This is it, Joel. It's going to be gone soon

I was talking to Valentine the other night about love addiction. He said Dr. Phil was on Oprah explaining how some people are making up for a void in their hearts by constantly seeking or needing a mate. They always crave approval and attention, they always need to know that someone loves them and is committed to them.

He questioned his motives for a split second. I could feel him analyze himself. "Naw, baby." I said, "That's not you or me."

I want to find this person who invented the concept of "love addiction" and smack the daylights out of them. How could they sully love's pond like that? How could they over define the undefinable image of love, and pigeon hole it into some healthy quotation? Humans are messy and unkind, and afraid and undone. We're not supposed to fit our emotions and impulses into a clearly labeled box from The Container Store.

So what if I've had a lot of boyfriends? I like men. I'm a pretty girl, and I consider myself to be fairly interesting to-boot. So I tend to have a lot of options because of that. I sample those options and occasionally sit down to a meal hoping it might fill me (forever). Valentine is the same way (only the male version).

"So what", I told him over the phone yesterday, "we love hard. "

One day we'll all look up from our perfectly balanced meals and see a woman running through a flowery field on the TV screen. Her arms stretched out, and face to the sky as a long flowing dress catches in the wind like angel wings. The announcer explains in a buttery monotone voice that you too can be free of your clinical love addiction with one simple oral dose of Ileeva per day. No more pesky emotional attachments, no more loneliness. Just pure and simple well-adjusted, well-balanced, relationships that always make sense. And if they don't one day. If your confused or scared or desperate or hurt or disillusioned...just pop a pill and that deep seeded need for love with softly disappear.

Side effects may include: nausea, heartburn, empty-headedness, social failure, claustrophobia, sexual frustration, loss of perspective, dry mouth, and trouble conceiving.

(©2009 Lotus B.)

Onomatopoeia

Lately I've been heavily contemplating the ideology of love. How much it comes and goes, and takes on so many faces. How it's so complex, but often unfairly simplified.

I wish love were a harder word to say, like "antidisestablishmentarianism" or "onomatopoeia"...instead it's almost easier to say "I love you" than it is to sneeze or fart. And so, people use it so often, and so freely...sometimes forgetting that the confession of love can sometimes and easily be a lie, even if by accident.  

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Love Him While He Sleeps...

Tell your self you love a man while he's sleeping. While his defences are down and he's not being his confident super self. While he's given himself to slumber, and his eyes are swollen shut. Tell yourself then, that you love him. Don't be so misguided by what men can convince us they are. All the answers to our car questions, the infinite knowledge of how to build everything and hook every electrical item in your house up. Far stronger than you, last..if ever to cry. Who squashes bugs and laughs at you when your being a "silly woman". Instead, love him when he's quiet and far away and dreaming and out of control over it all.

The Verbal Contract...

You've said it. It's out there like a venomous cough lurking in the air ready to spring onto it's next victim and slowly take them down into the hells of the common cold. Once you've said, "I love you" there are expectations that immediately follow. Now your expected to do the things you once simply felt comfortable dancing around. Normally, initiating this potent phrase renders you to the next step...whatever that may be. Sharing straws or introducing each other to intimate members of respective inner circles. A guaranteed date on Saturday night...



What else, besides this assumed progression would saying, "I Love You" usher in? If you remain stagnant or intentionally fall apart...will the feeling of love be less impressed in your mind simply because you never spoke those specific syllables? Will saying them make a difference? As if each word ejects some microscopic love-rope that grips the heart of your Love's target and forever binds you together? Hardly.



Love is just a word. Having and holding love is just a waiting room. Love is just a beginning. A promise that can remain empty or be fulfilled. Like the temptation of an orgasm so humans are mindlessly drawn to procreate. Love is just the initial stir of emotions, the realization that someone fits so well into your hands (figuratively of course) that it feels "right". And feeling that way is what helps a relationship grow and blossom into the stuff happiness and families are made of. So that we don't walk through life alone because we can't get over the impeccable pattern of idiosyncrasies everyone has and how much they annoy us. Love itself is really just a day. One day, or even a moment in that day when you look up and realize that this amazing person in front of you now has the power to hurt you or help you heal. Saying those silly three words in any form or language won't change the ability they now hold. Not speaking those words won't un-do this realization. Silence would be nothing but a nervous joke to pass the time.

The Perfect Berry

Moist from faucet water.

Blackberries are a lot like people. Each one disproportionate in it's own little way. Lop sided or under filled. Stunted or overgrown. I shift them around with my index finger tip searching for the one that would fill my hunger for sweetness, my odd addiction to crush-resistant seeds and of course my loyal affinity for the berry with multiple personalities. That one has a flat spot. This one is too red. So on.

There was one that seemed to find my finger. So perfectly plump with juice and soft that it seemed a little unnatural. Too perfect. I negotiated with my self for a moment, then decided to put it down. Save it for last, I think to myself.

The Cheese & Grits of Love

Most of the time, D and I are what some might consider to be a bit sickening. I'm an affectionate girlfriend and usually I shower him with attention when he's around me. We're always holding hands, leaning on each other, stealing kisses. After going on 4 years of love, I still consider the chemistry to be pretty solid.

Then there are times like today. When as much as I love him, I fantasize about taking a needled bat to his face and tossing his bloody caucus off the side of a building. Times when I want to rip the cable box out of the wall and toss it in the oven. Or literally shove the Nintendo Wii remotes down his throat until he chokes. Times when as big a basketball fan as I am, I would literally like for the entire NBA franchise to go down harder than Wall Street. I could go on...

I guess knowing that D and I have been through MUCH WORSE is a comforting fact. Almost a shaming fact, because I'm really just upset over a classic case of phone-neglect. I suppose when I think about the worst things we've actually put each other through, this hardly takes the cake. Everything about love is temporary, and it's forever evolving into something else, so it's easy to miss the old times. To reminisce over the times when we were still in that "newbie" phase and love still felt like breakfast.

Cake & Eat it Too

One of the best things about being a writer, and loving to do it is the ability to create stories. In my mind, I have always been able to conjure up even the most insane scenarios. My imagination has always been bright and vivid, so when I write fiction...it's pretty realistic.

Before me and D got back together, and I was shaking in my boots over the idea of loosing him for good. Just when the idea of being together was mulling around in our mouths again and we teetered on the edge of a cliff, I was about to break from the pressure. Sure, I was confident that D loved me, and that no one could touch that love. I knew he wanted to be together as much as I did, but what remained was the MOUNDS of effort and work we'd both have to put forth to make our relationship get off the ground again. Some men don't like to work that hard for love, some women don't either. So at the time, I didn't know if he thought it was worth it. I had to do something to settle my soul.

So, I grabbed my handy-dandy notebook and started imagining the conversation. Every word, every answer, every possible reaction. Right up until the final solution. Then I created two scenarios. One was D and I getting back together, moving into a beautiful house one day in Houston and getting married...having babies...being happy. The other was letting our love fall by the way side and staying apart. I imagined that I would move on...meet some artist as insane as I am...fall in love and get some ass-backwards shabby chic apartment in the Village. I read both scenarios over and over. Aside from being totally impressed with my writing skills and tearing up from the reality of it, I began to be OK. OK with the idea of having D, and OK with the idea of loosing him.

I settled in my mind that no matter what, no one would ever make or break me, not even those closest to me.

A month later we got back together, and scenario #1 was well on it's way into realization. Vivid as a picture.

Seeing D

Aside from the unfortunate circumstances, seeing D this past weekend was like a breath of fresh air. Laughing with him, holding hands, going out to dinner, having someone open doors for me and walking with the security of his hand on the small of my back. Sounds sappy, but these are the things you miss when your over 2,000 miles away from the one person you love the most.

Same ole us. Corny jokes, wise cracks and upside-down observations all the day long. We laugh at weird shit, but what can I say...it's the tie that bonds us.

Of course, Sunday was to worst. Time scattered away from us and every five minutes felt like five seconds. Before we knew it, it was time again for that familiar drive to the airport.

A drive that is beginning to get old for both of us.

I'll see him in December...28 days or so from now. The count down, inevitably once again starts over.

Deafening Silence

My room is mostly quiet. The only time I ever watch movies or stream from the internet my headphones are on and my room is left behind. Then when I take the headphones out of my ears all I can hear is silence. Tonight I actually heard my food digesting. Heard it sloshing and turning like the rinse cycle. It made me realize just how deserted the space between my bedroom window and my head actually is. I even talk to D in silence. All that can be heard is my incessant clicking on the keyboard and my breathy exclamations when he writes back something funny (which is often). Then I step outside my apartment and I'm invaded with sound. I feel like two different people. I can't wait to be one again.

Loving a Frustrating Man

In honor of my Halloween costume-I've now chosen to go as a Goodfella- I am referencing said movie for a topic that is on my mind these days. Men. I internally (and via my blog) criticize Jennifer Hudson's sister Julia for bringing all the tragic drama onto her family all for the love of a loser guy who wasn't even the father of her child. But even if your not married to a convicted drug dealer or Henry Hill (another GF reference for ya), love will always have it's little frustrations. Even my own divine relationship gets hairy, and as we grow (and I grow up) being clear and communicative is key in making it work OR in walking away unscathed.

My sweetie-meaty boyfriend, also technological genius has been sweating away tirelessly (a term I'm using VERY loosely) at his job on an on going project. He called me this morning sounding like a deflated balloon, LEAVING work as I was arriving to my own office after working a 24 hour shift. Now, of course when I say "frustrating" I'm not directing this emotion at D, but at the situation. Knowing that my honey hasn't slept well in almost a week, hasn't eaten properly and has had his eyes glued to a computer screen longer than I want to imagine makes my woman parts angry. It's frustrating to love a man who either has to or chooses to be a workaholic. Knowing that his needs and possibly your own will tend to come second to something organically less important than love or family. I used to let this get to me so bad, worse than I ever admitted to D. I'd take it as him not wanting to be a part of our relationship, as him diving into work to get away from me and him cheating me out of something that could feel more real. Eventually an ocean grew between us and two lovers became platonic house mates. Time and space can do wonders. I know some of my myrrh and patience is fueled by the lack of seeing his handsome face, but most of it is because I think differently now. I know D doesn't WANT to work 24 hours straight, but I DO know that he is a dedicated man in every aspect of his life and not just our relationship. I know that he works like he does so that he can advance later, which is something he does for BOTH of us, not selfishly. So instead of bitching or withdrawing, I wince slightly but offer him words of encouragement and support, answer his calls even if it's painfully late and honestly it feels so much better not to be frustrated.

But that's D. I've BEEN with Mr. Horrible, Mr. Frustrating and yes...even a few Henry Hills. Sometimes I think women get caught in between loving a man unconditionally and realizing that the conditions are not for us. By all means, I'm no self help guru, but I do know a thing or two about walking away. A relationship of any kind can always reach a point where it begins to interfere with your own personal choices as an individual; your own responsibilities and goals and at that point "frustration" is actually a sign that your investing time in the wrong person. For instance, J-Hud's big sis got her hint on or around the date she was arrested with her guy during a drug bust. THAT would be a good time to leave. It doesn't have to be as dramatic as indictments and court dates for you to walk away. If he hasn't proven himself trustworthy, if he makes you feel small or unimportant, if he doesn't include you in his life the way you'd like him to, if he has too much drama with his ex-wife or baby mama....or anything else that you know won't change soon and goes against what you want in a relationship. Guy or girl, new relationship or long time love; walking away is hard to do for a reason...because it's IMPORTANT.

Ugh...Waiting Is For LOSERS

I effing miss my delicious boyfriend. And me effing misses me. I just want to smoosh his face and hug him and bake him treats. I wish waiting didn't take so long, I feel like I'm waiting for something to start all the time. Suspended in the air with a clock ticking. I hate hearing that he didn't eat today, because he knows how I am about him not eating from being so busy at work. He has no idea how much I wanted to telepathically communicate a steak dinner to him when he said that today. Missing him is something else, though. It's like a social disease all in itself. I know right now everything moves slow, and when I see him next month everything will be suspended for a second before moving at lightening speed and then slow again until Christmas. I'm get motion sickness.

Coupling

My friend Tia and I met after work to search for cloves, a small and rare obsession we have in common. We traipsed through the wind and rain up to 42nd street to a cigar shop just a block from the Lincoln Building. After that, despite the rain, we trekked on and detoured to Union Square stopping at a Cuban spot called Havana Central (YUM). We sat at a small table near the kitchen sipping Mango Mojitos and taking turns going on and on about our glorious men. D and I, the old pros I guess, after being in a relationship for 3 years even with a 5 month detour, not much tends to shake us anymore. Tia and her brand new baby-relationship still timid and full of newness. Just like that, something settled over the table, and I think it was more than just a mojito-and-sweet potato french fries-food coma.

We talked about love. The different kinds and the differences between them. How you can truly love someone, with all your heart and for some reason or another have to leave them behind. How real love, the kind that stays even after there's nothing new to talk about, always seems to gently simmer instead of boil. I think every woman wants to be swept of her feet. For some romantic idea to come along with flowers and say all the right things and know exactly how to treat her. The only thing is, that never seems to exist. Love is exactly what you make of it. If it's hurried it will be flustered, if it's passionate it will be dramatic, if it is dangerous it will be painful and if it's patient it will be long lasting. I've always been something of a thermometer, unable to hide how I feel at all, wearing my emotions on my sleeve, or so I'm told. The man who keeps me has to love a firecracker, and expect nothing less than to be loved deeply and daily. My heart is definitely in Houston.

"He's So Crazy" & Other Poisonous Ideas About Men

In light of the recent shocking events surrounding Jennifer Hudson's tragic loss of her mother, brother and possibly her nephew (police have found a body that might be the 7-year old boy), I started thinking about relationships. All of the Hudson family drama seems to have stemed from the tumultuous relationship between Jennifer's sister Julia and her husband. Julia's myspace page (I've done my research, y'all) even has a picture of a car he supposedly sold against her will, her caption referring to how her brother (now deceased) had to pick her up from work because "bitch ass William sold my car". I know there is nothing comical about this situation, but it's funny how women never seem to see these kinds of men as an issue until it's too late. The stupid little controlling things he does are ok, but rarely do these women stop to think about how far his crazy antics might go, or who they might effect one day.

I've met women like this before, hell, I used to be one. Referring to their boyfriends as "crazy" as if the things he does authenticates his love for them. He must really love you to go out of his way to make sure you can't leave the house when he wants you to stay. He must REALLY love you to check up on you every 15 minutes of the day. And GIRL he must be SO IN LOVE with you because when you get mad and break up with him he goes bizirk until you take him back. This kind of behavior is not attractive to the typical woman, but it's attractive to some. An attraction that can lead to things like the Hudson double-homicide (possibly triple). Women make excuses for the men they date; women who don't pay closer attention to the warning signs. They like the attention, they like a man who makes a fool of himself for her. In my head, making a fool of yourself, entails sending a ridiculous display of roses to your job or asking you to dance to elevator music. NOT disrupting your life with a series of hissy fits. I never thought my ex, Louis' behavior would effect any one's life but mine until he showed up to my house with a metal baseball bat and threatened to kill a male friend who was at my house. Not only did he threaten, he tried and fortunately failed. That could have easily been a family member, or myself. That could have VERY easily have been a murder, or a double murder. I think about that night every time I hear some woman talk about how "crazy" her boyfriend is and how she stays anyway because, "that's just the way he is." Thinking a tragic escalation of violence can't happen to you just because you sleep in the same bed as this man is a very ignorant mistake to make. ANY man who doesn't respect you as a women, an individual and have enough sense to make your life NOTHING but better is a man who is missing a few screws and can very easily snap over to the other side.

I don't find stories like this amusing, and I don't find men like that to be innocent. Dating a scruffy guy who prefers to keep it "street" is fine, but dating an outright maniac just because he puts it down in the bedroom is foolish. Think about your life and the lives around you and ask yourself if you want to be responsible for your "crazy" man turning his anger on the people you love.

Helpful Resources:

National Domestic Abuse Hotline

Domestic Abuse Help

Reflections of a Mended Heart

Some days, certain things bring remembrance. The smell of an empty perfume bottle, an old cd you haven’t listened to in years or an old pair of jeans you used to wear relentlessly. For me, and my most recent heartache, it’s listening to John Mayer (no laughing). Before I left California, I’d listen to his album, Continuum, every day on the way to work. Riding on the BART with my own noisy silence, watching the sun come up from the platform in Hayward. I’d think about so much on that ride to work. Mostly D. About how we’d gotten to the point where we barely knew each other and I was packing boxes. Everything felt very cold and torn apart. Every day felt like walking into an empty room and sitting on the floor.

Now, I’m at my desk flipping through songs on my iPod and “Dreaming with a Broken Heart” comes on. The only part of me that feels that cold, empty feeling again is the part that recalls the pain we both went through during those months. But I also feel so happy, because we got through so much, that I know we can get through anything. I know that we can make it through a lot of crazy stuff, and I know inevitably that crazy stuff will come. I know that we love each other, not because it’s easy but because it’s natural. Now I can listen to sappy, slow music without shedding a tear. Looking back, I don’t regret much about both of our decisions. I kind of regret listening to John Mayer every morning though.

"I Wouldn't Expect You to Mow the Lawn, Boogs"

He was the jokester. The nerd. The country boy at heart. I was the princess who always had an opinion. The flirt. The restless soul. We met on a Saturday night (actually a Sunday morning) just sober enough to get into our (red) cars respectively and leave Jack London Square (Oakland). Both out for different reasons; me and my friends getting shit-faced in the name of my BFF, Theresa's birthday. D getting equally shit-faced to take his mind off of his grandfather's passing. Star crossed alcoholics if you will.

I used to think D didn't know me. I felt like he didn't understand me and that meant I should resist progressing with him. He's not a kumbaya-er. He doesn't smoke ganj or listen to electric hip-hop and alternative pop. He tends to get into a groove, rinse and repeat without feeling claustrophobic. I on the other hand, have never been much for structure. Or technology. I can barely keep my iTunes straight without having a conniption. And regardless of D's effort, football still makes my eyes glaze over with confusion (although I'm starting to grasp the concept). Needless to say, he and I are opposites on several planes. But our middle ground, that portion of our chemistry that aligns like a sparkling constellation....that part is totally amazing.

Like how affectionate he is when we're alone. There is always a hug, a kiss, a shoulder-rub; always a gentle nudge for me even if we're just watching TV. How he humors me when I nag about what he eats, even though I know he's a perfectly capable and healthy man (who tends to eat Sonics right before bed). How neither of us has ever stopped seeing infinite potential in each other. I think he'll be that amazing father that every kid should have. He's the goofiest man I've ever known personally, and I love that it's so unexpected. You'd never see his brand of sarcastic comedy coming, usually promptly followed by a burst of thundering laughter (at his own joke). I love that we can waste a day doing absolutely nothing and feel totally satisfied. I love that we can go to a nightclub and dance like there's no one around. I love that I've never even come close to seeing him as anything short of a grown man. Never a "dude", a "guy" a "nigga" or "boy". He's respected always and quite naturally. It's true, I'm not a living-single kind of girl. Very seldom have I been left on the market for much longer then a few months. I've shopped, and I've sampled. And I know with all my heart that he's the one I'm supposed to grow old, fat and grumpy with.

Beauty & The Spazz

It's bad enough when you can't control the panic that sets in whenever you think about the future. Throw love into the mix. Not just any love. But the real, worry free kind. The comforting kind that settles your stomach and strokes your hair and whispers "hush" to every single insecurity you have inside. The kind of love that heals for Christ's sake. It's bad enough that love already makes you feel like a fool. But for a chronically anxious worry-wort to be in love with your standard "has-it-all-together" prince charming....what kind of twist of fate is that? While he sails calmly into the future my mind keeps running in circles.

Like a little midget who keeps turning the light on while you try to sleep.

It's hard not to feel undeserving. Insecurity like that can drive a girl to do drastic things. Like move to New York. Her own illegitimate form of rehab. Her own punishment for being so disheveled.

I wish I could be his kind of perfect, but the truth of the matter is I'm far from. I always feel a little bit like a failure. I always feel a little bit behind. Standing next to life's prodigy, a man who tackles it all with a smile on his face, someone who never feels defeated...well...let's just say I feel slightly askew.

I'm over-selling, I'm sure. D isn't all that perfect. I'm sure he always feels a step or two behind. We're all catching up to someone else. Eyes moving faster than feet can carry. But he makes it look so damn easy. I wonder sometimes if I'll ever look back on myself and think, "I remember when I was a mess."

Until then, I stay one stumbling step behind. One second away from cracking. Constantly second guessing myself, always feeling like I'm fucking something up or forgetting something at home. Always wondering what it could possibly be that makes him love me so much.

Aside from my good looks, of course.

Of course, don't get the wrong idea. I know he loves me as is. He'd just kiss my (sharp) cheek and say, "It's gonna be OK, Boogs." His voice smiling, eyes singing. Of course he would never think of me as I think of myself. I'm not some spazzed out nut case in his eyes. To him I'm Boogie, the one who needs kisses like grass needs water. Running with her heels to the sky. Like a little black dress with hem undone.

Before I Was Jaded, I was 12

Those of you who follow my blog, or know me personally are well aware that I don't believe in baggage (the emotional kind, not the designer kind...that, I believe in fully). But I can say respective to my beliefs that there comes a time in our lives when we become permanently or temporarily jaded by love.

There also comes a time before that, when love is new like a fresh bottle of water; before lip gloss and backwash taint it's clarity. I forgot about this time. Until today when IM'ing Roscoe, and she told me that she was fully convinced and still is to this day that she was in love in Jr. High.

When I was 12 I had a boyfriend named Donald. He was the tallest boy in our class. Everyone always teased him because his head was shaped like an egg. Of course they called him "egg-head" but with respect to the fact that he was big enough to beat some ass. He took it in stride. He always had a basketball under his arm, and always glared at me during 4th period. It was a nice glare though, a look of speculation. At that age I was very shy with the exception of my circle of friends, I hardly talked to anyone I didn't already know. Which made me appear to be the most stuck up girl in school.

One day, my teacher gave me the task of bringing our attendance sheets to the front office. I of course elected one of my "circle-friends", Elizabeth, to accompany me. We walked into the office and suddenly I realized why I hadn't seen Donald's puppy dog brown eyes in class that day; he was getting suspended from school. I didn't bother asking (outwardly, it was beneath me; inwardly, I was too shy to initiate conversation with him), I simply completed my task, and turned back towards the door to leave.

"Ashley.."

First I looked at Liz, then at myself in the window pane in the office door. I was one of 11 Ashleys in my grade, so maybe he was talking to someone else. Liz nudged my elbow...no...he meant ...ME. I turned around transforming from a deer-in-headlights to a casually collected raised eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"I'm about to be gone from school for like...a week. But...u wanna go out with me?"

"Going out" back in 1997 meant to be boyfriend and girlfriend. It was, at that point in my life, as significant as a marriage proposal. I'm sure I only thought for split second before saying, "Ok. See you in a week I guess." Me and Liz held our excitement until we were safely from ear-shot before exploding in high pitched screams. That day Liz did her duty of spreading the word of our newly-founded courtship to everyone in school. Donald's "cool-points" were boosted and suddenly I was the topic of conversation that week.

Over the course of that year, we went on school trips together and held hands on the bus ride (inducing stirs and whispers), kissed after school ( I was 4'10" so I had to literally get on my tip toes while he bent down in order to kiss his lips), we talked on the phone after school for countless hours, and played coy at lunch to keep the rumor mill down (Jr. high is like Roberts Ave. in Beverly Hills and the Paparazzi clan), in that time and that place, he was my everything. I was sure it would last forever, especially since our first and last names lined up in length perfectly.

Then came the summer before 8th grade. Everyone went away for summer vacation, except me. My mom didn't have the money for family trips anymore, at least not one's that stretched out beyond the weekend. Donald went to LA to visit his mom. In his absence, he appointed his best friend Russell to look after me during the summer. Russell did a good job, calling to make sure I was ok, giving me updates about how Donald was (because his mother wouldn't allow girls calling the house) and making sure I hadn't found someone new. When Russell went to LA for the weekend with his parents, he sent me a letter in the mail professing his undying love and affection for me, and included a necklace with the drama faces on the pendent. (I never responded to the letter or brought it up, but wore the necklace every day until 10th grade when it was replaced with a necklace from my new boyfriend Gerald). One day I got a call from Donald himself. It was a few weeks before school started back up.

"Hey" he said, sounding deflated. I was just happy to hear his voice. We talked casually for a few moments, and then he said he had to get off.

"Before I go, I have to tell you something. My mom wants me to live with her now. You know, in LA." I didn't process it at first, and then my mom stepped into the living room so I had to pretend as if everything was fine and was talking to one of my girlfriends.

"Oh, that's cool." I said convincingly even-keeled.

"Yea, um..I guess. So that means I won't be coming back this year." He said.

"Well, when will you come back?"

"Probably not for a long time."

And that was it. I never saw him again, never heard from him again, not even a letter.

As my first lesson in love, it taught me that love is just like a faucet. It can burn, it can freeze and it can wash you clean at the drop of a hat.

Ladies: Don't Be A "Dick"

In the archives of my mind, is a file marked "MISTAKES MADE", and every so often I thumb through it's contents and remind myself not to repeat them. One of the worst mistakes I've ever made is looking for dirt....and finding it.

When D and I were still together back in California one winter, he decided to go on a trip to Vegas for All Star weekend. At the time I was 22 and he was 27, and the club scene was still a very strong presence in both our lives. Neither of us were INTO clubs in a big way, but we still went every so often without each other to let loose with our respective clan of friends. Nothing wrong with that. The thing is when the words "Vegas" and "All Star weekend" and "My friend B" came together in his sentence, a thousand thoughts began to flutter through my brain. One of them was the fact that although things between us were "fine", they could have been better, and maybe he was trying to get away from me on a subconscious level. Then I thought about how All Star weekend has a reputation for bringing EVERY one-night-stand seeking hootchie to the desert ready to leave what happens there buried in the sand. THEN I thought about the fact that D's friend B was single and free to mingle and I hardly believed for a second that he wasn't planning on using D as his wing man.

Well, even though I was getting heart palpitations and cold sweats, I tried to play it cool. I dropped my beloved off at the San Francisco airport, gave him a kiss and playfully reminded him to be good. We had something of an agreement, no over-drinking, and call me and let me know your ok. While he was gone I distracted myself by staying mostly over my best friend Theresa's house and putting myself to sleep in our empty bed aided by a bottle of white.

When I picked him back up from the airport, I expected a colorful story about his adventures in Vegas with the boys. He mentioned that he did some gambling and "No" they didn't hang out with any girls while he was there. I know that as boyfriends go I was lucky enough to get a damn good one, but even I'M not that stupid. He was hiding something and simultaneously playing me for a complete fool. My blood began to boil.


Well, weeks and weeks passed and I found a way to put my doubts to the back of my mind until one night when D went to finish up his laundry. "You wanna come, Boogie?" he asked. But I was tired and already into whatever show was on TV, so I politely declined. He left to go down the hall to put his load in. Now I know that in real life things like microwaves and vacuum cleaners cannot talk (unless your on PCP or shrooms) and no "thing" can actually call your name....but I swear as I sat on the couch across from where D had his phone plugged into the charger I distinctly heard..." Ashhhleeeyyyyy....Ashhhllleeyyyyy....." I shook the idea off and reminded myself that D loved me, and it could be very well possible that he had a stale, boring vacation in Vegas. Surrounded by scantly clad gold diggers. And his playerific friend. Hundreds of miles away. Filled to the brim with alcohol and testosterone.....

I'll just look in the Inbox.

I scrolled through to the February texts and started skimming for anything out of bounds. I flipped through about 5 messages and started to feel like a true psycho bitch when I saw it. "Really? Hows she looking?" from B. I stared at it for what seemed like hours while my face drained itself of color and blood. I laughed to myself. That could mean anything! So I took my sleuthing a step further. I checked the Sent folder. I went to the matching date and time as the mysterious culprit to see what D's response was, and there it was. It was just hours before I'd picked him up from the airport and D was at his gate chatting it up with some bitch in line and texting B about how fine she was. UGH!!

I quickly put the phone back where I'd found it and prepared to smile when D returned home. Later that week I found a way to finagle another chance for D to come clean. "I still can't believe how boring your trip to Vegas was, babe. I mean, if I was in Vegas with my girls I'd be flirting my ass off and scoring some free drinks!" He laughed and kissed my cheek as if I were some kind of rug rat on "Kids Say the Darnedest Things", and simply replied, "Nope, it was a good trip. Just low key." I pressed harder. "Your not afraid to tell me about the girls you met, because you think I'll get mad are you?" Again, D gave me his best chuckle. "Boogie, the only girl I met out there was this big fat chick that B and them dared me to go up and talk to outside one of the casinos one night." I dropped it.

The thing that made me the most upset wasn't the fact that D saw some cutie in line at the airport and started up a conversation. It wasn't even the fact that he was so enamored by her, apparently, that he absolutely had to report to B and describe what she looked like down to her outfit details. It was the fact that he didn't feel comfortable enough in our relationship to bring something like that up when I specifically asked him if he'd gotten his flirt on. I didn't ask in a threatening manner. I didn't want names. I didn't even CARE. I was just trying to have a casual conversation with the man I loved. The only reason my mind began to wonder in the first place and drive me to do something as low as invade his privacy, was because he acted SO strange about telling me about his trip. I always used to tell D about my nights out, even if he didn't ask. I'd tell him if some guy hit on me, because I thought he got a kick out of hearing how I brushed them off. I made sure that it never seemed like my nights out with friends was separate from our relationship. I wanted him to know that I was the same Boogie he knew even when I was out of sight. It crushed me to know that he could be two faced.

Looking back on all this I realize it was hardly worth the fuss. It wasn't worth getting sauced up on Rum in order to find the nerve to confront him. Screaming at him wildly for hours and telling him how worthless he was, and how now I didn't trust him. I definitely wasn't worth breaking up for a whole day. D talking to that girl meant nothing. He did it probably because that's what you do in Vegas, and maybe a little bit because we were going through a rough patch. He probably didn't tell me for the same reason most men wouldn't tell; because men are idiotic and convince themselves that their "little woman" can't handle the truth. It's pathetic that men lie to themselves about as much as women do. D is and has always been a good man, and I know that the majority of that entire episode was just my own stupid insecurities. Sure it would've been great if D had enough courage and trust to keep it real. But I was lacking the same to go behind his back and check his phone.

The moral? Anyone sneaky enough to REALLY fuck around is sneaky enough to hide the evidence. So anything you MIGHT find is usually not half as bad as what they already deleted. It's simply best to put trust in your man's character and morals. But if you feel the need to pry into your man's personal affects in order to find a truth you feel he doesn't have the balls to confess to, whether big or small (...truth that is, not balls); tell him! Say, "I am feeling insecure about this, even to the point of being tempted to check your shit." It sounds bad, but it's a whole lot better than actually doing it. If he refuses to show proof or tries to avoid talking about it....well, then maybe you would have found what you were looking for. And in that case, what more proof do you really need?

Popsicle Memoirs

"So what are your plans for the rest of the night?" My friend asked me over the phone yesterday.

"Well, to be perfectly honest, and excuse my vulgarity, I plan on taking a cold shower, not drying off and laying spread eagle on my bed glistening and naked until I fall asleep. You?" After his burst of laughter, he informed me that he'd probably do the same now that I'd mentioned it. It was 94 degrees after sundown. The humidity hadn't let up one inch and there was nothing to do but bare it. So after my shower I put my towel over my bed and laid there with a Mango Popsicle in one hand and my latest re-read, 'Memoirs of a Geisha' in the other. I was reading it to gain a little inspiration. The descriptions and color of the novel always make me filled with ideas of how I want to build a new character, and how they'll look on paper. My advice to anyone suddenly uninspired by life, read it....it will definitely wake you up.

After balancing both the book and my heavy eyelids I finally put it down and turned off my reading light. I let the crack in my drapes trickle in light from the street. It was almost midnight but listening to my neighborhood you never would have known it. Everyone was outside, playing old R&B songs, and talking and laughing. I wondered if anyone outside had a job to go to in the morning. Probably not; school was out and the high school seniors of 2008 were in that fabulous portion of life between graduation and the rest of their lives where they were expected to do absolutely nothing for a few months. I remember that summer. It was the summer I was dating this kid named Phil. He was a football player at the city college, and all the girls there had a crush on him. I remember when I started there, the girls all hated me because whenever I came around he would turn into a little puppy dog and follow me to class. He was pretty hot. No, scratch that.... he was MAJORLY hot. Tall 6'3" frame, lean muscle everywhere, dark piercing eyes and a chiseled face. He was handsome in that classical way; the typical football jock except he was pretty smart too. It only lasted through the summer, but it was a good ass summer. Being as how we were neighbors, he only lived about 45 seconds away. He would call me in the middle of the night to see if I was up sometimes. "I have to come give you something." He'd say. Then a minute later there was a light rapping at the front door. He'd be standing there in his pajama bottoms and Debo slippers with nothing in his hands.

"What'd you want to give me Phil?" I'd whisper, because my mother was asleep upstairs. Phil would simply lean forward and plant one on me. Just because. Then he'd say "See you in school." and walk back to his place. Looking back I realize that it meant nothing. We weren't each other's great loves, we had nothing in common except physical attraction and a common zip code. It was just curiosity and infatuation that lasted a few months. It was a few tender kisses and a couple of long nights together. Back when sex was less complicated, and boys had less game. When a kiss meant more to me than anything. Between a summer job, fighting with my mother, wishing I were older and figuring out college by myself....there was this really fascinating, once-in-a-lifetime thing. The last uncomplicated relationship of my entire life.

Chicken Noodle Soup for tha Love Sick

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. ..It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs...Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth....It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. " - 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

My definition of love has always evolved as I have evolved. When I was a little girl, love was my mother and father and sister. Love was my grandmother. It was bear hugs and bed time stories, it was darkened by anger and sustained by my own childish ability to forgive. I didn't know about love's pain or it's joys even. I only knew that it was warmth.

When I was a teenager love took a new shape altogether. It became exciting. It was cutting class to go to Jack London square with Gerald. It was taking pictures at One-Hour photo for Valentine's day. It was he said, she said and prom pictures. It became hurtful, revengeful, powerful and impossible. I lost trust and virginity and gave time I could have spent on something else. It may not have been love at all, but it made my heart beat faster than an amusement park ride.

Now, at 24 love has settled down. Love is assuming the best at all times, and letting go of insecurities. Love is like a highlighter, bringing to focus everything you thought you could cover up about yourself. Love digs deep and wants to know. It recreates you and smooths out your rough edges. Love is meeting half way, but sometimes it's give and take. It hurts the most when it's not real, or one sided. If feels the best on Sunday morning. Love is like a drink of water; refreshing, pure and vital. Love lost is love gained. And Whitney was right...the greatest love of all is for your self.