Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Light Switch

I am funny.

And not like oh, yeah ha she makes me giggle. I am hilarious. It is one of those undeniable things about me. I laugh way too loud. I always buy drinks. I pick up at all hours of the night. I always know what to say. I make friends everywhere I go. I cook too much food and invite people over to eat it. I know a bar and/or strip club you should go to in just about every major city in this country.

But I wonder sometimes, more often as of late, if I have completely surrounded myself with people who know how to deal with me when I am not those things.

When I am not on. When I am not charming and witty and funny. When I am not mixing to strong drinks or doing pretty makeup or taking pictures or playing wing man. When I am not hitting my dougie to ignorant southern music or doling out sex advice.

I wonder if people know how to comfort me as I do them. If they know what to say to me when I am blue or despondent.

And if they don’t, if it is they are incapable or uninterested in doing so, or if I have not appropriately articulated my needs in that regard.



Either way, it’s disappointing.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

This Part of my Life is Called...

…realizing I have problems.


I am one of those people that REALLY enjoy living alone. I don’t have to share the bed. I can keep the thermostat wherever I want it. I know where everything is because I put it there. I am free to do whatever I want there, in whatever degree of naked I desire.

In short, I like my house in order as I see fit. But this could pose a serious problem for my future romantic life.

I didn’t realize this until a couple days ago, when my mom came to stay with me.



My mom has been at my place, for reasons I won’t get into, for a few days. Now the 1st thing you should understand about this is that my mama and I SHOULD NOT LIVE TOGETHER. We keep 2 different kinds of homes; we are both clean, probably to anal levels, but where she likes lights and music and TVs on all at the same time, my home is usually significantly quieter. She isn’t big on silence; I crave it at the end of the day. She likes to yell across the house; I can’t think of anything more irritating. I like everything uncluttered, clear, put in a particular place in a particular way; she thinks I am crazy. It all balances out.

There is nothing WRONG with either of us. We are simply two different people who respond in different ways to differences in our personal space.

Logically.

But more than likely, because my mom has lived with people before and I haven’t, she’s got a MUCH better handle on sharing her space than I do.

It started last night in my bathroom.

I walked in to do my usual evening routine before bed, looked at my counter and noticed immediately something was out of place. After a second I realized my little toothbrush/retainer case/jar of baking soda combo was different. Not a big deal. Then I looked at the entire counter as a whole; the clutter across the top of it, the ill placed boxes and bottles, the errant strands of hair dotting the surface, the products that had been moved or turned. I recognized that this was just a part of having to share space with someone, so I righted things as best I could so that I could still find them, and tried to incorporate her things as best I could in a way that wouldn’t make me crazed.

Ten minutes later I was FINALLY washing my face.

Afterwards, walking through the apartment, I could take note of all the things out of place; the power cord left in the corner beside the bed, the clutter on my desk, the suitcase left standing in the middle of the floor. Hell, not much earlier I had ACTUALLY turned to my mother who was coming out of the kitchen and said, “That light wasn’t on in the kitchen when you went in there.”



What adult says this aloud to another adult? OMG!!! I am the parent! This can’t be life.

I immediately started to think about what this would mean for my dating life. How on earth could I ever cohabitate with someone? Would I be one of those nagging live in girlfriends who took note of every pile of clothes with resentment? Or who was constantly arranging and rearranging and picking up behind someone? Would all my little quirks and things make me impossible to live with? Let’s not even discuss my anxiety at the fact that I can’t really sleep with other people. OF COURSE I’d be a ridiculous and anal live in; I’d be sleep deprived and irritated ALL. THE. TIME.

I am sure there are some underlying issues that give life to my need for tidiness and order and such. But I don’t care anything about that right now. I just want to NOT be so absurd. Immediately. lol

Lordy. I need to get it together.

Friday, March 4, 2011

But I Have White Friends

This happens to me a lot.


In case you weren’t aware, I live in the south. And not even the “new” south like Atlanta or Richmond. I live in the only state recently advocating seceding from the union and where the governor actively supports whitewashing textbooks to paint slavery as some sort of colonial welfare-to-work program.

There is racism in this world. I get that. Post-racial my ass.



But this is not that.



There I am, in the meat section, digging under mountains of Texas bred beef to find some ground turkey, when I see a handsome black man cross in front of me. I let him pass, return his friendly smile (I am southern, after all) and continue digging for something that did not graze the likely polluted grass in the field next door to the gas station near my old house.

“Are you searching for turkey products too?”
“YES! It’s like looking for Republican at a gay pride event. You know they’re there but they’re carefully hidden.”

He laughs at me while he hands over a package of lean ground turkey. It only took two people and 10 minutes to find. Awesome.

“Thank you,” I say as I slide the ground turkey in my basket. Around the end of my sentence, a really pretty redhead starts marching towards us. She has the most fantastic hair color I have EVER SEEN. I am hoping it is the work of some talented queen in Midtown and not given to her by God. Just as I am about to stop and ask her who does it, she slithers up next to my ground turkey savior and fuses herself to his side, her hand becoming glued to his, her head magnetically drawn to his shoulder. I look her up and down, mostly bemused and a little jealous of her shoes.

Ma’am. Have ALL THE SEATS.

Noticing my raised eyebrow, Stephen Colbert style, at her demonstration of insecurity she tosses a terse greeting in my direction. I say hello as well, and move around them so I can find some pepper jack cheese for my future turkey burgers.

“You know,” I hear her shout from behind me, a little too loudly for my liking, “you can stop staring. Just because I am white and he’s black-“ I whirl around fast enough to cut her off and walk back in her direction. Without a word, I hold up my Black.berry to her face, the picture I just pulled up enlarged on the screen.

“This,” I say as condescendingly as possible, “is my father.”



It is important to note here that for all intents and purposes, my daddy is black. He just so happens to be that kind of black that looks like what happens when milk gets a tan. And he has green eyes and curly hair. But for right now, his inability to tan to any shade beyond toasted mother of pearl is serving my purpose.

“I know it is the “in thing” for black women to have problems with interracial relationships. But not all black women do. I certainly don’t. And maybe half the time what you perceive as resentment of your relationship is really just a reflection of your own defensiveness and insecurity. You should really know who you’re talking to before you get all in your feelings unnecessarily over a person who doesn’t even feel the way you perceive them to.”

I turn on my heels, leaving her sputtering what sounds like an apology. I just shake my head. I don’t have time for this. Ignorant, insecure bitches, even the self professed liberal white ones, will never change. And hungry bitches just wanna go home and make turkey burgers.