Sincere's Celibacy Chronicles Vol. 4: It's Impolite to Stare

So I'm at least shin deep into this celibacy thing, and for the record I would like to state that I'm doing very well with it (just in case you were thinking my journey was over). At the very least it makes life surprisingly interesting. Since making the decision to shun sex and pretty much anything related to it, the temptation to mount the next man I see has subsided a bit. The thought-provoking images, and ideas however have more than multiplied. Not long ago said sexual thought-provoking images and ideas were normal. Normal in the sense that anyone, male or female, dog or cat, could possibly be sexually aroused or at least thinking about having sex in the face of these particular situations. Here are some normal examples of situations that can be sexually arousing to just about anyone: watching someone workout or jog, watching TV (let's face it, it's littered with sexually tense situations). Here is a not so normal example: catching a glimpse of a man scratching his balls. I know, it's sick! This all too familiar, repulsive, homer-like behavior is so gross and rude. It has to be in the top five things that all men do that women can't stand, and yet yesterday, I caught a glimpse of a man doing it in public and felt giddy and overly anxious. A rush of excitement ran through my body as if he were doing it exclusively for my viewing pleasure. Before I could even understand what was happening to me, that glimpse became an unashamed look, and in an instant a bold stare. The man of course was totally oblivious to the fact that I was watching him at all as he was carrying on a conversation with someone else and completely engrossed in the activity he had going on (clearly, as was I). It took all of the will power and manners I had not to walk over to him and politely say, excuse me, would you like some help with that?

A little Known Fact

I learned something rather enlightening and infuriating in a conversation with my ex-husband about two weeks ago. We were discussing the current state of our lives and what we both want for ourselves moving forward. He professed how he never plans to remarry, and I beamed about how I most definitely plan to remarry and have the family that I always wanted. The conversation was going smoothly, it was almost refreshing and hopeful. I was beginning to feel like we'd turned the corner and that maybe, just maybe we could be friends after all that we've gone through together. There have been a few times before when I would get this same exact feeling and without fail something would happen to change everything. Unfortunately this time was no different than the last few times. It all came undone with this statement that casually rolled off of my ex's tongue without so much as a bat of an eyelash. "What you don't know is I tried to get you pregnant twice." He said it so proudly, and although I wasn't looking at him when he made that ridiculous remark, I am almost sure I heard a smile in his voice. If pissivity had a language it was written all over my face. I can't think of anything more dispicable, and disgusting. What kind of a person does something like that? When I think of how life could be so much more complicated right now if he had succeeded with even one of those attempts it makes me very grateful for one's right to divorce. The more I find out about my ex, the more validated my decision to end our marriage becomes (as if I didn't have reason enough already). The moral of this story is be careful ladies; it's a little known fact, but men try to create baby traps too.

Sincere's Celibacy Chronicles Vol. 3: Water, Water Everywhere and not a Drop to Drink

My sincerest apologies. I seem to be having a great deal of trouble with commitment lately. I made a promise to post every Friday about my trek through the desert and for two Friday's I have deserted you. I won't bore you with all the excuses as to why this sudden lapse in communication has occurred. Suffice it to say I have too many balls up in the air at one time, and we all know how much hard work juggling balls can be. Whether you found that last line corny or cute, it is the perfect segue into today's topic. BUT before I get to the actual topic, let me preface it with two concise facts.

1. Celibacy equals clarity
2. It's a man's world (trite but true)

The world is full of penises. The politically correct phrase would be phallic symbols, but usually, I like to call a spade a spade, so we'll roll the Sincere way with this one. It all began last Saturday at the grocery store. I was simply perusing the aisles in the produce section when out of nowhere I was instantly annoyed. It was a fairly calm, quiet day at the supermarket. My shopping basket wasn't terribly squeaky, all of the wheels worked and turned in the right direction, and I could stand in one spot while making a decision between the Romaine or Mixed Spring Baby Greens without the having to do the shuffle around other people's shopping carts. After making the all important lettuce decision I leisurely wheeled a little further down the aisle and picked up two avocado, and a cucumber.

I felt my stress spot begin to tingle a little, but I couldn't figure out what the issue was. There is no way I was still stressing over the type of lettuce I'd chosen. I'd had a great day at work. What the hell was bothering me? As I passed a huge table housing an abundance of bananas it hit me. The produce section at the grocery store is stocked full of food stuffs that resemble the male genitalia: cucumbers, avocado, zucchini, carrots. I was livid! I can't even make a salad without being reminded of sex and how I'm not having any?! The whole world has gone mad! or maybe it's just me. Okay it is just me, but for someone who is trying to make a conscious decision not to engage in frivolous, cheap, sexual encounters solely for the sake of having an orgasm without even the thought, or the twinkle of a possibility of a meaningful relationship with the other person involved, a table piled insanely high with bananas is a bit too much to handle. So I made a sharp right turn past the bananas and made a bee line for the checkout lanes. On my way to the train I passed two hot dog stands and at least three people eating them. In my mind I gave them all the finger.

Sincere's Celibacy Chronicles Vol. 2- Sexual Myths CONFIRMED

Today's Sexual Myth CONFIRMED: Chocolate is a celibate woman's bestfriend.

I am a self-proclaimed junk food junkie. I make it a rule to indulge in something sweet at least once a day. When I'm in a relationship swapping sweets for sex is satisfyingly sufficient. However, we all know the name of the game by now, and sadly, there is no satisfyingly sufficient swapping going on. Most days I am beyond frustrated, irritated, and restless, and I don't always feel like working out. As a result the number of books I read in a month has spiked, I've rediscovered my obsession with fashion magazines, and my consumption of chocolate is off the charts. I have eaten the equivalent of at least three king-sized chocolate bars this week alone. It's kind of hard to explain the effects of chocolate on a celibate woman, but I'll take a stab at it. The mechanics of tasting chocolate is reminiscent of the way sex feels, without the anticipation of an orgasm (damn). When I taste chocolate it's the meeting of my tongue, a smooth, warm, wet place, and a hard, velvety, bittersweet piece of candy. Once the two meet the sweetness lingers a little and with a little caressing, gradually the two melt into each other. Immediately, happiness ensues and a smile comes across my lips. Euphoria. Like sex, the more chocolate I have, the more I want. The craving increases with every bite until my heart is content. Afterwards I like to lull in the sweetness of what just transpired. If it's really good, a nap will soon follow. Every once in a while, when I realize what I've done, I feel a little guilty, but usually it's all good.

Sincere's Celibacy Chronicles-Vol. 1 Sexual Myths CONFIRMED

So I guess the verdict is in on this one, I am only two weeks into the desert otherwise known as celibacy. This is the first of many installments (provided I make it through another week) in the little series I'm calling Sincere's Celibacy Chronicles. I've decided that rather than debunking sexual myths, I'll confirm the one's that are unfortunately proving to be true (for me anyway). There are about four that will be confirmed throughout this series, and I'll tackle them one at a time. So without further adieu:

Todays sexual myth CONFIRMED: Prolonged periods without sex/no orgasm will cause breakouts.
*For the purposes of today's post the terms Sex and Celibacy are personified.


Celibacy: I just don't understand why my face keeps is breaking out.

Sex: It's pretty obvious to me.

Celibacy: What do you mean, I drink plenty of water, I workout, I take good care of my skin.

Sex: Yeah, but when was the last time you had an orgasm??

Celibacy: (gives the stank eye)

Sex: Ohhh, that's right, my bad, I forgot who I was talking to.

Celibacy: It's ok, Sex, I know you have a tendency to play with people's emotions sometimes.

Sex: Hey, no hard feelings.

The Sex Saga Continues. . .

For some reason I feel the need to keep you all updated on my sex life, or lack thereof. I've received some very helpful suggestions from some of my female readers on how to handle this debacle. And I want you ladies to know I've taken it all to heart. I even made a trip to an Adult Store Saturday night to shop around for toys. While it's worth noting that I was amazed at the many choices of "toys" and contraptions available for my personal stimulating pleasure, particularly the Rabbit Pearl, I left the store empty-handed. The entire experience was most amusing, and somewhat pathetic. I just couldn't imagine myself using any of those things (at least not alone). I never liked stuffed animals as a little girl. I don't do fake bags. I don't do fake hair. And I don't do fake penis. I'm a realist. Typically, I'm not a soda drinker but if I choose to drink soda, I drink Coca-Cola because "it's the real thing."

I'm the kind of person who will stand out in the rain with no umbrella just so I can say I've had the actual experience of knowing what it feels like. Nothing tops a real life experience for me. But I'm also an open minded person, and I'll try almost anything once within good reason, hence the reason I entertained the idea of going to shop for toys in the first place. However, I've decided to go a different route and challenge my sexual frustrations, rather than satisfy them. I'm deciding to be celibate. For how long, I'm not quite sure, but if we start counting from my last sexual encounter, so far, it's been four months. So you see, I didn't choose celibacy, celibacy chose me. The past four months have been very difficult, but not overly so, and I think the worst is over. So going at least another four months in the desert seems feasible (from where I stand right now anyway). But of course there is a problem (it wouldn't be Sincere, if there weren't a problem). Although I have not engaged in copulation in four months, I have engaged in oral sex. These were only two isolated incidents within my four month dry spell, and there was no breaking and entering involved, so technically, I'm thinking I'm in the clear.

So I'm asking for your opinions, when a person decides to be celibate, does oral sex count?

I know what I think the answer is, but it is too heartbreaking, and infuriating to admit to myself. It's like standing in line at the DMV for half an hour on a particularly busy day, and then realizing you've been standing in the wrong line. So please break it to me gently. I'm half hoping you all will tell me what I want to hear. The right answer will mean that I can continue on my path of celibacy, and in a few months it'll all be over. The wrong answer (which is really the right answer) will mean that my path of celibacy just started about two weeks ago, and I have a very long road ahead of me. However, either way, I am going to do my absolute best to stick it out (admire the irony).

I've been celibate in the past before for a whole year and three months, so I'm sure I can handle this. Of course that was after my very first sexual experience which was HORRIBLE. Consequently, I didn't have much in the way of good sexual memories to torture me. Since then, however, I've managed to rack up a few really good times, and my last sexual encounter was hands down thee best sex of my life, so this go round, this celibacy thing is proving to be HELL some days. On those days I find a little exercise does a body good, so I workout or take a vigorous walk, and that usually takes care of it. Plus I know that when I finally do have sex my body is going to be dangerous! In the meantime, I'll continue to provide weekly updates on my progress, and the joys (if any), and woes of celibacy in a new series to Luv's Detriment entitled, Sincere's Celibacy Chronicles. I'll post updates every Friday until I decide to ditch the desert and climb off of the celibacy camel. While I can't predict how great each post will be, I can promise you it will be candid, if not mildly entertaining. Maybe I can live vicariously through your sex lives, feel free to drop any especially good time memories in my email box ( seeing as how that's the only box that will be getting anything dropped into it for a while).

Wish me Luck!
Sincere Lee

Riding in Cars with Boys

Disclaimer: This is a woman to woman practical advice session.

If you want to know what a man is thinking take a ride with him in the car. It doesn't even have to be a long distance ride, in about thirty minutes you'll find out almost anything you want to know. Things you never knew about him that you've been trying to figure out for years; things you wished you never knew about him. You'll find out what makes him tick. I'm not sure what makes them so comfortable and vulnerable, whether its the ride, the open road, the feeling of being behind the wheel of a car, lack of eye contact, but it never fails. For some reason a man's heart is wide open when he's driving, and his communication dial is turned all the way up. It never ceases to amaze me. It's like watching a butterfly emerge from it's cocoon. He'll tell you whatever is on his heart to say but the catch is you can't say anything.

You have to be very attentive and listen, and above all else be sincere. Don't give advice or make suggestions or comments, just listen. Hold his hand, rub the back of his neck, or don't do anything at all, but let him know you're there. Watch him, his facial expressions, the way he is physically responding to his thoughts. His body language will tell you all the things that he can't verbalize, which is almost more important than what he has to say. You have to watch him because he won't be looking at you. In fact it may be hard for him to look at you the rest of the night after that. Don't be offended or ask why when he suddenly seems distant. Try to understand why. And never bring it up again, unless prompted, even then, proceed with caution.

It's a lot like bird watching or any other sport or activity that requires patience, stillness, and attentiveness. If you're quiet enough you can observe the creature in it's natural habitat. Out of respect for the men in my life who have freely shared their inner most thoughts, and life-changing experiences with me while we were riding in the car, I will not discuss the many fascinating, inspiring, heartbreaking, and tragic things I've learned about them. But I will tell you how to know if just maybe you're fortunate enough to witness this experience firsthand. The one and only dead giveaway is if he turns down the radio when you get in the car, or any time during the ride and immediately begins to speak, consider yourself priveledged. There is something that happens to his voice, it's as if he's not even speaking to you; like you're not even there. He has this far off look in his face, and a sound in his voice and that's how you know he's going somewhere he doesn't go often, especially in your presence.

Please do not take this for granted. We have a tendency to miss the little things like this that men do because we're often too caught up in our own worlds. If my past relationships have taught me nothing else, they've taught me to always pay attention. If you play your cards right and you're supportive and attentive enough, eventually he'll turn the radio off completely, and then you're in the sweet spot. If, and only if, he does this it may be safe for you to ask a question or two, but you must be very careful. The wrong question or bad timing could shut the entire conversation down, and he'll probably never be that vulnerable with you again. Sometimes, on a rare occasion, while riding in cars with boys if you listen well enough, you'll discover a man.

Sincere Lee

Golden

The past two days here in New York City have been the most beautiful days I've seen in months. The weather was nothing short of phenomenal! I spent both days (Friday and Saturday) sitting on my ass on a park bench or a slab of concrete, thinking. I had lunch at Central Park on Friday, a salad. It was perfect weather for a mixed baby greens, chicken, avocado, dried cranberry, and walnut salad, with a side of balsamic vinaigerette. I spend a lot of time in Central Park, especially when my issues (i.e. my ex-husband, and my divorce) are getting to me. I was there for about two hours on Friday, people watching, duck watching, and relaxing.

So yesterday, phenomenal weather day number two, I decided to be a little spontaneous and venture over to Riverside Park. This is one of the many things I love about NYC, they can take a seemingly useless, eyesore of a piece of land, or waterfront, and it make a beautiful, relevant space. Riverside Park is located between Riverside Drive and the Hudson River. The south side of the park (which is where I spent the afternoon) is essentially a long, winding, bike trail accented with a few grassy spots for sunbathing or picnicing, and of course, the pier. Compared to Central Park, it really isn't very aesthetically pleasing to look at, but that's what makes it beautiful; it's honesty.

There are a million steps to walk down before you get to the "park," but once you're down there, this serene, sprawling, space is waiting for you, beckoning to you, forget the city, forget your life right now, embrace this life, it's peaceful, and honest; there are no ex-husbands here (at least not yours), only complete strangers, bike-riders (lots of them), runners, and the like, dogs, and ladybugs (lots of ladybugs).

We all seemed to have the same wish, to escape. As soon as I hit the bottom of the stairs I did just that. My ipod was on (no idea what was playing) and I began walking. My stride became a little bit lighter and softer with every step. City me met country me and for four hours my entire world slowed. down. Like the lens of a camera my minds eye took focus. I was acutely aware of everything around me. The whirring sound of the bike-rider's bikes as they whizzed by, the sound of the wind, the sound of my breath, the sound of my heart. I would walk about a mile and a half and then sit. The view was different every time, it changed my thoughts, which in turn changed my surroundings. It was like a magic slide show.

Sometimes I liked what I saw, sometimes I didn't, but equal time was spent focusing on each image. I met a ladybug within my first fifteen minutes there. She found a home on my bag and stayed with me the entire day. I watched her crawl around inside the crevices and folds of the leather of my purse. She seemed to be doing the same thing I was doing. It was obvious she didn't belong there but she was trying to find her way anyway. Every time I moved to walk a little and sit somewhere else I looked for her, and she was always there; busily exploring the terrain of my cream, Marc by Marc Jacobs hobo. Maybe I was a ladybug in a past life I thought.

I spent the better half of my four- hour- day- at- the- park sitting at the pier. This has to be one of the most peaceful places I've ever dwelled in. I was totally and thoroughly relaxed in my peaceful dwelling. I listened to music and thought until my thoughts were no more, and I could hear only the music from one side of my head to the other. I could feel the sun on my skin. It seemed so close that I swear there were flecks of gold from it being carried on the wind speckling the water, sweeping into my hair, and making my eyelids heavy.

There was something rare, indescribable, and mystical in the air yesterday that touched everything and everyone that wandered onto that pier. It had to be gold. Even my ladybug was gold, with black and white spots, and I never even noticed it until I was in that moment. Sporadically, as I sat there in pure peace, my eyes would close for a few seconds. My head tilted up towards the sky and I could feel the gold sprinkling and flecking across my face. It made me smile and wish that I could bottle this golden moment up and take it home with me where I would sprinkle it all over the apartment, and sniff it before bed at night so that it would fill my senses and get into my dreams. After a short while they would reopen and it was like a new scene going on around me all a twinkle in gold. New voices, new laughter, a kayaker in the distance, a shorter piece of wood bobbing in the river, a new pair of geese flying off into the horizon. A closer distance between myself and the sun.

Dawning

Anxiousness is paralyzing. Joy tangled up with fear, and excitement, and pain. That feeling of wanting to cry and laugh and scream all at once for reasons you know but are unable to understand at the moment. How overwhelming life can be and then suddenly everything is silent. You don't know whether to relax or run. I have so much ahead of me, nothing is in front of me. I could run if I weren't so afraid. If I had the direction, If I knew the direction. I read something the other day about being aware of your unconscious mind. I'm too aware of it. It speaks to me all the time. Showing me things, giving me the answers to questions I never knew I needed to ask. I don't know what to do with all of it, it makes me so anxious. What move is the right move, what if I do it wrong? How many more chances do I get to screw it all up again before its over, I'm maxed out. My hands are shaking with the realization of what my life has in store for me, and while it may not all be great, it's certainly satisfying. It's certainly beautiful. "Don't look at your situation, try to look past it," is what he told me. I was too involved at the time to imagine the possibility of that. But now. I see what you want me to see. It's clear as the blue sky on a sunny day. I am dancing in the light. I own it. It belongs to me. It always did.

Satisfaction

It's not too often that I get what I want, exactly the way that I want it. So when it does actually happen, it's worth documenting. This past Saturday night was especially rough for me. I've been communicating with my ex again, and it's proving two things one, to be agonizingly difficult, and two, if there was ever a doubt before, divorce is definitely the answer (for us anyway). I can't even remember what time I went to bed, but the first thing on my mind when I woke up Sunday morning was blueberry pancakes. I think I dreamt them up the night before. It's funny the things that pop into your mind after a rough night. Usually, I'm more of a french toast kinda girl, but blueberry pancakes were my heart's desire this particular, windy, rainy, New York City, Sunday morning. They were calling my name so persistently that I pulled myself up way earlier than I should have been awake, dressed, and tipped out of the apartment in search of sanity and satisfaction. I find myself getting lost in the sounds and the somberness of the city. It was just me, my ipod, and gray drizzly rain as I made my way up 60th St. to Eat Here Now.

As I took off my coat in the diner, and heard the clinging of silverware, and the chatter of thick New York accents, the smell of coffee, whatever mood I was in shifted. All that mattered was the goings-on in this place and time. I take comfort in the noise, it's a welcome distraction. I settle into my chair, and with a deep breath I exhale my worrisome thoughts. I catch snippets of the dialogue being exchanged around me. Even the way a little girl likes her eggs is more interesting to me than whatever i have going on right now. The waitress takes my order and within about ten minutes there was a perfect, porcelain, plate of fluffy, perfectly colored, blueberry pancakes, accented by two fat, cute little sausage links. I took my time buttering and syruping them. In this time and this place, they were the most precious things to me. My sanity depended on this staggered stack of carbs speckled with tiny blackish blue berries. The first bite was nothing short of sweet satisfaction, and every bite thereafter confirmed the perfection of the bite before. I guess sometimes dreams do come true.

A mess

I guess I had some unfinished business here. That's the only reason I can imagine I'm back here again. Right back where I started. Here. I wish I could say it's unnecessary, but there is so much to do. Too much to do here. It's comforting and uneasy all at the same time. The remnants of a life that once was, the promise of a life that will never be. It's sickening to watch you attempt to seduce me. I don't want you. You seem desperate and unsure of yourself. It's disgusting. I'm cornered, backed against the wall facing what I have, turning my back on what I want; hoping my decision will spawn the desired outcome this time. It's a challenge, but I've always loved a challenge. So difficult, so validating, so intriguing. I know where I stand now. I know what I want. I know what this is. I know what this isn't. Definition confirmed. Nothing here is the way I remembered it. It's all a mess, but I guess that's the way I left it. I can't stand a mess; nothing is where it belongs, nothing is all in one piece, but somehow everything is as it should be. A mess.

Look What I Got!

What a wonderful surprise first thing in the morning!! Special Thanks to Lexi at Sapphyre... The rambling mind of a 20-something! It's always nice to be recognized for your work, but it means much more to be recognized by your peers. I am virtually splitting my bagel with you Lexi! We're like two peas in a pod!

So here are the rules:

1. When you receive this award you must thank the person that awarded you this in the new post.
2. Name 10 things that make you happy.
3. Pass the award on to 10 other bloggers and inform the winners.

What makes me happy:

1. Sunshine
2. Jamba Juice- Acai Super-Antioxidant
3. getting pretty-hair, nails, waxed (it hurts, but i feel so much better afterwards)
4.my grandmother's house
5. music
6. good wine
7. good food
8. NYC
9. K.S.
10. dogs

I am awarding this to:

1. The Big Show at UD
2. She's Savvy
3. Single Black Man in NoVA
4. Pure Gold Lady
5. Brunch at Barneys
6. Skinny Dip
7. Twenty-Something Renaissance
8. Every Person in New York
9. Go Forth and Blogeth
10. DC Dating Adventures

Know Your Role

I've scrambled eggs and fried up some turkey bacon, and I haven't even been here two hours. Don't butter his toast. I'll butter it, but I refuse to put jam on it. He can put his own damn jam on his toast. And I'm NOT washing these dishes. That's not my role anymore. I place both of the plates on the table, with the jar of strawberry preserves (humph!) "Thank you, babe" he says, after he finishes his breakfast. I can feel my temples begin to tense up, and I physically shudder. I am not your baby. I take the dishes into the kitchen and place them in the sink. As I turn on the water I am reminded of what used to be.
Cook.
Serve.
Clean. I catch a glimpse of my reflection standing at the kitchen sink in the window. Rather than filling the sink with water, I fill my tea kettle instead. Within moments I'll be sipping tea out of my favorite mug and slipping into a cat nap. As soon as I feel my eye lids getting heavy, I hear the water running in the kitchen sink. Rest commences.

Can We Talk?!

I am not a texter. I will send a text as a means of communicating pertinent information, like "what time should I be ready?" or "my flight lands at 9:15." I am not one to carry on a full fledged, thirty minute, conversation (if that's what you want to call it) through texting. So imagine the shock and dismay I felt once I discovered that this is the way that people are dating now. The last couple of times I was asked out on a date with a complete stranger, it was via text. My reply: automatic NO, end of conversation. I should not have to decode a text message to go out with you. Whatever happened to the art of conversation? Two real people conversing in real life, in person, or on the phone. It's not always what a person says, but how they say it, voice inflection, facial expression, tone of voice. All of this stuff is part of a conversation, and it is vitally important to whatever we are trying to communicate. In day to day dealings with day to day people you could take it or leave it, but if you are sleeping with someone, or better yet thinking of sleeping with someone, all of these signals are crucial. Unfortunately, all of that is lost in a text. Who was the man who thought up this idea? It's genius (for men). I'm sure none of my male readers will read today's post just because of the title, I digress.

Email is just as bad. Think of how many times conversations have been misinterpreted as the result of a typo, or a punctuation mark, or word usage. The issue is not proper email etiquette, it's lack of communication. I miss the days of exchanging phone numbers on a slip of paper, and putting it somewhere special so you wouldn't lose it, then anticipating a phone call from that special person, and the feeling you get when you hear that special person's voice on the other end of the reciever. There is something about a man's voice on the telephone that is unique, and special to the woman listening. I've stopped dating men who didn't sound good on the phone. A person's voice tells you so much about who they are at the depth of themselves, their character. A person's voice leaves a mark on your mind, and if it's the right person, an impression on your heart. I can remember the sound of anyone's voice who has ever been special to me in any kind of way. The voice may bring back good or bad memories or advice, but the point is, it's unforgettable. You may forget what he wore on your first date, but you'll never forget the way his voice sounds when he says your name. A person's voice is directly connected to his/her soul. It's the only thing about a person that instantly changes in response to mental state, emotional state, physical environment, and everyday circumstances, that is immediately apparent. Why are we forgoing all of this for the sake of using a Blackberry? Texting and email is great for the office and/or business related matters. Outside of that, we all need to disconnect to reconnect. There are enough hidden messages in love and relationships I don't need a text message to remind me of that.

"If I were dead and buried, and I heard your voice, beneath the sod my heart of dust would still rejoice."-Roman Holiday

It's Not ALL Daddy's Fault

I have issues and it's not my daddy's fault. I know this may be surprising, seeing as how every issue that anybody, especially a woman, has ever had can almost always be directly attributed to the first man in her life, daddy. Don't get me wrong, he is no Heathcliff Huxtable, more like James Evans, but even that is a stretch. But he was there, present, in action. He's had his moments when he would get drunk and act like a plum fool, but he was there. He cuts the grass, he washes cars, he takes the garbage out (he has to be provoked, but he takes it out none the less), he does what he needs to do for our family. He also does what he needs to do for himself, and he's never apologized for it. I respect that. My parent's marriage is far from perfect, but I learned a long time ago that that's not my business. I have issues and it's my mother's fault. My mother and I don't understand each other. We never have. Too often it's just assumed that mothers and daughters just naturally have this wonderful, best girlfriends relationship; it's all hair and makeup, and nail shops. My mother and I are more like frenemies, not in the sense that I think of her as my enemy, although I'm not always sure she doesn't view me that way. In the sense that she makes life as difficult for me as possible, and she never seems genuinely happy for me when it's not. It's been a long time since I heard my mother say "I'm proud of you" and we never say "I love you."

Never.

I am the woman my mother wanted to become but was too afraid to be. She has a constant, nagging attitude with me that she doesn't share with my sister. She and my sister are just alike, but me, I'm the different one. I want more and I dare to actually get it. I feel like my mother used to be me. But then she got pregnant with me and all of that changed. She lost her freedom. She lost her dreams. Reality kicked dreams ass. She married my father, and the rest is his story. I get it, but why do I feel like I have to pay for it. I had a beautiful wedding to a paper perfect man. My mother couldn't have been happier. She bragged about my damaged ex-husband all over town. When I called to tell her about the "incident" she was upset, disappointed, but ever hopeful. I could hear it in her voice. I came back home. I needed her help. I needed her to be my girlfriend and empathize with me. I needed her to tell me I was doing the right thing. I needed to know she was proud of me for leaving. I needed her help. I needed. her. help.

It wasn't long before she subtly, then blatantly began suggesting that my husband and I try to work things out. I don't know why I continue to look to my mother for support. She's never given it to me, so I no longer ask, but I still look for it. I still need it. I have become hardened to asking for and accepting help, and it's my mother's fault. I am too proud, too ashamed, too embarrassed. I would rather proudly suffer in silence than ask for help. I have a problem with the principle of the matter. If you have to solicit help, it's not really help is it? When something is wrong, and everything is falling apart, and trust me, everything is falling apart, I handle it on my own. Not only that, I do it in such a way that nobody has any idea how desperate for help I truly am. I wear a veil of sheer confidence, grace, and total happiness, regardless of life's circumstances. I'm not saying I'm unhappy, but even happy people need help sometimes. I wasn't always this way, but I've been this way for so long that I can't remember when I wasn't. I justify it by telling myslef it's the ladylike thing to do. I tell myself that I don't have time to cry or breakdown. I am stronger than that. I got things to do. I think about my mother and wonder what happened to her? I think about myself and wonder if I am my mother's past realized. I think about my unborn daughters and wonder if their mother is compassionate enough to stop the cycle.

*3/06/09 UPDATE: My mother told me she loved me today for the first time!! I always knew it, but it was heavenly to hear.

Unemployed Men: The Original Wife Beaters

I can count on one hand the number of times I have used my blog as a means of debating or sounding off on an issue mentioned in the media. I prefer to blog about issues and problems that pertain directly to my life because I know these issues and problems better than anybody else. That's not to say that I don't keep abreast of what is going on in the world (I'm not that self-absorbed). Every once in a while, however, some of the more highly publicized issues peak my interest enough for me to want to blog about them. The one requirement is I have to have had a personal experience dealing with this issue. I never want to have to prowl the web or go to the library to do my blog posts. It's a blog, not a dissertation. Recently in the news, there's been a little flare up involving Senator Harry Reid and his opinions on the correlation between unemployed men and domestic violence. This issue is something I don't take lightly. I never did before, but now, as someone who has been assaulted by her husband, I have zero tolerance for it and the excuses that people, more specificly Senator Reid have come up with for why these acts of violence are perpetrated. The Senator basically cited unemployment for the reason that men are abusing their wives or significant others. He was trying to make a case for passing a bill in favor of creating more jobs but the purpose for his comment was completely lost on this dumbfounded observation.

I must say, however, Senator Reid is not alone in his opinion. After I let the cat outta the bag about my "situation" I was asked all kinds of ridiculous questions about why my husband (he was my fiance at the time) would do something like that. Was he on drugs? Was he stressed? The one question that kept recurring was, "Was he having issues at work?"

{{{{{Brace for explicit rant}}}}

WHO THE HELL DOESN'T HAVE PROBLEMS AT WORK? I DON'T KNOW OF ANYONE WHO IS COMPLETELY STRESS FUCKING FREE. IF THE ANSWER WERE YES TO THIS QUESTION WOULD IT MAKE A DAMN DIFFERENCE!!! IT IS NOT OKAY TO COME HOME STRESSED AND DECIDE TO CHOKE YOUR FIANCE. A STRESSFUL JOB OR NO JOB AT ALL DOES NOT LET YOUR PSYCHOTIC,DELUSIONAL, IRRESPONSIBLE ASS OFF THE HOOK!!! WHAT THE FUCK?!?! Ahem, excuse me, now back to the issue at hand. The point is why, as a society, are we always coming up with these perfect reasons for these unfortunate situations that occur between men and women. If a man cheats multiple times he has a sex addiction. Now, according to Senator Harry Reid, if a man beats his wife and happens to also be unemployed, that serves as a plausible excuse for his behavior. In the words of my favorite comedian Chris Rock, "whatever happened to crazy?" Why does there always have to be some deeper, hidden meaning or reason why? Whatever happened to making bad decisions and suffering the consequences? This is America people, shit happens, people make piss poor decisions, and do fucked up things. It's as simple as that. STOP THE INSANITY with the clinical bullshit.

*Sorry about ODing on the Caps Lock key, but I had some shit I needed to get off my chest. All better now. Thanks!

Sincere Lee

O.P.P

"Women always want what they can't have." I've heard this echoed over and over again by men and women. Honestly, until I found myself in a situation where I was attracted to, and wanted to sleep with somebody else's man (in my case husband), I was in complete denial. I did not act on my desires, and I did not know he was married when I met him (for details refer to Sticky Situations and Sticky Situations Part Deux). The way I handled my situation however, seems to be the exception, rather than the rule. It takes discipline, and good home training, ofen times prayer to resist a temptation like that. Particularly if you feel a very strong connection with this person, and have convinced yourself that somehow, some way, this man was supposed to be yours. Rarely does a married man leave his wife and family to be with the mistress, jump-off, side-kick, or the like; the idea of this actually happening in real life is almost mythical. I'm only speaking on attraction to married men, my personal situation didn't go any further than that. I just felt like that needed to be said. Just for kicks, however, I sometimes like to play devils advocate, so I did a little "research"(deep thought coupled with personal experience) on why some women are attracted to married men.

In talking with the married man, or the beautiful stranger, as I so fondly referred to him, I discovered exactly what the appeal is. They are already domesticated. I'm not a male basher, and I don't believe that all men are dogs, but for arguments sake, I can't think of a more suitable means of comparison than a trained dog. They've been paper trained, the know how to eat without spilling their food all outside of the bowl, and they can walk properly on a leash. All of the work is already done. There is a distinct difference in appearance, attitude, maturity, and frame of mind between married men and single men. I can spot a married man from a million miles away. In fact, the night I met the beautiful stranger, as soon as I laid eyes on him I told my girlfriends, "he's probably married." He just had that domesticated look. His clothes were neat, and fit appropriately, he wasn't heavily doused in cologne, and he was very well groomed, short, clean nails, clean hair. But the dead giveaway (not a wedding band, he wasn't wearing one) was he wore a peacoat, that was tailored to fit him to perfection; substantial evidence that there was a woman in his life in some capacity, either a stylist or a wife/live-in significant other. A straight man does not dress that way on his own (no offense single men, but if you have any fashion savvy at all you owe it to the women in your lives). I know how my husband dressed when we first met. While he was always very well put together, his style gradually became a lot more polished and refined the longer we were together for two reasons.

1. I began to buy most of his clothes
2. On occasion, I picked out what he wore.

I have a hunch that single men are aware of the obvious difference between themselves and married men, which is precisely the reason why they are so resistant to a woman buying their clothes when they are "just kicking it," but I digress. To some single women, a married man equals a good man (for argument's sake, let's just ignore the fact that he's cheating on his wife). A married man has "know-how." He knows how to carry on a decent conversation because he's married. He doesn't have committment issues because he's married. He knows how to come home at night because he's married. He probably knows how to fix a car, or trim your hedges because he's married. And he knows how to treat you in public because, well, he's married. I realize how this may make single men feel. I'm not saying that you're incompetent, but relationships make a world of difference in the lives of single men, particularly long term relationships. Relationships, for single men, provide the transformation from bachelorhood to husband-hood. Speaking as a married woman who is going through a divorce I can appreciate the irony of today's post (I created it), but as an aspiring writer, I am interested in all things life. For the most part (at least in my one, isolated instance) there was no deep, philosophical reason for my attraction to the beautiful, married, stranger. The attraction to married men is just like everything else that makes this instant gratification world go round. It's fast, conveinent, and pre-packaged. Single women who are attracted to married men are attracted to them because subconsciously, whether we like to admit it or not, we all want a husband. The catch is, however, you have to get your own.

The Good Wife

I bought a mixer with some of the money we received from our wedding. A pretty, pink, Kitchenaid Mixer (the good one). I had never baked a cake in my life, not even one from a box, but I always wanted to. I promised myself when I bought that mixer I was going to bake a cake from scratch. I know it sounds crazy, but that's just me. That's how I do things, authentic and all the way, or I don't do it all. I woke up one Saturday morning and decided this was the day. I got dressed, and updated my facebook status (I had to tell somebody, this was major).

I'm going to bake a cake today for the first time from scratch. I will post pictures later, regardless of the outcome.

I got all kinds of comments

OMG!

This should be interesting, seeing as how you can't cook.

Wow! Good luck!

I can't wait to see this!

The recipe was for a basic, two layer, yellow cake with chocolate icing. I jotted down the ingredients I would need for the cake and the icing, and left for the store. I bought the finest ingredients at my local Whole Foods, stopped by Williams Sonoma to buy a sifter, and Bed Bath and Beyond to buy parchment paper. By the time I got back home I was exhausted, but I was on a mission. Mission: Bake a Damn Cake from Scratch. So without further adieu, I pulled my hair back in a ponytail, went into the kitchen armed with my perfect, all organic, most-expensive-brand-you-can-buy ingredients, and I was gonna bake me a cake. I schlepped my heavy, pretty, pink, mixer over from the shelf in my tiny New York apartment kitchen and slammed it on the countertop. The only sliver of a piece of a countertop I had was now occupied. How the hell did I think I was going to do this again? Anyway, I was determined, so I preheated the oven, pulled out the recipe and began mixing, and measuring; dry with dry, wet with wet. I turned on my mixer and alternated mixing the wet ingredients with the dry ingredients, just like the instructions read. After about five minutes of alternating and mixing, I'd made cake batter. I evenly poured the batter into my two cake pans and popped them into the oven. I now had to melt chocolate to make the frosting (I was doing too much). Needless to say I'd never done this before either, but I'd seen Ina Garten do it on the FoodNetwork, so I knew to be careful of scorching the chocolate. I did it! My chocolate was perfectly melted and my cakes were in the oven. I was feeling very good about myself. I whipped up the melted chocolate and at least a million sticks of butter, and wah, lah, I'd made buttercream icing. I cleaned up a little bit while I waited for my oven timer to go off. There was chocolate smeared all over everything, bowls were on the floor, on top of the microwave, on top of the refridgerator, and I was beyond stressed out. But it would all be worth it in the end after I put the icing on my cake; a cake that I baked with my own hands, from scratch. I am so proud of myself! I didn't think I could do it! I'm such a good wife! I thought to myself smiling. DING!

It was time to pull my cakes out of the oven. I opened the oven and pulled out the rack. I felt myself begin to sweat. This was the moment of truth. I set the cakes on the coffee table to cool, and before my very eyes, the middle of both of them started to sink. Oh my gosh, they're not done. I carefully, placed them back in the oven, and tried not to panic, but it was too late. Where is my husband? I can't believe these cakes aren't done. I did exactly what I was supposed to do. I kept opening the oven to make sure they didn't burn. After about ten minutes, I checked them with a toothpick. They were both still undone in the middle, so I left them in the oven for a few minutes longer. It still didn't work. The outside of the cakes were now dry and hard, while the inside was half baked at best. I was so disappointed and frustrated. Where is my husband?! I had to finish, so I took the cakes out of the oven, let them cool, and frosted it anyway. I was extra careful to fill in the big, sunken, hole in the middle with a lot of frosting. When it was all done, I was relieved but it didn't make me feel any better. By the time my husband got home I was beyond distraught. Where is the camera? I asked him with a nervous smile. He found it and I took a picture of my chocolate frosted, half-baked cake, and posted it to my facebook page. It didn't look too bad at all. Looks can be deceiving.

No. 2

Disclaimer: Every once in a while, If I can, I like to give some practical advice to my female readers that they may be able to use in their everyday lives. This is one of those posts.

Traveling with a guy for the first time can be exhausting. My ex-husband and I didn't have a honeymoon (how ironic), but I have been on mini-weekend, road trips with men that I have dated. The first time I took such a trip I was dating this guy that was so sexy I needed a change of underwear whenever I was around him. A woman can never be her total and complete self around a man who is sexier than she is. Consequently I was always on my toes trying to impress him. I had to be flawless at all times. So when he called and invited me to take this weekend trip with him, I was siked! I bought new outfits, new lingerie, I got my hair done, mani/pedi, brazilian wax, I even bought a new piece of luggage. I was ready. The night before I anticipated every situation that could possibly happen while we were away together and how I would handle it. No matter what I would not get my hair wet. I had to wake up before he did, so that I could brush my teeth, get the crust out of my eyes, and brush my hair before he woke up. And I wouldn't drink too much. I had all of my bases covered. Except for one, what if I had to go no. 2?

I would have to at some point during the weekend. I thought of everything from not eating, to secretly booking my own room; nothing seemed reasonable or sensible. I just won't go, I thought. There was no way on God's green earth that I was going to take the risk of Super Sexy walking into the bathroom after me and breathing my post-poop air. I didn't even want him to know that I did that. He was so beautiful, and his di@k was so perfect, you can't hop out of bed with a man like that and go take a dump. I nixed the idea of not going, and decided I just had to figure something out. This may have been the first time I'd encountered this type of situation, but it would not be the last. After wrecking my brain for the entire ride down to North Carolina, it came to me. Most people poop on average once a day, twice if you're really healthy. I would just do no. 2 when I went to the bathroom to take a shower. Ladies, take note. You turn the water on as soon as you go into the bathroom (after you lock the door), do your business, and than take a shower. Your boo has no idea that you're doing anything other than showering, and even if you spray he won't here it over the sound of the water. By the time you get out, the smell is completely gone, and you are daisy fresh. If you're lucky you'll get a little face-time afterwards. Never underestimate the power of a shower. Happy Friday!

Sincere Lee

The Problem with Proposals

During dinner he kept fidgeting, and shifting in his chair. He left the table at least twice in the middle our meal. I knew what he was up to, act surprised I kept telling myself. Dinner was over, and he asked for the check. Okay, here it comes. I looked him straight in his eyes. He gave me a wink. He paid the bill and we exited the restaurant. Okay. He drove down to the beach. We parked, I took my shoes off, he didn't, he would never do that, and we walked down to the shore. It was a pretty night, a little cloudy, and cool, but I love the beach at night; the way the ocean looks as if it stretches farther than your imagination. Endless, and overwhelming. We talked about our future, what we wanted out of life. Then he spun me around, and got down on one knee. "My life is not worth living if I don't have you." "Will you marry me?" I giggled, I was so nervous. I really wanted to think about it, but I couldn't hear anything but the sound of the waves. Before I knew it I shook my head yes, then the word yes slipped out of my mouth. He slid a one carat round solataire on my finger, and it was done. We were engaged.

My story is a classic American marriage proposal. Boy meets girl, sometimes they fall in love, sometimes they don't, but for whatever reasons, they stay together. If they stay together long enough, inevitably, at some point in the relationship, the question of marriage is going to come up. Girl waits patiently, or impatiently, for the day that he finally proposes, never questioning whether or not she would say yes or no. Boy kneels down on one knee, girl says yes, with or without a second thought. I had second thoughts, but I didn't entertain them for longer than a second. My boyfriend of two years had just knelt down on one knee, in the sand, and asked me to marry him at the precise time in my life when I wanted to get married, holding a diamond ring, what woman wouldn't say yes. This is the problem with proposals. In American culture, while men may fret over whether or not the woman will say yes, women rarely do. Most of us either don't realize we have the option of saying anything other than yes, or we don't have the guts to say anything else. Whenever I spoke to my girlfriends about the possibility of my ex-husband proposing, no one ever asked me "What will your answer be?" There is no emphasis on the answer, it's all about the question. If a man asks you to marry him you say yes, that's just what you do. No woman wants to be the bitch who turned down her boyfriend's marriage proposal. Surely it will be the NO heard round the world, and undoubtedly it will mean the end of the relationship. It's like blindsiding someone with an ultimatum, only it's teasingly biased because you know that the right response will get you a pretty, sparkly diamond (beautiful wedding, 2.5 kids, and a house, or a classic six on the Upper East Side of Manhattan whatever your dream is). As long as the relationship is okay, and there have been no major problems, this is usually enough to sustain most of us; never mind love and happiness (sorry Al Green). If my ex had never put his hands on me, I know we would still be married, even given the fact that I was never in love with him. I'm not placing blame here. I don't blame men or our culture, nor am I blaming the women (such as myself) who say yes when they really wanted to say "no," or "maybe." I am proposing that we revamp the way we propose marriage.

Women you are not going to like this but I disagree with the idea of a man purchasing the ring before proposing (yeah, I know, now that somebody put a ring on it and it didn't work out I'm ready to screw it up for everybody else). I think it adds too much pressure. If there were no ring involved until after the woman accepts the proposal, then maybe we wouldn't feel as if we had to say yes. At the very least we wouldn't feel so much guilt if during the time between the proposal and the actual purchasing of the ring, we changed our minds. It would also lessen the humiliation for the man, who probably spent four to five months salary, or maxed out a credit card to purchase such a ring, only to have to return it, or sell it on ebay. The ring in and of itself creates so many problems with marriage proposals. It is a symbol to the world that another human being thought highly enough of you and loved you so much that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. The ring is usually symbolic of something more personal for the woman wearing it. For me it was a symbol of the relationship we had before, the man he was before, the woman I was before. It was a symbol of everything I worked for and fought for and defended. I deserved it, it was owed to me. But the world's idea of what that ring symbolized was easier on my spirit and my heart so I forgot about all of that and held on to the world's idea for dear life.

I never dreamed about my wedding day as a little girl. I always wanted to get married, but I never obsessed about it. After I was engaged however, I could think of nothing else including whether or not I honestly wanted to marry this man. The task of planning my wedding became a welcome distraction from the reality of my unhealthy relationship. I became fixated on this image of the life I always wanted for myself, and got busy planning it. I may not have been in love with my ex, but I was 100% dedicated and devoted to our relationship, and our marriage before I started to examine the issues. The American traditions and customs that a marriage proposal is based on are the reason why over half of all marriages fail in the U.S. If the answer to a marriage proposal was discussed and well thought out the way we handle any other type of proposal, there would be less people shouting YES to it and investing so much time and money so quickly. As I've figured out by now, a proposal is just that, a proposal. A marriage proposal should not automatically be the pit-stop on the way to holy matrimony. It should signify that you're giving the idea of marrying this person some serious thought.

Sincere Lee

A Loaded Gun

If you haven't figured out by now I am in love. I practically did a whole series of blog posts for half a week about this person (I know, I got it bad). There is a bit of drama surrounding this love however because it began to bubble over in the midst of my marriage (post-choking, pre-separation). Basically my husband did what any husband would do who is about to lose his wife; found someone else to blame for the demise of our marriage because there is no way either one of us is to blame (I mean this with as much sarcasm as possible). After he noticed that the phone calls between my love and I had spiked quite a bit, he became suspicious, and accused me of having an emotional affair (he was right, if there really is such a thing). He went through my phone, found his number and began harrassing him. This in turn put a strain on the relationship between my love and I, and without warning my love changed his phone number on me i.e. he decided he'd had enough of the bullshit and cut me off. I was heartbroken, but I understood that he did what he needed to do for himself. As much as it hurt, I certainly was in no position to begin another relationship with someone. I had enough to deal with on my own. I've sent a couple of emails since then in vain. We used to be bestfriends, and I really miss having him in my life. We went to high school together, so of course we know a lot of the same people, and he's pretty cool with two of my girlfriends.

This past weekend I accidentally got a little piece of information that could change everything depending on how I handle it. Here's what happened, my two girlfriends (S and D) and I went out to dinner. I am closer to S than I am to D. Consequently S knows all about my love, whereas D knew nothing about him and I. Somewhere in our mindless chatter S asks me about my love and D is surprised. So I have to explain the situation to D. She seems genuinely concerned but stops short of offering any advice. Fast forward to later that evening. Dinner is over and we are now in search of something else to do. Of course we had a few drinks at dinner so our mindless chatter became a little more unfiltered as the evening dragged on. Come to find out neither one of us has had sex in about three months (go figure)! A little off topic, but I digress. My girlfriend S knows the bouncer at a local club and jokingly makes a comment about possibly hooking up with him that night. "Oh no," I respond, "We are all in this together, if you're hooking up with him, than somebody needs to call my love and tell him to come and pick me up." "Oh that can be arranged" says D, "I have his phone number I'll call him." And here comes the random, life changing information: SHE BLURTS OUT HIS PHONE NUMBER. The logical person in me told her not to call him, while the love-sick, stalker in me committed those seven digits to memory. I couldn't believe it. I was flabbergasted to say the least. What are the chances of this happening? She didn't even know that I didn't have his new number, so she had no idea that she'd just given it to me. It was as if someone handed me a loaded gun at the precise moment that my life was in danger.

I have been praying, and wishing, and hoping for months that I could just get in contact with him somehow without popping up at his apartment or his job. And now I have his new phone number without even having to ask for it!! It's killing me because I know I can't use it. Or can I? Technically he never told me not to call him, and I really don't think he would be upset if I did. He would definitely be shocked, but not upset. He knows me better than I know myself, so he knows that I would never do something like this. However, I don't want to seem desperate or pathetic, like I snuck around behind his back and got his number from someone else. I'm a grown woman for goodness sake. I know this is so fifth grade of me, but I am in love with someone for the first time in my life, and this person has expressed his love for me. Isn't this what people do when they're in love? make a complete fool of themselves. The next day when I awoke I told myself I wasn't going to remember it, but I did. Then I tried to convince myself not to write it down, but I did it anyway. So it's neatly scribbled on a tiny, ripped off, piece of an envelope in my wallet, and for the last two days I've been fighting with myself about what to do. Logical me says throw it away, he didn't give you his number for a reason; when he's ready to talk to you, he'll call. Stalker me says call and hang up, then maybe he'll call you back and your call won't count. Writer me says call, whether it ruins your chances of ever being with him in life or not, it'll make for great material for your blog, and your memoir. Needless to say I have not used it. I don't plan on using it, but I can't make any promises unless one of you (yes you) are able to convince me not to.

*For a little backstory on our relationship, please refer to the Love Squared series, as well as the last paragraph of First Time "I Love You's"

To my husband

I apologize for hurting you. I accept my responsibility for the hurt that I caused you. I knew before we married that I was not in love with you. I should have ended it then. I took advantage of you because I knew you would do anything for me. I expected too much too soon, and no matter how hard you tried; no matter how hard you worked to give it to me it wasn't enough. It could never be enough because I didn't love you. I know now that when you truly love someone you don't feel the need to measure it in terms of money spent, time spent, which neighborhood we live in, what job he holds, what position he maintains at that job, who his friends are, where his family is from, his bad habits, the way he dresses, the food he eats, the house he grew up in. You did your best, but it was never enough. I covered it all up with designer dresses and designer bags. I sauteed it up for dinner every night in my top-of-the-line cookware, and plated it for you and I to eat. I poured a glass of it every evening at five pm and drank until my heart was content. Then I wrapped myself up in it, and slept on it peacefully and comfortably until I woke up. I lied about it. I complained about it. I cried about it. I fussed and cussed about it. I yelled about it. I was silent about it. I gave up on it. I walked out on it. It should never have gone this far. I am truly sorry about it. I am truly sorry. I am.

Your wife

1+1=2

If you recall a few posts back I expressed my raging, insanely out-of-control need to have sex. Unfortunately, not much has changed since then. The opportunities have been there, so at this point it is my choice to continue to suffer this way. There are only two reasons why I woman would turn down a perfectly good opportunity to have sex when she really, really needs to. Either she's married, or her number is nearing the maximum; my reason is the latter. I will not reveal exactly what my number is, but I will say that it is not in the double digits yet. With men, the higher the number the better (at least that seems to be the consensus amongst most men), so naturally, the opposite is true for women(I don't make the rules, it's the American way). So I have one of two options. I can either screw the next guy who makes it beyond a third date, or I can dip back into my crate of oldies but goodies.

Either way this is an extremely tricky situation. The consequences and repercussions that accompany sex with a new guy are endless, but most importantly (besides the obvious STD's and/or a baby daddy) I'm taking the risk that the sex could be bad. I cannot afford to take that big a risk. Because I'm only about two penis's away from my max, I have to choose very wisely. The chosen one need only be attractive, and have the xy chromosome accompanied by a respectable sized member. The sex does not have to be mind-blowing, but it has to be good, otherwise it's not worth it. Herein lies the obvious issue, how the hell am I supposed to know all of this for sure about a complete stranger after only a few dates, or a million dates for that matter. I suppose there's word of mouth, the size of his hands or feet, or any of those other mythical methods of determining a man's worth in bed. However "what they say" has never proven to be anything less than a major let-down for me. The probability that sex with a new guy will end negatively is very high.

Sex with an ex can be just as disappointing. I always think of that message that's printed on the rear-view mirror of a car, objects may seem closer than they appear. Inevitably, the risk of someone catching feelings, or wanting to get back what we never had will rear its ugly head. In my particular case that someone will without a doubt be him. I have mastered the art of having sex without falling in love, particularly with an ex. I have to admit that I'm a bit of a heartbreaker. Not in the conceited, I'm so great they just can't help themselves way, but in the sense that I get bored very easily. It takes a lot to hold my attention for longer than five minutes before I'm thinking about the next thing to do. Consequently I've been the one to call it quits in the majority of the relationships I've been a part of. I'm hardly a bitch about it, unless the guy acts like a bitch; but when I'm done, I'm done. So if I decide that I need to go back it's just sex. Nothing. else. The great thing about sex with an ex is that my number stays put, and I already know what I'm getting. So for arguments sake, sex with an ex trumps sex with a new guy. But which ex? and the saga continues. . .

Old Chick In Da Club

I don't want to be the old chick in da club. I'm twenty-six, and I know that hardly qualifies me as old, but lately I've been thinking about exactly when I plan to put my "stanky-leg" stilettos in the closet for good. Things are definitely beginning to slow down. About four years ago I could party all night, go to work the next day, and then party again, now I need a nap. I can't hold my liquor the way I used to either. Two good martini's (I like 'em dirty), and I'm done. That number was doubled back in the day before I was even tipsy. I pride myself on knowing my music. The last time I was in da club however, I had to keep asking my girlfriend "What is this?" to which she always replied "Girl, you don't know this song?" (as if everyone in the world knows that song except me), and then it hits me. Am I the old chick in da club? Maybe I've just been out of the scene for too long. Monogamy will do that to a young woman. Just as a disclaimer, I have nothing against monogamy. I enjoy the stability of a good, solid relationship as much as the next woman. But I'm starting to feel like domestication has ruined me forever. My afternoons spent shopping at Williams Sonoma, and recording recipes has sucked the club-sexy right out of me. I still have the desire to go out, and for the most part I enjoy myself when I'm in da club. Yet I have to admit I have my moments when I'm partying, and really feeling myself, and then someone bumps me without so much as an excuse me, causing me to spill my $13.00 martini, and I think I'm getting too old for this sh*t.

There is a very fine line between ages twenty-five and twenty-six, but the line exists none the less. I was a much different woman a year ago. Certain things like being drunk in public felt right at twenty-five, or cursing out that guy who walked by and purposely slid past you close enough for his penis to rub against your ass. At twenty-six however, I feel like I've turned the corner. I would be a complete hypocrite to act as if I haven't been drunk in public recently (check the post "Shout Out to D.C."), but I didn't enjoy it as much as I would have at twenty-five.

PSA: Fellas I don't think any woman has ever enjoyed that little slick-ass, slide-by, so please excuse yourself, and keep your di@k to yourself.

While it may not be time to put my freakum dress way in the back of my closet, I now have a little more poise about myself. Consequently, the foolishness that can and will go down in da club is just not my scene anymore. There needs to be a club/lounge, beer garden, rooftop terrace, somewhere for sexy, sophisticated ladies and gents aged twenty-six and over to gather and party, or just hold a decent conversation without having to yell at the person right next to you. My girlfriends and I are spending an awful lot of our Friday nights at nice restaurants for lack of an exciting place to go that is age-appropriate for us. Club Entreprenuers take note, I can't be the only over twenty-five year old woman who feels this way. The party scene, as it stands, is one extreme to the next. It's either dry as hell and boring i.e. the place where you go to party before you go to the real party, or the music is blaringly loud, it's dark as hell, and the air is polluted with the stench of weed smoke. Once in a while I can get down with the extremes. I love jazz and a nice glass of wine, or a jumping party where I can dance and sweat until I wear the tap off my heels, but these can't be the only options. Now I understand why our parents had house parties. Maybe we should bring it back. Happy Friday!

Sincere Lee

*This post was inspired by my very good friend, he'll flip out if I mention his name or initials, but you know who you are. I hope you continue to find inspiration to do what you love.

Operation Ms. New Booty

Generally speaking size matters in the south. Bigger means better, so EVERYTHING is bigger. Land, cars, portion sizes at restaurants, hair, smiles, waistlines, and most importantly, asses. Southern people are the original creators of big booties. You're born with it, so usually we take it for granted. I know I did. I never even acknowledged how nice an ass I had until it was gone. Yes my good people, according to some pretty well acquainted sources, my big ass is no more. So I'm on a mission to get my booty back. I tried not to let it bother me. I'm an intelligent, pretty, funny girl with a great personality, I don't need a big ass, I told myself. I blamed it on the fact that some of my jeans fit bigger now since I've lost weight, but to no avail. I have to just face the facts. I don't know exactly when it happened. It was a gradual process I suppose. When I moved to NYC I still had it, but I guess somewhere between those three blocks I walked to the train daily, my visits to the gym three times a week, and my all organic diet, it just deflated. Good health = *nassatall. I'm exaggerating a little, I still have a nice little booty, but my curves are much softer than they used to be, from the back anyway.

Now it's like the fat from my ass went its separate ways and settled on my hips. Is this the beginning of the aging process? Can this be fixed, or am I just assed out? Come back booty! Come back! Life just isn't as much fun without you. I'm not going to pretend like I don't notice how men check me when I'm walking down the block. After your face checks out, every man's natural instinct is to check you out from the back. Whether I'm interested in him or not, I like knowing that everything is on the up and up. Who doesn't like being admired? I digress. I seriously don't know what to do. I tried to entice it with pasta, biscuits, pancakes. I've seen a little improvement in bounce, but not too much in the way of size. However, there is a very delicate balance here that must be maintained. I don't want to go from nassatall to **bootydo. The only thing worse than nassatall is bootydo (so not sexy). I'm sure you get the severity of this situation, so any suggestions are welcome, but please no built-in booty panties. The bottom line is, this ass needs to be authentic.

*nassatall- no ass at all
**bootydo- your stomach sticks out further than your booty do.

The "No Baby Daddy" Oath

"If you don't have any children by the age of thirty, there's no point in having any at all." My mother made this comment yesterday while eavesdropping on a conversation I was having with one of my girlfriends who is childless and single. While I'm not single, I will soon be divorced, and I don't have any children either. We both took offense to this. I was appalled, yet I couldn't figure out why. I had to sleep on it, and think on it some more this afternoon. I think it's bothering me because I will not have children without a husband. I realize that this is a rather archaic way of thinking; the nuclear family does not really exist anymore. Some may challenge whether it ever really existed at all. Whatever the case, I still want to have a family in the more traditional sense. My sister is a single mother, so are three of my cousins, and I've seen first- hand how they struggle. It's like pulling teeth to find a babysitter. There is never enough time, or enough money, and it ages you well beyond your years. Not to mention the effect it has on the children who rarely get the time and attention they need and deserve from both parents.

I took a "no baby daddy" oath (see below) when I was eighteen, and I plan to continue to adhere to it, so far so good.

I ____________ hereby swear to always be responsible
and cautious where matters of a sexual nature are
concerned. I will refrain from having sexual
relationships with men who have baby mamas. I
promise to avoid one night stands at all cost,
and never go home with a man when I am inebriated,
or otherwise not liable for my actions.

So basically my decision to have children is dependent upon when, or if I remarry, and truthfully that is anybody's guess. I have a prospect, but as much as I believe that we were written in the stars, I also know that nothing is guaranteed. My mom's comment really hit home with me because I am ready to be a mother. I love children, and children love me, it's always been that way, but I'm ready in a different way now. I physically get a sensation whenever I see a baby, it's almost like something is tugging at my uterus (I don't mean to be so graphic), but its true. Herein lies the most frightening thing with this apalling comment, for me it has to be all or nothing. It's either family i.e. me: mother, wife, writer he: husband, father, thriving career, and children, or me: single, writer, traveler. There is no in between, all elements must be present, one will not exist without the other. Here come the "what if's," What if I never remarry? or worse What if I remarry and re-divorce? OR What if while I'm enjoying bachelorette-hood, and writing, I get pregnant? I honestly don't know how I've made it this long without getting knocked up. I love sex. It is most certainly not in my plans to stop having sex as my single, (might I add sexy), writer, traveler self. Given my current screw up, I refuse to marry again for the wrong reasons, or without being in love. When did it all get so complicated? The funny thing is I called myself avoiding all of this when I got married the first time. I guess the joke is on me (just in case you're wondering, I'm not laughing).

Read Between the Lines

It's amazing how similar my feelings about my world then, and my world now are. I've always had friends who were older than me, even as a child. When I was in the first grade Colinda was my oldest friend. She was a fourth grader who lived around the corner from my house. She had three brothers, and I always felt like she was stronger and knew more because of them. I learned how to play video games at Colinda's house, her brothers taught me how to throw a decent punch, if I needed to defend myself, and Colinda was the first person to teach me how to ride on the handle bars of a bike. In the life and times of a kid, these are all extremely important life lessons. Of course I haven't ridden a bike in at least thirteen years, I don't play video games anymore, and I can count on one hand how many times I've ever thrown a punch. Colinda did teach me an invaluable lesson, however, that I still use to this day. She taught me how to teach myself how to do things. You could call it responsibility, accountability, courage, initiative, or independence, whatever it is, it's the the thing that makes or breaks us in life. It's the difference between living and existing.

We were sitting in her garage, and she was reading a book. I always loved reading. I had a ton of Little Golden Books at home that I'd memorized from cover to cover, but I'd never seen a book like the one she was reading before. The words were very small and tightly spaced on the page. There were no pictures, so one page contained like a million words. Words I'd never seen before, some of them I'd heard in conversation, but I had no idea what they looked like on paper. I was fascinated. The most amazing thing to me however, was how fast she was reading silently I was floored! I thought she had to be the smartest person in the world. I sat there for at least an hour watching her turn page after page. She didn't even need to use her finger to follow along. When I finally left her house that night I felt something I'd never felt before: determination. I went home and took out my first grade English book. It was the most beautiful of all my school books. There was a huge frog or some green animal on the cover, and there were big, bold, streaks of blue and purple that looked sparkly and reflected the light, so it looked different depending on what angle it was in. I did my homework for the night, and then flipped back a few pages past the information that the teacher had already covered in class. I read about three extra stories and answered the reading comprehension questions that followed them, but that wasn't enough. It was too easy, and the words were still very big, not small and tightly spaced like the ones in Colinda's books. I went over to my bookshelf and pulled down all of my Little Golden Books. I began to read, but I started to get upset because these weren't good enough either. I already knew the stories by heart. I needed to learn something new.

Every evening that week I went to Colinda's house. I had expressed to her how much I loved her books and how fast she could read. So she began to read to me out loud, as I followed along, but I couldn't keep up. By the end of the week I was frustrated to tears. I'll never forget sitting on the steps to our house crying one evening when my mother came home from work. "What's the matter?" she asked me. "Did you fall down?" "Did you break something?" I shook my head no to both questions. "I can't read" I stammered to her through a flood of tears and a snotty nose. "You can read" she said, you get good grades in English class." "I've bought you plenty of books." "But I already know how to read those." I said. Unbeknownst to me, at the tender age of six, I understood the concept of learning; going beyond what you already know, challenging oneself to do something, or think of something you've never thought about before. It seems so simple, but so many times in life I have to remind myself of what I'm learning, and who the teacher is. Needless to say I taught myself how to read that summer. The following year I was a second grader taking fourth grade reading classes. I always finished first or second when we had to read silently, I was always called on the read out loud, and of course my grades were stellar.

I'm not sure exactly what brought about this memory, but it was the first thing on my mind this morning. Perhaps its my divorce, or the transitional state my life is in right now, mixed with the fact that frustration and tears are at an all time high. Maybe it's because I am thirsty for something new. Maybe its because its been awhile since I've read a really good book. It could be all of these reasons. I'm not sure of too much at this point in my life, but I know that regardless of my situation, at my core, I am that same little girl who taught herself how to read beyond a first grade level. I'm very proud of myself for that.

First Time "I Love You's"

Since it's Valentine's Day I've been thinking about how many guys in my lifetime have said those special three words. There really haven't been that many. I've had about five serious boyfriends, out of which, only two have said the words "I love you." This makes me feel really, really good about my choices of men. This is probably the only solid evidence that would support the notion that most of my ex-boyfriends are great guys. Shout out to all of my exes, (if you know I blog, more than likely you'll be reading this). The first time I felt what I understood to be love as a teenager, I was fifteen. This was my first real relationship. He was my bestfriend's older brother, and I had a huge crush on him when I was in seventh grade. I worked very hard to get him to notice me, wore my hair just the right way, wore all the right outfits, made sure I stood where he stood in the hallway every morning, and it worked. Eventually he was my boyfriend. We were together for one blissful year, and three months. We went everywhere together, did everything together, and people loved us together. We were the "It" couple in high school. Although we never actually said "I love you" he did write it in a card he gave me eleven years ago today (and yes I still have it).

It was about six years later before I actually heard a guy tell me he loved me. This was my ex-husband. Our relationship started with a crush as well, but not on the level of my very first crush. I don't even think that is possible. The point is, I was over it by the time we actually met. But it didn't take long for those butterflies to re-surface. He said "I love you" after only a week of talking on the phone. I don't even think we'd gone on an official first date yet. It scared the shit out of me. That should have been the first red flag. I didn't say it back because it wasn't true for me. I don't believe in love at first sight. If I did, I would imagine that both people would have to feel it at the same time in order for it to be real. I can't remember the first time I said "I love you" to him, but I'm certain it was months into the relationship (red flag number 3, number 2 is a whole nother post).

As sad as it may be, I've only ever truly been in love once. Here's an interesting tid-bit about this: It's not my ex-husband (as if that wasn't obvious by now), and this "one instance" that I am speaking of is right now, also, this person has never been my boyfriend. We've never even exclusively dated. No he is not a figment of my imagination (I'm aware of how ridiculous this may seem). He is the person I am thinking of in my last four posts. He is my best friend. The first time he told me he loved me was in a facebook chat (I know, that doesn't count). However, he did tell me again in person. He didn't say it during sex, or after sex, or with the anticipation of sex. We were fully dressed, and sober. We'd just had one of the most memorable nights in with his favorite cousin and her husband (who are now two of my most favorite people in the world). There was nothing glamorous, or perfect, or pre-planned about that night. It just was. Just two couples in love, sharing wine, laughs, and betting on horses. That night defines pure enjoyment for me, but I digress. It was all over us. We had to acknowledge it. As we lay in bed, my head resting on his chest, he nuzzled my forehead, and kissed the top of my head. I tilted my head up towards his face. We kissed. "I love you" he said, with a content sigh. "I love you too," I replied, as if I'd said it that way to him every night before we went to bed for thirty years. We fell asleep. I realize now I've never said "I love you" and felt it at the same time. I usually say it as an automatic response, I never really thought about whether or not it was true. Kind of like the way I always say "I'm fine" when someone asks "How are you?," regardless of how I'm really feeling. It felt wonderful to hear someone say those three words to me and know that he meant it. It was even more wonderful to know that I meant it too. A lot has happened between us since then, but I still feel the same way. I believe I always will.

Love Squared Part Quatre- Elation's Equivalent

It felt like Christmas. I woke up early, earlier than I usually do, to make sure it wasn't all a dream. "Babe, relax" you sleepily say to me, playfully pulling me back down under the sheets with you. You pull me closer to you. I surrender. A streak of sunshine warms my face. A soft giggle escapes my lips as you kiss the back of my neck. Your fingers interlock with mine. I smile and sigh. Relaxation slips in between my thoughts of us the night before. I anticipate what will happen later.
This.
is.
true.
happiness.
defined.

Love Squared Part Trois- Daydreaming

I never stopped thinking about you. I just didn't want to get in the way. I kept you and our relationship under a glass box. Both are so precious and fragile to me. I never wanted to do anything to ruin it. I lived my life. You lived yours. Occasionally, they would meet, and dance together. It was always appropriate for the time, and meaningful. That's the way I always liked it. You were never too far out of mind, though usually out of sight. I got married in the spring. I thought about you every day. As my wedding day crept closer, so did my thoughts of you. You were in my dreams. You were in my heart. On our anniversary, we went to a beautiful restuarant in the city. It was so classic, very old world New York. There were floor- to- ceiling, watercolor murals in pastel shades of blue, lavender, and gray, of different places in the city covering each of the four walls. The lake by the Boathouse at Central Park. Rockefellar Center. Times Square. Music by Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole was playing. I felt like I was in a dream. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, and looked across the table, I saw you. I wished for you. I wanted you to be there in that moment with me. Autumn came and you were everywhere with me. At the coffee shop, where I often sat alone with my thoughts, you were there. I would go to the park and daydream. I took a picture and sent it to you. You said you never received it. I wondered why.

Love Squared Part Deux- Timing

I had one of the worst colds in the history of my life. I had a fever, a terrible cough, and snot to spare. I'd been in bed for about three days, shut off from the rest of the world. I didn't want to see or talk to anyone. It was a Friday or Saturday night, and a Meg Ryan movie was coming on, "You've Got Mail." I was doped up on Nyquil, and planning to watch it and peacefully go to sleep. About an hour into the movie, I hear my mom calling me.
Why is she doing that
she knows I'm sick,
what good could I possibly be to anyone right now?
Leave me alone.
As my thoughts of complaining continue, she pops her head into my room. "The phone is for you." I was about seventeen at the time, and I really didn't use profanity, but if I did, a good, frustrated, DAMN IT! would have definitely been in order. "Who is it?" I asked. My mom shrugged her shoulders, handed me the phone, and closed my bedroom door. I rolled my eyes, and screeched "Hello" into the receiver. "Hey you" I heard on the other end.
Oh no,
why is he calling me right now?
I sound like I've been asleep for a thousand years.
Immediately I tried to clear my throat, which hurt like hell, but it was no use, my nose was too stuffy. At best I sounded like one of the Rugrats, the one with the red hair whose voice sounded as if he had a perpetual cold every episode, and I looked like him too. This was one of my best friends calling, and usually I was always excited to talk to him. We could talk about anything, and we always had the best conversations, but this time, I had to get him off of the phone. "I'm sick" I told him. I explained my plans for the evening and waited for him to politely say "I'm sorry, I'll call back another time." "What are you watching?" was his reply. (Insert expletive here, which ever one you like).
"You've Got Mail" I mumbled, trying to sound terribly annoyed and bothered.
There was silence.
"I'm coming over," he said.
"What?!"
"NO!" I wailed.
"I'm very, very, sick."
"You need some company, it'll make you feel better" he said.
He was not taking no for an answer. The conversation ended, he was coming over, and I looked like shit warmed over. I told myself it didn't matter, we were good friends. I was not interested in him at all. Who cares? I sat down on my bed to continue watching the movie, which, I was in love with by the way. It was at the part where Meg Ryan's character, Kathleen Kelly, is also sick with a cold, and Tom Hank's character, something Fox, unexpectedly shows up at her door with a bouquet of Daisies. Immediately I began to tidy up, comb my hair,and make sure there were no nose crustys hanging around. I did the best I could, but when you have a bad cold, no matter what, you're going to look it.
He gets on my nerves, I thought, but I didn't even have the energy to get upset. By the time the movie went off, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I knew it was "my company." He opened my bedroom door. What I saw makes my heart flutter even right now, at this very moment. My good friend was wearing a huge smile, and carrying a big bouquet of Daisies. How did he know? I was baffled. I don't even remember how I reacted; I just remember a feeling. This was the first time a man had ever brought me flowers for no reason. It was also the first time that anyone managed to surprise me with anything. I didn't realize it then, but I believe I was beginning to fall in love with my good friend in that moment. I was just too teenagery to understand it. So I tucked all of my feelings way down deep inside for a very long time. Timing is everything.

Love Squared Part Un- Love Life

From the moment you touched me I knew I could never go back. I got goosebumps all over. I didn't want to let go. Your embrace felt like home to me; no other hug that I've shared with anyone else since then matters. It had been five years. Where does the time go? Why did it stop the moment our worlds collided again? I wore no makeup, although I really needed to; but you've seen me at my worst. We've been very good friends since high school, almost ten years. I wore my Uggs and a fuchsia cashmere sweater. No stilettos, no blousy top; and you still greeted me, "Hey beautiful." Your smile was warm and unforgettable. I knew from the moment you spoke to me I could never go back. On the ride back I suddenly felt self-conscious. "Have you been crying?" you asked me. "No" I replied, decoding what I thought that meant, "I just don't have any makeup on." I began fishing around in my bag for my lip gloss and my compact. You told me I didn't have to put on makeup. From the moment we got in the car, I knew I could never go back.

The ride home was the best ride of my life. It felt good to be alive. It felt good to be me with you. Even with no makeup, and my Ugg-ly boots I felt beautiful. It was a windy day, sunshine galore. It was made for us; but it couldn't be. We had brunch at a little place you frequent. "Only special, select people get to come here," you told me as we pulled into the parking space of the store front. We both ordered the same thing, the belgian waffle, except you ordered sausage and scrambled eggs with yours. Regretfully so, I can't remember how you liked them. For a brief moment, my mind was somewhere else. What should I do with this ring? It was just sitting there. That day, my one carat diamond solataire, stood up on my finger like a three carat diamond. I couldn't ignore it. It was there. Our conversation was made of the stuff only old friends can share. From the moment we both laughed together, I knew that I could never go back. Something happened inside. When we left the restuarant, it was all different, but the same. We were reaquainted, I could recognize myself again. From the moment I walked through your door, I knew I could never go back. Your place felt like our place. It felt as if we'd only left there moments ago to make a quick stop at the store. It didn't feel like the first time. I didn't feel like a guest. It was more comfortable, more familiar, more permanent than that. I could hear music. Music was all around me. There was a delicate, sweet, scent in the air. You'd taken care to make your home pleasant for me, but nothing about it seemed forced or unnatural. I belonged here. Where had I been all this time?

We both changed into something more comfortable. You snuck a peek at me in my pink bra and black leggings, even though I asked you not to look. I quickly pulled my tee shirt over my head. We were supposed to be napping. I didn't want to miss anything, neither did you. We listened to music, and I heard songs, beautiful songs that I'd never heard before. At some point in my life I stopped listening to music. I didn't realize it until I was there with you. But you knew it. What was old became new again, and what was new felt so fresh and familiar all at the same time. "Who is this?" I asked you, and you always knew. From the moment we listened to music together, I knew I could never go back. Somewhere in a song you pulled me beneath you. I lay there suspended in your bed in a small space between magic and misery. I've never felt my heart beat so fast. I could hear it. I know you could too. Your body provided just the right amount of pressure. I didn't feel smothered or crushed. You supported your own body weight enough that it was comfortable for me to move or readjust if the need arose. But why would I want to do that? Our bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces. I didn't know which parts belonged to whom. I could have stayed there forever with you. It was better than sex; it was the anticipation of the possibilities. Before we knew it, it was time to leave. Where did the time go? I knew from the moment we left your place together, I could never go back.

Breathless

"I can't breathe" I mouthed to him.
He didn't hear me. He didn't see me.
The white of his eyes were bright as white light.
He was looking past me.
I didn't recognize him. He had become something else.
I closed my eyes and began to pray. God make him stop, God make him stop.
I could feel myself giving up, but still believing.
I can't recall how it started, or what it was about.
Shoes, I think it was about shoes. But it was bigger than that, he needed to have control.
His hands gripped my neck so tight, he squeezed tighter as he shook me.
Only the tips of my toes grazed the ground.
"You're choking me," I mouthed to him.
I closed my eyes. Let it be over. My voice was inaudible.
Like a child releasing a spinning top, he released me.
My body hit the wall and bounced back.
My balance was off.
I couldn't stand up straight. My view of the room was sideways.
I was gasping for air.
Gasping. for. air.
Gasping. . . for. air.
My whole body heaving back and forth.
One foot in front of the other, hands outstretched to help hold my world in place, I managed to stumble out of the bedroom.
"I HATE MYSELF,"
"I HATE MY MOTHER,"
"I HATE MY FATHER," he was screaming through clenched teeth, clutching his head. The pain was paralyzing.
In my brain there was no sound.
I felt like crying. My spirit couldn't comprehend, it was shattered.
A belly deep, eternal, aching in my soul.
God knows it hurt.
This isn't me.
This isn't my life.
I didn't grab anything, I didn't look back.
When I got to the door, I stopped.
If I leave the whole world will know.
I have nowhere to go.