Monday, January 28, 2008

A Post About the Gym and Food...

...a la Jam.









Yesterday after working my 7th day straight in a row, I drove across town to the new gym that I just joined. I put off going for weeks, mostly because I have been disturbingly busy, and then outta town, and then way too busy to breathe, but also because I HATE gyms.



Read that careful.





I HATE GYMS.





Not working out. But I hate the uber-trendy-million-dollar-a-month-I-spend-more-money-on-workout-clothes-and-smoothies-than-I-do-food-networking-on-the-elliptical-see-and-be-seen-I'm-only-here-cuz-it's-in-fashion-cuz-I-know-I-stay-this-skinny-by-binging-and-purging hipster gym. Hate that shit.



And my gym is in fact part of a huge national chain with all the pretty white people in the commercials working out and smiling but not sweating, not a hair out of place. But I figured, my membership was free. I had no more excuse to put it off anymore.



So I made it part of my weekend errands that I had to get accomplished. I called and made an appointment to be shown around on Sunday. After receiving a confirmation email from Mr. Stereotypical Mexican, I'm only slightly unsure about actually showing.



I go of course.



And I'm greeted at the door by Cow Tipping Texas Boy.

"Hay there, ma'am," he drawls at me and I bust out laughing. "I'm Stereotypical Mexican." He greets me with a firm handshake. Seeing as how his last name is SO stereotypical Mexican, I am both shocked and appalled by the blond hair blue eyed abomination of a perfectly good Hispanic name standing in front of me. After a little conversation though, I am more pleasantly surprised that he is really nice. And not just nice. Texas nice. Which is like on a whole 'another level.



He shows me around and leaves me to my own devices. I look around and I'm happy to see that the clientele is pretty mixed; there's a couple kids barely out of high school in the free weights area, a black couple working their legs, the elderly couple making kissy faces at each other on the treadmills, the brunette on the elliptical. It's comfy. Everyone seems to know or recognize each other. Smiles all around. No superbly coordinated workout ensembles. Sweat.



I'm IN.



(But tell me why 3 of the TVs were on the Food Network? TORTURE.)





Creeping up on the first hour of my workout, I strike up a convo with the brunette who has now taken up residence on the elliptical machine next to me. She's all syrupy sweet southern drawl, maybe a couple years older than me. I'm listening, sure, but I can't stop looking at her legs. They're RIDICULOUS. Seriously, while she's talking I'm trying to figure out how to convince her to let me oil her up and throw her in someones music video and make us both some money. Her body is positively sick. This girl must live here, I'm convinced. I wanna hate her immediately. But she's too damn nice. So we decide mutually to hate the skinny bitch a couple machines over who needs more macaroni and cheese than she does another second on an elliptical. As we're talking, the brunette mentions "the husband and kids."

"Kids? Husband?" I say all confused. "What did you get married at like 13?"
"Oh honey," she says to me, all southern fried giggles, "I'm 49."



**record screeches to a halt**







Are you fucking kidding me?









"The eight of us-"
"I'm sorry, did you say eight?"
"Oh yes. I have 6 children."



**DEAD**



I literally fall off my machine and on to the floor.



Not only is this woman older than my mother and looking younger than me, but she has given birth SIX GODDAMN TIMES and she is still video hoe worthy?!?!?



Get the fuck outta here.
I. Can't.



As I'm leaving I notice some drama popping off at the door with the extra skinny girl who has apparently called the cops for some reason. Booooo. Skinny bitches always mad.







I stop at the grocery store and then head home and start cooking. There is actually food in my fridge as this is my second trip to the grocery store. On Friday, I'd had a lil talk with myself. It went something like this...



Self, why won't you cook? You hate fast food, you're wasting money, you barely eat as it is because of it... and bitch YOU CAN COOK. It would be different if you couldn't. What is your problem? Take your lazy ass to the grocery store.



And so I did.



While chopping the fresh onion, peppers, and lime to be sauteed with the chicken for the fajitas I was making, I remembered just how therapeutic cooking is. Ended up with chicken fajitas on warm, fresh tortillas, fresh black beans, and Mexican rice (brown rice with diced tomatoes). Yum-o!!!

I meant to take a picture of it for you, but I ate it far too quickly.



After I finished, I cleaned up the house a lil, gave the dog a bath, ran some errands, updated my planner for the week, made a budget for the upcoming month and got my clothes together for work. I even got in bed at a decent hour. That is simply unheard of for the kid.

I have another couple gym appointments scheduled this week, so let's pray for more of the same.




On tonight's menu... stuffed chicken breasts, asparagus and fresh corn. Yummy!

Wipe your mouf :-)

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

The Burial

Crisp fall wind whips the length of my hair. I wore it in big, loose waves trying to be cute, and I'm sure now it's notsomuch curly as it's tangled odd angles of chocolate strands that have somehow grown twice in volume. It's cold out, not unbearable, but enough to remind you that Texas can spoil you if you live there long enough to forget what a real fall is like here on the Right Coast.

The darkness hangs like a veil. It's too late for the streets surrounding the hotel to be busy and the stillness is both soothing and unnerving. I am searching inside myself to see how I feel. It's cold in there. I stand perfectly still, closing my eyes against the wind, and wonder what the fuck am I doing?

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Dirty Little Secret

"La I swear to God you can't tell anyone else."
"Ok."
"Like seriously. This is just between me and you."
"OK!!! Who the fuck am I gonna tell anyway?"

He takes a deep breath and settles his eyes on mine. He looks positively shook.

"Really La. NOBODY."



People like to talk to me for some reason. And not just my friends. I am the person that perfect strangers can somehow pinpoint in an airport and before either of us can flip open our magazines, they've spilled to me their whole life story.

"I'm only telling you this because I trust you," he emphasizes to me, part spoken creed, part express warning.



I don't mind it most of the time. It's actually quite flattering. And Lord knows I have had some pretty good conversations with strangers. They always seem to be perfectly timed to have some sort of influence or message.



"Have I ever let you down?" I ask him, my tone a little colder cuz I KNOW he knows better. I know he knows how I am when I give my word about anything but especially to someone I love.
"Never."
"Aiight then. Spill it."




I am nothing if not loyal. Sometimes to a fault. But I'd rather be loyal to a fault, to be universally known as a woman of my word, to be there unendingly for those I love than to worry about the times loyalty faults.

"I can't believe I did it. But I gotta tell someone."
And so he does.



The thing about secrets is that they carry weight. Weight that once you know them, you are responsible for. You have to carry your end. It's one thing with airport strangers. Their secrets are not so heavy. You don't have to carry them in your day to day life.

It's another thing when you are shouldering the secrets of those around you. When your loved ones seek you out and confide in you because they trust you. Because they love you. Because right now, in this moment, you are the only one it makes sense to share this information with.

Sometimes you're uncomfortable carrying it. Sometimes you don't like what you hear. Sometimes you don't agree.




Sometimes, it even hurts you. Deeper than what you're probably willing to admit to yourself.



But you don't judge. Because that's not what you do. Not when you love someone. Not when you know someone inside and out and you know the goodness in their heart. You pick up your end and you carry it. Because loving someone is about loving even their faults. Because love is and should be unconditional. Because being a sincere and total part of their life means shouldering even those things that, on your own, you would choose not to carry. It means indulging in, keeping their secrets.

It's not that simple.
As secrets generally are not.


Secrets make you selfish, don't they? Because suddenly everything is a conspiracy. You are so submerged in the intricacies of keeping your secrets that every detail must be under your control. There can be no surprises. This is important to you. This is your life. This is your secret to do with what you see fit.



So what if someone else is helping you shoulder the weight?





Do you regard them in any way? Or is it still about the secrets you keep? Mostly. But isn't that human nature? To be egocentric? To be the center of your own world? That doesn't make you a bad person.

Just a person.


I love that my friends find me trustworthy, deem me strong enough to carry their secrets.




I just hope like hell that they're right.

Miami

This is why Joy is so excited about my bday trip.



And me too :-)



So fabulous.








(And not in that way X...)

Monday, January 14, 2008

Solitaire

Since I moved to Houston, I've spent alot of time alone. I go out to eat alone, I shop alone, I go to the movies alone, I go for walks alone. Sometimes I get in my car and just drive the vast expanse of the city. Sometimes music blaring from the speakers. Sometimes silent.

But always alone.

It's ironic of course being that I've never been the type to ever be alone. My personality demands that people be drawn to me. It's inevitable. Wherever I am, usually there so are people.

But not now.

The past (alomst) 2 years have certainly been lonely ones.

When I interviewed for my part time job, my future manager posed the question as to whether I'd been burnt out working 5 days a week full time and 4 days a week part time. It's the only time I remember stuttering over an answer, as I'm generally emensely impressive in interviews.


"Well," I started and immediately faultered. "I , um, I'm not really from here," clearing my throat, "and I, uh, don't really know too many people here. So um," swallowing hard, "if I wasn't here or working I'd just be, you know," shrug, "at home. Me and the dog. Just... me and the dog."

I remember chastising myself on the inside, telling myself I'd never forgive me if I cried in a goddamn job interview.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again to try and somehow make my answer sound less pitiful. Closed again. I turned my head to compose myself.

"It wouldnt be an issue. All through college I worked a job or sometimes 2, took between 7 and 9 classes each semester and still participated in various school activities. Time management is key and that is one of my strengths. That was certainly more stressful than this. This is what I do."



This is what I do.



Honey won't leave my side. Wherever I go in the house, she goes. If I go in the garage she must come. She won't even go out in the backyard to use the bathroom unless she knows I'm within a few feet that she can cover quickly. When I first got her, I thought it was just because she was new and getting used to me, to us, to the house. And yet here we are, almost a year later, and she still does the same.

Sometimes she looks up at me and whimpers. As of late I've started to notice that she does it mainly when I'm feeling lonely. She'll come and nuzzle the backs of my knees. She'll lay across my feet. She'll curl up in a tight ball next to me, her head craddled in my lap. If I scratch slowly behind her right ear, she'll fall fast asleep. Sometimes we nap on the couch like 2 old ladies.

She never moves.

Even if she wakes up first, she's always still right up under me when I stir. She'll poke her head up. Cock her head to the side. She'll gaze at me curiously, waiting for the moment my feet hit the floor before she makes any moves. Sometimes she lets me sleep. Sometimes she shakes me with her paw until I get up and feed her or let her out. Sometimes she just watches me or wiggles in closer to me when I shiver from the cold (I'm always cold).

It's funny because, in alot of ways, we have the same temperment. Sometimes we just don't feel like playing, and other times we live for the attention we get from our captive audience. Neither of us really knows how to be alone.
But being alone has kinda kept us from knowing how to be with people.

Honey was horribly sick when I adopted her. Had I brought her in to the vet, the said, even a week later, she would have died. When I got to the pound, she was in a cage by herself. Curled up in a little ball in the back, far away from the door. Her back was turned to the walkway. She never barked. Up until that point, I'd decided on a little jack russell terrier with tons of energy that I'd seen upfront. Something told me, for whatever reason, to just walk towards the cages in the back of the room.

And there she was.

She lifted her head when I stopped in front of her cage. She sauntered over to the door and looked up at me for a long moment. The she plopped down on her stomach right beneath the release to the cage and gave me a look that said, "Well?"

She didn't make a sound as they were cleaning her up, getting her ready to come home with me. When the amanager put her in my arms, wrapped up in a wet towel, fur still damp from her recent bath, I remember her shivering. She gave me this look that I took to mean she trusted me despite how unkind her previous owners had been to her. I didn't take it lightly. I zipped her up inside my hoodie, wet fur and all. I talked to her as I walked to the car, told her that we'd get her all better, that she'd grow up big and strong and we'd hang out and play and run and climb things and roll around outside. I remember she sneezed. And then she wiggled her little tiny self as best she could into the space between my breasts. She closed her eyes and slept.

I took a picture of her that day, curled up on the passenger seat that, to this day, she refuses to relinquish to anyone else if she's in the car. She was so tiny. So sick. And yet still so sweet and kind natured.

Today Honey is much bigger, but she's still the same dog. She has more energy because she's not sick anymore and I can barely keep up with the little bit of energy that working 2 jobs doesn't suck outta me. She's at least 3 feet longer, can put her front paws on my shoulders when she stands on her hindlegs. But she still hardly ever barks. She's still sweet. She still sleeps curled in a tight ball.

Now honey sleeps at my head. Every once in awhile at night when I'm tossing and turning, I wake up to find her sitting next to the bed and watching me intently. I'll pat her head. She waits until I'm still again and my eyes are closed and then she lays down. Always. When I put my feet on the floor in the morning, she's always right there by my side, eagerly waiting for us to start our day.

She gives me hope that one day I can learn how not to be alone. That I can learn to strike the balance between flourishing in the neccessary alone times, and seeking to be where the people are. She makes me think that I can grow that way. That I can change, evolve, adapt.



Because that's what I do.




Friday, January 11, 2008

Three

IN ONE DAY!




Take THAT blog bully.

You Do the Math

"He wants," she chokes on the end of her sentence, "to get married."
"Ok," I say carefully, not really understanding her hesitation. "And this is.. not good...?"
"No."
"I'm gonna need more information."

Binx pulls hard on her cigarette like it's giving her life breath, and I only allow her to smoke it in my prescence because she looks like shit.

"I'm not ready."
"After 5 years Binx?"
"I'm so young."

And this is true. Binx is only 24.

"Well, yeah you are. But you guys have been together forever. And happy for all of it," I counter. She sighs at my assesment.
"Yeah, yeah. That's true. But I don't feel like," another drag," I'm in any position to be someone's wife."
"But you wouldn't be someone's wife. You'd be his wife." She smiles at that.
"Yeah, but 24 is a little young don't you think?"
"Maybe for some. But it's not neccessarily about age. It's about where you are in your relationship. And only you can judge that. This certainly isn't some fly by night relationship that came outta nowhere. I'm sure that yall are safely outta the warm and fuzzy honeymoon stage of the relationship long enough for you to both have a clear picture of who the other is and will be."
"You're right. I know you are. But he makes me feel young."
"Does he make you feel young or are you just accutely aware that you are much younger?"

It should be stated at this point that the boyfriend in question is about 10 years her senior.

She continues in a pained voice, "He's so-"
"Stable."
"And I'm so-"
"Not." It's the first time I've seen her crack a smile since I sat down.

Binx is the consumate artist. Brilliant and illusive. Nomadic. Flaky. Intense and passionate. Impulsive. Things I envy about her half the time. She's the type of girl that will move to New York on a whim, run into a guy randomly at a diner who's looking to sublet his funky loft in Chelsea, and sign a lease that very same day, paying rent that can only be described as a fairy tale in New York.
I hate her for that shit.

She wears colors I'd never think to put together in real life. Her long dark hair is accented with a streak of magenta in the front, her nails various shades of purple. Her walls are adorned with various paintings, ceiling to floor, done by her own hand, her decor a mix of random pieces we found at off-the-beaten-path shops in the village and things her boyfriend has built for her. With his own hands.

She's also the last type of girl you'd think would fall for a goddamn corporate lawyer.

10 years her senior.

"I think he's more than well aware of what your life is like."
"Yeah. He's been in it long enough."
"So then what's the problem Binx?" I ask, waving smoke from her third cigarette from my face.
"The problem is," a big sigh from her red stained lips, "is that I don't feel like I'm where I should be to be with him. I don't feel like I have anything to offer him at this point. You walk barefoot in his place and your feet are on beautiful hardwoood floors. You walk barefoot in my place you're endanger of getting paint on the bottom of your feet or stepping on a nail. His wardrobe costs more than my rent."
"That's because your rent is so absurdly low that I'm sure you're blowing the guy that's subleting for a discount." She punches me hard in my arm.
"Seriously though, do I look like someone's wife? I mean, I see how his friends look at us. Oh my god and don't even get me STARTED on what it's like going to his company shit."

I can only imagine. Binx shows up in a turquoise dress surrounded by a sea of conservative black and white. Sure, she's pulled her hair back but it's still streaked with magenta. Her makeup is probably old Hollywood siren and less "I-paid-my-dermatologist-alot-of-money-to-make-my-skin-look-this-flawless" bare. She's the youngest in the room, I'm sure. She's the little girl playing grown up in a room full of people who do this everyday.

"But he's getting to that point you know, where he's thinking about it. He wants to settle down. And I can't help but feeling like even after all this time I don't fit in his world."
"So let me ask you this, if you were closer in age, would you feel more comfortable? Because to me, that's really not a fundamental relationship issue in as much as a psychological hurdle you have to find a way to surmount."
"I'm not sure."

It's funny how your life is so unextraordinary, how every day people are finding themselves in the same situation as you. It should be said now, that the only reason Binx feels comfortable having this conversation with me now, as she hasn't in the months leading up to this emotional outburst, is because Bob is older than I by about 7 years or so. "Now you understand my pain" is what she says to me.

It used to be that my liberal side wouldn't let me subscribe to the adage that there are certain fundamental irregularities that make May-December relationships difficult.

Don't you love how you believe shit in theory that don't exactly pan out in practice? Ah to be young and ignorant forever, lol

Truth is, we've had more than a couple convos about our age difference and the circumstances therein that they would apply. That helped. They're still around. But it helped. So that's my question to Binx.

"Have you talked to him about this stuff Binx?"
"No."
"Well that's why it's eating you up right there. You talk to him about everything. And the one thing that you don't need to be discussing with anyone but him is the one thing you're keeping to yourself."
"You're right."
"I know." She punches me again. Sighs.
"I dunno why I'm making it so complicated."
"Because it is."

Binx met the boyfriend on the street. Literally. She fell outta her ground floor window trying to hang something on the ledge and on to the sidewalk below as he was walking by. No makeup. Sweats and a tshirt with some trashy saying across her cleavage. I think back then her hair was red. Fire engine. They sat on the curb and talked until the sun went down. The next day he came back and took her to dinner... in Queens at his mother's house. He said he knew from the second she fell at his feet.

"He loves you," I say, patting her trembling hand gently.
"Yeah but is that enough?"
"I dunno. Is it?" She sighs at me again.
"You know I could get straighter answers from a shrink, and they get paid $100 an hour to question you in circles." We laugh.
"You know I'm not gonna tell you what to do," reaffirming what she already knows. Another sigh.
"I wish somebody would."
"What are they gonna tell you about what you feel?"

I know she thinks she's not ready because she doesn't look quite as good on paper as he. He owns property in and out of the city. She rents a place from a guy backpacking through Europe with his lover with an unclear return date. He brings in a salary in the high six figures. She is excited to get her art showcased in a gallery uptown and living off an inheritance. He comes from a big Italian family of 12. She's the only child of a reclusive photographer who long gave up any semblance of a "normal" life.

Who can define that, anyway?


See Slish, it's not just men who talk themselves out of love for one reason or other. We all do it. We're human.

A few weeks later my phone rings with a New York exchange I'm unfamiliar with.
"This is La."
"I'm getting married." I hear her smile on the other end. It makes my own lips stretch toward my hairline.
"That's really good Binx."
"I'm excited."
"So you guys finally worked it out?"
"Yeah. Well, we fought it out. Then we talked it out." I chuckle cuz I can only imagine how those first few convos went between the loud Italian and the stubborn artiste.
"So when's the big day?"
"Fall 08 sometime. That's all we know. How do you feel about lime green bridesmaids dresses?"
"I feel like I'll see you in the reception line."
"I figured you'd say that. He's already vetoed green anyway."



I know so many people for whom even the simple math of couting somehow became more subtraction than addition, complex theorems and formulas, the quantum physics just too much to surmount.
It happens.

I know even more people who have somehow been able to talk themselves out of love when it was so obviously present.
That's what really doesn't add up.



But sometimes, it's reduced to something simple. Sometimes one plus one equals deep purple bridesmaids dresses for those who get to watch you marry a man big enough to think outside the numbers.

FOUR



New York







DC







Atlanta






Chicago

No One Tagged Me...

But I'm at a loss. And we don't want the blog bully to come around here sniffing, lol






Two Names I go by:
1. La (both in real life and in blogland)

2. Raindrop



Two Things You Are Wearing Right Now:
1. red and orange dunks

2. hoodie



Two Things You Would Want (or have) in a Relationship:
1. fun

2. the ability to talk for 18 hrs straight and never run outta things to discuss

Two of your favorite things to do:
1. eat
2. drink


Two things you want very badly at the moment:
1. sleep

2. I probably shouldn't go into too much detail, but it usually preceeds the first one

Two pets you had/have:
1. Honey
















2. a cat named Kitty (long story)


Two people you think will fill this out:
No one. I'm the last person on earth that HASN'T done this.


wait Joy have you done it yet? You're always good for a tag

Things that you did last night:
1) something some companies charge $2.99 a min for
2) slept thru the alarm


Two things you ate today:
1. a chicken salad sandwhich
2. sweet potato fries

Two people you last talked to:
1. Joy via text
2. Bob

Two things you're doing tomorrow:
1. go to my 2nd job
2. drinking


Two longest car rides:
1. Atl to Miami

2. Houston to Atl


Two favorite holidays:
1. New Year's Eve
2. July 4th

Favorite beverages:
1. grey goose and cranberry

2. anything with Bacardi in it

Person no longer alive who you'd like to talk to:
1. Marilyn Monroe
2. My grandfather

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Your Honor...

I know what you're thinking when you stop by here and read my blog...
"La couldn't possibly be this ridiculous."


Oh, but I am.
And here's how you know.


Unless you are the girl who calls me her rib, you probably aren't privy to my daily doses of mayhem and foolishness. So I present you with hard evidence that not only am I ridiculous, but I have ABSOLUTELY NO CHANCE of NOT being ridiculous given the everyday craziness that happens to me.



Exhibit A... the IM

A: you know how when you call (one of our favorite gay boys) he has mjb playing as like the music you hear before he answers?
La: no. I dont start listening til you say hello. But I trust you.
A: well anyway...can you have j lo's "waiting for tonight" on there as a straight black male?
La: LMFAO!!!! uh how bout... NO!!!! its goddamn JLO!!!
A: :-(
La: he's such a homo. big ol flamming homo. he's a glorious fag* honey, lol
A: omg...
La: fierce chile *fingersnaps at my desk*
A: lol hated it!
La: lmfao! thats so hilarious. yeah honey he's a big mo. he's probably blowing some homothug in the bathroom at the gym as we speak that he calls his "workout partner".

*I am more than well aware, being many years deep in the fag hag game, that this is a pretty offensive phrase but I have more than earned the right to use it at my leisure having tirelessly supported and loved and campaigned for my gay boyz, dragged my fabulous ass to gay clubs in every gay city and let them fawn over my fabulous rack, cheered on various drag events, attended a ball, held their hands when they broke up with their one true love (of that week), learned the lingo (that bitch's shoes are vicious), helped them draw out ambiguously gay young boys and dated one. (another story for another day) Don't be sending glaad over to my spot. Thank you. (Does anyone remember that Will and Grace episode where Grace gets accused of gay bashing and she has the whole speech prepared to give in her defense and even knows it forwards and backwards in Spanish? Thats SO me. lol)



Exhibit B... during girl talk

*La walks in and catches the tail end of the convo*
Gucci Girl: I cannot believe he asked me to do that!
La: Do what?
GG: he wanted me to give him head
La: and...?
GG: I don't do that!
La: *blank stare*
GG: I am a lady. And I demand he treat me as such.
La: understood. Completely. *pause* so how are you dealing with the breakup?
GG: huh?
La: Oh yall are still together?
GG: Yeah...
La: Oh. We should prob save this convo for like next week then (turning) Hi. Can I have the Pineapple martini, but instead of vodka can you do apple gin if you have it? Oh and sugar on the pineapple slice. Thanks.



Exhibit C... on the phone

Him: I miss you. alot.
La: who is this again?
Him: you KNOW who I am.
La: oh hey. I thought you were the person that I should be having this convo with. you're dismissed.
Him: oh it's like that? you just dismiss what I have to say. not even bothering to listen when I'm trying to tell you some real shit.
La: *pause* I'm sorry WHO is this?
*dial tone*
La: musta been a wrong number and shit *shrug, back to sending text messages*


and last but certainly not least...



Exhibit D... at the bar

(the lights come up on La and Girl at the bar, drinking some random potent concotion the bartender has made up per their specifications. enter I'm Feeling Myself Guy, trying to strike up conversation. they aren't sure which one of them he's trying to pick up, if either, or if he's trying to recruit them to be part of his pyramid sche... err... company. the scene begins with Girl sitting on La's lap to take a picture and avoid his continued assault on her personal space)
IFMG: I mean I'm into everything. I'm open. I think we as a people can be very narrow minded.
(La and Girl to each other telepathically: what in the fuck is this nigga talking about?!?!)
Girl: what's open?
IFMG: I mean I just like what I like. I'm an open kinda guy. I'm into lots of things that some of our people say they're not into. Like I know most guys hate it but I love (insert offensive term for oral sex here). I love everything about it (La and girl raise eyebrows)
Girl: What kinda guys do you know?
La: Yeah um... I've never had an issue with someone NOT wanting to.
IFMG: I just think that experimentation is important. Like, I'd definitely have a threesome. (giving La and girl The Look)
Girl: (seeing where this is going) So like if your girl wanted to have a threesome, you'd be cool with that?
IFMG: Oh yeah, definitely. I totally agree with experimentation
La: Even if it was another dude?
IFMG: Oh no. Definitely not another dude. I'm not into that gay shit
Girl: So you would deny your girl her fantasy cuz you're not man enough to be in another room with another naked man?
IFMG: (faultering) I mean, I just don't like men. I like women. Now if it was two women then yeah, I'm all for that.
La: That's a shame. (setting him up to fuck around and fail) I think 2 guys together is (dropping my voice to the low raspy one I reserve for sex) kinda hot.
IFMG: I mean I don't judge, but I prefer my women to be women you know? I'm not gay

(La and Girl stay silent, waiting expectantly)

IFMG: I mean, I'd never say never though...
Girl: (who is far more ridiculous than La) well what about a transvestite?
IFMG: well maybe I could get with that. In the spirit of experimentation. That might not be so bad. It still looks like a woman right? *laughing* Yeah that would be ok.

La and Girl drunkenly stumble outta bar, damn near doubled over in laughter. lights fade to black.




scene.

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Plug

This boy will most certainly be the death of me.

Go read his blog immediately. Pure genius.




This way when I write a blog about how I got fired from The Company, you'll know precisely why.

Friday, January 4, 2008

Throwing up the Rock

"I mean, it sounds kinda silly, but there would be times when I could literally feel how empty my ring finger felt. And now," she holds up the Tiffany's sparkler on her left hand, "I never have to worry about it again!" She punctuates her sentence with the exclamation point of a girlish giggle. I throw back the last of my cran and goose.
"Yes," I say motioning to the bartender for another, "that IS silly."

And so it is another one bites the dust.

Now granted, this associate is slightly older than my other friends who are face planting over the broom (28) but I'm pretty sure that, while she may love new fiance, she's head over heels for the lifestyle being his wife implies, Tiffany's 3 carat solitaire and investment portfolio and all.

The bartender, aka my new best friend, puts down another glass in front of me. This time he's given me the big girl glass and I am so deliriously grateful for it that if my lips weren't grabbing desperately for the edge of the glass, I'd kiss him. (and partially because he resembles Common. Jesus.) I am almost to the halfway mark of my drink when I realize she hasn't stopped talking. I tune back in for the rest of her June Cleaver monologue.

"... and we wanna start having kids right away."
*vomit*

No seriously. A lil goose almost comes back out of my MAC Ruby Woo-ed lips.


"Like, immediately?" I ask.
"Oh yes. We're both getting up there in age and we want a big family so we need to get started!" she chirps all nonchalantly like she's talking about stripping and staining her hardwood floors.
"Hmm... that's... interesting," I reply and try to catch Common the Bartender's eye again. I'm still able to blink too fast for this convo.
"La seriously, all jokes aside, you never hear your clock just a tick-tick-ticking away?"

I look at my biological clock. The one over in the dusty corner that I threw against the wall a couple years ago when I realized getting married meant I couldn't continue to rendezvous with cute New York niggas and leave before they wake up in the morning like the one I was laying up under at the time.

"Not... really," I say as Common puts another big girl glass down in front of me and I notice through the squiggly liquid that he's written his number on the napkin underneath. Nice.

"But really though, congratulations to you guys. I'm sure you'll be very happy. You seem very in love," with his bank account I add in my head, squeezing the lime and throwing the stirrer on the bar and out of my way.
"But don't you want all those things?"
"Right at this moment? Sure. About as much as I want a pap smear. Or 12 hours of bad sex. Or to suddenly gain 75 pounds."
"You'd make a great wife La. Some lucky guy will come along and change your mind and before you know it, we'll be pregnant at the same time and crib shopping!" (Insert girlish giggle again.)

I take a big gulp of my drink, and swing to face her on my stool.

"You know," I start, "the last time I had sex it was up against a wall in the kitchen. Or maybe it was on the couch. It coulda been in the bathtub. Either way, it wasn't at a scheduled time locked behind the bedroom door. You can't do that with kids. I can't have little La junior running in the kitchen to get some cookies and asking, "Mama, why are you bent over the stove like that?" She chokes on one of the mint leaves in her drink.
"And further more," I continue, "why is it that everyone tries to convince me that the things I want aren't the things I want? Did I try to tell you that you don't really NEED a horse drawn carriage at this spectacle of a wedding you're planning even though I think it's ridiculous? Did I say hey, maybe you should hold off having kids until you see if your marriage can even last the first 2 years? Have I told you that you're crazy for not living together first? Or that I think you're INSANE for not fucking the.shit. out of him every chance you get because not having sex until marriage is absolutely ABSURD to me? No. I haven't shared any of those thoughts because they are your choices. If you wanna marry a fine as all hell wealthy man who you don't know much about and could possibly be impotent or into S&M or whatever, then you can. I support that. Would you STOP trying to keep me from my dreams of being able to literally fuck all over every inch of my place, to travel whenever I want, spend way too much money on shoes, and be wildly successful and happy in my own right please?"

She's positively open mouthed. I get the bartender's attention and he comes over. He smells good enough to eat.
"She's gonna need another. And what about a Cap and Coke, none of this punk ass mint julep shit." I turn to her. "That is what you used to drink before you got all cute and rocked up right?" I say glancing at the mountain on her finger. She laughs at me and nods. I motion to Common and he wanders to the other end of the bar to make our next round. I watch his ass as he walks away. We're silent for awhile. I'm not privy to her thoughts but I'm entertaining a rather nice mental ambling of making the bartender an offer he won't refuse.

"Ohmigod," she says almost under her breath, that Atlanta accent she has been without up until this point on full display, "what if he CAN'T FUCK?"
"THAT'S what I'm sayin'!!"
"What the hell am I gonna do?"
"Fuck him IMMEDIATELY. ASAP. Yesterday. Is he at home? Call him now."
"You are such a mess."
"Maybe, but I can guarantee you I won't be having wack ass sex forever either."
"You think it's that important?"
"It's that important to me. But I can't answer that question for you. Is it to you? Personally, I couldn't fathom being with someone I wasn't sexually compatible with. I'd at least like to know I have the option of having sex everyday with my significant other even if I don't exercise it. A girl needs her options you know." We giggle mischievously as Common puts our drinks down in front of us.
"So?" I prompt her. She sits in thought for a moment silent.

Suddenly she whips out her Blackberry, calls her hubby to be. They exchange a few hushed words.

"I gotta go La."



I smile at her haste in gathering her things. We hug and kiss and she all but flies out the door. I get the bartender's attention.




That's right ladies and gentleman, I'm saving one marriage at a time.

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

Resolutions and Shit *revised*

(Why yall niggas ain't tell me I repeated a resolution?)


So let's try something new. I'm gonna make some resolutions/goals for this year, and you're gonna help keep me to it. Yes? Yes.

1. stop drinking (as much).
Except for holidays. And birthdays. (I'm pretty sure I'm getting fucked up in Miami for my bday) And weddings. And baby showers. (what?!?! All my friends are in their early 20s. We NEED to drink at that shit.) And happy hours. And weekends. Ok maybe notsomuch with this cuz my flask will get lonely. It was a present!!! I gotta use it.

2. blog more.
Except for when I'm busy. And when I'm stressed. Or outta town. Or blue. Or don't have anything to say. Or being lazy.

3. Stop cursing so (goddamn) much.
I mean, shit. I am wildly intelligent. Do I mean to fucking tell me that I can barely form a damn sentence without cursing at some point? That's just absofuckinlutely ridiculous.

What? Oh.
Ok I'll work on it.

4. Stay celibate for...
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Nevermind.

5. be more forthcoming.
Ok seriously. I realize that I have probably gotten a little too good at segmenting my life and dishing it out to people in little doses. Over the last 7months or so, this has gotten progressively worse. So I'll work on being private without being secretive, talking without saying anything.

Or, you know, yall niggas read in between the lines and shit.

6. Travel more.
I believe I have a trip planned thru August for every month of this year with the exception of February. Who wants me to come visit them in February? lol

7. Stop being so dependant on my phone.
You know what, you're right. That's never gonna happen. So let's say...

7a. I'll stop screening so much.
Yeah that's not gonna happen either. Text message me!

8. stop having such an issue with being clocked.
Actually no. Fuck that. Who doesn't know that I despise being checked and clocked and monitored? I hate it. We all know every once in awhile I feel it neccessary to take a heavy dose of getmissing. Leave me alone. I'm cool. So really my resolution is to make you stop clocking me. So in essence, it's your resolution. Get to it goddammit.

9. Not get in any fights in 08.
Unless I run into K.B.'s ex again. I'm breaking that bitch up ON SIGHT.

10. Read more.
Books I mean. I'm all over the magazines and online news sites.

11. Watch my words.
I got to the point where I was pretty ok about tempering my words as to not offend people. Now, I think I kinda OD'ed on fuckit as a balancing act to getmissing and now I'm pretty sure this needs to be reigned in.
OR... niggas could stop being so goddamn sensitive.

*12. Grow my hair out.
I'm going for my best blackhispanichybridmiddleofthebacklengthvideohoehair in 08. Who's in? lol





Did I really resolve anything? eh.





HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!! :-)