Thursday, June 30, 2011

Mama Said There'd be Days Like This

I adore my apartment. It's in a quiet, gated community that is relatively inexpensive. I have more than enough room for me and my furniture and my dog. I've got an amazing garden tub, big windows, nine foot ceilings and a comfortable patio facing the quiet of the woods. Honey even has a room of her own. It's kind of just perfect for us.

It's such a shame I have to leave it.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011


I am prideful. Sometimes foolishly so.

Because I am prideful, I am not particularly fond of having to depend on people. This can be just as detrimental to interpersonal relationships as you might think it is.

Because I don't like depending on people, I don't care for asking people for things. This, coupled with my outlandish pride, will, at best, make me do things the hard way. At worst, I will choose to go without rather than have to ask.

Especially if the person I have to depend on is one of those people that will forever guilt me about needing. Or who will never let me live down having requested something of them.

I can't deal with that. I would much rather live under the mantra that if I can't get it myself, I don't need it.

This is foolish as fuck. And unrealistic. And not hardly how the world works. If I were smarter, I would say that maybe the universe continues to put me in this position I loathe so vehemently because I have not yet learned my lesson about my scorched earth policy for dealing with situations (such as the one I am in) that make me uncomfortable. To teach me that I do not have to slash and burn everything to punish them for their perceived slight. That if I set fire to everything, no matter how faulty, then it will also destroy the resources of my own imagined, self-sufficient island.

But I am not smart. I am prideful.

And I am about to do some stupid shit because of it.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Baby Daddy Day

I should probably issue a few disclaimers before I say anything else. The first and maybe most important one being, I am single and childless. Most of my friends, those who are single and those who are in varying degrees of love, are also childless. We’re all varying degrees of sexually active as well.

In short, not having a child if you don’t want/aren’t ready for one is not impossible.

My second caveat is the following; I would describe my relationship with my daddy as warm but distant. I am sure, to those of you not well versed in exasperating family dynamics, have no idea what this means. That’s perfectly fine. I actually kinda envy you. It simply means that I adore my daddy and he loves me very much, but we don’t know much about each other. Case in point; I am 27 years old and I just learned the story of how my parents met this past Christmas.

No bullshit.

So maybe my being the daughter of a hardworking if emotionally unavailable father and not being the mother of a child of any kind that is not furry, I can’t really relate. You can feel free to say that. I probably won’t agree though.

Every year around this time, I generally have to log myself off from my various social media platforms. Not just because doing so helps me ACTUALLY accomplish something with my day besides listening to Bootsy Collins and debating the merits of taking half nude photos before gravity turns everything to frowns (both of which I have done today). But because it’s usually around this time that the messages start. My first was this morning on Facebook…

“Shout out too my piece of shit baby daddy. He ain’t been around since lil Mook Mook was born so I will be selebrating Father’s Day for ME. #singlemomday”

Let’s ignore for a moment that I loathe people using number signs on anything that is not Twitter (especially if they don’t have Twitter). And let’s even ignore the spelling fail. I always have the same question when I watch people disparage their baby daddies all over the universe on Father’s Day; didn’t you know he wasn’t shit when y’all fucked?

This is not to say that men who have children they don’t care for are blameless. Or that they don’t deserve ire from the women they have left to shoulder the weight of a two person job. I won’t pretend that not growing up with a father doesn’t wreak havoc on children of both genders that is often hard to circumvent. And I agree with you, random high school friend with three kids by three different men, men who aren’t in their children’s lives truly ain’t shit.

But let’s keep in mind that it is not a glitch in the matrix to NOT end up somebody’s baby mama and keep it all the way real: you knew he wasn’t shit. You knew it.

He didn’t randomly pop up and not be shit the day the stick turned blue. More than likely he didn’t promise you a Duggar style clan complete with Partridge family bus only to peace out on you after your first bout of morning sickness. So let’s stop playing.

You got knocked up by some random dude who wasn’t shit all along because you liked him/wanted him to stay/wanted unconditional love/hate condoms/don’t believe in abortion/wanted to be a mom. And now that he has continued in a fashion consistent with who he was all along, you’re angry. But just not at yourself.

It’s your right to feel about your sperm donor however you feel. My problem is that I know this is not a message you are keeping confined to Facebook. You’ve told your child that their daddy ain’t shit. That you are their mother and father. That he didn’t want to stay around/had another kid and/or chick to take care of/doesn’t help support them. And THAT is the kinda thing I can’t abide.

There is something awful that happens to a child once the seed is planted that they are not wanted or cared for. And every smart ass comment or hateful diatribe waters that seed. And that poor kid is saddled with that feeling and all the issues therein for as long as they don’t have the capacity to work through it all.

All because you had a baby by a dude who you knew wasn’t shit before you had sex with him.

Have I fucked a man that wasn’t shit? Hell YES. It is likely the birthright of every single woman of every race, creed and color to have fucked AT LEAST one ain’t shit dude during her sexual life. And that is how I know, firsthand, that there are warning signs we are sometimes far too willing to ignore.

But you have control over whose children you bear. Even if he has sent in the representative in the beginning of your relationship and seems perfect, you have seen hints that underneath he should come with a warning label that likely reads something like: Warning! This niggs is liable to leave you in delivery stirrups alone. LISTEN to the warnings. You don’t have to have sex every dude that wants to hit. And for the love of God if you DO fuck Ain’t Shit Dude, use a condom. Fuck what Will.I.Am says; women need to carry condoms. If for no other reason than it saves me from your bitter ass Facebook messages.

Monday, June 13, 2011

La's Guide to Jump Offs

I have something to admit here, if you have not already surmised it from six years of writing about my life's foolishness. For the most part, I have been Girl Who Always has a Dude or Lucky Girl Around. And not necessarily a relationship but just SOMEONE; someone to take me out or tell me I’m pretty or what have you as needed. But where I largely fell down was keeping a jump off on the side.

There was one ill-fated attempt the summer before Howard, the details of which I won’t even bother to rehash. Then there was another in college, in between Almost Fiancé and The Great Houdini, who had one of the largest and most disappointing dicks I’ve ever seen. I haven’t really been much for the casual sex since then.

In short, you girl has been fucking around and failing.

But, no mas! I have successfully found and maintained a jump off (for far longer than one should. See below). And let me tell you, it is every bit as awesome as movies and your whorish friends would have you believe. Seriously. Not to mention that until men stop judging women for how/how soon/how often they have sex it is an EXCELLENT way to “wait” with a guy you’re interested in without having to actually, you know, be celibate.

(Writer’s Note: I am well aware of how disingenuous this is, and just how many men will be up in arms about it. As soon as you and your brethren stop believing you can determine what kind of woman I am by how many dates it takes me to “give it up”, then I will stop finding work arounds to patriarchal foolishness. As you were.)

Casual coitus celebration aside, I have learned a few things, as usual, the hard way that I would like to share with you, dear readers. Because I have never done this before, there are some significant ways I approached this all wrong. But, as my community service, I will explain to you how to be far more successful at keeping a jump off than I was. I fail so you don’t have to.

1. Don’t have any conversations that are not sexual in nature.
I considered briefly calling this bullet point “don’t treat him like a human being” but I figured that would be too mean for even me. But the concept is the same. Don’t ask him about his family, friends, or job. You don’t need to know his favorite movie or Mexican restaurant. There is absolutely no need to know if he is going on a trip. As a matter of fact, even if he hasn’t seen the sun in a year because of rare sunlight allergy, unless it is contagious or will affect his performance, you don’t need to know about it. Not because it’s not important, but because YOU DON’T CARE. If you read that again it makes total sense. He has a lane. Invite him to stay in it. If you wanna have a conversation, call a friend.

2. Don’t spend the night.
I have spent the night or let him stay over almost every time I have ever slept with the Jump Off. This is a fail. Why? Because there is no need to cuddle. And because in the morning, outside of what is hopefully round 3, there is absolutely NO NEED to be in each other’s space. NONE. But do you know what will happen if you do #1 and THEN #2 happens? You will find yourself in situations like, oh I dunno, hanging around the next day to watch football or the movie you guys discussed last night when you SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN TALKING NO WAY. Or maybe cuddling on the couch and looking at old pics of him, and thinking of him as a person. All bad everything. And don’t, DO NOT shower together the next morning. Just… don’t.

3. Don’t take him out in public.
A word of advice; not listening to points 1 and 2 will INEVITABLY lead to you both doing #3. It will happen. I promise. You will think because you are not a complete asshole, well maybe we can just go grab a drink before I take him home. I can at least not make it so obvious that I am using him for sex, right? You can’t. And you shouldn’t. Don’t do it. Because one or both of you will get the wrong idea about what this is. And NO GOOD CAN COME OF IT.

4. Don’t give him more than one opportunity to not put out.
This real life happened to me. TWICE. I blame myself for both times because I allowed this travesty of celibacy to occur. Both times, much (lackluster) sexting lead up to me coming over after my other plans for the evening ended, and, after spending an hour or two at his place, concluded with me leaving both times unfucked and confused. Why did this happen? Because I broke rules 1-3. please, don’t do this. No matter how good it is. Not matter how much you don’t wanna deal with finding another guy who is ok with you using him to wand you into Harry Potter status.

5. Don’t discuss your dating prospects with him, EVEN IF HE ASKS.
And HE WILL ASK. Especially if you ignore the next rule. Like me, you will think, hey, he’s grown. He asked me a question so he must be ready for the answer. You would be wrong. He doesn’t wanna know about your dating prospects. He wants to know if you HAVE dating prospects, i.e. anyone he should be concerned about. That is it and all. I recommend deflection. Penile play works well for this.

6. Don’t keep it going any longer than 6 months.I have broken this rule by A LOT. And while the sex is spectacular, there is really no good reason other than I AM LAZY. But this poses a variety of problems, the most important of which being, because he is a man and therefore has an ego the size of the state I live in, by 6 months in he begins to have...questions. Let me put you up on game. Ladies, they may try say this is solely our way of thinking, but there isn’t man alive with whom you can have sex, learn about his life and his family, and buy him drinks without his ego eventually tapping him on the shoulder and saying, “Why isn’t she sweating you?” Because he is dope and childless and has a job and lives alone and he puts it down, right? So why wouldn’t you be? Believe me, your jump off is WAITING. Waiting for you to start acting like a girlfriend, and start hoping and hinting at a relationship. Because that is what all his boys told him you would do. But when you don’t? MALE EGO ARMAGGEDON.

I am unhappy to report I have broken every single one of these rules. EVERY LAST ONE. And God bless me for having to deal with the fallout. But there is hope for you. Listen to La. And happy fucking. =)

Thursday, June 9, 2011

The (Church) Family who Preys

Generally I try to avoid the news, as my own life is already enough of a national tragedy that I don’t feel the need to exacerbate it by reading about the misfortunes of others. It’s hard enough to stay on a diet without reading about some poor kid who has cancer. No one can fight the urge to turn to a large plate of cheese fries when you consider the fact that the adorable kid you don’t know will never get to date or drive or graduate.

No one.

But unfortunately, I haven’t been as lucky about avoiding this Eddie Long scandal. I wrote about it once, furious that people STILL couldn’t write about this scandal and separate the implication that he might be gay with the fact that if the allegations are true, he is a child predator. After that, I largely tried to ignore it, even when he was going to court, then not going to court, and then when word got out of his $15 million payout. When I read that, I retweeted a comment that a friend made on Twitter;

“Eddie Long has $15 million to offer in a settlement?!?! While you Christians are scrimping your shepherds are living good.”

That comment pretty accurately summed up my feelings about mega churches, their pastors, and this entire thing. And I tried to largely stay away from it. Until this morning.

My friend Michael writes for various sites around the web, and when I saw this article pop up with his byline, I clicked on it to read it despite my news aversion because I read everything he writes. He offers a really good take on not only the scandal but of the loud way that another prominent minister in Atlanta, Creflo Dollar, has come out reprimanding the parishioners who have left his church. You should go read it.

What bothers me about this whole situation is not that Bishop Long might be gay. Not that homophobia in the Christian church and African American community as a whole is still so rampant that it makes me wanna weep. Not even that another over-the-top, flashy minister came to the defense of a friend and peer. All of this just seems par for the course.

What bothers me is that no one seems to be shouting as loudly for the victims.

There is some sort of double standard going on here, though I am not sure if it is because it is young men accusing another man or because they are accusing a minister.

It’s no secret that the molestation of children is thought to be widely underreported, with abuse targeting young men believed to be the largest of group refusing to name their abusers. It would be naïve of me to think that the factors that often lead to men not bothering to report abuse (the general shame of abuse compounded by the possibility of being looked at as “less of a man”, having a harder time “justifying” or proving their complaint, the wrongheaded opinion that they could have somehow just stopped the abuse) don’t weigh heavily in the public perception of these victims and how people react to the scandal. But there is another, far more disturbing level nonchalance about what they have suffered when the accused is a man of the cloth.

Being from Atlanta, and having more than a few ties to many churches, big and small, in the city, hearing the opinions from the people who live there is astounding. Some are rightfully indignant, and refuse to support Long, his church, or his ministerial endeavors anymore.

Some, like the irresponsible spouting of Creflo Dollar, are treating this entire thing with kid gloves. Dollar himself has harshly criticized the members of the New Birth flock who are flocking away from Long and the church in record numbers following the settlement. It’s his opinion that they shouldn’t turn their back on someone who had a “wreck” when they have had “even more wrecks” themselves. In essence he feels that because these Christians aren’t willing to forgive a man who may or may not have coerced underage boys into sexual acts, then they arent’f fit to be called Christians.

I am pretty sure that the when the bible said “But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses” they didn’t mean forgive him, continue to line his pockets with millions and support his ministry while ignoring the implications of what kind of man you might be following. But I suppose this too is just another case of selective reading from the bible. Anyone remember the one about “blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly”?

I suppose not.

Make no mistake about it; if Bishop Long is guilty of these accusations, he is a pedophile. Plain and simple. And I hardly see what is un-Christian about not wanting to support such behavior or not desiring to sit in a pew every Sunday and receive spiritual guidance from such a person.

This is not simply a “mistake”. He didn’t just cheat on his wife or pick up a gambling or porn addiction. This isn’t even as simple as the possibility of Bishop Long being gay; as far as I am concerned he can be forgiven for being a self-hating gay man who has a long history of preaching the prosecution of gays. Though, I wouldn’t be shocked if his well-known pastor friends weren’t so quick to come to his defense about that particular kind of “wreck.”

I hardly think that people should be condemned for not wanting to support someone who preys on children. And certainly they shouldn’t be turned away from Long’s church because it’s not where they’re “supposed to be.”

If he weren’t a minister, if he were just a man who had been accused of taking advantage of children and refused to fight for his innocence in court, would he keep his multimillion dollar position? Would he be above reproach? Would he not lose support? Would people be so vehemently defending him then?

So why the hell is it any different because he has placed Bishop in front of his name, despite the fact there are no bishops in the Baptist church?

Maybe people are less sympathetic because the victims are male and it’s an ugly but undeniable truth that we are not nearly as well versed in handling the victims of sexual abuse when they are male. But I am fairly certain that the bulk of the support Long is still receiving is based solely on him being a minister, and not based on the facts.

As far as I’m concerned, he was a man accused of a crime and because he settled and the case will never be heard in open court which means it is left to be tried in the court of public opinion. So he brought this on himself.

Personally, I would never pay $15 million for my innocence. But what do I know? I like older men, so I guess I am good.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011


“I really love you. I love you. Always will," The Great Houdini says to me somewhere around 2am when I am not nearly as defensive as we started this conversation.

I knew this was coming, the way you see a car speeding in your direction. For the last two hours of this conversation I have been living in that moment when you see headlights barreling towards you and you are too terrified to save yourself. I don’t realize until I’m hit that I was tensing up, and the impact hurts even more than I ever imagined it would.

“Do you leave everyone you love?”

And it seems he is prepared for this too, handling my anger, my indignation, my outright cruelty smoothly, like it’s nothing, much like he used to. The shit makes me furious. In a white hot, foolhardy way that I try to be as unfamiliar with as possible.

“You made me so happy. You’re amazing. Without all my bullshit we’d still be together. Probably married. But I’m glad you’re happy and living your life. I’m just being honest. I just wanted you to know I’m not a monster.”

Happy? Is that what I have been all this time?

My stomach feels like I’m falling, like I have been hurtled through a windshield. Everything is quiet and still and I feel suspended in the air, in this moment, unable to right myself, catch myself or steel myself for when I hit bottom.

“I just wanted you to know that you meant the world to me. We weren’t fake. And this wasn’t your fault.”

My head snaps back like I’ve hit pavement, all of my organs feeling shifted and out of place, every inch of me aching with the effort of holding myself together so I don’t break apart on impact. I am laying there, my back flat, tears in my hair, unable to move from this spot. Paralyzed by this type of emotional injury.

I think of all the things I should have done. To deal better, to prepare better for this moment I always knew was coming, having driven up and down this highway too many times to not realize I was becoming too comfortable, overestimating my familiarity with this stretch of terrain. I should have wrestled with this a long time ago, and all the issues therein. And maybe then whatever finality I’d reached could have held me, anchored me like a seatbelt, to this moment so that I didn’t have to feel this way. Terrified. Shocked. Lying here gravely wounded.

“I hope you can forgive me one day,”

“I’m trying to.”

I really am.

Monday, June 6, 2011

Under Construction

Hi readers!

In case you haven't noticed, there are a few changes going on around here. We have a new name, more in keeping with prevailing themes in my life:

Liquor, Loans and Love: Legends of Quarter Life Crisis.

We are also moving to a new .com. If you're visiting before the entire moving process is complete, you should be able to get your entertainment from my ridiculous life with no problems at the old blogspot address. If the process is completed, you should be redirected to our new home at any second. If not, please try clicking the link above. If that doesn't work, busy yourself with internet p.orn like everyone else and be patient while I get everything straightened out. It's a PROCESS. I have a job. And a dog. I got things to do.

In the meantime, you can feel free to join me over on tumblr or on the Twitter. I am fairly ridiculous and sometimes even insightful there as well.

Just like with any move, there will be a bit of dust and some boxes in the way, but there will be liquor in the fridge and, of course, ratchetry. I am getting ready for a new chapter. Join me, won't you?

Friday, June 3, 2011

Fuck Love, Get Greece

When I was younger I had all sorts of ideas about marriage. And I don’t mean the fairy tale, lovey dovey, fantasy ideas about marriage you had. As a kid growing up in households where divorces were the norm, I didn’t have the luxury of believing in Prince Charming and ever after and all that.

Instead, I had very practical ideas about marriage; do it only when you’re ready, not when you "should". Having a baby DOES NOT EQUAL marriage. Have your emotional, mental and financial life in order. For God’s sake, make sure you believe the same things and live your life the same way. You might want to look into actually loving them, too.

And maybe it was naïve and overly romantic of me, to want to be in love with someone and, you know, actually desire to spend the rest of my life with them. But when I heard other women and their calculated checklists of things to want in a mate and by extension marriage, I shook my head at them. So what about his job? I would think in my head. What about his soul? What about his commitment? What about whether or not he would take me to a swinger’s club in a city where neither of us knows anyone?

I would think to myself, as they prattled on about the joys of a two-income household or, better yet, snagging a man who earned enough so she could snag the coveted Stay-at-Home-Mom promotion, that I knew something they didn’t. That I was hip to the joys and pitfalls of marriage and divorce in ways that kids whose parents had been married forever without allowing any insight into how their marriage worked just couldn’t get. I knew better. I was better.

But now, fuck all that.

Fuck marrying for love. Just, fuck it. Somebody find me a well off man who will pay off all my debts and give me a platinum card with my name on it. I’ll let him have a chick on the side. Hell, CHICKS, PLURAL, on the side. Just somebody come see about these student loans.

I was still holding on to a little shred of my unmarried, self-righteous, get-married-for-the-“right”-reasons dignity last week when I had to go on my lunch break to get a nail fixed I’d broken while masturbating cooking.

And important detail to note about this story is that my office is in a fairly well-to-do area of town. There are no McMansions around here; no, there are ACTUAL multimillion dollar mansions, many of them situated around a lake and reminiscent of Italian villas. Keep in mind that I live in the land of oil money; that is to say, if you don’t already know, oil and gas magistrates SHIT ON YOUR CITY’S MILLIONAIRES EACH AND EVERYDAY.

I am well aware that I am just a visitor in these parts, and if ever I had any doubt of that, this particular day helped put it all in prospective.

As I sat down, glancing at the time on my Black.berry, hoping I can get done, grab lunch, and still clock back in on time at work, a black Maserati pulls up next to my sad little SUV with the black eyed bumper. Out of it floats a tiny little lady who wafts into the nail shop smelling like Hermes. It is not until that very moment that I realized that rich people don’t walk; they ACTUALLY FLOAT ON AIR.

She sits down, polite and dainty, and smiles like a Crest commercial as she starts chatting up the other ladies who lunch in the spa chairs beside her. She is pretty in that soft, southern way many women in this region age; where you can tell from their meticulously kept buttery blond hair and their bright blue eyes that they were considered quite country beautiful in their day.

Before long, the woman is sharing why she is here; she needs to get her nails and toes done before her trip. What trip? you ask.

Oh, just her and about half a dozen of her closest girlfriends staying at an exclusive resort in Santorini. She and her hubby were supposed to go but he has to fly to Dubai. Instead, he has INSISTED she take the plane and go with some of her girlfriends, all expenses paid.

At this point, I am violently jealous of her and her girlfriends and wondering if she is looking to adopt a little black girl with curly hair who is fun at parties. She and her comrades in Cavalli, continue discussing their upcoming summer plans; Bridgehampton, naturally, and Fiji are mentioned. As are the Seychelles and Maldives. I literally want to burst into tears. They continue on until she is done and rushing out the door to make her personal shopping appointment at Carolina Herrera. As she stops at the desk to hand over her black card, my favorite gossipy gay asks her in a hushed voice about “Natalie.” She blushes, smiles, and says that she is doing just fine before gliding back out to her car.

After she pulls away from the curb and gossipy gay sits me in the chair to fix my errant fingernail, the ladies who lunch invariably take up gossiping about their frienemy who just exited.

“I am surprised,” the dark haired one says, in a Paula Deen drawl, “that she is taking her girlfriends. I thought she would just take her girlfriend.” She puts emphasis on that last word, her sentence punctuated by the lifting of an impeccably shaped eyebrow.

“She couldn’t get away with that!” says the blond one, seriously overworking her fake shock.
“Oh, of course she could,” Paula Deen replies. “They have an unspoken agreement; he keeps the money coming in, she keeps the house and the social calendar, the both keep girlfriends. It works for them.”

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You mean to tell me there’s a program out there where you can live in luxury, travel to exotic locales at your leisure and YOU GET TO KEEP A GIRLFRIEND ON THE SIDE?!?!

I quit life.

I have been going about this shit all wrong.

Fuck love. Get Greece.