistakes alone and not have to worry about the last guy.  If you know she's been through some things, try being understanding instead of quick to say, "I'm not him!"  And lastly, if you aren't him, quit acting like him and there will be no confusion.

Most of us out here are trying to live, let live and be happy.  Trust me, we don't want you to be like the last guy.

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Ash, Poison Ivy and Just Plain Ugly...

I'm not a big fan of public transportation, but this was a weekend of firsts for me so I decided to try it.  Ash, Poison Ivy and just plain Ugly.  Those were three of several "conditions" I saw on my ride on the LYNX light rail train today.

The Ashy:  Ash is pretty common, so I wasn't surprised to see several ashy elbows and ankles.  I even had to check my own just to make sure, 'cause... you know, I have a history.  But, I was good.  I would have loaned them my lotion, 'cause I'm nice like that but nobody asked so I let 'em stay ashy. 

The Itchy:  There was one guy who had a wicked case of poison ivy.  It was really bad.  He was moving from seat to seat like he didn't know which one felt better to his butt.  I'm glad the rash generally isn't contagious to other people otherwise whomever sat in those seats behind him would be in serious trouble.  I went hiking yesterday at Crowder's Mountain - went the whole day without running into any poison ivy out in the woods.  I sure as shit wasn't trying to catch it from some random dude on a train.  Damn that.

Oooh, and the ugly?  I really don't think I need to say anymore on that.

The Inconsiderate.  There was a young kid that got on at one stop and he either had defective ear buds or he didn't have them plugged all the way into his electronical musical thingamajingy.  Clearly marked in several places on the train were warnings against loud music or listening to electronical musical thinagamajingys without earphones.   When he got on the train, he - of course - took the seat right behind me and treated me to a free Lil Wayne concert.  *whispers:  I've been saying for years that Lil Wayne has a speech impediment.  I stand by my original diagnosis.*

If you know me, you already know I was thinking about turning around and helping him read the signs.  Just being helpful, you know.  But the older I get, the more I realize I actually enjoy not getting beat up and I didn't have my taser.  So, I did nothing outside of shooting him mean looks through the eyeballs in the back of my head until he got off the train. 

The BAK's (Bad Ass Kids) - there were plenty.  I wanted to stick my foot out and trip several of them as they ran back and forth up the aisle.  The one that swore he was pole dancing was actually pretty good at it.  I thought: be all you can be kid, be all you can be.  If I'd had some monopoly money on me I'd have been sorely tempted to make it rain.

The People with Bicycles:  I hesitate to call them Cyclists because these were just random people with bicycles.  Anyway, this should probably go up there with inconsiderate, but instead of problem earbuds, these were problem ...umm, bicycles.   I was waiting on one of the unattended bicycles to roll down the aisle and crash into my bum knee.  Did you know that bicycles have wheels but whilst on trains they apparently shouldn't roll?  Or at least that's what the dumbass who carted the bike on the train, left it propped against two seats on the aisle and then took a seat two rows down must have thought.  If that bike had hit me, I do believe I would have had to kick his ass in the most premeditated fashion - coordinating the meeting of my foot and the back of his head right before the train doors opened at the next stop so I could be long gone before he came to. 

The Ambassador:  This guy was really weird, and I daresay boarded the train without a ticket... but that's just my assumption.  Anywho, he got on the train after I did, but at each stop he felt the need to heartily greet everyone who boarded.  It was freaky.

If one person came through the door:  "Hey!  How you doin'?"

When two people got on:  "Hey!  How you doin'?  Hey!  How you doin'?"

When three people boarded:  "Hey!  How you doin'?  Hey!  How you doin'?  Hey!  How you doin'?"

He greeted everyone who entered the train, not just those who boarded at his door, so sometimes it wasn't just "Hey!  How you doin'?", but "HEY, HOW YOU DOIN!!!!!!"

Did I already say it was freaky?  Really freaky.

I wonder what kind of stuff I'd see riding the train at night.  Better not go alone and better make sure I have the zapper!

p.s.  These things were kinda freaky too.  It's sculpture titled "Furrow".  Shoulda been titled "Cereal".

I've seen them from the road when driving up South Boulevard, but seeing them from the train makes you go What the Hell? all over again.  I bet those were some damn expensive cookie crisps.


Hope you enjoyed your weekend!

Reminisce on This!

One of my friends has been saying for a while now that it’s time to let go of people and things that are unhealthy, that hold no value for you or for what you’re trying to accomplish in life.

When I look to my past, all the faces that have fallen by the wayside on my journey to where I am today don’t really haunt me, but I do wonder at times.  Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if…  Sometimes I’m glad there was no if.  I don’t dwell on it, I keep it moving.  I think if those people were meant to be in my life today, they would be.

Facebook, however much we love to hate the fact that we love it,  is a great tool for finding and reconnecting with people from your past.  Remember that best friend from 5th grade that moved away and you cried for days because you didn’t know how you would face 6^th grade without them? 

Or that boyfriend you were in LOVE with – and I’m talking LOVE, not the silly internet love people express these days, or the ridiculous “I’m tired of being lonely, so I love you” phase people get in after two dates.  I mean LOVE, like your first love where you felt it with every bit of your heart, you got butterflies when you saw him in the hallway, you melted when he glanced your way and died when he held your hand.  You saved every note he ever wrote you, every card.  The matching t-shirts you wore when he took you to Carowinds are moth-eaten and suffering in a box in your mom’s attic.  How did Mary J. Blige put it?  “Reminisce on the love we had….”

Oh, the days.

Facebook  is also a great tool to snap your ass right back to reality.

That best friend for whom you bought the BFF necklace (remember the ones where the charm split in half and you could give the other half to your bestie?) isn’t your best friend anymore.  You found them on Facebook and screamed Oh My God!!!  It’s My Bestie!!!  Then you sent them a friend request screaming, “Oh Em Geee!!!  I can’t believe I found you!  How have you been!?!? We have to catch up girl!”

Your former BFF accepts your request but never sends you that note in reply so that you could catch up.  Doesn’t say a word.  A couple of months go by, still nothing.  You feel kinda let down.  Why isn’t she as happy to see me as I am her?  You wonder if you were ever really best friends, or if you were simply more of a BFF to her than she was to you.  Or you wonder if that person just had more impact on your life than you did on theirs.  Really, that’s some shit that can get depressing if you dwell on it.

That boyfriend that you thought was soooooo fine back then, mullet and all, accepts your friend request and you can finally see the rest of his photo albums and his wall.  All you can think is WOW.  Dude, you broke up with me because I had a Jheri Curl and caught the chicken pox and scarred.  I was so hurt when you started dating that light skinned chick with the perfect face and the long hair after telling me that she looked better than me.  Well, mofo, apparently now the joke is on YOU!  What in the sam hell happened to YOUR face?  Looks like somebody (maybe the light skinned chick with the long hair that turned out to be bat-shit-loony) beat you with a sock full of fish tank gravel. 

Thank you Lord for the pox you once placed upon me.  I now understand that was a blessing. 

Amen.   

When I look at my today, there are many, many people I have allowed space in my life and haven’t yet figured out why.  Who are you again?  Why are you in my space, in my place, and yes – in my face?  I think it's important to ask yourself those questions.  There's so much yadda about people and their baggage from the past.  Do you ever stop to think about the baggage you're collecting in your today?

When I look to my future, I see certain people in it.  I recognize that certain people aren’t.  I’m taking my friends advice and letting some people go.  And I’m pretty sure that those people I can’t envision in my future are going to or have already let me go too.   

You know what?  That’s ok. 

Let ‘em go and continue on with life.  Let me go and continue on with yours.  Reminisce on those people and things that bring you good feelings when you think about them today.  No need to reminisce on what never really was reminisce-worthy, right?  

People Watching...

Does anyone people-watch, as I do?  And, no I'm not talking about stalking folks, thanks.

People watching.  Observing folks and their mannerisms, habits, the way they speak, the things they say, their overall demeanor. 

I remember exactly when I started people watching.  I was an Intern at a major (now defunct) Accounting firm in downtown Charlotte.  Every day at lunch, I'd go find something to eat, find somewhere to sit and then watch all the crazy go by.  As someone who much preferred the company of a book before the company of a person, being in the midst of all those people every day quickly turned from scary to fascinating.

Seeing how people relate to each other, trying to figure out if they're strangers or if they know each other, trying to piece together their "story" based on reactions and interactions.  Listening for accents, slang, word selection, inflection... Fascinating.  

Glancing at faces, dimples, cleft chins, chubby cheeks, stenciled eyebrows, nose rings, nail polish, jewelry, shoes, cleavage, short skirts, baggy pants, hats too big for people's heads, hats with tags still on 'em...  Fascinating.

All of these people, so perfectly different from one another, yet all perfectly made for whatever their purpose in life is...  Fascinating. 

You don't have to be in the city to people watch, you can do that anywhere, and these days I find myself people watching no matter where I am.   Back then I people watched out of boredom and for comedic purposes.  Now, I watch other people to try and learn a little more about me. 

Do you learn anything about yourself when you people watch, as I do?  Sometimes I'll see or hear somebody, doing or saying something crazy, and I'll shake my head and mumble...  "They oughta be ashamed..."  Then, just as quickly, I'll think, have I ever acted like that? 

More often than not I find myself answering in the affirmative.

Once I overheard someone having a loud, inappropriate conversation in the workplace.  I grumbled, "Hmph, they know they need to go outside with that.  This is not the place..."  Then just as quickly, I had to check myself.  Have I ever acted like that?  Sho' nuff.  I recalled a time (unfortunately, recently), where I had the beginnings of a loud, inappropriate conversation over the phone at my desk.  Once I realized I was loud, I got up and walked out into the hallway, but by then nosy ears were already perked and absorbing more of my business than I wanted.  For the people watchers in the office, I was the crazy walking by that day.  I resolved to never, ever do that again. 

Often I overhear people, and it seems to be the same ones all the time, complaining loudly about something or another.  Even on a great day for everybody all around, some people find something to complain about.  And then, there I go.  "Hmmph, I wish they would stop complaining 'bout everything everyday.  Good grief, can't they just be thankful, for something?  Anything?  Nobody wants to hear a complaining person day after day after day."  Then, just as quickly... Wait, do I do that?  I can recall several occasions in which nothing that came out of my mouth that day was positive.   I don't want to be that person, so I won't anymore.   This past week, it hit me unexpectedly that I am more blessed than I ever thought I would be, and I just haven't been thankful enough.  I've resolved to do better than that going forward. 

People watching.  Now it's more than poking fun at someone with a crazy outfit on or busted, crusty toes, it's also a time for reflection and introspection.  I watch people and realize that, hey, I really don't have it so bad and I need to be a little more appreciative.  I need to carry myself like I'm blessed and happy to be, not like I don't appreciate the opportunity to do one more day of living. 

To identify behaviors that I dislike in other people and then realize I've been guilty of exhibiting the same is more than a little humbling.  

I welcome that though, keeps my head from ballooning out of control and my feet firmly on the ground.  My head is already quite sizable as it is. ;~)

Anyway, I woke up kinda early and felt the irrepressible need to ramble.  Enjoy your day!

Truth or Dare with Strangers...

Had a weird e-conversation once.  It started out nice, but then just tanked.  I think this person had a preconceived notion of me based on what he picked up or took from my blogs.  I believe he was on guard from the beginning, looking for clues as to what I thought of him, ready to fight back at the slightest idea that I misjudged him in any way.

I'm blogging this out to try and figure out if my initial interpretation of what happened was the right one.   Often when I begin to write with no intended outcome, I learn stuff about me that I didn't really know.  Or didn't think I knew.

Anyway, this guy made mention of going out that night with someone who wasn't really his type.  I wondered out loud - well, via text- why waste your time?

In my head I'm thinking, if you already know this person doesn't do it for you, you can't find any better way to spend your time?  I can think of a shitload of stuff to do with my free time rather than waste it on someone who doesn't make me moist.

His response was, "Do you think that's wrong?"

I told him that I didn't think it wrong, as long as they both enjoy each others company and as long as she knew what the deal was from the get-go (that she's not his type).  I told him I thought leading her on would be wrong.

In my head I'm thinking, would she really want to hang out with him if she knew that in his eyes she was just "something to do for a couple of hours"?

Personally, I wouldn't.   But who knows? Maybe to her, HE was just something to do for a couple hours.  That would have been the perfect situation for both of them. 

He immediately took to the defensive, as if I'd poked him with the hot truth.  He said he wasn't leading her anywhere, if he was sleeping with her that would be different.  He ended with, "I have a conscience, believe it or not."

I'm thinking, whooooaahhh!  What just happened?  Did I dare just give an honest truth when asked?  I think I was supposed to answer, "Why, no, I don't think that's wrong. Spend your time leading some chick on that has no clue you're really not that into her and you're just using her to avoid having to cut your grass today. That is a-ok and perfectly fine. You kids have fun!"



First of all, you don't have to be sleeping with someone in order to lead them on.  Second, did he think I was judging him?  He did ask me my opinion, and I gave him the only one I could.  Was I not supposed to do that?  Did he think I thought he was a bad person for that? I didn't.  Maybe a little selfish of him, but hey, I get selfish on occasion too, it's not a crime.

That led me to believe that (1) Chickie probably doesn't know she's just a time filler, she thinks he genuinely likes and wants to spend time with her, and (2) he knows she doesn't know, and (3) I made the mistake of being too truthful with a stranger, because it was a truth he was choosing to avoid.

FYI.  Don't ask me my opinion if you expect me to be a yes-woman, a back-patter, or a candy-coater.  Don't ask me my opinion if you expect to be coddled, hand-held and validated while doing something you already know is not above board.

I've got nothing for you but the truth.  The truth about me, and the truth about you... or the truth about what I think about you... hell, you know what I mean, I hope.  I've said it before, this is why I don't have girlfriends.  They don't often like hearing what I have to say, because it's not often the truth they want to hear.

This is why the man that chooses me has to truly be comfortable with who he is and accept that, because I call it like I see it and I'm not shy about verbalizing it.   Especially when you ask me to.   If you don't know who you are and you ask me what I think, I'll tell you who I think you are.  Whether you like it or not is not my problem.

I don't go around picking on people just giving them my unsolicited truth.   I don't go to your page and look at your profile disapprovingly and then send you an e-mail advising you that you're a shithead, douchebag and/or a whore.  I don't walk up to folks just roaring to fight or argue.  I don't.   I keep to myself, in my head, in my space, on my blog... until you ask me my opinion.  Then I freely give it.

That being said...  Does what I think of you stop you from earning a living?  Does what I think of you keep you from sleeping at night?  Paying your bills?  Taking care of your kids, parents, responsibilities?  Keep you from having a good time on vacation?  Driving with a seat belt?  Feeding the dog?  Changing your oil every 3000 miles?  Putting the toilet seat back down?  Clearing out the remaining time on the microwave?  Overall, does what I think of you keep you from doing the right thing and being a good person?

Surely, the answer to all those questions is a resounding No.  In that case, why do you give a fuck what I think about you?  I rate NOWHERE in your real world and have no effect on anything in your day to day, so why pay me two cents worth of attention in terms of what I think about YOU?

Figure out who you are, and it won't matter what I think or don't think.

You want to know what I think about what you think about me?

Pffft. That's my internet representation of my real world black-woman dismissive hand wave.  Pffft.  Get the fuck outta here with that.  ANYWAY.  Oh well.  Like I was sayin'...

That's what I think about what you think about me.  You're just an e-person to me until we are face to face and sharing some "real".  Until then, you rate way low on my priority list as to what you think.

Yes. I can be judgmental.   But, I'm just as hard on me as I am on anyone else. I'm hard on me first, before I'm hard on anyone else.  I am not perfection.  I am not without fault.  I am not without flaw.  But all of that's ok because I'm still fuckin' fabulous with or without your assenting opinion.

Do what you do.  Do it to the best of your ability.  Who you have to answer to, what you have to answer for, and when you have to answer for it is not my call, so what I think of you doesn't really matter.

Don't play truth or dare with a stranger if you're not prepared for a truth-teller.

Oh Darn. I Have to Leave...

Everyone has dating dealbreakers.  Well, those of you lucky enough to have found your soul mate don't have any anymore (I hope...), but I'm pretty sure you had them back when you were single.

I recently heard a radio piece where a guy was talking about his dating dealbreakers, one of which had to do with a girls feet and whether or not they were freshly pedicured.  I had to share some of mine...

Summer Teeth: Some are yellow, some are brown, some are ochre colored, and some are almost white. This is why you should never trust a profile picture of someone who isn't smiling, you can't see their teeth. And profile pics of dicks. You can't see their teeth in those either. You also shouldn't trust profile pics of people who are wearing shades, you can't see if they're cock-eyed or not...nothing against cock-eyed people, I just don't want to date you. But I digress. Summer teeth and jacked up teeth (aka, teefs) are a deal breaker.

I went out with a guy once who I'd only spoken to through e-mail a couple of times and once by phone.  You live, you learn, eh?

His pics were taken from a distance, and he had sunglasses on. In the pic, everything seemed to check out.  He was of decent height, he had a stance of confidence and awareness.  On the phone he sounded slightly goofy, but hey, I live in NC.   Parts of NC definitely ooze goofy.  Might be something in the water.

We met for the date. 

What in the sam johnson was that in his face?

I asked him if he had any problems with the directions I gave, squinting so I could see better.  When he answered, I thought, Oh, hell no.  This man had so many teeth in his mouth I don't know how he closed his lips over them.  He had teeth in his face where he shouldn't have had teeth in his face.  There were teeth on top of teeth.  Teeth up under other teeth that were on top of more teeth, and some little toothlets under that.

Now, I ask you, how do you have that many teeth in your mouth AND a gap in the front?  How can you possibly have all those teeth in your mouth; teeth where you're not supposed to have teeth, but the one place you should have a tooth, you don't?   If that ain't a WTF? I don't know what is.

I actually think a slight gap between the front teeth is sexy on most people (male and female), but not 10-12 gaps.  Anyway, I know it's all ceramic - I mean cosmetic and not important in the grand scheme of life and a beautiful smile is in the eye of the beholder, et, yadda and cetera, HOWEVER - fuck that noise.  Summer teeth and jacked up teeth are dealbreakers.  I don't have a perfect smile, it's ok if you don't either, but it's kind of difficult to ignore what looks like chain reaction teeth implosion.

Sloppy Kissers:  I can't STAND sloppy kissers.  Ugh!  The ones where the other person has an overabundance of saliva in their mouth when they kiss you. Ugh!!  The ones where you pull apart and there's a spit string leading from their lips to yours.  UGH!!!  The ones where they stick their tongue in your mouth, wiggling it around like a worm with no purpose.  UGH!!  The ones that kiss all over your face leaving cold wet spots that you can't help but try to wipe away when they're not looking.  UGH.  And if you read one of my earlier blogs, this section is probably a repeat.  You already know how I feel about droolers. Ugh!!  Call me a prude, but I am not a fan of the excessive sharing of bodily fluids.

Dry Kissers:  Then there was another guy that I went out with. Another first and last date (I've had more of those than what's fair, dammit!).  At the end of the date, he kissed me.  It was just a dry peck on the lips, nothing to get alarmed about and/or cut him for.

I guess he figured since he got away with a peck on the lips the first time that he would maw-maw me to death with a second kiss.  I don't think so.  My lips were closed, teeth clenched, he wasn't getting in so he basically maw-maw-mawed against my lips all soap-opera-drama like.   Dude.  When he pulled back, the entire lower half of my face was chapped.  Well, damn, now I need chap-stick too.  He's lucky he didn't get punched in the face.


However, if I went around punching everybody in the face, I would ruin the whole re-telling because I'd have to digress into explanation about the time I spent in jail.  No one wants to read that.  :)

Booty Villains:  Did I give you permission to grab my ass?  If I want you to grab my ass, I'll say something like, "Dude. Your hands. My ass. Right now."  If a quick, random booty-feel is what gets you off and you're willing to risk it, go for it, but I can't promise you I won't react badly.  Truly, you're lucky if I don't punch you in the face, kick you in the nuts and then stomp on your neck when you're down.   I can promise you that you'll never see me again.







**the pic in this blog is NOT my booty, but isn't her underwear fabulous? I like...***

I know you've got some dealbreakers...  Feel free to share :)

Oh. Shit.

People and their profile pictures... Sheesh.

...stop posing on, in, in front of, to the right, left or otherwise "around" your toilet. Lid up, lid down, flushed, unflushed (nasty asses!  ha! pun!!)... Just don't do it.

It's a toilet for shit's sake. Not sexy.

That is all.

Test

Test

Do You Listen?

I was reading over some of the erotic lit that I've written in the past (see, I'm not always bitchin' and moanin', sometimes I'm just moanin'), and I noticed a recurring theme.

The guys in my head always know what they're doing.

Opposite of what seems to happen to me in the real world, every male character in my stories knows that it's very important to listen to the non-verbal signals a woman's body gives you.

A majority of males like to boast the e-promise that the woman that's blessed enough to be with them will be very well satisfied.  Everyone swears they're at the top of their game when it comes to lickin' and suckin' and bangin' and fuckin'.

Rarely do you see anyone write about passion, romance, being in tune with someone mentally as well as physically.  No one ever boasts that they're at the top of their game when it comes to connecting emotionally, or experiencing a physical connection on anything other than a base, animalistic level.

No one ever says that they know how to listen.

When you've got your head buried between her thighs, ferociously licking and sucking like the sun ain't ever gonna shine on it again, and she grabs your head - do you listen?  Is she pushing you away, or does she want you to lick it a little more gently?  Or does that mean she wants you to chew on it a little harder?

Can you tell a fake orgasm from a real one?  Do you listen?

When you've got two fingers deep inside her and you're trying to beat it like a punching bag, and she's squirming - do you listen?  Is she trying to get away or are you convincing yourself that she likes it?  Is she enjoying it or is she worried you're going to cut her with your untrimmed nails and careless concern for her comfort?

That sigh she lets escape her lips - was that one of satisfied contentment, or exasperated unfulfillment?  Do you listen?

When she let's you get in from behind, do you pay attention to the hand she puts out behind her, pressing against your thighs - do you listen?  Or are you so enthralled with trying give her a concussion via headboard that you don't notice?

Do you listen?

I want somebody who listens, without me having to say a word.  When I'm being made love to, I want to be taken completely out of my head, away from the here and now.  I want to soar.  You can't do that if you're not listening.

Married Men Make Me Sad...

Married men make me sad. Not so much sad because I can't have them - but sad because they want to be had.

I'm single, and I date.  I've said a million times that if you're married and unhappy, while I'm sorry for you, I'm also not the one for you.  For someone who has problems with brevity, surprisingly that's all my fingertips can stutter in an "about me" section on a profile without being judgmental. 

 

But I'm tired of reserving my judgment.  I'm tired of married guys hitting on me.  

 

I don't understand how one can justify cheating and dishonesty all the while flipping a crooked middle finger at their marriage vows and still say - and believe - that they love that someone more than anything?

Maybe it stems from having never felt the pain and betrayal of being cheated on and lied to.   They don't know how it feels, so there's no moral self censor that says to them, hey I don't ever want to make someone feel like I felt when I found my wife cheating.  After all, it's difficult (for most conscientious people I think) to intentionally inflict the same kind of pain on an innocent that someone else has inflicted upon you.

Right?

I've been cheated on. Initially it can make you feel worthless. Makes you compare yourself to people you would have never compared yourself to before and wonder where you come up short. It messes with your head. Sometimes it takes a while to figure out that you're not the worthless one. I choose not to make anyone feel that way, because I know it's not a nice feeling and can be difficult to recover from.

I've been lied to. As a general life rule, I try not to do it. Sometimes I have to skirt the truth at work, and inevitably I have a hard time sleeping that night. A silk pillowcase does absolutely nothing for your soul. I feel guilty, and it affects my core. In my personal life, I choose not to lie. I'd rather wound you with the truth than kill the respect and trust you have in me by telling you a lie.

In my soapbox diatribe, to some I'm going to sound haughty and judgmental, inflexible and may come across as if I've never made a mistake.  None of that is the case, but if that's how I sound, that's my fault and my failure to find the words to accurately relay how I'm feeling - and by default, who I am.

So I'll put it this way.  I will respect and honor the sanctity of your marriage, even if you don't.

I'm not doing it for the other woman (oh wait, technically I would be the other woman, not her).  I won't violate your marriage out of respect, for myself.  And out of respect for that good old Golden Rule.  Treat others how you wish to be treated.  Over my 33 years I've grown to have an awesome respect for Lady Karma. I've seen her in action, and it ain't always pretty.

Also, I won't violate your marriage out of a selfish logic. I have enough ego to know that I'm a damned good catch, too good to have (or want) to share a man.

Some say life is difficult enough without complications of our own making... so why make things complicated?

Some enlightened ones - *channeling Tina Tuner (post Ike) * "Namyorengyekooooooo..." - would say that life is really simple.  Do the right thing, or don't.  Be a good person, or don't.  Live a good life, or don't. *shrug*  If you apply that to the topic of this blog:  Stay true to your marriage, or don't.  Stay married, or don't.

Make a simple decision.  Be a cheating husband, or a "discreet" second rate, back alley, knee-pad wearing, home-wrecking whore - or don't.  I think it's quite clear that I lean towards the "don't", but what you do - is all on you.