Holly Thee Horsey

The other night I was feeling pretty bad about myself and my life. It was then that I got the urge to read my Bible. I have the Bible app on my phone, so I reached for my phone and accidentally clicked on the YouTube icon. This is where I was introduced to one Megan Thee Stallion.
Listen, Megan may not be holy but she definitely took me to church! It has been a long time since I have heard a female rapper so brazenly and articulately discuss ripping men off for their money. I have to say, I was spiritually moved.
When it comes to the age-old art of shaking men down for their paper, it is important to go to The Word of God. I wasn't sure about this but my friend Angela told me what was what a few years ago when I was getting tossed out of my apartment.
"You don't have a dude that can help you with the rent?" she asked, concerned.
"What? No." I thought she was being silly, but she was totally serious.
"Look Holly, we were made from their rib. They are supposed to be taking care of us. It's part of the creation story."
Case. Closed.
Isn't it interesting how, even today, as forward-thinking women, many of us still often think of men coming in and saving the day for us? I can not tell you how often I have dreamed about a strong, muscular man with both an open mind and wallet coming along and taking care of some of my past due balances.
Sadly, my goody-goody upbringing won't allow me to really live and think this way. I know I have to take care of myself. That is, unless God sends a man my way with some money. Then I will have to treat him like Megan taught me:

If you balling and you know it, then let the money show

If he acting scared to spend it, I'ma show him to the door 

Amen. 

Pots

I am 34 and I don't have a pot to piss in. The only thing separating me from a person that is REALLY up shit's creek is that I have a lot of close friends, and I think that at least two of them would let me borrow a pot if I really needed one, under the condition, of course, that I would wash it before I returned it.
If you have never been under INTENSE financial stress, allow me to describe it to you. In short, it is a consistent state of anxiety and fear. You are afraid to the answer the phone. It could be a bill collector. You don't check the mail. It could be full of bills. The same feeling you get in your stomach when you have to call you OB/GYN for your pap test results is the same feeling you have when you have to call the IRS and BEG them to reinstate your payment plan.
Time flies. When I was a 2nd grader, I used to entertain myself by counting on my fingers how old I would be in five years, ten years, etc. I would get excited, thinking of myself at 21. I would be rich and married to one of the members of Immature. Well, me and Romeo never made a love connection and I am now in my mid-30s. And no, I don't play that add-up-the-years game anymore. If I count forward 50 years, I don't see me dancing in an Immature video. I see me in a nursing home that smells of poop. It's the only place that will take me because I didn't have a savings, and it is the only place my poor people insurance will cover. The nurses will smoke cigs and blow the smoke in my face. I will spend days on end in my soiled diapers. And, perhaps worst of all, the only beverage option I will have with my pureed dinner is UNSWEETENED TEA!
I try to complain about this to P, but he is a "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" type of man. He just doesn't get it. I had to throw my last pair of boots away, the ones I had had for 12 years, because I could no longer plug up the holes in them with toilet paper.
My minister did a sermon about how bad times are good. You have to go through things so you will be prepared for what God has in store for you at the end of the rainbow. As hungry as I am for a change in my life, I better be able to taste this rainbow.
Enough belly aching for now. I have to go but my empty wallet next to my Bible and see if God can create a water-to-wine situation.

Unrequited Imaginary Love

Franklin is a young man in my writer's group. He is about 10 years younger than me. That should be the end of the story. But, and this is all my fault, I was overly nice to him a couple of meetings ago. Now he thinks I like him. His whole attitude towards me has changed. He now gives me stiff side hugs, calls me ma'am, and avoids me during the after-meeting refreshments. Feel free to roll your eyes. 

At first, I thought that this was funny, seeing that I am not interested in him.  I thought that everyone in the group knew that I have a huge, embarrassing crush on Ryan, the silver fox that cuts his convos with me short after group to get to the last of the Oreos before Pregnant Patty gets herself out of her seat to ambush the cookies. Now I am a little offended. 

This is not the first time that a guy has thought that I had a crush on him and decided to send me signals that he was not interested as to not hurt my feelings. These signals include but are not limited to: only talking to me in a group, switching from hugs to handshakes, repeatedly letting me know that he has a girlfriend, or even ignoring me altogether. Many times I was not interested in these guys. And it has always been amazing, and hurtful, to see the lengths that these guys would go to let it be known that they are not interested just in case. 

Okay, so I am fat, unemployed, and living with my aunt with a credit score that is in the toilet. I am also hilarious and have a great head of hair! Does that count for nothing these days?

A part of me doesn't want to go back to writer's group, wanting to avoid the scene that is inevitably going to come from this. Another part of me wants to kick Franklin in his balls and tell him to get over himself. I will let you know which way I decide to go. 

Behind-Your-Back Talk

What do you do when a friend tells you that another friend has been talking ish about you?
I swear, female friendships are constantly evolving. They also never change. The "she was talking about you" routine has been going on since I was in grade school. But back then, I feel like spilling the beans on behind-your-back talk was done out of boredom and messiness. When this happens when you are in your 30s, you can't help but feel like there is some malicious intent. I think that Friend A told me about the behind-the-back talk to warn me about Friend B, who she is no longer friends with. But it low-key hurt my feelings.
I know, I know. All the things I have said about friends in the past, I have a lot of nerve being butt hurt. But shocker, I is.
"For me, the story isn't that Friend B was talking about you," my friend Tay said during our volunteer meeting. "It's that she felt comfortable talking about you to Friend A, which makes me wonder what Friend A says about you too."
Mic drop. Good point. Good point that I'd rather not think about. I really, really like Friend A. She has shown up for me in some very important ways over the years.
Unfortunately, this spilled tea has left some small, sticky stains on my friendships. But what can you do at 34 but wipe up the tea and keep going?

Boring

What is the difference between 20 and 30 something women? Besides financial stability and varying levels of maturity, I would have to say the major difference is life experience. This became even clearer to me most recently when I talked to some 20-something girls after my writer's group.
Child, they sounded about crazy! They were going on and on about how they weren't interested in some of the young men in the group because they were awkward and boring. I was actually beginning to get annoyed before I reminded myself that they are but babes in this purgatory that is often referred to as "the single life".
When I was their age (before dating apps) I was looking for love on Craigslist (before the Craigslist Killer). I met a guy who was only looking for a fling to add to his list of flings, and another guy who lied about his height. No joke, he said he was 5'8 and showed up at my doorstep as a literal dwarf. Not that I have an issue with dwarves. On the contrary, I was open to dating one. But the fact that he had told such an outrageous lie killed our love before it had a chance to get off the ground. I had a long distance situation with a man who cashed his paychecks and kept all his money in Nike boxes under his bed. And who can forget the guy that I thought was my boyfriend...only for him to call and tell me that he needed emotional support dealing with the fact that he had impregnated a woman in a club bathroom. These girls don't understand: a boring man is what you want!
So what if he doesn't keep you on the edge of your seat wondering if he is going to get caught for that handful of warrants? You want a man that is going to work a real job and come home to you, without any outside club toilet babies.
When I was in college, I do admit that I had a thing for boys in fitted caps who drove Impalas. But where are those fascinating boys now? The ones who haven't changed into respectable family men are juggling women like foam balls!
I guess this is a lesson that you learn with age; when you realize that having a man that keeps you guessing really isn't that exciting.

Paternity Potato

Of late, I have been sitting on my imaginary couch watching real reruns of Paternity Court like a couch potato. That's right: I'm a Paternity Potato. '
Finding out that 5 seasons of full episodes of this show are on Youtube has been the most amazing, unproductive thing to happen to me in a long time. I have had a lot on my mind, on my chest, and in my spirit, so watching Paternity Court reruns has served as a welcome escape and fun way to waste time.
As a writer, I am a sucker for a good story, and this show is FULL of good stories. Women that get pregnant in threesomes. Men who thought they couldn't have kids because of painful, disfiguring scrotum trama, only to find out they are the father of twins. People who find out in their 40s that their father isn't really their father. On its face, it's a really sad show that highlights the downfall of our society. It is also hilarious.
I am at a stage in my life where it has become clear that it is time to activate the Plan B plan. Plan A was a mess, and it is going to take some serious brainstorming, GRE studying, research, and self-patience to get to the next level. But this whole process is overwhelming and exhausting. I just want to go back to a time where I was so stupid and tipsy on hand grenades that if my life was sinking, I would not have even noticed. But the past is in the past and I am now grown and very aware. I also don't drink anymore, so the drowning feeling is very frightening.
P thinks that I am a lazy crybaby. Maybe he is right. Thinking about all of my issues literally sucks the life out of me. Listening to an episode as I type, I guess it is a small blessing that I at least know who my father is. You have to be grateful for the little things.

Potty Panicked

(warning: this is a TMI post)
About a month ago, I had hands down the worst away from home bathroom experience of my life! It has taken me a minute to discuss it with you because I am still traumatized.
I had to pee really bad, and I had the choice of waiting on my aunt to come out of the grocery store and going at home or taking my chances and using a grocery store bathroom. Anyone who has had to go while shopping will tell you that using a grocery store bathroom is a tossup. But I didn't have a choice. I REALLY had to go.
I raced into the store and straight for the bathroom when my heart sank. My beloved handicapped stall was being occupied by a sister that was in the stall crying. Eyeroll. I had to think fast and on my feet. I could wait on her, but she was in mid-sob, and didn't sound like she would be coming out of there anytime soon. Or I could go to a basic bitch stall that has never, ever gone well for me. Seeing that I have not had A+ bladder control since I was 31, I chose a basic stall.
I ran to the stall at the back of the bathroom only for my heart to, again, sink. I was eye to eye with a dreaded low potty. This toilet looked like the toilets at the daycare that we used to train the 2-year-olds on! They are horribly uncomfortable for tall people, plus-size people, or anyone expecting a positive bathroom experience. But I had no choice! I had to go.
After relieving myself, I came back to reality quick. How the hell was I going to get off of the commode and out of the stall? I attempted to just move fast and get up, but I nearly torpedoed myself out of the stall head first.
I sat back, panicked. What was I going to do? I thought about calling my aunt, but she is notorious for not hearing it when she is out and about.  I even thought about calling to the crying lady in the handicapped stall for help, but how weird and awkward would that have been? For a split second, I thought about crawling out of the stall, but if my undies would have touched the bathroom floor, I would have had no choice but to set the whole bathroom on fire.
Fear gripped my body as I had a vision of me having to call the police to get me out of the stall. I sat there depressed. Was that what my life had come to? Me getting lifted off the john by first responders like some My 600-lb Life reject?
More motivated than I've ever been to do anything, I used my teaspoon of core strength to get up and elbow climb out of the stall.
"Hell ya!" I exclaimed as I got out of the stall with a sharp spasm in my side and tired arms. The lady in the handicapped stall was still crying, but not I! For the first time in a long time, I was faced with a hurdle and was able to get up.