Penance March 25, 2009

Last night, I slept for almost 7 hours.  When I woke up, I was boastful.  I was on some, “Who’s got two thumbs and 7 hours of sleep?! Awwww yeah!”  So tonight, the Sandman showed me who was running shit, and has made me his bitch.

This past week, I have been feeling extra sweet.  I don’t even know why.  I got off the train, and it seems that when I hit the air, I was enveloped by a blanket of sexy.  I go through that from time to time.  Not even for a particular reason.  I’m just feeling myself.  I went out this weekend, nobody was trying to holler, no random compliments on the train, nothing.  But good luck trying to convince me that I don’t have straight up deliciousness going on.

Tonight, the hour became late.  I became restless.  It was too late to eat.  TV seemed boring.  Maybe I could…I mean, I haven’t visited my no-no in quite some time.  For those of you who read me often enough, you know that when I detail my tales of self gratification, they always end in comedy rather than eroticism.  And yes, this visit to my no-no was no exception.  The thing is, my no-no has been really good to me lately.  It’s really been on some, “You don’t bother me, I won’t bother you” shit.  It’s not that I’m devoid of sex drive.  I just keep myself too occupied to think about it – much.

Tonight, my no-no  stood between me and the sweetest of sweet releases like Gandalf in “The Fellowship of the Ring” and shouted, “YOU SHALL NOT PAAAAAAAAASSSSSS!”   Then, my no-no demanded that I bring her a man.  Then she got saucy and said, “And he’d better not be a bullshit muthafucka either.”  Damn no-no.  She’s being  beggar AND a chooser.  Yikes.

And the thing is, there isn’t even a “well, maybe I should get to know him better” guy.  There’s still some baggage I’m getting rid of, and I don’t want to carry those issues into a potential new situation.  I mean, of course I have crushes here and there.  Actually, there’s a guy that I have a fairly healthy sized crush on, and I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m cute, but no more than that.   Plus, I’m fairly certain he’s not digging me like that.  And even if he were, I would refer you back to reason number one.  I think after the Heartbreaker (The Artist Formerly Known As The Chupacabra Hunter) gave me the working definition of the road to hell being paved with good intentions, that cut my appetite for being in a relationship.  Of course, there’s an expiration date on how long i can say he’s the reason for my lack of desire for a relationship.  Once upon a time, I believed that I couldn’t experience deep feelings for a person at all, and he proved that wrong.  I’m sure I’ll meet a brother that will, at least, make me rethink my position and get back on the horse (and other things) again.

I haven’t quite figured out how I will handle the burden of my own sexiness and the impending wrath of my no-no (I think that bitch is making a picket sign), but I don’t intend to let life pass me by while I find out.

When it’s my time March 2, 2009

If thou love, pronounce it faithfully
Or if thou think I am too easily won,
I’ll frown and say thee nay and be perverse,
So thou wilt woo, but else not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,
And therefore thou mayst think my havior light.
But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true
Than they that have more cunning to be strange.

Romeo & Juliet – William Shakespeare

Shooting from the hip is something that I take great pride in. If there is something that needs to be said, say it! No one wins when you skirt the issue.* A couple of weeks ago, I was having lunch with a friend from high school, and we discussed a mutual friend on a social networking site, that often altered their relationship status. “I’m single,” “I’m dating,” “It’s complicated.” She wisely opined, “If you’re our age, single, and trying to do this dating thing, I don’t care who you are. It’s complicated.”

Yeah.

Because we complicate it.

And we like it like that.

And by “we,” I mean “y’all.” Mamba likes it simple. Mamba likes to say what she means. Mamba likes people to mean what they say. And when they don’t mean it, or even if they are uncertain, don’t say it. There’s nothing wrong with silence.

Whenever I talk about people and their intentions, the focus almost always shifts to love. It comes up so often because love is one of the purest things you can offer someone. God is love. I don’t think it gets more pure than that. And even for those who don’t believe in God, when you feel love, I’m not talking the surface joint – or even necessarily the romantic joint – but when you’re in the presence of love, nothing beats that.

And yet, as a woman, if I want to be loved, I’m expected to play some kind of stupid game. Or, I have to deal with people that treat love like leprosy. Uncontrollable. All encompassing. Deadly. I may have said this before, but I happen to be one of those women who don’t wait to hear the “L” word before she uses it. I think the entire rationale is juvenile. I know those who think that when a woman uses that word first, she surrenders her power over the man. At one point, I was a person who would not share feelings until the guy said something first. I’m 32. If I’m involved with a person to the extent that I love them (no small feat), then I think it would be positively stupid on my part not to tell them.

I don’t do this because I expect to ride off into the sunset. I don’t do it because I expect that relationship to be forever. I do it because I know that life is short, and if someone means something to you, you should tell them. I take great pains to eliminate “I wish I said” from my lexicon.

Unfortunately, the straight shooter is not in demand. We are so comfortable with hiding from each other, with lying to each other, with taking one another for granted, that when you open your mouth to say, “You know, I like you, and I like who I am when I’m with you,” people run in fear. I haven’t allowed it to make me weary, but it does sometimes make me worry. Relationships are being being built on the sand that is deception and fear at an alarming rate. My discomfort with the way people feed lies to others is only surpassed by the ease in which people seem to be willing to choke those lies down.

And I’m the anomaly, because I can’t accept it. As much as I complain about being single, I acknowledge the fact that it’s a choice, because if I had the ability to swallow what my gut told me was untrue, if I mastered the art of delusion, I probably wouldn’t be single. But I won’t. I know that I’m true; more true than any broad that plays the game. And if I can be true after being hurt, picking myself up and dusting myself off, I’m really not trying to hear excuses as to why others can’t.

So what do I do in the meantime? Be fly, happy, and dance on Saturday nights like there’s no tomorrow.

*This is not to say that there are no topics that I find daunting, or challenging. But these things are most assuredly the exception, and not the rule.

Single and Not Dating February 21, 2009

OMG!  Men suck so bad.  No.  Really.  Yall do.  I was talking to my big bro this past week, and I told him that dating would be easier if I met guys that interested me. I tried being the girlfriend type, and it’s really just bogus.  I think that in the age of secret internet lives, the concept of loyalty is lost, so I’m just not inclined to play the good girlfriend role, when basically, I know how you dudes act on the net.  Don’t front.  You know what you do.

Now, I’m not saying that chicks aren’t living foul too, but I’m not fucking with chicks, so discussing what they do in this post is a waste space and time.  I’ll leave that to some annoyed dude to do.  I can’t do EVERYTHING you know.

So, I’ve been going out more lately, and according to 5′5, I’ve been on fire.  Eh, dudes like me.  Throughout my whole life, I’ve NEVER seen my issue as being unattractive to guys.  Even though I seem to have the perpetual screw face (I can’t help it.  I look like an evil feline/rodent hybrid), dudes dig it.  I’ve got the spark and I definitely know what to do with it.  That being said, dudes tend to not know what to do with me.  And I think it’s partially because they don’t know how to act.

Case in point, last weekend I was out, and as soon as I walked in the door, I was spotted.  He was cute, not a bad dancer, good times.  We occasionally chatted it up, so when he asked me for my number, I figured, “What the hell.”  “I really want to see you tonight.  You’re saying all that is for me?”

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!

Into what parallel universe did I stumble, where giving someone your number means you’re fully prepared to do the butt naked pole vault?  I’m no dummy, I’m sure he didn’t approach me for my mind.  I also don’t expect to make meaningful connections while I’m “singing about balls in the club.” But because I told a joke and danced with you, that don’t mean we fuckin.  Not even close.

My booty call/late night hook up dues have been paid in full, I’m I have no interest in regressing to that.  I’ve been the reactionary girl who acted out due to hurt, or generalized fear of loneliness.  I’m honest enough with myself and others to say that is not what I want for myself.  There are women that do, and I don’t knock their hustle.  Different strokes for different folks.  Additionally, people have to find their own way and what works for them.  But don’t turn up your lips when I tell you that you’re barking up the wrong tree. The drama and generalized extra that comes with it is really not what I’m trying to get involved with at 32.

I’m not going to ask why he has to go there.  I think that’s silly question.  I won’t even ask why it happens to me.  I’m acutely aware of the fact that I look like I enjoy to get down (much to my chagrin).  But I will say it’s a sad state of affairs when the only way people know how to express themselves is through their genitals.  And if you’re stepping this way with that mentality, I hate to break it to you, but I’m above your pedigree.

A funny thing happened November 9, 2008

Every Sunday morning, I take a jaunt to the *Bux for a macchiato or latte of some sort.  It’s wintertime, so now they have all their delicious coffee flavors.  The egg nog latte puts me on the express train to Yumsville.  so this morning, I threw on my workout clothes and my hoodie, pulled my hair back, and dragged myself out the crib. Evidently it was wall to wall fine ass man day and I missed the memo.  And here I am, unplucked eyebrows and not even a dab of lipgloss.  No matter.  I’m on some spiritual journey of some sort.  But still.  You at least want to people to think you’re cute right?  So, despite that, I still maneuver because lipgloss or no, I am most definitely what’s hot in these here Rockville streets.

So after I leave the barrage of fine men in Starbucks, I head to my car where yet ANOTHER fine man is pulling up.  At this point, I accept the fact that I’m getting punked and get in my car.  He pulls up alongside me, and hops out his car, standing on my passenger side.  I figure he’s waiting for me to pull off, so I tell him to go ahead first.  So then he leans down and taps on my window.  To ask for my phone number.

Yeah.  That’s right.

Like I said…lipgloss or no…

The New Wednesday Thing October 22, 2008

So last Wednesday, I posted a video by a sexy man, and I thought to myself, “Wouldn’t it be nice to post some of my favorite male singers to help us ladies get over the hump?”  Today’s gift is Lenny.

Broken windows, flat tires and EZ Off on your car October 3, 2008

Jazmine Sullivan’s voice is delightfully hypnotic.  So when I heard her latest song and its beat, vaguely reminiscent of a hip-hop tango, bobbing my head was inevitable.  Then, I paid attention to the words:

“I bust the windows out ya car…”

SCREEEEEEECH!

Ms. Sullivan is not the first songstress to sing about destruction of property.  Jill scott has a song called “Insomnia.”  She’s singing about her man not calling, and not coming around – that old chestnut.  She then launches into a diatribe about how her man turned her from a “woman of substance” to what adds up to a crazy ass stalker ho.  She ends the song, “You reduced me from a woman of substance to this.”

Breakups are emotional times.  It takes us places that we don’t want to be and brings us face to face with things we don’t really want to see.  Nobody likes the rejection or feeling of failure that comes with the breakup territory.  It’s hard to issue proper “protocol” for dealing with such a situation, because every person is different.

HOWEVER, what you do not do, what you must not EVER do, is lash out in violence.  Breakups happen for a reason.  Maybe you suck.  Maybe the guy sucks.  Maybe you both suck.  Maybe neither of you suck, but you don’t have anything in common and no interest in compromise.  But whatever the reason, if the first place you go when something doesn’t work out, is a place of destruction, humiliation or drama – then that’s not what you were driven to, that’s who you are.  A petty, spiteful female, that still sees a tantrum as a viable means to get her way.

I don’t buy that “woman on the verge” shit.  I’m MAD ROWDY.  I don’t like being played, played with, or having my intelligence insulted.  It’s not unheard of for me to be  galactically pissed when a dude plays me for the herb.  I may be hurt, and I will voice my hurt.  I may want to know why.  When all is said and done, I cut my losses and keep it moving. Truth be told, I tend to feel at odds in a girlfriend capacity.  It’s really not keeping with the way of the Maverick.  When it’s nice, it’s nice, and when it’s not, eh, it’s not.  I don’t purport to be perfect.  I’m brash, and slightly crass and cuss too much.  I talk more than I should and can occasionally be something of a broke ass elitist.  On top of all my other bullshit, it’ll be a hot minute before we’re fuckin, which I don’t think is in for 2008.  Go figure. Despite that, I’m still a solid chick.  So, I might not be a total “lady,” but I’m definitely a grown ass woman.

Oh yeah, and I don’t fuck people’s shit up, so…yeah…that’s kind of a plus.

Celebration of My Soup Coolers September 28, 2008

Can I just say that my lips are pretty much, what we may refer to colloquially as, “the bomb.”  I remember being 13 (for some reason, this was my year as a teenage hottie), and one of my classmates opined exactly what my lips were meant for.  I was as uncomfortable with that as i was with the rest of my body (I did my best to hide my adolescent C cups until senior year).  I had somehow convinced myself that everything about me was vulgar, so I hid as much of myself as possible.  I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup until I was 16, and even then, if I wasn’t with my parents, I wore very pale shades.  It was as though i feared the power of my own (yet untapped) sexuality.

Then one day, I decided to get my face done at the makeup counter for shits and giggles.  When she went for the bold lipstick, I stopped her. I asked for something paler, softer.  “More, natural.”

“Well, honey, what kind of makeup artist would I be if I didn’t play up your best feature?”  I acquiesced and allowed her to apply the faintly scented creme to my lips, and looked in the mirror.  My lips looked like satin bed sheets, only twice as bold and inviting.  A few guys entered the mall as she applied the finishing touches, and one walked directly into a pole.  I stepped, nay floated, off the chair with an extra strut in my step, my head held high, fierce as hell.

it was no coincidence that i floated out of the mall that day with my first push-up bra and pair of daisy dukes.

The moral of this story?

Fuck what ya heard.  I’m the shit.