Let's Not Get Physical

I turned 39 the other day and I was excited to go to the aquarium with Bells who is in town for the holidays. I used to make it a point to go to the aquarium annually because it is free for your birthday, but I had not been in a couple of years. Outside of seeing Bells, I was excited about seeing the big turtle. I found out that his name is Tank and I like to see him slow drag across the water. Then my aunty asked me, "Are you going to be able to do all that walking?" I was offended at first. I mean, I'm not handicapped! But just then I remembered: it is a sh&tload of walking! 

Child.

When I tell you that my back was screaming before I even made it to the ticket line! I mean let's be clear: I am in no way delusional about how out of shape I am. Recently, walking through my alma mater's campus for homecoming had me on life support! However, a few years ago I was able to walk the aquarium while taking occasional breaks. The other day, if I could have copped a squat every three steps I would have. 

"Do you need one of those things the old people use?" Bells asked me. 

YES! I screamed in my head. "No, I'm going to walk it," I said, confidently. There was no way I was going to spend my 39th birthday, my last year of youth, being wheeled around the aquarium. I regretted that decision almost immediately. Who needs pride when you have lower back pain? During one of the exhibits, a man wheeled an elderly woman I assume was his mother right up to the tank to see the fish. Wow, she's living the life, I thought. The only issue is that she was like 100 and I technically am not even middle-aged yet. Ridiculous. 

Yall, we were there for hours. At one point, I was willing to throw myself in the Beluga tank if it meant that I could get some rest. On top of being tired and in pain, my anxiety was beginning to crank up. There were misbehaving, screaming children coming out of the ceiling! I imagined myself having to elbow crawl myself through the overpriced gift shop out to the curb to catch my Lyft. 

That didn't happen though. Bells and I left the aquarium and sat outside for a while, people watching and talking. Over 5000 steps later, I was mentally patting myself on the back. I did it! My whole body felt broken, but I did it! When I got home, I collapsed on to the floor of my room for what felt like a second but for what ended up being more than an hour. I did it, but I was celebrating a victory that shouldn't have even been a thing! 2025, I've got to do better. Like, I have to. 

 

Friendly Fired

You know, as a kid thinking about what my life would be like as an adult, I didn't think that I would be on the eve of being 39 with friendship problems, but here I am. Earlier this year, it came to me that I had friends in my life that didn't like me. It just popped into my head, and I didn't know what to do with this information. I mean, what can you do with that information? Months later, I can tell you that one of my friendships is pretty much over and the other is on life support with little chance of survival. The way things are going, I may be sailing into middle age solo. 

As sad as I am to be going into the new year short some homies, I do have to say that I am proud of myself. I am taking this so well that even I am shocked! But as I have heard many a comedian say, the older you get the less you care. 20-something year old me would have taken to the bed in tears. I find myself too tired from life's stresses to have a reaction this go around. I just find myself shaking my head about the situation before rolling over to get more sleep. Let's hear it for growth! 

Just a thought: you know how they are always doing reboots of TV shows from back in the day? I think that they should do one of like The Babysitter's Club where our favorite childhood characters, now well into their 50s, have decided to stop talking to each other after begrudgingly deciding to sell their multimillion dollar babysitting app. Claudia and Mary Ann were over it and ready to sell. Kristy wanted them to sell and stay on as creative directors. Dawn was with what everyone else wanted to do and Jessie wanted to go global. Now no one is speaking. It's important to prepare kids for the future. 

Sugar Mama Era

My good girlfriend Leah called me last night to update me on her love life. She is currently dating a much younger man. She was actually dating two much younger men, but she had to let one of them go because they were not acting right. She texted me the young man's picture and he is handsome, but he also looks like a baby about the face. Listening to her talk about him, he sounded nice, but I don't think that going younger is my scene. If going to homecoming and being around the current students taught me anything, it is that I am old and do not find anything about the next generation relatable or attractive. I am a very low energy person and when I think of a younger man, I see him acting like my 5-year-old nephew, running around the house at full speed before he accidentally breaks something. And that sounds like a nightmare. I am broken enough. 

The Kicker

Have you noticed that people in relationships or in a marriage or partnership never encourage you to find a mate? I used to think that they all wanted to be a part of this exclusive club. Now I think that they are trying to warn single women to consider other options. I have told some people in my life that I want to have a boyfriend, and these have been their responses:

Friend 1: "Get a cat."

Friend 2: "Get a dog."

Friend 3: "Get real."

Friend 4: "Get one of those professional cuddle buddies you can pay by the hour."

Friend 5: "Get a weighted blanket."

Friend 5 was my favorite because she elaborated on her response. She has also been in a committed relationship for 300 years. She says, "Boyfriends are a lot of work." She seemed so exhausted when she said it that I thought she was going to drop to the floor and take a nap right then! "Like, a lot of work. But you can get a weighted blanket on Amazon!" She said it as if she was five minutes away from placing an order of her own. 

Candy is nothing if not proactive. She sent me the link to what I thought was a dating app for men who like fat chicks. It ended up being a Facebook group for bony men who like to see hearty women in lacey thongs. I have not worn a thong since my sophomore year in college, so I don't think that page is the space for me. 

So sadly, I think that this is going to be another cold, cuddle-less winter. I have no idea where to find a man, and I attempted to give myself a big hug and it hurt my back and shoulder. That weighted blanket may be the move though. I saw some very affordable options on Amazon. 

Stressed

Homecoming is over and it is now time to return to the disappointing garbage can fire that is my life. I have officially plunged into Post Traumatic Homecoming Syndrome. That is when I return home and realize, after spending the weekend fraternizing with doctors and pharmacists, that I am a loser. On top of this, I am so sleepy I cannot sleep. I babysat my 2-month-old niece that slept in 15-minute intervals before waking up screaming. I do believe that I am traumatized by my train ride to and from New Orleans. The ride was long, I was beyond uncomfortable, and an old drunk man flashed me his penis which was HORRIBLE! I won't even talk about my never-ending search for good, affordable healthcare.  I am anxious. My nerves are on end. I desire silence and solitude. On top of this, I want to drop my head into a cake. I need a shower. I have therapy tomorrow, thank God. Sleepy. Okay, bye. 

Homecoming Post 10 (Bonus)- The Gold and The Beautiful

Int. Bedroom of a Bayou Mansion- Night

HOLLY CLAY wakes up with a start in a beautifully decorated bedroom. She sits up, realizing that she is wearing a princess gown, think Tiana from The Princess and The Frog.

HOLLY

Where am I?

A grandfather clock strikes midnight in the corner. Holly gets up from the bed as there is a knock on the door. She races to the door and opens it to see CANE THE KAPPA on the porch. He is wearing a black and maroon suit and tails, and his hair is long, down to his waist.

HOLLY

Whoa. Did you get a relaxer?

CANE

I did. What do you think?

HOLLY

I can dig it daddy.

CANE

Good, because this Just for Me is just for you.

Cane enters the house as the chopped and screwed version of "Cupid" by 112 blares from someplace upstairs. He then begins to shimmy the 100 feet to the dining room. They have a seat at a long dining room table, think Beauty and the Beast.

HOLLY

Wow. This is gorgeous. I just...I don't know how I got here.

CANE

I guess the question is, how do any of us really get anywhere?

HOLLY

Uh...walking. Running. Skipping.

CANE

(tossing his outrageously long hair over his shoulder)

Or by floating on the wings of your love.

HOLLY

Ah Cane, that's so-

There is a loud knock on the front door.

HOLLY

Who the hell is it?!

Holly kicks off her crystal flats and slides to the door. She opens it to find CAPTAIN MORGAN.

HOLLY

Captain Morgan?! What do you want?

CAPTAIN MORGAN

Hey Holly. I just wanted to say that I am sorry.

HOLLY

Sorry for what?

CAPTAIN MORGAN

Nothing. I just heard that you like to hear men apologize for stuff.

HOLLY

True dat. But I'm in the middle of something here.

CAPTAIN MORGAN

Listen, I'm married. You don't know my wife, but just know that she's a baddie.

HOLLY

Of course.

CAPTAIN MORGAN

But I did want you to know that if I would have known your feelings for me your freshman year, I would have dropped that Miss Xavier and got with you.

HOLLY

No, you wouldn't have.

CAPTAIN MORGAN

No, I wouldn't have. But overlooking you was cold. Some may even say it was ice cold.

HOLLY

Alright. Okay. See you later bro.

Holly slams the door shut and races back to the dining room which has been transformed into a ballroom. Cane is twirling his kane to the slowed version of "Rain" by SWV. She steps on to the ballroom floor as diamonds begin to rain from the ceiling.

HOLLY

Diamonds!

CANE

Not just any diamonds. Kappa diamonds.

HOLLY

What is the difference between a real diamond and a Kappa diamond?

CANE

I don't know. What's the difference between a bad wig and a so-so sew-in?

HOLLY 

Can I touch your kane?

CANE

That depends. Are your hands clean?

HOLLY

As clean as they're gonna be.

The two race towards each other but stop midway as they hear "I'm in Love" by Ginuwine blaring from outside. Holly rushes to the window to see SPHINXIE VAN NO-STEP standing in the rain with a large boom box.

CANE

Man...you have a lot of dudes coming around here.

HOLLY

I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I will get rid of him.

Holly walks out a side door and the bayou has been transformed into a desert. She reaches out her hand. Snow is falling.

HOLLY

Sphinxie, it's freezing!

SPHINXIE

Is it? I can't tell, I have an icebox where my heart used to be!

That's all for now

Homecoming Post 9: Cry Me a Gyna- The Girl and the Gyno pt. 3

I was really cranky after the event on the yard on Friday. I was hungry, tired, and just wanted to sit down somewhere. Yet this task was proving to be impossible because three of my requested ride share rides had either left me or dropped the ride. They all claimed that they could not find the University Center. On top of this, my sad excuse for a smart phone kept dying. My anxiety was high and I wanted to scream. Just as I opened my mouth to let out an earth-shaking holler, Happy Face and her friend were about to walk right past me. 

"Hey!" I said excitedly to Happy Face. "You are a gynecologist, right?"

"Yes," she answered, sweetly. It was then that I let out a diarrhetic spew of the nightmare that has been trying to find a good gyno in Atlanta. I especially filled her in on this last experience where the doctor threw out the words endometrial cancer without so much as a PAP or blood draw. I told her how she wanted to put me under anesthesia and give me an IUD. 

After going on and on and on with a dead phone in my hand and no way back home, I took a breath and said, "I just did not feel heard."

She rubbed my back and said, "I'm sorry. I can see you."

I was so appreciative I could have thrown myself around her ankles. If I could have taken my gyna and put it in a bag for her to take back to her hotel room to investigate I would have. Running into her was great, especially since I asked my primary care for a referral a month ago and still have not heard back. 

This is also a huge deal because I have spent my adult life trying to dodge Xavier doctors and pharmacists. I know about HIPPA and all of that, but I just imagine that they all do a Zoom call weekly and talk about all the gross medical issues their Xavierite patients have. And it's not just me. I knew someone that went to the drug store to get a morning after pill, saw the pharmacist was from Xavier and ran out of the store. That would have been my response.

But I won't be running from Happy Face. Fingers crossed that my visit, like the others I have had, won't be a complete disaster. 

Homecoming Post 8: Old- Treating HER-rectile Dysfunction

I just want you to know that this homecoming I had the best intentions. I was going to go to all of the events and take lots of pictures. I was going to twerk my away across every Xavier event! Spoiler alert: that did not happen. The first event I attended was on the yard on Friday. Getting out of my Uber, I had a strong urge to climb back in and go back to the Air B and B. Listening to the loud music and seeing the students bouncing around, I felt like I needed a good two-hour nap. After that, I was supposed to go to the day party, which I was actually excited about, but that plan got derailed after I ordered myself some Copeland's for dinner and decided to catch up on Grey's Anatomy. 

"So, you don't want to go to the club?" Big Homie Sans asked that Friday, disappointed. I snickered to myself. In college, I went out every weekend and didn't really want to go then, at 18! If Uber would have been around in 2003, I would have spent exactly five minutes at every party before returning back to the dorm to enjoy a hot shower with everyone gone. Looking at the party flyers with Big Homie Sans made me yawn. I'd have to get dressed and do my hair to go to said club, get a car and go to said club, stand in line at said club, try not to collapse from exhaustion at said club. God forbid I did a line dance. I just may have gone to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, used my clutch bag as a pillow, and turned in for the night. 

Saturday night I could tell that I had gotten on Big Homie Sans's nerves. I had promised to go to the club party that night but had again gotten sidetracked by Copeland's and news clips from CBS Mornings. She was amped up on energy drinks and ready to boogie, and I was full of Oreo cheesecake and ready to count sheep. Watching her put on her eye makeup, I did feel a little sad. She was so excited to party, and I had absolutely no desire to go out at all. All I could think of was those erectile dysfunction commercials where they are like, "Is your energy down? Is it hard for you to get excited? Are you disappointing the woman in your life?" I looked up at Big Homie Sans on the edge of the bed, pouting at me. "You may have erectile dysfunction." Maybe I have HER-rectile Dysfunction or She E.D. 

Or I am old. 

You have to remember that I was the only girl in my kindergarten class that carried a purse! The only girl in middle school whose grandma set her hair with foam rollers. Now I am 38 and put going out to a club and having fun with friends in the same basket as doing Crossfit or climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. Maybe next year I will buy an overpriced section at the club with bottle service so I can sit and tap my toes to the music. Just don't say a word if you notice that I am wearing a floor length nightgown and watching Murder She Wrote on my phone. Real change takes time. 

Homecoming Post 7: Tailgate Uncut

Do you all remember BET Uncut? That show that would come on late nights on BET that would show all the nasty, sexual music videos? Upon arriving at the tailgate, I swear to you, I thought that the whole thing may have been sponsored by BET Uncut! For those of you who have not been back to XU for the tailgate, let me prepare you: Norman C. Frances is gone, the nuns are dead, and these young XU undergrad girls have lost their minds! Last year, I was told that I was sounding like a disgruntled aunty because I was complaining about the turbo weaves, paste on edges, and wack-a-diddy false eyelashes. But this year- I could not believe my eyes! 

Okay, so I know that the girls dressed risqué when I was a student. But this new class of girls puts those old short-shorts and tight tops to shame. My aunt and I sat on the wall beside the tailgate people watching, and I am not even going to tell you how many whole, bare asses we saw. It was an asstastic mess! Remember back in the day, underboob was all the rage? I am not kidding when I say that these girls had their entire behinds exposed. If one of my Xavier brothers would have seen my whole butt as a kid in college, I would have died on the spot! Purple Reign sat beside me for a spell, watching the butt brigade go by. I told him if the girls would have been like this when we were in school, his penis would have exploded. He agreed. 

So apparently, a trend now is wearing tennis skirts that hike up in the back and show your behind. That might not have been so bad if any of the girls partaking in this trend would have bothered to put on underwear! Skintight leather shorts are also a look, but the look is only done correctly if your butt gobbles up the shorts almost entirely. The Gen Z girls love their thigh high cowboy boots which I must admit, were cute. However, hours twerking on concrete at the tailgate left many of the ladies hobbling out of the tents like they had just had a long night at the strip club. Purple Reign introduced me to a current professor at the school who said he was scared to go into the tents out of fear of seeing one of his students half naked! 

And it's not just the sweet petites showing their literal asses. I saw a lot of back fat and thigh dimples out there. I honestly can't tell if these girls have high self-esteem or have completely lost touch with reality. What I can say is that if I went to XU now, I'd be the belle of the ball! 

Brandon had a different perspective. He felt that that girls were only dressed this way to sell sex or to catch an old sugar daddy. I thought he was being ridiculous. Yes, the girls looked trashy, but these are also the doctors and pharmacists of the next generation! But sadly guys, he may have been right. Whenever I saw a fresh, young bottom twisting by, there was an elderly, thirsty Xavier man not too far behind it. 

Why am I telling you all of this? I guess I am a little bit of a disgruntled aunty. I want the young ladies to know that they are more than their bodies. At the very least, I want you to know what to pack if you come next year. 

Homecoming Post 6: The Engagement Arrangement

Don't let the smooth taste fool ya. Just because Xavier is a Catholic school, that does not mean that many of its grads are in conservative relationships. I mean, a lot of people are married or dating. Yet, the way it was explained to me by people with skin in the game, there are a lot of situationships, sortaships, quickieships. Child, there are a lot of ships and a lot of them sink! People are hooking up and getting down in these black and gold streets! I even wanted to interview this man I went to school with for my InstaLive who has an "unconventional marriage" with his wife. And by unconventional, I mean he and his wife allegedly come to the tailgate to pick up chicks! Folks are just creating the romantic relationships they want out here and I am trying not to hate about it. The longest relationship I have ever had is with this outdated, slow "smart"phone of mine. 

Enter Savannah. She and her partner Brandon have been in a relationship for about five years. They have kids. They live together. They go on date nights and throw birthday parties. They put together elaborate playscapes for their kids in the backyard. So, I was surprised when out of nowhere, she announced to me as I was sitting outside the tailgate, "I gave Brandon an ultimatum and told him that he needs to propose by the end of this year."

I turned to my aunty who was sitting right beside me and her face went completely blank, a talent that I have never been able to master. 

"Oh Savannah, that's not a good idea," I said, shaking my head. 

"I had to start pulling the Band-Aid off. If he doesn't do it, it's not like I'm going to leave."

I looked back to my aunt whose face was still blank. This was a bad idea. Ultimatums NOTORIOUSLY do not work! If anything, they make things worse and cause resentment and anger. I mean, we only need to look at the show The Ultimatum! No matter how sweetly you word the demand, someone ends up alone and embarrassed. 

So, I called Savannah to get permission to blog about this and to get some clarity on some things. She basically said that the whole thing was not as big as I was making it. So, I told her how an OG once told me: an ultimatum is much like a gun. If you are going to pull it out, you better be prepared to take action. You gotta be ready to stand on the demand. 

My stomach began to hurt even more on the situation when she told me that she meant by the end of this year, not next year. It's already November! My friend wants to be proposed to within two months! Had she not heard the word? These Xavier men will drag an engagement like a Newport! 

"He will do it if he loves me," she said confidently, right before we got off the phone. 

I hope he does. She deserves a ring. Anyway, there is no room in the Xavier dating pool for another relationship casualty. 

Homecoming Post 5: What Ever Happened to Nerdy Nadine? Another Drexel Wife Mystery

I have been to a few of these homecomings at this point and I am here to tell you that Xavier men marry two types of women: the ones that are very present, in your face, and attached at the hip or "The Caspers"- the ones that you know they married because you saw the pics on Instagram but you never see them in person or with them anywhere since. You need to know this to understand why I am concerned that Nerdy Nadine has gone ghost. 

Chocolate Chuck and Nerdy Nadine were an item all the while I was in school. They were a year ahead of me and ALWAYS together. Always. She had a claim on him that was very strong, considering that we were not that far removed from high school. They felt married even then. She was "nice" on the surface. But if you so much as looked at Chocolate Chuck for longer than she deemed appropriate, she would send dagger eyes at you from across the room. I have a few friends that thought he was cute in college and received the Artic shoulder from her. My homegirl Ditzy Diana said she actually hooked up with him and I feared for her safety. Nerdy Nadine was not f*&king around when it came to her man! She even tried to maintain this hold over him once he became Greek, which was sweet but about as fruitful as trying to collect water in a bucket with a hole in it. You see I knew something at 18 that she knew at 19 but was obviously choosing to ignore: Chocolate Chuck was slicker than Vaseline! It is one thing when a guy thinks he's slick. That can be...corrected. But when a guy actually is slick, it's a done deal. 

Following the Clues

It first became clear to me that something was up with Nerdy Nadine when Chocolate Chuck became a fixture on other people's IG pages going on trips and stuff without her. Then I ran into him at my 10-year reunion and he was shockingly solo. I very carefully approached him, not putting it past Nerdy Nadine to jump off the top of the University Center and take off my head, Kill Bill style. 

"Hey Chuck, where's Nadine?" I asked, looking over my shoulder. 

"She is at home with the kids," he said with that pretty, slick-ni*ga smile of his. Let me tell you, the only time I have actually been able to raise one eyebrow was after he said that. Recently, I saw him on IG at his frat brother's house looking gooooood topless poolside. I mean good, like Chic-Fil-A cookie good. The boy was serving body like cocktails! Now Nerdy Nadine and I were not friends in school, but I know she would have never allowed this! Purple Reign took a pic with him at homecoming. He brought up the case before I could even ask him about it. 

"I asked about Nerdy Nadine and he was very cryptic. He also was not wearing his ring," Purple Reign confirmed. "I think that they are divorced and co-parenting."

Maybe. But she is still in his IG photo, so I don't know. In my opinion, it is more likely that she is on an island with a lot of other Drexel wives, trying to get a phone signal. The world may never know. 

Homecoming Post 4: Justin Did Something to Deirdra

 "I don't like Justin," Big Homie Sans said, plopping belly first on the bed in my Air B and B. "Not after what happened with Deirdra."

I exhaled deeply, relieved. Deirdra had told someone other than me, hopefully closer to the time that everything went down. For a long time, I thought I may be the only person who knew, seeing that lips were really loose in college, and I never heard anyone mention anything. But it makes total sense. Deirdra was quiet and conservative and very easily shamed and embarrassed. I would not have put it past her to tell each of her friends just a little slice of what happened, leaving all of us unable to really say anything because we didn't have enough of the facts. The gist of what I could take away from the story was that, in short, Justin and done something to Deirdra. 

"Um, I'm pretty sure he is a sociopath," Big Homie Sans continued, flipping over on her back. 

This is possible. Big Homie Sans is nothing, nothing if not in tune with energies and spirits. She reads it all: auras, attitudes, faces, the room. Whatever! Thus is the case of Creole women who were raised by Creole women who were raised by Creole women who were raised by Creole women who were raised by Creole women who learned spirituality from stolen African women on the bayou. 

"I talked to him today in the UC. He is so funny and charming," I said, shaking my head. I wasn't excusing him, but I can tell why Deirdra had been intoxicated. 

"Most sociopaths are!" Big Homie Sans exclaimed. 

That night after she left, I continued to think about the situation, or at least, what I know of it. Deirdra and I lost contact a few years ago. I thought about how this was back in the early 2000s, not in this time after #MeToo and #TimesUp. People were not automatically prone to "believe women". And no one was talking about consent and sexual privacy and body autonomy and revenge porn. It just was not happening! And my sweet friend Deirdra had to approach the administration at a CATHOLIC university during this time? 

As for Justin, I am both disappointed in and confused by him. Even speaking with him at homecoming I wondered, who am I talking to here? Am I talking to a sexual deviant or someone who did something really bad when they were really young? Is 2004 Justin still chilling under his crisp button up, waiting for a chance to show up and show out? Is he apologetic? We will never know because I can never ask him. Yet even through million-dollar smiles and jokes, he will forever get a side eye from me. 

Homecoming Post 3: CC is Too Nice for DST (A Cute Story)

I ran into CC at homecoming! 

CC was my friend Singalong's roommate. I thought that they were the oddest pair because Singalong was older than her, wildly outspoken, and could be a little...harsh. Especially if she did not know you. CC, on the other hand, was kind and sweet and downright adorable! She had the most babydoll-esque face. But they got a long really well. I was excited to catch up with her at homecoming. She walked over to me with a friend who went to XU who I did not remember but who had one of the best twist outs I've ever seen! 

"You know Singalong predicted that you were on line but I didn't believe her," I told her on the side of the bookstore. "I told her you could never be a Delta because you are too nice." She thought that that was funny, which gave me permission to tell the story. 

The Story

I cannot remember why I went down to Singalong's room but if I know our friendship well enough, we were probably meeting up to get something to eat. I walked in to see her in thought on her bed. 

"What's wrong?" I asked her. 

"Nothing. I just think that CC is on line to be a Delta."

I laughed out loud. "Your roommate CC? That's impossible! She is way too nice for DST."

Singalong nodded, as if she had considered this, but she stood firm in her conclusion. 

"Why do you think this?" I asked, but I knew the answer. At that point, enough of our friends had crossed to know the signs. I didn't know CC that well, but I knew her enough that if she was on line, I felt like I would have picked up on it myself. "Wait. Isn't the neophyte show like a few days from now?" I asked. I had seen the flyers up. 

"Yep."

I laughed again. "Come on Singalong. If she were on line, she would be coming in under those hiatus Deltas, the ones that just got back after they were kicked off the yard. We know all of them! They would have turned her into a complete nightmare by now! She surely wouldn't be skipping around here, smiling and waving to folks."

Singalong nodded. I was making an excellent point. But years of watching Ghost Writer would not allow the case to be closed without the proper investigation. We were going to have to search her closet. Clearly, if she was on line, there would be some kind of coming out outfit, right? For the show?

I skimmed through the clothes in her closet. CC was nothing if not neat. All I saw were jeans and tops. Looking back, I don't know what I expected to see. An elephant costume? A white turtleneck with glow in the dark red triangles on it?

I took out a black suit with a red and white pinstripes on it. 

"See, all she has is church clothes in here!" We laughed and I put the suit back in her closet. A few days later, when she crossed DST, she wore that very same suit. 

"I'm sorry I went through your closet CC," I told her, like 15 years later last week. 

She shrugged and laughed. "I would not have known if you would not have just told me just now."

See? What did I tell you. Adorable! 

Homecoming Post 2: The Flash

Much like the Dodo bird, I do not fly to travel. Yet, much like a snob, I do not take the bus. I have hair- raising memories of taking the bus back to college of sticky, icky people sneezing on me. So, when I found out that the train was about the same price, cleaner, and more comfortable, I was sold. I have fond memories of getting on the train, going to sleep in a half-empty rail car, and waking up at my destination refreshed. Those memories have been crushed. 

I am not sure what possessed me and my aunt to take the train to New Orleans. I am guessing it was the $35 ticket both ways. For some reason, the ride there wasn't the quick shot to the NOLA that I remember it being. I felt every moment of that 10hr ride. Every. Moment. It was long and crowded. Between sitting across from the bathroom and getting a whiff whenever someone opened the door to the sound of hungry people biting into Doritos, this ride was no ice cream sundae. However, the cherry on top was a drunk, elderly man flashing me his placid penis.

The moment this guy got on the train, I knew that he was drunk. He kept getting up to pee and he was mumbling to himself. When that got old, he began walking up and down the train, just being annoying. I was watching a movie on my phone when he waved his hands at me to ask if the seat across from me was taken. I told him no and went back to my movie. I was beyond ready to get off the train and did not want to talk to him. 

That didn't stop him from talking though, even though he saw me with my earphones on. I just nodded and smiled, listening to the movie. I randomly turned to my side and saw him smiling at me, pointing at his penis with one hand and shaking it with the other one. 

"HE FLASHED ME!" I yelled. He then got up from his seat and ran to the back of the train and put a COVID mask on as a disguise. When the train attendant talked to him, he said he didn't flash me. He just thought that he had recently contracted crabs and was inspecting himself. 🙄

This is the 4th time in my life I have been flashed, which leads me to ask this: what do men see when they see their junk? Rainbows? Magic? Cookies? I just have to assume it's something that they think the world's women want to see, the way they can't wait to show them! 

This was Wednesday night. The tone for homecoming was officially set. 

Homecoming Post 1: The Legend of Sphinxie van No-Step

I am not going to lie: On Saturday, by the time I got to the homecoming tailgate, I was in a bit of a mood. I was hangry, my feet were hurting, and I could use a 6-hour nap. I also had on a jacket, and it was unexpectedly HOT. It was the type of heat that makes your eyeballs smoggy.

Why am I here? I asked myself, looking around at the boatloads of people that didn't seem to feel like they were in the devil's mouth. Even my aunty seemed oblivious, eagerly walking from tent to tent. I gotta go, I said to myself, turning on my heels. No sooner did I do that did I run into one of my favorite Alphas: Captain Morgan. This was interesting because the last time I remember seeing him was at my 10-year reunion. I walked over to give him a hug and he pulled me close whispering in my ear, "Don't say anything about the naked picture. My wife is here." That's a story for another time. He had also almost killed me three times in my early 20s. That's another-nother story for another-nother time. I'm not sure if his wife was there yesterday. The last person I remember him dating was that itsy-bitsy Miss Xavier with the big butt and smart mouth. We caught up for a hot second and he gave me a sweaty, alcoholy hug. God, his body felt strong. If my aunty had not come back over, I swear I would have bitten his neck. And if that would have happened, I'd be writing this from a self-imposed, overseas exile.

Once our convo was over, I told my aunty that I was ready to go. I was supposed to meet some people out there; however, being out there felt unbearable. So, I walked around a sea of middle-aged AKAs trying to do the latest line dance when I saw him: Sphinxie van No-Step!

No way! I said to myself. I swear to you, I manifested him! 

You see, my ability to develop a crush on Xavier men that have no idea who I am is legendary. I wish I could say that it was different with Sphinxie. Just recently, his picture had been posted on my friend's IG page and I messaged my friend Bell's hysterically. It's Sphinxie van No Step! I cried through the message. She replied quickly not missing a beat: My God! That brotha could not step. 

Until I saw him attempt to step, I had no idea that you could be Greek and not know how to. I figured if you didn't know how, you would be taught how. If this is the case, somehow Sphinxie slipped through the cracks. I stood in front of the University Center once and saw him and his line brothers performing in the tiny parking lot across the street from my dorm before a bunch of AKAs and doting girls. I mean, I was speechless. Never had I seen such jolty, uncoordinated movements in my life! With 50 AKAs clapping a rhythm to his ankles, he just couldn't get it. It looked like he was doing some ritualistic tribal dance. Aw, he's awkward, I thought, which made my heart smile. And you all know that once my heart starts smiling...

Then I got to know him briefly as the president of the NAACP. Little Miss Texas had invited me to a meeting only after explaining that I was not to humiliate her in any way. And I sat in that meeting watching him whisper in front of the classroom that he wanted everyone to quiet down so the meeting could start. No one was paying attention! Everyone was laughing and talking. I'm not even sure if they noticed him up there. Aw, he's soft spoken, I thought. Insert heart smile. Inevitably, Busty O'LoudMouth  busted into the room and yelled, "Hey, shut the hell up! Don't you see President Sphinxie is trying to start the meeting?!" It was so quiet you could hear a pen drop. 

My last crushable memory of Sphinxie was on a random New Orleans day. I remember thinking that if I had known I was going to run into him head-on, I wouldn't have dressed like an art teacher in a women's jail! I used to love tall tees and baggy jeans because I thought the look made me look thinner. It didn't. He looked up at me with those EYES, smiled with those TEETH, and waved. And I over-waved because I was probably more awkward than him! Aw, he's nice, I said, skipping to class. Heart Smile.

The Flo Jo Theory

 As I have told you all before, I am ASTOUNDED that I am not one of those people who is completely unphased by death. I spent my childhood handing out with my old grandma and her old friends at a senior independent living facility. Someone she knew was always dying. And it was never really a sad occasion. Grandma and her friends would hear the news about someone who died in their sleep or had a heart attack, and they'd shake their heads, talk about what a shame that was, and go back to their ceramics. Being in that environment, I was completely death-jaded. It just felt like something you did, like picking up groceries or washing your clothes. 

Now, as I slide into middle age, I feel like I am as mature about death as I should have been then. When the avalanche of death hit my family, I was confused and irritated as if death was yet another subscription service that I didn't want to be a part of but was enrolled in. Yet as we know, death is not Hello Fresh, it's a scary, inevitable thing. 

That brings me to Ms. Nadine. She was a 40-something year old woman who attended my church. I e-met her during the pandemic when we were all going to church via Zoom. She was in my prayer group and was a very nice, perky lady. She was a mother and a caregiver to her mother who had Alzheimer's. And this woman had a heart for God. The joy she had after she got baptized. Let me tell you, you could feel the sunshine in her eyes through the computer screen. There was no way you could tell that she was in horrible, excruciating pain, but she was. One minute, she mentioned that she had bad stomach pains during a prayer call. Soon after that, I prayed with her about it in the wee hours of the morning. She was in so much pain, she couldn't sleep. Soon after that, she found out that she had stomach cancer that was spreading. We all prayed for her. She prayed on her own. Her family prayed. She died a couple of weeks ago. 

She was in a lot of pain after a long time of chemo treatments. The last time I saw her was Easter, and she had lost so much weight that I didn't immediately recognize her. Look, I get that people die. That I will die. That the people I love will die. But what I can't wrap my mind around is the attitude about death that the Christians in my life have. 

"I just called to tell you that Ms. Nadine has lost the race," my spiritual mentor told me. I honest to God didn't know what she was talking about. Then at church during a dedication the prayer group put together, the attitude was that she had now won the race because she was Jesus. It took everything I had not to boo my minister. Won the race? I think that Ms. Nadine would have liked to be healthy and alive to live and spend more time with her family, not pulling a Flo Jo in an imaginary sprint! I mean, what is wrong with people?! 

I am having hard time with people. Ms. Nadine was a sweetheart who is dead. Meanwhile, there is some pedophile serial killer out there on a beach vaykay and living his best life. It seems to get more confusing for me with each death of a loved one that I experience. I am not sure what to do. I guess I should keep a bag packed with sweats and a pair of Nikes, just in case I myself have to make a spiritual run for it. 

The Homecoming Zero

Everyone who has gone to college is familiar with what is called "The Freshman Fifteen". This refers to when you inevitably gain fifteen pounds as a freshman, far away from your mama's grilled veggies and baked chicken and full of cafeteria fried fish and starchy carbs. By the second semester of freshman year, most girls get it together and start working out and eating right, afraid that they will no longer look hot in their club clothes. I am currently experiencing "The Homecoming Zero". This is where you are obese, but you make a crazy, impossible goal to be skinny by the next homecoming, only to end up losing no weight at all😞. 

Guys, I started off so good. My girl LD was my accountability partner. We shared our snacking struggles and took pics of our lunch to keep each other on the right track. I started wearing my Fitbit again. I cut back on sugar. I EVEN STARTED MEAL PREPPING DISGUSTING SALADS FOR LUNCH! Yet as the year went on, I began to get depressed. Seeing that I deal with my emotions by overeating, not eating to deal with my issues was making me very, very sad. Seven months in, gummy bears and sodas had made their way back into my diet. Now, homecoming is less than 30 days away, and I am royally screwed! 

Not only am I disappointed in myself, but I am not at all excited about seeing some of the girls I graduated with. Many of them have a house full of kids and yet they are still bikini ready. Their skin is flawless. Their titties sit pretty. Their butts are high and firm. It's like being in a very uncool version of The Twilight Zone! I at least wanted to be small enough to walk my campus without collapsing to the ground in the unyielding New Orleans heat. Sigh. Dream a little dream. In my defense, I wasn't really able to do that while I was in college. 

I am also upset that I will not be able to look as slutty as I wanted to for the club parties. I had big dreams of sheer, sheer, and more sheer. It looks like it is going to be another year of toe-tingling shapewear and sack-like granny dresses. No fun and no fair. My Fashion Nova Curve cart was TOGETHER, do you hear me?

Well, it's not time for homecoming yet. There is still time to starve. My family loves this. This is when I eat only when I absolutely have to, crankily barking and yelling at everyone around. I can also wear all black. Do they make burkas in plus sizes?

The Girl and the Gyno pt 2: Gyno Heaven

Let me just say this: I have come to the conclusion that quality feminine health care is just not in the cards for me. By the time I am 40, I will be carrying my vagina in a freezer bag in my purse. Three weeks ago, I was excited about the new gynecologist I had been referred to. Today, I find myself Googling how to perform my own hysterectomy/oophorectomy at home. This is my story. 

Those of you who know me know that my gynecologist visits are not like that of the average bear. They are very emo and exhausting and tiring. There will be guaranteed tears, no matter how much I pray beforehand. However, I tried to be optimistic about my upcoming visit. I decided to make the change from my last doctor. His exam tables were high, and I nearly disconnected my hip trying to get on them.  My last visit to him was so Stephen King that we both walked away visibly shaken. So, as much as I loved the nurses at his practice, I decided to find someone else. My primary care doctor gave me a referral, and I had high hopes for my next exam. That was my first mistake. 

The office is in one of those shiny high-rise buildings with a security guard at the front entrance. I took the elevator to the office, and it was very much like a gyno office that you would see in a movie. The furniture was gorgeous and sparkly! It was like I was in Gyno Heaven! That didn't stop my anxiety from going through the roof as I waited for my appointment. 

By the time I got to the nurse to get my blood pressure taken, I was already in slow, quiet tears. I was so amped up inside that she couldn't get an accurate reading. Big surprise. So, she dumped me in an exam room and said that she would be right back. We all know that that was a lie. When doctors or nurses leave the room, it's a wrap. You are lucky not to be old and gray when they return. But the nurse did return and began asking me those stupid visit questions that have nothing to do with anything. She seemed nice, and I didn't want to get an attitude with her. But if she asked me one more stupid question about my hobbies, I was going to throw my wallet at her head! 

She could tell I was agitated and ended the questionnaire early. She handed me some Kleenex and left the room again. When she returned, she said we were switching rooms, and when I walked into the new room I gasped. It was a room with a low, fat girl friendly exam table! I couldn't believe my eyes! Two years of playing exam room double Dutch with my old gyno's exam tables and there was such a thing as a fat girl exam table?! I was in shock, and in a good way. 

This visit may go well, I said to myself. 

WRONG! Moments later, I underwent a Pap test that would have made Wes Craven nervous. Well, sort of. 

Happy

The other day, I was talking on the phone to Kinfolk. He is one of my oldest friends. Just a little background: I met him in college. He married one of my closest girlfriends. He's really southern and grows vegetables. Anywho, I was talking to him about the weightloss drugs I have been prescribed and depression meds and he goes, "You do seem a lot happier Clay." (insert eyeroll). I then ask, "Uh...was I ever happy?" And he says, "Yes."

Listen, if regular people could get an Emmy, I apparently would have one. Winfrey said something similar a long time ago about my having been "happy", which left me confused and scratching my head. I spend most of my time screaming in my head and gripping my edges. Looking back, my whole life has been riddled with fear and anxiety and functional depression. I didn't know that I was exhibiting these symptoms as a kid and young adult. I was just being Holly: the overemotional fat girl that liked to make mountains out of mole hills. The ho that was COVID revealed to me during quarantine that people around the world who demonstrate Holly-ness are typically medicated. Apparently, crying multiple times a day to "relax" isn't really a thing. 

Yet, to Kinfolk's credit, I was able to camouflage these issues in college with parties, study sessions, optimism about my future and excitement about being away from home. I know longer party. I have nothing to study for. I'm about as optimistic as a man in the electric chair. And my future...don't even get me started! In my defense, it was easy to laugh and smile in my 20s because I didn't see the avalanche of BS that was coming my way. Seem a lot happier. Give me a break. When I meet people my age who are grinning like they are 22, I assume that they are either drunk or that they have accepted the fact that they have lost their minds. One thing I don't assume is that they are happy, and as glass half empty as I am that makes me sad. 

The Girl and the Gyno

I have to find a new gynecologist. 

This may not seem like a big deal, but when you are overweight with body image issues, past Pap trauma, and no money, it can be a bit of a challenge. It's not something that I wanted to do, so I have been putting it off. But today I woke up with it on my mind, so I went to the list of gyno's I found on Google weeks ago and began to call around for questions and quotes, my anxiety at an all-time high. 

The first time I called Dr. A, her receptionist hung up on me. We will give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that it was a mistake. The second time I called I said hello and introduced myself for the receptionist to say in an annoyed voice, "Can you hold on?!" Before I could answer, she clicked over to another line, leaving me to listen to bad elevator music. I ultimately hung up before she could come back on the line, but waited a good while, hoping I would get the chance to yell, "Hey! Don't you know I am the daughter of a woman who ignored symptoms in her body until she literally dropped dead? I am trying to be proactive here biotch! How about a little compassion?!" That chance never came. I was tired of listening to scratchy Kenny G songs. 

I had a good feeling about Dr. B just looking at her name on my list. Her receptionist answered the phone after two rings, and her voice was bright and sunny. I thanked her for being so nice, because Dr. A's receptionist was rude. "Oh no! Rude already? It's too early in the morning!" My sentiments exactly. She and I chatted for a moment before she told me that the price of getting a Pap uninsured is $500. Sadly, I had to pass on that. 

Dr. C was a joke altogether.  First of all, she had that annoying phone system where you have to press 1 or 2 to get to speak to the person you need to speak to. I finally got to a receptionist that didn't sound rude, just overwhelmed. She put me on hold for so long that I ended up back on her line. She then forwarded me to a voicemail box that I am 98% sure never gets checked. 

By the end of it all, I found myself in the fetal position, panicked and anxious. How is it that we have little blue pills for men so that they can be 100 and sustain an erection, yet there is no at-home Pap test for well-meaning large women who just want some semblance of healthcare with no patience or money? I mean come on, where is science when you need her?!

I gave myself a break and streamed some TV before getting back on the horse, looking for someone to tend to my kitty. No luck today. Damn America's strict medical protocols. I am sure that in another country I could get this done by a med student for $20 in the backseat of their car. 

Dissecting the Dump

In the early 2000s I was friend dumped by two people that were very important to me: FeFeDo and Brownie. Both of them cut me off like a diabetic toe and didn't look back, and to say that I was hurt by this is an understatement. I would go as far as to say that I mourned them. The loss of them in my life was great. Yet, it was a weird kind of mourning, seeing that I still saw them on social media living their best lives. They weren't a few cups of dust in a couple of erns somewhere. They were alive and well, going to cookouts and gender reveals. They just didn't want to talk to me, which was a very bitter pill to swallow. Last year, I got closure from FeFeDo via text. Long story short, she felt like I was needy which was interesting, seeing that I talked her through every single one of her botched situationships that usually ended up in a dumpster fire of her own making, but that is neither here nor there. I am grateful that we got to clear the air, even though we are no longer friends. Brownie, on the other hand, is a fart in the wind. I will never know why he friend dumped me but his exit from my life reaffirmed something I pieced together as a child dealing with paternal abandonment issues: these bros ain't loyal. 

I have said it before and I will say it again: being friend dumped is worse than being dumped by a romantic partner because you kind of expect your partner to screw you. Your friends are real. They are your support. Their care for you is different. And as someone who grew up on Saved by the Bell reruns and Babysitter's Club books, I naively and at my own detriment consider friendship to be something monumental and life-long, even though I know that is not always the case. This I learned from FeFeDo and Brownie if I learned nothing else. Perhaps this is why I am on cruise control, seeing that I am currently being friend dumped now. Here we go again. Life is nothing if not annoyingly repetitive, am I right?

This go 'round, I am being dropped by "Britney" and "Neil". Britney is giving me what Michelle Obama referred to as "The Slow Ghost". We used to talk often, now she can go months without talking to me and I am always the one to call her. Our conversations don't flow as well as they used to, and I get the feeling that she has outgrown me. It happens, but it still stings. I don't have the energy to ask her about it because due to the FeFeDo-Brownie disaster, I know what's up without having to be told. I am trying not to dwell too much on it because I don't want to cry. Crying causes under eye puffiness that takes way longer to go down at my age. 

Then there is Neil. Oh Neil. One could argue that our friendship has not been even from the start. I started out with a crush on him and just on a general human level, it was obvious that I liked him more than he liked me. Yet over the years we have kept in touch and we make each other laugh. However, that old red flag is still evident: I always have to be the one to call him. On top of this, he has a girlfriend now and it should be universal common knowledge that a girlfriend is a platonic girl-boy friendship's kiss of death. I won't even bore you with the laundry list of men that went from friends to not-homies once they got paired up. I just brought this up to my therapist and we discussed how, when people get in relationships or marriages their priorities change. I get it. That's how it should be. I just wish I was someone, anyone's priority. 

As my own emotional doctor I have to say that I am monitoring the latest dumping situation closely. I am currently A-okay, no signs of mourning malignancy or Stage 4 anxiety. But hey, it's still early in the month. This time next week I could be catatonic. Thus is life. 

Being Bernard

I am who those scientific studies are talking about when they discuss how social media is bad for people, particularly the lonely and depressed. It is a fake space that you get to paint with the best moments of your life, leaving everyone to fawn over one another's lies and fairytales. I mean come on now. No one is posting their bills or bad credit scores. For the most part (with the exception of those that post those seven paragraph emo posts on Facebook), social media has become a never-ending scroll of plastic happy moments. Even knowing this, I have become jealous and absolutely obsessed with the "life" of a man I know named Bernard. 

Have you ever wondered if people that you know think about you? I do, mostly because I often think about people I know; what they are doing and how they are feeling. In today's detached world, I think that it is a good thing when people think about others. However, if Bernard knew just how much I thought about him, he would probably block me via all social avenues. I have to say that I am a little obsessed. But not because I am into him romantically, which is usually my M.O. I am hooked on his socials because they paint a picture of him being very...loved. 

What is so interesting about that? Well, for starters, it is important that you understand that Bernard is annoying. He has seemingly gotten more annoying with age. And this isn't just my opinion. People who know of him would overwhelmingly agree. He is very excited. Very energized. Very happy. Very extra. It may even be an understatement to say that the average person might find him completely intolerable. Not the people in his life though. His family and his friends- they consistently love up on him. They are there for him when great things happen like his starting a business and they are there for him when bad things happen like his failed relationships. It is like love surrounds this man from all directions. 

If I sound a little salty it is because I am. At this stage in my life, I can honestly say that I don't think that some of my dearest friends whom I love even like me. I have been sent to voicemail more than a bill collector. I sometimes wonder if those closest to me would even notice if I vanished. Bernard's friends would notice if he went missing. He is the center of their lives. They prioritize him. They seem to pour sunlight and good vibes into his mouth, and he swallows them proudly. I often wonder if he knows how beautiful that is, for I am ten minutes away from becoming buddies with a soccer ball like Tom Hanks in that movie. Say what you want, but that soccer ball was attentive and always there. Soccer ball-type loyalty is hard to find these days. Bernard has found it though, and this makes me hopeful for myself, even through the envy. 

Ain't Never Scared pt 2: Plottin' and Cupcakin'

One of my favorite social media fake relationship counselors said that it is important for single women to know what they want from men. After much deliberation on this, I have decided that what I want most from a man is conversation. Fun, flirty, innocent conversation. 

"Do people still cake on the phone?" I asked P. 

"Are they going to talk about sex?"  he asked. 

I thought about it. "No."

"Then no."

This was disappointing to hear, but as I am now trying to be the creator of the adventure in my life, I have decided to bring cakin' back. Some of my fondest memories as a middle schooler is playing soft music on the radio while me and my gay boyfriend at the time yacked it up about the important things in life: scary movies, our favorite foods, and kids we didn't like in our classes. It was so much fun getting to know him. That is what I want: to get to know a man...to the soundtrack of Jodeci. 

Now, I have asked some of my friends what their response would be if a person they knew but was not interested in romantically slid into their DMs and asked if they were interested in having late night conversations. Their answers were not reassuring. However, the name of the game is not being scary anymore when it comes to things like this. 

There is a guy that I know that I think would be a perfect for a cake call. I have slid into his DMs, typed up a cake invitation, then erased it. Although he seems nice, the idea of him telling all our mutual friends about the shot I attempted to shoot makes me physically ill. For this particular challenge, it has been a bit hard to keep up the Ain't Never Scared energy. I don't do well with being embarrassed. 

Here is the thing: I am a graduate school graduate longing to be in a middle school-paced relationship. I am also lonely and relationship immature. I know that I am skidding towards middle age. All the singles my age on social media are doing podcasts about how they like group sex and anilingus. All I want in my life is the telephone version of hand holding. If you knew me at all you would know that that is really all I can handle. My friend Carol said she will advertise my need for a cake beau on Twitter. I will keep you posted on any developments. 

Ain't Never Scared pt 1: The Vixen and the Baby Daddy

I think I need to get into my Bible. No, I know that I need to get into my Bible, because when I start thinking nasty, gross, inappropriate things about men that I know, that usually means that I am beginning to backslide back into the state of sticky, grotesque, thick horniness that I had previously been delivered from. 

"What is bringing all this about Holly?" 

Okay, I will tell you. 

One of my homegirls Reese recently texted me a picture of a beautiful woman in a flowing dress with a baby bump. A man was standing behind her, holding her baby bump with his hands around her waist. 

"Bones," I said to myself. I recognized him immediately. 

"Is that Bones?" Reese's texted asked. He had his head down in the pic, but it was definitely him. I was shocked. He has had a kid before, but none of us could ever figure out who the baby's mother was. What a difference a few years makes. For baby number two, he took styled, professional photos that were then blown up to enormous posterboards to be displayed at a chic, trendy baby shower where guests could partake in mommyhitos handpicked from an elaborate wall refreshment display. 

Let me be clear: I am happy for Bones. He's fine. Mrs. Bones is fine. And chances are that baby is going to arrive catalogue model ready. Bones is just representative of someone that I used to like and didn't tell. And let me be clear again: I am in no way Bones's type. He likes cheerleaders and women that look like they were created by Mattel. I didn't say anything in college because I was scared, and I didn't say anything after college because I was mortified. The closest I got was writing him a poem that I only shared with Liz and that I will now share with you. 

Asked the vixen to her master:

"Where do I touch you?"

Said the master to his vixen:

"Touch me where you touch yourself."

I remember that Liz was silent on the other end of the line. After about two minutes of deliberation, she said, "Don't ever send that to him. If you ever want to send it to him, send it to me, and I will respond like I am him." 

Okay, Liz was probably right. Erotic poetry was probably not the way to let my feelings be known. 

"But Holly, why would you tell him you liked him when you know he wasn't going to like you back?"

Good question. And the short answer is so that I can stop being scary. As you know, a closed mouth does not get fed, which is probably why I am love starved as we speak. Bones is just one of many, and as I get older, I have become more and more impatient with my being scared. And this isn't just with men, it's with everything! One day I want to confidently be able to proclaim, "I ain't never scared!" and mean it. Until then, I'm just a vixen without a master. But I'm working on it. I can't be scared of being scary anymore. 

Finding Cameron

I found my kindergarten/ 1st grade crush on Facebook! Well, I didn't really find him. He popped up as a friend suggestion. I don't know what made me pay attention to the suggestion. I usually ignore them because I NEVER know who Facebook says I should but there he was: Cameron. 

I went through his page with my stalker hat on, trying to figure out what he has been up to all these years. He isn't that consistent of a Facebook poster, but from what I could tell, he has had a good life. He graduated from an HBCU. He is a Sigma. I don't know what he does for a living, but he looks like success. The only thing annoying on his page is that he has a girlfriend and it looks like they do workouts together. Gross. 

Seeing that he had not posted anything in months, I decided to send him a friend request, not expecting him to respond. He accepted it a second later, and since then (which was Monday morning), I have been in a state of euphoria. 

Come with me on my mental spaceship to 1990, East Point, Georgia. I was obsessed with edible bracelets and glow in the dark scrunchies. I had a serious addiction to Fruit Rollups, and I was majorly crushing on the boy that sat beside me in class. His name was Cameron, and his voice was high and his laughter was loud and sounded like he was singing. His head and face were always shiny, like his mom put oil on his hair and then rubbed the rest of it over his face. I actually know that is what happened because my grandma did that to me all the time. He was mischievous, but he wasn't bad. He just liked to do little annoying things that got him sent to time out. And he had slits in his eyebrows. Child. I am into men today with eyebrow slits! 

Looking at his page, I realized that I have been into the same type of guy my whole life, which further feeds into my feeling that you are who you are when you are born and do very little evolving as you get older. The cards are dealt from the jump. Okay. I am starting to babble. The point is I recently came across the man named Cameron, smiling and being lighthearted on social media, and I can totally see why I was into him when I was a child. Just thought I would share. 

Summer Scents: Good Chemistry

I can be a little persnickety when it comes to fragrances, especially in the summer. For me, this is a time for softer, lighter scents, and often the ones that are recommended to me are way too heavy for the heat. Well, Good Chemistry has nailed it with this collection of beautiful summer scents that coasts on amazing blends of fruit and vanilla. Here are a few of my favorites:

When you think Sugar Berry, think raspberry with a touch of vanilla. Think beach vibes. Think vaykay. It's one of those fragrances that you wear and then end up sniffing yourself throughout the day. Yes, she's that yummy! 

Be careful with Cheerful Charmer, she's sexy! With hints of coconut milk, apple blossom, and vanilla, she's giving summer love. She's giving little black dress. She's giving good trouble all season long! 

Pink Palm is cute. She's clean. She's the fragrance that you reach for when you want to give them just a little something to talk about. A mix of dragon fruit, magnolia, and sugared vanilla, Pink Palm needs to be a staple in your purse for the summer. 

Not only does Good Chemisty have great fragrances, it's also a great company all around. Their products are dye-free, paraffin-free, paraben-free, and GMO-free. They are also PETA Certified Cruelty-Free and Vegan. Their fragrances range from $28.99-$12.99, so they are also affordable. I think that my absolute favorite is Pink Palm. Let me know which one you fall in love with. 

Black Doug Funnie and the Fight for Love

I have been dreaming a lot about men lately. P says it is because I am horny, but I don't think that is what it is. In these dreams, I am just talking to these men on some getting to know you, getting to know all about you type of stuff. Last night's dream was no different. 

Do you believe that God communicates with you through dreams? I do. So as a single woman dreaming about men, I am trying to pay extra attention to what God may be trying to say. I am in no way a dream interpreter, but I am going to try to figure out what He was trying to say in the dream that I had last night. 

Okay, so in the first part of the dream I am some type of Fear Factor death match with zombies and Jason and Freddy kinds of characters. After fighting tooth and nail, I make it out victorious. And I mean, I was fighting; punching, kicking, clawing, and even roundhousing these monsters. I think that this is representative of being single in Atlanta for over 15 years. I mean, can you think of anything scarier?

After I won the battle, I ended up in the lobby of my grandmother's old retirement home. I think that this is representative of my fears of being old and alone. There was a group of people hanging out in the lobby, and I was waiting for the elevator to go up to see my grandmother. I think that this represents how I often wish I could ask her for her advice. 

While I was waiting, a man taps me on the shoulder and asks me if I'm single. And I am like, "Yeah." He asks me how old I am and I tell him. Then he tells me how old he is, and I don't recall the age, but I know he was younger. Sigh. What I think God is telling me here is to not disregard the tenderonies even though He knows that I would like a man my age or older but hey, you can't argue with God. 

Talking to this man, I felt very happy and loved and at peace. He got on the elevator with me and my aunt, who appeared out of nowhere, and he was talking to her. I think God is reassuring that whoever this mystery man is, he will get along with my...interesting family. 

The thing that I remember most about this guy is that he looked like a Black version of Doug Funnie from the hit '90s Nickelodeon show "Doug". He even had on the same outfit and everything! And in my dream, I just felt like he was so adorable. 

P once told me that your dreams are not about what they seem to be about on the surface. I don't think this is true for me because God knows that I am not good at riddles. If He wants to give me a message, He knows He has to give it plain and simple. Hopefully, God is saying that my man is a loveable nerd, possibly born in the '90s, who will love me like Doug loved Patti. So now, my eyes are super peeled for this dream lover. If you run across a big-nosed Black man in a sweater vest and khaki shorts, send him my way. I'm trying to see something...

Bye-bye Boy Beus

Getting baptized was a huge event in my life. I made a decision to try to do better and be better. That included making a conscious decision not to lie or hurt people. I also tried to let go of some bad habits. One of these bad habits was spending time on Instagram being thirsty in a dehydrated fashion. 

After many nights of my friends dodging my phone calls or not finding anything good to watch on Netflix, I am sad to admit that I have fallen backwards into my favorite naughty pastime: profile stalking really hot men with dark skin and abs on social media. 

Cigarettes can be addictive. I know that firsthand from watching my mom kick the habit cold turkey. And alcohol is a nightmare too. A couple of my college friends have had to dry out from the bottle. But is there anything more addictive than tall, muscular, Black men on IG doing deadlifts in hoochie daddy workout shorts? It's like kitty nip to me! 

I shutter to think how many nights God has watched me under my blanket, scrolling through hunks until my thumb started to tingle. And let it just be known: I love them all. The physical trainers that meal prep grilled chicken breasts topless. The professional men that do tutorials on how to style a suit. The bearded brothas that lather their facial hair in Shea butter. The social justice hotties with wild locks and afros that wear tees with Africa on them. And who can forget the trap guys that do little videos from the front seats of their Dodge Chargers? I mean, the list go on and on!

After I got baptized, I stopped following a lot of these guys. It was for the best. I didn't see how I could be lusty and Godly at the same time. So, bidding adieu to the cuties was an act of good faith on my end. Then it seemed like as I got more stressed out about school and life and friends and work and whatever, I desired to look up the eye candy again. Somehow, I was able to refrain...until about 40 of them came up on my Explore page one day. That was all it took. Now I have moonwalked back down the rabbit hole of the fit and the sexy. It's a sad story. 

Now it is time to get back on the right track and ghost these guys. Even the sexy one with the beautiful smile that I tell myself I follow because he gives out great workout advice. Oh please. 

I will keep you posted on my progress. 

Engagement and the Retired Thug

My friend Angela recently had a Netflix and Chill day date that she was very excited about. Whenever she tells me about a new beau I hold my breath, because she is a notoriously bad partner picker, primarily because she is a heavy proponent of thug love. And I have been here through all of them: the trapper, the rapper, the swinger with OCD. Before she even got started with the story, I was already preparing myself for the BS. 

Apparently, this guy is not a thug...he's a retired thug. He's gone legit everybody, making gourmet food for a laundry list of clients. She said that he opened her car door for her and was a real gentleman. He actually sounded like he may not suck until she told me that he is engaged. 

I swear, anything flies in Atlanta. How do you date someone who is engaged?! I know that people are grown and that they are going to do what they are going to do, but Angela's baby daddy was a cheater. She has been cheated on before. I brought this to her attention and her response was, "Yeah, I felt some type of way about it. But I'm bored."

?

She assures me that the retired thug is nothing serious. She says he has proven that he can't be taken seriously because he is engaged and dating. That's the understatement of the season! As I continued to listen to the deets about the day date, I thought about his fiancé who was possibly snuggled with him at that very moment. I also thought about the boulder of karma that could be rolling full speed at my friend's face. Listen, when I was younger and did something stupid that was karma-able, I would dedicate some months to the universe for forgiveness. These days, I try to stay on the straight and narrow. I don't have months to give away! And neither does Angela. I see this going nowhere fast, hopefully. It's hard to watch friends you loved do dumb ish. 

The 20 Year Itch pt 2: Merch

So, yesterday I logged on to Facebook, minding my own business, when I came across a post from a Toni, a woman that went to high school with me. She's on the planning committee for our 20-year reunion. She did a post to let us know that the Target closest to our old high school sells the high school's merchandise, and we would also be able to purchase high school merch (t-shirts, hoodies, etc.), at the reunion! Yay! 

I stared at this post blankly for like five minutes. It astounds me how different other people's high school experience was from mine. When I think of high school, I think of bullying and being immensely unhappy. I think of how this high school was one of the last ones in Georgia to take down the Confederate Flag from the flapping proudly in its lawn...I think. Well, I assume it's down now. Back in the 99s and 2000s when I was there, the parents had voted to keep it. Can you imagine being 15 and Black trying to explain to a 55-year-old White teacher why the Confederate Flag is problematic?! There are no memories from this place that make me want to put on a tank top with the high school's mascot plastered on it, believe me. 

Oddly enough, Toni had reached out to me a few weeks earlier via Facebook message, asking me directly if I was coming to the reunion. She and the committee were trying to figure out how much food to get and what venue to book. Toni was always cool with me. We were in remedial math together. But my instinct to reading that message, which was very sweet by the way, was to tell her to kiss my ass! I wanted to ask her why she was so eager to celebrate this nightmare? Could my poor Black experience had been that much different than her middle class Asian one? I guess so. If it had not been, she would have known to not even waste her time reaching out to me at all. 

Merch. Incredible! 

Oh, and I didn't tell you the best part: Bradley Barker is on the committee too! This for me is truly unbelievable. Bradley was then what he is now: a fat, Anime-loving, horribly dressed weirdo. This boy was made fun of so badly for being himself that I used to wonder if the student body was in cahoots to make him lose his mind! He was socially rejected and lost every SGA office race you could possibly run for! I should know, I was his campaign manager for his race for Regional President of a club we were in together. I guess 20 years has erased these memories for him, because he is now posting on social media posting about reunion ticket sales. What?! The boy had been so hurt about losing the Regional President race that he literally cried in my lap! 

I can't wait until the reunion goes down so that the publicizing for it will end and I can stop being traumatized whenever I go online. I try to pretend like high school didn't happen, and I'm eager to do that for the next 20 years. 

COVID Brain

Question: has society become completely inept?

I only ask this because, as I go through life trying to handle business and participate in adulting, I notice that those that I am communicating with seem to have no idea what is going on. They never know what I am talking about. They can never find the email. Everyone at the call center has different info on their screens. Nothing is being shot with troubleshooting. All the agents are giving is the verbal equivalent of a shrug, whether your warranty is up or not. WHAT IS GOING ON? There can't be something in the water because there has been something in the water. I have noticed that there has been a significant lag in humanness since COVID. 

A long time ago, a breast cancer survivor came and spoke to the organization I volunteer with. She said that, because of the chemo she had gotten, she was very forgetful. She said that people would walk up to her, tell her about times when they'd gone out together and hung out, and she could not remember them. This is called Chemo Brain. I think that working America is suffering from COVID Brain. A mixture of being allowed to chill too hard for too long mixed with the nostalgia of receiving stimulus checks has made those required to be even mildly produce completely unproductive, and let me tell you something, I CAN'T! 

Sadly, I do not have the temperament for the neverending runaround that has become trying to get something done in the post-COVID world. This means that I have a frustration-induced anxiety attack whenever I need to contact the bank or anyone's customer service line. It's like walking on eggshells! I hope that the flow of life straightens this...situation out naturally. Every professional interaction I have can not continue to end with me screaming. 

The 20 Year Itch

 As a senior in high school, I made a lot of promises to myself. I promised myself that I would be famous and an award-winning writer/editor. I promised myself that I would get skinny and marry a hot guy. I promised that my life would be full of adventure. If you know me, you know that none of these have happened. But I also promised that I would never return to my high school, and that is one promise that I plan to keep to myself. My 20-year reunion is coming up, and I absolutely have no intention of attending. 

I. Hated. High. School. And when I log in to Facebook and see updates from the reunion group and see that people are actually excited to go to the reunion, I am in disbelief. I can't believe that sat in classes with people who were having such a dramatically different experience than me! Although the reunion will not be taking place at my old high school, returning to be in the same space with my old peers would be the equivalent of returning to the scene of a crime. I am simply not here for the drama or the inevitable trauma. Maybe by my 30th year, I will be healed enough to go and peek my head in the door but not today Satan. Too soon. 

Depressed

I am depressed. 

This really shouldn't be news, because I am pretty sure that I have been functionally depressed my entire life. I remember being so, so sad all the way back in kindergarten and just being told that I was overly sensitive. I remember sitting at the club in college, wanting to cry for seemingly no reason, and being told I was just a drag and a downer. However, this depression feels different. 

I trace this surge in my unhappiess to the beginning of the New Year when I decided to go on this diet. Well, what was supposed to be a positive move to improve my health has plunged me into all day, every day negativitity. And as you have probably guessed, it is not going well. I am pretty sure that I have not lost so much as an ounce. This of course makes me feel like a failure, which is not exactly good for my already plummiting morale. Quite honestly, I am about two seconds from giving up completely. It is too much. It is a trial. And I am not good at trials that are too much. Anyway, I will never be as small as I always dreamed of' anyway; small enough to where a bikini to the grocery store or nab my dream man, so what's the point? Oh, I forgot. Life. 

Wow, I really must be depressed. I don't even feel like whining anymore. Okay then, until next time. 

Love and Middle Age 3: The Story of Stupid

In my recent conversations with TAFKAS, he told me stories of his friends and their unrequited loves. And the message that I took from these stories is that you should let people know how you feel when you have the chance. This is a very, very dangerous message for me because I just might do it which, in my case, is the easiest, quickest, safest way to embarrass myself. 

When I was in college, I had a crush on this basketball player and literally wrote him a 4-page letter and enclosed it with a kiss. Well, I didn't actually kiss it. My friend AJ did because my lips were chapped. I then doused the letter in Victoria's Secret body spray before putting the letter on this windshield. Luckily, God woke me up in a panic the next morning and I was able to run outside and retrieve it. THANK GOD! If he would have gotten that letter I have no doubt that he would have HUMILIATED ME! I would have had to move back to Atlanta and live under an alias. 

Then there was the Sigma that I wrote an erotic poem for. I read the poem to a couple of my co-workers and they gave me positive feedback which should have been my first clue that I was spearheading into a no-bueno situation. Luckily, Tortilla was there to bring me back to life, back to reality. "Don't message this to him. Don't," she said in a very stern voice which was odd, because her voice is usually so sweet that it sometimes sounds like she is singing when she talks. "If you ever get the urge to send this to him, send it to me, and I will respond like I am him, okay? Promise?" I promised, and again thanked God for having good friends. 

And then there are these two men at my church, I will call them Thing 1 and Thing 2. The Things are so nice to me and they love God and they are both hot in their own way. When I talk to them it is very, very difficult not to kiss them. This should tell you how hard I am crushin', because I think that kissing is disgusting! "Don't kiss him", my friend Ken said about one of the guys. I didn't tell her about the other one because I assumed the response would be the same. Again, thank God for good friends. 

But of late, I have been depressed, hungry, tired, sad, alone, and feeling like I am on an island. All of these things are the recipe for me doing something potentially stupid. I mean 4-page letter kind of stupid. Today I fell asleep while I was working and dreamed that I was making out with new crush (Do you see how kissing of some sort is usually the foreshadowing to these crises?) at my dead Great-Grandmother's house. It felt like I was really there! Family Matters was on the TV. Nana loved that show! This is not good because I believe that dreams have meaning...I am just not equipped to tell you what they are. If I had to guess what this dream was telling me, it would be that my deceased Great-Grandma was on board with me reaching out to this man that I don't really know and who doesn't know me. My inner me, which is consistently wrong, is telling me to reach out to him. 

Y'ALL PLEASE PRAY THAT I CAN MAKE IT TO THERAPY NEXT WEEK WITHOUT MAKING A COMPLETE ASS OF MYSELF!! If I can't get a grip, I will become one of TAFKAS's tragic stories. I am well on my way. 

Don't Speak

In most of my friendships, I feel like I am the chaser. I am the one that calls and checks in and sees how everyone is doing. I like talking on the phone and catching up, but everyone in my life is busy with their kids, relationships, and work, so they don't be having time like that to chat which, I'm going to be honest, makes me sad. I feel like I am by myself all the time, most likely because I am. But I have grown tired of being the one always reaching out. It makes me feel stupid and like a nuisance. So recently I decided to just leave folks alone until someone calls me. My biggest fear was confirmed: no one missed me. Sigh. I'm so tired of feeling like my feelings are hurt all the time. Tired of solitude. It all just makes me want to lay down someplace. Don't worry ya'll. I start therapy again next week. 

Taking A Knee

By the grace of God, I have been an overweight person that never had issues with their knees...until recently. 

At the beginning of the year, I decided to become more active. I lounge around my house like a cat and move as little as possible. So, coupled with my meal prepping (which has been awful), I decided to try to be more mobile. BIG MISTAKE! Not long after this decision, my right knee started to act up. I feel like I'm having a flashback! During the pandemic, this Delta I went to college with who was way skinnier and healthier than me up and died out of nowhere. This scared me to the point that I vowed to do more water aerobics. After my first day back in the pool, I woke up the next day feeling like my right leg was about to pop off. I had pulled my hip flexor, and for months, I was hobbling around the house in tears. Since I am uninsured, I just tried to nurse myself back to health with a delicate mixture of Bio Freeze, Tigar Balm, a hot water bottle, and Ibuprofen. It was the worse time of my life. I am now seeing a pattern: exercise = injury. But I have to get moving, so I have just been dancing on my stomach while listening to bounce music with my FitBit on. Just so you know, twerking on your stomach to "Shake It Like A Dog" by Kane and Abel on repeat will burn you a good 500+ calories easy. 

Anywho, I do not do well with pain or discomfort. I have been sleeping extra still as to not upset my knee, which has been both painful and uncomfortable. 

Thinking back on how this all started, I have to blame my clumsy nephew. He came in my room to get something and fell on my already tweaking knee with the full force of his 50+ pounds. I screamed and he ran out of the room. Now, here we are. 

Luckily, I can still get up and move, but I do so slowly, scared to upset my knee, which is now running the show. I creep around my own knee like it's a sleeping baby. It really is tiresome and annoying. But at times like this I have been told it is best to count your blessings, which I'm scared to do. I don't want to injure a finger. 

VDay the Hard Way

By the grace of God, I made it out of another Valentine's season alive. 

What a nightmare. What a f*&king nightmare, as most of life is for the terminally single. 

I made the mistake that I make every year, which is trying to combat the horrors of Valentine's Day with a positive attitude. Bad. Idea. There is no way to combat VDay! It's like a long, brutal period cramp. You just have to grit your teeth and get through it without losing it and ripping out your own uterus with your bare hands.  

The BS started as soon as I put on my Positive Patty Valentine's Day hat. I decided to organize a Galentine's Day/Gift Exchange to try to get ahead of the inevitable VDay depression. I was actually excited! The person I chose in the exchange is really nice and I was eager to get her something cute and festive. The Galentine's party turned out nice and everyone had a good time except me of course. As it usually goes with every gift exchange I have participated in since Girl Scouts, I was the only person that didn't get a gift. I guess no one picked my name or the person who did just didn't care. YAY! 

So the Galentine's celebration was all the proof needed that Valentine's Day was going to be a no-bueno situation. Yet I chose to power on, RSVPing to go to the single's mixer at my church. I wasn't going to go, but I had ordered these beautiful velvet heart earrings and as we all know, once earrings have been ordered, you have to go! And to my surprise, the event was beautiful. The single men at the church organized it and it was awesome. There was music and cocktails and food and entertainment. But who had a panic attack and had to go home before the party really got started? THIS GUY! I spent the rest of the night crying that good cry where your head hurts and you end up feeling hungry and like you are going to gag at the same time. I called Winfrey and sobbed in her ear until I was sure that I really was going to puke. It was the type of magical night that all girls dream of. 

Yet the finale was the actual Valentine's Day, as it always is. I found myself spending a large part of the day daydreaming about all the unrequited love I have experienced in my life while laying silently on the floor, staring into space. Ah, good times. 

An Aunty at my church challenged me to reflect on how I can make Valentine's Day a more positive experience. I told her the only thing I could honestly think of, which was taking enough sleeping pills to keep me asleep from February 11-February 16. She told me to pray about it🙄. And honestly, I do owe God a shoutout. Somehow, I was able to bypass all the engagement announcements and "look at what he got me" social media posts, and we can all agree that was a blessing. 

Well, until next year.