Alright, so my last post yielded one comment, and though I understand the opinion, I have to say I feel a bit sensitive about it. No one likes to be told to shut the fuck up--though that's not exactly what was said. And hell, I feel that way sometimes when I'm around someone who's going on and on and fuckin' ON! It's like get to the damn point already! So that said, I'll do my best to keep it brief, yet interesting, and say what I gotta say. Cool? Cool.
Now, let's get to my point. Lemme preface my statements by saying that I am of the performance/entertainment background. So you can take all of what I'm about to say with the requisite grain of salt, though it won't make it any less true.
What I know of myself as an actor/writer is that I'm a purist. I believe that the most important thing in entertainment is the talent. To me, no amount of show flashery can ever take its place. Since brevity is the new key here, I'll have to elaborate later. Now, I love movies, I love theatre, I love music, so anything that encompasses part or all of those things is usually beloved by me. As a matter of fact, one of the reasons why I'm so secure about moving back to Atlanta, is because there's a nice artistic community alive and well there. Granted, it's not New York (let's face it, nothing is) but at least it's not a hillbilly sitting on his porch picking his teeth and drinking moonshine from a mason jar, cleaning his shotgun and being hailed as the poet laureate of Dirt Patch. Ah, that's entertainment! Although there's nothing wrong with drinking corn liquor from a mason jar. How do you think I come up with my unbelievably long posts?
Ok, I'm getting to the point. Damn, I feel like a bitch on the clock. Lately I've been feeling really, deeply, and profoundly disappointed with the state of entertainment in this country. I used to wait with sweaty anticipation for Friday night to come. Not cause I had a hot date, I was kind of a loser in high school when it came to that, but cause that was the release date for new movies! And there was always an assurance that something good was gonna be playing. I would spend money on the ridiculously inflated ticket prices and then the same was true for the overly priced concessions. Then I'd retreat to the sanctity of that blackened auditorium with the semi-comfortable (but often not) seats with cigarette burns and broken arms, nestle quietly in, and wait eagerly for the show to begin. And I was transported. And it was the same when I heard a song I loved. I was ten years old when Man in the Mirror came out. And I remember sitting on the side of my bed listening to the lyrics and being blown away. That was the first time I realized that a song could mean something more than a rhythm to dance to. It could change the way you think. It could change the world.
But today, art has been offered up at the altar of gimmicks. I saw a magazine cover with Lady Gaga and I had a physical and violent reaction to it. I don't want this blog to devolve into an entertainment fixture, that's not why I started it and truth be told there's enough of those out here in cyberspace already. But I do have to ask, what the fuck is up with everyone drooling over and jerking off to her? Am I the only one who thinks she's crap? And now with the VMA's fast approaching, I have to ask myself--Is there any real reason to care? There was a time when I lived, I mean LIVED for the VMA's. They were almost on par with the Oscars for me (which everyone who knows me knows on that particular day of the year, don't call me and as a matter of fact DON'T FUCKING TALK TO ME AT ALL until it's over. I'm an Oscar Nazi that way). But now, it's just been reduced to a laser show geared toward giving the audience massive seizures.
Being famous nowadays, and really from the beginning of time, has nothing to do with being talented. And it feels like that's in overdrive in today's society. And the purist in me resents that. There's a real dearth of quality entertainment out there for adults who don't give a damn about the Disney Channel offspring. I hate being pumped up to believe in the next big thing--the next big actor, the next big movie, the next big singer, whatever, only to be completely and utterly disappointed. Mediocrity has become the new standard and it's so fucking annoying. I'm just tired of it. I know many of you who are in this "business" will defend the gimmick makers and all that jazz, and I know they have a job to do. Sell a product, create a demand and shove it down our throats. I just wish the shit were of better stock instead of the flaming pile of dogshit that it is. It's like waking up Christmas morning expecting to find a tree adorned with gifts galore, only to find a drunk Santa Claus passed out naked next to your mother, with cookie crumbs around his mouth and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels at his feet. Merry Christmas bitches.
So I tried to keep it short. Don't know if I succeeded. Deal with it. Till next time, lovers.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Brevity is...brief?
Ok people, it has been brought to my attention that my posts tend to be a bit long. This is done both purposely (cause I like to talk, I admit it) and also accidentally (see previous parenthetical). So my question for yall is, should I shorten my posts? Are they too long or are they just fine? I've been debating for several days now which is why I haven't updated this blog in a while. So much has gone on pertaining to my time in Atlanta and naturally I was eager to share. But how to share became the question. And what to say--so much happened during that week long furlow that I don't even know where to begin. So if you like my long, loquacious blogs, I'll tell you all. If you think "brevity is the soul of wit" then I'll adjust. It's up to you lovelies. Till next time, lovers!
Monday, August 16, 2010
Adventures in Charlotte-land
Hello my lovelies. It's been awhile, I know, but yall know how I do. I have been enjoying my travel time, driving on the American highways of the gentile south. Honestly it doesn't look so gentile when you're traveling north of 80 miles an hour, sucking down 5 hr energy drinks to keep from drifting off to sleep behind the wheel cause you were up till 5:45 am drinking cocktails with your cousin and some dude who's clearly only paying attention to you cause he wants to seem nice and interesting to her, who he's obviously trying to make his first ex-wife. But hey, do you boy, do you. But then again, seriously dude, you ain't gettin none! I'm getting ahead of myself, naturally. Let's go back to the very beginning. A very good place to start. When you read you begin with A-B-C. When you sing you begin with Do-Re-Mi...damn, sorry got sidetracked. I just love that song. I used to wish a singing white nun would show up at my house and help shield me from singing Nazis. Or that a flying white nanny would help me clean my room by making the clothes magically dance their way into my drawers. I guess I just liked the idea of magical white people showing up at my house and making all my problems disappear with a smile and a song. That or I just really loved Julie Andrews.
So, now that that's been settled, I shoved off from my father's house in Maryland last Monday August 9th around 10:30 a.m., and arrived at my cousin's apartment in Charlotte around 5 or 6 p.m. It was a long drive and I was really wiped when I got there. But full of excitement. Let me start (and I promise not to go through a Julie Andrews number again...at least not at this moment. I could break out with one at another juncture, you just never know the power of Julie and other magical white folks) with an introduction of this particular cousin so as to set the mood. I don't like using real people's names in case you haven't noticed that from my previous posts. It's one thing for me to bare my soul but I don't feel comfortable about putting other people that I'll have to deal with eventually on blast...cause blast I will if they need it. Hell, I still haven't revealed myself on here. The two followers I have (yay yall!!!) know me but on the off chance that some stranger wanders into my land of make believe, they don't need to know any more of my business, hell I'm putting most of it out here as it is. Digressing, I know but it's colorful so you love it. After all, I am a colored person...I mean colorful.
Anyhoo, my cousin--let's call her Mindy (I know it's a stretch. Not too many black Mindy's out there but I'm sure there's one; and she lives in a place where the hills are alive with the sound of music. With songs they have sung for a thousand years...damnit Julie got outta my brain!)--has been living in Charlotte for bout a year and a half now. And when she picked up and moved there, the family collectively scrunched up their eyebrows, rolled their eyes, sucked their teeth, did neck rolls, placed hands on hips (you know, all the traditionally stereotypical black responses) and said, "What the hell is she moving there for?" Cause let's face it, Charlotte, N.C. for culture? In my mind, and the mind of maaaaaaaaaannnnnnny others, it's like the end of all things cooth. She was always someone who lived a certain kind of lifestyle. Champagne taste and beer money I believe is the term generally used to describe her. She's a type A personality and worked a very corporate banking job. At one point, she'd been the head of the HR department for Bank of America. When you think of black professional, it's her image that pops into your mind, and you don't even know her. This is a woman who's pointed, guarded, "bout it bout it" as they say, fashionably dressed--always dressed. She told me recently that her mother once asked her, "Do you always have to be at a ten?" Referring to when she goes out. Her reputation amongst some in the family and I know by the population at large is a bit derisive. She's hard hitting, opinionated, self involved, and of course, the kiss of death when it comes to dating (for some) HIGH MAINTENANCE. Men hear that and their dicks deflate. In other words, she's most black women (kidding ladies--sort of).
I have to confess, my opinion of this particular cousin was the same. I found her to be overbearing at times, very dramatic (this is still an unaltered opinion--she is dramatic. But what can I say, I used to act for a living; not that I made a living at it but you know what I mean), self absorbed, and high maintenance. Sometimes the thought of being in a room with her would cause me to have convulsions followed by hyperventilation. She just took up so much energy it was really untenable. I just didn't know how to deal with her. Once I was hanging out with her, and this was before I started driving but I was of drinking age, and Mommy dropped me off at her parents' house cause she'd returned home after a stint in LA. I came there already dressed and ready to head out. Do you know I sat on my aunt's couch and waited for her to get ready for OVER 2 HOURS??!!! Now, just in case yall don't know, which I know you don't...I ain't wit that, ok? I can get ready--shower, do hair, get dressed, do make-up--in 50-60 minutes. I just added it up. It breaks down thus: 15 minute shower (this doesn't include washing my hair but since black hair is so intensive I'm giving you a general going out scenario cause usually hair was already professionally washed just waiting for me to style it. I don't wash my own hair anymore it's too long. The Dominicans can lay my stuff just right. Don't judge. This mess is too thick and too long for me to fight with it), 20 minutes to style my hair, 5 minutes to dress and perfume, and another 10-15 minutes to put on my make-up. Done! Out the door looking gooder than a muthafucka. So 2 hrs for a bitch to shower, pluck eyebrows and all that other shit was way extra for me. But then we go to some rat trap club in Newark where she introduces me to Shaquille O'Neal, who introduces himself to me as "Jamal". Now, I don't follow professional sports, but you the only 7ft tall black man for miles...in the world, you expect me not to know who the hell you are? Nigga please. Told you I use the "N" word. Deal with it. There'll be more. Forgot to mention, Mindy knows a lot of celebrities. She moved out to Los Angeles for awhile and worked several years in the music industry for I believe Arista. Basically she babysat the artists and was on call 24/7. During that time, she was overworked and really stressed out. But she wound up calling some well known celebrities "friend". And it's genuine.
This person wasn't the cousin I grew up with and certainly wasn't a woman I could chill with. She was always "on", name dropping--which is a HUGE issue for me. I don't give a damn that Will Smith walked you down the aisle (actually that might be fly). That doesn't matter to me. And he didn't by the way, she's not married. But the things that mattered to her didn't matter to me so I didn't know how to communicate with her. And that wasn't much of an issue cause she usually did all of the talking. And she's also an insanely huge football fan. She knows the game like dudes know the game. She knows players stats, who's injured, who's about to get fired, which team is ranked where, all that jazz. I know the difference between the quarterback and the field goal kicker. That's about it. Even though my brother played for years and I was forced to watch every single game, my interest was elsewhere. I do like the tight pants they wear though. Sets my lady bits all a flutter.
So now I guess you're like, why the hell did you wanna stay with her, after reading all this shit. I wanted to paint the picture of how I thought of her and how she's been perceived by many in order for the contrast to work properly. When I first had my inspiration for this trip, I immediately thought of showing up on her doorstep. Cause even though she seems a bit abrasive, and don't get it twisted, she can be, she's also very family oriented. And we seemed to be in very similar situations. She left Bank of America with a bit of a package and picked up and moved to Charlotte, and was unemployed until recently. But she put her mind to it and just did it. She decided on where she wanted to live, did all the research she needed to find the things she would need to enjoy her life there, and then moved. And I wanted to know what her life was like there, no job and all. I wanted to find someone who could help me make sense of my situation, to quell my fears; to tell me it was ok to get outta dodge. She left on a wing and a prayer and seemed to be alright. And if that's what I wanted to do, how I wanted to land, she was the person I needed to talk to. And honestly, the woman I found in Charlotte was much calmer, more mature, and down right more enjoyable than the woman who left Jersey. She seemed so settled and satisfied with herself and it really came through. She really made me feel welcomed and entertained. She even said with all the things we did, she didn't really do as much cause she didn't have someone to really experience it all with, so I was able to give her that, which felt nice. I told her the other day that this time with her reminded me of when we were younger. Mindy is about six years older than me, so when I was ten she was sixteen. And I used to love it when she came to visit. There was just something fun about her spirit. And I always thought she was so pretty. Her father and my grandfather are brothers, so she and Mommy were first cousins. Her father, my Uncle--let's call him Gene--is younger than my grandfather, so she and her siblings are the younger cousins of my mother. She was to my mother what I was to her. But she'd come over and talk to me and play with me and just had this lovable, nurturing side to her. It was like she treated me like an equal and not her dumb little cousin. I mention the family relation because she has such an exotic look, truly. She looks almost Asian--like my uncle could have been Japanese or Filipino or something. Which, if you know my Uncle Gene and/or my grandfather, is fairly laughable. Neither one of them looks Asian at all. But for some reason, she came out looking the most exotic out of all her siblings. And I always found that so appealing. I wanted to look like her cause I just thought she was gorgeous. She was slender and had a nice shape. She had the typical black girl booty and enough up top to keep a man's interest. And I had started to gain weight and feel fat, so her shape was exactly what I wanted my body to look like. Hell, still do. But once we became our own adults, I found myself missing the Mindy of my youth. Where was the girl who was so warm and made me feel important and special? I didn't recognize the woman she'd become and couldn't relate to her anymore. I think what happened, and I don't believe I'm too off here cause she's said as much during my time with her, that she got caught up in the rat race of corporate America. She bought into the lie about being a professional, aggressive woman in order to succeed in this life. That no one is anyone without material things to surround them and fill up their life. So she became about that, believing as most do, that a successful career will lead to a like minded successful man, which of course will lead to love and marriage. But that hard living turned her into a hard woman, which pushed the men away, which caused her to focus more on her career, which made her work harder and become more hardened, which pushed the men further away. And it became a twisted and bitter cycle that she couldn't escape. She wasn't happy in Jersey, and I know she didn't like L.A., but I think in Charlotte she finally discovered herself. Charlotte is her Atlanta. And I just love who she is now. She's the Mindy of my youth, and I missed her. Now, she didn't drop all her other behavior overnight or even at all, hell she's pushing forty so in a sense she's a bit set in her ways, but that's fine. Cause I've changed too. I don't judge her as hard anymore, cause when I lost my job and reached out to her, I truly realized, I wasn't but a heartbeat away from being her. I've been embittered by relationship disasters with men, I hated where I was living, I was sad and confused by what my life was now without my mom (although both her parents are fortunately still here). It's easier to condemn someone before walking in their shoes isn't it?
So, now with a new found cousin courtship blooming, we hit Charlotte running. I mean literally, I feel like I haven't slept in days. She posted her status update on Facebook the evening I left saying she was tired and really needed to sleep and cleanse her body. It was like college again. First off, we drank EVERYDAY! Not like I would have fifteen years ago, but I don't drink that much nowadays. We literally stopped in a bar or restaurant everyday and had a drink. The night I got there, we pulled up to one of her favorite low key spots and drank. And I was working on fumes. Lemme tell you bout her place though...the cliff notes version, 2 bedroom/2 bath, dinette, kitchen, huge pantry, washer/dryer in unit, living room, club house, 2 gyms, parking lot; all for the price of...wait for it...$710! And that's with a rent increase! Those of you in Jersey, tell me where the hell you can get a deal like that? And the rooms, closets, bathrooms, everything is spacious. It's not like some closet in Hoboken you pay $2400/month for and can barely turn around in. So I was impressed with that. But I knew it was gonna be cheaper so...She took me around to alot of the different neighborhoods and really talked about how the black professional middle class is a real, strong presence in Charlotte. Which is something else I loved. When she broke it down, I realized I'd been sleepin on Charlotte. She was making friends with people who knew PEOPLE...hell, we picked up a book just by chance titled something like Important Black People in Charlotte (not the literal title but again, along those lines) and there was a dude in there we both just met the night before...at a hopping restaurant that a lot of black professionals patronize (we were with two of her female friends, one of which was also in that book of important black folks to know in Charlotte). I mean these are the kinda people she rubs elbows with, and sometimes doesn't even know it. She's still a go-getter. She believes in making her own destiny to a point--I mean she believes that God is the master of her fate and that he has a plan for her, but it's her job to help it along. She still likes to live a certain kind of life, but she's someone who knows what to do to get it. She believes in putting herself in position to meet the kind of people she needs to meet to do the things she needs and wants to do. Like right now, she's basically trying to get her business off the ground--event planning and things of that nature, with a bit of home beauty sales thrown in--and she's got the personality to get it done. I can't sell shit cause I don't give a shit, but she can sell shit to Donald Trump and convince him that not only does he need shit in his life, but he needs HER shit in particular. I mean, I marvel at people like that cause they have something I just don't and probably never will. So I'm not worried about her. She gone be alright. Now, in the relationship department, she's made a statement that many women of her age have. Many of us advancing toward forty will face the same challenge and may echo her sentiments. She still wants to get married and have children, but at thirty-nine, she's not pressed. If he comes, he comes. She's also said that the next house she buys (she owns one in Jersey) a man is gonna have to put her in. She's ready to be soft, warm, and pink. She said she's done that type A, aggressive business woman thing, and it cost her. She's not willing to pay that price again.
As I bring this entry to a close, I wanna leave you with a few things. 1.) the dude I mentioned in the beginning of this post who was deeply interested in gettin with her, despite the fact that he had not a chance in hell, was the very same man in the important negro book. We let him buy us a drink and dinner at the diner at 5 a.m. He's a nice guy, I liked his company, and she said she may chill with him again, but that's it. I think they'll get married. He's like Wendell Pierce's character in Waiting to Exhale, but not an asshole (so far); 2.) I learned alot about my time with cousin Mindy. I learned that I'd judged her too harshly and that most of that was unfair. She's just a woman searching for her own road to happiness, and that the bumps she hit are the same ones coming my way. That her experiences are valuable for me, since I'm coming right behind her. But I finally think she found the place where she can flourish and really discover what it is that makes her happy. And truly, that I respect and admire her--admire the fact that she's no longer sitting on the sidelines, watching her life go by without her; and 3.) Sometimes you bleed when you get a bikini wax. I've been debating for some time whether to wax, or not to wax; that indeed was the question. And Mindy took me to her spot and I endured just for the purpose of blogging about it later. I shaved a few weeks before, if you read my first blog you'll remember cause that's when someone set off the fire alarm in my hotel. I almost had to run out with no drawers. As it was, I didn't get to wipe off the shaving cream, so that was an interesting feeling in my pants. I was concerned there wouldn't be enough hair to wax, but the lady (she's not American. I think she's European. Or Brazilian) looked at it and said it was fine. Now this was very interesting cause Mindy suggested I get a simple bikini wax since this was my first time. No need to go all in till I knew my tolerance for pain. The nooks and crannies would have to wait. So I agreed and laid down on the table. And she swabbed me with alcohol, and it felt kinda like I was a baby. I don't remember getting a diaper change, but I've seen plenty of parents do it, and the way they wipe; a mixture of roughness and tenderness, was exactly how this lady did it. Kinda disaffected. So she slathers on the warm wax and begins asking me a bunch of innocuous questions. I guess to take my mind off the fact that she was about to rip my pubic hair out by the root. And when she commenced to the actual ripping, it was all good up until she got close to the nooks and crannies. Then it was a bit of, please don't go too far and rip my punani out. But even with all that, it didn't hurt as bad as I'd feared. So she hands me a mirror (weird but ok) and tells me to check the area. She notices an uneven patch and fixes it before I can sit up and investigate her work. When I do take a gander, I'm aghast to see a trickle of BLOOD there. Her response, "sometimes the coarser hairs can do that". Not sure what the hell to make of that, but wow. So, what, I'm fuckin' Gorillas in the Mist now? She slathered me with some oil and sent me on my way.
When I told a friend today about my waxing experience, she adamantly refused to go through it. But not just that, she said she rocks it au naturel--motherland style. I told her I used to as well and would only shave upon request. Like if a dude I was gonna introduce the kitty kat too wanted her to be clean shaven for his enjoyment, I felt like sure. That's what a hospitable host does, makes the company feel welcome. But as soon as Dick Johnson leaves, it's back to National Geographic. Cause honestly, it's just me who has to see her and I don't give a fuck if she's a little wild at heart. And then the day came that changed everything. Seriously, a game fuckin changer on the real. I found two or three, gray hairs south of the mason dixon and that was fucking THAT!!! That shit had to go! And when I relayed that as my main reason for treading lightly at first into the waxing regime, my friend quickly did an about face and said she will be a waxing mofo if/when the gray goose arrives knock knock knocking on her heaven's door. And that I whole heartedly agree with. I'm only thirty-three. I REFUSE to pull down my pants and see a bunch of gray between my legs, unless for some reason Roger Sterling is going down on me. Then that's ok, otherwise my motto is...if you see gray, gotta wax it away! Till next time, lovers!
So, now that that's been settled, I shoved off from my father's house in Maryland last Monday August 9th around 10:30 a.m., and arrived at my cousin's apartment in Charlotte around 5 or 6 p.m. It was a long drive and I was really wiped when I got there. But full of excitement. Let me start (and I promise not to go through a Julie Andrews number again...at least not at this moment. I could break out with one at another juncture, you just never know the power of Julie and other magical white folks) with an introduction of this particular cousin so as to set the mood. I don't like using real people's names in case you haven't noticed that from my previous posts. It's one thing for me to bare my soul but I don't feel comfortable about putting other people that I'll have to deal with eventually on blast...cause blast I will if they need it. Hell, I still haven't revealed myself on here. The two followers I have (yay yall!!!) know me but on the off chance that some stranger wanders into my land of make believe, they don't need to know any more of my business, hell I'm putting most of it out here as it is. Digressing, I know but it's colorful so you love it. After all, I am a colored person...I mean colorful.
Anyhoo, my cousin--let's call her Mindy (I know it's a stretch. Not too many black Mindy's out there but I'm sure there's one; and she lives in a place where the hills are alive with the sound of music. With songs they have sung for a thousand years...damnit Julie got outta my brain!)--has been living in Charlotte for bout a year and a half now. And when she picked up and moved there, the family collectively scrunched up their eyebrows, rolled their eyes, sucked their teeth, did neck rolls, placed hands on hips (you know, all the traditionally stereotypical black responses) and said, "What the hell is she moving there for?" Cause let's face it, Charlotte, N.C. for culture? In my mind, and the mind of maaaaaaaaaannnnnnny others, it's like the end of all things cooth. She was always someone who lived a certain kind of lifestyle. Champagne taste and beer money I believe is the term generally used to describe her. She's a type A personality and worked a very corporate banking job. At one point, she'd been the head of the HR department for Bank of America. When you think of black professional, it's her image that pops into your mind, and you don't even know her. This is a woman who's pointed, guarded, "bout it bout it" as they say, fashionably dressed--always dressed. She told me recently that her mother once asked her, "Do you always have to be at a ten?" Referring to when she goes out. Her reputation amongst some in the family and I know by the population at large is a bit derisive. She's hard hitting, opinionated, self involved, and of course, the kiss of death when it comes to dating (for some) HIGH MAINTENANCE. Men hear that and their dicks deflate. In other words, she's most black women (kidding ladies--sort of).
I have to confess, my opinion of this particular cousin was the same. I found her to be overbearing at times, very dramatic (this is still an unaltered opinion--she is dramatic. But what can I say, I used to act for a living; not that I made a living at it but you know what I mean), self absorbed, and high maintenance. Sometimes the thought of being in a room with her would cause me to have convulsions followed by hyperventilation. She just took up so much energy it was really untenable. I just didn't know how to deal with her. Once I was hanging out with her, and this was before I started driving but I was of drinking age, and Mommy dropped me off at her parents' house cause she'd returned home after a stint in LA. I came there already dressed and ready to head out. Do you know I sat on my aunt's couch and waited for her to get ready for OVER 2 HOURS??!!! Now, just in case yall don't know, which I know you don't...I ain't wit that, ok? I can get ready--shower, do hair, get dressed, do make-up--in 50-60 minutes. I just added it up. It breaks down thus: 15 minute shower (this doesn't include washing my hair but since black hair is so intensive I'm giving you a general going out scenario cause usually hair was already professionally washed just waiting for me to style it. I don't wash my own hair anymore it's too long. The Dominicans can lay my stuff just right. Don't judge. This mess is too thick and too long for me to fight with it), 20 minutes to style my hair, 5 minutes to dress and perfume, and another 10-15 minutes to put on my make-up. Done! Out the door looking gooder than a muthafucka. So 2 hrs for a bitch to shower, pluck eyebrows and all that other shit was way extra for me. But then we go to some rat trap club in Newark where she introduces me to Shaquille O'Neal, who introduces himself to me as "Jamal". Now, I don't follow professional sports, but you the only 7ft tall black man for miles...in the world, you expect me not to know who the hell you are? Nigga please. Told you I use the "N" word. Deal with it. There'll be more. Forgot to mention, Mindy knows a lot of celebrities. She moved out to Los Angeles for awhile and worked several years in the music industry for I believe Arista. Basically she babysat the artists and was on call 24/7. During that time, she was overworked and really stressed out. But she wound up calling some well known celebrities "friend". And it's genuine.
This person wasn't the cousin I grew up with and certainly wasn't a woman I could chill with. She was always "on", name dropping--which is a HUGE issue for me. I don't give a damn that Will Smith walked you down the aisle (actually that might be fly). That doesn't matter to me. And he didn't by the way, she's not married. But the things that mattered to her didn't matter to me so I didn't know how to communicate with her. And that wasn't much of an issue cause she usually did all of the talking. And she's also an insanely huge football fan. She knows the game like dudes know the game. She knows players stats, who's injured, who's about to get fired, which team is ranked where, all that jazz. I know the difference between the quarterback and the field goal kicker. That's about it. Even though my brother played for years and I was forced to watch every single game, my interest was elsewhere. I do like the tight pants they wear though. Sets my lady bits all a flutter.
So now I guess you're like, why the hell did you wanna stay with her, after reading all this shit. I wanted to paint the picture of how I thought of her and how she's been perceived by many in order for the contrast to work properly. When I first had my inspiration for this trip, I immediately thought of showing up on her doorstep. Cause even though she seems a bit abrasive, and don't get it twisted, she can be, she's also very family oriented. And we seemed to be in very similar situations. She left Bank of America with a bit of a package and picked up and moved to Charlotte, and was unemployed until recently. But she put her mind to it and just did it. She decided on where she wanted to live, did all the research she needed to find the things she would need to enjoy her life there, and then moved. And I wanted to know what her life was like there, no job and all. I wanted to find someone who could help me make sense of my situation, to quell my fears; to tell me it was ok to get outta dodge. She left on a wing and a prayer and seemed to be alright. And if that's what I wanted to do, how I wanted to land, she was the person I needed to talk to. And honestly, the woman I found in Charlotte was much calmer, more mature, and down right more enjoyable than the woman who left Jersey. She seemed so settled and satisfied with herself and it really came through. She really made me feel welcomed and entertained. She even said with all the things we did, she didn't really do as much cause she didn't have someone to really experience it all with, so I was able to give her that, which felt nice. I told her the other day that this time with her reminded me of when we were younger. Mindy is about six years older than me, so when I was ten she was sixteen. And I used to love it when she came to visit. There was just something fun about her spirit. And I always thought she was so pretty. Her father and my grandfather are brothers, so she and Mommy were first cousins. Her father, my Uncle--let's call him Gene--is younger than my grandfather, so she and her siblings are the younger cousins of my mother. She was to my mother what I was to her. But she'd come over and talk to me and play with me and just had this lovable, nurturing side to her. It was like she treated me like an equal and not her dumb little cousin. I mention the family relation because she has such an exotic look, truly. She looks almost Asian--like my uncle could have been Japanese or Filipino or something. Which, if you know my Uncle Gene and/or my grandfather, is fairly laughable. Neither one of them looks Asian at all. But for some reason, she came out looking the most exotic out of all her siblings. And I always found that so appealing. I wanted to look like her cause I just thought she was gorgeous. She was slender and had a nice shape. She had the typical black girl booty and enough up top to keep a man's interest. And I had started to gain weight and feel fat, so her shape was exactly what I wanted my body to look like. Hell, still do. But once we became our own adults, I found myself missing the Mindy of my youth. Where was the girl who was so warm and made me feel important and special? I didn't recognize the woman she'd become and couldn't relate to her anymore. I think what happened, and I don't believe I'm too off here cause she's said as much during my time with her, that she got caught up in the rat race of corporate America. She bought into the lie about being a professional, aggressive woman in order to succeed in this life. That no one is anyone without material things to surround them and fill up their life. So she became about that, believing as most do, that a successful career will lead to a like minded successful man, which of course will lead to love and marriage. But that hard living turned her into a hard woman, which pushed the men away, which caused her to focus more on her career, which made her work harder and become more hardened, which pushed the men further away. And it became a twisted and bitter cycle that she couldn't escape. She wasn't happy in Jersey, and I know she didn't like L.A., but I think in Charlotte she finally discovered herself. Charlotte is her Atlanta. And I just love who she is now. She's the Mindy of my youth, and I missed her. Now, she didn't drop all her other behavior overnight or even at all, hell she's pushing forty so in a sense she's a bit set in her ways, but that's fine. Cause I've changed too. I don't judge her as hard anymore, cause when I lost my job and reached out to her, I truly realized, I wasn't but a heartbeat away from being her. I've been embittered by relationship disasters with men, I hated where I was living, I was sad and confused by what my life was now without my mom (although both her parents are fortunately still here). It's easier to condemn someone before walking in their shoes isn't it?
So, now with a new found cousin courtship blooming, we hit Charlotte running. I mean literally, I feel like I haven't slept in days. She posted her status update on Facebook the evening I left saying she was tired and really needed to sleep and cleanse her body. It was like college again. First off, we drank EVERYDAY! Not like I would have fifteen years ago, but I don't drink that much nowadays. We literally stopped in a bar or restaurant everyday and had a drink. The night I got there, we pulled up to one of her favorite low key spots and drank. And I was working on fumes. Lemme tell you bout her place though...the cliff notes version, 2 bedroom/2 bath, dinette, kitchen, huge pantry, washer/dryer in unit, living room, club house, 2 gyms, parking lot; all for the price of...wait for it...$710! And that's with a rent increase! Those of you in Jersey, tell me where the hell you can get a deal like that? And the rooms, closets, bathrooms, everything is spacious. It's not like some closet in Hoboken you pay $2400/month for and can barely turn around in. So I was impressed with that. But I knew it was gonna be cheaper so...She took me around to alot of the different neighborhoods and really talked about how the black professional middle class is a real, strong presence in Charlotte. Which is something else I loved. When she broke it down, I realized I'd been sleepin on Charlotte. She was making friends with people who knew PEOPLE...hell, we picked up a book just by chance titled something like Important Black People in Charlotte (not the literal title but again, along those lines) and there was a dude in there we both just met the night before...at a hopping restaurant that a lot of black professionals patronize (we were with two of her female friends, one of which was also in that book of important black folks to know in Charlotte). I mean these are the kinda people she rubs elbows with, and sometimes doesn't even know it. She's still a go-getter. She believes in making her own destiny to a point--I mean she believes that God is the master of her fate and that he has a plan for her, but it's her job to help it along. She still likes to live a certain kind of life, but she's someone who knows what to do to get it. She believes in putting herself in position to meet the kind of people she needs to meet to do the things she needs and wants to do. Like right now, she's basically trying to get her business off the ground--event planning and things of that nature, with a bit of home beauty sales thrown in--and she's got the personality to get it done. I can't sell shit cause I don't give a shit, but she can sell shit to Donald Trump and convince him that not only does he need shit in his life, but he needs HER shit in particular. I mean, I marvel at people like that cause they have something I just don't and probably never will. So I'm not worried about her. She gone be alright. Now, in the relationship department, she's made a statement that many women of her age have. Many of us advancing toward forty will face the same challenge and may echo her sentiments. She still wants to get married and have children, but at thirty-nine, she's not pressed. If he comes, he comes. She's also said that the next house she buys (she owns one in Jersey) a man is gonna have to put her in. She's ready to be soft, warm, and pink. She said she's done that type A, aggressive business woman thing, and it cost her. She's not willing to pay that price again.
As I bring this entry to a close, I wanna leave you with a few things. 1.) the dude I mentioned in the beginning of this post who was deeply interested in gettin with her, despite the fact that he had not a chance in hell, was the very same man in the important negro book. We let him buy us a drink and dinner at the diner at 5 a.m. He's a nice guy, I liked his company, and she said she may chill with him again, but that's it. I think they'll get married. He's like Wendell Pierce's character in Waiting to Exhale, but not an asshole (so far); 2.) I learned alot about my time with cousin Mindy. I learned that I'd judged her too harshly and that most of that was unfair. She's just a woman searching for her own road to happiness, and that the bumps she hit are the same ones coming my way. That her experiences are valuable for me, since I'm coming right behind her. But I finally think she found the place where she can flourish and really discover what it is that makes her happy. And truly, that I respect and admire her--admire the fact that she's no longer sitting on the sidelines, watching her life go by without her; and 3.) Sometimes you bleed when you get a bikini wax. I've been debating for some time whether to wax, or not to wax; that indeed was the question. And Mindy took me to her spot and I endured just for the purpose of blogging about it later. I shaved a few weeks before, if you read my first blog you'll remember cause that's when someone set off the fire alarm in my hotel. I almost had to run out with no drawers. As it was, I didn't get to wipe off the shaving cream, so that was an interesting feeling in my pants. I was concerned there wouldn't be enough hair to wax, but the lady (she's not American. I think she's European. Or Brazilian) looked at it and said it was fine. Now this was very interesting cause Mindy suggested I get a simple bikini wax since this was my first time. No need to go all in till I knew my tolerance for pain. The nooks and crannies would have to wait. So I agreed and laid down on the table. And she swabbed me with alcohol, and it felt kinda like I was a baby. I don't remember getting a diaper change, but I've seen plenty of parents do it, and the way they wipe; a mixture of roughness and tenderness, was exactly how this lady did it. Kinda disaffected. So she slathers on the warm wax and begins asking me a bunch of innocuous questions. I guess to take my mind off the fact that she was about to rip my pubic hair out by the root. And when she commenced to the actual ripping, it was all good up until she got close to the nooks and crannies. Then it was a bit of, please don't go too far and rip my punani out. But even with all that, it didn't hurt as bad as I'd feared. So she hands me a mirror (weird but ok) and tells me to check the area. She notices an uneven patch and fixes it before I can sit up and investigate her work. When I do take a gander, I'm aghast to see a trickle of BLOOD there. Her response, "sometimes the coarser hairs can do that". Not sure what the hell to make of that, but wow. So, what, I'm fuckin' Gorillas in the Mist now? She slathered me with some oil and sent me on my way.
When I told a friend today about my waxing experience, she adamantly refused to go through it. But not just that, she said she rocks it au naturel--motherland style. I told her I used to as well and would only shave upon request. Like if a dude I was gonna introduce the kitty kat too wanted her to be clean shaven for his enjoyment, I felt like sure. That's what a hospitable host does, makes the company feel welcome. But as soon as Dick Johnson leaves, it's back to National Geographic. Cause honestly, it's just me who has to see her and I don't give a fuck if she's a little wild at heart. And then the day came that changed everything. Seriously, a game fuckin changer on the real. I found two or three, gray hairs south of the mason dixon and that was fucking THAT!!! That shit had to go! And when I relayed that as my main reason for treading lightly at first into the waxing regime, my friend quickly did an about face and said she will be a waxing mofo if/when the gray goose arrives knock knock knocking on her heaven's door. And that I whole heartedly agree with. I'm only thirty-three. I REFUSE to pull down my pants and see a bunch of gray between my legs, unless for some reason Roger Sterling is going down on me. Then that's ok, otherwise my motto is...if you see gray, gotta wax it away! Till next time, lovers!
Sunday, August 1, 2010
The Mad Rantings of A Black Bitch
Ok, I'm not mad (as in angry but quite possibly insane, so I may not argue that point), I am black, and it's debatable if I'm a bitch. But now and then there are some things that irk me, and quite frankly when it's late at night and I have no one to talk to, I still need to get them off my chest. So, let's get down to brass tacks as they say. I'm not sure who the hell "they" are, or why that phrase means what it does. What do brass tacks have to do with getting down to business, or getting to the nitty gritty?
So the first thing that irritates me to no end is something you'll find to be a recurring theme. Men. It's my duty as a single black woman living in the New Decade in the New Millenium, to discuss this tiresome subject. Only because it's relevant to my life. In as much as I'd like to act like this doesn't occupy a significant portion of my brain, that'd be an out and out lie.
Let me say that though I do not proudly wear the moniker of "feminist", I am without a doubt, having been born in the post-feminist era, a feminist. Now, to men and ill thinking women alike, that term conjures up images of Lorena Bobbit (a bit extreme, but I have to admit, I cheered for her. The logistics of it though, not my style. I get grossed out by looking at ground meat that's been previously chewed, so no way I could cut off the only appendage of a man I truly cannot live without, and then toss it out the window of my car onto a backwoods highway), or Gloria Steinam, or any other "penis envy bull dyke" they can think of. I, for one, enjoy the company of a man. Many men as it turns out; which is probably the reason why I've made some of the regrettable choices that I have where they're concerned. I know myself to be a sexual being. Now I'm not talking porn star sexuality--I draw the line at multiple people in my bed, boom mikes, cameras, clear heels, cheap make-up, and some pervy fetishes. But hey, if any of that floats your boat, have at it. And send me the tape, I don't have anything against voyeurism (wink, wink sexy). My kind of sexual being is one who knows she likes to get down, and likes to get down as often as she can. And if the man is so inclined (as, let's face it, how many aren't?) then let's get it on like popcorn. However, this does at times cause "situations", and no I'm not talking about that gorilla perpetrating like he's from Jersey, all greased up and strutting around MTV. I'm not mentioning him or the show by name cause it makes me sick and I don't wanna be party to giving them anymore attention than they already have. If you don't know who or what I'm referring to (although I'm sure you do) google it. The complication I mean is that since I don't enjoy company as often as I'd like, being around a man who smells good is enough to have me high tail it to his place armed with thumb cuffs and bourbon. Don't judge, try it.
So as a feminist, an independent woman really, I like sex. I like sex on my terms, I like sex on his terms, I like sex. And in this day and age, it seems a woman should be able to say this openly without being stigmatized. But what bothers me is that that's not true, and it bothers me that it bothers me. Cause on some level, I always knew it. As a pre-coitul youngster, my opinions of men and women and sex were fairly different from what they are today. I believed that there was one person for everyone (still kinda believe that but not as much) and that sex before marriage wasn't exactly a sin, but should only be with the person you love. Afterall, I watched alot of daytime television--Guiding Light was my soap of choice, and hell, premarital sex abounds on those shows. You can't sell soap without it. But I always knew, even back then, that a woman who threw her grits around, was never gonna be taken seriously by a man. Especially a man she cared about. Cause that's how it was on t.v. And then, I grew up, and suddenly there was all this talk about women reclaiming their sexuality, much in the same way that blacks were reclaiming the "N" word (which, yes I say it. I say it, I say it, I say it damnit!). Both arguments had some valid points. In terms of female sexuality, porn became the vehicle with which to empower, instead of the instrument of enslavement. In history class, we learned about women's lib, but it wasn't until a documentary on the history channel or VH-1, can't remember, that I learned of and eventually read snipets of The Zipless Fuck by Erica Jung (this may not be the title of the book, I can't remember, but this was the term she coined). And it was like revolutionary because without having heard of it at the time, that was kinda how I lived my early twenties. The choices I made back then directly correlate to my relationship status today, but at that time, I actively did not want a relationship. I didn't want the hassle. I wanted what I wanted, and if I wanted you, I damn sure wanted you outta my house come morning. And for a while, that kind of existence was empowering and it was liberating. For the first time I felt like I was doing what I wanted to do. Not what I thought my parents wanted me to do and not what I thought I should do. You can be in such control of certain aspects of your life, but in others, be so timid and afraid. And socially, where men were concerned, and I guess that still rings true today, I can be that way. And so you look to what others do, and if everyone is coupling up, then you think that's normal. Except my normal didn't have a bunch of happy relationships. There was a bunch of ownership going on that I didn't want any part of. Still don't.
What's my point? I don't know. I told yall this is a rant. If I have a point, which I usually do, it's not time yet. We'll figure it out together I suppose. So, there I am living the life of many casual zipless fucks, just traveling along the Sexcapade Super Highway, when all of a sudden, I crash. And I mean HARD. Brutally. And it was a bloody mess. I'm talking Mortal Kombat murder, death, kill type crash. And it fucked my world up. I will tell you it was a guy. I will tell you he was a friend. And I will tell you my brain was so scrambled that I had to write a play about it, star in it, and produce it...twice! Both times, off broadway in NYC. When I've had a few shots, or perhaps a few herbally enhanced brownies, I may tell you the story. Maybe. So after that diversion, I had to rethink my stance on my casual life. By that time, I was entering my third decade of life, and the zipless experience didn't have the same punch as it once had. I still liked living on my own terms though. Nothing was required. I demanded nothing and nothing was demanded of me, and in the end that's what I got in turn. Nothing. But still in my mind was this idea that a woman's power lies in her sex. And though I didn't wield it like an Amazon dick hunting warrior, I still felt there was power left in me yet. Although admittedly, I didn't use it wisely, so whatever power I once had has long since left the building. Hell, I'm not even sure I even had it to begin with. I think I bought into the idea of it. Cause let's be honest. When the game is sex, no one has the power.
I'm sure some of you will dispute that, and that's fine. But to all of you reading this (me, myself, and I), ask yourself honestly, all the times you thought you had the upper hand in your "relationship", casual or otherwise, did you really? Or did something or someone come along and flip you on your head? Cause the moment you feel the most in control, is usually the time when you seldom are.
I told myself after Mortal Kombat, I'd never have another casual relationship. It tore me up so badly, I felt it was unsurvivable a second time around. And then I met a guy, quite by happenstance, who was seemingly in stark contrast to what I always thought I wanted. He was mild mannered, laid back, and very easy going. Wasn't college educated, and said of himself that he wasn't very bright; but I found him to be deeply philosophical and quite earnestly, a man of deep and significant faith. He didn't say much, which judging by how loquacious I can be, is pretty interesting. He was nine years my senior, which would have been out of the question in my twenties, but in my thirties, I found it intriguing. And the moment I saw him, sitting in his living room, playing Guitar Hero, I was deeply interested. And curious about this man who said so much by saying so little. It was like an acting exercise. We're trained to fill the silence and make every motion and every moment count. To fill it with something of consequence. Some actors struggle with that, even now, I can think of some very famous ones who seem to appear uncomfortable when they're not speaking. And yet, here was this average man doing just that as part of his everyday life. He was so comfortable in his own skin and so confident that he didn't have to do much to draw you in. Course, it didn't hurt that he was extremely easy on the eyes. For a man in his early forties, he looked ten years younger. Hell, he almost looked younger than me. I said almost cause, I got good skin and good genes. Yall know black don't crack. And that's why he remained fine.
For about two years we had a regular (and clandestine) situation going on. It had to be a secret because he was friends with a very closely related family member, and if it had been known the shit would have most definitely hit the fan. And since I'm not a fan of shit in any form, it was easier for me to catch a train down to see him in a nice, and reasonably priced hotel room with a king size bed and room service. Oddly enough, I'm highly intrigued by sex in hotel rooms. Though one of my friends said it would make her feel like a hooker. I never felt that. I just liked the fact that I could be as loud as I want, mess up the sheets and not have to do laundry.
But I knew deep down in the recesses of my subconsious which I wouldn't let rise to the surface, that it wasn't gonna last. Cause even though my initial interest was more than just sex, I settled for what I could get, cause he just had a boatload of issues that prevented him from fully investing in a relationship. With me at least. So yeah, this is one of the bad choices that I make cause I let my loins lead the way, that I referenced earlier. But it was still cool up until, I'd say, a few months back. And this is where my rant comes to its point, I think. I'm all for calling a spade a spade, I mean hell, I am a spade (cheap racial joke), but I just don't like unnecessary bullshit. Knowing what this relationship was, no matter how I felt in the beginning, I never would have continued down this path if I was not amenable to its terms; it's completely frustrating when men lie about shit they don't need to lie about. Needless to say, our stint has run its course, which like I said, I knew it would. But the way it ended troubles me. If you wanna see someone else, see someone else. We're not married, we weren't committed to each other. Just tell me. We entered into this situation as two adults, and I can accept that your interest lies elsewhere. But to lie about it, makes me out to be a fool and that's what pisses me off. Maybe he thought I'd freak out or be typically melodramatic and get all Dynasty-esque about it. But that's not me. I don't chase after men who aren't interested in me. That's pathetic, and though I wade in the water of desperation sometimes, I've never dipped my toe in that cesspool. That's not to say that if he'd come clean before that it still wouldn't sting a bit. No one likes to be passed over for anything. But I'm not in love with him. I survived Mortal Kombat, remember? This is so not that. I'm not laying all the blame at his feet, I accept my culpability here, I told you I make bad choices. It just would have been nice to be respected in that way.
This situation got me thinking, and I think this really is my point, with all the strides that have been made in terms of female sexuality, men will still find it difficult to accept women who live by the zipless fuck. Why is it that a woman with multiple lovers is still a ho, and a man with the same is still a man--privy to the same level of respect that being a man entails? Why does it matter when I go to bed with you, if we both know at some point we're gonna fuck? If I meet you on Tuesday and have an instant attraction to you, and you to me, and it's something that includes the physical but isn't strictly that--we enjoy each other's company truly--will all that change because I sleep with you Tuesday night? Does my value increase if I wait until three months later? Am I suddenly more entertaining, more intelligent, more of a support system for you at that point than I was three months prior? Unfortunately even in 2010, the answer to that question still remains a resounding yes. Till next time, lovers!
So the first thing that irritates me to no end is something you'll find to be a recurring theme. Men. It's my duty as a single black woman living in the New Decade in the New Millenium, to discuss this tiresome subject. Only because it's relevant to my life. In as much as I'd like to act like this doesn't occupy a significant portion of my brain, that'd be an out and out lie.
Let me say that though I do not proudly wear the moniker of "feminist", I am without a doubt, having been born in the post-feminist era, a feminist. Now, to men and ill thinking women alike, that term conjures up images of Lorena Bobbit (a bit extreme, but I have to admit, I cheered for her. The logistics of it though, not my style. I get grossed out by looking at ground meat that's been previously chewed, so no way I could cut off the only appendage of a man I truly cannot live without, and then toss it out the window of my car onto a backwoods highway), or Gloria Steinam, or any other "penis envy bull dyke" they can think of. I, for one, enjoy the company of a man. Many men as it turns out; which is probably the reason why I've made some of the regrettable choices that I have where they're concerned. I know myself to be a sexual being. Now I'm not talking porn star sexuality--I draw the line at multiple people in my bed, boom mikes, cameras, clear heels, cheap make-up, and some pervy fetishes. But hey, if any of that floats your boat, have at it. And send me the tape, I don't have anything against voyeurism (wink, wink sexy). My kind of sexual being is one who knows she likes to get down, and likes to get down as often as she can. And if the man is so inclined (as, let's face it, how many aren't?) then let's get it on like popcorn. However, this does at times cause "situations", and no I'm not talking about that gorilla perpetrating like he's from Jersey, all greased up and strutting around MTV. I'm not mentioning him or the show by name cause it makes me sick and I don't wanna be party to giving them anymore attention than they already have. If you don't know who or what I'm referring to (although I'm sure you do) google it. The complication I mean is that since I don't enjoy company as often as I'd like, being around a man who smells good is enough to have me high tail it to his place armed with thumb cuffs and bourbon. Don't judge, try it.
So as a feminist, an independent woman really, I like sex. I like sex on my terms, I like sex on his terms, I like sex. And in this day and age, it seems a woman should be able to say this openly without being stigmatized. But what bothers me is that that's not true, and it bothers me that it bothers me. Cause on some level, I always knew it. As a pre-coitul youngster, my opinions of men and women and sex were fairly different from what they are today. I believed that there was one person for everyone (still kinda believe that but not as much) and that sex before marriage wasn't exactly a sin, but should only be with the person you love. Afterall, I watched alot of daytime television--Guiding Light was my soap of choice, and hell, premarital sex abounds on those shows. You can't sell soap without it. But I always knew, even back then, that a woman who threw her grits around, was never gonna be taken seriously by a man. Especially a man she cared about. Cause that's how it was on t.v. And then, I grew up, and suddenly there was all this talk about women reclaiming their sexuality, much in the same way that blacks were reclaiming the "N" word (which, yes I say it. I say it, I say it, I say it damnit!). Both arguments had some valid points. In terms of female sexuality, porn became the vehicle with which to empower, instead of the instrument of enslavement. In history class, we learned about women's lib, but it wasn't until a documentary on the history channel or VH-1, can't remember, that I learned of and eventually read snipets of The Zipless Fuck by Erica Jung (this may not be the title of the book, I can't remember, but this was the term she coined). And it was like revolutionary because without having heard of it at the time, that was kinda how I lived my early twenties. The choices I made back then directly correlate to my relationship status today, but at that time, I actively did not want a relationship. I didn't want the hassle. I wanted what I wanted, and if I wanted you, I damn sure wanted you outta my house come morning. And for a while, that kind of existence was empowering and it was liberating. For the first time I felt like I was doing what I wanted to do. Not what I thought my parents wanted me to do and not what I thought I should do. You can be in such control of certain aspects of your life, but in others, be so timid and afraid. And socially, where men were concerned, and I guess that still rings true today, I can be that way. And so you look to what others do, and if everyone is coupling up, then you think that's normal. Except my normal didn't have a bunch of happy relationships. There was a bunch of ownership going on that I didn't want any part of. Still don't.
What's my point? I don't know. I told yall this is a rant. If I have a point, which I usually do, it's not time yet. We'll figure it out together I suppose. So, there I am living the life of many casual zipless fucks, just traveling along the Sexcapade Super Highway, when all of a sudden, I crash. And I mean HARD. Brutally. And it was a bloody mess. I'm talking Mortal Kombat murder, death, kill type crash. And it fucked my world up. I will tell you it was a guy. I will tell you he was a friend. And I will tell you my brain was so scrambled that I had to write a play about it, star in it, and produce it...twice! Both times, off broadway in NYC. When I've had a few shots, or perhaps a few herbally enhanced brownies, I may tell you the story. Maybe. So after that diversion, I had to rethink my stance on my casual life. By that time, I was entering my third decade of life, and the zipless experience didn't have the same punch as it once had. I still liked living on my own terms though. Nothing was required. I demanded nothing and nothing was demanded of me, and in the end that's what I got in turn. Nothing. But still in my mind was this idea that a woman's power lies in her sex. And though I didn't wield it like an Amazon dick hunting warrior, I still felt there was power left in me yet. Although admittedly, I didn't use it wisely, so whatever power I once had has long since left the building. Hell, I'm not even sure I even had it to begin with. I think I bought into the idea of it. Cause let's be honest. When the game is sex, no one has the power.
I'm sure some of you will dispute that, and that's fine. But to all of you reading this (me, myself, and I), ask yourself honestly, all the times you thought you had the upper hand in your "relationship", casual or otherwise, did you really? Or did something or someone come along and flip you on your head? Cause the moment you feel the most in control, is usually the time when you seldom are.
I told myself after Mortal Kombat, I'd never have another casual relationship. It tore me up so badly, I felt it was unsurvivable a second time around. And then I met a guy, quite by happenstance, who was seemingly in stark contrast to what I always thought I wanted. He was mild mannered, laid back, and very easy going. Wasn't college educated, and said of himself that he wasn't very bright; but I found him to be deeply philosophical and quite earnestly, a man of deep and significant faith. He didn't say much, which judging by how loquacious I can be, is pretty interesting. He was nine years my senior, which would have been out of the question in my twenties, but in my thirties, I found it intriguing. And the moment I saw him, sitting in his living room, playing Guitar Hero, I was deeply interested. And curious about this man who said so much by saying so little. It was like an acting exercise. We're trained to fill the silence and make every motion and every moment count. To fill it with something of consequence. Some actors struggle with that, even now, I can think of some very famous ones who seem to appear uncomfortable when they're not speaking. And yet, here was this average man doing just that as part of his everyday life. He was so comfortable in his own skin and so confident that he didn't have to do much to draw you in. Course, it didn't hurt that he was extremely easy on the eyes. For a man in his early forties, he looked ten years younger. Hell, he almost looked younger than me. I said almost cause, I got good skin and good genes. Yall know black don't crack. And that's why he remained fine.
For about two years we had a regular (and clandestine) situation going on. It had to be a secret because he was friends with a very closely related family member, and if it had been known the shit would have most definitely hit the fan. And since I'm not a fan of shit in any form, it was easier for me to catch a train down to see him in a nice, and reasonably priced hotel room with a king size bed and room service. Oddly enough, I'm highly intrigued by sex in hotel rooms. Though one of my friends said it would make her feel like a hooker. I never felt that. I just liked the fact that I could be as loud as I want, mess up the sheets and not have to do laundry.
But I knew deep down in the recesses of my subconsious which I wouldn't let rise to the surface, that it wasn't gonna last. Cause even though my initial interest was more than just sex, I settled for what I could get, cause he just had a boatload of issues that prevented him from fully investing in a relationship. With me at least. So yeah, this is one of the bad choices that I make cause I let my loins lead the way, that I referenced earlier. But it was still cool up until, I'd say, a few months back. And this is where my rant comes to its point, I think. I'm all for calling a spade a spade, I mean hell, I am a spade (cheap racial joke), but I just don't like unnecessary bullshit. Knowing what this relationship was, no matter how I felt in the beginning, I never would have continued down this path if I was not amenable to its terms; it's completely frustrating when men lie about shit they don't need to lie about. Needless to say, our stint has run its course, which like I said, I knew it would. But the way it ended troubles me. If you wanna see someone else, see someone else. We're not married, we weren't committed to each other. Just tell me. We entered into this situation as two adults, and I can accept that your interest lies elsewhere. But to lie about it, makes me out to be a fool and that's what pisses me off. Maybe he thought I'd freak out or be typically melodramatic and get all Dynasty-esque about it. But that's not me. I don't chase after men who aren't interested in me. That's pathetic, and though I wade in the water of desperation sometimes, I've never dipped my toe in that cesspool. That's not to say that if he'd come clean before that it still wouldn't sting a bit. No one likes to be passed over for anything. But I'm not in love with him. I survived Mortal Kombat, remember? This is so not that. I'm not laying all the blame at his feet, I accept my culpability here, I told you I make bad choices. It just would have been nice to be respected in that way.
This situation got me thinking, and I think this really is my point, with all the strides that have been made in terms of female sexuality, men will still find it difficult to accept women who live by the zipless fuck. Why is it that a woman with multiple lovers is still a ho, and a man with the same is still a man--privy to the same level of respect that being a man entails? Why does it matter when I go to bed with you, if we both know at some point we're gonna fuck? If I meet you on Tuesday and have an instant attraction to you, and you to me, and it's something that includes the physical but isn't strictly that--we enjoy each other's company truly--will all that change because I sleep with you Tuesday night? Does my value increase if I wait until three months later? Am I suddenly more entertaining, more intelligent, more of a support system for you at that point than I was three months prior? Unfortunately even in 2010, the answer to that question still remains a resounding yes. Till next time, lovers!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
On The Road
Let's see, how to start. I guess I should say Hey Yall and welcome to my Blog! As long as blogs have been in existence and this is my very first foray into this area. Go figure. I've been a writer most of my life but have (up until recently) shied away from this kind of public writing. But, after all these years I finally decided, why not? Actually, it was at the behest of one of my friends, and a few others. Blogs always seemed like diaries, which let's face it, they kind of are. And I've never been good at keeping a diary. Something about having to write random thoughts down everyday. I remember my first diary. It was typically girly and frilly, and had the dates pre-printed at the top of the page for the entire year. I kept up with it for awhile, but soon I started to resent that some unknown person was guilting me into writing snipets of my life down on paper every single day. What if nothing happened? Or what if I just plain didn't feel like writing? The page was wasted then cause I couldn't write down things that happened on May 10, 1987 on the page designated for March 13, 1987. It just wouldn't seem right. How dare this random person dictate when and where I write about the daily ins and outs of my life? Who the hell are you? Thus ended my diary days. What I found much more liberating was journaling. Endless (not really but it sounds nicer that way) pages, devoid of dates and expectations. Write when the hell you're so inclined to do so. And I would. For years to come. I'd average five years per journal. All of college confined to one beautifully decorated Borders journal. So, if this is how I feel, why start a blog now you ask? Good question. Clearly, I flatter myself to think anyone other than myself and two friends will actually read this blog, but I digress. I guess I should take you back to the place where all things start. The beginning.
It all started October 15, 2009. In all honesty, it started long before then. Before January 2009. Somewhere in the early Spring of 2008, only no one knew it then. What it was, was a collection of cells that mutated and grew within the lining of a lung. And those mutated cells grew and grew inside this lung--this lung that twenty plus years before inhaled two and a half packs of cigarettes a week. This lung that had been free of those carcinogens for over twenty years. This lung that lived inside the body of my mother. She was diagnosed with Stage 3 Lung Cancer in January 2009, and those cells continued to fight her and she fought them. Though she was clearly seriously ill, she didn't look it for a long time. We still went to the movies, out to parties. As a matter of fact, just a month after her diagnosis, we went to my aunt and uncle's 50th Wedding Anniversary, and Mommy looked great. The only thing that really bothered her was that she couldn't drink--and if you knew my mother, you knew that was saying something. She loved to party even though she'd slowed down in her old age. At 61, she was the true embodiment of her generation. For whatever reason, Baby Boomers are bound and determined to fight the onslaught of old age, and will be the ones who don't "go gently into that good night". And she was no exception. Mommy was fun and vibrant, and full of life. Side bar--let's talk about that phrase "full of life" for a moment. I always found that to be a laughable saying. As you will discover the more I write and the more you read of me, I have a fascination, some may even say an obsession, with the news magazine show Dateline. I live by it. It's some damn good investigative journalism. I miss the days of Jane Pauly and Stone Phillips. I miss the Dateline Timeline where they would mention notable moments in history and give the audience a multiple choice of years to figure out when the incident occurred. Loved it. Got 'em right most of the time. I'm sort of an idiot savant when it comes to random entertainment information. But getting back to the phrase and Dateline--whenever they do a show about some unfortunate person being murdered or dying "before their time" (another phrase I find peculiar. If you die, isn't it your time?) their family and friends always say the person was "full of life". And I'd always wonder what the hell a person devoid of life looks like. Of course they're full of life, who the hell isn't? But when thinking of my mother, I understand the description better. There was just an enjoyment she had about her life. Sure she had her regrets and things could have been better for her in some respects. Did she wish her life had been different? In some ways, yeah. But she was also about enjoying the life she had. Loving my brother and me, and my grandparents, who were now her sole responsibility, being the only child of five left, and loving her niece and nephews--her sister's children. And Mommy was a fighter. If she was gonna go down, it wouldn't be without a fight. No matter what the situation. But cancer is a beast, and lung cancer is one of the biggest beasts in the room. I'm sure the subject will come up again as I continue to post, but for now, I'll skim this part. I will say that watching my mother go through this journey was very different from the way it's portrayed in movies and on television; in most aspects save one. That I'll keep to myself for now cause it's private. Just between us. Her journey came to an end on October 15, 2009, and though I didn't know it, mine was just beginning.
I've spent the intervening months between then and now spiraling down a drain of such deep emotional pain that I can't find the words to truly explain it. And even if I could, it wouldn't do the feeling justice. Mommy and I were incredibly close and her loss is a brutalizing shock to my system. Like being thrown suddenly into subzero arctic water. Or being plunged into eternal darkness where there once was glistening light and warmth. I imagine my life from this point forward as surviving a nuclear winter. Eventually, I determined it to be more like trying to eat food with a head cold. You know you're eating steak, but because you can't smell it, you can't adequately taste it either. Your mind tells you what it is and you think you can remember how it should taste, but your buds are muted and no matter what you do, steak just doesn't taste like steak.
I took a month off from my boring job and spent some time away from my home in New Jersey. I visited friends in Atlanta and family in Tennessee. I spent my first holiday, Thanksgiving, with my cousins in Nashville. And it was harder than I expected. I expected Christmas to be the holiday to mess me up. But Mommy once told me (if I'm remembering correctly, God I hope so) that Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday cause she liked being with family (and there weren't any gifts for her to wrap). She loved her family, even when, hell in spite of the fact that they also drove her up the freakin' wall. She loved all our crazy cousins, aunts and uncles. And it was there, sitting at my cousin's dining room table, that I realized I'd never taste her cooking again. Never taste my favorite dish of hers--candied sweet potatoes. And that I'd never gotten her recipe for them. So when I was in the guest room, I cried myself to sleep. But a month later, as I prepared to cook Christmas dinner for my brother and myself (my grandparents had been invited and accepted a dinner invitation to a friend's house) that I realized I already knew that recipe by heart, having watched her make it several times over the years. So I made her candied sweet potatoes, and you know what? They tasted just like hers--but hers were better.
So what does all this all have to do with the title ON THE ROAD? You (and by you I really mean me, cause let's face it, I'm probably the only one reading this) ask that at just the right moment. Months later, I found myself unemployed due to our new Republican governor and the massive budget cuts he made to the non-profit organization I worked for. Honestly, I asked to be laid off. My boss was going back and forth telling me one day she was gonna have to lay me off, and the next day that she would be able to keep me, and the day after that, that she wasn't sure of anything now and on and on. I was tired of the yo-yo and after talking it over with my friends and two more white people, I decided to ask her for the lay off, which she granted. I mention the thing about white people because as a black woman, I am not that comfortable with collecting a check and not working for it. Since the stigma exists that all of us are lazy anyway, and I wasn't raised that way, the perception of me being that way made and still makes me uncomfortable. But as my friends pointed out to me (one having done the very same thing before--both actually) my boss would probably be relieved to do this cause it would help her save some money she was desperately trying to hold onto. And hell, I paid for it anyway. Plus, even if I hadn't been laid off I was still going to have to move out of the townhouse I shared with Mommy and her deadbeat boyfriend, because without her income I couldn't afford the rent. So why struggle to hold onto a job that couldn't even meet my basic needs? And it was just a job, not a career. So I took the lay off and collected unemployment and felt freer than I'd ever felt. It wasn't until then that I realized I'd been holding my breath all of 2009. From start to finish that was the worst year of my life and I hadn't slept since January. Now unencumbered, I realized I went from being trapped with no options, to having an overabundance in a matter of days. Do I wish it had come at a much cheaper cost? Of course. But in a way, I think that was Mommy's last gift to me. A way of cutting me loose and helping me start my life. I only wish...well, yall know what I wish. I don't need to say.
So it hit me at 3am, as most of my brilliant ideas do...that I should take a road trip to investigate cities I wanna live in and check out the job markets there. Right away I honed in on the South, purely due to economics. My thought was, if I wind up with another underpaid job, I can stretch my pennies much further down there than in Jersey. And as I focused on the South, I zeroed in on my old stomping ground...Atlanta. Afterall, I lived there for seven years--four in college and three after. When I left, I always felt deep down that I would return. It's important for me to explain my affinity for Atlanta here cause some folks just don't get it and don't like it. I guess I understand that. But Atlanta's not just a series of buildings for me. The moment I stepped off the plane in 1994 as a prospective student set to tour the campus, it felt like home. I fell in love for the first time. And as I spent my college years there, I came into my own. Atlanta is the place where I got my shit together. I became a woman there. I became independent there, financially and otherwise. And in my mind's eye, Atlanta will always be that to me. And so at this time in my life as I struggle daily to keep it together, Atlanta called out to me like a beacon in a storm, and my homing device responded.
So here I am. I packed up my car the other day and have started on my Great American Southern Road Trip. Although I've planned on a place to call home, I still feel the need to travel to these other cities and explore all options. You never know. It'll be a combination vacation, job hunt all in one. Cause before I settle in someplace I need to know the essentials: where do the black folks live (being in the south I gotta know), where's the hood (you always need to know that), where can I get my hair done, where's the arts and culture side of town, and what does the job situation look like? I of course have an idea of what I wanna do. I want to put my two degrees to work. It's time they start earning me some money so that the money I pay Uncle Sam for his generous loans to me will make sense.
So, that's it. I don't know how exciting this trip will be, probably not very. Although, some yahoo set off the fire alarm in my hotel cause they were cooking steak and burned it. The fire department had to come out here to shut the damn thing off. Interestingly enough, no one other than myself looked alarmed. It could have been that I was caught off guard due to the fact that I was shaving my bikini area when it happened. I've never put pants on that quickly in my life! Naturally I grabbed the essentials before fleeing my room: my computer, computer cord, iPod, cell phone, sunglasses, purse, and car keys. Scoff if you must, but I tell you, I can't live without any of those things and if you're honest with yourself, you can't either. Till next time, lovers!
It all started October 15, 2009. In all honesty, it started long before then. Before January 2009. Somewhere in the early Spring of 2008, only no one knew it then. What it was, was a collection of cells that mutated and grew within the lining of a lung. And those mutated cells grew and grew inside this lung--this lung that twenty plus years before inhaled two and a half packs of cigarettes a week. This lung that had been free of those carcinogens for over twenty years. This lung that lived inside the body of my mother. She was diagnosed with Stage 3 Lung Cancer in January 2009, and those cells continued to fight her and she fought them. Though she was clearly seriously ill, she didn't look it for a long time. We still went to the movies, out to parties. As a matter of fact, just a month after her diagnosis, we went to my aunt and uncle's 50th Wedding Anniversary, and Mommy looked great. The only thing that really bothered her was that she couldn't drink--and if you knew my mother, you knew that was saying something. She loved to party even though she'd slowed down in her old age. At 61, she was the true embodiment of her generation. For whatever reason, Baby Boomers are bound and determined to fight the onslaught of old age, and will be the ones who don't "go gently into that good night". And she was no exception. Mommy was fun and vibrant, and full of life. Side bar--let's talk about that phrase "full of life" for a moment. I always found that to be a laughable saying. As you will discover the more I write and the more you read of me, I have a fascination, some may even say an obsession, with the news magazine show Dateline. I live by it. It's some damn good investigative journalism. I miss the days of Jane Pauly and Stone Phillips. I miss the Dateline Timeline where they would mention notable moments in history and give the audience a multiple choice of years to figure out when the incident occurred. Loved it. Got 'em right most of the time. I'm sort of an idiot savant when it comes to random entertainment information. But getting back to the phrase and Dateline--whenever they do a show about some unfortunate person being murdered or dying "before their time" (another phrase I find peculiar. If you die, isn't it your time?) their family and friends always say the person was "full of life". And I'd always wonder what the hell a person devoid of life looks like. Of course they're full of life, who the hell isn't? But when thinking of my mother, I understand the description better. There was just an enjoyment she had about her life. Sure she had her regrets and things could have been better for her in some respects. Did she wish her life had been different? In some ways, yeah. But she was also about enjoying the life she had. Loving my brother and me, and my grandparents, who were now her sole responsibility, being the only child of five left, and loving her niece and nephews--her sister's children. And Mommy was a fighter. If she was gonna go down, it wouldn't be without a fight. No matter what the situation. But cancer is a beast, and lung cancer is one of the biggest beasts in the room. I'm sure the subject will come up again as I continue to post, but for now, I'll skim this part. I will say that watching my mother go through this journey was very different from the way it's portrayed in movies and on television; in most aspects save one. That I'll keep to myself for now cause it's private. Just between us. Her journey came to an end on October 15, 2009, and though I didn't know it, mine was just beginning.
I've spent the intervening months between then and now spiraling down a drain of such deep emotional pain that I can't find the words to truly explain it. And even if I could, it wouldn't do the feeling justice. Mommy and I were incredibly close and her loss is a brutalizing shock to my system. Like being thrown suddenly into subzero arctic water. Or being plunged into eternal darkness where there once was glistening light and warmth. I imagine my life from this point forward as surviving a nuclear winter. Eventually, I determined it to be more like trying to eat food with a head cold. You know you're eating steak, but because you can't smell it, you can't adequately taste it either. Your mind tells you what it is and you think you can remember how it should taste, but your buds are muted and no matter what you do, steak just doesn't taste like steak.
I took a month off from my boring job and spent some time away from my home in New Jersey. I visited friends in Atlanta and family in Tennessee. I spent my first holiday, Thanksgiving, with my cousins in Nashville. And it was harder than I expected. I expected Christmas to be the holiday to mess me up. But Mommy once told me (if I'm remembering correctly, God I hope so) that Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday cause she liked being with family (and there weren't any gifts for her to wrap). She loved her family, even when, hell in spite of the fact that they also drove her up the freakin' wall. She loved all our crazy cousins, aunts and uncles. And it was there, sitting at my cousin's dining room table, that I realized I'd never taste her cooking again. Never taste my favorite dish of hers--candied sweet potatoes. And that I'd never gotten her recipe for them. So when I was in the guest room, I cried myself to sleep. But a month later, as I prepared to cook Christmas dinner for my brother and myself (my grandparents had been invited and accepted a dinner invitation to a friend's house) that I realized I already knew that recipe by heart, having watched her make it several times over the years. So I made her candied sweet potatoes, and you know what? They tasted just like hers--but hers were better.
So what does all this all have to do with the title ON THE ROAD? You (and by you I really mean me, cause let's face it, I'm probably the only one reading this) ask that at just the right moment. Months later, I found myself unemployed due to our new Republican governor and the massive budget cuts he made to the non-profit organization I worked for. Honestly, I asked to be laid off. My boss was going back and forth telling me one day she was gonna have to lay me off, and the next day that she would be able to keep me, and the day after that, that she wasn't sure of anything now and on and on. I was tired of the yo-yo and after talking it over with my friends and two more white people, I decided to ask her for the lay off, which she granted. I mention the thing about white people because as a black woman, I am not that comfortable with collecting a check and not working for it. Since the stigma exists that all of us are lazy anyway, and I wasn't raised that way, the perception of me being that way made and still makes me uncomfortable. But as my friends pointed out to me (one having done the very same thing before--both actually) my boss would probably be relieved to do this cause it would help her save some money she was desperately trying to hold onto. And hell, I paid for it anyway. Plus, even if I hadn't been laid off I was still going to have to move out of the townhouse I shared with Mommy and her deadbeat boyfriend, because without her income I couldn't afford the rent. So why struggle to hold onto a job that couldn't even meet my basic needs? And it was just a job, not a career. So I took the lay off and collected unemployment and felt freer than I'd ever felt. It wasn't until then that I realized I'd been holding my breath all of 2009. From start to finish that was the worst year of my life and I hadn't slept since January. Now unencumbered, I realized I went from being trapped with no options, to having an overabundance in a matter of days. Do I wish it had come at a much cheaper cost? Of course. But in a way, I think that was Mommy's last gift to me. A way of cutting me loose and helping me start my life. I only wish...well, yall know what I wish. I don't need to say.
So it hit me at 3am, as most of my brilliant ideas do...that I should take a road trip to investigate cities I wanna live in and check out the job markets there. Right away I honed in on the South, purely due to economics. My thought was, if I wind up with another underpaid job, I can stretch my pennies much further down there than in Jersey. And as I focused on the South, I zeroed in on my old stomping ground...Atlanta. Afterall, I lived there for seven years--four in college and three after. When I left, I always felt deep down that I would return. It's important for me to explain my affinity for Atlanta here cause some folks just don't get it and don't like it. I guess I understand that. But Atlanta's not just a series of buildings for me. The moment I stepped off the plane in 1994 as a prospective student set to tour the campus, it felt like home. I fell in love for the first time. And as I spent my college years there, I came into my own. Atlanta is the place where I got my shit together. I became a woman there. I became independent there, financially and otherwise. And in my mind's eye, Atlanta will always be that to me. And so at this time in my life as I struggle daily to keep it together, Atlanta called out to me like a beacon in a storm, and my homing device responded.
So here I am. I packed up my car the other day and have started on my Great American Southern Road Trip. Although I've planned on a place to call home, I still feel the need to travel to these other cities and explore all options. You never know. It'll be a combination vacation, job hunt all in one. Cause before I settle in someplace I need to know the essentials: where do the black folks live (being in the south I gotta know), where's the hood (you always need to know that), where can I get my hair done, where's the arts and culture side of town, and what does the job situation look like? I of course have an idea of what I wanna do. I want to put my two degrees to work. It's time they start earning me some money so that the money I pay Uncle Sam for his generous loans to me will make sense.
So, that's it. I don't know how exciting this trip will be, probably not very. Although, some yahoo set off the fire alarm in my hotel cause they were cooking steak and burned it. The fire department had to come out here to shut the damn thing off. Interestingly enough, no one other than myself looked alarmed. It could have been that I was caught off guard due to the fact that I was shaving my bikini area when it happened. I've never put pants on that quickly in my life! Naturally I grabbed the essentials before fleeing my room: my computer, computer cord, iPod, cell phone, sunglasses, purse, and car keys. Scoff if you must, but I tell you, I can't live without any of those things and if you're honest with yourself, you can't either. Till next time, lovers!
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