Me
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
The Same Ol’ G.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Too Trendy for Work?
What is appropriate work attire? How can one incorporate the latest trends into her work wardrobe, while still adhering to standard codes of dress?
Is it just me or has the American office completely missed two decades of women’s fashion? I mean, do people really expect women in their twenties to wear the same clothes as their 40 and 50 something year old counterparts? Who are you, 50 year old, overweight hag, to tell me that my outfit is inappropriate or “too trendy.” I’m sorry, I had to wear this because Macy’s stopped making your pumpkin-orange, floral, walking suit, ten years ago. Yes, I have on a grey and pink pin-striped, pencil skirt, a navy cardigan and (an awesome) pair of purple and blue suede peep toes. And yes, I may look more like a store mannequin than a Program Manager; but, I also look like a young, professional. This is how we dress and will continue to do so. So, get used to it; because retirement is around the corner and soon more of your colleagues and even bosses will look more like me and less like you.
Is it just me or has the American office completely missed two decades of women’s fashion? I mean, do people really expect women in their twenties to wear the same clothes as their 40 and 50 something year old counterparts? Who are you, 50 year old, overweight hag, to tell me that my outfit is inappropriate or “too trendy.” I’m sorry, I had to wear this because Macy’s stopped making your pumpkin-orange, floral, walking suit, ten years ago. Yes, I have on a grey and pink pin-striped, pencil skirt, a navy cardigan and (an awesome) pair of purple and blue suede peep toes. And yes, I may look more like a store mannequin than a Program Manager; but, I also look like a young, professional. This is how we dress and will continue to do so. So, get used to it; because retirement is around the corner and soon more of your colleagues and even bosses will look more like me and less like you.
On the right side of Time
We have all been that girl. The one that loved the boy, that didn’t love her back. Sure, he “liked” her a whole lot; but, for some reason, she just wasn’t “the one.” The girl, knowing this; but, convinced her love will change him, sticks it out, for way too long and for as long as she can. Until, she/he can’t take it anymore and the relationship falls apart. The girl leaves the “relationship” hurt, bruised, and perhaps a little wiser. She recovers. She is now stronger, smarter and ready for a new relationship. It’s not coming along. There is a serious man drought. She thinks, “Sheesh, this is why I stuck with (insert name) for so long.” She wonders what he’s up to. If he misses her. Nope. He’s already met someone else his “Ms. Right.” They’re getting married. It’s only been 3 months. Their engagement picture is on Facebook. How the hell did this happen?
Men say it over and over again. It all has to do with timing. They say it so much, that I even journey to believe that it’s true, in most cases. According to them, the process involved in going from “unready,” or “emotionally unavailable” can take place overnight. Most women find this very hard to believe. It has to be the woman. She’s doing something that the others didn’t do. She has an invisible “marriage material” sign on her forehead that only men can see. He says, “No.” She just arrived at the right time.
I have been on the wrong side of time at least twice. Met and dated some really great men; respectable brothers that I could see myself with. They liked me alot, perhaps even loved me; but, for various reasons related to “timing” (career, finance, other responsibilities), he/we just couldn’t make it gel. Timing always seemed to get in the way. It became the bane of my existence, my enemy, when all I wanted was to become was its friend. When could I ever get on the good/right side of time?
And what do we make of the women who are actually on time’s side? The ones dating and marrying the men we helped cultivate throughout the years? Are they merely beneficiaries of circumstance or do they have “something special?”
According to the timing theory, circumstance and proximity to the man play a huge part; however, I’d beg to take it a little further. Yes, timing plays a huge role; however, one could speculate that these women also have the “it” factor. “It” being, they are not you. Being with you for months/ years and you having given him your all, good and bad, has taught him exactly what he wants, as well as what he doesn’t want. She has arrived right at the point where he’s open to love; but, tired of the monotony and frustration of dealing with someone that he knows he can’t be with (you). Agree??
Note: No one wants to be the practice chick. But, what about the men? They obviously weren’t the ones for you. They were practice for you. Why can’t we accept that the right time for us, might not be the right time for him?
Men say it over and over again. It all has to do with timing. They say it so much, that I even journey to believe that it’s true, in most cases. According to them, the process involved in going from “unready,” or “emotionally unavailable” can take place overnight. Most women find this very hard to believe. It has to be the woman. She’s doing something that the others didn’t do. She has an invisible “marriage material” sign on her forehead that only men can see. He says, “No.” She just arrived at the right time.
I have been on the wrong side of time at least twice. Met and dated some really great men; respectable brothers that I could see myself with. They liked me alot, perhaps even loved me; but, for various reasons related to “timing” (career, finance, other responsibilities), he/we just couldn’t make it gel. Timing always seemed to get in the way. It became the bane of my existence, my enemy, when all I wanted was to become was its friend. When could I ever get on the good/right side of time?
And what do we make of the women who are actually on time’s side? The ones dating and marrying the men we helped cultivate throughout the years? Are they merely beneficiaries of circumstance or do they have “something special?”
According to the timing theory, circumstance and proximity to the man play a huge part; however, I’d beg to take it a little further. Yes, timing plays a huge role; however, one could speculate that these women also have the “it” factor. “It” being, they are not you. Being with you for months/ years and you having given him your all, good and bad, has taught him exactly what he wants, as well as what he doesn’t want. She has arrived right at the point where he’s open to love; but, tired of the monotony and frustration of dealing with someone that he knows he can’t be with (you). Agree??
Note: No one wants to be the practice chick. But, what about the men? They obviously weren’t the ones for you. They were practice for you. Why can’t we accept that the right time for us, might not be the right time for him?
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Blame it on “the Nice Guy”
According to my brother, there are no good women out there. As a fearless, funny and “fabulous sista,” I want to disagree with him. As a logical, discerned observer, I have to agree. There are no good women out there. We (yes, I must include myself) are all bad. Not, bad in the sense that we are the opposite of good; but, bad as in spoiled, ruined or damaged. “How so?,” you may ask. Well, chivalry is dead. Lil Wayne is the new IBM and Steve Harvey has us all running around trying to “think like a man”… (How can we learn to do that when we can’t even figure out what it means to think like women?). We are doomed. Ruined. Spoiled. Bad. After having been taught to swim in a sea of sharks, one has the tendency to be a little scarred. My bro is a good guy. “Mr. Nice Guy”. The one every “Bad woman” dreams about but doesn’t think truly exists. All he wants is a Good woman, one that will appreciate and return the love she truly deserves.
As a hysterical woman, I accept my inner “Bad girl.” She’s a little afraid, sometimes defensive and very angry. Not at Mr. Nice Guy; but, at all of the “Bad Boys” that she made bad decisions with out of good intentions. Unfortunately, those men are long gone. Never to return or even look back for that manner, so that just leaves poor Mr. Nice Guy to feel the wrath of our broken, bandaged; yet, unhealed hearts.
When my brother shares these thoughts with me, I simply look at him with the same pity and distain one has for a stray cat. You feel bad for it; but, not enough to take it home and care for it yourself. On the one hand, he’s a great guy, and any woman should be happy to have him; but, on the other hand, I’m a little angry with him for blaming his dating woes on us.
I find it amazing that if a woman dates a man she has no feelings for, leads him to believe that there is a future in the relationship, then uses him for his money that she is labeled everything from “gold-digger” to “whore.” However, if a man does the same thing to a woman, his motivation being sex, society turns around and blames the woman for her misjudgment, and, yet again, the “w-word” comes into place, because she should have practiced chastity. Double standard, much?
It’s not our fault his comrades were jerks and broke our hearts. In fact, it was his. Yes, his. When was the last time he stood up for the rights of women, or himself, for that manner, and declared an end to the mistreatment of women and the subsequent mistreatment of Nice Guys around the world? Never. He just sits back, watches his (Bad) boys seek and destroy. Never uttering a word. Never saying “Hey guys you’re wrong” or even “Yo bro, you’re messing this up for the rest of us.” His silence is their affirmation. Our pain is the consequence. And because of this, I can’t really sympathize.
I tell my brother that he has two options, one, start shopping the local middle schools for girls that have yet to experience the transformative pain of reckless abandonment or adjust his perception of what a good woman is. Of course, because he is good man and not a pervert, he goes for the latter. I explain that most Bad Women have the potential to be good again. That we just need someone that is good, honest and patient to show us the love and affection that we long disregarded as a figment of our imaginations. He nods; but, his eyes say “Damn, that sounds like a lot of work.” And I agree; it will be. But, that’s what it’s going to take. Well, that and when he does finally meet, care for and marry his “Ms. Right,” formerly known as “Madam Bad Girl #34,” that they have sons and raise them in their father’s likeness. God knows we could use more “Nice Guys” in the world.
I love my brother, he’s one of my best friends and one of the best men I’ve ever met. So, of course, I don’t blame him for the dating woes of me and my sisters. My accusations are in jest. However, I just wish that once or twice, someone would stand up for us, and say, “Don’t break my sister’s heart.”
Question. What do nice guys really think of the bad behavior their brothers exhibit? Does it bother them, as much as it does us, or do they think it’s our fault that we fall for the game?
As a hysterical woman, I accept my inner “Bad girl.” She’s a little afraid, sometimes defensive and very angry. Not at Mr. Nice Guy; but, at all of the “Bad Boys” that she made bad decisions with out of good intentions. Unfortunately, those men are long gone. Never to return or even look back for that manner, so that just leaves poor Mr. Nice Guy to feel the wrath of our broken, bandaged; yet, unhealed hearts.
When my brother shares these thoughts with me, I simply look at him with the same pity and distain one has for a stray cat. You feel bad for it; but, not enough to take it home and care for it yourself. On the one hand, he’s a great guy, and any woman should be happy to have him; but, on the other hand, I’m a little angry with him for blaming his dating woes on us.
I find it amazing that if a woman dates a man she has no feelings for, leads him to believe that there is a future in the relationship, then uses him for his money that she is labeled everything from “gold-digger” to “whore.” However, if a man does the same thing to a woman, his motivation being sex, society turns around and blames the woman for her misjudgment, and, yet again, the “w-word” comes into place, because she should have practiced chastity. Double standard, much?
It’s not our fault his comrades were jerks and broke our hearts. In fact, it was his. Yes, his. When was the last time he stood up for the rights of women, or himself, for that manner, and declared an end to the mistreatment of women and the subsequent mistreatment of Nice Guys around the world? Never. He just sits back, watches his (Bad) boys seek and destroy. Never uttering a word. Never saying “Hey guys you’re wrong” or even “Yo bro, you’re messing this up for the rest of us.” His silence is their affirmation. Our pain is the consequence. And because of this, I can’t really sympathize.
I tell my brother that he has two options, one, start shopping the local middle schools for girls that have yet to experience the transformative pain of reckless abandonment or adjust his perception of what a good woman is. Of course, because he is good man and not a pervert, he goes for the latter. I explain that most Bad Women have the potential to be good again. That we just need someone that is good, honest and patient to show us the love and affection that we long disregarded as a figment of our imaginations. He nods; but, his eyes say “Damn, that sounds like a lot of work.” And I agree; it will be. But, that’s what it’s going to take. Well, that and when he does finally meet, care for and marry his “Ms. Right,” formerly known as “Madam Bad Girl #34,” that they have sons and raise them in their father’s likeness. God knows we could use more “Nice Guys” in the world.
I love my brother, he’s one of my best friends and one of the best men I’ve ever met. So, of course, I don’t blame him for the dating woes of me and my sisters. My accusations are in jest. However, I just wish that once or twice, someone would stand up for us, and say, “Don’t break my sister’s heart.”
Question. What do nice guys really think of the bad behavior their brothers exhibit? Does it bother them, as much as it does us, or do they think it’s our fault that we fall for the game?
Are You A Hysterical Woman?
Most women are completely oblivious to their hysteria. Unbeknownst to them, they are carriers of this detrimental disease and unfortunately, may pass this infliction onto their daughters. This, in turn, results in generations of hysterical women. Women rebelling, challenging all that society has worked hard to stifle. So, here’s a little test. If three or more of the following statements apply to you… You may be hysterical.
You want equal respect and consideration as any other person.
You want the spouse, the house, the kids and the career.
You like to push the envelope when it comes to office etiquette and dress.
You expect him to call when he says he will. (And you’re definitely hysterical if you call him on his mal-behavior when he finally does call three days later)
You cry when you’re sad, yell when you’re angry and ask questions when you want answers.
You like sex and don’t necessarily see the correlation between the act and love.
You don’t believe in holding your tongue.
You’ve been described as crazy by two or more of your ex boyfriends.
You expect to find a man that appreciates and loves you for yourself, not your representative.
Female hysteria is a common medical diagnosis, made exclusively in women, which is today rarely recognized by modern medical authorities as a medical disorder. Its diagnosis and treatment were routine for many hundreds of years in Western Europe. Hysteria was widely discussed in the medical literature of the 19th century. Women considered to be suffering from it exhibited a wide array of symptoms including faintness, nervousness, insomnia, fluid retention, heaviness in abdomen, muscle spasm, shortness of breath, irritability, loss of appetite for food or sex, and "a tendency to cause trouble". – Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Female_hysteria
Are you a hysterical woman? If you are Black, female, fed-up and two seconds from snapping… You just might be. The term hysterical is often ascribed to women exhibiting behavior that is uncontrollable, controversial and/or unconventional. In the 19th century, the treatments for this disease varied from incarceration and forced feeding to “pelvic massage” (use your imagination). Today, symptoms include, being loud, enjoying sex and refusing to let a man convince you that being a lady means submitting to his will. Likewise, treatment remedies have evolved to include, watching “chick flicks,” marriage to “A Safe Guy,” or buying books that teach us how to think like men and keep our legs closed.
Most Black women, by today’s standards, can be described as hysterical. Our legacy dictates this. Harriet Tubman, Angela Davis, Alice Walker and even Oprah Winfrey, all hysterical, crazy for their ambition and for having the audacity to want more than what others felt they deserved. Common terms used to describe hysterical women include the following, Crazy, Whore, Feminist/Womanist, Lesbian and of course, Bitch. Everywhere we turn, we are faced with images and other propaganda designed to “cure” our hysteria. Last year, national media went frenzy with stories of our single-dom. Reporting that we are the most undesirable, and un-marriable women on the planet and that it was all our own faults because we emasculated men with our pickiness, education and high incomes. Sensational much?
I often find myself on the receiving end of the term. People, men and women alike, stare with confusion at my wild mane, choices in attire and rebellious tongue. I say, if hysterical means following in the footsteps of pioneers, trendsetters and revolutionaries, that is what I’ll be. And I encourage all of you to follow suit. I recently announced to my friends and family that I may not ever want to get married or have children. I’d be perfectly happy if my life revolved around travel, writing, teaching, friends and family. They gladly dismissed these statements as bouts of hysteria, most likely caused by a broken heart or my menstrual cycle. I, on the other hand, felt great about the decision. In my opinion, moping around in stagnation, waiting for some man to marry me and “make my life,” is hysterical.
As Black women, we have two choices. You’re either a lady or a whore. Unlike our white counterparts, our purity and femininity is not a given. We have to earn or prove that we deserve the respect their men lynched our men in protection of. Therefore, we sometimes go too far, or too right, in our attempt to conform. But, by nature we are the mothers of hysteria. We were starting wars and ruling kingdoms before Helen (of Troy) or Elizabeth (Queen of England). Their rules and standards don’t apply to us. So, the next time your neighbor, boyfriend or boss calls you crazy, calmly reply, “I’m not crazy, I’m hysterical.”
You want equal respect and consideration as any other person.
You want the spouse, the house, the kids and the career.
You like to push the envelope when it comes to office etiquette and dress.
You expect him to call when he says he will. (And you’re definitely hysterical if you call him on his mal-behavior when he finally does call three days later)
You cry when you’re sad, yell when you’re angry and ask questions when you want answers.
You like sex and don’t necessarily see the correlation between the act and love.
You don’t believe in holding your tongue.
You’ve been described as crazy by two or more of your ex boyfriends.
You expect to find a man that appreciates and loves you for yourself, not your representative.
Female hysteria is a common medical diagnosis, made exclusively in women, which is today rarely recognized by modern medical authorities as a medical disorder. Its diagnosis and treatment were routine for many hundreds of years in Western Europe. Hysteria was widely discussed in the medical literature of the 19th century. Women considered to be suffering from it exhibited a wide array of symptoms including faintness, nervousness, insomnia, fluid retention, heaviness in abdomen, muscle spasm, shortness of breath, irritability, loss of appetite for food or sex, and "a tendency to cause trouble". – Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Female_hysteria
Are you a hysterical woman? If you are Black, female, fed-up and two seconds from snapping… You just might be. The term hysterical is often ascribed to women exhibiting behavior that is uncontrollable, controversial and/or unconventional. In the 19th century, the treatments for this disease varied from incarceration and forced feeding to “pelvic massage” (use your imagination). Today, symptoms include, being loud, enjoying sex and refusing to let a man convince you that being a lady means submitting to his will. Likewise, treatment remedies have evolved to include, watching “chick flicks,” marriage to “A Safe Guy,” or buying books that teach us how to think like men and keep our legs closed.
Most Black women, by today’s standards, can be described as hysterical. Our legacy dictates this. Harriet Tubman, Angela Davis, Alice Walker and even Oprah Winfrey, all hysterical, crazy for their ambition and for having the audacity to want more than what others felt they deserved. Common terms used to describe hysterical women include the following, Crazy, Whore, Feminist/Womanist, Lesbian and of course, Bitch. Everywhere we turn, we are faced with images and other propaganda designed to “cure” our hysteria. Last year, national media went frenzy with stories of our single-dom. Reporting that we are the most undesirable, and un-marriable women on the planet and that it was all our own faults because we emasculated men with our pickiness, education and high incomes. Sensational much?
I often find myself on the receiving end of the term. People, men and women alike, stare with confusion at my wild mane, choices in attire and rebellious tongue. I say, if hysterical means following in the footsteps of pioneers, trendsetters and revolutionaries, that is what I’ll be. And I encourage all of you to follow suit. I recently announced to my friends and family that I may not ever want to get married or have children. I’d be perfectly happy if my life revolved around travel, writing, teaching, friends and family. They gladly dismissed these statements as bouts of hysteria, most likely caused by a broken heart or my menstrual cycle. I, on the other hand, felt great about the decision. In my opinion, moping around in stagnation, waiting for some man to marry me and “make my life,” is hysterical.
As Black women, we have two choices. You’re either a lady or a whore. Unlike our white counterparts, our purity and femininity is not a given. We have to earn or prove that we deserve the respect their men lynched our men in protection of. Therefore, we sometimes go too far, or too right, in our attempt to conform. But, by nature we are the mothers of hysteria. We were starting wars and ruling kingdoms before Helen (of Troy) or Elizabeth (Queen of England). Their rules and standards don’t apply to us. So, the next time your neighbor, boyfriend or boss calls you crazy, calmly reply, “I’m not crazy, I’m hysterical.”
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Dating Rules for the Hysterical Woman
There have been dozens, no hundreds, scratch that, thousands of books, articles and blogs written to aid Black women in the pursuit of the perfect man. As a hysterical woman, I read these aids and gasp and gag in disgust. I’m no Victorian lady or Debutant; I’m hysterical, meaning I’ve been around the block and picked up a few scars on the way back. That said, I have created a few dating rules of my own. Ones that don’t tell us to shut our mouths, act like ladies and order the cheapest thing on the menu because it’s the polite thing to do. These rules are real. For the hysterical woman, by a hysterical woman. Follow them at your own risk; many of them have been untested. But, truth be told, what do you have to lose? The other stuff hasn’t worked either.
Rule Number One. Remember, you are by social standards “crazy.” However, despite what they say, them Negroes are even crazier.
Rule Number Two. Never Ever take advice from your friends, especially not the single ones… Why am I listening to you? That’s like Ray giving Stevie fashion advice.
Rule Number Three. Never Ever be yourself. Be your craziest self. What’s the point in calculating a gradual reveal? If he can deal with you on 10. He’ll love you at 3.
Rule Number Four. Don’t ignore your gut or his. If you are completely turned off by his physical appearance, corny or offensive jokes or the way he chews his food, don’t be afraid to walk away. Oftentimes, the things we ignore are the things that come back to bite us in the end.
Rule Number Five. Ask about his ex. Yes… And if he starts the conversation off with “That Bitch was Crazy”… Run for the hills… nine times out of ten, you’re crazier than her and you’ll be the next “crazy bitch” he’ll be talking about.
Rule Number Six. Beware of Mr. Perfect. If he’s too suave, too well dressed or too polite, HE’S LYING! No man is perfect. And you most certainly are not. If he’s afraid to show you his crazy, he won’t be too comfortable with yours.
Rule Number Seven. Don’t compare him to your ex. In fact, contrast him (It didn’t work for a reason). The only comparisons that should be made are between you and him. If you have the same likes, dislikes, passions and taste in movies, why not give it a try?
Rule Number Eight. Crazy needs crazy. If you show up and your neurosis leads you to start rambling about how much you hate Jaguars and the pretentious jerks that drive them and he chimes in and says that he hates the idiot woman who date them and the conversation lasts for three hours, I say you’ve just made a match in Crazy Heaven (And perhaps, Dork Heaven or Bitter Angry People Heaven… You be the judge).
Rule Number Nine. Nice guys finish last. Poor suckers. Try one out. Accept the date. He may be a little square and gasp at some of your brash statements. But, if he laughs instead, he may be a keeper. Sometimes hysterical women need a little balance and nice doesn’t always mean naïve or soft. Maybe his “crazy” is that he likes “loud, neurotic, pessimistic women.” This may be the last first date of your life.
Rule Number Ten. Remember, crazy women need love too. There is someone out there for almost everyone (just being honest). You’re crazy; but, fabulous. You love and accept you. Why wouldn’t someone else?
Rule Number One. Remember, you are by social standards “crazy.” However, despite what they say, them Negroes are even crazier.
Rule Number Two. Never Ever take advice from your friends, especially not the single ones… Why am I listening to you? That’s like Ray giving Stevie fashion advice.
Rule Number Three. Never Ever be yourself. Be your craziest self. What’s the point in calculating a gradual reveal? If he can deal with you on 10. He’ll love you at 3.
Rule Number Four. Don’t ignore your gut or his. If you are completely turned off by his physical appearance, corny or offensive jokes or the way he chews his food, don’t be afraid to walk away. Oftentimes, the things we ignore are the things that come back to bite us in the end.
Rule Number Five. Ask about his ex. Yes… And if he starts the conversation off with “That Bitch was Crazy”… Run for the hills… nine times out of ten, you’re crazier than her and you’ll be the next “crazy bitch” he’ll be talking about.
Rule Number Six. Beware of Mr. Perfect. If he’s too suave, too well dressed or too polite, HE’S LYING! No man is perfect. And you most certainly are not. If he’s afraid to show you his crazy, he won’t be too comfortable with yours.
Rule Number Seven. Don’t compare him to your ex. In fact, contrast him (It didn’t work for a reason). The only comparisons that should be made are between you and him. If you have the same likes, dislikes, passions and taste in movies, why not give it a try?
Rule Number Eight. Crazy needs crazy. If you show up and your neurosis leads you to start rambling about how much you hate Jaguars and the pretentious jerks that drive them and he chimes in and says that he hates the idiot woman who date them and the conversation lasts for three hours, I say you’ve just made a match in Crazy Heaven (And perhaps, Dork Heaven or Bitter Angry People Heaven… You be the judge).
Rule Number Nine. Nice guys finish last. Poor suckers. Try one out. Accept the date. He may be a little square and gasp at some of your brash statements. But, if he laughs instead, he may be a keeper. Sometimes hysterical women need a little balance and nice doesn’t always mean naïve or soft. Maybe his “crazy” is that he likes “loud, neurotic, pessimistic women.” This may be the last first date of your life.
Rule Number Ten. Remember, crazy women need love too. There is someone out there for almost everyone (just being honest). You’re crazy; but, fabulous. You love and accept you. Why wouldn’t someone else?
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Romance, Please.
Let me hold you tight
If only for one night
Let me keep you keep you near
To ease away your fear
It would be so nice
If only for one night
Remember Luther Vandross? The man with the silky voice, and the sensual lyrics, whose songs got you in the mood and kept you in love? And even though he may not have had a six pack, and a “pretty boy” face. Women loved him anyway.
I’ma kiss you right, yea, yeah
I’m gon lick all night, yea, yeah
Girl, when I’m inside yea, yeah
Yeah girl, you heard what I said
I’m gonna make you wet the bed
Oh Chris Brown, with your wicked lyrics, six pack abs and bad boy persona. Who woulda thought you’d be our modern day Casanova?
Both songs describe an experience, one that includes pleasure, intimacy and sex.
These songs are a reflection of the times. Is romance a thing of the past?
Institutes such as dating, courtship and marriage still exist; but, just in the case of the transformation of the primate to the man (homo erectus). Relationships have evolved. So, the question hangs, “What the hell do modern relationships look like?”
If only for one night
Let me keep you keep you near
To ease away your fear
It would be so nice
If only for one night
Remember Luther Vandross? The man with the silky voice, and the sensual lyrics, whose songs got you in the mood and kept you in love? And even though he may not have had a six pack, and a “pretty boy” face. Women loved him anyway.
I’ma kiss you right, yea, yeah
I’m gon lick all night, yea, yeah
Girl, when I’m inside yea, yeah
Yeah girl, you heard what I said
I’m gonna make you wet the bed
Oh Chris Brown, with your wicked lyrics, six pack abs and bad boy persona. Who woulda thought you’d be our modern day Casanova?
Both songs describe an experience, one that includes pleasure, intimacy and sex.
These songs are a reflection of the times. Is romance a thing of the past?
Institutes such as dating, courtship and marriage still exist; but, just in the case of the transformation of the primate to the man (homo erectus). Relationships have evolved. So, the question hangs, “What the hell do modern relationships look like?”
I Hate Social Media
I am a writer, not because I have this desire to be heard. Not because having a blog is in right now and most certainly not because I think people want or need to hear what I have to say. I write because its my right, its my talent and because getting all of this stuff outta my head and heart just feels so good.
As a writer, particularly one on arts and culture, I am finding it more and more difficult to find inspiration and material to write about, while maintaining true to my integrity as a writer and frankly as a sensible human being. Most magazines, online and otherwise, want material that is current and reflective of the needs of their audience. Therefore, as an Arts and Culture critic and commentator, I must follow the trends and report on the topics and events in the media, Fine, I can get down with that. What I can’t get down with is the nonsense that we as Americans refer to as “news” and current events.
Im sorry; but who really cares if Kim Kardashian’s marriage was a sham (It was by the way) or if Shaq cheated on Shawnie because he could (Duh!). Why is this news and more importantly, why do people care?
I also hate Facebook and Twitter. Once again, this directly contradicts my progress as a professional writer. People cant and wont read your work if one, they can’t find it, two, they have no clue who you are and three, they can’t friend you or follow you on Twitter. This is not to say that I have an issue with people that utilize or enjoy utilizing social media. This is to say that I, particularly, hate using it.
Why does everyone on twitter keep posting and reposting the same articles about the same subject that is being ran on every magazine and channel? And who cares what you think about it?? How pretentious is that to think that I/ we care about your opinion. We have our own. Or maybe we don’t.
Long story short. I have to use social media. I have to read the gossip blogs and I have to follow the trends. If I don’t, my work becomes irrelevant, and sadly, unreadable and unread. After all, who cares what I have to say, if its not reflective of their lives or interests. Otherwise, its just an angry rant by a unfriended, unfollowed writer.
As a writer, particularly one on arts and culture, I am finding it more and more difficult to find inspiration and material to write about, while maintaining true to my integrity as a writer and frankly as a sensible human being. Most magazines, online and otherwise, want material that is current and reflective of the needs of their audience. Therefore, as an Arts and Culture critic and commentator, I must follow the trends and report on the topics and events in the media, Fine, I can get down with that. What I can’t get down with is the nonsense that we as Americans refer to as “news” and current events.
Im sorry; but who really cares if Kim Kardashian’s marriage was a sham (It was by the way) or if Shaq cheated on Shawnie because he could (Duh!). Why is this news and more importantly, why do people care?
I also hate Facebook and Twitter. Once again, this directly contradicts my progress as a professional writer. People cant and wont read your work if one, they can’t find it, two, they have no clue who you are and three, they can’t friend you or follow you on Twitter. This is not to say that I have an issue with people that utilize or enjoy utilizing social media. This is to say that I, particularly, hate using it.
Why does everyone on twitter keep posting and reposting the same articles about the same subject that is being ran on every magazine and channel? And who cares what you think about it?? How pretentious is that to think that I/ we care about your opinion. We have our own. Or maybe we don’t.
Long story short. I have to use social media. I have to read the gossip blogs and I have to follow the trends. If I don’t, my work becomes irrelevant, and sadly, unreadable and unread. After all, who cares what I have to say, if its not reflective of their lives or interests. Otherwise, its just an angry rant by a unfriended, unfollowed writer.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Just Too Much! (A Little Info On me… )
I am the girl that a lot of insecure women hate. The woman at work in the high heels and borderline inappropriate outfit. The one that‘s always in someone else’s cube or has someone in hers (oftentimes male ). I’m the one with the loud voice and the even louder laugh. The ridiculous hair and full face of make-up. Hold on to your man, because she doesn’t have one (and I hear she’s on the prowl). I’m that girl. Do you know me?
Well, if you think you do, you don’t.
Here’s the actual truth. I’m not the “traditional” lady. I sin. I cuss and I’ve been known to enjoy a clove cigarette or two. I’m aggressive and assertive and don’t believe in backing down for the sake of maintaining some archaic notion of femininity. I fight, physically and verbally, as well as eat with my hands (not just fingers, hands). I talk about sex, in mixed company, at the most inappropriate times, and I have no qualms about telling a man if I feel like his game won’t or can’t match up. I flirt and never feign modesty. I jokingly boast about my intelligence, skills and beauty and am undeniably self-centered (who else is my world supposed to evolve around, some man?). I am not a lady. But, I am a woman. A strong, assertive, beautiful, intelligent and self-assured, Black woman. And darn proud!
Ok. Ok… This is the truth. But, it’s not all I am. I am also extremely sensitive and hate being judged, a daddy’s girl and a push-over when it comes to my kids (Oh, I’m also a youth worker). I go to bat for my friends and believe in telling the truth, even if It gets me in trouble. I cry at least twice a day over, things that don’t even involve or affect me and I value my family more than they will ever know. Oh, and I love kittens. :)
I’ve never had a hard time making friends, its just been a little difficult maintaining true friendship with other women. When you are as “too much” as I am “too much,” it can be difficult for people to tolerate or even enjoy your overcast. I find this to be particularly true when it comes to other women, especially other, single, attractive women. If they only knew that I’ve come along way from being some “pretty girl’s," overweight, sidekick who was the last chosen to dance. I used to be afraid of not only others; but my own voice. Bet they'd never guess that I was raised in a household of men and a tomboy until the age of 15. Or that I had to fight daily with my peers at school because of my religious beliefs. Would anyone guess that I hated my hair and body until the age of 21. If they knew that, would I still be hated or judged?
Don’t get me wrong, yes, I am a HAM, and yes, I do enjoy putting on an, occasional, one-woman, show. But, by no means do I require ALL of the attention, ALL of the time. I LOVE being in the presence and hanging with extraverted, hilarious, over the top, eccentric,” too much” women. One, I receive a sigh of relief, “Thank you GOD, I’m not alone!” Two, I have a partner or partners in crime to play off and put on even bigger, better performances. And three, It takes the pressure off of me to always well, be on. Sometimes, in fact oftentimes, I enjoy sitting back and being the spectator.
Most of you are probably just like me. You just don’t want to be judged for it. So, you stay in the safe zone. Place your hands in your lap and feign modesty. Well, on behalf of all of the “Too Much” girls, I say, welcome to the world. Throw on your favorite, “hot girl gear,” throw away those safe outfits, put on some make-up (if you like) and speak up! The world is ready for your debut.
Well, if you think you do, you don’t.
Here’s the actual truth. I’m not the “traditional” lady. I sin. I cuss and I’ve been known to enjoy a clove cigarette or two. I’m aggressive and assertive and don’t believe in backing down for the sake of maintaining some archaic notion of femininity. I fight, physically and verbally, as well as eat with my hands (not just fingers, hands). I talk about sex, in mixed company, at the most inappropriate times, and I have no qualms about telling a man if I feel like his game won’t or can’t match up. I flirt and never feign modesty. I jokingly boast about my intelligence, skills and beauty and am undeniably self-centered (who else is my world supposed to evolve around, some man?). I am not a lady. But, I am a woman. A strong, assertive, beautiful, intelligent and self-assured, Black woman. And darn proud!
Ok. Ok… This is the truth. But, it’s not all I am. I am also extremely sensitive and hate being judged, a daddy’s girl and a push-over when it comes to my kids (Oh, I’m also a youth worker). I go to bat for my friends and believe in telling the truth, even if It gets me in trouble. I cry at least twice a day over, things that don’t even involve or affect me and I value my family more than they will ever know. Oh, and I love kittens. :)
I’ve never had a hard time making friends, its just been a little difficult maintaining true friendship with other women. When you are as “too much” as I am “too much,” it can be difficult for people to tolerate or even enjoy your overcast. I find this to be particularly true when it comes to other women, especially other, single, attractive women. If they only knew that I’ve come along way from being some “pretty girl’s," overweight, sidekick who was the last chosen to dance. I used to be afraid of not only others; but my own voice. Bet they'd never guess that I was raised in a household of men and a tomboy until the age of 15. Or that I had to fight daily with my peers at school because of my religious beliefs. Would anyone guess that I hated my hair and body until the age of 21. If they knew that, would I still be hated or judged?
Don’t get me wrong, yes, I am a HAM, and yes, I do enjoy putting on an, occasional, one-woman, show. But, by no means do I require ALL of the attention, ALL of the time. I LOVE being in the presence and hanging with extraverted, hilarious, over the top, eccentric,” too much” women. One, I receive a sigh of relief, “Thank you GOD, I’m not alone!” Two, I have a partner or partners in crime to play off and put on even bigger, better performances. And three, It takes the pressure off of me to always well, be on. Sometimes, in fact oftentimes, I enjoy sitting back and being the spectator.
Most of you are probably just like me. You just don’t want to be judged for it. So, you stay in the safe zone. Place your hands in your lap and feign modesty. Well, on behalf of all of the “Too Much” girls, I say, welcome to the world. Throw on your favorite, “hot girl gear,” throw away those safe outfits, put on some make-up (if you like) and speak up! The world is ready for your debut.
My Sister. My Friend. My Enemy?
The game, Pursuit.
The target, a Black Man.
The goal, Marriage (preferably before 35).
The opponent, Any other living, breathing, half attractive woman.
The rules, NONE.
Sound familiar? This is game played by thousands of Black women in this country and around the world every day. Beautiful, intelligent and successful woman all vying for what they deem to be the missing piece in the puzzle of total, and complete happiness. We can have it all, if we work, plot and scheme enough. The house, the car, the vacation spot in Martha’s Vineyard, and of course the man… the Black Man.
I have always been very comfortable communicating, befriending and, if so inclined, pursuing men. I have plenty of male friends, some ex-loves and lovers, others just “cool dudes” that I’ve gravitated to over the years. Never being much of a “girls’ girl,” but, very much a “girlie girl,” the friendships and the witty banter I often exchange with the men in my circles are frequently, misunderstood and misinterpreted as flirtation. Which has made me a target for female scrutiny and harsh judgement.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not one of those “I only hang with guys, girls are too petty” women. In fact, I have a solid group of female friends, all of which are beautiful, intelligent, ambitious women of many different hues, character and type. I love my girlfriends. They are essential part of my life, and in my opinion the life of any woman. I just so happen to also have a close blend of male friends, as well.
What is so disappointing, yet not surprising to me, is the lack of regard women have for each other when it comes to the pursuit of men. Time and time again, I have witnessed women undercut and use each other to get to men. And a few times, I have been the victim of this.
I’ve had women cozy up to me to meet my male friends or even pretend to be my friend just to see how close I am to “their” man. Like, really? If another woman is a potential threat, then he isn’t yours anyway and may not even be that into you.
I love my sisters; but, we have got get it together. There is plenty of room in the universe for each and every one of us to be hot (beautiful, sexy, intelligent and desirable). So, stop undercutting and dissin’ your sisters just because you believe that she may pose a threat to you meeting the man of your dreams. If he is meant for you, you will be with him.
What really pisses me off (on top of the jealously, spitefulness and obvious hating we do on each other) is that men know this about us. And they PLAY ON IT!! If a man can start a bidding war for his affections, he has not only mastered the game, because not only has the amount of effort he has to exert gone down to zero; but, he has the chance of walking away with the MVP trophy, both women. And us women we play right into it. Battling each other so hard we have no clue that what we are fighting for isn’t even worth a verbal slap, let alone a hair pull.
Could you imagine what would happen if we stopped letting them win? Yes, letting them win. That’s what happens every time we choose them over each other or allow them to divide us. One, we will begin to forge stronger interpersonal relationships. Two, men will have no choice but to step up their game and be forced to come correct and treat all of us with the respect we deserve. And three, this will increase the pool of eligible, “good” men. So, it starts with us ladies. Love yourself, of course; but, remember, love your sister. She is not your enemy. She is your ally.
The target, a Black Man.
The goal, Marriage (preferably before 35).
The opponent, Any other living, breathing, half attractive woman.
The rules, NONE.
Sound familiar? This is game played by thousands of Black women in this country and around the world every day. Beautiful, intelligent and successful woman all vying for what they deem to be the missing piece in the puzzle of total, and complete happiness. We can have it all, if we work, plot and scheme enough. The house, the car, the vacation spot in Martha’s Vineyard, and of course the man… the Black Man.
I have always been very comfortable communicating, befriending and, if so inclined, pursuing men. I have plenty of male friends, some ex-loves and lovers, others just “cool dudes” that I’ve gravitated to over the years. Never being much of a “girls’ girl,” but, very much a “girlie girl,” the friendships and the witty banter I often exchange with the men in my circles are frequently, misunderstood and misinterpreted as flirtation. Which has made me a target for female scrutiny and harsh judgement.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not one of those “I only hang with guys, girls are too petty” women. In fact, I have a solid group of female friends, all of which are beautiful, intelligent, ambitious women of many different hues, character and type. I love my girlfriends. They are essential part of my life, and in my opinion the life of any woman. I just so happen to also have a close blend of male friends, as well.
What is so disappointing, yet not surprising to me, is the lack of regard women have for each other when it comes to the pursuit of men. Time and time again, I have witnessed women undercut and use each other to get to men. And a few times, I have been the victim of this.
I’ve had women cozy up to me to meet my male friends or even pretend to be my friend just to see how close I am to “their” man. Like, really? If another woman is a potential threat, then he isn’t yours anyway and may not even be that into you.
I love my sisters; but, we have got get it together. There is plenty of room in the universe for each and every one of us to be hot (beautiful, sexy, intelligent and desirable). So, stop undercutting and dissin’ your sisters just because you believe that she may pose a threat to you meeting the man of your dreams. If he is meant for you, you will be with him.
What really pisses me off (on top of the jealously, spitefulness and obvious hating we do on each other) is that men know this about us. And they PLAY ON IT!! If a man can start a bidding war for his affections, he has not only mastered the game, because not only has the amount of effort he has to exert gone down to zero; but, he has the chance of walking away with the MVP trophy, both women. And us women we play right into it. Battling each other so hard we have no clue that what we are fighting for isn’t even worth a verbal slap, let alone a hair pull.
Could you imagine what would happen if we stopped letting them win? Yes, letting them win. That’s what happens every time we choose them over each other or allow them to divide us. One, we will begin to forge stronger interpersonal relationships. Two, men will have no choice but to step up their game and be forced to come correct and treat all of us with the respect we deserve. And three, this will increase the pool of eligible, “good” men. So, it starts with us ladies. Love yourself, of course; but, remember, love your sister. She is not your enemy. She is your ally.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Life on the Other Side
It’s been almost three months since I’ve embarked on this journey to the other side. The other side of fear, the other side of confusion, the other side of myself. Three months ago, I made a promise to myself that that I would drop all pretenses, all insecurities and fears and reclaim myself.
I never knew that I wasn’t really happy. I always knew I was ok… for the most part, content. But, never happy and certainly not joyful. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve experienced moments of “happiness”… working with my students, spending time with my beautiful nephews, drinking with the girls… But, experiencing joy on a daily basis was a foreign feeling… a foreign understanding.
Three months ago I stopped drinking, dating, and self-loathing. Told myself that I needed and deserved a better life. Reflected on my imperfections, accepted some of them and decided to improve many of them. I decided to become a better person for myself, and as a result for my family, friends and community.
I find the responses to my change amazing. For the most part, people have been very supportive. Of course, some have not taken to my sudden shift as warmly as I would have liked; but, that is to be expected… What is to be expected from the guy who lost his late-night sure thing?
A wise woman recently told me that life is a series of life-altering events and that I shouldn’t be surprised if I find myself going through a similar change years from now…According to her, it’s all a part of the process of living, learning and growing… I believe her, through I must say the possibility of undergoing another “crash and rebuild” scares the hell out of me, at least right now.
Many people don’t understand the reason for the change or even see it…. And I’m ok with that. I see it and most importantly, I feel it. I feel the confidence, I feel the happiness and I feel the new found love that I have for myself. Do I miss the old times? The alcohol, the men, the sex… Yes. Of course I do. The latters more than the formers :) But, I don’t miss the old me. The me that relied on those vices for comfort, support and direction. The old me that was afraid of who I was, and what I wanted. The old me that didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. Not that I have all of the answers now; but, the picture is a lot less fuzzy than it was three months ago… for the men reading this, it’s kind of like going from regular TV to HD.
I owe so many people credit for this change. Some were catalysts, others enablers. The catalysts… one in particular, a wonderful woman by the name of R, whom I met on a trip to Connecticut … my mentor, sister and spiritual advisor… a true gift from God. Proof that you can make new, real, friends in adulthood and that “girl power” is more than a 90s cliché. My enablers… I can happily report that I have many… J, S, T, C, G and others… great people all in their own rights, who through sarcasm, teasing and love all push me to be the person I’m claiming to be. But, I cannot forget or neglect to mention one of the key catalysts, the man to whom I must give credit where hurt and pain is due… (He shall remain nameless or initial-less in this instance) I must thank him for breaking my heart, exposing my weaknesses and unapologetically showing me that no one will ever love you, unless you love yourself. Thanks, Prick (See, I’m still not there yet...).
Most importantly, I got to thank the most important person in this equation. The person who has been both a catalyst and the ultimate enabler… GOD. As my father taught me… “Allahu Akbar,” meaning God is the greatest :)
I still have my moments… Moments when I find myself missing him or feeling hurt by what he’s done... But, I’ve come to the realization that it’s going to take as long as it has to for my heart and ego to mend. And I’m ok with that. And more importantly, I’ve realized that living with pain, desire and sometimes doubt are all human emotions, given to us by God. And I embrace all that God has given me. What I’ve found is that it’s learning how to not let them consume you that we must learn to do. So, OK… So, I backslide sometimes… We all do… after all, we are human… But, it’s the ability to re-climb, climb and ascend even further, that makes heroes out of mere humans. I’m only three months in, sixteen more to go… I’m not even half-way there; but I have the joy in my heart lighting the path ahead of me.
I never knew that I wasn’t really happy. I always knew I was ok… for the most part, content. But, never happy and certainly not joyful. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve experienced moments of “happiness”… working with my students, spending time with my beautiful nephews, drinking with the girls… But, experiencing joy on a daily basis was a foreign feeling… a foreign understanding.
Three months ago I stopped drinking, dating, and self-loathing. Told myself that I needed and deserved a better life. Reflected on my imperfections, accepted some of them and decided to improve many of them. I decided to become a better person for myself, and as a result for my family, friends and community.
I find the responses to my change amazing. For the most part, people have been very supportive. Of course, some have not taken to my sudden shift as warmly as I would have liked; but, that is to be expected… What is to be expected from the guy who lost his late-night sure thing?
A wise woman recently told me that life is a series of life-altering events and that I shouldn’t be surprised if I find myself going through a similar change years from now…According to her, it’s all a part of the process of living, learning and growing… I believe her, through I must say the possibility of undergoing another “crash and rebuild” scares the hell out of me, at least right now.
Many people don’t understand the reason for the change or even see it…. And I’m ok with that. I see it and most importantly, I feel it. I feel the confidence, I feel the happiness and I feel the new found love that I have for myself. Do I miss the old times? The alcohol, the men, the sex… Yes. Of course I do. The latters more than the formers :) But, I don’t miss the old me. The me that relied on those vices for comfort, support and direction. The old me that was afraid of who I was, and what I wanted. The old me that didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. Not that I have all of the answers now; but, the picture is a lot less fuzzy than it was three months ago… for the men reading this, it’s kind of like going from regular TV to HD.
I owe so many people credit for this change. Some were catalysts, others enablers. The catalysts… one in particular, a wonderful woman by the name of R, whom I met on a trip to Connecticut … my mentor, sister and spiritual advisor… a true gift from God. Proof that you can make new, real, friends in adulthood and that “girl power” is more than a 90s cliché. My enablers… I can happily report that I have many… J, S, T, C, G and others… great people all in their own rights, who through sarcasm, teasing and love all push me to be the person I’m claiming to be. But, I cannot forget or neglect to mention one of the key catalysts, the man to whom I must give credit where hurt and pain is due… (He shall remain nameless or initial-less in this instance) I must thank him for breaking my heart, exposing my weaknesses and unapologetically showing me that no one will ever love you, unless you love yourself. Thanks, Prick (See, I’m still not there yet...).
Most importantly, I got to thank the most important person in this equation. The person who has been both a catalyst and the ultimate enabler… GOD. As my father taught me… “Allahu Akbar,” meaning God is the greatest :)
I still have my moments… Moments when I find myself missing him or feeling hurt by what he’s done... But, I’ve come to the realization that it’s going to take as long as it has to for my heart and ego to mend. And I’m ok with that. And more importantly, I’ve realized that living with pain, desire and sometimes doubt are all human emotions, given to us by God. And I embrace all that God has given me. What I’ve found is that it’s learning how to not let them consume you that we must learn to do. So, OK… So, I backslide sometimes… We all do… after all, we are human… But, it’s the ability to re-climb, climb and ascend even further, that makes heroes out of mere humans. I’m only three months in, sixteen more to go… I’m not even half-way there; but I have the joy in my heart lighting the path ahead of me.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
She's Too Sexy To Be A Wife... (Do Sexy Women Get Married?)
In my observation, our society has perpetuated the notion that there are two types of women… women that you marry and women that you have sex with. And unfortunately, many men staunchly adhere to this rule, dichotomizing the women they meet, dismissing any that the deem “too sexy” to bedroom duty and coveting those that appear to be wholesome, without giving either a chance to properly present or defend their character.
What do Black men want in a wife? According to popular magazines and online polls… Men, particularly Black men, want women that are funny, caring, spiritual, trustworthy, intelligent, feminine… and of course, sexual. Sexuality and sexual compatibility are very important to most men. However, this does not imply that they want their wives to appear sexual. You know the cliché… “Lady in the street, and a freak in the bed.” Men love strippers, porn stars and video vixens; but, would most brothers marry one, no.
Since slavery, the Black female body has been abused and exploited for the sexual fulfillment of the masses. Her round buttocks, breasts and full lips, sexualized and objectified, and deemed impure and unfeminine, in comparison with that of their white counterparts. Case in point, Saarte Baartman (look it up) the famous “Venus Hottentot,” an African woman who was caged and paraded around Europe on display because of her large rare end. In fact, even after death, her body remained captive, as her vagina and buttocks were preserved and placed on display in a French museum.
This objectification and sexualization of the Black female form lives on today in music videos and lyrics and in popular male magazines. And though the same can be said of white women in media, they can be viewed in other avenues which counteract notions that they are ONLY sexual beings. They can be seen on TV and in movies as lawyers, doctors, and even as potential presidential candidates; whereas, there are less mainstream images of Black women in which she is portrayed as intelligent, professional, powerful and feminine without being overly sexual.
Black men, similar to that of Black women, have been stigmatized by American culture as possessing an animalistic sexual prowess. This is one of the primary reasons white men took great efforts to keep them from their precious women. The Black male libido and penis has been stereotypically labeled as both as weapon and a threat. However, contemporary Black men, in opposition to what Black women have done, have accepted this stereotype by parading their virility and sexuality. Look at Lil Wayne and his abundance of “baby mommas,” the legend of Wilt Chamberland and popular shows like “Flavor of Love” and, Chad Ochocinco’s “The Perfect Catch,” in which dozens of sex-crazed “hoes” bid for the affections of libido-driven Black men. Today, Black men can have sex with as many women (of any race) as they like, without stigma or scrutiny. But, Black women, on the other hand, have to be very careful, and thus tread lightly to avoid any such notions that they are sexually charged or deviant.
Given this history, many Black women, intentionally and sometimes subconsciously, conform to American standards of womanhood (pure, pious and passive), in an effort to protect themselves from the stigma and subjugation of over-sexualization. Many will agree that is it necessary to appear “conservative,” and even “more conservative” than their white counterparts, particularly in the work place, to avoid labels such as ghetto queen and vixen, as well as to deflect the eyes of white men from their butts, lips and hips. But, what about within our own communities and with our own men?
Do Black men dichotomize Black women in a similar fashion? The answer may be “yes.” In my experience, men rarely marry women they believe to be too sexy or sexual. Sexy women (women that appear sexual) are often labeled “whores ,” “loose” or “not wifey material” and women that appear less sexual are given the green light and consideration … But, can you judge a book by its cover? Now, I’m no fool and oftentimes you can call as spade a spade and if it walks and quacks like a duck, most times it’s a duck… But, what if it’s really a swan?
The characteristics that make a woman sexy span beyond that of the physical. There is intelligence, poise, speech, her walk, etc. And what Black men find physically attractive varies from here to the motherland. But, the question still remains: Can a woman be too sexy to marry?
Yes, this is why women, indeed Black women, make great strides to “act like a lady,” abide by sexual rules of conduct and conceal truths about their sexual past (See my earlier entry, “Lie… What Lie?”) They know that Black men can be very quick to judge and label and that if she wants a fair chance, she better hold back the truth, play the “good girl role” and play her part.
How does a duck walk? Meaning what do “overly sexual” women look like? Hmmm… well, let’s start with the dress. She may wear form fitting or revealing clothing. Have a “provocative” walk. Adorn herself with embellishments such as flashy jewelry of makeup, accessories that emphasize her physical beauty, and she may exemplify behaviors, such as speech, that can be deemed as flirtatious or brazen. Combine these traits, and you can build one sexy beast. She’s got the walk, the talk and the looks that make men look (sometimes stare) and even comment. But, does that make her a whore?
One of my favorite lines, a mantra in which I have come to live by, comes from the animated film, Who Framed Roger Rabbit. The film features one of my favorite TV and screen characters, Jessica Rabbit, the wife of the film’s title character, Roger. Jessica is a vixen, a buxom, red-head, in a skin tight green cocktail dress, with a sensual voice and a walk that warrants a saxophone as theme music. Yet she is the faithful wife of a goofy, rabbit. She utters the line after being accused of adultery, to which Mrs. Rabbit, in that sensual lounge-singer voice, responds… “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way.” I love this line, because it is both comical, yet complex and begs the question… Are all sexy women bad, or are you just drawing them that way?
Sexy women are and should be considered wifey material. Gentlemen, how about you wait to hear a quack before you scream, “DUCK!” Some women love themselves, their bodies and their sexuality; and therefore, they look sexually appealing. But, this does NOT mean that they allow everyone to experience it. I understand that you want to respect your wife and for her to be respected. But, the most important thing is that she respects herself, and just because she’s sexy, this does not mean that she doesn’t. Grow some, and realize that other men can and will find your wife sexy. Be proud of it; because she is YOURS. Don’t punish her, love her and she will love you in return. She will remain faithful and you may see that the sexuality she eludes in public falls very short to what she’ll show you when you’re behind closed doors.
What do Black men want in a wife? According to popular magazines and online polls… Men, particularly Black men, want women that are funny, caring, spiritual, trustworthy, intelligent, feminine… and of course, sexual. Sexuality and sexual compatibility are very important to most men. However, this does not imply that they want their wives to appear sexual. You know the cliché… “Lady in the street, and a freak in the bed.” Men love strippers, porn stars and video vixens; but, would most brothers marry one, no.
Since slavery, the Black female body has been abused and exploited for the sexual fulfillment of the masses. Her round buttocks, breasts and full lips, sexualized and objectified, and deemed impure and unfeminine, in comparison with that of their white counterparts. Case in point, Saarte Baartman (look it up) the famous “Venus Hottentot,” an African woman who was caged and paraded around Europe on display because of her large rare end. In fact, even after death, her body remained captive, as her vagina and buttocks were preserved and placed on display in a French museum.
This objectification and sexualization of the Black female form lives on today in music videos and lyrics and in popular male magazines. And though the same can be said of white women in media, they can be viewed in other avenues which counteract notions that they are ONLY sexual beings. They can be seen on TV and in movies as lawyers, doctors, and even as potential presidential candidates; whereas, there are less mainstream images of Black women in which she is portrayed as intelligent, professional, powerful and feminine without being overly sexual.
Black men, similar to that of Black women, have been stigmatized by American culture as possessing an animalistic sexual prowess. This is one of the primary reasons white men took great efforts to keep them from their precious women. The Black male libido and penis has been stereotypically labeled as both as weapon and a threat. However, contemporary Black men, in opposition to what Black women have done, have accepted this stereotype by parading their virility and sexuality. Look at Lil Wayne and his abundance of “baby mommas,” the legend of Wilt Chamberland and popular shows like “Flavor of Love” and, Chad Ochocinco’s “The Perfect Catch,” in which dozens of sex-crazed “hoes” bid for the affections of libido-driven Black men. Today, Black men can have sex with as many women (of any race) as they like, without stigma or scrutiny. But, Black women, on the other hand, have to be very careful, and thus tread lightly to avoid any such notions that they are sexually charged or deviant.
Given this history, many Black women, intentionally and sometimes subconsciously, conform to American standards of womanhood (pure, pious and passive), in an effort to protect themselves from the stigma and subjugation of over-sexualization. Many will agree that is it necessary to appear “conservative,” and even “more conservative” than their white counterparts, particularly in the work place, to avoid labels such as ghetto queen and vixen, as well as to deflect the eyes of white men from their butts, lips and hips. But, what about within our own communities and with our own men?
Do Black men dichotomize Black women in a similar fashion? The answer may be “yes.” In my experience, men rarely marry women they believe to be too sexy or sexual. Sexy women (women that appear sexual) are often labeled “whores ,” “loose” or “not wifey material” and women that appear less sexual are given the green light and consideration … But, can you judge a book by its cover? Now, I’m no fool and oftentimes you can call as spade a spade and if it walks and quacks like a duck, most times it’s a duck… But, what if it’s really a swan?
The characteristics that make a woman sexy span beyond that of the physical. There is intelligence, poise, speech, her walk, etc. And what Black men find physically attractive varies from here to the motherland. But, the question still remains: Can a woman be too sexy to marry?
Yes, this is why women, indeed Black women, make great strides to “act like a lady,” abide by sexual rules of conduct and conceal truths about their sexual past (See my earlier entry, “Lie… What Lie?”) They know that Black men can be very quick to judge and label and that if she wants a fair chance, she better hold back the truth, play the “good girl role” and play her part.
How does a duck walk? Meaning what do “overly sexual” women look like? Hmmm… well, let’s start with the dress. She may wear form fitting or revealing clothing. Have a “provocative” walk. Adorn herself with embellishments such as flashy jewelry of makeup, accessories that emphasize her physical beauty, and she may exemplify behaviors, such as speech, that can be deemed as flirtatious or brazen. Combine these traits, and you can build one sexy beast. She’s got the walk, the talk and the looks that make men look (sometimes stare) and even comment. But, does that make her a whore?
One of my favorite lines, a mantra in which I have come to live by, comes from the animated film, Who Framed Roger Rabbit. The film features one of my favorite TV and screen characters, Jessica Rabbit, the wife of the film’s title character, Roger. Jessica is a vixen, a buxom, red-head, in a skin tight green cocktail dress, with a sensual voice and a walk that warrants a saxophone as theme music. Yet she is the faithful wife of a goofy, rabbit. She utters the line after being accused of adultery, to which Mrs. Rabbit, in that sensual lounge-singer voice, responds… “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way.” I love this line, because it is both comical, yet complex and begs the question… Are all sexy women bad, or are you just drawing them that way?
Sexy women are and should be considered wifey material. Gentlemen, how about you wait to hear a quack before you scream, “DUCK!” Some women love themselves, their bodies and their sexuality; and therefore, they look sexually appealing. But, this does NOT mean that they allow everyone to experience it. I understand that you want to respect your wife and for her to be respected. But, the most important thing is that she respects herself, and just because she’s sexy, this does not mean that she doesn’t. Grow some, and realize that other men can and will find your wife sexy. Be proud of it; because she is YOURS. Don’t punish her, love her and she will love you in return. She will remain faithful and you may see that the sexuality she eludes in public falls very short to what she’ll show you when you’re behind closed doors.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
The Reason Why "Friends with Benefits" Fail
Ladies, does this sound familiar?
"Woman, why are you so damn crazy?"
"Did he just call me 'crazy'..."?
I’m crazy because I think about you constantly, so much that I find myself reciting your name, at the most awkward times, in public places, in front of complete strangers, which in turn makes them look at me… crazy.
I’m crazy because I compare every man to you and always deem them unworthy; therefore, I am lonely and have not been on a date in months. Yet, whenever we speak, you tell me about some chick you just met whose body was so damn… crazy.
I’m crazy because we’re just friends; but, I want more, you know it and don’t acknowledge it because to talk about it would be too much to handle right now and you’re life is already so damn… crazy.
I’m crazy because last night I made love, you had sex. I turned you out, just like I said I would, and now your all fucked up. We both see the tables are turning, and you’re catching feelings, damn, aint that so… crazy.
I’m crazy because I know you love me; but, just won’t say it. I push you, you pull away and tell me things ain’t that deep between us, knowing you’re lying… to both me and yourself. You’re shutting down. Now who’s that one that’s acting… crazy.
So now we’re here arguing because I want you, I need you, but, you don’t want me and I’ll never have you. Damn, we used to be so tight, such good friends. When we met, we connected so deeply, so strongly. The spark was so strong.
I guess it’s because crazy recognizes… crazy.
"Woman, why are you so damn crazy?"
"Did he just call me 'crazy'..."?
I’m crazy because I think about you constantly, so much that I find myself reciting your name, at the most awkward times, in public places, in front of complete strangers, which in turn makes them look at me… crazy.
I’m crazy because I compare every man to you and always deem them unworthy; therefore, I am lonely and have not been on a date in months. Yet, whenever we speak, you tell me about some chick you just met whose body was so damn… crazy.
I’m crazy because we’re just friends; but, I want more, you know it and don’t acknowledge it because to talk about it would be too much to handle right now and you’re life is already so damn… crazy.
I’m crazy because last night I made love, you had sex. I turned you out, just like I said I would, and now your all fucked up. We both see the tables are turning, and you’re catching feelings, damn, aint that so… crazy.
I’m crazy because I know you love me; but, just won’t say it. I push you, you pull away and tell me things ain’t that deep between us, knowing you’re lying… to both me and yourself. You’re shutting down. Now who’s that one that’s acting… crazy.
So now we’re here arguing because I want you, I need you, but, you don’t want me and I’ll never have you. Damn, we used to be so tight, such good friends. When we met, we connected so deeply, so strongly. The spark was so strong.
I guess it’s because crazy recognizes… crazy.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Addiction Anybody?/ A Response to the Celibacy Question
Are you Man-Obsessed?
1. You have been single, not dating, sexing or “talking” to a man for longer than 1 month and you feel like you might die.
2. You are single (meaning, without a man or potential mate) yet you already know the cut and design of your wedding gown.
3. When you go out for “girls night” with your friends, your soul purpose is to meet men.
4. You go to clubs and bars alone to meet men.
5. You have a “friend with benefits” that you secretly want to marry... Psst, its not a secret, everyone… including him… knows that you desperately want more. Sorry.
6. Almost EVERY conversation you have with your friends… male and female… starts with “What does it mean if he…,” “Why do men…” or “Niggas aint shit!”
7. You are successful, healthy and attractive; but, you find yourself constantly jealous of your married friends.
8. You date men that are totally below your dating standards.
9. You do not have any dating standards (but, of course you have a list for everything else).
10. Men ask you “Really? You’re interested in me?”
11. You own more than one dating book.
12. You avoid being seen with your nieces, nephews or God children in public for fear that Mr. Right, might think you have kids (because he’s out there looking for you… not!).
13. You created a blog about transitioning into your thirties and almost every article is about men, sex or dating
I honestly can’t remember a time when I wasn’t completely, utterly and undeniably obsessed/ addicted to men. It’s like one day something clicked in my head, as if someone turned my internal television to MenTV, and then stole the remote. Since that day, almost everything I did, said and thought would revolve around the retrieval or maintenance of a relationship with a man.
Like I’ve said before, I started building my life around Mr. Right, my beacon of light, my Savior. With him, by my side, in front of me, hell… even behind me (a weak man is better than no man, right?) I could accomplish anything. But why?
Ok… So, I was an addict. Love was a drug. Men were the syringe and I was playing a losing game and unlike Charlie Sheen, I was not winning (neither is he… But, whatever). And at the point where you start comparing yourself to coked out celebs… you know it’s time to change. Change is hard and fighting a proverbial itch was even harder.
How was I to break this habit, fight my addiction and get sober?… Any addict knows that there has and always will be only one way… cold turkey.
Cold Turkey, meaning no more men. They all had to be cut off. Every crush, every ex and every booty call. They all had to go. A hard dose of honesty (In the form of a really great friend) told me that none of them were good for me. None of them really cared about and, ultimately, none of them deserved me. Furthermore, she went on to asked, why the hell was I keeping them around. I fought her on this…
“All of them? Even my friends (some with benefits) too?”
She replied yes, and then went on… “If they’re so important, then they’ll know your importance and come searching for you after just a week”.
“And if this happens, I can keep them?”
She looked at me maternally. “Sure sweetie, you can keep them.”
I’ll show her, they’ll come a knockin’ within a week. Hell, even a couple of days… God, I hope they do.
Cliché. Cliché. To this day, I have yet to hear from all but one. And cliché, cliché, he was the one I never slept with. Say it with me… “Cliché. Cliché”. Damn you, Steve Harvey.
After a week of moaning, crying and cursing, I realized that I had a whole lot of free time on my hands… Not necessarily physical time; but, more significantly mental time. Without all the man drama that I warranted, welcomed and created, I was able to think about more important stuff… like, who the hell I was and what the hell did I want out of life? I had more time to read and more importantly, to write.
Without men, my conversations changed. I no longer called my girlfriends just to talk about my potential boyfriends, and in turn, they stopped moaning so much about theirs. We started to connect on different levels, getting to know each other better, realizing that we had other common interests before we turned into man –hungry succubae. It was enlightening. Liberating. Rehab 101: Once an addict, always an addict. But, this doesn’t mean that your addiction has to control you. It is never too late for you to reclaim/ regain control.
And so with this, began my bout with celibacy. I say bout because, I don’t plan for this to last forever… God, I hope not. My short term goal is until I turn 30 (my wedding night is my long term goal). Hopefully, by then, I won’t be so clueless, I’ll have conquered my addiction, checked some things off of my “to do” list, and even gained a clearer sense of identity.
1. You have been single, not dating, sexing or “talking” to a man for longer than 1 month and you feel like you might die.
2. You are single (meaning, without a man or potential mate) yet you already know the cut and design of your wedding gown.
3. When you go out for “girls night” with your friends, your soul purpose is to meet men.
4. You go to clubs and bars alone to meet men.
5. You have a “friend with benefits” that you secretly want to marry... Psst, its not a secret, everyone… including him… knows that you desperately want more. Sorry.
6. Almost EVERY conversation you have with your friends… male and female… starts with “What does it mean if he…,” “Why do men…” or “Niggas aint shit!”
7. You are successful, healthy and attractive; but, you find yourself constantly jealous of your married friends.
8. You date men that are totally below your dating standards.
9. You do not have any dating standards (but, of course you have a list for everything else).
10. Men ask you “Really? You’re interested in me?”
11. You own more than one dating book.
12. You avoid being seen with your nieces, nephews or God children in public for fear that Mr. Right, might think you have kids (because he’s out there looking for you… not!).
13. You created a blog about transitioning into your thirties and almost every article is about men, sex or dating
I honestly can’t remember a time when I wasn’t completely, utterly and undeniably obsessed/ addicted to men. It’s like one day something clicked in my head, as if someone turned my internal television to MenTV, and then stole the remote. Since that day, almost everything I did, said and thought would revolve around the retrieval or maintenance of a relationship with a man.
Like I’ve said before, I started building my life around Mr. Right, my beacon of light, my Savior. With him, by my side, in front of me, hell… even behind me (a weak man is better than no man, right?) I could accomplish anything. But why?
Ok… So, I was an addict. Love was a drug. Men were the syringe and I was playing a losing game and unlike Charlie Sheen, I was not winning (neither is he… But, whatever). And at the point where you start comparing yourself to coked out celebs… you know it’s time to change. Change is hard and fighting a proverbial itch was even harder.
How was I to break this habit, fight my addiction and get sober?… Any addict knows that there has and always will be only one way… cold turkey.
Cold Turkey, meaning no more men. They all had to be cut off. Every crush, every ex and every booty call. They all had to go. A hard dose of honesty (In the form of a really great friend) told me that none of them were good for me. None of them really cared about and, ultimately, none of them deserved me. Furthermore, she went on to asked, why the hell was I keeping them around. I fought her on this…
“All of them? Even my friends (some with benefits) too?”
She replied yes, and then went on… “If they’re so important, then they’ll know your importance and come searching for you after just a week”.
“And if this happens, I can keep them?”
She looked at me maternally. “Sure sweetie, you can keep them.”
I’ll show her, they’ll come a knockin’ within a week. Hell, even a couple of days… God, I hope they do.
Cliché. Cliché. To this day, I have yet to hear from all but one. And cliché, cliché, he was the one I never slept with. Say it with me… “Cliché. Cliché”. Damn you, Steve Harvey.
After a week of moaning, crying and cursing, I realized that I had a whole lot of free time on my hands… Not necessarily physical time; but, more significantly mental time. Without all the man drama that I warranted, welcomed and created, I was able to think about more important stuff… like, who the hell I was and what the hell did I want out of life? I had more time to read and more importantly, to write.
Without men, my conversations changed. I no longer called my girlfriends just to talk about my potential boyfriends, and in turn, they stopped moaning so much about theirs. We started to connect on different levels, getting to know each other better, realizing that we had other common interests before we turned into man –hungry succubae. It was enlightening. Liberating. Rehab 101: Once an addict, always an addict. But, this doesn’t mean that your addiction has to control you. It is never too late for you to reclaim/ regain control.
And so with this, began my bout with celibacy. I say bout because, I don’t plan for this to last forever… God, I hope not. My short term goal is until I turn 30 (my wedding night is my long term goal). Hopefully, by then, I won’t be so clueless, I’ll have conquered my addiction, checked some things off of my “to do” list, and even gained a clearer sense of identity.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Loving Yourself (Part One)
Loving Yourself Outside-In
I love my body. I love the breadth of my shoulders, the curve of my hips, the contrast between the darkness of my areolas with the brown of my breasts, even the ’v’ shape my vagina makes between my legs. I love my body, and the powerful way it can command and illicit pleasure. Adoring my body has become a ritual, in that I take time sometimes seconds, other times minutes, to gaze upon its beauty. Loving and celebrating my physical has become a way in which I love and celebrate me.
However, I have recently realized that I have allowed social standards of beauty, unrealistic expectations and my own insecurities to pervert a ritual that in essence should be beautiful and relaxing. You see, each time I celebrate, I pose. Meaning, I suck in my “gut,” arch my back, raise my breasts and elongate my legs in a model pose. In my mind, looking at and loving her (my body) in this altered form, is so much easier, than loving her in her natural, relaxed state. But, there is no beauty in dishonesty. And truth cannot be found in that which is altered.
After this realization, I knew that I had to let go, relax my form, stand straight up, let go of the Tyra, circa 2002, pose and gaze upon God’s perfection… Well, the first time I tried this, I immediately, grabbed my towel and walked away.
“I’ll check again tomorrow.” I said. “After the gym… The ‘gut’ is always smoother after a run and a round of crunches.”
When was the last time you looked at yourself naked? Completely naked, in a full-length mirror, stomach full, skin dry, breasts low, eyes wide open? How long did it take for you to suck in your stomach, arch your back, critique yourself, cover up and walk away? Minutes or seconds? Time yourself. See how long it takes before you feel the burning judgment of being watched and judged by a jury of one. Seeing yourself in all its honesty, vulnerability, sexiness, ugliness and beauty can be both a liberating and a painful experience. Most times the latter precludes the former, in that we tend to embrace pain before pleasure, negativity before positivity.
Try it. See what you do, how long you can do it and how you feel afterwards. Then, the next day, try it again. Keep repeating this task until you find yourself so comfortable in your skin that you no longer feel “nude” at all. You feel “clothed” in that you find security and contentment while being in one of the most vulnerable positions imaginable. When this happens, you’ll realize that confidence can form from the outside-in, because embracing your physical, is a part of embracing your soul, which is a large part of embracing yourself as a whole.
I love my body. I love the breadth of my shoulders, the curve of my hips, the contrast between the darkness of my areolas with the brown of my breasts, even the ’v’ shape my vagina makes between my legs. I love my body, and the powerful way it can command and illicit pleasure. Adoring my body has become a ritual, in that I take time sometimes seconds, other times minutes, to gaze upon its beauty. Loving and celebrating my physical has become a way in which I love and celebrate me.
However, I have recently realized that I have allowed social standards of beauty, unrealistic expectations and my own insecurities to pervert a ritual that in essence should be beautiful and relaxing. You see, each time I celebrate, I pose. Meaning, I suck in my “gut,” arch my back, raise my breasts and elongate my legs in a model pose. In my mind, looking at and loving her (my body) in this altered form, is so much easier, than loving her in her natural, relaxed state. But, there is no beauty in dishonesty. And truth cannot be found in that which is altered.
After this realization, I knew that I had to let go, relax my form, stand straight up, let go of the Tyra, circa 2002, pose and gaze upon God’s perfection… Well, the first time I tried this, I immediately, grabbed my towel and walked away.
“I’ll check again tomorrow.” I said. “After the gym… The ‘gut’ is always smoother after a run and a round of crunches.”
When was the last time you looked at yourself naked? Completely naked, in a full-length mirror, stomach full, skin dry, breasts low, eyes wide open? How long did it take for you to suck in your stomach, arch your back, critique yourself, cover up and walk away? Minutes or seconds? Time yourself. See how long it takes before you feel the burning judgment of being watched and judged by a jury of one. Seeing yourself in all its honesty, vulnerability, sexiness, ugliness and beauty can be both a liberating and a painful experience. Most times the latter precludes the former, in that we tend to embrace pain before pleasure, negativity before positivity.
Try it. See what you do, how long you can do it and how you feel afterwards. Then, the next day, try it again. Keep repeating this task until you find yourself so comfortable in your skin that you no longer feel “nude” at all. You feel “clothed” in that you find security and contentment while being in one of the most vulnerable positions imaginable. When this happens, you’ll realize that confidence can form from the outside-in, because embracing your physical, is a part of embracing your soul, which is a large part of embracing yourself as a whole.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Waiting for a Savior.
Most of us look down on groupies and gold-diggers for their dependence on men for money, affection and survival. And though I do not agree with their “power of the pussy” tactics; I must say, that up until recently, I have not been that different from them. I also will journey to say that with careful introspection, most of you will find that you haven’t been either.
For most of my life I have been a victim of “Savior Syndrome.” Like most women, from a very young age I have been conditioned to believe that my life could and would never be complete without the perfect man. But, what makes it worse is that I bought into the notion that my life wouldn’t even begin until I found him.
I’ve always been ambitious, wanting my own career and having my own goals; yet, I could never move forward, because I didn’t have a man navigating my course. My future (and ultimately, myself) remained a blur with an outline; but no details or specifics. So, for the last 10 years, I have searched diligently to find him, the man that will pull out the magic map and show me where I am supposed to go. What never occurred to me was that, ultimately, whatever map he was following was his… Something he designed, without my input or consideration… Hell, most often, the plan existed before he even met me.
And this, My Dears, is the difference between men and women. Women date to find Saviors, men they believe will save them from this life of uncertainty… Our Mr. Perfect, Mr. Wonderful, IBM (Ideal Black Man), the missing link between now and forever. And any plans we have made are bent, shifted or discarded to incorporate him and his.
I have been guilty of this too many times. For example, If he was a potential first round draft pick, headed straight to the NBA after our junior year, the journalism career I dreamed of was thrown to the wayside, replaced by apparitions of the different cities we could potentially move to and the glamorous life we would live, as I fought off groupies and did lunch with the Basketball Wives. If he was a career obsessed investment banker, that wanted a penthouse in the city and a trophy wife, I’d immediately dream up a plan that included skipping grad school (who needs an M.A. in Literature when you have a banker for a husband), working out six days a week and learning how to speak a foreign language so that I could impress his bourgeois friends. And, if he was a video game-obsessed-southerner, I’d learn how to cook soul food (minus the pork), play Call of Duty , and start researching property costs in Atlanta. As you can see, the plan constantly changed, depending on who I was building it around.
After several years of this, I was even more confused and lost than ever. Who was I? And where the hell was I headed? Well… since I spent more time single than not, nowhere. I was going nowhere. I couldn’t believe that I had wasted so many years changing my plans for men that already had plans... Plans that, mind you, were designed for THEIR happiness, not mine. You see, the investment banker got his condo overlooking the water and his exotic, trophy wife. The gamer still has his console and is single; but, I hear living it up in the strip clubs of Atlanta and the Baller… Well, he never made it to the NBA, freak accident our Sophomore year (He had already dumped me by this point ); but, is happily married, with three kids, coaching high school basketball in Virginia. And me, I’m still here, single and childless, blogging about being clueless.
Clueless; but, not hopeless. A wise man once told me that he thought the term “You complete me” was utterly nonsense. And I have to say I agree with him. No one can complete you. You have to complete yourself. But, first you have to find yourself, and the way to do this starts with a plan. YOUR PLAN. At almost 30, I’m still looking at my future through squinted eyes; but, it’s getting clearer. Because, this time around, I’m taking charge of my own life and living for me. And though I’m taking this journey alone; I’m Ok with it (Well, at least getting to be), because it’s MY journey, MY path… and it’s on my terms and all roads on this map lead to MY happiness. And that My Dears, is how you become your own Savior.
For most of my life I have been a victim of “Savior Syndrome.” Like most women, from a very young age I have been conditioned to believe that my life could and would never be complete without the perfect man. But, what makes it worse is that I bought into the notion that my life wouldn’t even begin until I found him.
I’ve always been ambitious, wanting my own career and having my own goals; yet, I could never move forward, because I didn’t have a man navigating my course. My future (and ultimately, myself) remained a blur with an outline; but no details or specifics. So, for the last 10 years, I have searched diligently to find him, the man that will pull out the magic map and show me where I am supposed to go. What never occurred to me was that, ultimately, whatever map he was following was his… Something he designed, without my input or consideration… Hell, most often, the plan existed before he even met me.
And this, My Dears, is the difference between men and women. Women date to find Saviors, men they believe will save them from this life of uncertainty… Our Mr. Perfect, Mr. Wonderful, IBM (Ideal Black Man), the missing link between now and forever. And any plans we have made are bent, shifted or discarded to incorporate him and his.
I have been guilty of this too many times. For example, If he was a potential first round draft pick, headed straight to the NBA after our junior year, the journalism career I dreamed of was thrown to the wayside, replaced by apparitions of the different cities we could potentially move to and the glamorous life we would live, as I fought off groupies and did lunch with the Basketball Wives. If he was a career obsessed investment banker, that wanted a penthouse in the city and a trophy wife, I’d immediately dream up a plan that included skipping grad school (who needs an M.A. in Literature when you have a banker for a husband), working out six days a week and learning how to speak a foreign language so that I could impress his bourgeois friends. And, if he was a video game-obsessed-southerner, I’d learn how to cook soul food (minus the pork), play Call of Duty , and start researching property costs in Atlanta. As you can see, the plan constantly changed, depending on who I was building it around.
After several years of this, I was even more confused and lost than ever. Who was I? And where the hell was I headed? Well… since I spent more time single than not, nowhere. I was going nowhere. I couldn’t believe that I had wasted so many years changing my plans for men that already had plans... Plans that, mind you, were designed for THEIR happiness, not mine. You see, the investment banker got his condo overlooking the water and his exotic, trophy wife. The gamer still has his console and is single; but, I hear living it up in the strip clubs of Atlanta and the Baller… Well, he never made it to the NBA, freak accident our Sophomore year (He had already dumped me by this point ); but, is happily married, with three kids, coaching high school basketball in Virginia. And me, I’m still here, single and childless, blogging about being clueless.
Clueless; but, not hopeless. A wise man once told me that he thought the term “You complete me” was utterly nonsense. And I have to say I agree with him. No one can complete you. You have to complete yourself. But, first you have to find yourself, and the way to do this starts with a plan. YOUR PLAN. At almost 30, I’m still looking at my future through squinted eyes; but, it’s getting clearer. Because, this time around, I’m taking charge of my own life and living for me. And though I’m taking this journey alone; I’m Ok with it (Well, at least getting to be), because it’s MY journey, MY path… and it’s on my terms and all roads on this map lead to MY happiness. And that My Dears, is how you become your own Savior.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
It's Time For A Change.
I wanna Write.
I’m almost 30, and still so clueless. Ten years ago, I had a plan. It might not have been the best plan. But, it was a grand plan, one that included a rewarding career, a great man, two beautiful children and a life full of unabridged happiness. As a freshman in college, the world was my oyster, my youth was before me and the stickiness of adulthood was miles away. But, at 28, my enthusiasm has faltered, my life looks nothing like of an 18-year-old’s imagined greatness, and I’m even more lost than I’ve ever been. My work, though rewarding, isn’t fulfilling or remotely exciting. My finances live in the red and my love life… Well, we’ve got plenty of time for that.
Well, at least I have my health. Right?
So, here I am, at 28, completely jaded and stagnated, by realities such as bills, biological clocks and sexually transmitted infections (Its STI now, right?) and bored out of my mind. When did I stop growing and changing? When did I decide that this was it and that my life was going to consist of work, cheap wine and the occasional roll in the sack with some undeserving 30-something playboy? And the most important question of all, when did I stop dreaming? Damn it!! I used to dream!! I used to believe that I was destined for something great, not just good, and damn sure not average, GREAT!!
And because greatness waits for no one… shit, it’s been 10 years… My journey or re-journey (I know, that’s not a word) starts now. So, here we go people. Let me know what you think.
Love ya.
I’m almost 30, and still so clueless. Ten years ago, I had a plan. It might not have been the best plan. But, it was a grand plan, one that included a rewarding career, a great man, two beautiful children and a life full of unabridged happiness. As a freshman in college, the world was my oyster, my youth was before me and the stickiness of adulthood was miles away. But, at 28, my enthusiasm has faltered, my life looks nothing like of an 18-year-old’s imagined greatness, and I’m even more lost than I’ve ever been. My work, though rewarding, isn’t fulfilling or remotely exciting. My finances live in the red and my love life… Well, we’ve got plenty of time for that.
Well, at least I have my health. Right?
So, here I am, at 28, completely jaded and stagnated, by realities such as bills, biological clocks and sexually transmitted infections (Its STI now, right?) and bored out of my mind. When did I stop growing and changing? When did I decide that this was it and that my life was going to consist of work, cheap wine and the occasional roll in the sack with some undeserving 30-something playboy? And the most important question of all, when did I stop dreaming? Damn it!! I used to dream!! I used to believe that I was destined for something great, not just good, and damn sure not average, GREAT!!
And because greatness waits for no one… shit, it’s been 10 years… My journey or re-journey (I know, that’s not a word) starts now. So, here we go people. Let me know what you think.
Love ya.
How do you know if your girlfriend is a freak...
OK. This next post is directed towards the fellas… So, ladies I know this is our site… But, believe me this will be beneficial for you, as well. Question, how do you know if your girlfriend is a “freak” or just “sexually experienced?” Answer, here’s how…
1. She gives great head.
2. Her “ride game” rivals that of Pinky… If you know who that is, and know the names of more than 3 of her “films” then you’re probably a pervert.
3. She has multiple orgasms during sex… whether she’s on the top, bottom or whatever position you think YOU created.
4. She has taught YOU a new position.
5. She made you cum within in the first 3 minutes and you swear this has never happened to you before because “I can go all night, baby.”
Well, sorry fellas, If your girl can be described by 3 or more of the previous statements. She is NOT a freak. She is just sexually experienced and YOU need to step up your game. Let’s keep it 100%. It’s 2011, and any woman that has been sexually active for more than 10 years, and has been having good sex, can probably screw like a champion.
Women are anatomically different than men (in case you didn’t know) and our sexual organs are on the inside of our bodies, which makes it more difficult for us to experience sexual fulfillment. Therefore, we require/ need to engage in more sex than a man to find out what works for us. So naturally, most of us are more sexually curious and eager to experiment than you are. So we practice and practice, sometimes with the same man, sometimes with multiple men, in an effort to find the right techniques to get us to that place of pure ecstasy. And once we find it… Sheesh, there is no going back. We want to perfect this technique and in addition, find new ones… Makes sense right? And the lucky man that helps us “reach this destiny” becomes the lucky recipient of all we have to give… Which becomes a recipe for experimentation, reciprocation and simply some really freaky sex :) If you are nodding your head, then you have been this man and fully agree with what I’m saying. If you are shocked, completely disagree or are disgusted, then you’ve probably never took a woman “there,” and are thus, likely, just really bad in bed and it sucks to be you. Women who have had great sex, love sex. We enjoy giving just as much as receiving, have mastered the art of the multiple orgasm and know how to get ourselves off, even if you don’t. So, if your woman flips you over, grabs you by the arms, squeezes tight and collapses after 2 minutes, she’s not a whore or a freak. She’s simply a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. You just better be happy you were there to witness it. And if you play “your part” correctly, you just might be invited to see it again.
Any questions... :)
1. She gives great head.
2. Her “ride game” rivals that of Pinky… If you know who that is, and know the names of more than 3 of her “films” then you’re probably a pervert.
3. She has multiple orgasms during sex… whether she’s on the top, bottom or whatever position you think YOU created.
4. She has taught YOU a new position.
5. She made you cum within in the first 3 minutes and you swear this has never happened to you before because “I can go all night, baby.”
Well, sorry fellas, If your girl can be described by 3 or more of the previous statements. She is NOT a freak. She is just sexually experienced and YOU need to step up your game. Let’s keep it 100%. It’s 2011, and any woman that has been sexually active for more than 10 years, and has been having good sex, can probably screw like a champion.
Women are anatomically different than men (in case you didn’t know) and our sexual organs are on the inside of our bodies, which makes it more difficult for us to experience sexual fulfillment. Therefore, we require/ need to engage in more sex than a man to find out what works for us. So naturally, most of us are more sexually curious and eager to experiment than you are. So we practice and practice, sometimes with the same man, sometimes with multiple men, in an effort to find the right techniques to get us to that place of pure ecstasy. And once we find it… Sheesh, there is no going back. We want to perfect this technique and in addition, find new ones… Makes sense right? And the lucky man that helps us “reach this destiny” becomes the lucky recipient of all we have to give… Which becomes a recipe for experimentation, reciprocation and simply some really freaky sex :) If you are nodding your head, then you have been this man and fully agree with what I’m saying. If you are shocked, completely disagree or are disgusted, then you’ve probably never took a woman “there,” and are thus, likely, just really bad in bed and it sucks to be you. Women who have had great sex, love sex. We enjoy giving just as much as receiving, have mastered the art of the multiple orgasm and know how to get ourselves off, even if you don’t. So, if your woman flips you over, grabs you by the arms, squeezes tight and collapses after 2 minutes, she’s not a whore or a freak. She’s simply a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. You just better be happy you were there to witness it. And if you play “your part” correctly, you just might be invited to see it again.
Any questions... :)
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