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.

Rich Men Are Better in Bed....

The link accompanying this school of thought is found here.


Basically this is a "study" that shows women who have wealthy partners are found to have more orgasms than the average woman.

Excuse me while I burst your bubble; Donald, Hef and Steve....

But these are commonly known as "Please-Gasms". Which are orgasms you have while getting off on something that is totally non-sexual. Like, say....a mutual fund...a trip to the Bahamas....a Louis Vuitton Speedy Bag....or first choice at Fashion Week.

It's not at all hard to become totally ecstatic and loose yourself in rapture and emotion if your only goal in life is to suck the assets out of some douche with an ego problem and too much money to keep track of.

Of course this is all in speculation. :)

Under-Cooked Boyfriends

There comes a time in every woman's life when she is forced to come to terms with the fact that her man is totally under cooked. Like a raw egg... or my favorite comparison; a zygote. A newly fertilized egg in the stages before human development.

If you are dating a zygote...please stop and put him back in the oven.

How To Survive Women

Being that I'm headed toward eternal partnership, and the fact that I am mildly compulsive in most capacities; I've been doing my reading on domestication. Everything from how to keep pet hair from becoming a problem to how to keep the spice in your relationship. However, it wasn't until today while clicking through Yahoo's latest relationship advice article and the realities of marriage, when I noticed something. Why are ALL the relationship advice geared toward how WOMEN can learn to deal or take care of their MEN??

I mean, yes, we are usually the ones who constantly check for and tug off the proverbial lint balls of our relationship. Tending and maintaining is in our very genetics. But lost we are not. Women have had the knowledge pounded into their heads for centuries that "you can't change a man" and to "stand by your man" and "if you don't give it to him, someone else will..." But where is that manual that teaches men how to get from day 1 to day 7 of their woman's cycle without suffering a severe eye injury? And how to REMEMBER those tedious things that they always seem to forget that mean so much to us (like anniversaries and special songs). Or how to let go of their fear of floral patterns and muted tones and let their woman decorate as she sees fit? These too are aspects of the male/female relationship that can either maintain the serenity of the household peace or drudge up an argument that usually lands the man in the guestroom/couch/doghouse.

I think there are a million and one things women have to get used to when living with a man; like toilet splatter, and 7 pairs of Nike Dunks left in the hallway. But there are also like a bizillion more things a man has to get used to when dealing with a woman, and the number only climbs from the point of child baring.

So my very plea...someone...someone with a really awesome publisher and book deal already lined up...please write a book (or several) addressed to men about how to keep US happy. Because in case no one has noticed...our guys could use the assistance.

The Other Man Meat

When I was a young girl, a little girl even, maybe twelve or thirteen, I started getting attention from the other kind of man. The kind of man who slowed his car down in the middle of the hot street, cracked his window so that his blaring music streams out and would promptly ask my age. I always replied a year younger than I actually was, sometimes more, just so they might feel a tinge of embarrassment and leave me alone. Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn't.

This is the same kind of man, I found as I grew up, that would befriend me so I would let my guard down enough that I might sleep with him; as if I was incapable of making decisions about sex if not under false pretenses. This would be the man who was incapable of telling the truth, imagining in his head that he held a powers I never gave him. He would be the kind of man who might flash an obscene gesture at me on the train, not thinking of just how that might make me feel inside, or licking his lips at me during the lunch rush even though I'd tried my best to dress conservatively for work. The man with empty eyes, who requires rapture in everything he does, and begs for attention like a 5 year old in the church parking lot. These are the men who make the other kind of man feel like a blue light in the middle of a dark room.

I'm glad I have someone with no misconceptions, no pretend objective, no alternative motive. Someone with more than just the bedroom in his eyes. With more to talk about and less to say. Someone just like me.

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

Vintage Me

Looking through some old files, came across some old pictures.

My mother and I the first week in me and D's first place together in Hayward, CA >>>>>>>>>>>>>

(left & below) My 24th B-Day dinner in San Francisco w/ friends and fam.

<D and me on one of our first trips to visit his family in Los Angeles. Also, the rental car from hell, never buy a Saturn, even if you think their cute now.

>>>

MAJOR THROWBACK!!

This is my ex-boyfriend (and still good friend), Noah the summer we stopped being annoying neighbors and had a budding summer romance.

^^^^^^

Vintage Me- (2001) The day after Jr. Prom. In front on my cousin Atya's house. You couldn't tell me SHIT back then. I was 17, the ONLY year of my life that I was boyfriend-less. A few months before I got my first place and "adult" life began.

I Gotta Get Out of My Head- I've Lived Here For Too Long

I'm pulling myself out of this disgustingly over-ridden rut I've been in once and for all. I booked my plane ticket to go see D last night, and requested my time off to be with him for Christmas. I have so much to look forward to, that it's making me turn into a little blob of goo. Just waiting for time to pass, the faster the better. But instead of living IN tomorrow instead of FOR tomorrow, it's time I just plain snapped out of it. There are TAGS in my closet. TAGS!!! Unworn clothes, UN-ROCKED outfits beckoning for me to grab them, do something fun with my insanely short hair, rock some Vegas eyeshadow and hit the streets with my partner in crime. Well, break out the hot pink nail polish, cause I'm gonna shake my ass tonight. I plan on throwing back more than a few shots and then booking it home no earlier than 1am. The destination at large is the NJV (Not Just Vintage) fashion event tonight honoring the black men of Brooklyn. I have no idea why they are honoring them, other than the fact that, yes, Brooklyn has some of the most disgustingly hot black men I've ever encountered, but I'm always up for a fashion event. Keep an eye out on FUXfashion for the details, and the pics.

Nappily Ever After

It probably needs not to be said, but hair is a big deal to black women. Hair is a big deal to ALL women, but especially black women. We are judged (within our own race, of course) highly on how our hair is presented. Is our hair real or fake? Short or long? Nappy-curly or Curly-curly? Are we mixed? Is that a wig, girl? And depending on the men we partner up with, it's an even bigger deal. My ex-fiance wanted me to get a weave. My hair was long and thick and I hardly had time to get down and flatten it out, so I kept it up. But he wanted the ghetto fantasy, so he was constantly trying to bribe me into weaving it up. I'm glad I said no. Neither the man nor the weave would have been worth it. I've been battling the hair-war for over 16 years now. Ever since my mom put the first relaxer on my head and melted my kinky curls into silky-soft, long tresses.


But now the madness ends. I'm done stretching out my kinks with fire roasted flat irons, and trying to avoid the truth I thought was too bitter to taste. My hair is kinky as all shit, thick as hell and absolutely gorgeous. So today, around 6pm, eastern, my relaxed ends (and the majority of my hair) will be cut off and thrown out like the rest of the things that used to hold me back. I'm down for it, D's down for it and that's really all I need.


I'll be posting an "after" picture tomorrow. I want to see some comments!!


BEFORE: (Check my Heidi Braid) AFTER: (TWA, Teeny Weenie Afro)

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?