Birthday Breakdown

On December 18, I had my birthday party. It was at this amazing hotel downtown with a perfect view of the city. Sadly, everyone RSVPed and hardly anyone came. However, I was not saddened by this. The people I loved most came, my friend Felisha came from out of town and brought this awesome natural girl along, and I had food left over. Some people called out, others didn't. I just have the feeling that many didn't want to pay for parking. Which is sad but understandable. Downtown Atlanta parking on a Friday is a mess.
Yesterday, on my actual bday, I went to the mall, had lunch with my Atlanta Felisha, and went to go see The Princess and the Frog. I was excited to see a black princess, although the last Disney movie I saw in the theatre was The Lion King, so sadly, I kind of dozed off for five minutes during the movie. That night, I bought a marble cake and some vanilla ice cream, stuck two huge number candles in it and made a wish. Can't tell you what the wish was silly. That's against the rules.
I kept myself busy for my birthday as to not start feeling down. I always have a birthday shindig, but very rarely am I happy for my bday. I do believe that I will be that post-menopausal woman that cries on her birthday, because I am damn near in tears when my bday rolls by now in my twenties! My positive friends see each year that passes as a blessing. As a positively negative person, I see each year that passes as a reminder of all the things I have yet to do and all the things I need to do.
At the gym the other day I told a sistah, who is maybe in her mid-40s, that I am turning 25. She told me that I am in the prime of my life. I am hunched over my computer surrounded by boxes, loose pieces of paper, and clothes. I know that I am in my heart, but forgive me if I don't feel like it.

Movin' On Out

Ugghh, the stresses of moving.
For about two weeks, I have literally been wading through all my belongings in my compact room, packing things in between naps and tossing things over my shoulder that I don't know where to put. Seriously, the only thing I can think of more stressful than moving out is moving in.
My fam is leaving our current abode to move into a smaller yet more chic house not too far from this one. But doing so has proven to be a MAJOR headache. For one, everyone is packing at different speeds and seemingly nothing is getting done. Two, it is truly exasperating looking at all of the things that I have accumulated in nearly three years since graduation.
For the most part, mostly everything I brought from college was in a trunk that was literally on its last wheel. I replaced it with an x-large storage tote and was saddened to see all the things I'd stuffed in the trunk: old stories and grad school applications, books that I was supposed to read in school, didn't, but that now look oddly interesting. Man, how time flys.
I don't know about you, but procrastination has been biting me in the rear since I was a toddler. Getting a look at all of the things I was supposed to do made me want to crawl into the storage container myself! There is so much I need to get done but now, so many years later and it being during the holidays and me being on my period, I really don't have the energy to do anything. Yet the New Year is on its way, and although I usually suck at resolutions, I have decided to kick the procrastination demon to the curb. I have got to pack, study for the GRE, study my driving manual, start my grad apps, and do a whole lot more that I can't think of right now. But the point is, I am mentally determined, if not physically so, to get some stuff done. And I shall, I shall...after I finish blogging and lay down for a minute.

Dodging George

Curious George just texted me, asking if I could talk...It's 8:45 a.m. and he is texting me to ask if I can talk.
When I decided to call this guy, I thought that it would be good to have a dude to talk to as I sorted through Sorta, but I was turned off by our last convo. Wanting me to come see him? We have not spoken in two years!
Yet, since then, he has been calling me non-stop; even using that little paging option from your voicemail that no one uses. He texts me to see if I'm busy. I'm not. But I don't want to talk to this guy. And I feel bad. I'm thinking maybe he didn't mean to come off as oversexed and weird, but I don't know. I feel bad for not being into him.
Last night he left me a sappy message. He was like, "What's up? I've been calling you for like two weeks."
See! This is why I feel bad. How many times have I left that very message on a guy's phone, wondering why he was not calling me back after a seemingly amazing conversation? I feel like an asshole. He seems really interested. Why can't I be interested back?
This is a clear instance of me trying to fight against my gut feeling again. The night we spoke, my gut feeling was telling me that this guy was just lonely and wanted some ass, at the least from someone vaguely familiar. But I have to say, I'm not down of that nonsense. But I am not used to being the denyer in these situations.
So I guess I will just follow my heart and continue to ignore this guy. Maybe, like I had to on many on occasion since the 6th grade, he will get a clue.

Babies Go Bye-Bye

I went to Staples the other day and ran into a girl that I used to work at Popeye's with in high school.
I hated that job so much that when I usually see someone from that chapter in my life, I go in the opposite direction. But this girl, we will call her "Candi," was nice. She never gave me any problems. I just remember her being very loud and ghetto.
She looked about the same. However, she had kicked the elaborate weave ponytails and huge earrings to the curb, so she looked a bit older. And she was sitting down as she rang people up, which indicated to me that she was pregnant.
I asked her where she was living, and she told me the projects. That made me sad. I don't know how the projects are in other cities, but the ones that have managed to remain open in Atlanta SUCK!
Then I went on to ask her how many kids she had and she had to count on her fingers. I was thinking, "Tell me she hasn't had so many babies that she has lost count!"
Not the case at all. She was trying to refresh her memory to add how many abortions she has had and how many babies she actually kept to tell me how many times she'd been pregnant and no, that is not what I asked her.
"I have one and then I'm pregnant now, but I have been pregnant (counting on fingers) maybe five or six times."
I stared at her blankly as to not say anything offensive such as, "What?!"
But I guess my face said something because she went on to say, "Girl, I couldn't have five kids runnin' around!"
Living in the projects and working at Staples I had to agree. Yet the whole situation made me sad. Why was she offering this information up so easily? I know girls who have found themselves at the abortion clinic that have not even told their parents, nevertheless a person they have not seen in six years!
She seemed happy to be pregnant this time though, rubbing her long acrylic nails over her little baby bump as she helped me find the packing envelops. I can only pray that next time around, she can find some cost-effective birth control.

Holiday Hopeless

Christmas is around the corner and it is about that time that I receive my gift. No, not some perfectly wrapped present under the tree silly. I am referring to the deep, dark depression that takes me over until a few week s after the new year when everyone takes down their Christmas lights and the sales are over.
Aw, holiday depression. It greets me like an old friend every December with its arms open wide, waiting to strangle me with its cloak of sadness and warm me with its ratty robe of misery. This year I thought I had dodged him, seeing that Christmas is about two weeks away. Usually I can feel him slipping in as I have my second helping of mac and cheese on Thanksgiving. But this year, my turkey day was so good and drama free that he decided to be a gentleman and wait a minute until I had the most stuff to accomplish, my bank account was low, and my period was on its way. What a friend!
I am very offended by those holiday depression commercials where one day some white lady is in an over sized sweatshirt with her lip poked out, undoubtedly staring blankly out of a window, until she takes a pill and and two seconds later is wrapping a six foot tree in tensile. See, I know the real story. My grandma, before she lost her mind, was a holiday sadness sufferer. The month was just bad for her. Her husband and mother died in December. How many times had a caught her crying for seemingly no reason as she made dressing? And Ruth didn't have a little pill. All she did was pray her way to January with her fingers crossed.
I chose to just wallow in my pain, the old fashioned way. I find praying over dumb shit while children are starving across the world to be selfish. Not to mention it must be annoying to God.
So if you do not here from me for about a month, fret not. Me and my old friend will probably be gettin' busy until the second week of January. Man, I LOVE this season!

The Elaina Effect

The other day I was at home, munching on junk and feeling sorry for myself, as I talked to an undersexed homeboy who also had nothing better to do with his day. I was trying to snack my way out of a slight depression stemming from the fact that I had gotten too fat to fit into my bday dresses. I know, this makes no sense.
So we were looking on Myspace and he directed me to look at his friend Elaina's page. She went to Xavier, but I did not know her personally. I did know that she was a cheerleader that dressed really cute and loves to update her statuses on Facebook. I was scrolling down the page, nibbling on nibbles and skimming over some blurbs when there I saw it: a full length picture.
But not just any full page picture. The mother of full length pictures. She had on like this short sweater dress and a pair of heels that accented her long, brown, flawless legs and tight ass.
I felt hurt.
Not hurt like pain hurt but hurt like I used to feel when I watched Moesha and understood that I would never be able to afford any of the clothes she wore. Hurt like I felt when the Spice Girls broke up. Hurt like I felt when they canceled "My So-Called Life." Why? Because this is what I am competing with, fat or potentially skinny- the Elaina's of the world who are gorgeous and will maintain their gorgeous-ness well into their old age. I just felt hopeless.
So I logged out of Myspace and moped on my bedroom floor. But I will say this: once I finished my family bag of chips I made my way to the gym.

The Daddy List

Any one who knows me knows that I am not really down with the idea of a man being in the household when I have a kid. Call it being the product of a single-parent home with the in and out mommy boyfriend, but I find the whole "daddy figure" to be mean, rude, cruel, annoying, bossy, and generally un-needed when it comes to rearing a child. He'll just expose the baby to maucho bullhoodle and it will take society years to pluck it off. Nevertheless, there are a few qualities that I am looking for in my potential sperm doner.

• Black
• Tall
• Handsome
• Educated
• Well-spoken
• Good dancer
• Nice teeth
• No history of male pattern baldness
• Average Weight

If you know this man, please send him my way. Must get this baby making business off the ground.

Divorce, Dismorsh

I wrote earlier about how I was sad that Alicia Keys is dating a married man, producer Swiss Beats, and has made no apologies about it. Although there have been more and more postings about K.Swiss fiasco ( I dubbed this name first!), my love of her music is forcing me to try to overlook her, as Big Tiger would say, indiscretions. But when I heard about Fantasia Barrino, I just had to kick the can!
Yes, Fantasia ya'll. Our favorite homegirl American Idol winner that has gone on to put out two albums and a Lifetime movie. Fantasia- Celie of Oprah's The Color Purple stage play. Young Dro's old beau. The woman who's teen life was shaped by being done wrong by a man. That Fantasia. Well, she is now dating a married man too that she...wait for it...MET AT THE SPRINT STORE!
Ugghhh...You know, people go on and on about Gay marriage and atheism but I feel like pulling what Fantasia is pulling is what is really eating away at the fabric of this country. What the Hell happened to the girlfriend's code of conduct?
And we all know what that is whether we choose to live buy it or not ladies. Don't date your bff's ex, return things in better condition than you borrowed them and oh yeah...DON'T ENTERTAIN A MARRIED MAN! Women just don't care anymore. Blame it on a lack of available straight men. Blame it on the income gap between men and women. Hell, blame it on the alcohol. But celebs and everyday broads alike are sporting the married man like the latest Coach bag and in my o-pin-ion, it just isn't cool.
Dating a married man is not new. But I yearn for a time when the other woman stayed in the shadows and just enjoyed expensive gifts and vacations. Then if there was a divorce (very rarely) she would run off into the sunset with her beau...until he found someone else to replace her with.
Why am I irritated if I am not in the situation? Newsflash: all single women are in the situation. Each of us has to deal with what the last girl let the man get away with. Sad but true fact.
On the other hand, I guess it just boils down to that pesky need to be happy, even if it ultimately resorts in unhappiness on someone's end.

Eye of the Tiger: You have to be kidding!

If you are anything like me, you have been following the drama that is the unraveling of Tiger Woods' career. What a mess, right? I have literally been glued to the TV. Every day, another chick comes out of the woodwork to admit that she has boned the golf icon, accompanied by 20 pages of text messages, pics, and a voicemail. The only thing this story is missing is a stained dress!
I have to be honest: I have never been the biggest fan of Tiger. Something about his visible detachment with his black half has always made me uncomfortable. Yet, there is still no denial that he is good at what he does. He brings excitement to an otherwise BORING sport, and was in every other commercial I saw on prime time. The man was so squeaky clean, with his buck teeth and big head, that he reminded you of that awkward third grader that sat in the back of the class. I mean, you felt like you could eat out of his hand!
But not anymore. He has been using his hand for other things, and it has put him in some deep do-do! His wife moved back to Sweden, he has lost endorsements, his mistresses are making money off of the story, and after watching the news a while ago, I heard he has gone into hiding.
Let's be real here: men cheat. Not excusing it, but it is true. What pisses me off is that he is whack; a nerd, a lame-o. Yet somehow, he ends up with a smokin' hot wife that he, in my opinion, would never have gotten if he wasn't making Arab money. You would think he would count his blessings, right? WRONG! He then goes out and gets mistresses and cheats on them. And these chics aren't even high class- they are club girls and reality TV stars. I mean really, what did he think was going to happen?
Why am I mad? It's not because he cheated because that is none of my beeswax. I am pissed that he isn't even cool and had the gumption to play somebody! I remember a time when the corky guy was a safe bet. Now a little bit of money and some Ambian is a recipe to make the squarest boy the belle of the ball and I don't like it.
I guess there is nothing left to do but continue to watch this spiral. I definitely don't think his career is over. I mean, look at Coby Bryant. However, Coby didn't have nude photos that had fallen into the hands of Playgirl. I kind of want to see what Tiger is working with. A large winky is the only thing I can think of that had him thinking he could keep this mess under wraps.

Baby Bound

It is no secret that I HATE children.
People, particularly my young girlfriends that are strapped down from each limb with babies give me the stink eye when I say this, seeing that they did not like kids either before they were cornered into having them. They are loud and irritating and stinky. Children are not my favorite people.
But lately, I find the urge to have one nearly unbearable.
When I was younger, I remember watching a talk show where a teenage girl testified that she wanted a baby because she wanted something to take care of. I remember laughing at her. How stupid, wanting something to take care when you haven't even graduated high school. But now, two weeks shy of 25, I totally see what she was saying.
From ages 5 to 11 I read stories about love and from 12 to now I have been looking for it. I have seen it in my friends' lives, I have seen it on TV, I have even thought I was in it. But either it wasn't real or wasn't right. The love between a mother and child is unconditional. If I had a baby, I would be the proud owner of unconditional love...even though I would still be living with my aunt and off of pennies.
Whenever I get in this mood where I really want a bambino, I have to step back and evaluate my emotions. Am I on my period? Have I been watching Lifetime? Is it tax time and I am looking for a deduction? Yet lately, it has been neither of these things. Although I do not have a man, my own job or a good paying job, I have to say, I am flirting with the idea...even though it may be a bad one.

Introducing Curious George

So just when Sorta Beau wants to show out, I get revisited by T.
Who is T? Well, he's the guy that I was talking to two years ago that expressed his interest through a message on Myspace. If my memory serves me right, which it always does, he left me high and dry, just as we were getting close, by not answering my phone calls and ignoring me online.
Fast forward backwards to last week. I was bored and decided to check my Myspace page, which, in all honesty, I usually go for months without doing. Why? Well, it's deader than the once popular J. Lo sweatsuit, and has basically become a breeding ground for horny pre-teens; a Facebook for club promoters, wannabe rappers, and talent agencies. Yet, I go on there to update every now and again and low and behold, this time when I did it, I was welcomed by a two-month-old message from none other than T.
He says he wants to catch up...blah, blah...misses me...blah, blah. After a year in the Sorta death grip, I recognized his message as an attempt to try to obtain ass. He probably broke up with whoever he stopped talking to me for and needs a rebound. However, I remembered how cool we used to be- how he would call me when he got off work to ask me how my day at my internship had been. How we could talk for hours about the direction of Hip Hop. Call me stupid, but I did want to see how he was, even though, after looking through his pics, I was reacquainted with the fact that he bears a stunning resemblance to Curious George.
So tonight we talked. It was cool, although I have to say that from hello, I was not interested. He curses a lot and I can tell he doesn't know that he is doing it. He also finds the simplest thing I say funny, and uses up-north slang even though he is from North Carolina. I found him to be annoying, yet continued to talk to him, trying to rekindle something, as my mind screamed for me to hang up.
About ten minutes into the convo, he puts on his sexy voice and starts talking about how he had been thinking about me, and just knew I had been thinking of him (NOT) and regretted that we fell out of touch. He regretted it so much, in fact, that he suggested that we skip catching up too much and just schedule travel plans to meet up. Um...hello! Get a clue! Do I look like the jump off? He totally came at me sideways, and figured that since it was in his sexy voice, my panties would drop. Something tells me our reunion will be short-lived.

100 POSTS AND WRITING!

100 posts ago you, my faithful few followers, embarked with me on the literary chronicle of my 24th year of life. Now, almost a year later, you have stuck around through the uncomfortable stories of hymen retention, man let-downs, a seemingly un-mendable broken heart, and the simple post-to-post happenings in the life of a BG living in the City. Thanks bunches, and I hope that you will continue to follow me through this beautiful nightmare I call my life!

Boys Don't Cry, Right?

I have always had a hard time believing that men can feel any emotions, especially over women, largely due to the fact that they are such large shit heads.
Whenever one of my girlfriends went through a break-up, they went through the whole spectrum of emotions. They were sad. They were angry. They were irritated. It is almost always a nightmare. And they do all of this, no doubt, while their ex-boytoys are single again, back on the prowl. Never once had I witnessed a boy truly broken up over a girl...until recently.
My buddy Brownie just got out of a relationship that he put a lot of elbow grease into, let me tell you. He spent a year buttering her up and a year with her, yet somehow, it did not work out. What shocked me about the whole deal is that he is actually sad about it. Sometimes he's angry. I even detect a hint of irritation.
My buddy's brake-up has me rethinking what I have previously thought about males. If they are capable of feeling, then they are capable of thinking and reasoning and the whole thing. Which means they aren't as dumb as they want us to believe- which means that they really are human! Does this mean they now deserve my respect and compassion?
Man, I am truly lost on this one. I liked it better when I was under the impression that boys were just...boys: simple and heartless.

Dress Stress

I have gained weight, it's official.
A couple of weeks ago I ordered a dress from Torrid and sat in nearly unbarable anticipation, weighting for the dress to be delivered. It got here and it fit me like a wife beater. So I ordered another one, and this one fit me like a glove and not in a good way.
I can see how I gained weight. I pretty much quit going to the gym and resorted to snacking on cookies in my room while watching hours of TV. I guess I just thought that since I was already fat, there was some invisible cap on how fat I could get. Today, I was proven wrong.
So now, I fear that I will have to wear one of the boring dresses in my closet. Needless to say, I will be going to they gym in the moring, even though I will be cranky.

The Oversexed Mess

Although I participated in sex education when I was in grade and middle school, I got my more "graphic" sex education from HBO's Real Sex like most young, unsupervised kids with basic cable back in the day. When no one was looking, I also had this bad habit of turning to the Spice Network and buying Black erotic literature with the months of saved change I got from doing odd chores. I say this to ask this: Why do oversexed MTV videos offend me? Perhaps I have been overly sex exposed and I'm just exhausted with the whole scene, but at the age of nine, watching 50-year-old swingers get it on on Real Sex did not bother me as much as any Lady Gaga video does today. Ginuwine somehow did not seem as in-your-face as Pleasure P. Madonna has been kissing girls since the early 90s, but Katy Perry makes me a little uneasy. Maybe I am so creeped out because of the imbalance. When I was a kid, there were 99 Brandis for every 1 Madonna. Today there are 99 Britney Spears' for every 1 Taylor Swift. This is too much, even for me! I predict that in ten more years, there will be a music video where Lil' Wayne drizzles dollar bills on the head of a stripper who is licking Korbel off of his wewe and I will not be phased. By this time I will be effectively desensitized. Not sure if this is a good thing or not.

'Cuzi Crushin'

Yesterday I engaged in my usual pool-robics convo with my friend Diana; my fifty-something-year-old homie that has to be the sweetest woman I have ever met. The last time we spoke, she was totally crushing on this Italian man that goes to her church. She emailed him, he essentially said he wasn't interested, but her affections did not wain. She emailed him again. No reply. She has decided to let it go.
But as we sat in the hot tub together, it seemed that the one thing she can't let go is her frustration with being alone. She told me that all she wants is someone to grow old with; someone to escort her to church. As I have said in previous posts, I feel that I connect with Diana. She wants a partner, and I want a man who dislikes sex and lives to give me shoulder kisses. You see the connection.
When she told me this, I could feel her agitation through the boiling tub 'cuzi water. And I felt her pain, seeing that after she made her comment, I mind slideshowed all my friends who have cheated on people, dumped people, been with the same person since daycare, or have just gotten married. And I know these people...well. I am sure that they do not buy new clothes for the homeless while they shop at the Goodwill or do hours and hours of volunteer work for their churches.
I'm not saying that being a saint should guarantee you companionship, but Ms. Diana is and the fact that she doesn't just doesn't seem fair. Who decides who gets the gettin'? Why do shitty girls have a card catalog of callers while Diane sits in the hot tub with her lip poked out? This I wonder on occasion, especially when I come across her. I can only hope I don't end up her age, wondering the same thing still.

The Man, the main, and the Mrs.

After meeting a young man that my cousin brought home from college this Thanksgiving I have to say that yet again, the male process of deductive reasoning never ceases to amaze me.
First off, let me describe this guy to you. He is tall and thin and handsome and brown. He may be a couple of months shy of 21. He is a broadcast major that keeps clips of his work handy on an adorable bite-size laptop in a matching bite size bag. He agrees that commentator news is killing journalism. Although he is only a sophomore, he has traveled to Cambodia to do a hard, international piece, and he doesn't sag his skinny jeans. That's really important because a sagging skinny on a man makes my stomach ache.
I say that all to say, in a nutshell, that this guy comes off as an upstanding young man. However, I feel that there are some women out there that may feel his relationship practices could label him as otherwise.
Never missing a chance to interview a young cutie, and potentially find a match for a single buddy, I asked the lad if he was single. He said yes. But a few follow-up questions revealed that he has a girl, a P.Y.T. that he refers to as his "main." Even though he has been dating her for four years and did not mind me referring to her as his girlfriend, he still considers himself single. Why? Because he's not married silly.
And since he is not married, he also has another girl, I mean woman, on the side. He refers to her as a "Sugar Mama" who's 32-years-old and married with kids. I had to laugh as well as respect his swag. I mean really, how did he find a grown woman to financially support him in this economy? But hey, it is not that he does not earn his sugar mama's sweets. As he said, she needed someone to "take care of business." You can deduce what that means.
For some reason, I wanted to know why the "Sugar" just didn't leave her husband if she was unhappy. He said he wouldn't want her to because, at his age, he couldn't "do anything with her" if she did. I also asked him about commitment, to his "main" of four years. He then informed me that, if you are not married, there is no such thing. But he did share that he one day hopes to get married and have kids, so I asked him at what point do you get serious with a woman to even lead to that point. He did not know, but assured me that you do commit once rings have been exchanged.
Although I appreciated his honesty, I was a bit annoyed with the feeling that I got that he viewed women as disposable. But I guess I have to stand in his Steve Maddens here. He is a young, college-educated brotha with no kids who is clearly going places in life. He attends a college where the ratio of women to men is 7:1. With those odds, it seems that women can be tossed and replaced.
I enjoyed speaking with this guy, because I feel that he represents a new generation of daters who, essentially, don't date. So where does this leave females who have been searching since their first Disney movie for commitment? Up the creek without a paddle I would imagine, seeing that this guy asked me why someone would even want a commitment. I guess that boys will be boys. Isn't that what they used to say? Boys will be boys until they grow up and become a man, and that is all good. But I guess my ultimate question as someone who is quite unlucky in love is this: what position do young women play until men break out of there Peter Pan phase? From the looks of it, there are always openings for "Sugar Mamas" and "mains."

Sorta Stressed

God, I never thought that I could be so stressed out by not really being in a relationship with a guy who does not even live in my state!
OK, so this is the official Sorta Beau update. Remember how I felt like the main barrier in our kinda relationship was that he had gotten some other chick pregnant? Well, a few weeks ago I called him to see what was up and he was, to say the least, sad. Apparently, this baby is not his. She told him this after eight months of accepting money and baby gifts from him. She also told him that she did not want him in the baby's life, and she was gayly taking his dough and gifts elsewhere to prepare for her labor. Shitty, right?
So he was crying and mad and stuff. Of course, I did not really know how to address the situation, seeing that I have never had to ease the pain of a kind of boy toy before. By the end of the conversation, he was apologizing to me for all the drama and feeling sorry for himself. It was a whopper folks. I decided to give him time to figure things out.
Fast forward about three days ago. I called him to see how he was and he did not sound like himself. He sounded like an asshole. Cursing for no reason. Being belligerent. Sounding a bit mad. I literally thought I was talking to another person. He was not old sweet and nice Sorta at all. He rushed me off the phone and that was that.
...Until I talked to a guy friend about the situation who told me he was probably hurt and I should try to talk to him again. Allow me to be blunt: caring about others is NOT my strong suit, especially when they are rude. But I gave it whirl. I texted him the next day, telling him that I missed talking to him and although he got crapped on, I didn't want him to block me out and that's when he did the unthinkable...he exclamation pointed me!
What is that exactly? That is what it sounds like, pretty much yelling at someone through a text, sealing the deal with an exclamation. This is a major pet peeve of mine. I almost hate it as much as CAPs texting. How annoying.
This whole thing is my fault for not clocking out of this nonsense in the beginning. I mean, where oh where is my constellation prize for sticking with him after he did me dirty? Wasn't I being the girl rappers complain there aren't enough of? I have been talking to this dude for almost a year with nothing to show for it. Now his heart is broken, similar to how mine was when I got the original baby call, and nine months of texts and calls gone down the drain. He's got some shit to work through, and I can't say I want to wait for him to, even though I have no other prospects. Needless to say, I sorta won't be talking to Sorta Beau anymore.

Not Headed to the Chapel

A good friend of mine, Evan, is getting married next week.
Know that when I say this out loud, I say it while doing one of those tight, painful smiles where my teeth don't touch. My eyes are a little watery, and my nails are jammed in my thigh. Needless to say, I will not be attending the ceremony.
I would love to make this about the girl that he is marrying, but it is not. We attended college together and she is pretty cool. I would love to even make this about him. I had a HUGE crush on him in college that you could see from the moon. But, truth be told, I have not talked to him for over a year. He works two jobs and has a little girl now. I think about him, but my heart has made more useless crushes more pertinent, so it's not about him.
You see, I have a close girlfriend, Cassandra, that I call Peter Pan. I call her this, as you may have guessed, because she, in my opinion, refuses to grow up. She drags her feet setting career goals and she doesn't take a lot of things seriously that keep me awake at night with worry. Yet, when I see a friend of mine headed towards adulthood, particularly through marriage, I get edgy.
First off, marriage is so permanent. I know today people literally get divorced after a day or two, but the idea is still permanent. Permanence=Stability=Adulthood. What can I say? I'm an 80s baby. I don't want to grow up. I'm a Toys R Us kid. At 24, when the pressures of my life get to be too much, I just want to curl up in a ball next to my laptop and watch old episodes of "Dark Wing Duck" and "Wishbone."
I also don't like being left behind, which is how I feel when anyone I know takes a significant adult step. It's wack but true.
So, these reasons, finances, and the fact that it's another reminder that I am not progressing at the rate that I would like, is why I can not attend this wedding. Seeing my friends walk down the isle would just take too much out of me. I need all my energy to deal with the fact that, in a little over a month, I am turning 25. Again, tight smile.

The Style List

I was watching TV and there was this actress talking about the different woman in her life or from pop culture that inspired her style or whose style she admired. I usually hate blog lists, but I thought this one would be fun.

• My Grandma
• Claire Huxtable- The Cosby Show
• Julia Sugarbaker- Designing Women
• Jill Scott
• Lisa Turtle- Saved by the Bell
• Moesha- Moesha
• Dorothy Zbornak- The Golden Girls
• Claudia Kishi- The Babysitter's Club
• Dionne- Clueless
• Cher- Any Bob Macky Gown she worn on the 'Sunny and Cher Show'
• Grace Kelly- Rear Window
• Elizabeth Taylor
• Charolette- Sex and the City
• Aaliyah

OK, that is all I could think of right now.

Ink in the Bottle

My friend Justine has met this wonderful man in med school. He is well-versed and well-traveled; fun, nice, and popular. He is a regular Mr. Right, but he stinks...literally.
When she first told me this, I laughed. I mean really, in the dating world, when it's not one thing, it's the other! How is he a medical student with B.O.? According to my girl, he smells bad and no one will tell him, even though every one knows. it and knows him! She really liked him, but the fact that he was punchy was creating a funk barrier between them and the possibility that they could ever get together.
A part of me felt her pain. A smelly man, to say the least, is horrible. I remember how boys smelled in the 2nd grade after recess before they were old enough for deodorant. They smelled like 100 freshly cut onions. When I visited California, I walked into a Taco Bell where a group of men were eating. Apparently, they had just finished playing basketball, and their mustiness overpowered the smell of taco meat and hot sauce, so yes, I understand that severity of a stinky man. But a part of me wanted me to tell her to get over it. Finding a good, educated Black man these days is nearly impossible! So he has an odor? Look on the bright side: he could have kids or a prison record.
Nevertheless, something had to be done about the stench, if for no other reason than the fact that you can not be a grown man who is soon to be a doctor who smells. After about an hour of deliberation, we decided that getting him a gift basket of man soups and gels would do the trick. I figured if Justine got him something strong like Old Spice, that smell would be on him for at least a week whether he showered or not.
Fast forward to yesterday. Justine calls to inform me that she did not get him the basket of boy smell goods. Instead, she decided it was a better idea to tell him he smelled, which was emotional and draining because newsflash: no adult man wants to be told he stinks! In the end, he still did not believe he smelled. He figured Justine was just mistaken.
Needless to say, I don't think they will be hooking up any time soon. This colorful little tale is just further proof of what I have been saying: dating stinks.

Topless Ticky

There is this really chic Asian lady that goes to my gym. I keep forgetting her name, so I have nicknamed her "Ticky." She has to be knocking on forty, but she bops around the gym in those tight Victoria Secret sweats with those spaghetti strap tops. Every time I turn around she is over in the weight section flirting with those huge muscle guys, the ones that don't even look real. She's a flirt, especially with the Black guys, slapping them on the arm.
"You so funny Gerry!" she'll cry.
She is typically the type of woman that would annoy me, but somehow she has become my pal. The only thing is that Ticky LOVES being nakie. When she changes her clothes in the gym she makes a point to walk around topless. When she gets out of the shower, she'll put the towel around her waist and walk around topless, and today, when I went into the sauna, she was topless. I get the feeling that she likes her breasts, probably because they are showroom new. No, I do not have proof that her breasts are fake, and I don't want to stereotype, but I have never seen an Asian woman with double D breasts. And I have really never seen a woman, regardless of race, who had doubles that stood at attention.
Two things bug me about my buddy Ticky. I find her toplessness to be a we bit odd, and second, she does this without thinking about whether or not anyone is uncomfortable. As you all know, I hate nudity, so maybe that is why I am so weirded out, but for once, I would like to go to the gym to get my low-intensity workout on without feeling like I am in the opening scene of Carrie. I know that we are all girls in the locker room and have the same thing, but can't our "same things" be hidden underneath a turtleneck? I have taken it upon myself to tell Ticky, without saying anything, that her little panty parades are inappropriate but I don't know. Selling the idea of being clothed to a woman as self-confident as Ticky could by tricky.

Gastric I'llpass

About three months ago I attended a fab dinner party at my gym friend Jasmine's house. She had invited a few friends over to celebrate her loosing 50lbs. She is from Florida, so there was TONS of island food, and can I just say, it all was delish!
Anywho, at this party, I met this very adorable big couple. The husband coached high school football and the wife was a pharmacist. They were both tall and both considerably large, but together, they were very electric and fun. Leaving the party, I was happy to have met them, particularly the wife. My sides were literally aching from laughing so hard at the colorful stories she told about her job.
Fast forward to late last week. Jasmine tells me after water aerobics that the wife, whose name I sadly don't know, has died from complications with her gastric bypass. Although I had only met her once, I found myself feeling really sad about the whole situation. Another sistah ends up biting the dust from dying to be thin.
Just in case you did not know let me inform you: I am THOROUGHLY against weight loss surgery. The only time I can sort of be for it is if you are so heavy that there is no way that you can exercise on your own to lose weight. The media loves to show you those stupid commercials with a woman in a bikini on one side of the screen and the uglier, fatter her on the right. Never have I seen a commercial that talked about the fatal side to getting such serious surgeries.
My mom had a friend when I was little whose complications caused by her stomach stapling had her feeding herself from a needle. A woman in the mall I once worked at got one of those stomach scrunchies and ended up almost completely losing control of her bowels, leaving embarrassing trails of diarrhea wherever she went. Then there was Tameka Raymond, Usher's wife, whose little weight loss procedure left her overseas getting correctional surgery. And who can forget Dr. West, Kanye's mommy, who's tummy tuck from hell sent her straight to the coffin.
When I was in high school, I remember walking out of the grocery store and being stopped by a random woman who asked me ever so inappropriately, "Girl, why don't you get a gastric?" All I could do was stare. That was back in the day when people's random remarks had the power to render me speechless. Then she goes on to say, "I got some insurance girl, and they are paying for the whole thing. You should look into that." She got really close to me, like it was a big secret. I could not pinpoint what annoyed me more: the fact that she thought I would be interested or the fact that she could not have been more than 30lbs overweight!
As I sit here eating some shrimp with broccoli and fried rice, I think of my married associate who wanted to lose weight in her thirties to enjoy life and become a mother. I wish she was still with us. First, I would ask her her name. Then, I would ask her if, looking back as a weightless angel, she felt the surgery was even worth it. I think we can figure out what her response would be.

The Dying Art of Halloween

I sit here this early Sunday morning, literally up to my expanding waistline in candy wrappers. Last night I went trick or treating with my little brother and sister. We hit up four subdivisions in four hours, and returned home fat and happy with sacks of candy as big as Santa's bag. Ug, it was beautiful.

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. It is. And it saddens me that every year I see less and less people celebrating it. This year, more houses were dark, alerting treaters that residents of that address were not participating in this fantastical Fall festivity. I want to tell myself that it is because the economy is bad, and folks just don't have the money to be passing out candy to other people's children, but my heart tells me it is because some religious wingnuts think that Halloween is some type of Devil day or something.

I first started hearing this loonie talk when I was in middle school. I took the same set of siblings treating one year, and almost everyone had these notes on their doors saying they were going to celebrate Hallelujah Day, not Halloween, but Hallelujah Day, at some type of church festival or that they did not celebrate it at all and they suggested we go home before the very roof of Hell opened and swallowed us up. Then there was the year that my neighborhood single handily canceled Halloween because it fell on a Sunday. Some people will even make that lame 80s argument that Halloween is dangerous. Seriously, I have not heard anything about folks putting crack in candy since I was five! Sadly, folks just don't have the money to drug our kids like they used to.

Question: How can you not LOVE Halloween? Not even God can be against the little baby cakes dressing up like Spider Man and lady bugs. I saw a giraffe at the grocery store yesterday, and my heart melted. The little girl had a little giraffe booty and tail. It was simply one of the sweetest things I have ever seen! Plus, you get free candy, see other people's costumes, and some people even decorate their houses really cool, making their homes treater friendly.

This year I was also stunned by the disrespect of the holiday by the treaters. They were not following the sacred Halloween rules. For one, you don't bombard homes in groups and catch the resident off guard. That's rude! And you don't go to houses with good candy twice and then get pissy if they remember you and won't give you any candy. You don't bang on doors. You don't ring the doorbell more than once. You don't run across people's lawns and flower beds. You let the younger kids go ahead of you. You wear a costume and YOU MUST, you must, say trick or treat! You don't just stand on someone's porch with your hand out and a mean mug! Sigh...I saw a big disregard for these rules today. I don't know about you, but I blame the parents.

As you probably already figured, I am planning what I am going to be next year. If I can figure out how to make it, I would love to be a seahorse. Oh well, I have a whole year to decide. For now, I shall munch on my six pounds of candy.

The Curious Case of Holly Jillene

I feel soooo old.
These days, if I am not tucked into my bed by 10p.m., the following day is going to be a seemingly endless series of naps and irritated bickering. It's funny. My sophomore year of college my buds Rae and Aften decided to stay on Bourbon Street from p.m. to a.m. There, the clubs stay open until people stop buying drinks. By 7 a.m., I was actually falling asleep on the dance stage. If my memory serves me right, by the time we left, the buses had stopped and started running again. Today, when I go out with my girls, I am ready to leave by midnight.
This year, I turn 25, and I fear that my best years are over kiddies. These first 25 passed with the speed of light. If the next are going to go by even half as fast, hot flashes are around the corner. I have friends that have done semesters in Africa and taken impromptu trips to France. I just feel like I have not lived. These days, I spend so much time brushing up on Swine Flu facts and living in fear of catching STDs from toilet seats that I have not been getting out and living life as I should.
Perhaps that will be my New Year's resolution: to live in search of more excitement. Until then, I think I will take a nap.

Trans-Fatuation

Recently, a girlfriend of mine informed me that she is currently dating a tranny.
If you are in anyway as out of the loop as I am, you need a definition. In this case, she is dating a girl who is taking steps to become a man. She goes by He, and He has changed his name and may or may not where a "piece." And whatever your mind told you a "piece" is, you are probably right.
When my friend told me this, I was not surprised. She is this adorable, fun-loving bisexual that just goes where the wind blows. However, her new beau got me to thinking about whether or not I am limiting myself when it comes to finding love.
The other night I called my friendn Sydney and just asked her randomly if she would date someone Transgender or Transsexual. You know, just for the sake of convo, and she said that it depended on the regulars. Is the person nice? Honest? Funny with a good credit score? You know, the essentials.
I have to say that I was surprised. Not that Sydney is not open-minded, but I consider her to be much like myself, and I don't think I would. But in the end, I think it all boils down to hang-ups, of which I am the queen. My dream guy has to be tall and nerdy and dark and slim and witty. Perhaps being a slave to these characteristics is why I am currently single. Maybe if I stepped outside of my box and date a short guy or a White guy, I would be comfy in love right now.
My friend is dating a tranny and she is happy. I am waiting on Mr. TallDarkAndHandsome and I am single. I don't have any intention of dating a girl, or a boy who was once one, but I think that this little tid bit of info about my pal's new beau has got me reflecting on being realistic and receptive. Love does not always come wrapped in red ribbons and in this case, may not even come with its original "piece."

Falling Off the Wagon

I am embarrassed to say this, but again I have strayed off my exercise regimen.
If I hated going to the gym before, I really hate it now. I go to the gym and every person who started off when I did is now ready for their after picture I suck on hot wing bones in the locker room stall.
Man, I am so disappointed in myself. I was so excited when I first started out, you know? Going everyday and cutting back on my snacks. Now I am lucky to go twice a week, and the other day I every so fatty like went through two containers of Keeblers like water. Ug, I was so disgusted in myself. I know that I have gained. I am not sure, because I do not weigh myself, but last year, at the BET Awards, the seats were just a bit uncomfortable. This year, the arm rests were eating at my sides so bad that I was almost in tears by the second performance!
This asshole I went to middle school with, Jamal Harris, he said during summer school one year, "It's not hard to loose weight. Just stop eating." What a prick! If it was only that easy. Sadly, I had guessed it was that easy myself.
Starting out, I thought I was different than the other large people working out around me. I figured it was all mental and I could kick the fat like a bad cold. Please. I have no self control! I give into all my cravings. I want to eat all the time, even when I am not hungry. This whole weight loss journey is starting to look hopeless. Man, this is depressing. I wish I had some ice cream.

The Longest Day Ever

Two weekends ago your favorite BG, me not Monique, made her annual pilgrimage. No, not to Mecca sillies. To the Atlanta Civic Center to cover the BET Hip Hop Awards!
I have gone the past two years. The show is always cool, but it's the standing on your feet on the red carpet waiting for the celebs to come whenever the Hell they want to that is killer. Knowing this, I wore flip flops, thinking I was doing myself a favor. However, by the end of the carpet, the sides of my flops had actually become an extension of my foot. My feet were so swollen, I could not even squeeze into these adorable gray suede flats I'd bought just for the show. I know, sadness.
After the show, my boss and I went to Hooters for wings. He was very consumed with the game. Luckily, I had plans for the evening with my girl Tasia and the gang. There was no way I could stay there another minute competing for his attention with the game to have a conversation.
To avoid my feet hurting, I literally walked on my toes to the train station, where I missed my train to meet Tasia. The next one did not come for 20 minutes. You would think that on the weekends they would run more frequently, but no, not in Atlanta.
Tasia was convinced I had died by the time I got to her. There was no reception on my phone in the tunnel, so I could not call her to tell her I was late. We ended up going to a bar to meet up with the gang. Even though we were late, we were the first ones there, and even though it was like midnight, that damn game was still on. By the time we'd had a few drinks, it was someone's bright idea to walk two blocks to another bar. By this point, mind you, my feet were as tight as sausages. The next bar was worth the walk though. It was a Wigga spot; white college kids dancing to heavy-duty Southern rap. I know, funny. I spent my time there talking and sitting, my two fav thing.
So the bar closes, and we are hungry. I am cold, so I suggest the Waffle House for a cup of cocoa. We end up deciding on Gladys Knight's Chicken and Waffles which was full of women still in tight ass tiny dresses from the awards show. Let me just say that the walk from the bar to the car felt like an eternity. Every little rock and pebble I stepped on felt like a knife. The white couples walking past me, seeing me in my skin tight leggings and drink stained cardigan no doubt thought I was a prostitute on her last leg, walking on my toes with my useless flip flops under my arms.
When we finally got our table at Gladys', it was damn near in the kitchen and the seats were stools. I hate stools. Fat people generally do. On top of this, there were only two stalls in the bathroom were occupied! The woman in the handicap stall was taking a shit, and I stood there, peeing on myself a little waiting on her before I settled for the baby stall. My God! The stool was so loose that when I sat down, I damn near flew out of the stall, thus urinating on the floor instead of the toilet. Being a lady, I stuck around to clean up after myself, only to be greeted by a line of pissed off, pee-dancing women in mini stresses and stilettos when I opened the door.
Once I leave the bathroom, I pull the manager to the side, who looks like a discounted Al Sharpten, and tell him that I simply can not do the stools. Seriously, I'm fat and my feet are barkin' here! He tells me, a paying customer, that he can not help me. He can not get me a low chair. I ask him why and he just shruggs. Asshole right? So I complain to the waitress, we take our food to go, and she gives me a complimentary slice of cheesecake for my trouble.
Considering my pediatric condition, there is no way that I can walk to the car. So I sit on the waiting bench next to a very unattractive amazonian couple in my pee leggings and dirty cardigan with my painful flips on, feet on fire, watching Al Sharpten Jr. kick out a patron because she slid her heels off under the table. As I watched her get escorted out of the restaurant by security, I sat back and rolled my eyes. It had been a long annoying day. But somehow, as I limped out to my friend's car, I found myself strangely exhilarated and excited to be young in the big city.

Holly and the Vag

The other night I was talking to Sorta Beau and yes, he is still in the picture. Please, stop yelling. I'm not even sure how I feel about it. Anywho, he requested that I text him a pic of my vag.
ABSOLUTELY NOT!
I've heard too many bad stories. Girl sends vag pic to boy. Girl and Boy have bad breakup. Girl's vag ends up as a Myspace profile pic or as the joke of an email blast. No thank you. As if I do not have enough that I will have to explain when I get famous.
Sorta's request got me to realizin' that I have not seen my vag, like up close and personal, since I was like eleven. Saw it then, didn't care for it. Seen them in some questionable movies and really didn't care for them. But not seeing her since middle school is unacceptable, so I figured it was past due time to take a peak.
Let me just say that my relationship with my vag is very professional. I have named her Julia, a very old school, 1940s secretarial name. I wash her daily, check and make sure that everything is in order, and keep it moving. I am not one of these new generation girls that have gone vagtastic and takes pics of herself to post online! From what I can tell from my Google research, they all look sad. Then there are those weirdos that pierce their love below which, in my opinion, is about as useful as an ugly girl putting on lip gloss.
So the other night I found myself on a date with my digital camera, taking a few quick pics of Julia and in short, she needs work. She is just...blah. NO ONE will be seeing her if I have anything to do with it. She looked just as...off as the ones in the Google pics. Julia could definitely use a booster. Anyone have any spare lip gloss?

Nuptial Nonscense

I thought I was through with Kim from the Real Housewives of Atlanta, walking around with a wine glass in one hand and a cig in the other, bragging in front of her children about how she is dating a "legally married" man. I have even been beyond through with Lil' Kim, who, 'til this day, walks around talking about how much she was in love with her abuser, the infamous Biggy, and how he was going to commit to her...as if he was not married with children. I don't care if he did only know Faith for a second before he proposed. A ring outweighs a fling.
So being done 2x over, I did not think it was possible to be any...done-r, that is, until I heard about this drama with Alicia Keys, her not-so-divorced beau Swiss Beatz, and his not-so-ex wife Mashonda. Apparently, Keys has been talkin' to Swiss since before the divorce came into play and Mashonda, wanting to save her marriage ( and most likely a couple of Gs) tried to reach out to Keys and nip it in the bud before her marriage completely went south. Keys did not respond, but recently wrote a Tweet about love, which, coincidently, got Mashonda's attention.
According to my fellow bloggers, the Keys Tweet wrote: "Having a heated debate in the studio. [In] love is it better to [go] for the choice that is 'SMART,' or the choice that has 'SPARK?' "
This no doubt got 'Shonda's (I'm sure her close friends called her that in middle school, Shonda) coals 'a burnin'. She decided to respond to Keys in an open letter in which she stated, "My concern with AK is no longer the fact that she assisted in destroying a family but that she has the audacity to make these selfish comments about love and wanting to be with someone, even after knowing their situation. How is this the same Superwoman that I sang out loud with in my truck?"
Of course, Shonda had a lot more to say, but I have to agree with this particular passage. I, as a Keys fan who has no say in her personal affairs, am saddened by all of this. As asked best by Shonda, how is this the same Keys that writes toe-tappers about female empowerment? She is not like the two Kims mentioned earlier. She has class. This is just baffling.
Now I bet some of you all just want to charge this to the love game, but I must plead that you not even try it. I am not from the school of "The heart wants what the heart wants" because, for lack of a better word, it is bullshit. There is a rhyme and a reason and an order to the world, especially when it comes to sensitive topics such as adultery and dating married men. With this in mind, I am more from the school of "What someone will do with you, they will do to you." I am in no way wishing a broken heart on Keys, but I can tell from 'Diary' alone that she is well aware of this.
It is yet to be seen what will happen with Swiss and Keys, or SwissKeys if you will, because no one is talking from their camps. Probably because it is what it looks like, and there is nothing to say. In that case, keep your lips sealed. All I have to say is that I know love and its allure is strong, but building a respectable name and reputation for yourself takes years and can be diminished in a split second. Because of this and my moral beliefs, there is no way I can get caught up in someone else's nuptial nonsense.

Lost in Atlanta

I just wanted to ask a question: what I am doing with my life?
I wanted to ask you all, because I clearly don't know.
What I do know is that at one point I had goals for myself; strong, serious goals for myself. But these goals were too high. You know, the TV-created, pretty goals that are created in the safety and security of collegiate settings? So once I graduated and my bubble was ever so politely busted, I created more suitable, doable goals that would eventually get me where I want to be, but they have slowly but surely become plaque in my memory banks. The real world has bitch slapped me folks, and left me standing in the middle of downtown in an easy fitting yet stylish ensemble, with my hands in the air!
Blame it on the economy. Blame it on the confidence I have within myself. Hell, you can even blame it on the alcohol. But at three months shy of my 25th birthday, I feel totally and utterly defeated. De-feat-ed!
Man, just writing that took a lot out of me. I'm going to bed.

The High School Rule

Lately, I have been getting a lot of friend requests from people on Facebook who I went to high school with. I almost always accept these requests even though high school is a time that I have tried my hardest to forget. To put it nicely, I was a social recluse with little to no friends that spent her spare time writing and playing the bass in the orchestra.
Yet even though I try to forget this time, I find myself going back there mentally, especially to the bad places, the more successful I get. And I find that those four years have played a bigger part into who I am than I would care to admit.
So recently I was telling my friend Chloe that I am trying to get over the stresses of high school because I find that just reminiscing about those dark days makes me angry. I shared with her that a way that I planned on doing is this is by forgiving some of the people who made this time particularly miserable, and she goes, "What does it matter? It's not like anything you do in high school matters."
This was shocking for me to hear, seeing that every insult, every rude remark, every joke cracked, and every finger pointed mattered to me.
I don't know. Just thought that was interesting.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Summer is officially over.
For the past few weeks, I have found myself going through my closet, trying to figure out what gets packed away for next year and what gets to stay hanging. It is too cold for my studded jean capris and entirely too hot for long-sleeved shirts. In the end, everything ends up where it was. I can't let things go. Never could.
I have never been one that lived by that slogan "out with the old, in with the new." It's insulting to me- that you would chuck something old for something new. But its that weird Limbo at the beginning of season changes where people are getting rid of their old things. Sadly, friendships are the first to go.
Let me first say that a confirmed friend has to do something really, really bad to not be on my friend list like murder or drinking off my cup or just something unforgivable. So imagine my shock and dismay when I heard that two of my girls are no longer girls anymore over what is probably some dumb shizzle. Yes, I am experiencing a friend break-up.
Friend break-ups are the worst. They are worst than boy break-ups because boys will dump you and bounce. In a friend break-up, the whole clique is affected. No more group plans because friends aren't talking. Oh, they say it won't be any different, they just won't talk to each other, but how lame is that going to be? In a worst-case scenario, some friends take sides. It's a nightmare!
I can't wrap my mind around it. My friends are special to me. I can't just dispose of them without attempting to work it out. But seasons change, and this whole "out with the old, in with the new" thing comes into play. I don't plan on letting go of any of my close homies, but perhaps I can find a short-sleeved shirt to pack away. Baby steps.

The Power of Love

Like many a couch potato in the U.S. of A, I spent my Monday and Tuesday watching, you guessed it, the two-part Whitney Houston interview on Oprah. It was very refreshing to see a beautiful, aged Whitney; not the sweaty, belligerent Whitney we were all forced to get used to.

Well, as expected, she spoke on her drug use. I don't think there is a way that she can talk about her career without touching on it. She spoke about how she and Bobby would smoke weed laced with cocaine and just have a ball...until it wasn't a ball anymore and the violence, arguments, and cheating started.

One thing she said was that she had dabbled in drugs before Bobby, but smoking the coke joints was their thing; something they did together for quality time, even though it was essentially ruining their lives and careers. And even though things got really, really bad, she wanted to stay with him because she loved him and she took her vows seriously. She even quoted some Bible verses on marriage. The Bible and coke joints. Beautiful.

I guess what got to me the most about the interview is how she narrated how her life was going downhill prior to her getting clean, Bobby being a large part of the problem, yet she loved him so much she could not leave. I heard that a lot growing up. "Oh, he treats me like shit but I love him so much I can't leave." However, this is more shocking coming from a financially independent megastar like Whitney.

Maybe it is because I am green to men, but what is it about love and wanting love that will have you lose touch of what is good for yourself and allow you to follow a man straight into the ninth ring of hell? I can't rap my mind around it. Whitney Houston was, arguably, one of the world's best singers, up there with the Michael Jacksons and the Madonnas, and she tossed that all away to freebase dope with some broke nigga that had nothing to lose.What is it about love that makes a woman lose her ability to think for herself?

What is sadder than this dependent situation is leaving the man, and then going back to him for the same bull. Again, this is something I saw a lot of when I was growing up. "Oh, he has changed girl. He misses me!" Then the woman returns to business as usual. Let's just pray that Whitney does not return to Bobby, even though he was not all the problem as some are painting him to be. Perhaps, without him, she can get back to knowing herself. Plus, in the event that she reverts back to old habits, everyone knows that dipping your weed filled black and mild and dipping it in melted cocaine is a sport best done a lone.

Church Chillin'

I do believe that I mentioned my new gym friend Mony that invited me to her church. Well, after two weeks of having a heavy schedule, I was able to finally join her and her husband at the Saturday night service.
On the way to the church, I got to know Mony a bit better. She came to this country from Cambodia when she was ten and used to work for a coupon magazine until it went bust. She and her husband have been married seven years, and she just loovveess the Lord! She and her husband are just adorable. They put me in mind of those couples that are already in your picture frame when you buy it.
But back to the church. It is a relatively young church and so is the congregation. There was actually a coffee house inside with smoothies and lattes and the whole nine. The inside of the church looked like a theater, and there were two huge flat screens that played professionally made church announcement commercials. The stage had a playhouse quality backdrop created for the church's own Christian rock band.
I have to admit, I felt a wee bit out of my element. I have not listened to Christian rock since Creed broke up! The members were mostly White married couples in their mid-20s to early 30s. They all looked like what I imagined Hanson's fans to look like as adults. There was a theatrics performance and professional ballerinas and a minister that used words like 'dude' and 'bro.'
The message was about Peter being a mess up, and I actually understood it. I have to say that I liked the service. All this time, I was looking for a small Baptist church like the one I attended while in college, but I feel that I may have found a sweet church home in this huge church. I will keep you posted.

Diane and the Plan

I met this adorable woman named Diane at the gym. She is an older White woman in her early 50s that, much like me, lives in the pool and stays away from the actual workout machines. In a nutshell, she rubs me as one of those women that has never said an unkind word about anyone...that wasn't true at least; the kind of woman who recycles and donates old clothes and pays fundraising high schoolers to wash her car.
The other day we happened to be in the pool together for about two hours, and we got to talking about her life. She has been divorced almost as long as I have been alive from a man that was not quite as nice as she is. Everyone including his family was sad about seeing them get divorced, seeing that she's awesome and they are Catholic and he was an asshole. She said that when they divorced he told her she would never find anyone else, and as of now, she hasn't.
She was telling me that she has gone on E-Harmony and Catholic Singles and found that most of the men were either nuts or sex-crazed. She even met a guy at the gym who turned out to be a stalker, and another one that seemed cool, but dropped off the face of the planet. She found that the men she was attracted to most, the gentlemen, always ended up being gay.
"Maybe I am just too old-fashioned to date," she sighed as we walked back in forth in the pool with our foam weights. She told me that she had only been with one man sexually her whole life, her ex-husband, and that she found herself confused by the sex-crazed mentality of today's dating scene, even in her age group. She is just into the little things: dinner dates, water aerobics, and taking care of her pet dogs and birds.
Something about Diane reminded me of myself. What do you do when you are too conservative for today's relationships? How do you actively date while maintaining your dignity? You don't want to be alone, so do you do as the other daters do and ditch the dignity for companionship? I blog about this all the time at 24. It saddened me that this is a situation that middle-aged women are even facing. I guess a part of me was hoping it was an issue that would solve itself with age. APPARENTLY NOT!
But unlike myself, Diane has a plan. She said that she is simply going to continue playing with her dogs and water-walking; she is going to continue to work on getting healthy. Then hopefully someone worth a damn will fall into her lap when the time is right. Reflecting on the guys that have hurt me in the past and the losers that I rounded up online, I guess that is all you can do.

The Sorta Situation

So right after I post my Craigslist ad who calls me? You guessed it! Sorta Beau.
Apparently, I wasn't dumped. He has been working overtime to build up his finances for the baby. Yes, the baby. How could I have forgotten about that adorable...sweet...blessing of a baby?
After talking to him for about an hour I could not believe that I had thought about talking to someone else. He's nice and he's sweet and he gets my off, at times morbid, humor, and I am comfortable with him. He is the worn, ran over Nike to my tattered gym sock.
So what is the problem?
The problem is what it always has been: he does not live here and is hesitant about doing a long distance thing. Plus, there is that whole baby mama black cloud that will not pass over. Realistically, it will never pass over, and I have to deal with that if I want this to work, especially since he has decided to be in the child's life ( like I would date a man who ditched his kid).
At first, I did not think that I would have anything against having a long distance thing, but I see that I must, because I did not hear from him for a week and was already searching for a new beau. It scares me to realize that I am that needy; that I am like every other woman in this way.
Yet still, I think that the real beef and potatoes of the situation is that I STILL do not have a title! We have been talking since February! I know that I am new to this whole dating scene, but is that not a long time to be just talking? I would feel more comfortable with him being so far away if I were his girlfriend, even though he has told me that he is not talking to anyone else. I feel that if I was his girlfriend instead of his friend or beau or whatever the hell I am in this garbage dump of a situation, he would have to be obligated to me; he would have to make efforts to come see me and call me more and stuff.
Now I know that this is fantasy language. I believe it is the great philosopher Lil Kim who has consistently reminded us that a man will do what he wants, no matter what you are to him. But I don't want to just be somebody's something, and that is what I feel like now. I mean, where is the growth?
Although the whole Craigslist situation has shown me that my affections lie with him, I feel like I can not stay on a ship that does not move. Should I tell him that if I do not get the big G name, I have to bounce? Just writing that makes me nervous, because I have seen women do that and it never works out in their favor. Plus, I don't really want to stop talking to him, but I do want more.
I never wanted to be anyone's second fiddle, but clearly I will be once his child is born. Plus, he is working three jobs to prepare. Would it not be bitchy of me to throw out the ultimatum when he has so much on his plate, or should I just stick by the wounded woman theory and keep my interest at heart first and foremost?
How confusing. I guess for now I just have to be content with the I miss you texts and late night phone calls.

Holly and the List

So yesterday, as I sat in my room looking at the wall while my friends were snuggled up with their beaus or studying or whatever, I made a decision that I was tired of being lonely. It's not my scene. Now I am always talking about finding a man, but I never do anything about it. Yesterday, while looking into the eyes of my Alicia Keys poster, I decided to be proactive. She did snag Swiss Beats after all.
First, a little background. Sorta Beau has not called me in about a week, and I don't think you have to be Madame Cleo to know what that means; you've been jilted. Dumped. Trashed. Tossed. I'm not sure if I am sad because I miss him or because I did not jilt him first! So for about a week, I have been beside myself with loneliness. So I decided to go by my own self-created motto: When in Lonelyland do as the lonely do! And what do they do? They go on Craigslist Personals.
Yes, Craigslist Personals. The meet-up Mecca for lonely, pathetic, DESPERATE, tired, sad, sex-obsessed people who aren't horny enough for Adult Friend Finder or rich or mature enough for EHarmony, but demand all the comforts of Myspace out of their poor quality dating community.For the past couple of days while surfing for job offers that weren't scams on the Craig, I found myself sneaking over to the personals column. I had to have read them all. Women for men. Men for Women. Women for Women. Men for Men. And for the most part, they were all broken up into four parts: single people looking for sex, married people looking for outside sex, serious people looking for a relationship, and that select few who just posted posts making fun of those people who had resorted to using the service.
One ad got to me though. It made me cry. I felt this man's loneliness radiating off my computer screen. He posted about four pictures of his penis with his ad (which was impressive) and said that there was no other way to get women to answer his ad because he wasn't cute, but he had needs and wanted a friend. He had apparently been kicked off the site before for similar stunts. The day I resort to posting Julia (my jay-jay) online for love, I hope that one of you out there in cyberland would have the courtesy to kill me!
Now, I did have my reservations about this. The Craigslist Killer, hello! So I FB chatted with my girl Fran and she gave me the green light. I only need one co-signer for my outrageous impulses. My girl Dizzle was not so supportive. In short, she said I would be raped and murdered, and in short, I did not heed her advice because she has had beaus. No one lives with my solitude but me. Plus, you gotta take chances, right?
So I called Brownie to help me write it, and we came up with a short, three-line paragraph describing what I want: Black Man, no drugs, no babies. And low and behold, I got some responses! But that is for the next post. Don't want this one to be too long.

Men Just Wanna Have Fun

So Monday night, after posting my ad, I got about 15 responses. This was shocking to me, because I did not include a picture with my post or say anything sexual. After I immediately weened out the weirdos and the companies offering me products, I was left with maybe a handful of guys that did not scare me. I have nicknamed them Clay Figures. For you and only you, I have outlined my favorites.
Demetrius- 29: He just moved to Atlanta from Chicago to take care of sick relatives. Loves poetry, which is a plus, but is only looking for "friendship." Sadly, we can not meet up because his car broke down and he is unemployed.
Giovanni-?: Very sweet and to the point brotha. Got my pic, said he was interested and forwarded me his number. Kinda cute, but from his pic, I got the feeling that contrary to the requirements of my ad, he does use and sell drugs and most likely has kids. He may be cool, but if he does not know who Nikki Giovanni is, I am going to have to let him go.
Adeola4523-? This brotha sent me a picture of him in front of the mirror, fresh out of the shower, with a fitted cap and a towel on. Clearly, he has the most amazing abs I have ever seen! But he bears a striking resemblance to Soulja Boy. I advised him never to email me again after his second message which simply read, "Wanna fuck?"
Deshaud-27: He is my favorite. I like him. College educated, employed, no kids. He seems like he may be the most normal right now. From his response, I see he has a way with words. However, I may have weirded him out a bit by acting too eager and asking him out on a date. Let you know where that leads.
Warren-34: I like him even though he is ten years older than me. He told me upfront he is OK with the BG thing, and that is always appreciated. He works for a cable company and likes sports, reading, and traveling, but he looks a lot like Pimp C and from what I can see in his pic, he is actually sitting with his legs crossed in a pimp chair!
S FF-?: Asshole. This guy looks at my pic and says that he is not interested, which is fine. I just don't know how he thought that BBF stood for Single Thin Indian Girl and not Big Black Female.Well, these are the gems that answered my ad; the Clay Figures. I will be sure to keep you abreast of the developments, but if you do not hear from me in a week, clearly one of them has killed me.

Taking a "Break"

Picture it: Thursday night in Downtown Atlanta. A very chic young reporter and her adorable BG buddy Chrissy were at an invite-only event at one of the city's newest, hottest salons for the revealing of a fashion line. Ahh, the first 20 minutes was a blast. We had Vodka cocktails and fancy chicken on a stick. It was lovely.
Well, one of the perks of the evening was free services, such as manicures and massages. If you did not know, I am a sucker for a message, so Chrissy and I sashayed over to the message area for some complimentary back rubs. Here is where the story goes South.
I looked down at the massage chair, which did not look like it could support a woman of my...my...magnitude. So I politely asked the masseuse if the chair was fat people friendly. What does that mean? For my weight-impaired friends, it means is the chair sturdy? Will it support me? And the masseuse said and I quote, "Of course! It is people friendly."
So I cop a squat on the chair and it felt study. So the masseuse begins to press down on my back...hard. He said I was tense, which was no surprise, and as I close my eyes to enjoy the message, the chair broke! It simply snapped beneath my weight. Broke. I felt bad because the free messages was a big part of the event, and I was only the second person he'd done. The night was still young!
With the speed of light, I apologized, grabbed Chrissy, tossed my empty cocktail cup, grabbed my gift bag, and bounced. And can I say that Chrissy was the perfect getaway driver? I jumped in the backseat and she hit the interstate with no questions asked.
So why did I leave? Well, as you can imagine, I was embarrassed. I just really wanted to go before word spread around the shindig that I was the one that broke the chair, and since no one had seen it happen, I couldn't think of a better time to leave. Might I add that being fat embarrassed is NOT my style, but the crowd was very to-do like. Those gay designers in leotards would have been relentless!
We were halfway to my house when Chrissy suggested I look in my bag and see if I had all my stuff. I am NOTORIOUS for leaving things, particularly my phone. So I check my bag and notice that I am missing my tape recorder. Not only did I have three interviews on it that I needed, but it also hat my name and job title recorded on it.
Hearing this, Chrissy busted a U-turn at Six Flags and we were headed back to Downtown. By the time we returned the venue was packed, so I was able to slip in and slip out, unnoticed. However, I had butterflies the whole time. I just knew that my face read, "I am the fat bitch that broke the chair! Point and laugh at me!"
Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened. In the 7th grade, I broke my stool in the orchestra. Sophomore year of college I went to church and sat in a pew, breaking it instantly. The summer before that, I went to my friend Chloe's house and broke one of her dinette chairs. However, I was not sad about that. She got it from Ikea, and we all know that their stuff is not sturdy. Now this.
What did I learn from this situation? Well, I learned that I can not ask if something is fat people friendly. I thought that this guy may have been on my wavelength, seeing that he wasn't small, but no. As a professional fatty, I have to look at the situation and assess the fat people friendliness of the situation myself.
I have heard many weightloss confessionals where fat folks have said that breaking a chair or something had them running to the gym. But since I am already there, there was only one place for Chrissy and I to go to end our evening. You guessed it, Krispy Kreme! There is no better way to end a FATastic night that with three hot original glazed.

Man-O-Man

If you have not seen South African runner Caster Semenya you should google her. She is a real looker.
Her backstory? She is the athlete that has been kicking ass and taking names in track and field so some haters went and called the International Association of Athletics Federation (IAAF) and told them that they think that Semenya is a man! So the IAAF is demanding that she take a "gender verification test."
What upsets me the most about this situation is the way that I have heard the news reporting on this. Instead of reporting on how...um...sexist and disgusting this is, even if the chick does look like a dude, they are belittling and insulting her! A loser on one channel was like, "Of course she is a man. She doesn't have breasts!" My jaw dropped! Many athletes, including gymnasts and swimmers do not have breasts. Hell, many average everyday women do not have breasts. Then they went on to discuss how Semenya has a hard face; that she is not attractive. I personally was not aware that if you were not a pretty woman than you were not a woman at all. The only thing that is not being taken into account when figuring out Semenya's sex is that she does is fact have A VAGINA! Isn't that all we need to know?
The insults have gotten so terrible that Semenya's father had to come forth and be like yes everybody, I was there when she was born and she is a girl! How insulting.
I did not want to go here people but I am going to pull a Ne-Ne Leaks and "Keep It Real." It rubs me the wrong way to watch White news figures dedicating time on their shows to talk about how ugly this Black 18-year-old is. Not cool. I also think the ploys that are being used to discredit Black athletes from imprisonment from shooting yourself to accusations of being a man are said. Furthermore, I don't like how male reporters are accrediting physical characteristics besides having a vagina to what makes a girl a girl. When we put these power in the hands of men and science, all women are in trouble. Hell, if half of these same men saw their wives' legs without being waxed, they would be labeled men too.
There are those that are saying that physically Semenya is a woman but hormonally she may be a man. Maybe, maybe not. I guess what bugs me the most about all of this is how they are treating this kid like a science project. If I were her, no matter if the test results said I was a woman or a man, I would sue for pin-pointing me and putting my business in the streets.
The only good thing that could come out of any of this is getting our eyes opened. It is not the old days anymore. Folks are taking hormones and getting surgeries that makes are definitions of gender gray instead of black and white. Whatever Semenya's outcome, re-defining/ addressing gender is something that is going to have to be dealt with on a legal and social level.
As for Semenya, I hope that she doesn't let the bad press get her down. All she needs to do is keep working hard, and take the negativity like a man...I mean, woman...I think.

Introducing B Cubed

So "Jail House Rock," a.k.a. "Margarita Man" had to exit stage left when I found out that he was married with kids. He's still fine, but a girl has got to have principals. Now, on to the next crush. I have named him B Cubed, for, you guessed it, Best Buy Boy!
Although he goes to my gym, I saw him for the first time when I went to Best Buy to buy my new Maxwell album hot off the press. He's tall and dark with a friendly, yet expressionless face. He doesn't strike me as a smiler or a talker, but his hair has a lot of character. He is one of those cats that gets designs cut into his head like boys used to do when I was in kindergarten. When I saw him the first time I was like, "Hey, that guy is fine."
Then I saw him again after the Great August Cell Phone Crisis. My little crap-crap Go Phone completely went south on me, so I had to break down and buy a phone worth something, and there he was, standing around at work, and I was like, "Hey, it's that fine guy."
So Wednesday I was pleasantly surprised when he held the door open for me at the gym. It's a small world...or just a small town.
I was watching him work out that day. He has man pudge. I am a fan or man pudge. You know, when a guy is the guy version of thick? He isn't built, but he isn't fat. He's solid, but not really. For some reason, I feel like you will understand this confusing description.
Anywho, he works out in normal clothes, not those weird garbage bag suits or cutoffs like the other ultra-buff dudes, which, is a big plus. He looks like he may be my age or two years older, and he has these tattoos on his shoulders. They are huge! I can tell that from the outlines. They are the type you have to step up on a guy to read because he is too dark. Yes, the best type of tats. Sidebar: I did not know I was into tats, but I have to say, I'm embracing them.
My spider senses are telling me that this guy most likely would not be interested in me. But as I have shared, I need crushes to survive. Plus, I am working on coming out of my dating shell and approaching men I like, even if I feel the guy may say no. I need to build up my tolerance for rejection.
OK, I will keep you posted. Hopefully he won't be married.

Sundays with Mony

I few posts back I mentioned a woman who came and prayed over me while I was on the treadmill. After having a few other encounters with her, I found that her name is Mony. She is a very adorable very fit little Asian woman, probably in her early 30s, that has a Southern accent. Something about Asian people with Southern accents tickles me.
Well, yesterday, during my tread from Hell, she came over to give me some encouraging words. Usually, I hate it when people cheer me on as I work out, but I did need the push. Ten minutes into my work out I wanted to cry and throw the treadmill up against the mirror in front of the machine, the lovely three-way mirror that documents the sweat, sadness, and strain on your face.
So Mony and I spark up a convo, and she invites me to her church on Sunday. Usually, I would decline a church invite, but Mony seems really nice so I accepted, even though my Aunty warned me that they are rumored to speak tongues at her church.
The last time I went to someone's church on an invite, the church ended up being creepy. It was one of those churches that you can tell used to be a car wash or something, and the members did weird chants that I was NOT familiar with. Truth be told, I have not had a stable church home since I lived in New Orleans. Many of my friends didn't like the church I attended there, primarily since the preacher didn't really...preach. I didn't care though. The people were nice. I liked to see everyone's outfits, and there was music. Don't forget the music!
Plus, I find that just going there every Sunday did something for my spirit. I was happier when I went to church. I did not feel as alone, whether I was really taking anything away from the services or not. Now, living at home and always being broke and annoyed has REALLY worn on my spirit. It is past due time to head back to church.
I will let you know how it goes. Hopefully, this church is normal. I don't know if I can be a member of a church where they make human sacrifices or use snakes or ask you for your W2s before you join. You never know these days in the A.

Holly and the Margarita Man

So yesterday I went to the gym and actually worked out and may I tell you that I got my ass kicked on that treadmill? To punish myself, I walked at a higher speed than I usually do and on an incline. That will teach me to slack! As my friend Dizle would say, I've got to get back to the money.
So while I am sweating and looking my grossest, who walks over to my machine but Jail House Rock, the nickname I have affectionately given the super-tatted, super-muscular possible ex-con that I had developed a crush on at the gym.
As usual, we started our conversation on the topic of Yoga. This was fine, because as I spoke about cobras and downward dogs, I was building up to my big break. Long ago, I had decided to ask him out for Margaritas at my favorite watering hole and after talking to my buddy Brownie, I got the push I needed to ask him. I mean true enough, Brownie would talk me off a ledge if he thought there would be a mildly humorous outcome, but what are you gonna do? I needed someone to co-sign on this ridiculous idea.
Before I could even wet my lips to ask him he goes, "I don't know if my wife would even want me going to a Yoga class so early."
Once he said wife I just wanted him to go away. But he didn't of course. He went on to talk about his four kids, one being 21! I was thinking damn, how old are you brotha? And when did you have time to create all these kiddies and tie the knot while serving time?
Of course, he has never told me he went to jail. I just assumed he had, with the tats and the teardrops tattoed under his right eye. I don't know what disappointed me more: his having a family or he possibly not being the thug that I had painted him to be in my mind. I do this all the time with my wild imagination, create what people might be like based on their appearance. This idea is usually fantastical. Then, when I get to know them and they are not what I had dreamed them up to be, I am disappointed.
So long story short, another crush bites the dust. I'm not too sad though. I didn't really have the cash to splurge on Margaritas.

Under Control

I was just watching TV and saw one of those law firm ads alerting the public that if they were a female that ever took Yaz or Yazmine that they were in danger of more side effects than they were aware of. I can not remember all of them, but the one that stuck in my mind was sudden death. Funny, in this commercial, there were no women doing synchronized swim routines in the pool or kicking an animated red ball down the streets of New York in the rain. Interesting.
My personal views on birth control have been the same since I was like thirteen. NO THANK YOU! I just don't understand, besides menstrual regulation ( and I have never bought that explanation by the way. I personally believe it's just a plot by pharmaceutical companies to get teen girls on the pill) why I would have to take a pill with side effects like blood clots and kidney failure when a guy could just wear a condom, or when I could just not have sex. I don't know. The whole idea has always been fishy to me.
Plus, I have seen birth control at its worst. When I was younger, my Aunt Alice had this friend who kept having babies. Prior to her getting on the Depo shot, I could not recall a time from kindergarten to fifth grade when she was not pregnant. She had to be about my age now. Well, two months or so after taking the shot she got so big that she had to walk around her own thighs! I have a mental picture of her just sitting on my aunt's couch with a baby in her lap sweating. She didn't have to worry about pregnancy after that because I am pretty sure she was no longer having sex. I mean, she had to stop to take breaths walking to the kitchen to get her formula bottles out of the refrigerator.
Rings in your vagina. Little tabs with a string that stay in for five years. Pills that stop your period. Cups in your jay-jay.Then they get you by focusing on how some of these pills or products can make your nails grow and your skin pretty. I know that I do not have sex, but is the thrill of it so awesome that you are willing to put yourself in danger of terminal illness? I am overweight and Black. I am at risk for enough without adding to the Pu-Pu platter of illnesses that could take my young life voluntarily.
At the end of the day, it is every woman's choice on how they want to shield themselves from unwanted pregnancy. I choose to take my grandma's advice and keep my ankles crossed.

Taming the Beast

I am going to be honest with you and say that I have pretty much fallen off of my workout regimen. It was like I was afraid of my progress. Every time I stayed on the treadmill a minute longer or lifted a pound of extra weight on the arm curl I would reward myself by going to the pool...until all I was doing was going to the pool. What is the consequence of this? Well, besides feeling like crap and being disappointed with myself and having to get totally reacquainted with the equipment, I now have to see results in women who started working out at the same time as me that are now like 50lbs lighter. I hate not sticking to things.
So yesterday, I went to the gym and decided to workout for real for the first time in like two weeks. But I went there with one goal in mind: to do at least fifteen minutes on "the beast."
"The Beast" is the nickname that this beefed up lady that I met in the gym has nicknamed the Stair Master. She competes in fitness competitions and can stay on that thing for hours at a times at high speed, burning over 1,000 lbs. She filled my head with stories of being able to lose major weight in like two months if I got on the Stair Master instead of the treadmill. So I tried it once and fell off. Literally, I hit the floor from the top step. Luckily, my head landed on a stray yoga ball, or I probably would have cried.
Yesterday, I marched into the gym ready to get on "The Beast." This time, I was determined not to fall because there would have been a huge audience. So I asked one of the trainers, Ms. Bernice, to help me. No exaggeration: I was on the machine for a minute and forty-two seconds before I was pleading to get off. And in that minute, which was the hardest minute of my life, I burned 41 calories. I burn that in fifteen minutes on the treadmill! Clearly, taming the beast is the key to my workout...if I stick with it.
Why am I not at the gym right now? No good reason. I am sitting at home, eating Peanut Butter Cup Keebler Chips Deluxe Cookies, buy one get one free, with some cranberry juice. I felt so crappy about my crappy workout, I fell into bad, old habits. No worries. I will go tomorrow. Promise.