A Quarter Life Crisis

Of late I’ve been staying up to catch the shenanigans over at VSB. The blog is very well written and takes a sometimes comical approach to men, women and this thing we call love and relationships. New posts arrive promptly at the stroke of 12AM and then the magic happens. The comment lounge has become my hangout spot…I feels at home even though I’m just a lurker.

Yesterday’s post penned by Champ, “If Women Ruled the Dating World Would Monogamy Still Exist?” got me thinking about what it means to truly be 100% monogamous to someone. It also made me lose a bit of beverage, specifically at this…there’s absolutely nothing more damaging to the well-being of society than an abundance of perpetually sexually frustrated men. (Why? Well, perpetually sexually frustrated men kill random people and occasionally kill random people in bulk). Touche!

Is it possible to be monogamous, the practice of having only one mate at a time? In our society we are told that the rightful order of things goes something like this:

Boy and Girl meet
Boy pursues Girl
Girl agrees and accepts Boy’s pursuit
Courtship begins
Love blossoms
Boy and Girl marry (promising to love, honor and do the grown up with only each other)
Girl and Boy have 2.3 children and live happily ever after

What the storybook fails to mention is that life rarely happens this way. I would argue that even though our goal is monogamy it is not our practice especially with research suggesting a 30-60% chance that your partner will commit some form of infidelity. We all fall short. In reality we subscribe to assumed monogamy and to some degree live happily as long as we don’t see, hear or smell cheating. Even with good intentions sometimes something new is just that something new. I’d even argue that is it 100% possible to cheat, for lack of a more technical term, on your significant other and still 100% love that person. Variety is the spice of life and not for nothing every person is not great at everything. This is not to say that monogamy is impossible but damn if it ain’t highly improbable.

Case in point the person who fixes your car is probably not the same person who does your taxes. In our society folks specialize, becoming an expert in one area of life while just being average or ok in others. There’s nothing inherently wrong with this and hell that’s the way capitalism made us. Renaissance men are a needle in a haystack which means finding emotional support, financial assistance and chexual satisfaction in a single body, in this day is damn hard. I’d even go out on a limb and say that most of us compromise on one or more of these things in order to fit the monogamous model society set for us. As a result of said compromise some, remember 30-60%, fall weak at the feet of a specimen possessing one of your compromised elements.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with compromise because let’s face it, most of us aren’t hitting the mark on all the items I mentioned above either. Accept that you’re a specialized being as well and hope that someone is willing to compromise your hashish and call it love.

But even knowing the above I would still argue against Champ and say that if I ruled the world, I’d free all my sons…oh wait that’s a song. What I mean to say, his thought process is not off balance in theory. (And let’s be clear his theory was focused on polygyny meaning a man can take more than one wife not polyandry where a woman can take more than one husband.) In theory women are driven by security more than anything and it would stand to reason that being a sister-wife provides more security than a single-wife. But only if we equate security to finance, to site Champ…one seven figure earning man can support 10 women easier than one $50k a year guy can support one. For some women security (and when I say security I mean financial security) is the only thing that matters. I’m not sold that financial security drives all women today though. Like communism while fantabulous in theory hits a big not gonna happen wall in practice.

In sheer numbers alone this can’t work. I could be wrong but I think the US population is about 300 million. Half of that being able bodied adults so 150 million. Based on the US economy, only 0.1% (150,000) of US households earn a seven figure salary and that figure includes women. For the pure funk of it, let’s say that that number does not. Multiplying that figure by 10 (assuming that one seven figure gent could handle 10 women successfully which I doubt given my taste for Gucci handbags) it would still only cover what 1% (1,500,000) of the adult population. Of course my numbers could be wrong since I only took Excursions in Mathematics and White Collar Statistics in college.

While we’re at it let’s be even more realistic and say that a lot of women, sorry chicas I am a proud card carrying member of the titay committee, can be batsh*t crazy when it comes to romantic love. Must I bring out the cracking e-mail/cellphone generalized internet stalking cookbook written by and for women? Did I need to go there? Those things alone clearly point to the fact that most women aren’t down with OPP.

Of course there’s always a wrinkle to this theory. Honestly I believe any woman married to a politician, famous actor or sports star knowingly practices a form of polygamy. Yes that is my opinion. You are free to disagree. Knowing that slores follow money and power and men are generally swayed by poon if thrown hard enough it would be borderline retarded to believe any of these men are faithful. Yes I am a cynic. But seriously if Troy Polamalu type men were in my face everyday offering the peen with no strings I’m not sure how long I could turn that offer down. Honestly I’d break out of sheer want to try it-ness. Temptation is a snaggatoof bish.

Additionally I’m not silly enough to believe there aren’t women who prefer mistress status, especially since 2010 was a Ho-a-thon. I can’t remember a better year for the Ho in all my 29 years on this planet. Ho aspirations hit an all time high. And not for nothing Hos stayed winning this year*cough*Alicia Keys*cough* with the exception of Kat Stacks. The 1% discussed above swallows up knowing polygamist and gutter butts. Unfortunately that leaves a whole 99% of the female population that won’t get down with the get down for the sheer mathematics or the batsh*t craziness of it all.

At the end of the day if women ruled the dating world I don’t think it would be any different than it is today. People believe and agree to monogamy while practicing pseudo polygamy. Meaning, that on the surface we are with one person while secretly entertaining others, if you don’t believe this you have no better place to look but to the 30-60% infidelity rate. Clearly lots of folks aren’t practicing what they preach. Hell folks go to great lengths to live in a world of oblivion about their significant other’s outside trysts. Ignorance is bliss.

Maybe I’m jaded, what do you think?

This morning I learned something fascinating about my cat. Actually it’s not really fascinating as much as it answers questions and proves that I’m not losing my mind. Sometimes I leave items on my kitchen counter and walk into my living room or my bedroom to get something, answer my phone, or catch a glimpse of Troy Polamalu, whatever. When I come back into the kitchen said item will be on the floor. Granted The Little Brother is an odd ball at times I know he’s not a child and wouldn’t just knock something on the floor and walk away. But with no other human in the house who could have done such a thing, dramatic squirrel. As it turns out Benson my sometimes couch snug-bud when the Little Brother isn’t looking can jump onto the kitchen counter. Ain’t this a bish!

Back story, I have two cats because the Little Brother felt one cat might get lonely. Benson is the alpha male. He dominates poor Stabler to the point that I question if there is a domestic violence situation I should report to the vet. Stabler displays abused wife/child behaviors. When you reach for him he shrinks away as if you want to hit him. This is not by either my hands or those of my brother, we don’t believe in animal cruelty so I chalk this up to the kamikaze-esque attacks Benson levies on Stabler during the day. However, Stabler is agile. He leaps higher, runs faster and overall out athletes Benson. I guess he has to, given Benson’s abusive nature. Not to mention Benson is probably about 5-10 noticeable lbs overweight.

But now I know all of Benson’s laziness is nothing but an act, sneaky bish. This morning I was cutting an apple that I planned to take for my all day snack (I eat apple slices periodically throughout the day, one because apples are natural breath fresheners and two because they are delicious). In the middle of chopping I noticed that Benson stole my purple stripped gloves out of my purse. As I ran after him with the angry voice, angry voice only works on canines, he eventually tired, because he’s fat weight challenged and dropped them in the middle of the living room floor. As I stooped down to pick up my gloves I hear the knife fall to the kitchen floor, dramatic squirrel.

Knowing my brother is in his room I dash to kitchen with shoe in hand ready to assault the assailant with the heel only to find Benson on the counter. WTF!!! Although he should have been the one in shock to be caught with his pecker in a cheap ho he just gave me that whatever bish look, hopped down and began drinking his water. Are you serious, at least this is what I was thinking? Benson is a lying ass ninja cat that’s been wooling (do you like how I made wool a verb) my eyes for years about his actual physical fitness. That noticeable 5-10lbs of overweightness (yup just made that one up) clearly isn’t stopping him. Granted I thought Stabler given his athleticism could easily hop on the counter but given his meek manner he accepts that the window seal is the highest place in the house he’s allowed. Not that bish Benson.

After the shock of the situation wore off I yelled to my brother explaining what had just happened. His response, “You know what, that’s because he’s fat!”

I try not to delve into the logic that is The Little Brother but sometimes he says stuff like that and I can’t resist.

Me: What? You realize that makes no sense right?
The Little Brother: Huh, everything that Benson does is because he’s fat.

I sincerely hope he was trying to be funny.

This is the R7 - the train I actually catch to go downtown to work!

Peculiar morning, no? It was for me even if it wasn’t for you. I woke up and hit the snooze button, not typical Faith behavior. Normally I’m awake before the alarm blares and watch the fluorescent numbers change until 6:36AM. I have no scientific evidence to back this theory but I’ve decided my need to control things makes me wake up before the alarm sounds. It’s a false sense of security.

Snoozing was just the start. Typically when I finish dressing for work I walk into the kitchen and feed the cats. For whatever reason instead of giving the cats their food bowl I laid the bag of cat food on their feeding mat and placed their food dish underneath the sink where the bag belongs. I walked away for a second and then realized the error of my ways, odd! Clearly this was just as disturbing to the cats who took to staring at me blankly. But then again maybe not as cats never really stare knowingly in my opinion they are more blank than emotional. I truly dislike their coldness but I feel compelled to have a pet. I’ve always had a pet and can’t see existing without one. I might need to discuss this compulsion with someone.

Anywho, because I was slightly off my normal schedule the iron was still hot and I felt uneasy about wrapping it up and placing it in the closet. But I did. I felt like it might melt something on the top shelf. I thought about this during my walk to the train station. Oh did I forget to mention that now that I am working in the city regularly I take the train twice a week when my brother can’t drive me because of his dialysis appointment.

On my less than five minute walk to the train station I was almost hit by a car driving no more than 10 miles per hour. As I tried to maneuver around him he tried to park in the space I was standing in. In his defense I was in the only parking space still available in front of the free clinic. Yes I live around the corner from a free clinic, #dontjudgeme. My apartment is ridonkulously cheap for its size but for what it makes up for in space it loses in neighborhood appeal. I won’t speak on the seedy characters that I see on a daily basis. Being home more often may force my hand to make that move.

And when I say move I don’t mean living with The Spaniard. Ever since having my license plate stolen twice I’ve toyed with the idea of moving out of the neighborhood and truly embracing my boughie. Of course with my hectic travel schedule that thought only occurred to me when I had extended stays in my apartment, so like once every quarter. Not enough to make me actually look for a new place. Don’t confuse my ploys to be grown up by acquiring a realtor and looking at condos as a realistic search for a new place. I toyed with the idea of adulthood through purchasing something I definitely probably can’t afford comfortably. Besides I don’t want a place without a family or the guise of a family.

On the train I noticed a couple of things that struck my fancy and something that disturbed me a bit. I’ll start with the fancy because that’s more interesting…I think! So there was this guy sitting half way down the train car who resembled my College Crush. I would have liked to see him walk because I like watching men walk, it’s one of my things and because my College Crush was bowlegged. Although considered a flaw in adults, I find it very very fascinating and sezy. I don’t know why. So much so I looked it up on Wikipedia when I came into work this morning to find out the actual medical term, Genu Varum.

That had me thinking a little bit about college and how I almost had the nerve to tell College Crush that I had a thing for him, which I honestly think was mutual…it helps my ego so go with it. In the middle of my speech, which I wrote out the night before, I was rudely interrupted by an envious lesbian. To this day I still fault her for my inability to disclose my true feelings to him. I ended our friendship shortly thereafter because I couldn’t look at her face without replaying my missed opportunity. Sure I know this makes no sense but I remember her bringing it up in casual conversation saying something like, “Wow did you see how College Crush looked at you, you’d have thought you were about to tell him you loved him or something, ha ha!”

It also made me think about the betrayal I felt when a close acquaintance of mine sucked him off one night dated him briefly during our senior year. She totally betrayed my trust. I confided in her that I’d been crushing on this guy since freshmen year when we sat next to each other in soc class. At first she said something like why and then I explained all his amazing qualities, one of them being his super smartness. He graduated Summa Cum Laude. Big…brains do it for me all the time! Additionally he was athletically inclined, tall, broad shouldered, handsome in that rugged cowboy way and he was a genuine sweetheart. For instance he’d always give me his sweatshirt in criminology classes because the building was outrageously cold.

Not that it was right but yes I actually laughed at her when she told me he was a loser for never calling her afterwards. She deserved that treatment for being a backstabbing skank not to mention he liked taller girls with a little more chesticles, I know this from the few girls who were privileged enough to be called his girlfriend. In my mind I was clearly a shoe in, this didn’t combat my nervousness though. Fear crippled me after being interrupted by the lesbian and well I missed an opportunity at something or nothing. Who knows it will always be one of those things I wonder about. I hate not having closure though I won’t lie. It did teach me that if there is something or someone you want, go for it. Never allow fear to consume you to the point it inhibits your ability to act because it will always be your loss.

Does it make me a stalker that I’ve tried to find him on Facebook multiple times with no success?

Anywho, I then noticed a couple sitting about two aisles away on the train. I started to think that it must be weird to both live and work with your spouse. When would you get that me time that everyone needs? I pocketed that thought because the female portion of the duo missed her mouth and spilled a whole bunch of coffee down the front of her shirt. This in and of itself didn’t capture my eye, it was the male portion of the duo coping a feel assisting in cleaning. Interesting, she’s going to be very embarrassed for the rest of the day. It was a cream blouse. I also noticed the guy hold back a laugh. The chick wasn’t too amused but next time I’m sure she’ll be more careful.

Before reaching my destination, Suburban Station, the train stops at the Gallery. There’s always a line-up of passengers getting off at this station. One of them that stuck out to me by hair initially was a gentlemen with a freshly cut hi-top fade. I know that 90’s fashions are the rage and I’m sort of riding the bandwagon but in this instance the unkempt trying to be curly nappy hi-top fade made me want to earl a bit in my mouth. If that wasn’t enough to upset my morning breakfast, once Mr. 90’s was in full body length view he was wearing a pair of women’s rain boots and the tightest stone washed black jeans I’ve ever seen on a man. I think he noticed me staring at him. I apologize for the judgment but seriously dude, I mean seriously!

But the topper, the icing on this strange ride to the work and slightly disturbing, the noticeably disheveled husky man in the tan pea coat who kept making eyes at me. I noticed that he wasn’t wearing any socks with his dress shoes. It was definitely cold this morning and he was actually sockless, spooky right? If the car were empty besides the two of us I’d have been real afraid, like snatch a piece of my cootie frightened. And I don’t scare easily. I mean seriously my fright meter is way up there. Granted the fear could have been coming from a place of non-comfort with the fact that someone I found less than attractive was giving me the I wanna lick your neck look. But I really think it was more because he looked like an ex serial killer, at any moment ready to return from sabbatical with a vengeance.

Peculiar morning, no?

Under normal circumstances I am not a jealous person. I rarely ask The Spaniard who he was with or where he’s been. It’s not because I don’t care…well a little of it is because I don’t care but to some degree I operate under the system that any dirt that you do will eventually come to light. My battles with him come down to when I’m actually in his presence. He incomparable to any other knows how to trample my last nerve. And I’m not a violent person but I’ve wanted to, in the not so recent past, punch him in the face MMA style.

But yesterday I felt something odd. We were talking, just chatting really about nothing in particular. OK we were talking about nude beaches and if I agreed with him that they were a no go. In honesty I don’t care. My concern, be respectful. If a woman or man for that matter drops trou at the beach it isn’t for your viewing pleasure, this ain’t the sckrippa club. Don’t ogle some chick because she’s got a great body and cause Mr. Happy to get…you know Happy!

Sidenote I don’t have an issue with sckrippa clubs either, if you wanna pay for something folks show for free be my guest just don’t come to me afterwards smelling of rachet gutter butt hos or classy tramp perfume. Both will get you major side eye action.

He kept going on and on about men wearing shorts above the knee which he also considers a no go. I told him that if his inner metrosex sought my approval for such, he had my blessing. Considering his partial European upbringing I expect latent metrosexual behavior…it’s kind of a given. American men are overly masculine while the rest of the world, save for the Caribbean islanders, march the masculinity/femininity thin line.

Yes I know I just stereotyped men, whatever it’s my unscientific biased opinion so lump it.

None of this made my pressure rise or my antennae perk. But mid conversation just as one passenger left and another entered his cab the wind shifted. Granted the nude beach convo was going nowhere but I was just bored enough to continue with it a little while longer. There was a casual exchange between him and the rider, clearly someone he knew. Most of these people I recognize by name but not this one. I could hear her voice, soft, happy and young I’d bet money between 25-30 give or take a year or two. She asked him about his day, he answered in Spanish, mas o menos (rough translation alright literal translation more or less moving right along). Then this chick asked him to spot her some money to get lunch and he agreed, where they do that at??????

What did I listen to? Is this normal passenger cabbie talk or some other hashish that requires sleuthing? And I totally disapprove of the flirty Spanish talk. Anyway, antennae perked pressure slightly above normal I was at a loss for words. This never happens. Normally I am quick tongued but I immediately felt white hot with anger impeding my ability to talk. I kept turning the small but very telling conversation between this not so random passenger and The Spaniard around in my head. Then he awkwardly mumbled something like, I’ll talk to later ok, dial tone.

This is the same man who called me back angry after I accidently hung up the phone on him screaming about never ending a conversation with OK. He never ends any conversation even if he’s angry with me by saying talk to you later or OK. He always says I’ll see you soon hun or bye love…am I tripping?

Am I becoming one of those girls that sniff tests? Have I morphed into that girl? You know the one who sits outside of her boyfriend’s house/apartment when she knows he’s home and calls him to ask where he is to see if he lies? Did I just stumble into the realm of crazy jealous? Am I taking a brief conversation between casual acquaintances out of context? Is my gut right when it tells me to bring this up in random conversation to see if he stutters and if I get a whiff he’s lying about this bish chuck the deuces? See and there you have it I just called some female I don’t know from jump street a foul name at the hint she’s drinking my kool-aid.

I have no clue where jump street is and I’m not even sure where that colloquialism comes from. Not to mention I’ve declared ownership over The Spaniard, this isn’t 1815 as far as I can surmise slavery no longer exists.

This is weird crazy jealous woman hashish I know it is but I can’t stamp the thought out of my head. I’m obsessing about it a little. And you know what I blame this on, my current employment situation…if I were consulting busy my mind wouldn’t have a chance to over-process nonsense. Oh see the right side of my brain, you know the practical side that processes things logically, told me to stop this hours ago, but the left side, creative domain also known as drama girl central won’t let it go hence the blogpost.

So am I blowing this out of proportion? Side note, jealousy much like wool itches and is uncomfortable without a camisole. Me no like it!

Leaving my current career path as a consultant is bittersweet. How cliché does that sound? But it’s all the way true. Although I detest the politics of consulting, robotic human vampires are not the friendliest folk to work with; I learned a lot in a very short period of time. When I started consulting I thought I was the hashish and pissed excellence! I quickly realized everyone in consulting pisses excellence, in his/her own mind. Arrogance, with a side of Backstabbing Bish is a prereq to surviving or at least be thought of as truly the hashish. While I’m Facebook friends with Arrogance, Backstabbing and I don’t mesh like that. Seriously, the OG in the sky doesn’t need one more thing to smite me for in the hereafter, I’m just saying, He doesn’t!

It’s funny I’ve been going through one of the rockiest emotional moments I can remember. I would say even rockier than when I finally lost the Future Ex Husband. And even though I’ve never told the story about the Future Ex Husband and it is a story I didn’t feel as much a failure as I’ve felt lately. With him I just felt numb. A long time passed before I rubbed the numbness out of my veins. It never occurred to me that we wouldn’t be married living as the modern day Huxtables even though our relationship was a seesaw of together and apart.

Failure is my greatest fear. Don’t try to break into any of my accounts because you now know one of my security question answers. I fight against failure every day. This is part of the reason I did so well in school and ultimately do well professionally. I refuse to do anything but well, I repeat refuse. This is not in a childish get mine before someone can get theirs type of thing I just put in 200% at all times. It has paid off very well for me. I have a work ethic that most don’t, in particular those of my generation, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. I delay personal gratification at the expense of excelling professionally.

And I do this intentionally. I deal well in a world where I can be emotion-less. Work requires attention but it doesn’t require vulnerability. It doesn’t have to see me stripped bare to love and ultimately reward me. With the Future Ex Husband I was totally exposed and open and vulnerable but in the end it didn’t work. And when it was over I played the What If game for years about what should have could have been. Eventually I accepted that in life you will have growing moments and losing the Ex was one of mine.

Losing the Future Ex Husband taught me a correct yet emotionally isolating lesson about love, in order to avoid pain you can’t get in too deep. And this lesson grew and took hold as the result of the groundwork paved by a troubled childhood that witnessed dysfunctional love. Every guy after the Ex, I held at a distance. It wasn’t necessary to divulge all things about me because I wasn’t going to be around long enough for it to matter. Whenever I bored or at the first sign of trouble I ended things…sometimes abruptly others with slow fades but never ever on someone else’s terms. I shielded my heart well and escaped those men painlessly and unscathed. Always looking back on my time with them as yet another life experience but never a true relationship. I’d tried a relationship and it didn’t work, mistakes are to be learned from and not repeated.

Not recently! The Spaniard caught me in the middle of a perfect storm. I’d just gotten settled into the consultant game. And by settled I mean figured out the circus and began falling into the petty politics. My family was in the midst of crisis...not uncommon but I was truly emotionally raw from losing my Pop-Pop. And to add insult to injury 21 Jump Street shattered a 7-year friendship and any hopes of a courtship with the live in girlfriend bomb. In the midst of that train wreck unassuming genuinely nice guy walks in and provides a much-needed outlet.

He wasn’t trying to solve any of my ish because that’s what I’m good at, solving ish. He was just there, if I needed to laugh or shout or naked mambo talk or whatever with no agenda. He didn’t want anything from me and that was a relief. It seems that everyone in my life wants something from me and it was nice for once that someone didn’t need my advice, time, money, car, opinion, guidance and the list goes on. I found comfort there.

And even though I outwardly fought against the idea of coupling up with him I took a tiny leap of faith outside of my comfort zone into a relationship with the Spaniard. It felt right at the time. But when it ended, it ended badly. I felt deceived. I felt abused and I felt like the person who originally didn’t want anything from me was a fraud. The one person who was supposed to above all others not want to hurt me stabbed me with a rusty steak knife and left me to bleed out in the streets. And as much as I wanted to gouge out his eyes for being a liar and a whole lot of other things I was more enraged with myself. Me, the person who writes people’s stories accurately within an hour of meeting him couldn’t see through The Spaniard’s veneer. Failure her name is Faith.

Or at least that’s how I felt. I masked that feeling most of the summer with the madness of dating random boys. It was fun but came tumbling to a halt with one text message. A message that unearthed those buried feelings of self-rage slapping them to the surface and forcing me to deal. My preference isn’t to deal. As I mentioned emotion-less environments suit me well.

They say the ones who hurt us the most are the ones closest to us…do you believe that?

But anyway it’s my birthday and I’m going to table this rambling for now…

Side note: Are you an emotion bottler or a wearer of your feelings on your sleeve?

So it seems no one wants to hear the romanticals of all things Faith for the past 8 weeks, sheesh I’m crying a bit on the inside. I kid I kid! It would seem, not surprising really, that Crazy Balls has taken the stage. And since I write this blog for both myself and the lovelies that stop by and leave me comments from time to time I feel obligated to give you more details, not that there’s much else there.

Without further digression,

After getting through the 8 trillion security check lines in the airport in Sao Paulo, Fellow Traveler and I patiently waited to board the plane home. The dreaded Brazilian work excursion was over and we were finally going back to civilization as we know it. No more black bean Wednesdays or feijãda as the locals so nicely named it. Yes you didn’t read that wrong on Wednesday for lunch every place serves black beans…they come with a variety of meat options (mostly pork including snout – the locals said it’s something about paying homage to the slaves…hmmm I could think of a better way to show respect but I am going off on a tangent).

I won’t lie though I really miss suco de abacaxi, fresh pineapple juice, it’s literally the best thing since sliced bread!

Anywho we’re in the airport waiting for yet another airplane when I notice this older gentleman, I’d peg him in the 60-65 ballpark but I could be wrong, standing slightly in front of us. I noticed him because he was wearing the tightest cargo pants I’d ever seen on a straight man and he had an obnoxious orange tan which lent it’s services to the 14 strands of hair on his head. They (the hair strands) were congregating on the top of his head in sort of a comb over motion not doing a great job of hiding his ginormous bald spot. Side note if you’re going bald men just do the Mr. Clean it looks way better than rocking the Terry Bradshaw or Sherman Hemsley cul-da-sac. I’m just saying.

Of course I’m fantabulously hair vain so I’d probably hang on to anything I had left as well.

Digressing…Fellow Traveler and I chuckle a bit before we’re split and board the plane to our separate seats. Once inside the jet I begin getting settled for the long ride home. About three or four minutes into the boarding process two ladies stop in front of me and begin speaking broken Portuglish (Portuguese & English), you know the none tan must have made them think I was Brazilian. After convincing them that I was in fact American and spoke English they asked if I could switch seats so they could sit together. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have given up my seat but they were sisters and I would have preferred to sit next to my sister instead of some random passenger.

Little did I know that taking the seat up just a few rows would put me right beside, you guessed it, Crazy Cargo Hair. See Crazy Cargo Hair was his initial name before the overnight peep show.

As I mentioned before Fellow Traveler and I had to fly through Toronto on the way back to Philadelphia. After experiencing the prison fare they offered on the ride over to Brazil I decided the best use of my 10 hour flight would be to get some much needed sleep, if possible. It had been our experience that the air over the Amazon was pretty choppy but I was fully prepared to Xanax, courtesy of Fellow Traveler’s mom-bot, myself to sleep at the first sign of turbulence.

Even before the flight attendants did their in flight emergency dance I was fast asleep. Sometime during the night, as all flights to USA from Brazil depart between 10PM-12AM, Crazy Cargo Hair stripped from the waist down. I’d like to think he stripped in the wee hours of the morning when the flight crew had dozed off in their little cubby holes but there is no way to know for sure because I was fast asleep. Not to mention its pitch black on those overnight flights so he could have been going to town on himself and I would have been none the wiser.

In any event I woke to the annoying early morning announcements from the flight crew you know the drill, turn off all electrical devices, last chance to hit the john yada yada yada. Just as I opened my eyes I was accosted by shriveled old man testes. I’m not sure about you but this sure ain’t the best part of waking up! Not to mention he was doing the whole don’t mind me I’m just adjusting my junk thing that guys do in an attempt to put his doodads back into those tight arse cargo pants. Now I can’t say for sure what type of undies Crazy Balls, note the name change, was wearing because I wasn’t positive I was in fact seeing what I was seeing.

After blinking about seven or eight times I was sure I was in fact seeing the old man peep show…and I didn’t even ask for it! I began asking myself all these questions…when did he let them loose, did he free ball the whole flight home, why didn’t he go into the bathroom and put himself back in his pants, did his testes kinda have a tan, did I really just see 65yr old balls? You know the normal morning questions!

The show only lasted about a minute or two as Crazy Balls is clearly skilled in the art of putting peas in a pod. For a split second I thought to complain but since we were getting off the plane shortly I didn’t see the benefit.

Side note whenever you say Crazy Balls you have to put up the jazz hands, like a Broadway musical…I can’t tell you why but it just seems appropriate.

Lately my life has been so boring I’d rather watch a patch of grass grow and as a result I’m gonna pull an oldie but goodie from my vault of oddly amusing things that have happened to me. In addition Cardiogirl asked that I give her the back story on a comment I left on her blog so I figure since I’ve literally got nothing else I might as well satisfy her curiosity.

Without further ado….back when I was a stressed out, underappreciated and overworked senior attending a Jesuit University in Philadelphia I decided it would make sense to lighten my load by taking a nonsense class. Considering my rather hectic work schedule that required me to be class free on Fridays, by night I was a directory assistance operator, my course selection was restricted to classes offered Mon-Thur. Additionally I’d have to find something that interested me. With that small list of requirements I found myself in student services rearranging my schedule.

Not surprising there were only a few classes that even fit the mold. Now I would have preferred to take advanced Psychology considering I’d already taken the intro course. My initial thought was that while not 100% aligned to my major, Criminal Justice, it linked quite nicely and would compliment my growing resume of Criminology and Sociology classes. Just for shits and giggles I’d taken two Philosophy classes…you know trying to be well rounded and read. Unfortunately it was offered on that frigging M/W/F schedule so it was a no go.

After about a half hour of toiling futilely through the catalogue I happened upon an Intro to Art class. Booyah! Believe it or not this was right up my alley. Back in the day I was very much into sketching and the course description said it would be an introduction to sketching, sculpting and painting. And to put it over the top, it was offered on Wednesdays for three hours at night, and I know I said I worked at night but Wed was my night off so this seemed like it dropped from the sky above.

Like every good rainbow severing the clouds from the heavens above it started first as rain….well in this case more like an amusing Caribbean shower. My first night in class I didn’t know what to expect. The course details didn’t indicate what if any materials we needed, it just said something like bring your imagination…no problem there I had mine in tow with me all day. To that end I guess I was more than prepared.

The art classroom was pretty small, oh wait the word is quaint isn’t it or maybe intimate. Yes yes, the art classroom was intimate. It held enough room for 14 students and 1 professor comfortably. Once inside I began chit chatting it up with the other students. I wanted to know if they’d been given any advance notice of the materials we’d need going forward…you know I’m anal like that. No one seemed to know and the professor was nowhere in sight.

My life as a career student had taught me that on the first day of class teachers and students alike are equally capable of being up to 15 minutes late so I wasn’t going to stress out that he was tardy to the party. Of course with 14 or so random students of differing ages, majors and sexes the conversation soon turned to recent parties and a whole bunch of other debauchery, ah college!

Anywho I’d taken up talk with a relatively cute butter pecan Puerto Rican hombre to my immediate left, for what it’s worth we’ll call him Butter Pecan for the rest of this post or BP for short. He was local Philly not imported Jersey like so many of the other students. This was rather refreshing. Standing to Butter Pecan’s immediate left was an overly tan large haired individual reminiscent of Bon Jovi but I didn’t give it much thought because I was lost in silly flirty convo with Butter Pecan.

By ten minutes in the room was pretty loud with tons of side conversations and the like. Suddenly and I say suddenly because before anyone could realize it Mr. Bon Jovi took center stage. And you know I say center stage because it dawned on me in that very moment in the middle of the intimate classroom there was a sort of podium type contraption with painters clothe draped across it, subtle details.

Once on stage Mr. Bon Jovi dropped trou!!!!!! Yes you read that right; he dropped trou in front of everyone with no warning. And really it took me by surprise in particular because he was so dang close to Butter Pecan that it almost had the appearance that Mr. Bon Jovi was giving BP a private show. Of course that wasn’t the case but you know appearances. After de-clothing all willy nilly he struck a sort of work of modern art pose and held it. And yes if you guessed that the room fell monastery silent you’d be 100% right except for some horriprised (horrified and surprised) gasps from the collective peanut gallery.

What broke the silence, Butter Pecan of course saying, “Damn dude you could have given us some kinda warning, yo! I wasn’t even prepared for that. (Turning to face me) Aye Yo, what the hell, he don’t even have no drawers on…it’s cold as shit outside.”

Hmmm this situation is uncomfortable, at least I’m not alone in my uncomfortable-ness.

I understood BP’s frustration or maybe slight awkwardness, hell the classroom was full of folk caught completely off guard, I mean it’s not too often someone de-clothes in a semi crowded room.

My only response, “Yup you’re right he’s not wearing any underwear!”

Before long the professor walked in and instructed us to pick up a sketch pad from along the wall and begin capturing Mr. Bon Jovi’s “essence.” When he said that all I could really see was his hair…you know because I felt it slightly inappropriate to stare at his little man jewels. Even still the teacher liked my work…he said that he could feel Mr. Bon Jovi’s energy in my rendition even though I’d forgotten his essentials.

Even though I went through a semester of nudes and got relatively comfortable with the concept of holding normal conversation with someone who suddenly de-robes I never ever really got comfortable with the sculpting, painting or sketching of the essentials.

When the Best Friend called and said that there’s this 32in television I must have or I’ll die and would like to have a partner in crime while I’m out getting this steal, I should have declined. Of course hindsight is 20/20. After a little leg pulling, because at the time I was still very much working slave hours for the Vancouver client project I agreed to be her wing woman, her stand in line while I tinkle woman, her grab that 30 pack of Rubbermaid canisters woman…you get the point. That woman was me.

I should have definitely declined the offer but I hadn’t seen the Best Friend in a month of Sundays and believe it or not I was in some ways looking forward to being sequestered in the yellow smiley face rollback prices store for hours. However, the Best Friend informed me that we wouldn’t have to stand in line for hours on end because this year, suddenly the smart stick hit execs, people would get tickets at 12AM on a first come first serve basis for the item of his/her choice and have to return to the store at 5AM to retrieve said item. Fantabulous! That meant I could peruse the aisles while my friend waited patiently to get her ticket then we could return to her house. Once at her home I’d finish my work stuff, catch some zzz’s and then wake early grab breakfast and scoop up her television along with a mess of other “Black Friday” deals.

All sounds wonderrific, right?

And since it did sound so fantabulous you know it was not! First bubble buster there was no exiting the store once you secured a ticket. Second bubble buster, after securing said golden ticket you were pigeon holed to a line for the remainder of your stay. And by remainder of our stay I mean at 12:15AM when we sauntered our happy tails into Walsucks we had to remain in line until 5 bells before we could officially purchase the television. This meant no going back to finish the mountains of work I needed to complete nor getting up early for breakfast, and y’all know I loves me some diner breakfast.

This would be beginning of the stank eye (o_O) for Black Friday and the end of my already on thin ice relationship with Walsucks. No matter I prefer Tarjay anyway!

As luck may have it, walking through the aisles of merchandise I was unable to purchase until 5AM (for whatever reason the staff had duct tapped tons of items customers were not allowed to touch during the 5 hour jail sentence) I happened upon some very lonely bar stools not packaged in 5AM tape. My first thought was genius, now I wouldn’t have to pop a squat on the narsty Walsuck's floor and the second thought was damn these stools will look sick (this is slang and means fantabulous) in my apartment…bottom line, two for one!

Side note: I was allowed to walk around because I wasn’t purchasing a ticketed item.

Upon my return, stools in hand, to the line the Best Friend had the I’m so not feeling this sh*t face. I told her about some relatively decent deals which seemed to perk her spirits and we began setting up our stools along the nearest display wall. Those stools must have had some kind of magic Walsuck worker power because within minutes some jerk-off in a blue smock came over to discuss the “stool situation.”

Walsuck’s Worker: Uh you’re not allowed to sit if you’re waiting in line.

Me: Is that in some type of written document…did you give notice to the people on the floor? I don’t think they got the memo.

Walsuck’s Worker: What I mean is you’re not allowed to sit on stools if you’re waiting in the line.

Me: Really?

Walsuck’s Worker: Yeah it’s not fair to the other people who are waiting in line.

Me: Is that so…is it my fault that none of them thought of getting chairs to sit on for the next five hours. I shouldn’t be penalized because I found a creative solution.

Walsuck’s Worker: Uhhhh, yeah ummm, well the only way you can sit on them then is if you agree to buy the stools.

Me (turning my head toward my friend indicating that I was done with the conversation): I’m buying them!

Do you think it ended here….if you do, you’re dead wrong!

The Best Friend and I share some smart ass conversation about people taking positions of no power to their heads. Before long we’re rudely interrupted by the Harleysville Walsuck’s Manager.

Walsuck’s Manager: You two can’t sit on those stools.

Me: I’ve had this conversation with your worker a few minutes ago; I told him I’m buying the stools.

Walsuck’s Manager: It doesn’t matter. You’re creating a safety issue by sitting on the stools.

Me: You can’t be serious? We’re creating a safety issue? We’re creating a safety issue?

Walsuck’s Manager: Yes YOU’RE creating a safety issue. If YOU’RE seated on the stools someone could come by, trip and hit their head on the ground.

Me (holding back a laugh): Whatever, you might want to tell that to the dozen or so folks who are lying on the floor making it impossible for other customers to walk down the aisles. You might also want to mention that to the other dozen or so customers who are sitting on shelves with merchandise hanging every so nicely above their heads. Oh yeah and you might want to mention that to the people who are sitting on boxes in the middle of the aisles. You know since you’re giving out safety advice. Oh and by the way, it’s also a safety issue to have people standing in lines for hours without suitable seating during the wee hours of the morning. Not to mention roping off areas, yet another safety issue. I could go on but I think you get my drift right? But maybe you don’t should I dumb it down for ya?

I admit not my finest moment and quite possibly too condescending to a woman who was probably old enough to be my mother. In my defense I was at my wits end with the stupidity of the whole Black Friday event.

Walsuck’s Manager (arms flapping and doing a slight bottleneck): What did you say? I don’t want any trouble. I don’t want to have to escort you out!

By now my friend gave me the please don’t get us kicked out of line we’ve been here too damn long and I really want this television look. And since I care more about my friend’s feelings than actually being right (as painful as it was) I conceded.

Me: You’re kidding right, trouble. Some people!

The Best Friend and I got off the stools and placed them along the display. After a minute or two of huddled sideline conversation between the manager and her minions, one walked over and stated that the manager said that I still had to purchase the stools once I checked out. I didn’t bat an eye until the moron placed the stools inside our cart to which I questioned where television would fit. No answer, but not really all that surprising.

By 3AM I settled down slightly. I mean at least I wasn’t the lady who got kicked out for “shopping” during her 15 minute bathroom break. She was escorted out by security at the behest of the Walsuck’s Manager. Kicked Out Customer yelled something like now this b*tch thinks she’s a Somebody because she’s making 6 dollars an hour and wearing a blue smock, f*ck that! I could be adding dramaticals here but believe me it was something like that. Standing in vain for hours really pisses people off…just a thought!

At the stroke of 5 a free for all pretty much broke loose. When the Walsuck’s Worker started to place the 32in television on top of the two stools they placed in our cart earlier, I had to speak up.

Me: You might wanna take the stools out of the cart before you put the tv in, I’m just saying.

Walsuck’s Worker: You’re right.

Walsuck’s Security Guard (pretty much appearing out of nowhere): Oh no these two(pointing at my friend and I) have been sitting on those stools all night and have to purchase them or they can’t get this television.

Me: First off Captain Flashlight I haven’t been sitting on anything all night. And if you were standing guard around here you’d already know that. Second you can’t make me purchase anything!

Walsuck’s Worker: Don’t worry about it he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. (turning to face the security guard) Hey man calm down and go back to your post.

By this time I’d already begun my walk to the front of the store to secure a customer comment card. Granted I might have added to the heightened tension that night/morning between myself and the Walsuck's staff but stoooopidity coupled with bad customer service gets under my skin to a whole other level.

From now on I won’t ever go out again on Black Friday and both Walsuck and Black Friday get the eternal stank eye (o_O)

This video made my birthday pretty darn exciting considering how the car took me to the cleaners. I don't even wanna talk about it...no really I don't. Please look at this video and laugh viciously...I know I did. Seriously watch the whole minute and fifty four seconds please.

This post will be short and sweet because I’m on vacation and well that’s just it. If you don’t like it lump it.

Why did the Spaniard call me from an unrecognizable number?

Why did I answer and not hang up?

Why did he tell me he missed me and that his cousin died before the wedding, fell off the roof the day of the ceremony (I told him I didn’t believe him)?

Why do I sort of miss him?

Why am I mad at myself for feeling this way?

Why do emotions betray logic?

Why did the TSA worker make my morning by hitting on me when I was wearing a scarf (he was cute & the vacation is starting right)?

Why did the Russian Mafia chicks on the plane refuse to turn off their cell phones?

Why did Chunky Baby’s Mom have to ask the Russian Mafia Chicks on the plane to turn off their cell phone shortly before take off?

Why did half of the Russian Mafia chick lean her frigging chair all the way back while I was trying to finish work (oh yeah I was still doing work while officially off the clock)?

Why did Fat Dude near the window begin sending text messages mid flight (clearly he missed the memo)?

Why was Chunky Baby making swoon eyes at me all flight (he has baby rolls so cute)?

Why did London Badunkadunk put her arse in my face…granted she didn’t do it purposely but still spandex-ed ass isn’t what I want to see when I turn my face?

Why did London Badunkadunk’s Husband get a serious feel on mid flight that I caught out of my peripherals, ugh…this could be jealousy…not because I wanted him to feel me up but because it must be cute to be married for what 10+ years and still have a hubby that wants to cop a feel regardless of who sees?

Why did we hit turbulence shortly before landing and why did Random First Class Chick decide that was the best time to use the ladies room?

Why didn’t any of the flight attendants stop Random First Class Chick…could it be the first class status because we coachers were told to stay seated the plane was landing?

So there are some things I need to get off my chest.

Dear Mother Nature,

This I’m sure comes as no surprise, you’re a biotych. Sorry that’s probably not the best way to start a greeting but it is what it is.

Riding the crimson wave are we?.

I slave hours at work in the actual office even giving up some of my personal home time during wonderfully cloudless rainless days. The moment I attempt to steal my life back you decide to act all types of shifty. It’s really not appreciated. If you have a manager I would like to speak with him/her.

Understandably we can’t have blue skies every day of the week. Honestly I’m not even asking for that because it doesn’t always suit my mood. What I am requesting cut me some freaking slack on my vacation. WTH! You’ve known about these plans for months now and this I know because you and the Man Upstairs share similar living spaces so this didn’t blind side you in any way. You were given advance notice and should have planned your Weather Forecast accordingly.

Granted you treated me to stupenderful weather during my staycation which I would gladly swap for my actual leaving town vacation to Miami. For that I guess I should say thanks, however I’m not. What I wanted was you know fun in the sun, which doesn’t look like it will happen. Luckily your panties aren’t so far up your arse that you called Ms. Hurricane. If so this letter would be much nastier. At the same time it’s not unlike you to stoop to the lower levels of bioytch-ness and pull Mr. Tropical Storm out of your hat. Trust I have my eye on you.

Not sure where your customer’s relations department is but when I find it believe me this will get mailed.

Oh and I’d also like to thank you for the flying courtesy. Yeah thank s a whole effing lot. It wasn’t bad enough you invited Rain to my party (literally) now you’re also thinking about Thunder Storm as well. Come now what have I ever done to you? Ok I littered but that was in my past. I’m definitely on the going green wagon these days. My car is almost hybrid…well not really but its fuel efficient.

And lastly I would like to throw up in your punch for what you’re doing to my hair. Oh yeah don’t think I forgot. You stole the loveliness that is my locks. And yeah it hurt my feelings…a lot. Your cousin, Rain hijacked my luster and that wench Humidity I can’t even begin to talk about what that hooker did. Just know that if I catch either one of them in the street, it won’t be pretty. And that’s not a threat it’s a promise!

Regards,

Granted there are a lot of concepts that I just don’t understand. I don’t proclaim to be any type of molecular scientist or Einstein freak of nature genius but on average I get most things. MSM or men sleeping with men, but not gay, I just don’t get….on any level.

Let me preface this post with a small disclaimer: I am in no way homophobic or mean this to demean, taunt or otherwise offend any members of the gay, lesbian, bi or transgendered community (which probably means I will but I truly do not). I heart gay peoples like I heart straight folks. Besides some of my best friends are either gay or bi curious.

The other day I ran across this post that discussed the “phenomena” of men sleeping with men but aren’t gay similar to semester lesbians with one caveat. A semester lesbian is a girl who dated or had sex with other chicks during college, grad or high school (whatever your form of higher ed) but in her adult life is straight and only dates men. (I don’t buy this either but again I never was lesbian for a semester so this could be yet another bean to throw into the jar of things I don’t understand). However a MSM continues a sexual relationship with men for life.

It matters not to me about the category. A bird by another name is still a bird. I can call it a hog but at the end of the day if it picks up and flies away it’s a flying hog….I kid I kid, it’s a bird. You get my drift.

In an event, society places a stigma on those who self identify as gay, lesbian, bi or transgendered. Because of this I do understand the defense mechanism to cloak and morph into Mr. or Mrs. What Society Wants. But doesn’t that get old? Don’t you want to just unfasten society’s button exhale and let it all hang out? Maybe not but in my experience lies weigh heavy.

Not to mention and sorry this is my opinion if you’re attracted to men sexually and you’re a man…ding ding ding that’s the definition of gay and the same goes for women. I’m sorry about the category it might make your panties ride but it is what it is. And I don’t subscribe to that age old double standard that women can lick it up with another chick toss the pictures in a box of memories and say oh remember in 1999 when I was lesbian. Sexuality unlike hair color doesn’t wash or grow away with time. Or at least it doesn’t how I understand it. If I can grow out of my sexual attraction to men I would like to do that at age 99 or so you know because I love me some him…I mean I’m just saying if there’s a choice in the matter.

Besides I have enough cleave for two people already I don’t need any other nipples joining the party.

This is not to say that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian. Whatever floats your boat row. I will admit I don’t quite understand why women who identify as lesbian date butch women who look like men…I mean seriously you’re missing out on the most fun part of that there male type situation if you get my drift. But alas if it makes you happy keep on chucking.

My one issue and yes I admit it is an issue with this MSM thing, the deceit. Most well let me not say most but a lot of these gents are married or in committed relationships with women, major no no. In particular because their female counterparts are out of the loop and have no clue about their hombre’s extracurricular activities. Such a web we weave. If you’re engaging in sexual relations with other men for whatever reason, out right denial of being gay just for fun or a physical release I think you have an obligation to let your wife, girlfriend and/or significant other know. Just because you don’t think you’re gay or bi or whatever doesn’t mean you’re not and you should give your wife, girlfriend and/or significant other the option of being involved in your lifestyle (for lack of a better word).

Granted you might lose a girlfriend or two but isn’t it better to live your life as you truly are. Not to mention that having multiple sexual partners lends itself to double the STD fun. And not to beat a dead horse but anal and oral sex are the riskiest forms of sexual contact. I’m not pointing any fingers and we should all be safe sexual beings but uh when you’re lying to your strictly monogamous girlfriend about banging Harry from down the block during the all male review poker night you are putting her in a rather compromising situation emotionally along with risking her life. And that’s not cool.

So while you’re happy dipping Harry, which is totally your right, you’re playing Russian roulette with ole Faithfull’s life and could very well psychologically destroy her (you know I have a flare for the dramatics). I heard from a friend of friend (granted this could have been drunk girl talk or urban legend) of a girl walking in on her boyfriend bent over a couch by his closet closest buddy…long story short she took a trip to the local psyche ward and he took a trip to the hospital. Sometimes honesty is the best policy.

At the end of the day, MSM is code to me for Down Low Dude and Gay Men in Denial. It really all means the same thing. All I ask is for people to be open and honest about who they are and what they do. No one wants to end up the highlight on the evening news for something that is very very very avoidable.

SMDH, do you see that dribble of juice left in those containers? (Granted the white cranberry juice probably wasn’t the best in hindsight but you get it I’m sure.) This picture depicts three of the six down to the last drop juice bottles left in my refrigerator. It was only right to show you what I am subjected to on an all too regular basis. Trust this is the norm and not an exception. By now I should just be used to this type of salute yet every time I see it tiny anger monkeys hop up and down on my shoulders.

Don’t be fooled this practice extends to other items in the house as well including cereal (both hot and cold), mouthwash pretty much anything that can be left to the last morsel chips or even the last drop….soap, whatever. And for this reason I must check everything. The checking is really what gets under my skin. It’s not that there’s no more or let me rephrase because clearly there’s something left it’s the fact that if said bottles or containers aren’t see thru I have no way of knowing until I go to pour myself some orange juice. And believe me at 7:00AM in the morning heading out the door to the office it’s just not the right time to surprise me with a squirt of OJ….seriously though now my whole f*cking morning is ruined.

Clearly the Little Brother has an issue with finishing anything…why I don’t know he also has an issue with closing the shower curtain after he’s done, go figure.

Ugh, this is why I don’t like roommates, sometimes. In general living with The Little Brother works well. He is around when I need him to lug my heavy arse laundry bag down the stairs. Most times he remembers to do his chores without nagging a friendly reminder and he even takes out the trash on cue. We don’t fight over trivial bs mainly because I don’t do confrontations. It’s just not my way. He understands my moods well enough to know when something has rubbed me wrong and most times he adjusts without having to go there. Believe me I hate having to go there. It’s happened once or twice and it wasn’t pretty.

The last time I had to go there involved the taking back of his car key….not pretty!

His perks outweigh mine though. He gets full use of my car without the decency of ever filling it up with gas or paying for general maintenance which also includes washing or vacuuming. He lives in a fantabulous apartment minus the ghetto that exists around us that he can’t afford. Totally heart my apartment, totally hate the neighborhood….if I had it to do over, or if I had the time to actually devote to looking I would move. But this is a story for another time. I exist as a 24hr bank account that never gets deposits just withdrawals but by no means bounces or says insufficient funds. And on some days I even have the privilege of selecting outfits for him to wear on dates with chicks using my car and 9 times out of 10 on my dime.

Clearly I am getting the short end of this here stick. Not to mention the damn boy can’t remember not to soak my friggin bathroom rug. Bathroom mats serve dual purposes, decoration and excess water catchers. The key word in that sentence was excess, it is not a towel and should at no time be soaking wet. Stepping on sloshy damp rug barefoot ain’t fun and will turn Faith into mean Faith instantaneously.

Sometimes I consider this my cross. Everyone must carry one to make it to the promise land. Of course The Little Brother does cart me back and forth to work (on the days I go to the office) with very little lip. But he should given his many many many privileges. In some ways I guess that makes me a touch spoiled and maybe I shouldn’t rant about him.


Side note: So why did I wake up hot with no electricity…..I will blog more later and now I am calling the Spaniard to take me home…this can’t end well. Oh and Fellow Traveler discovered my work secret…mum is the word!

OK if I hear another ExtenZe commercial/infomercial/radio advertisement I will go barnyard mad. That is not my subtle take on exaggeration either, that is hell to the no real life. Am I the only one tired of it; can someone, anyone explain why these ads monopolize good radio and TV airtime. Given the sensitive nature of said ad one would presume a late night after the demons little angels turn off the lights (yeah Teddy Pendergrass, don’t act like I’m the only one who automatically hears the song) and hop in the sack might make better sense....

Granted I could be alone. Maybe you truly enjoy the sneaky innuendo, that certain part of a man’s anatomy because clearly someone might break into fits of uncontrollable pain to hear, dare I say penis. Uh oh the improper police are gonna arrest me, I said penis. Don’t push me I might say….vagina! Check me out...

Although vagina just sounds dirty. I don’t know why it does, but it does. Of course not nearly as filthy as say, c*nt or p*ssy. No lady would ever utter such blasphemy, it’s just crude. Personally I prefer cunny, which I learned from this super smart historical textbook I read, The Other Boleyn Girl.

And when you think about it, why are all the words for the female downtown bonanza all yucky (very technical term I know). Oddly I am ok with saying junk, balls, schlong, the little plumber….oh is that just me?

Of course when I was young the Man Wander Married called everything by code name. I was probably in middle school before I truly understood that wing wing wasn’t the anatomical word for a man’s junk. Ha ha do you like how I didn’t actually use the right word, subtle right? Although I knew the word for the lady parts I preferred to use the term pocketbook. Not that this was any better than my dad’s genius wing wing, imagine my confusion when Wander asked me to hand her my pocketbook.

Anywho my gripe or minor rant is about this ExtenZe airwave assault. Come now folks, what the frig is going on? Gone are the days when sexually dysfunctional men hid in corners hoping no one took notice. For some reason they’re brazen, proud even to get on the telly wagging a limp willy (Simmer down Faith that’s Viagra). Oh wait it’s their lack of girth this magic pill solves. Because as the commercial painfully points out, every morning interrupting my funlarious morning show Big Boi’s Neighborhood, women care about size (girth and width not length).

And it’s true maybe us womenfolk are making you men feel all types of inadequate. So much so you’re willing to get on national television and make an ass out of yourself to prove you can please your wife, girlfriend the slut in your office, whatever. So now when you stop at the gas station on a late night condom run you also pocket a little packet of ExtenZe for that extra fun. Did you know they sell those things at Sunoco? Clearly it packs a mighty punch and you will forever be remembered by that random hook-up girl from the bar as the widest no length penis having freak whose name she can’t quite remember.

It’s a competition, clearly a man thing. I mean how would it sound if you walked up on a group of unsuspecting females and one of them was bragging about the size of her vagina. Maybe in some sell it for money circles this is normal conversation, I wouldn’t know for sure having no first hand experience.

But really I wouldn’t be so bothered if the ads ran concurrently with programming of like content. I mean if say one of the commercials came on during Taxicab Confessions (does this show still come on) not while watching the NBA finals it would make perfect sense. Or if the half hour full on infomercial came on at three in the morning when the little tykes are sound asleep (seriously this is irresponsible, why not just throw them a party with a blow up doll and a dildo as a mascot…was that too far). It just gets under my skin.

Thoughts people, am I getting bent out of shape over trivial bullsh*t?



PS. Gents, size does matter, LMAO!

Under normal circumstances I like to keep my blog rather racially ambiguous not because I’m not into being a sistah girl but because being black doesn’t define me. True it’s a large part of who I am but it’s not the be all and end all. It’s the skin I’m in so to speak so I see the world through the eyes of a black woman and to some degree the world sees me first as a black woman before seeing me as just Faith. Don’t worry I’ve gotten used to it.

With that dissertation aside here’s the skinny. Over the last few weeks friends of mine and some not so close people I talk to have been having this reoccurring conversation with me about the plight of the educated black woman. OK that sounds very melodramatic but if you’re a regular reader (the two or three that actually exist following my almost month long hiatus) you’re used to my slight exaggeration. In any event, the plight of the educated black woman is this, marriage is highly unlikely. And for that marriage to happen between you and a black man of equal standing is even less likely.

Census stats report that black families are less likely to contain a married couple than other groups 46% vs 81% and single female headed families are far more likely 45.4% vs 13.7%.

OK OK before you kumbaya hand holding liberal idealist who come into “urban” areas by way of church missions and college projects go all ape shit on me, grow up. Barack may rock the White House and even throw a kick ass bbq inviting his United Nations friends and it looks all sweet potato pie great at the same time in some podunk ass-backwards town in Mississippi they have separate but equal proms. Yes it’s true with no faithaggeration. Sad the entire graduating class encompasses but 54 students so having the separate prom seems utterly ridonkulous when they should be trying to figure out why only 54 people are graduating, the point is simply at the end of the day we stick with our own.

Don’t get me wrong, I know tons and see tons of interracial couples (I am one of them) but most of the black women I know dream of having that strapping black man on her arm. Hell, let me be personal since this is my blog, when I close my eyes at night I entertain the idea of marrying my very own Common or Barack Obama. This dream fizzles quickly when I think about my true viable options that fit my short list of must or must not haves. Ok that was dramatic but you get my drift.

And I don’t think I’m asking for much. You give the list a whirl:

• Must be childless (the list has dropped significantly after this one)
• Must be employed preferably in a career that has some semblance of a 401k
• Must be my educational equivalent or better
• Must have no criminal record
• Must believe in some type of higher power (we can debate religion later)
• Must date women exclusively (this is soooo serious)
• Must not live with mother or some other relative who raised you as a child
• Must without a doubt not have any type of inappropriate tattoos (i.e . MOB splashed across your neck, you so can’t attend the office party)

Already I’ve eliminated an entire pool of “potentials.” Not only that I find that when I date and when I say I I mean myself and the women I’ve chit chatted with over the past few weeks. Hell let me say when we date fellow brothers we find ourselves making major concessions. Concessions aren’t inherently bad, with every relationship we make some because in life you never get 100% of what you want. Maybe you don’t like smokers (this was a major not gonna touch it with a stick for me) but prince charming rides in on his stallion hiding a social smoking habit. If he makes you smile you say well that smoking thing isn’t that bad.

Oh that was just me, I guess.

But I am talking major concessions like being startled from your sleep by a ringing cell phone at 3AM in the morning because baby mama number two (multiples give me the shivers) has a personal issue she just absolutely needs to discuss with your man. His answer before you can even begin to roll your eyes and snap your neck, she’s the mother of my child. WTF? This is more than a concession, this is a complete and utter relationship killer and creates an environment that doesn’t promote the Obama-esque union my Wander sees in her head for me.

To be completely honest there is only one guy, of all the men I know who fits the short list I spoke about earlier and that’s 21 Jumpstreet. We know how that ended. He does give me hope there are more out there like him, well not just like him because the whole hiding a live in girlfriend was janky but you know what I’m saying. No wait there’s two, Designer Jeans is the other one and well he’s a manwhore like so many other “good brothers” out there.

What I do know, my sistahs are scared. A lot of us close the doors to anyone but black men and because of this we settle and make concessions in order to have the veneer of “black love.” As a result we end up with the baby (hence the baby mama drama) minus the husband, house or ring. And I don’t want to be a downer or sound like a hater of all black men because I’m not. In actuality I heart black men, if given the chance to date and marry one who could make the short list I might just give up a kidney because well, I heart black men and I don’t want to be part of that growing statistic of angry black women who say brothers ain’t shit.

Side note I will never say this because my heart tells me it isn’t true.

But I will say this, brothers step up your game in all seriousness!

Is this just a Philadelphia phenomenon?