Tootie Learned The Facts of Life, and even she wonders…

For whatever reason (and that reason could very well be that despite my belief to the contrary, I am, in fact, not as unique as I want to believe and I’m the typical woman in her 30s), I’ve been preoccupied with love, romance, being single, staying single and everything that comes with that.  I guess since I am at the beginning of my “personal new year” (thanks Amadeo), I’ve chosen to take stock of what’s what in the universe.  Romance is by no means the biggest fish of mine that needs frying, but it’s still a pretty big fish.  A big fish that jumps in and out of my life boat at the most inopportune moments.

I’m not sure when this happened, but one day I looked up and the majority of my close friends and family were either married or engaged.  The delightful (sarcasm alert) thing about being 32 and single is the “encouragement.”  It sort of goes like this:

Girl, you don’t let people sweat you about meeting Mr. Right.  It’s not the 19th century, people have goals. [Brief pause.]  But you know Mr. Right is right around the corner, right? [Am I supposed to be avoiding or on the lookout for this muthafucka?  And why is he around the corner?  Dude gonna rob me?  I can’t afford a new iPod right now, so I might have to throw the dogs on sun.  Happy Andre?]

This conversation may also go:

There are lots of single women these days [hearing about other lonely bitches is somehow supposed to make me feel better], and they live fulfilling lives [I’m sorry, are they paraplegics?].  It doesn’t mean something is wrong with you. [Brief pause.]  We need to figure out why you’re not getting a man. [Is something wrong with me or not?]

So lately, a few friends have recommended that I join match.com, et al.  I won’t say that I never considered it, but this time, I actually pondered the suggestion.  I mean i inquired of my peeps, I searched my own soul and all that good stuff.  That shit creeps me the fuck out my damie.

First, I don’t like a person getting to know me for the specific purpose of dating me.  I’m really not into the “I like all that shit you like, let’s fuck,” game.  To actually go on record as “looking”, eh, there’s something I just can’t do. Not because I’m fooling myself.  I consider myself open to the possibility of a relationship, but I’m most assuredly not looking for one.  The entire process of searching for a significant other actually gives me a headache.  I think the biggest mistake people make when going through the whole selecting a partner thing is treating every member of the desired sex as a “potential.”  Are you shitting me?  Sit your hungry ass down.  I know a lot of dudes.  I flirt with quite a few of them.  That’s what I do.  However, the number of them I would actually date is incredibly small.  Before you get your drawers in a bunch, I’m not saying this because they don’t “measure up” or anything like that.  I happen to be honest about who I am.  I have a friend that is intelligent, handsome, and we like a lot of the same shit.  He’s also neat to Adrian Monk proportions.  Yeah, no.  Ugly truth fact check:  not every pair of nice people will make a nice couple.

Second, I’m smart.  Now, I’m sure there are some who will read this and think I’m feeling myself.  There may even be those of you who know me that will say, “Bitch, you ain’t even that smart.”  [If you’re smart, you’ll keep shit like that to yourself, because though I’m trying to grow up, the tongue is still vicious and the rabbit punch is still ill.]  I don’t care if you across the table or the country, I can sniff shady out in a New York minute.  Now, I won’t always call you out on it, because I believe in letting grown people be grown, and chastising a grown ass man is probably one of the most boring and pointless activities a woman could ever engage in.  I also think everyone has the right to go through some shit, and I’m not gonna jump on your back and sweat you over it.  But I will say this, I have consulted seven males whose opinion I value, and EACH of them essentially said, “Well, you’ve gotta know that it going to be a little more difficult for you because you’re smart.”  I once called bullshit on this dude that was actively attempting to be in close contact with the luscious.  I was cool with it, but I felt the need to let him know honesty is the best policy with me because I’m smarter than the average bear.  He actually snorted, “Why I always gotta get caught up with smart females?”

Since those two things don’t make things hard enough, I’m a substance chick.  I had two girlfriends that decided they wanted boyfriends that were cute and wore Guccis.  That’s it. Seek and ye shall find.  They also found a WHOLE bunch of bullshit.  He’s wearing Guccis living in his mama’s house dummy.  Guess what happened when they had their own cribs?  Shit was going undone because they were still stuck on wearing Guccis.  Not so cute when he’s dipping in the rent money, huh?

And oh my god, the excuses.  I think my favorite is the phoney self-deprication.  This usually happens after a dude hits you with the ill shock and awe, then just falls off.  No warning, no nothing.  They come at you with every thing in the book.  My favorite (and the only reason I’m quoting it is because it was posted to me as a blog comment) to date is, “Just because someone doesn’t love you as you would like, doesn’t mean they don’t love you with all they have.”  What?!  No…for real, what does that even mean?  And for all the cats that are still working through their last heartbreak, their commitment phobia, their Peter Pan complexes, fear of their inability to love me the way I need, and all the other things that don’t become issues until months after embarking upon a relationship, what even go there?  For the journey?  Miss me with that shit.  There are tons of chicks that sling their snatch like Mardi Gras beads, and they’re everywhere.  Get at them.  I’m cool with being along for the ride.  It’s the surprise detours and sudden requests to get the fuck out of the car that get me to start beefin.

The cherry on this is that life is laden in shades of gray.  It would be easy for me to say that this guy is bad or that guy is lousy.  Unfortunately, it’s not that simple, and it’s counterproductive.  However, I can say that shit is tiresome.

So, you wanna know how come Tootie?

The answer is simple:

Because.

Advertisements

I want sympathy…and maybe some shoes

Gots me some time off.  Of course, as happens at least once a year, I have been touched by the cold of death on my long weekend.  I spent all day in bed, which I hate.  On a regular day, I have too much to do to spend the day in bed.  This is totally unacceptaqble for a four day weekend.  I’m at 45%, so I wrote a few pages as pennance.

I’m just amazed by the fact that my body can produce so much snot.  Just…so much.  My nose is ashy, my head feels like a balloon, and my children have taken this time to lose their everloving minds.  I don’t know why.  I mean, they know I’m going to remember and act a fool.  Why must they test me?

What I hate the most about colds is the fact that I can’t enjoy a good PB&J con leche.  Wack sauce!

Wings

I plan to take them, and go as high as they’ll take me for as long as life allows. I discovered that I always had the wings (some who know me would opine that to an extent, I’ve always used those wings).  They were just so mired in self doubt, I limited where they carried me.  “Does this one think I’m pretty enough?”  “Will that one think I drink too much?”  “Will this one accept this of me?”  I’ll try to describe how I’ve felt since last Friday:  Life is my purse, and there was a rip in the lining.  I dug between the lining and the leather, and found a $20 bill.  My meditation has helped me.

Ham Sa – I am that I am.

As of late, I’ve come to embrace the miraculousness of my flaws.  It’s not that there are things I won’t correct, but I think I’m dealing with some lovely raw material.  There’s something absolutely scrumptious about being free.  LIke, your morning breath isn’t even so bad when you’re free.

I think I’ve spent a lot of time waiting to be acknowledged, validated, shit, even legitimized.  In the end, who needs it?  It’s not that I don’t need anybody.  Every person that has walked through my life, for good or for bad, I hold them in a place of value, because there’s something I learned from each of them (even if it was to learn what not to do).  But at the end, it comes down to me.

Of course, since I’m a single (and oh so vibrant) chick, it always comes down to relationships.  When I picked up my kids, my sitter hoped that I was late because I was getting piped down (no such luck).  In addition to the fact that I was sick beyond all definition, I practiced single girl’s birth control and didn’t bother shaving my legs that night.

My homeboy asked if I at least got some numbers, and again, I have to say the nay-no.  Not because I wans’t looking good as all hell!  I’m just not that chick.  My homegirls, they get drinks from across the bar, and dudes pushing up on them for numbers.  Me? Eh.  It happens, but it doesn’t happen.  I just don’t bring that out of dudes.  However, just because I’m not the girl that would make you cross the room, I know for sure that I’m the type of girl that would make you wish you had.  At this juncture, that’s good enough for me.

So my gift to myself, is me.  Happy Birthday Mellie!

Floating

You guys have no idea how much I really needed this weekend.  Well, maybe some of you do.  It was so good to feel fabulous and fierce, dance all night, and hang out with my friends like a normal person.

Friday, I woke up, sent the kids off to school, then had some time to kill before I went to my hair appointment.  When in doubt, go shoe shopping.  I bought a pair of warm, comfy boots, then headed to Greenbelt.  For those of you in the urrea that don’t know, Cole Stevens is the indisputable TRUTH.  I’m kind of picky about who gets into my mane, and I’ve been testing out salons since I’ve gotten here.  The only one I really liked was a joint in Harlem, but I really don’t have the resources (time, money, patience) to go all the way to New York to get my dome did.  There are a lot of lovely sisters with beautiful naturals, so I figured it would only be a matter of time before I found “home.” Diane came to me by accident, but she was an absolute miracle worker.  Plus I felt quite pampered, and not at all rushed (as sometimes happens in salons that are bad on time management).  I’ll definitely be seeing her again.

From there, I went to undergo the tortuous eyebrow procedure.  Left unchecked, my eyebrows look like caterpillars.  The waxing is tough, but when homegirl pulls out the tweezers, it feels as though she is extracting my very soul through the follicle.  I get the kiddies, then we sojourn to the mall.  Mama needs a new pair of boots.  (Yes, I totally realize that I have already purchased a pair of boots.  Now I need sexy boots for my night out.)

I detour at DSW, and I send the kids on a mission:  “Find mom a pair of boots that will make her look cool.”  Finge pointed out a couple of pairs (a disturbing number of hooker boots, might I add); Ladybug selects the most delicious pair of burgundy suede boots I have ever seen in my life.  “THESE are the ones Mommy!”  And I look at the tag.  Cole Haan.  Marked down to $300.  When I told her I couldn’t get those, she then said, “Ugh, I have bad taste.”  After I and the salesman ensured her that was not the case, she took great pride in bragging to everyone about how she has fashion sense.  I eventually settle on a pair of gorgeous black ankle boots with gold buckles.  I’m done with shopping.

Saturday morning, I woke up bright and early, and pretty much ran all over the place.  Then, PARTY TIME!  I drank so much alcohol, I’m pretty sure it was criminal.  Once I recognized my state, I stopped looking at people.  I’m sort of an ugly dude magnet, and I didn’t want to give any the wrong signal by accident.  I got a chance to hang with good folks, danced to good music, and ate good food.  You really can’t beat that.

I spent the entirety of Sunday recuperating, which is the sign of a good time.  I’m still sort of tired, but I’m also still buzzing, because my 32nd year holds everything, ya know?  I’m excited to see what this year has in store for me, and what I’m going to go about doing to claim it.  A wise person told me that I should be taking myself seriously.  I think I’m gonna listen.

In fact, I know I will.

“Watch how you sniff son, I’m highly octane”

So, yesterday, I was chopping it up with this cat about the weekend goings ons and what not.  He began to complain about his girl being with her family and coming home in the morning hours, then proceeded to get angry because I didn’t see the big deal.

I really don’t see the whole point of giving a grown person a curfew.  Of course, when I voiced that opinion, he tried to play me on some, “Well when you get a Mr. Right, then you’ll see that he’s not gonna tolerate that.”  Now, that could well be the reason that I am not single, but I highly doubt it.  I don’t want a dude that needs me in his face 24/7, and typically the type of dude that I think would be right for me would be like, “you really need to get out of the house.”  There’s nothing productive about me standing at the door with a rolling pin.  The same can be said for him putting the “rules up” on the refrigerator.  (“Melanie can not leave the house EVER AGAIN!”)  WACK SAUCE!  I’m a New Orleans girl to the core, so quite often, the party doesn’t start for me until 11:30.

Of people in my peer group, there is only one couple that has been together for over 20 years and are still happy with one another.  He has his night out with the boys, she has her night out with the girls, and neither of them are checking one another for what time they come in.  Since it’s not this big taboo thing (and since they actually like one another), it’s not something that they do every week – or every month for that matter.  (Author’s note:  If you have to escape your spouse/SO for 12 hours at a time every weekend, you really need to reexamine what’s going on in your relationship, because I sense a hot ass mess somewhere on the horizon.)

Micromanaging the lives of others means there’s a whole lot of your own life being un-lived.  If you’ve spent your life in this rut, I’ll provide a jump start.  Here’s “Fifteen Things To Worry About/Ponder/Accomplish When Your Significant Other is Out Late”:

1.  Why didn’t the Fat Boys get a reunion tour on and poppin’ before the Human Beat Box bit the big one?

2.  Have we broken Stoney Jackson away from the pony tails?  If so, is he still rocking the S-Curl juice?  We need to do something about this.

3.  Foot management.  A lot of you weren’t right this summer.  Take that time you would spend being angry and work it out on those calluses.

4.  Read something other than Zane and E. Jerome Dickey.  This is not literature people.  I know some of you are mad, but GET mad. Get so mad that you buy a book that doesn’t have someone sucking a lollipop on the front.

5.  Why are Popeye’s red beans and rice portions now cut in HALF?  Beans are seventy-nine cents a pound.  You’re taking this recession jazz a bit too far.

6.  Who made colored shirts with white collars the official uniform of the douchebag?  I have never seen anyone wear this style of shirt that was not a complete asshat.  Research this.  I bet you can find it on Wikipedia.

7.  Attempt to finally put to rest the argument about who the best Enterprise captain was.

8.  Reference project:  Does “The Naked Man” really have a 2:3 ratio of return.  If so, which pose is most effective?  (Refer to the 11/24/08 episode of “How I Met Your Mother”.  See, I’m really about helping folks out here.)

9.  Critically analyze a flick.  Stubbornly refuse to suspend your disbelief.  “There’s no way they could be naked outside this long and NO cops have passed by.”

10.  Decipher the lyrics to “Rock The Casbah”.  “Sha-meeee show lah leh?”  What?

11.  Watch CSI or Law & Order.  I believe it’s been federally mandated that one of those shows should be accessible at all times.

12.  Call your mother.  The nest is empty and she’s still full of advice.  It gives you something to do and makes her happy.  It’s win-win.  This is not recommended if she’s single and dating around.  Then you may find yourself in an awkward situation that will create gross imagery.

13.  Go old school and play those calculator games where you add up these random numbers and they spell words like “Shell Oil” and “Boobless”.

14.  Video games.  The older, the better.  Mario soothes the soul.

15.  Go your ass back to sleep. Chances are, you probably don’t get upset until around 2.  Go your ass to BED.  Nobody wants to talk to you.  If you think about it, you really don’t want to talk.  How many times have you grumbled, “I should be asleep right now.”  Then SLEEP!

Nobody wants to be re-parented.  If you’re so convinced that your spouse, etc. is disrespectful and in constant need of correction, then why are you with them?

As far as that snide comment about what Mr. Right would “tolerate” from me, I’m sorry, but my Mr. Right probably won’t menstruate.  Oh, and he would have his balls on the outside.  Thanks.

Mgmt.