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.
Saturday, June 30, 2018
Thursday, June 28, 2018
#newauntyseason
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
Friday, June 15, 2018
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.
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.
"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.
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
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.
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.
Saturday, June 9, 2018
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.
"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.
Saturday, June 2, 2018
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.
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.
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