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 had 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.