The Thirst Hole

Hello, I'm TheBGInTheCity, and I am writing you from my 6th consecutive day of thirst. That's right, I'm thirsty.
Oh, the thirst of it all! Last Thursday night, I was alone and lonely surfing Instagram, when I innocently fell into what has become a Thirst Hole. While liking pictures of interiors and Christmas cookies, I came across a picture of a good looking man. I clicked on it, then went through his page and looked at all his pictures. I should have stopped there. The thirst didn't completely set in until I looked at some of his videos. The moment he started gyrating to a Jacquees song, my thirst switch flicked on, and I have not been able to turn it off since! Every day gets a little worse. The other night I actually stayed up until midnight to watch his Instagram Live, where other thirsty, sad women like myself watched a 27-year-old topless male stripper roll a blunt and play with his dreadlocks.
For those of you that have never been in a thirst hole, allow me to give you the honest, non-exaggerated symptoms: increased libido, lack of sleep, vivid dreams.
I have taken small solace in not being one of the thirstbots that actually comments during the videos. You know, with water splash and heart-eyed emojis? These ladies are relentless. Some of them are hella out of order, asking for penis pics and kisses. Some even send him DMs of their vaginas. I know this because he thanks the ladies for the pics before he ends every video.
Guys, this guy is such a hunk. He is young, he has a sexy accent, he has muscles, he is tall, and he is LOADED with tattoos. And no, this is not the guy that I usually would go for, at all. But he has a certain something. He always seems so happy, grinding on the chairs around his house. Which is a pick-me-up for me, seeing that I always get sad during the holidays.
All and all, I think we all knew that I would end up here. Hopefully, I will get out of my hole soon and re-enter the real world where a have a chance, although slim, of finding a real man.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotifyless Mind

Poverty has taken a lot from me over the past three years. My apartment. My independence. My ability to maintain an above negative balance in my checking account. But at the beginning of the month, poverty took something from me that I need to survive; that is the very power source of my existence. Poverty has finally taken away my Spotify Premium. It has happened people! I can no longer afford the $10 a month.
Last night, I had no other choice but to go to Youtube for my musical needs. It was horrible. I haven't gone on Youtube to listen to music since I was like 25. All my playlists are outdated and come with like a million commercials. The blast from the past of it all was too much. While listening to some early ASAP Rocky, I thought that I could actually hear my old roommate having sex in the next room over.
2019 has to bring me wealth and wealth and more wealth, because there is now officially nothing else my poverty can take from me, unless I finally get the medical okay to cell my organs and eggs. Come New Year's, I will be praying, eating greens, dancing on the arm of the freeway with an empty tin can for tips- anything I need to do to make some money. Because Mama draws a line at trying to live her life without the aid of a commercial-free soundtrack. It really is too much!

Impressing the Impressive

As you know, I mentor teen girls. Last Saturday, after the mentor meeting, one of my favorite girls, Kyra, told me that she wants to take out her braids but is scared to because she knows that boys like girls with long hair and her real hair is short.
"What does it matter what boys like? What do you like?" I asked my 15-year-old friend.
"I want to cut all my hair off," she said, honestly. But we both knew that that wasn't going to happen. It takes a very brave teenage girl to go bald.
"Well, you should do what you want to do with your hair because you want to do it, not because you want a boy to like you," I advised, something I wish someone would have told me when I was 15 during my black lipstick and cornrows faze.
Fast forward a day to Sunday. I woke up early before my writing group to put on eyeshadow because I noticed that New Ryan talked to two women after the last meeting that had on makeup. And if New Ryan likes it, I love it!
It was only after I saw myself in the mirror putting on pink eyeshadow that I hadn't used in over a year that I realized that I was no different than Kyra, only I was sadder because she is 15 and I am less than a month away from 34. I should know better.
Do you ever outgrow wanting to impress someone you find impressive? At the rate I fall for dudes, I don't think I have enough eyeshadow to take me into the next phase of my life. I hear that after 50 you stop caring as much. By then, fingers crossed, my armpit hair will be growing out of the top of my wool turtleneck and I can finally be free to be me. Until then, eyeshadow it is. But if anyone asks, I'm not wearing it because I'm thirsty. I'm wearing it because I want to.

A Tale of Three Ryans

Okay, okay, okay. I have a crush on yet another man. His name is Ryan. I met him at a writer's group. He is cute. He is kind. He is employed. He is 40. He is out of my league like you wouldn't believe. He is very much coffee and Miles Davis while I'm Snapple Apple and Boosie Badazz.
But as you know, he is not the first Ryan. There was, of course, Sickles, the physically and emotionally unavailable boy slut who gave painful massages and had a baby with a lady when I assumed we were dating. You know what they say about assumptions...
And who can forget Ryan from college? The man I fell for that I literally tried to FORCE to love me. I mean, I offered to cook him food, and, at the advice of my sweet yet misguided friends, even attempted to press my hair and wear heels. As I am sure you have guessed, it didn't work out.
New writer's group Ryan and I vibe pretty well. He thinks I'm funny. I think he has common sense. And with every conversation, I can feel myself sliding ever so beautifully further into the friend zone. God the friend zone. I have been there so many times. Let me tell you a secret: there are no friends there.
For 2019, let's make an agreement not to fall for any more unavailable men, okay? No more men in their late 30s dedicated to their rap careers. No more men who need to borrow $20 dollars to take their main chicks on dates. No more! We will be accountability partners.
Now, I hate to end this post short, but I have to go fantasize about being married to New Ryan now.

Friendsgiving

Amanda invited me to a Friendsgiving cookoff that the single's ministry from our church was putting on. There was going to be tons of food and fun so, of course, I was excited to go. Now I know, I know. The last time the single's ministry had an event I was desperately overdressed and disappointed. But that is only because I had expected to become engaged while I was there.
I had never been to a Friendsgiving before, but this one was awesome! The house was packed with young singles eating and having a good time. There was even a high-stakes game of Jeopardy. I was surrounded by people who were enjoying being single.
Years of having watched a trillion of my friends get married, of taking myself on Valentine's Day dates, and of attending baby showers where you have to play that stupid toilet paper game had me convinced that being single was an affliction. You know, like a lazy eye or a clubbed foot. And the only cure for this affliction was to try to find someone to love you as fast as possible. It's kind of like a game. The winners get the possibility of a life of bliss with a mate and the losers, like myself, get to plan their own birthday parties and tape pictures of Idris Alba on their vision boards. While watching everyone mix and mingle it dawned on me: maybe being single isn't a terminal illness. Maybe it's just the life you live while you're waiting for love or while you are in between romances.
I have decided to adopt this way of thinking, especially as the holiday season rolls around. Nothing reminds you you're alone like wrapping Christmas gifts to yourself. But maybe next year there will be a boy toy sitting next to me, listening to me complain about the ever-increasing price of wrapping paper. Oh, to finally be in love.

Not So Smart

Can we take a minute to talk about Black, scholarly, womanist, community-minded lesbians for a sec? I got to meet some last night because my friend KT invited me to visit her at her hotel. She was in town for a women's conference. She wanted to hang out and introduce me to her colleagues; the Black, scholarly, womanist, community-minded lesbians.
These women were where Black feminity went to get its best life! I'm talking bald heads, fades, afros, colorful lipsticks, huge earrings, Black history lapel pins, and dripping confidence.
And their conversations. YIKES! They were going in on gender and their cool professor jobs and balancing children (or not having children) and career.
"Where do you teach?" the one with the big afro puff in a beautiful wrap dress asked. This is a hot button question, seeing that I am a writer with no publisher and a publicist with no clients; a grownup with allowance money and a childlike desire to run and hide.
"I'm a publicist," I answered. What the hell. I have a website.
This answer triggered some type of conversation about how people identify on the sexual spectrum and I had no idea what this woman was talking about. I could tell that I was the only one that didn't. I felt so dumb. I have always considered myself to be pretty smart and in-the-know but look at my life: I'm broke and alone. Maybe I'm not so smart.
I decided to just listen and not say anything. I couldn't risk looking like I didn't know what I was talking about. I had tried to steer the conversation towards something I was comfortable with. I really wanted to address how poorly Trina Braxton is being styled on Sister Circle. Everything they dress her in makes her look 40lbs heavier than she is.
"Who is Trina Braxton?" the one with the short, blond natural asked.
I clutched my pearls. Who was Trina Braxton? But I guess I couldn't be too upset. I didn't know what gender binary meant.
"I can't believe you tried to talk about Trina Braxton with those women," my aunt remarked during a grocery store run. "Those women are at work when that show comes on. You are the only one at home watching that trash."
Ouch.
Isn't it funny how your insecurities just pop up and say hello at the oddest times? I am insecure about the fact that I don't have an advanced degree and had almost forgotten this fact until I had dinner with college professors and saw the difference between them and myself. It's actually something I would like to explore further but I can't. Wendy Williams is coming on.

Hershey's Kiss of Death

I got the most inspirational call the other night from one of my oldest friends, Julia. I mean oldest literally. She is in her late-60s.
She called me to update me on a mild romantic saga she had been engaged in the last time we spoke. She is a little in love with an international playboy that she met through her job. During their last meeting, he told her how much he enjoyed American candy, particularly Hershey's Kisses. She then did something that I know for sure that none of my 30-something friends would have had the guts to do: she sent a box of $300 worth of chocolate kisses to Africa!
"What?" I asked. I had been lying down and sat straight up. Talk about a bold move! Not only was she opening the door for him to think she was nuts, but the shipping from Atlanta to Ethiopia had to have been steep!
Once he received the box, he wrote her a handwritten, heartfelt letter about how he loved the candy and thought it was the nicest jester.
This story was amazing to me. Out of all of the relationship rules, I would have thought that sending a man an unsolicited box of candy overseas would be the Hershey Kiss of death! It's such an honest, heart-on-your-sleeve move.
I don't have that much dating experience, but from what I have seen and experienced, honesty has always been treated like the enemy of love. You can't tell a guy you love him first. That is the cardinal rule. You have to look unbothered when you see your ex with his new girl, even when you want to cry.
However, I was feeling inspired by Julia and her huge set of lady balls. It made me want to slide into the DM of my Sigma crush. Let's call him Blue Wave.
A couple of years ago I wrote him a poem. I read it to Gia Tortilla and she told me this exactly, "Don't ever send this to him. Ever. When you feel like you want to, send it to me and I will respond like I am him."
But if Julia has taught us anything, it's that honesty could, in fact, be the best policy. Late one night, I sat in the dark and began to type a line of the poem:

Asked the vixen of her prey:

Where do you want me to 

touch you?

Said the prey to the vixen:

touch me where you touch yourself. 

I could hear Gia Tortilla screaming in my ear, so I erased the message immediately. I am not nearly as brave as Julia. Plus, I wasn't sure how Blue Wave would feel about my little poem. It's way too honest. 

No Room for Love

Tuesday night was one of those nights that just felt sexy in Atlanta. I looked super cute in a black dress and peach jacket and sat with my girls Keleche and Kaye at a chic downtown hotspot enjoying soul food and live music. But at the skeleton of the scene, which included laughs and cocktails, was the usual story: three single Black women trying to figure out why they are single.

"My guy friends have told me that I can't get a man because I go out too much," Kaye explained. Wow. In college, it seemed like guys liked girls who liked to go out. Now, having a social life is a minus?
"What are we supposed to do, sit here?" I demanded. At that moment, a 40-something-year-old single woman got up to dance to the music...alone.
Apparently, that is exactly what single women are expected to do: sit pretty and look available. Kaye said that her male friends told her that because she is such a social butterfly, it looks as if she doesn't have time for a man in her life.
Unfortunately, this is not the first time that I have heard this. My friend Amanda from church told her brother-in-law that she can't wait until she gets married one day and he was shocked. According to him, her life is so full, that she seems content and not looking for a man.
So now for the new equation for love: too busy=no interested.
Of course, I discussed this with P. He didn't disagree and had more to add.
"Black women are single because they don't want men to lead in the household," he began.
I turned my ears off. Finding out that I have to be a homebody and a pushover to get a man in the span of three days was overwhelming.
I choose to believe that no matter how often a woman goes out or what she is involved in that the right man won't care. I'm choosing to believe this, I have no idea if this is the case. I guess we will know the answer if we are in our 40s, dancing alone. 

BoyMenBabies

This past weekend I put on a teen love and relationship panel for a girl's organization that I volunteer with. I invited teen boys to come and answer the girls' deep, burning questions about dating and what boys their age really think. The panel was fun! I got proof of what I had suspected as a teen: that boys are emotional messes too that just don't show it. I also confirmed something that I had been suspecting since I was about 20. Allow me to explain.
One of the questions that the girls had for the boys was about friends with benefits.
"Boys who want you to be a friend with benefits are just trying to be a player," one of the 15-year-old panelists said.
"I'd like to add to that," Ron, the sexy male chaperones the boys brought with them said. He then proceeded to say, in college words, the same thing that the boy said. It then dawned on me: men are just tall boys!
Back when I had the energy, heart, spirit, emotional steadiness and low self-esteem to date, I was always left hanging cerebrally. Then I had to check my ego. I mean, could it have been possible that I was smarter than all these guys?? I see now that I was not. I was just ahead of them. You know, just like how they say that girl toddlers learn to crawl and use the potty before boy toddlers do? I was discussing politics with men who sure, were my age, but really didn't have anything to say about anything outside of Naruto and basketball.
This was proven again recently at church. This hot, seemingly smart guy that I have met there told me how he had not heard back from a job he interviewed for. I asked if he had sent a thank you email after the interview.
"No," he said. "I would send them a thank you if I get offered the job."
"No, that's not right."
"Yeah it is." He was giving me the same pushback that my 6-month old nephew gave me a few weeks ago when trying to give him his ear infection medicine. This guy is 37!
Maybe I am late to the party on this, but I feel like, in my season of manlessness, I am getting even wiser. Stay tuned for my next love epiphany.

34

I once went to a dinner party where one of the guests stood up and showed me her vajayjay. She had been talking about how she got Brazilian waxes. This being years ago, I had never heard of a Brazilian wax. So she stood up, lifted her skirt, and showed me her bare snatch in front of everyone. That was nowhere near as awkward as the idea of spending another year of my life doing the same old same old.
How am I feeling? I feel like I want to be emersed in hot water and emerge with a life, job, money, and a man worthy of a  34-year-old woman. I have been told that fear and doubt are lifelong obstacles, but my obstacles have been hanging around for a bit too long. I have got to shake these and at least make rooms for some new ones.
And yes, I have been feeling this way for a while. You may be wondering what everyone else in my life is wondering: what will make next year different than the horrors of years passed? As tired and depressed and downtrodden that I am and have been, I have to make this year a year of action. And not because I can't wait to hit the ground running, but because I have seen what happens when you sit on your ass and cry for years and I have to tell you all, it's not pretty.
To show you how serious I am about 34, I am already getting ready for the new me, a whopping two months in advance. And this is serious. I could be using this two months to enjoy the last bit of time I can dedicate to my destitution and deep unhappiness but no, I am making moves baby! And last week, I made the biggest move yet: I bought a new journal. All the lady bosses who claim that they have it all together have all said journaling your goals and dreams is the easiest, quickest way to get your life off the ground. It's pink, sparkly, and has some type of positive saying on the front. It has good juju and I am excited to see what good luck it brings me.
But for now, I am going to watch E! TV in my nightgown and silk bonnet while drinking hot tea out of a plastic bowl...braless. I know. Awkward.

Slump

More than one of my friends has brought to my attention that they think I am in a life slump. 

"What do you do all day?" P asked me last night over the phone. "Do you just watch TV?"

"No. I also sleep and cry," I said honestly, nibbling on a mint-flavored floss stick. He asked me this after I casually tried to give him a five minute, three season round-up of Greenleaf. He seemed annoyed but didn't go any further which should have rung as a bad sign. He usually doesn't miss a beat when it comes to sticking a needle in my balloon. 

Then my aunt got mad at me this morning after I tried to connect something she was telling me to something I learned from one of my favorite shows, Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team. 

"Why are you always talking about that stupid show?!" she snapped. "You need to go out into the world, get a job, and make some friends!"

"I have friends!" I defended. True tea. 

"You need work friends. When you had work friends, you went out."

I rolled my eyes. I used to be so outgoing. Now I just want to lay down on the floor and catch up on How To Get Away With Murder. The disappointments of the past few years have been overwhelming and momentous. And yes, everyone has hard times. I am told that the cure to this is to keep pushing, but I have to say, I have pushed myself sleepy. All I want to do is take a tune out. I guess the trick is making sure that this is not what the rest of my life adds up to. However, right now, I am in no mood for tricks. I just want to binge my recorded episodes of American Horror Story. 

Stress Forgetfulness

I suffer from stress forgetfulness. I don't know if this is a real thing that doctors recognize, but I have noticed it about myself and have given it a name.
Due to my recent bout of stress and anxiety, I forgot to take down my two-strand twists for a week and a half. Not. Good. I spent all of this morning detangling my hair. I am sure that if I would have waited another day, I would have dreadlocks.
There is a very important bill that I have to pay. It was due on the 10th, and I have been walking around with the envelope and money order in my purse since before then.
The worst thing that my stress forgetfulness has caused me to do is forget to call my student loan provider to let them know, AGAIN, that I am broke and unable to make payments. But it's okay. They called Transunion who then called Credit Carma who then emailed me and let me know that, as punishment for not returning that stream of endless calls, my score has dropped. I'M PISSED! I had just gotten to Needs Work! I'm now at Needs A Life Line.
I wish I could just stand at the top of the highest mountain and yell, "HEY! I HAVE BEEN GOING THROUGH SOME TOUGH STUFF! STUFF SO HORRIFYING THAT IT HAS CAUSED ME TO LASP INTO BOUTS OF AMNESIA! CAN THE WORLD REFRAIN FROM KICKING ME UNTIL I CAN AT LEAST REMEMBER TO TRY TO GET MY LIFE NOT TO SUCK?!
Unfortunately, that is not the way of the world. I wish I could forget to cry over the state of things.

When and If

Unintentionally, I have found myself mingling with a new group of women. These women are spiritually sound, grounded, and genuinely happy about life. Typically, women this optimistic annoy me, but I find their relentless excitement about their futures to be a little refreshing. I think that my ends are shedding and that my complexion is going down the toilet. I could use a little sunlight.
One thing that this predominantly single group of women likes to say is, "When I get married." Like, "When I get married, I hope my husband won't mind cooking." "When I get married, I want to wait at least a year before we have kids." These women range in age from about 27-38, so they are good and grown. I can't blame their confidence on youth. They KNOW they are going to get hitched. For me, marriage is an if at best.
By about 25, I had decided that I probably wouldn't get married. I began to pay attention to the women around me that were getting married, mainly my old college classmates, and I realized that I was nothing like them. They were skinny and pretty and unrealistically successful for their ages. I was, at the time, rooming with three girls, getting paid once a month, and sustaining myself on Doritos and this large tray of obviously genetically enhanced chicken legs from my local grocer. What did I have to offer a man other than college debt and a possibly cancerous dish of chicken and rice?
Joining Instagram renewed a spark in me about love that I had not had since my kindergarten crush brought me a Strawberry Shortcake square valentine with a piece of chocolate taped to it. I found myself daily falling down the rabbit hole of wedding gown photos, bridal party selfies, and those dreaded engagement ring pics. Foolishly, I began to fantasize about who my bridesmaids would be and where me and my man would go on our honeymoon.
Now, at 33, I think that marriage is about as possible for me as sprouting a pair of wings on my back. I have so many things to fix about myself before I think that it would be appropriate to even accept a Good Morning text from a guy. I need to lose weight. I need to get a job. I need to save money. I need to buy a house. I need to finish the past two season of The Walking Dead.
So lets say that WHEN I get my life together, I will consider marriage IF there are any men left interested in a pessimistic woman over 40 who enjoys short walks to her Uber and Wal-Mart brand fudge-striped cookies. Fingers crossed.

Reviews

Apparently, my church singles ministry isn't as boring as I was originally led to believe. During the church's recent women's retreat, I was informed by my bonk mate that the singles often go on these cute little group dates. It's like Jesus's answer to speed dating. Naturally, I wanted in. So I asked her about the guy I like at church, Bill, and she had bad news for me.
"Yeah, he's single. But he has bad reviews."
I felt like someone had let the air out of my balloon. He's really hot. Really sweet. Employed. But the review is that he is a bit of a man-child. This wouldn't be that big of a deal if he were not about three years older than me.
Later that night, I found myself mourning Bad Review Bill. I liked him so of course, his reviews had to be bad. But then it dawned on me: who amongst us doesn't have bad reviews?  I have made it a point to completely cut off communication with any man I have ever talked to romantically, but if I found their number in an old phone and asked them for my reviews, I am betting they would be worst than Bill's.
Sickles would say that I am a tease that is way too available. Because I was lonely, I would still accept his calls, when he did call, which could be anywhere between 2-3 times a year.
H-Town, this overly optimistic tard that I met at the mall would tell you that I am a downer. His relentless glass-half-full attitude made me feel even sadder than I was usually. He gave me no space to express my real feelings, so I found myself often lying about my mood, sweetening all of our texts with happy emojis that I didn't mean. He went back to Texas for a job and I was happy. I'd rather be depressed than fake excited about life.
The others would take note of my fear of germs, refusal to French kiss, and irritating naivety when it comes to dating. Pool Bae from the pool at the gym would have worst reviews that that, upset about how I wanted him to be my boyfriend and cut him off when he said that that was not an option. He liked me and all, but his main girl was paying all of his bills, which was great because he paid a butt-load in child support, and he didn't want to shake things up. I found that unacceptable and we stopped talking. I'm sure he would say I'm not understanding.
As we try to find love in our 30s, should past reviews even matter? Another woman's complaint could be your Godsend. Or should us mature daters pay even more attention to 2-star guys, seeing that we no longer have dating time to waste? I guess that depends on the woman. I myself am not sure, but Bill is cute enough not to care either way.

Seniora Flake and Shake

Since my friendship began with Seniora Flake and Shake when I was 19, I have been totally confused about where we really stood. Maybe I am needy. Maybe I am extra. But I like to know where I stand with all the people in my life, not just males I'm romantically interested in and to be honest, since the beginning, my friendship with Seniora Flake and Shake has been an It's Complicated situation.
Even as college sophomores, she had a way of taking me on and off the shelf when she needed someone to confide in. And I guess that was cool with me because I thought that she was cool and at 19, everyone in your life is shakey. Her life was a series of romantic dramas and nightmares that was juicy and dramatic to a gal like me that spent her Saturday nights in the dorm listening to old Outkast CDs. Throughout our 20s, it got worse. I would only hear from her when she needed advice or a secret kept. And that transitioned to me not hearing from her for months at a time, only to get a call randomly as if no time had passed. I never called her on it because I was happy to hear that she was alive. Seniora liked to party.
Three years ago things really got bad. I got a new phone and sent out a Facebook group message requesting all my friends' numbers. She left the group. I then sent her a private message, and she did not respond. Months later, I got her number from a mutual friend as to text her and ask for her email address to send her an invite to my birthday party. She responded with an attitude so I gave her some space and kept her invite to herself. She had gone from shakey and flakey to completely absent. Although she had always been touch and go, she could be a good friend at times. She donated money to my project of trying to stay in my apartment after I lost my job. That's a good friend, right?
The icing on the cake was when I messaged her after my mom died and her whole attitude was that of a woman that couldn't be bothered. I was shocked, seeing that she's a shrink!
That was a year ago. Last week, she hit me up on Facebook to give me tickets to a play she can't make it to. No cost. She just thought I'd like it.
If I had her number, I would call her and ask simply and gently WHAT THE HELL ARE WE? I mean, we can't be friends, can we? Were we ever? I found myself meditating yesterday about where the ball dropped with us and, I dare say, that there was never a ball to begin with. I'm no longer 19. I need stability in all my relationships. I need reasoning. I need to be able to talk things out when they go south. But there is also a time when you have to realize you have been friend dumped and move on. I'm not sure how to feel. I will let you know after the play.

Friends

I will admit that I have had a huge issue with comparing myself to other women, and with the creation of social media, it has only gotten worse. As I sit here broke, I have the pleasure of logging on to my Instagram to see my rich college friends traveling the world and buying houses. But there is something to be said for being thankful for what you do have, and what I do have is friends.
Over the weekend, I had the opportunity to attend a women's conference. And during the conference, so many women opened up about not having friends. Can you imagine not having so much as one person you call a friend? While I have been drooling over people in my life that have nice cars and money to throw around, I really didn't understand how blessed I am to have friends in my life. And not just seat fillers; people who only come around when there is a housewarming or a bowling night. I mean real friends, like the people that I called after my mom died and when I went broke. There is truly something to be said about having a community. They typically take years to build and as I am finding out, no amount of cash can buy you genuine support.
I'm realizing that this is one of those grownup lessons that they tell you when you are a kid that doesn't resonate until you are older. And even though I don't have my own car or place to live, I can say that I'm very happy that I have good people in my life. I get now that there are other girls out there that don't.

Scrooge Mc30Something

Don't nobody bring me no good news or bad news, I don't want to hear it.
I'm over 30, I'm broke, I'm lonely, and whatever you want to tell me, I don't want to hear it, because I am sure that it is going to piss me off!
I have a friend in her 20s. That was my first mistake. The other day, I listened to her optimistically talk about her life plans, which, you all should know by now, is very hard for me. Especially now that I know that life plans are a crock. Life has its own plans for you sweetheart, and if you are lucky, if the Gods shine their all-powerful light on your butt, their plans for you will include food and shelter. This is if you are lucky now. Ten minutes into the conversation I began to fantasize about clawing out her eyes. And not to hurt her. I honestly feel that extreme acts of violence are the only ways that these youngins are going to get it: life sucks.
Right now my face is contorted into a semi-permanent frown. The side of my right foot is tight. On the low end, my arch is falling or some other muscle in my foot is about to snap from habitually wearing cheap, unsupportive shoes. On the high end, I have diabetic foot pain and am about two months away from carrying my foot around in my purse. My throat is sore. On the low end, I have a cold. On the high end, I will soon have to have my vocal cords removed. Either way, I will have to be cool with it. The constant, nightmare-inducing stress of being over 30 has left me feeling strangely calm. A quick internet search has informed me that I am probably in shock. Can you believe it? The over 30 life has put me in shock!
On top of this, people keep asking me what I am going to do with my life, as if the very question isn't insulting, irritating, and pushing me to the edge. Apparently, it has become clear to those that love me that I am not moving at a pace they deem acceptable to achieve success. I would have to agree. The fatigue of applying to jobs I don't want makes me so sleepy that I often fall into comatic naps while searching LinkedIn for new employ.
And I just want to let all my social media friends know something. When I like your pics, I am liking them so that you know that I have seen them. If I had an option, I would dislike your engagement photos, sonograms, new home pics, and selfies. What can I say, I'm a Scrooge. Scrooge Mc30Something. You can also call me a hater. I will answer to either.

Financially Fatigued

Hello readers.
I write to you tonight as I hide under my comforter with my phone on silent. I am dodging a creditor.
My whole blogging career, I have been pretty open about my brokey brokeness, just so the young brokies, that should really be reading a Suze Orman book, would understand the struggle. The struggle that is, in fact, real. But, to be honest, the only thing the struggle is at this moment in time is real old.
My philosophy over the years has been honesty with creditors. They call, I answer, and we discuss payment options and dates and income and all the uncomfortable things that come with a creditor call. But it seems that after my last call with a creditor, which was no different than others, I became unable to take another one. I physically can not even force myself to reach for the phone and answer them. After a few missed calls and messages, I realized that it all came down to one thing: I just don't have the energy or the wherewithal to tell yet another creditor that I don't have money. I can't fix my mouth to do it. Seriously. I tried to do it yesterday and just ended up screaming.
At this point, I can't even believe that the creditors believe me when I tell them I'm penniless. Who stays broke for five years that doesn't have a serious problem? Now that I think about it, I guess you could consider my general attitude and terminal sadness a serious problem.
The unfortunate thing is that I know how this story ends. If I don't get it together and return these calls fast, my already struggling credit score will become jeopardized, which means I will not only have to dodge calls but also my Credit Carma alerts. Yes, my score will just go down and down and down until I will have nothing to look forward to but pre-paid phones and the roommate life over 40. Both things are enough to cause me to act urgently.
But tonight, I hide. If you want to reach me, send me a telegraph. I'm not taking calls, understandably.

Create the Look: Letitia Wright x bareMinerals at The Emmy's

The Look:

Inspiration: Letitia's gorgeous gown featured great shine and texture which immediately inspired Celebrity Makeup Artist Tasha Brown to give Letitia peachy and bronze tones to keep her looking ethereal to match her dress. Tasha added soft, arched brows and golden eyeshadow with a natural skin finish, added glowing shimmery highlights on the cheekbones and eyelids.

How to Get the Look:

Skin

Tasha prepped Letitia’s skin by saturating her cleansed face with bareMinerals Complexion Rescue Defense to create a smooth moisturized canvas for makeup. She then applied bareMinerals Original Loose Powder Foundation with SPF 15 in shade Golden Dark with the bareMinerals Beautiful Finish Foundation Brush in a tapping motion through the center of Letitia’s face for light coverage, creating an even base for the rest of her makeup.

Cheeks

Tasha used a sheer layer of bareMinerals BarePRO Glow Highlighter in Fierce to highlight the tops of Letitia’s cheekbones, center of nose and chin for a bit of glow and dimension. To add a healthy flush of color, Tasha lightly dusted bareMinerals’s Gen Nude Powder Blush in That Peach Tho along the hairline, on temples and on cheeks with a large fluffy brush. 

Eyes

Tasha applied the deep bronze tones of the bareMinerals Gen Nude Eyeshadow Palette in Neutral all over the eyelid to better complement the color of Leticia’s gown. 

Lips

Tasha finished off the lips without a liner for a softer edge to the lips and applied bareMinerals Gen Nude Lip Lacquer Buttercream Lipgloss in Flirt for a soft nude peach with sheen to match the sheen of the gown. 

Where to Find Them:

bareMinerals products are available at bareMinerals boutiques and bareMinerals.com. Also available at Sephora, Sephora inside JCPenny, ULTA, Macy’s, Dillards, fine spas and salons. Visit bareminerals.com for store locations.

#CleanBeauty #PowerofGood #bareMinerals

@bareMinerals 

Late Post: Christian Siriano Nails by Kiss

For the debut of Christian Siriano's Spring/Summer 2019 Collection at NYFW, Lead Manicurist of KISS Products Inc. Gina Edwards created the "Twisted Zebra" nail look. The look was created by using the KISS imPRESS Press-On Manicure Medium Length Nails in Black. 

Teeth

Me and my teeth have had a bad history.
When I was a kid, my mom was taken by some type of dental charlatan. He told her that all I needed to cure the fact that my adult teeth had come in early through shooting out of the gumline beside my baby teeth were rubber bands on my molars. He also insisted that I sleep in some type of head contraption that fastened around my chin with a velcro strap.
After spending God knows how much money with this clown, my mom woke up and smelled the coffee. I started going to a real orthodontist. I mean sure, his office was on the back end of the most ghetto mall in the city, but his office was clean and he used mouth stuff that tasted like candy. Never mind that his breath smelled miserable. He installed the braces that I needed oh so badly.
By the sixth grade, my braces were gone, and I had smooth, white, straight, gorgeous teeth. However, by the 9th grade, I was getting phantom toothaches. By my junior year of college, I bit the bullet and went to the on-campus dentist whose office was on the ground level of what looked to be a small housing project that the school had purchased and turned into a dorm. I remember it was hella dark in there. The dentist told me that I needed a root canal and that he would be happy to perform it after we got back from a hurricane evacuation. A year later, he was gone and never replaced. I was too broke to go to a dentist off-campus. Did I mention also that, at 21, I lost my last baby tooth? It came out while I was eating a bowl of soup, leaving a huge yet lovable gap on the right side of my mouth.
Today I sit here a woman in her early 30s, teething. My wisdom teeth come in a little then stop on and off throughout the year. And, I noticed when trying to film my first IGTV video that my bottom teeth are shifting and that I probably need a retainer or something. Now, I get to be one of those gross spitty mouth people, if I can even rummage up the money to go to the dentist.
This is the drama that is my teeth. This drama will end in about two years when I undoubtedly have to get dentures.

Asexual

Another close friend assumed I am an asexual. Sigh.
I told my friend Alex during our last conversation that I think that I have a crush on a man that goes to my church, and she thought that was interesting because she didn't think I was interested in men...or women...or anything! Sadly, she is not the first friend to assume this.
"Why do you think this about me?" I asked. I have to say, I was a little hurt, just as I was a lot hurt when my other friend suggested the same thing a few years back.
"I have never seen you with a man," she began. "I have never heard you really talk about any guys. I have never seen you with a woman. I just thought you were asexual."
"Well, I'm not," I defended, even though everything she said was true. So, defensively, I said, "What am I supposed to do? Men just aren't interested in me, and the ones that are suck!"
#facts. We need only to look to the laundry list of men I liked in college who didn't know I was alive, and the ones that did were very strategic in ignoring me. I am comfortable with saying that the men that liked me after college were complete and total liars. There was the man who got a girl pregnant in a club. The long-distance guy who refused to come see me. The married man. The man with the criminal record and side babies. Why would I want to introduce those gems to anyone in my life?
And let me just say that I don't have any beef with the asexual community. I think that they are on to something. But since I am not asexual, the fact that those closest to me that have known me my entire life think I am sucks.
"So what am I supposed to do? No one is interested," I said.
"You need to go for different kinds of men," she instructed. "And you need to try harder."
"I am trying!" I cried. Honestly, I'm not. Looking for love was literally making me crazy. Three years ago, I cuddled in the corner with my list of crushes and happily resigned to my fantasy love life. I had to for my heart and mental health! And if that makes me an asexual, so be it...I guess😞

Crustville

It's always interesting talking to my friend Alex because we are so different. She lives life outside of the box, and I live life so inside of the box that I am beginning to develop agoraphobia. This was somewhat the theme of our conversation today.
"I turn 34 this year, and I am not sure what to do for my birthday," I explained to her. "Last year I had a tea tasting, and the year before that, I had a movie night."
"Boring!" she exclaimed. "Teas and movie nights are not the way you celebrate getting older."
"I guess I could do something a little more fun," I whimpered into the phone. "I don't want to be old and crusty."
"Girl, you are on your way to Crustville, no stops!" she yelled in my ear.
It's always a little sad when people are hip to something about yourself that you thought that you were hiding. I noticed at my homecoming last year that I'm not as fun as I used to be in my 20s. But in my 20s, I was happy and optimistic, eager to see what life had to offer. Now I know what life has to offer: dead parents, debt, evictions, low credit scores, bad dates, and depression. Nothing about any of these things makes me want to put on a slinky dress and stand outside the club in a line, waiting to stand for another four hours in the middle of a crowded dance floor while drunk dudes bump into me.
"You need to live a little," Alex advised.
I've lived a little. Then life happened, now I'm living la vida in silence. Yes, I am for having a good time, but unlike 20s me, I have no interest in frazzle and minimal interest in dazzle.
"You are right." She was right. She is a good friend, and I am really taking what she said under advisement. If this year has taught me anything, it is that life is short. So, in regards to my birthday, do you think that Groupon has competitive rates on group knitting classes? I have always wanted to learn.

No Letting Go

These boys I went to school with have a podcast. It's called The Art of Letting Go. I was hesitant to even listen to it because, like most Black women, my defenses go up when it smells like someone is even thinking about telling me to get over something. After listening to about two of their episodes, I realized something profound: in my whole life, I don't think I have ever let go of anything. I mean nothing. Not even a little. I am not a forgiver. I am not a forgetter. I hold on to old hurts like a pit bull does a meat bone. Perhaps this is why I have not experienced some of the reoccurring themes of their show such as peace and growth and happiness.
I have a full well of negative experiences that I have collected over the years that have come together to develop a Chinese wok worth of thick, dark pains and disappointments. These yuckies are on reserve for me 24/7, providing me with the comfort and support that I need to get through a day. I pull from this wok whenever I need affirmation that life sucks, that people suck, and that it will all be not okay in the end. These gritty ideas settle like grease in a coffee can (was my grandma the only one that collected old grease in a coffee can?). At the top, you can find all that good new-new negativity like the resentment I feel for my mom dying and the anger I have towards men for rejecting me  my whole, whole life. And, at the bottom, you can find those sweet, structural throwback miseries from back in the day, like being called fat by girls I wished were my friends or being mad at myself for not passing a spelling test. All this icky fills me up like a big bowl of hot beef stew on a cold night. I couldn't imagine letting any of it go. It has become my defense, my support, my man. Letting any of it go would be like removing limbs or kicking the chair from under me. What would fill me in its place?
"God's love," my new church friend Jalissa suggested at church on Sunday. Oh my God! I hadn't even thought about God! Jalissa painted a beautiful picture of God's love coming in like a sweet ray of light and cleansing me, activating the pieces of him that are already in me and leading me into a new life of grace and fulfillment. Oh man, it sounded awesome. Too bad I don't have the strong faith needed to buy into it. But I'm working on it. Sigh. No I'm not.
Later, my pain painted of picture of what it would be like not to have it as back up even for a minute. I'd be emotionally nude. Everyone would see me. I'd be raw. And who needs that?
So, unfortunately, right now, when it comes to relinquishing old sadnesses, I'm like your boy Wayne Wonder: there's no letting go.

Irritated

Of late, I have found that I am in an unshakeable state of irritation, and I want to be left alone. I am irritated by lights. I prefer it to be dark. I am irritated by the sound of the television that my brothers insist on watching. I want to turn it off and throw it out the window. Just not on a Wednesday. I have to watch Black Ink: Chicago. 

The one thing that is really burning my biscuits of late is people throwing unasked-for commentary, remarks, and observations my way. You look tired. You seem upset. A simple statement like that could push me over the edge, taking the person who said it with me. I told you, I'm irritated. 

I was thinking that I might have PMS, but is that supposed to last all month long? For 33 years? Day and night?

Hopefully, my attitude improves soon. I'm seconds away from kicking someone in the face. 

Single, No Mingle

Kyndra invited me to the church singles ministry's July 4th BBQ, and I was excited to go. My past few July 4ths have been lackluster, so I was eager to get dressed up cute and meet some eligible bachelors. Imagine my surprise when I got there and realized that most of the men where 24. I didn't want to date a 24-year-old guy when I was 24! But that isn't even the biggest jaw-dropper. Dating isn't the primary focus of this singles ministry. Huh?
"It's not all about dating," Kyndra explained. "It's about singles coming together and encouraging each other in their walk with God."
That's cool I guess, but I assure you if I would have known that, I wouldn't have worn a dress.
I talked to another woman at my church today about the barbeque. I told her it was fun, but I had never heard of a singles ministry where no one was dating.
"Before you find love with a man, you need to understand God's love. Only after that can you even begin looking for a good man."
I frowned. That sounds like work. It also sounds like a long time coming. I'm 33. The last thing I have is time.
This same woman said that the good thing is that the singles are getting to know each other as friends.
"Take it from me," she assured, "you want your mate to be your friend."
I smiled and nodded, but I have always found that school of thought to be a complete load. I have friends. I need a man that I can tolerate to keep me company for the rest of my life.
This is all new to me. I am just really trying to better understand it all while attempting to grasp the concept of being single with no mingle.

Church and the Broken Vagina

Going to church on a regular basis has broken my vagina. At the very least, it has essentially depleted my sex drive, and at the most, has catapulted me into early spinsterhood. I was alarmed by this at first, but Tasia assures me that this is the effect that church should have on you.
"Yeah, that sounds about right," she said over brunch. "How did you not know that that is what church does to you?"
Uh...because no one told me!
As you know, I am a girl that loves to have a crush on somebody. It has always been fun for me to have little secret crushes on men. This has helped my heart to fill full during the lonely times and given me a good list of people to stalk on Instagram. Now when I look at pictures of these crushes, I feel nothing in my lady parts. All I see are brown faces of boys that I once went to school with. My jay-jay is unimpressed.
I want to get to know God. I want to become a better Christian. But no one told me that that would include me putting my vagina on the shelf with an Out of Order sign taped to it!
It is my belief that there's a science to this whole thing. Once I started going to church, my heart started to change. I began to allow the word of God to cleanse it, purging it of lust. Well, everyone knows that your heart and your lady parts are connected. You see, my heart is trying to do better now. But since my vagina truly doesn't know how to do better, it just shut down completely. She is a team player, and she wants my heart to win. So she took one for the team and is now on vaykay for God knows how long. I hope she comes back soon, I miss her.
Her hiatus has shown me that I was giving her a little too much power in my life, allowing her to take the wheel. I think that I have a crush on a man that I met at church, but I can't tell you. My vag is giving me cold silence. My mind should be able to tell me what's up, but it can't. I see now that this whole time, my mind has been in my undies. Not cool.
The plus side is that now that I am no longer fantasizing about running away with that boy from my old sociology class, I now have more time to pray and read my Bible. I guess my vaginal breakdown was all a part of God's plan. Man, He works in mysterious ways.

Savannah and the Pot

Savannah has taken up smoking pot...at 32. She, like every other pot smoker that I know, claims that she smokes to unwind.
The setup sounded like something sensuous and fabulous like a love scene out of the soap operas my grandma used to watch. She said she lights candles and takes a bath while listening to soft music. As I spoke to her I was beginning to feel high. Her voice was soft and light.
"You are a pharmacist!" I exclaimed. "Are you supposed to use drugs? What do you do? Go to the hood and score?"
The answer to that is no. Her plug is a fellow pharmacist that buys his own weed and sells her a portion of it for $125. $125! Man, the hobbies of the rich and privileged. I told her that for that type of money I would come to her house, hand bathe her, give her a mani/pedi, clean her house, and walk her dog as long as I was allowed a thirty-minute nap.
Over the years, almost all of my friends have suggested that I take up smoking weed or just doing drugs outright. Apparently, I am a highly emotional overthinker that needs to relax. No kidding! I have been trying to chill since I was about 11-years-old!
I have to say I am a little envious of Savannah though. If you had to put a price on having peace, $125 isn't that bad. Right now, she is probably in a really good pot sleep while I will be up all night munching on cookies and worrying about my future. She also has nothing but good things to say about her new-found habit, but I can't get with it. Call me old-fashioned, but I'd rather deal with my problems through overeating and stressing to the point of hair loss the way that God intended.

Adulting

As a child, I thought that the beginning and ending of adulting was going to work and paying bills. I am realizing now that adulting is really what was discussed in those whispered conversations between the women in my life that always shut down when I walked in the room.
It seems that ever since I turned 30, it has been a parade of bad news, this year being the worst. One of my friends was diagnosed with a very scary autoimmune disease, while another was just arrested over the holiday for stabbing someone to death. And the grim reaper has truly come to slay, snatching grandparents, parents, friends, and even newborns out of my friends' lives.
I find that I am becoming numb to everyone's sequences of unfortunate events, as well as my own. When a friend tells me she is getting divorced or is in crippling debt, my emotions don't even allow me to process the news. I just sigh and pray on it. There is really nothing else to do.
And this is where social media gets confusing. While the bad news parade marches on, I go on Instagram to see people I went to college with partying, traveling, and having an amazing time. Upon further investigation, I now suspect that many of these people might be functioning alcoholics, committed to dancing and globetrotting the blues away. Adulting has taught me that the only way to deal with an issue is to deal with it, but for once I would like to cry over life at some hot nightclub off the coast of Jamaica rather than on my living room floor.
Don't get me wrong, there are good times. People are getting hitched, starting new jobs, and expanding their families. However, the good news is not seeming to outweigh the bad. One engagement announcement on Facebook is followed by R.I.P wishes to cousins and funeral announcements.
If I had to define adulting, I would define it as trying to live your best life while running with the devil nipping at your heals. Better get you some good sneakers.

Ethan and the Hoes

Last night I called Ethan. I try to touch bases with him every three months or so to make sure that he hasn't become a complete whore. You see, while most of my girlfriends are suffering from terminal singleness, a single Ethan is knee-deep in female attention. He is the belle of the ball in New Orleans, accepting dinner dates and free drinks from women at every turn. It's worse at work, where his nurse co-workers bring him free meals. I thought this was a kind jester. Ethan has been about 30 pounds underweight his whole life. But we aren't talking Lunchables here. We are talking gourmet takeout sealed with a kiss. I am glad I am in his life. His friend pool consists of married frat boys whose advise usually ends with them suggesting he get a hotel room someplace with a desperate woman he barely knows.
"Ethan, you should honor your penis," I told him last night as he prepared to go out to eat with a girl he just met, Angela. He wasn't sure if it was a date or not, but from what he was telling me, it sounded like one. "Don't sleep around with these sad women."
"I'm trying not to," he insisted, the same way I did to myself just the other night as I downed a sleeve of Oreos.
As a woman, I can see Ethan's future with clarity, as if I have a crystal ball. If he doesn't get serious with a serious girl seriously soon he is going to become a serious scumbag, drunk on a seemingly endless supply of his professional success and database of willing women.
He texted me when he got home from dinner with Angela. I must be psychic, it was a date...even though she insisted on paying for it. He went on and on about how cool she is and how good the conversation was. Hopefully, it works out with this girl for Ethan's sake. The last thing the world needs is another man whore.

#newauntyseason

I don't believe that I told you all this, but my sister had a baby. His name is Isaiah, and I watch him twice a week while my sister is at work during the day. He is two months. When he isn't asleep, he is crying, and he has to be fed every three hours, even if that third hour falls in the middle of the night.
Lately, he has been super needy. I think that he is getting sick. I have tried to put him on a sleep schedule. That has been an epic fail, seeing that everyone wants to play with him. Bath time has become dangerous. He tries to kick himself out of my arms as I am turning on the water. He is too young to be entertained by TV or music, so the only way you can soothe him is by rocking him in your arms. Of course, while you are doing that, you aren't getting anything done. I mean, you could shower while he is sleeping, but trust me, while he is sleeping, you would want to sleep too.
I love Isaiah, but I see now why the old folks say it takes a village to raise a child. If it takes a village to raise one, you need at least a small army to babysit. My army consists of my two brothers, who are all in with helping me with the baby until they rather do anything else like play a video game or space out. They hold him wrong and put his diaper on baggy.
I worked at a daycare, and I don't remember ever being this tired working with those kids. I guess it is different when the child isn't related to you and there are three certified teachers watching your back.
I get very irritated with my brothers for not being as supportive as I feel that they could be on babysitting days, but I am outright mad at those Instagram moms. Yes, the IG moms, pushing their strollers in yoga pants while drinking a tummy tea out of some type of a clear jug. Last night, Isaiah threw up down my nightshirt. Where is that picture?
Today is my last day of babysitting. If I type quietly while he is sleeping, I may be able to get in two more posts. #newauntyseason

The Leftovers

A few nights ago I had to say something very difficult to Tortilla. It was so difficult that I knew that there was a chance that she may not be my friend after I said it. It was also so difficult that I knew that I wouldn't be being a good friend to her unless I told her.
We were having a conversation about how busy she is with her new job and how hard it is to be going back to school while trying to date when I said, "Tortilla, you are a Leftover."
There was silence on the line. I could feel her heart palpitating.
"It's okay, I am one too." You like that? See, here I am connecting to Tortilla as to help her better digest the bad news, but there was still a cold silence on the other line.
"The good thing is that I have realized from Instagram that there are a lot of man Leftovers in your graduating class."
"Really?" she asked, hurt but interested.
Oh, let me explain: Leftovers is the fun, happy-go-lucky name that I have given women that went to college with us that are not married.
You see, the college I attended was pretty cliquey. Sometimes, the cliques intermingled, and it was hard to tell who belonged to what group. However, social media since then has very exactly and harshly divided us into the marrieds and the not marrieds. It's pretty obvious: the marrieds are taking pro photos of themselves with their families in the park, dressed in their Easter bests, while the Leftovers are taking pro photos of themselves at the gym, breaking in their new Fabletics leggings.
"Ricky Ticky is a Leftover. I see him on Instagram all the time. He looks like a lot of fun."
"Do you think that Ricky Ticky would date me?" she asked.
"Of course! What else is he doing?"
By the end of the call, we had identified three other man Leftovers that may be viable options. I hung up the phone, feeling all good friendish. I think that I will be able to eliminate the Leftover problem, one single girlfriend at a time.

P and the Second Wife

As many of you know, my friend P has been a consistent part of my life and this blog for a while. He's my mildly douchey Muslim bff from college. For those of you who don't know, I used to like him, he didn't like me, we somehow forged a friendship despite his personality and my emotions, he went to Africa to get married and moved his wife and son here shortly after. Yes, there have been a lot of changes in the past ten years, but I think that biggest change is yet to come.
"What would you say if I told you that I was going to get a second wife?" he asked me out of the blue during one of our latest conversations.
"Would it be me?" I asked.
"No."
"Then I don't care," I quipped. That was my way of ending the conversation. Needlesstosay, I am not really down with the multiple wives deal, and we have discussed it over and over again over the years. You see, him having up to four wives is part of his rights as a Muslim man. Now, let's get to the good part: how P's personal life and decisions affect me.
For one, it is a miracle that we are still friends now that he is married. As you all know well, when my male friends have gotten a wife or even so much as a steady girlfriend they have dropped me like a bad habit. By the grace of God, his wife likes me, or at least tolerates me enough to let me stick around. Who knows what the second wife will think of me. I imagine that she will be looking at me with the same side eye that I will be looking at her with.
I'm old and I have taken a Drake outlook on life: no new friends. P is a big part of my friend circle, and if he flies the coupe, that will be a big hole to fill. Not wanting him to do something that would make him happy because of what the outcome would be for me is selfish, but it's where I'm at. My life is a house of cards. One freak move, like P taking on a second family, could cause my whole house to crumble. And quite frankly, I don't think I have enough juice life in me to try to impress another one of my guy friends' ladies. It just takes too much.
You have to be able to provide the same household for your second wife as you did the first, which takes a lot of money. So it may be a minute before P jumps the broom again. I guess this gives me time to prepare to be friend dumped AGAIN. Sigh.

Dog Lady

I went to a pizza parlor last night for a fundraiser event and ran into an old woman that I used to see in my neighborhood when I was a kid. She was known for having an unusual amount of greyhound dogs. Oddly enough though, my fondest memory concerning her was when my favorite public transit bus driver told me that he had seen her take the dogs for a walk to go to the bathroom and she'd wiped their butts with some baby wipes she'd taken out of her purse.
I asked her how she was doing and how her dogs were. I knew she wasn't doing too well before she answered because she was eating dinner alone at a very lively pizza restaurant, overly involved with her lasagna. She said that she was fine but that most of her dogs had died. She opened an old black flip phone that she was wearing tied to her neck by a string and showed me the pictured of her youngest greyhound, Jingles, that has now died as well. It became clear that if I didn't make my exit at that moment, I would be stuck at her sad table, hearing stories about the lives of her deceased pets. So I politely excused myself and went to join my friends, only to look up and see that she was right beside me.
"You know what I liked most about Jingles?" she asked. "He could smell eggs through the shell. He was the only dog I knew that could do that."
"Really?" I asked.
"Yeah I would put the eggs in my hands and he would sniff them."
She told a few more tales about her dogs before abruptly saying, "Thank you for listening to stories about my dogs," and racing back to her table.
This is what loneliness looks like, and it scares me, because I hate dogs! What would I show the nice young woman who approached me at dinner, pictures off an old iPhone of friends that have moved on? Or maybe paperback books? I love books.
"See this picture of my first edition print of The Coldest Winter Ever? See how strong the spine of the book is? They don't make books like this anymore, not even in hardback."
I'm not sure when I became super aware of time and age in regards to other women and what that means for me, but I am assuming that it happened around the times when all my friends made a mass exodus to the altar. I don't want to be a lonely dog lady and I'm sure my friend, The Lonely Dog Lady didn't want to be either, but things happen, or better yet, don't happen. Before you know it, you are eating Lasagna alone at a pizzeria.
I wanted to ask her where she went wrong to avoid that mistake, but even someone like me knows that that is rude. She did tell me that she is considering getting an Italian Greyhound. At least she won't be alone much longer.

The Unintentional Side Piece

Isabella is one of those adorable friends that you just want to see do well in life. She is smart, she is adorable, and she is funny. She has an electric, carefree attitude about life, and she likes to go to fun events out on the town, wearing her smile and a sports jersey. She is one of the few friends that I have whose life has not been hindered and weighed down by emotional baggage. She will be a prize for some lucky man some day, which is why my eyebrows were raised when she told me that she had reconnected with a friend we went to school with; a married basketball player turned collegiate coach named Ron. Immediately, my f*!k boy radar went off.
"What did he want?" I asked, skeptically.
"He wanted to let me know that he was in town coaching. He wanted to know if we could meet up."
I didn't say anything, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"We talked on the phone for a long time. He is having issues with his wife."
I began to shake my hair vigorously, like a White girl in a shampoo commercial.
"What?"
"Isabella, don't be a stooge. If he wants to talk to someone, tell him to talk to his wife. Because I bet you dollars to donuts, when she tries to get him to open up, he just sits there like an idiot like he doesn't have anything to say." Maybe P is right. Maybe I do personalize everything. But I can't help it. This situation smelled like a similar one that I'd gotten myself into back in 2011. The situation ended in me refusing to date for a year and dodging calls from a very angry wife.
"It's not like that," she assured me. "We are just friends. He was telling me that she-"
I raised my hands, silently requesting silence. "If you continue to talk to him, you are going to become an unintentional side piece."
What is an unintentional side piece? They are usually the female villain in the takes-two-to-tango combo that has become known as the emotional affair. Married Man calls girl. Married Man spills all his marital issues. Girl gives advice and becomes a sympathetic ear. Girl becomes invested in Married Man. Pretty soon, he's not talking to his wife at all, running to Girl for advice and support. Bing bang boom, an emotional affair is formed.
Girl always loses in this scenario, because Married Man always either uses his free shrink sessions to work things out with his wife and drops Girl like a bad habit, or he his browbeaten by the wife to discontinue the "friendship" with Girl because it makes her uncomfortable.
"It's not like that with us," Isabella insisted, spoken like a woman on her way to unintentional side pieceness.
"Be careful," I warned before we changed the subject, knowing good in well that there is no way to be careful in situations like this.

Beef and Broccoli and the Need to Not Care

Last Saturday a mentor of mine took me out to lunch at Panda Express. I don't know if you have a Panda Express where you live, but it is simply delish! Whenever I go, I get the chicken and string beans, beef and broccoli, and lo mein. I mean really, it's magical!
The Panda Express near my house is always busy. Any given day at any given time, the line can go back as far as the front door. Of course, this is usually because of the morons that have eleven orders, or the idiots who don't know what they want and have to sample everything on the food line. Just so you know, grilled chicken with teriyaki sauce tastes exactly like what it is advertised to be: grilled chicken with teriyaki sauce!
Last Saturday was particularly brutal. Add on crying babies, kids who want to give their own orders, and lovers that are too busy loving each other to pay for their meals in a timely manner and you have a snapshot of the lunch rush. Yet, even after all those people were gone, I was still standing there 20 minutes later like a lost soul, waiting for my beef with broccoli. I watched the young woman making my order call back a need for beef with broccoli about five times to the cook, who was a young, sexy dude with a strong back that I could see through his cotton uniform shirt. As fit as he looked, he was moving at a snail's pace, stopping occasionally to wipe sweat from his brow or pop a nibble in his mouth. The other customers were getting a little antsy, but I recognized is attitude and felt a mix of nostalgia and pride. This young man simply did not care if we got our food or not.
There is something quite beautiful and admirable about not caring, especially when you are a fine 20-something that could get it, licking your lips as you casually nearly let a pan of fried rice burn. The last time I didn't care I was a teen. I hated my job at a very ghetto KFC/Pizza Hut. I made side items and biscuits. I was also tasked with cleaning the lobby which was a complete nightmare, wiping up the soda spills and chicken crumbs of GROWN customers. My boss liked to play this game called Let's Not Schedule Anyone To Relieve Holly where he would try to keep me on the schedule for 12 hours at 15-years-old. One day I was told that if I left, I was quitting. And with no problem, I grabbed a personal pan pizza and left. I just didn't care.
Now I care about everything. My debt, my health, my life in general. And all this caring just equals to worry. Not caring equals bravery. When you don't care, the sky is the limit because you can't see how far you can fall. I'm scared to fall in the shower. Scared to fall going down steps. And I most certainly am scared to fall in life...AGAIN. I don't think I'd have the wherewithal to get up. They say it's hard out here for a pimp. Imagine how hard it is for a fat girl with no health insurance that got canned from a daycare.
Me, much like my beef with broccoli, am a little salty. And I am trying to get over this hump as to finally make it in life, to finally get a job. If I wasn't so scared of open flames and standing for 8 hours, I would try to get on at Panda Express.

Boy Poem

I look in his eyes and I swear
I think I may hate him for real
He ate all my chips
He's relentlessly rude
And he never asks me how I feel.
I be like, "Hey, didn't you say
that you had somewhere to be?"
He be like, "No." But he did.
He'd just rather stay home and annoy me.
Oh yes he lies.
And he thinks I don't know.
He thinks I'm too dumb to tell.
When really I don't want to be alone
So I'm willing to ride his lies straight
to hell.
A hell where the bills are late,
but he don't care.
He doesn't know how to provide.
I get stressed and I sink into my feelings.
He pulls me out.
He doesn't allow me to hide.
Because misery loves a friend,
someone cute to starve with and such.
But hungry and struggling are two different things
and balancing both is becoming too much.
I NEED MY SPACE
That's what I think as he watches cable splashed from next door.
I NEED MY SPACE
I repeat to myself as I pick up his clothes off the floor.
I NEED MY SPACE
I whisper as I watch him nap in my bed.
I NEED MY SPACE
I scream out loud as he lies to mess with my head.
Silence is golden.
Our future is black.
Honest to God, I think he likes it like that.
And I must too
This is a truth that hards to receive
Because if I didn't
I'd stop complaining
ad simply get up and leave.

Positively Negative

I find myself desperately trying to hide how negative I am at church so that I can make friends. It has become clear to me that my sweet, pure, and dare I say beautiful form of pessimism clashes with clean, innocent, dare I say naive Christian optimism.
My friend Kyndra, who invited me to this church in the first place, did something that I would never do which is invite someone that I sort of know into a personal space. People know that she invited me, so I have tasked myself with trying to be on my best behavior. For me, I am seeing that this includes not being too honest. My honestly comes from a negative place and as you probably well know, negativity is a virus that spreads through the garden and murders all the roses. I don't want to kill her super sweet, warm, welcoming, and unrealistically encouraging and hopeful friends. I don't want to be the weed in an otherwise healthy flower bed.
Talking to the women in the church is the hardest. They are so nice, yet it is hard not to scream, "What a load!" whenever they speak. A couple of Sundays ago I stood with a tight, manufactured smile as a young woman with a cool, funky haircut named Paula spoke excitedly about how her ex finally deciding to get into church. For her, this was a milestone met on their way to getting back together, becoming "equally yoked" and jumping the broom. I smiled hard as her other friend, we will call her Peggy, listened along excitedly, praising God for the miracle of getting a young Black man into church. That is a miracle, I won't disagree with that.
When Paula finally took a breath, I asked, "What if none of this sticks with him? Are you prepared for that?"
I instantly regretted it. The power drained out of her eyes as if I had unintentionally turned off the lamp in her brain. "What?" she asked confused.
"Holly wants to know if you'd be okay if you two don't get married," Peggy chimed in. That is not what I wanted to know at all.
Paula inhaled, her power coming back on. "That is okay. I am more concerned with him getting saved."
I nodded, smiling so hard at this point that my cheeks were burning. I wanted to tell her that the whole thing smelled like a boy lie. I wanted to tell her that I could see this young man going as far as he felt he needed to before she agreed to sleep with him again. Then he would vanish from the church so fast it would be like he was never there. But that, good friends, would have been the type of honest negativity that makes it so no one wants to talk to you after service. I like after service talks.
As I have said before, I am trying to build a relationship with God and get better with changing my way of thinking. My current thinking is a hard skin to shed, seeing that I credit it with saving me from some decisions that could have been devastating. But being negative can be exhausting and preventative. Maybe one day I too can experience the joy of just knowing without a doubt that things are going to work out. Faith, it's what's for dinner.
Until I get to that point, it is all tight smiles and nods from the peanut gallery, secretly taking solace in being positive that negativity is the way for me, at least for now.

Plans

Over the weekend, my mentor asked me what my plans are.
She told me that your 20s are for making mistakes and that by your 30s you should have a plan. Spoiler Alert: I'm 33.
I was mildly annoyed because I got the feeling that she felt that I don't have a plan for my life. Like I'm not awake nights, very aware that I am 7 years from 40, and that I have wasted so much time thinking about going to grad school that I could have had a Ph.D in something by now. I told her that I do have a plan and I do...I think. But in the event that that this "plan" falls through, your guess is as good as mine as to where I am going to end up. My crystal ball is showing me a grocery cart full of my journals and a makeshift bed under a bridge. And I hate the outdoors, so that would really suck!
In my 20s, I read an article that advised young college grads to say that they worked well under pressure in job interviews. The article suggested that potential employers like that. So I began to say that in interviews and, sure enough, I got two internships. I guess I have been saying that lie so long that I actually began to believe it honey, because I don't work at all under pressure. Just typing about the anxiety related to the very sad, possibly impending, horrifying possibility that my plans may fall all the way through is making me want to crawl unto a ball, sucking my thumb.
In my 20s, I thought I was mortified that I wouldn't become a great writer. 30 was the deadline. Now that I am over 30 writing a blog that no one reads, I realize now that I wasn't mortified, I was concerned. What I am feeling today, right now as I type, THIS is mortified!
When I was a little kid, I couldn't tell certain animals apart. I just couldn't see the difference between a monkey, a gorilla, an ape, and an orangutan. As an adult, I seem to have the same issue. I just can't comprehend the difference between a goal, a wish, a dream, and a plan. Life has taught me the correlation between employment and shelter thought, and I think that should show for something.
What is the plan for the rest of my day? I was going to make some tea then take a nap before Judge Judy came on, but I think my plan should probably be planning out the rest of my life. 40 will get here quicker than 30 did, and I would like to spend the big 4-0 in my house with my man, not on the curb with a tin can. The scary thing: the choice is mine based on my plan. Again, MORTIFIED.

Baggage Lady

My friend told me last night during one of our you-can-do-it-girl emotional support calls that she is choosing not to date because she is working on her baggage. It was the first comment I had heard in a long time that had rendered me speechless.
First off, I had no idea that people were still working on baggage out here. From my passenger seat, it looks like everyone is just running wild while walking calmly, eager to put their emotional ish on the next love or like or one night stand or even co-worker. I thought that we had all realized that we all have our crosses to bear- bad credit, mental health issues, addictions, poor attitudes- and that the next person that we link up with will have theirs as well. I thought that we had all spent our money on concert tickets and expensive camera gear that we don't know how to use so we can't afford therapy. So, we all decided to be honest and let our partners know that we had issues. They would tell us their issues. Then we would decide if it was worth it. And no, no one told me this. I just assumed all this as I strolled through my Instagram feed and realized that all of my newly engaged friends are some of the most screwed up people in my life.
I am the proof that working on baggage doesn't work! About a million years ago after breaking off a hard, three-day renothingship with a loser, I dedicated A YEAR to getting rid of my emotional baggage. I considered it the year that I was dedicating to Aphrodite to get myself in emotional order.
"You are 27-years-old, you don't have a year to give away!" Jamaica had screamed in my ear when I told her about my plans to change my life, purging myself of the baggage I had inhaled from that loser. Looking back, she was absolutely correct. That was the last year that I was able to look thick and not huge in jeans. That could have been the year that I got some really good, womanhood creating baggage...or I could have fallen in love. Who knows? The point is, one year, two years, ten years- there is no amount of time that is suitable for working on baggage. Because if you take the time you need, which is A LIFETIME, you will be the most emotionally healthy, lonely, 100-year-old on Plenty of Fish, and who really wants that?
I'm an over-eater that is afraid of doctors. I have a positively negative attitude and I live for gossip like a man going to the electric chair lives for his last meal. BAGGAGE. And when life was happening to me, when I was negotiating payment arrangements and bartering unused fragrances with neighbors to bum their WiFi, my baggage was right their, growing leaps and bounds and keeping me warm in my crap hole apartment as I experimented with holding a lighter to my face as an alternative to turning my heat on. You say baggage, but that sounds like a good ride or die friend to me.
"I think it is great that you are working on you!" I told my friend. She was excited I was on board. I decided not to tell her how ridiculous she was being. Receiving a negative response after being honest and open is an experience that can create baggage.

Church 2: Church Men

I am a negative person. I have learned to accept this about myself. And I am not ashamed to say that I thought that there was some funny business going on when I walked into the church and seemed to be genuinely greeted warmly by men. They gave me hugs, but I made sure my shoulders were stiff. They asked me my name and I responded with a grunt. One young man walked me and my friend to her car, and I politely said thank you, while mentally trying to iron out how I could elbow him in the neck if he perchance attempted to rob us. What can I say? I'm bitter. 

But in my defense, men have never put there best foot forward with me. As a kid, boys made fun of me. In college, they ignored me which, believe it or not, is worst than getting made fun of. And as an adult, they have tried to use me! Luckily I had nothing or these dudes would have taken me to the cleaners! On top of this, I am harboring some heavy resentment towards my uncle cursing me out after my grandmother's funeral while my other uncle and brothers said nothing. And you mean to tell me while I have been holding on to all of this heavy, designer knockoff baggage, there were men at church willing to walk me to the car?! Get out of here!

I have been going to this church for almost two months now, and low and behold, the men are still kind to me. I have positioned myself mentally in a space of observation as to be prepared when the true colors start showing. I fully expect to walk in on these men laughing about how fat my ankles are or plotting on how to best ask me out just to stand me up. I have grown to be so fond of these clean-spirited men that I am hoping this won't be the case. However, my experiences tell me that it most likely is, so on the defensive I stand. Better safe than sorry. Amen. 

Holls and the Gyno

Holly, you can not go through your 30s without going to the gynecologist! Bells texted me. I could actually hear her shrill voice yelling at me through the text, tapdancing on my nerves.
Yes, I know that you are supposed to go the gynecologist regularly even though I do not. You see, I choose to treat my vagina with the medicine of my ancestors: soap, water, and prayer.
There is no type of doctor on the face of the earth that I trust LESS than a gynecologist. However, my mentor told me that 2018 needs to be the year when I become proactive, not reactive with my health. So after my primary care visit, I began to look into finding a gynecologist.
Before I even started my search for a gyno, I knew that it was going to be a chore. There is that small, HUGE issue regarding me not being insured so my gyno would have to be cheap. So I am prepared for the doctor I find to see two patients at a time, reuse dirty tools, or operate out of a gas station bathroom. I also would like for my gyno to be a she, and not have a ton of bad reviews online. She would also have to understand that I have self-diagnosed vag shame and am HIGHLY uncomfortable with anyone taking a peek at my goods.
Searching local doctors in Atlanta was hard. I could tell from the location of the doctor's offices that I couldn't afford to be seen there. And then I came across a doctor who was perfect. I was taken by her smile and professional photo. Her eyes were warm. I just felt like I knew her, then I realized I did. She went to college with me.
This doctor is actually one of those upperclassman girls from the bathroom at homecoming which reminded me of my number one gyno requirement: I can't know her! I don't need someone I know looking at my vag and judging me and then telling my business. And let me just say that I know that doctors talk! I can't have my graduating class knowing my stats. They know too much about me as is.
So unofficially, my gyno search is still going on, although, I do think I have found something better: a self-pap kit I came across online. I will keep you posted.

Summer Sips- Lychee Frosé Piscine

Ingredients & Tools:

1 Bottle of Rosé Piscine

1 Canned Lychee

1 Grenadine Syrup (optional)

Ice Cube Molds

Instructions:

1. Pour Rosé Piscine into ice cube molds

2. Freeze for 6 hours

3. Place ice cubes in blender,

4. Add 1 cup of Lychee syrup

5. Add 1 tsp of grenadine

6. Blend, decorate with red berries, and enjoy!