Going to church on a regular basis has broken my vagina. At the very least, it has essentially depleted my sex drive, and at the most, has catapulted me into early spinsterhood. I was alarmed by this at first, but Tasia assures me that this is the effect that church should have on you.
"Yeah, that sounds about right," she said over brunch. "How did you not know that that is what church does to you?"
Uh...because no one told me!
As you know, I am a girl that loves to have a crush on somebody. It has always been fun for me to have little secret crushes on men. This has helped my heart to fill full during the lonely times and given me a good list of people to stalk on Instagram. Now when I look at pictures of these crushes, I feel nothing in my lady parts. All I see are brown faces of boys that I once went to school with. My jay-jay is unimpressed.
I want to get to know God. I want to become a better Christian. But no one told me that that would include me putting my vagina on the shelf with an Out of Order sign taped to it!
It is my belief that there's a science to this whole thing. Once I started going to church, my heart started to change. I began to allow the word of God to cleanse it, purging it of lust. Well, everyone knows that your heart and your lady parts are connected. You see, my heart is trying to do better now. But since my vagina truly doesn't know how to do better, it just shut down completely. She is a team player, and she wants my heart to win. So she took one for the team and is now on vaykay for God knows how long. I hope she comes back soon, I miss her.
Her hiatus has shown me that I was giving her a little too much power in my life, allowing her to take the wheel. I think that I have a crush on a man that I met at church, but I can't tell you. My vag is giving me cold silence. My mind should be able to tell me what's up, but it can't. I see now that this whole time, my mind has been in my undies. Not cool.
The plus side is that now that I am no longer fantasizing about running away with that boy from my old sociology class, I now have more time to pray and read my Bible. I guess my vaginal breakdown was all a part of God's plan. Man, He works in mysterious ways.
Sunday, July 8, 2018
Savannah and the Pot
Savannah has taken up smoking pot...at 32. She, like every other pot smoker that I know, claims that she smokes to unwind.
The setup sounded like something sensuous and fabulous like a love scene out of the soap operas my grandma used to watch. She said she lights candles and takes a bath while listening to soft music. As I spoke to her I was beginning to feel high. Her voice was soft and light.
"You are a pharmacist!" I exclaimed. "Are you supposed to use drugs? What do you do? Go to the hood and score?"
The answer to that is no. Her plug is a fellow pharmacist that buys his own weed and sells her a portion of it for $125. $125! Man, the hobbies of the rich and privileged. I told her that for that type of money I would come to her house, hand bathe her, give her a mani/pedi, clean her house, and walk her dog as long as I was allowed a thirty-minute nap.
Over the years, almost all of my friends have suggested that I take up smoking weed or just doing drugs outright. Apparently, I am a highly emotional overthinker that needs to relax. No kidding! I have been trying to chill since I was about 11-years-old!
I have to say I am a little envious of Savannah though. If you had to put a price on having peace, $125 isn't that bad. Right now, she is probably in a really good pot sleep while I will be up all night munching on cookies and worrying about my future. She also has nothing but good things to say about her new-found habit, but I can't get with it. Call me old-fashioned, but I'd rather deal with my problems through overeating and stressing to the point of hair loss the way that God intended.
The setup sounded like something sensuous and fabulous like a love scene out of the soap operas my grandma used to watch. She said she lights candles and takes a bath while listening to soft music. As I spoke to her I was beginning to feel high. Her voice was soft and light.
"You are a pharmacist!" I exclaimed. "Are you supposed to use drugs? What do you do? Go to the hood and score?"
The answer to that is no. Her plug is a fellow pharmacist that buys his own weed and sells her a portion of it for $125. $125! Man, the hobbies of the rich and privileged. I told her that for that type of money I would come to her house, hand bathe her, give her a mani/pedi, clean her house, and walk her dog as long as I was allowed a thirty-minute nap.
Over the years, almost all of my friends have suggested that I take up smoking weed or just doing drugs outright. Apparently, I am a highly emotional overthinker that needs to relax. No kidding! I have been trying to chill since I was about 11-years-old!
I have to say I am a little envious of Savannah though. If you had to put a price on having peace, $125 isn't that bad. Right now, she is probably in a really good pot sleep while I will be up all night munching on cookies and worrying about my future. She also has nothing but good things to say about her new-found habit, but I can't get with it. Call me old-fashioned, but I'd rather deal with my problems through overeating and stressing to the point of hair loss the way that God intended.
Adulting
As a child, I thought that the beginning and ending of adulting was going to work and paying bills. I am realizing now that adulting is really what was discussed in those whispered conversations between the women in my life that always shut down when I walked in the room.
It seems that ever since I turned 30, it has been a parade of bad news, this year being the worst. One of my friends was diagnosed with a very scary autoimmune disease, while another was just arrested over the holiday for stabbing someone to death. And the grim reaper has truly come to slay, snatching grandparents, parents, friends, and even newborns out of my friends' lives.
I find that I am becoming numb to everyone's sequences of unfortunate events, as well as my own. When a friend tells me she is getting divorced or is in crippling debt, my emotions don't even allow me to process the news. I just sigh and pray on it. There is really nothing else to do.
And this is where social media gets confusing. While the bad news parade marches on, I go on Instagram to see people I went to college with partying, traveling, and having an amazing time. Upon further investigation, I now suspect that many of these people might be functioning alcoholics, committed to dancing and globetrotting the blues away. Adulting has taught me that the only way to deal with an issue is to deal with it, but for once I would like to cry over life at some hot nightclub off the coast of Jamaica rather than on my living room floor.
Don't get me wrong, there are good times. People are getting hitched, starting new jobs, and expanding their families. However, the good news is not seeming to outweigh the bad. One engagement announcement on Facebook is followed by R.I.P wishes to cousins and funeral announcements.
If I had to define adulting, I would define it as trying to live your best life while running with the devil nipping at your heals. Better get you some good sneakers.
It seems that ever since I turned 30, it has been a parade of bad news, this year being the worst. One of my friends was diagnosed with a very scary autoimmune disease, while another was just arrested over the holiday for stabbing someone to death. And the grim reaper has truly come to slay, snatching grandparents, parents, friends, and even newborns out of my friends' lives.
I find that I am becoming numb to everyone's sequences of unfortunate events, as well as my own. When a friend tells me she is getting divorced or is in crippling debt, my emotions don't even allow me to process the news. I just sigh and pray on it. There is really nothing else to do.
And this is where social media gets confusing. While the bad news parade marches on, I go on Instagram to see people I went to college with partying, traveling, and having an amazing time. Upon further investigation, I now suspect that many of these people might be functioning alcoholics, committed to dancing and globetrotting the blues away. Adulting has taught me that the only way to deal with an issue is to deal with it, but for once I would like to cry over life at some hot nightclub off the coast of Jamaica rather than on my living room floor.
Don't get me wrong, there are good times. People are getting hitched, starting new jobs, and expanding their families. However, the good news is not seeming to outweigh the bad. One engagement announcement on Facebook is followed by R.I.P wishes to cousins and funeral announcements.
If I had to define adulting, I would define it as trying to live your best life while running with the devil nipping at your heals. Better get you some good sneakers.
Saturday, June 30, 2018
Ethan and the Hoes
Last night I called Ethan. I try to touch bases with him every three months or so to make sure that he hasn't become a complete whore. You see, while most of my girlfriends are suffering from terminal singleness, a single Ethan is knee-deep in female attention. He is the belle of the ball in New Orleans, accepting dinner dates and free drinks from women at every turn. It's worse at work, where his nurse co-workers bring him free meals. I thought this was a kind jester. Ethan has been about 30 pounds underweight his whole life. But we aren't talking Lunchables here. We are talking gourmet takeout sealed with a kiss. I am glad I am in his life. His friend pool consists of married frat boys whose advise usually ends with them suggesting he get a hotel room someplace with a desperate woman he barely knows.
"Ethan, you should honor your penis," I told him last night as he prepared to go out to eat with a girl he just met, Angela. He wasn't sure if it was a date or not, but from what he was telling me, it sounded like one. "Don't sleep around with these sad women."
"I'm trying not to," he insisted, the same way I did to myself just the other night as I downed a sleeve of Oreos.
As a woman, I can see Ethan's future with clarity, as if I have a crystal ball. If he doesn't get serious with a serious girl seriously soon he is going to become a serious scumbag, drunk on a seemingly endless supply of his professional success and database of willing women.
He texted me when he got home from dinner with Angela. I must be psychic, it was a date...even though she insisted on paying for it. He went on and on about how cool she is and how good the conversation was. Hopefully, it works out with this girl for Ethan's sake. The last thing the world needs is another man whore.
"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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)