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