38 posts tagged “single life”
"...a very caring and loving person who is afraid of her own feelings."
When I first read that message I took a deep breath. The message was left anonymously via the Honesty Box on my Facebook page. The honesty box allows people to secretly answer whatever question is posed; even though you can bribe them with virtual points in order to uncover their identity. I respond to answers given, but never bribe. I can pretty much can tell who said what, based on the types of answers given.
My current question really isn't one. It' just a simple statement.
"Enlighten me: tell me something you think I should know."
I have a feeling Papi left such an answer. He denied it, but all evidence points to him. Though things are going well between us, I still feel apprehensive emotionally. He knows that I care, but when I start feeling deep, I mean diving real deep into my feelings I hold back....A LOT. Defenses are up and the little jokes served with nervous laughter come out.
I'm not sure what it is I'm actually protecting. I'm pretty much over my bad experiences. My war wounds from my last (so-called) relationship have closed up and are slowly smoothing over. Yet, why do I keep getting reminders, such as the message and the one I've been saying since seeing the message?
Reminder to self: It's ok to feel.
Maybe I'm still leaving that marginal room for error when this three year relationship proves to be not so perfect or just totally wrong. My fear of being presumptuous. Whatever it is, I'm so wide open. I want to run and hide, out of shame and maybe even fear. Yet, I don't hide. I stand there in the middle, in the open, stammering over what to say. When my heart gets too full, I don't express. Choosing instead to change the topic, tell a joke or retreat as if I didn't hear what was said before. I can't get away with it 95 percent of the time. That other 5 percent is when I can't deal and he just can't get it out of me. He doesn't push. Let's me be.
I want to share EVERYTHING that I feel, but stifled and saddened that I don't....
Maybe I'm just waiting for the right day.. the right time...that exactly "ah ha moment" when I know for sure... to say.... I love you.
I think I had a Tula Portokalos moment over the weekend.
Sometimes I find myself keeping myself in check. Saturday, in the aftermath of Friday evening, was one of those times. You see, using my connects, I had long ago put in a requests for a two baseball tickets for a Washington Nationals game. Granted I'm not all that thrilled about baseball, but I still love going to the games as it is a nice outing, or something to do. I thought it would be something cool for Papi and I to do for a date since he's never been to a game, especially now that the new stadium has been built. For the record he's not a baseball buff neither. We're both pretty much into football.
Well I got the call Thursday eve, that I have my tickets for the game happening the next day, plus an extra one. The extra was to go to my mother because our political friend wanted her to participate in a special ceremony during the game. I wasn't too disturbed by this, because though my mother has always been there for our political friend, she wasn't feeling the idea of tagging along with Papi and I on what was suppose to be a date. By the end of the night my mother said the only way she would go would be to catch a ride with our friend and then she can leave early or stay late with her.
Then there was a slight change in plans just before I went to bed Thursday night. My mother had mentioned something that my father would likely take her place and that another ticket would be added so my lil cuz could go as well (since my father was picking him up anyways.) Even still I wasn't all that disturbed, because I just knew that none of my folks would want to go through the motions of getting to a baseball for a five minute ceremony at the beginning and then leaving.
My dream told me different. I awoke Friday morning feeling terribly drained. For a moment I couldn't figure out why until my dream instantly played back in my mind. The dream was fresh so I remembered all of it. Basically within the dream I was in a bedroom with the man of my affection. It wasn't actually Papi, but the man's form took on the appearance of Mr. S. (sigh - why won't he go away). In the dream I was getting ready for bed with Mr. S and he ran off into another bedroom. In the room there were people from my family and some of our mutual friends. Before I knew it EVERYONE was sharing the bed. I remembered in the dream I was growing frustrated because I wanted "my man" to myself. Then I found myself concerned with "Does he mind sharing a bed with my family?" Then I had this feeling of I needed to escape and that my man is for me and not for my family.
When I woke up, I was a little perplexed that I would dream such. I did have a slight feeling it had something to do with the baseball tickets situation, but I instantly brushed it off. I concentrated more on the sense that a crowded bed (pertaining to my relationship with Papi) must mean that one of us or both of us are carrying our past around with us whenever we're together.
After shaking off the dream, the day went on smoothly and as productive as possible until the moments leading up for me to get ready. At the last minute the word came through that EVERYONE was going to the game; my mom, dad, my Snickerdoodle and my lil cuz. My attitude fluctuated between extremes. I went from being pissed that my whole family was coming to feeling panic for some reason. The thing is, within our two year (and some change) relationship Papi has met my immediate family with a few extended relatives. He gets along fine with my father. The Snickerdoodle adores him like a big play toy. My mother is still warming up to him, but so far no problems and so on. We're both family people, but at the same time we both crave our space away from them for just us. Because, really.. we're both up under our families so it's a constant. The other thing is, since we only just STARTED to acknowledge to everyone around us that we are in a relationship. Granted nothing hasn't changed much for us, but in a way it feels as if it has since family and friends (from both sides) want to know "Who is he/she?" "How long?" "Do he/she have kids?" What do he/she do?" and etc. etc.
The more I thought about what the special ceremony was for, the more I thought about how some of the political connects that do have close ties to our family would be there, on top of my family going. My body temperature rose and my breath quickened. The phone kept ringing back to back with my mother changing transportation plans. I ended up letting out a loud scream by the end of one conversation. It was the worse. I couldn't go through with it. I picked up the phone and called Papi on both house and cell phones. No answered. I figured he was in the midst of getting dressed. After my family came by to pick up the Snickerdodle, Papi called.
After I gave him the rundown of what was going on, he calmly asked "What do you want to do?"
I suggested we go out to eat instead. So, we drove out of DC and ended up at a nice resturant not far from Baltimore. I was calmer and truly enjoying myself in his company. When I came home I got the report that the family did stay for the whole game. The Snickerdoodle had a marvelous time as she was amazed at all the activities going. I'm glad she was able to go, now I know she can handle baseball games and I can take her with me next time I go. I went to bed in a blissful daze only to wake up Saturday morning reflecting on Friday eve a bit.
I thought about the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding, when Tula (the main character) pretty much freaks out or is embarrassed by a lot of her family's over exaggerated Greek activities. The scene that ran through my mind is when Ian asks Tula about her family. She goes into this spiel about how her Greek relatives act and how there are so many of them. Granted, Papi and I have talked about each other's families and he knows that mine is huge, I feel a pull of some sort. Even though I may gripe about my family and secretly wish I could move to another country sometimes just to get away, to be honest I'm close to my family. So I know to even try to totally dismiss them is hard.. more than likely not even an option.
I'm sure having the family with me on a "date" wouldn't have been so bad, especially at a baseball game. Yet, it bothered me that I freaked out like I did. Of course it would have meant another opportunity for Papi to bond with my family, but am I really ready for that? Am I really ready for a relationship now that we've called...labeled it what it is?
I guess I must first be honest with myself and go back to a question that Papi asked me nearly a month ago. What am I expecting from this relationship?
Maybe there was a little bit more to the dream than just crowded seating at a baseball game.
Or....
Maybe I am just being (emotionally) clumsy.
Today I received an interesting surprise.
Upon logging onto Twitter, one of my follows posted a link to the online magazine Clutch. The article talks about turning 30, from a woman's point of view. I found it to be fitting or right on time for me this morning. Since Howard's graduation on Mother's Day weekend, I've been feeling a bit weird. Aside from what has been going with my grandmother, I have also had time to think about graduation and how pratically I'm at the point where I can say "This is it!."
Granted I'm not really a graduate just yet. I still have one more semester to go. However, this year I avoided graduation again, but saw the aftermath in lew of pictures online from classmates.
(side note: I did learn that my name was called during a graduation exercise for the school of communications. However, it is believed that was a mix up and really another person with my name that was called but spelled differently)
In the past, graduations have always brought feelings of depression. I felt like I had failed, simply because I let another year go by without finishing my undergrad. Actually the year that Oprah spoke (2006?) was the first time I didn't avoid graduation since attending the school. Her message spoke volumns (as if she should be a minister) as she talked about being motivated and staying motivated in doing what God has called you to do. Basically.. act on your calling, don't just sit on it.
I didn't feel depressed this year. The end of the semester felt bittersweet. I felt sad because I actually was going to miss the bonds I created in such a short time over the semester. Granted this class is younger than me, but when we all worked together and shared that same passion for journalism I truly felt at home.. at peace. So as I looked at their pictures as they were dressed in smiles and in their cap and gown I got to wondering about my own fate... destiny... my life.
So in a matter of months I will be 30. One of the things I'm most anxious about is finally finishing something that I set out to do many moons ago; school. By my advisor's calculations I can either finish in December and walk in May with the class of 2010, for finish completely (internship and all) by May and be a 2010 graduate. Either way, by or AT 30 I will be done with undergrad. I try my best not to look back on the "what ifs," but that's a hard thing to do. I can sit here and say I was suppose to be this, this and that by 30, but I honestly believe there is a reason or a hidden agenda behind me being 29, a single mom, still in school and even still living at home with my parents for right now.
I love how the Clutch article was written, because it seems that it was me; a female struggling to gain her peice of the "pie" while living out her dreams and God's plan for her. As in her article she mentions that she isn't going to act as if she is all "zen-like-at-peace" with her struggles, but she understands that there is a reason for it and that 30, is the time to tighten up, take hold, walk through and deal. No excuses.
Funny thing is, I use to feel like I'm such ahead of my time, especially age wise, but I think it has finally caught up with me.
I am 29 going on 30.
Yet I'm still wondering what's next for me.
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Via Clutch Magazine.....
30 Rocks?
Depending on what you’re talking about, 30 really isn’t that big of a number. Thirty dollars isn’t an exorbitant amount of money (although it means the world to me and my lightweight wallet). Thirty people in a room wouldn’t furrow the fire marshal’s brow, and unless they’re waiting for the bathroom or their first meal after a hunger strike, a 30-minute wait wouldn’t put too much of a hurtin’ on anyone. But 30 years? Now 30 years is a whole other story. Thirty years of marriage, a 30-year jail bid, 30 years in one home—that’s a long time any way you slice it. And a 30th birthday? Good skooga mooga. That’s alotta candles on one lil’ ol’ cake.
By now, I’m pretty sure I’m leaving myself wide open for your suppositions that I will be turning 30 real soon. (Insert your objections here: Girl, no! You look too young to be 30! I can’t believe it! Shut up! For real? And so on and so forth…) I know, I know, I can’t believe it myself. I feel like I’m still 24, 25 at the absolute most—I look young, I feel young, I can still climb trees and bust cartwheels and smoke a sucka in a 100-yard footrace like I did back when I was still in a training bra and off-brand sneakers. But according to my birth certificate and other official-looking documents that my mother produced to convince me that my born year was indeed 1979, I have embarked on three decades of life already. And what a bittersweet celebration this May 21 will be.
Let me clarify: I am not in the least bit worried about the vanity aspect of it. Thank God Black don’t crack—at least for most of us; I could name a few who’ve had a hard, unceremonious road to aging (cough, cough, Jasmine Guy). My mom is gorgeous, my grandmother was fabulous up until the day she went on to glory and my aunties have better skin than I do now, some twenty-five years their junior. My struggle is defining what it means to be 30. Should I be married? Have a car that’s paid for? A financial planner, bangin’ 401(k) and some other vested accounts? Couldn’t I at least have a house with a little yard to fuss over and a mortgage to stress about? Unless God turns some amazing tricks within the next seven days, I’ll be turning 30 unmarried with one child, living in a cute but quite understated apartment with a rack of student loans and a job that I enjoy but is about as close to my dream of writing and editing for a major Black publication as the Ying Yang Twins are to being articulate.
My hang-up about turning 30 is a fear—in fact, my biggest fear, trumping even frogs and cicadas—that I’m not “where I’m supposed to be,” that I squandered my youthful 20’s on club-hopping and a string of jobs that make for funny stories but little actual progression, that I haven’t accomplished enough to account for all of the money spent in undergrad and my yet-unfinished graduate degree.
My hang-up about turning 30 is a fear—in fact, my biggest fear, trumping even frogs and cicadas—that I’m not “where I’m supposed to be,” that I squandered my youthful 20’s on club-hopping and a string of jobs that make for funny stories but little actual progression, that I haven’t accomplished enough to account for all of the money spent in undergrad and my yet-unfinished graduate degree. Every New Year’s Eve, I sit down with my journal and a huge sheet of white poster board and write out my goals for that year, categorized into personal, professional, physical, spiritual and financial. When I look back on my outlined objectives for 2003, 2005, hell even 2008, and see that so much has been still undone, it’s a challenge for me to go forth into 30 with my characteristic perky, go-getter attitude.
The bottom line is that 30 is super-grown. Silly, youthful mistakes are no longer excusable with “she’s just starting out” or “she’s just young.” Thirty means that you should have your ish together and to be quite honest, I’m still trying to figure out if I do. I am working on operating in God’s time and not assigning an age-based deadline to my every goal; clearly, that method has failed me because according to the schedule I set for myself back when I was 23 and completely clueless, I was supposed to have my PhD, a husband, couple more kids and a brownstone in Brooklyn. I resolve that it will happen, but not in my favorite time—right now. Maybe God has more lessons for me to learn, more doors to open, more opportunities to create, more growth for me to experience before those goals can be checked off on the ol’ poster board or scratched out in the journal.
Now when I say I want to do something, I try to leave it open-ended and walk toward it in baby steps. No harm, no foul if I don’t do it by the time I’m 30 or 35 or 40 (though that’ll be a whole other article, so you’ve been ten years forewarned, dearest Clutch readers). It’ll happen in divine time and honestly, that’s the best time to operate in. Don’t think I’m always this philosophical or zen-at-peace about it. Writing this very article has been therapeutic for me and hopefully, entertaining for you. It’s a work in progress to not be scared of the big 3-0 and all of the baggage that comes with it. But I’m constantly renewing my determination not to let this new age define me but to go on ahead and let 30 rock.
Though I'm trying really hard not to let it bother me, this summer is making me a bit nervous.
I've spent much of the semester hustling for internship prospects for this summer. The scheme of things is "suppose" to work out like this; complete spring semester, internship this summer, complete last semester of school this fall, be declared "graduate" in December and walk/participate in graduation in May (2010). That's how my advisor and I had things worked out at the beginning of the semester.
Now it seems that world of internships, at least in the realm of magazines, is highly competitive. If not before, it's gotten extremely tight, allowing only a very small selective few in. My heart.. my heart... was set on the Washingtonian Magazine. It's one of my favorite reads. I practically study it. The internship boasts of writing small articles, research concentration and it pays. Though I revamped my resume, became creative with the cover letter, had my feature writing professor (editor of a national magazine) look it over and sent in my BEST clips displaying feature writing I was turned down via a generic email response.
"Thanks for your interest......overwhelming response.....unfortunately...."
I showed it to my feature writing professor who asked me to give her everything I mailed to them. She would send it to the editor personally. That was merely a month ago and still no (second) response. Since that time I've been applying to other publications, beating their deadline only to be served with the same response concerning overwhelming applicants and "unfortunately..."
I've been mulling over the option of writing a letter of interest to an editor with the Washington Post. Last summer I applied for a job with the Style section. The editor and I sent a couple of correspondence to each other when I didn't get the job. I asked what exactly was she looking for and she told me. Since then I've kept her email and lately I've been contemplating (a bit too hard) on what to say in regards to seeking an internship or even and apprenticeship under her.
Frustrating to say the least.
Of course what's making me a bit nervous is money. I would like to keep my reserves up while I have the chance. However freelancing seems a bit scary nowadays in this economy. I've been reading up on other freelancers via their blogs or published articles on the matter. So far it seems to be a 50/50 chance of survival. You either have it or you don't. It seems that well established freelancers can deal with this tight(er) economy than say.. someone like me... still starting out (or an inch or two above a starting point) and feeling their way.
I've been toying with the idea of even doing a part-time temp gig during the summer, to keep me busy (so I won't going totally insane as a stay-at-home-mom) and to help a bit financially.
Either way, I feel something is out there for me this summer. I just don't know what. That's what is making me nervous and bit fustrated.
Gotta go feed the kid then.. on to Jill Scott's detective series on HBO.......
This day will always be etched into my mind. For it was the day that I felt a genuine connection and my grandmother heeded her warning.
Can't stop gushing like a school girl. Papi left not long ago with his gift in hand. Like last year, again I'll be away when his birthday comes around next week. Since he's always so kind to bake me chocolate chip cookies, I decided to leave him with something sweet to "remember" me until I return. Originally I tried a recipe for no-bake oatmeal chocolate cookies. In the end, they really turn out to be something like fudge (bars) and not really cookies since you don't bake them. They were okay, but very experimental. Nothing I would give to anyone unless I keep working and tweaking it.
So I stuck to one of the things I know best in baking. Chocolate poundcake. Still without a kitchen as the renovations press on, two months ago my mother bought a small/medium toaster oven that can be used as a conventional oven for small baking jobs. After searching a few boxes for my 6 inch bundt mold packed away, finding it and washing it out, I remembered and followed a basic recipe for baking the chocolate cake from scratch. I pretty much had everything I needed here at the house, except baking soda. However, a few quick references on some cooking sites, I found I didn't really need it as long as I had self rising flour.
I made two. One for my mother. A diabetic kind, mainly by substituting sugar with Splendor.
The other for Papi. With real Domino sugar.
When I was done, I cut up the cake into slices and I packaged it up all nice and "pretty" in this large mock Chinese take-out carton that was decorated for Christmas (from Target); wrapping each slice in Chrismas-sey tissue paper, and attached his birthday card to the box.
He tried a slice in front of me. He loved it. Then again, he's never complained about my cooking.
Still I was hit with this gushy feeling, even more so as he noticed my hair (the first thing he noticed and expressed that he liked very much)
My afro. Mostly pulled back from my face.
True Mahogany(-ie) form.
As always he left me with a full cd/dvd of music to travel with. He always looks out for me when it comes to this. I love this about it.
Last time it was Ledisi, Erykah Badu, Lenny Kravitz... all my favs.
This time more favs. Raphael Sadaaq, John Legend, Santogold, Thievery Corporation, Q-Tip, Common & more.
When I get back I know to expect some Geno Young.
I haven't left town yet. Already I miss him and the smell of Delicious filling the air between and around us.
Despite the girly-ness that contains me now, my earlier conversation with my grandmother is stuck in the back of my mind. I won't want to think about it, but it's alive. It's visible.
The crying. The pleading.
Her depression is stubborn and being a straight up bitch. I wish I could become that superhero to just break it all away. Today was not a good day for her. Yesterday as my mother and I took her Christmas shopping, I should have taken the hint. She was fine. Stable. Still the evidence was lurking. I smelled it. Still I ignored it. I shouldn't have.
As she sobbed and talked she repeated her warning
Her warning: "Please take care of your mother. Look after her. I worry about her so. Look after her."
I sense that my grandmother doesn't have long. I'm both scared and relieved by this thought. Scared that she may be doing this on her on will. Her own time. Her own destiny. Not sure I'm ready to face a reality without a grandmother who still is/can be as vibrant as the sun.
Relieved that she may get the peace that she so desires right now. She's tired. Missing her best friends which were her mother (Granny) and a majority of her first cousins. No other friends around. She's lonely.
I don't want to sit here and estimate and count the days she has left. Yet I don't want her to suffer neither.
This is out of my control and it hurts. If I had my way, obviously it wouldn't be this way.
All I can do.. pray & meditate on this.
This day will always be etched in my mind. It was the day that I recognized a genuine connection and that I'm not a superhero.
Recently my mother bought a book by London writer Camilla Morton; How To Walk in High Heels.
In between the distractions of the construction noise from the contractors and doing my "mommy thang," I found a little corner this weekend to claim temporarily and took time to skim the pages of the book. Based on the pages I've read thus far, this has to be the ultimate coffee table book that EVERY woman should have. Though I have never read Kimora Lee's book Fabulocity, which is her own guide to living a fabulous life, I have a feeling Morton may have her beat with this book.
Yes the title may seem ultra fem or girlie girlish and so may some of the written words inside the cover. However, there is a lot of useful information that Morton packs into this book. She begins, of course, talking about stilettos, heels..shoes. I smiled as I skimmed through because I feel that I'm a PRO in this department. She graciously introduces her readers to Manolo Blahnik (for those who are totally clueless) by including a brief bio and history on his shoes. She talks about how to go about getting fitted for the right bra, investing in stocks, resigning from a job, firing folks from their job, etiquette and appropriate attire for weddings, funerals and such and how to entertain. She also as a section that briefly breaks down the process of buying a house; from picking a real estate agent, applying for a loan, seeking a lawyer (if you want to), picking a house and the mortagage and giving houshold tips afterwards - like "How To Lay Tile."
With all the useful tips I've read through, one chapter really caught my eye; "How To Dine Alone." I'm no stranger to such a thing, because I've always felt confident enough to go out and have a "me day" or even (for lack of better words and not at the risk of sounding too Sex and the City cliche'-ish) "date my city." The first time I actually spent a night out alone I was set to have an evening with a girlfriend of mine. However, things fell through literally at the last minute where her babysitter backed out and she couldn't find anyone else. So I took myself dinner, had a drink or two at the bar and ended up watching Chicago in the movies. The last time I've actually done such a thing is most likely a year ago when I was pregnant. During a weekend in February I decided to take myself to see the Vagina Monologues, but first stopping in Ben's Chili Bowl for a bite to eat and Starbuck's for a lil dessert.
What I found interesting in reading this chapter was Morton's tips on how to remain poise doing such a thing. She suggests that you ask to be seated away from the crowd stressing the ALONE factor that you are there to eat alone and not near any distractions. She also suggests that you bring some kind of reading matarial with you to keep you a lil occupied if need be and to distract anyone who may want to disturb your quietness. She stresses that you can make your cell phone visible but don't fiddle with it. Fiddling with a phone on your "lone date," may send a signal that you are desperately waiting for it to ring - perhaps from the imaginary person that fake stood you up.
Everytime that I've dined alone I always feel worlds away or mysterious. I have noticed that I do pull in some glances and maybe some stares, but I don't mind it. Some have been from women who may be admiring my shoes or my purse at the time. Later I would receive a compliment. A couple may be from men who are too shy or too arrogant to say anything. Normally I do have some kind a reading material with me; a magazine, a newsletter from some community event or a newspaper. Sometimes I would have a pen and small writing pad in tow, in case I do get the urge to write something.
One of my favorite places to dine alone has been The Art Gallery Grille in the heart of downtown DC. It's kinda retro, with art deco decore that looks as if it has been in place since the 80s. Yet, it was there at the diner counter or in a booth hidden in a corner that I would munch on an old time greasy but good cheap eat of cheese eggs, bacon, wheat toast and hashbrowns for breakfast or a good old club sandwhich for lunch while reading the day's Washington Post. It was there I would go, straight from my visit with The Doc to reflect and internally cry what I hadn't cried out earlier. It was perfect. I was just another person added to the foot traffic along the K Street corridor. No one knew my name. Perfect!
I have to admit I was taken aback a week or so ago as I was meeting up with Suga Mama. She was waiting for me to arrive at our destination and decided to go to the nearby Ruby Tuesday's. I was running late, but when I arrived I found her sitting at the bar finishing up whatever she had ordered. It was then she turned to me and said,
"This is the first time I've ever done this. I never ate out alone before."
That sent a slight shock to my system, because I think I just assumed that every woman, AT LEAST ONCE, has dined out alone. Silly me right? Honestly, I would recommend that EVERY woman take their courage by the bull horns and take themselves on a simple "dine out" date. While it is good to be surrounded by your closest friends with the round of drinks flowing and food all sticky and yummy, sometimes you do need that small space to pay attention to yourself. Dining out alone or simply dating yourself IS a treat to yourself. Don't deny yourself!
No you aren't a looser if you do so and yes it does take a lot of guts to go to a nice spot, especially if it is a popular hot spot, alone.
*side note: may want to avoid the popular spots if you are shy about this*
This is just another way to stay in tuned to yourself. Reflect.Breath.Enjoy. It's another way to build up and ooze with confidence. There's nothing sexier or more fabulous than a woman who is confident in every way.
In my "book," as well as in Morton's, every woman is entitled to enjoy herself in all she does.
As for me, I haven't done any real dining out alone since the Snickerdoodle has been on the scene. Naturally if we are out and we dine I do find a spot away from the crowd to not distract from our mother/daughter time. As I wait for my food I interact and feed her to keep her occupied. At this age, when she sees my food she aims for it and wants a taste. Fun times! (insert sarcastic laugh - no seriously it is fun!)
As to when I will officially date myself again, I'm not sure. All I can say is I have heels in line and ready to go.
I, like a million other faithful fans, couldn't wait another minute. The looming threat of sold out seats didn't stop me. I took part in the madness of it all. From watching the interviews leading up to this past Tuesday's New York premier, the red carpet event in New York at Radio City Music Hall and last night's release.
I saw and loved every girly, emotional, funny, cynical and perhaps predictable minute of Sex and The City.
What I find ironic is that the movie enforced or further caused me to explore some of my thoughts and feelings on marriage - which I summarized yesterday. Also, instead of only identifying with Carrie, as I had with the show, I saw a little bit of myself in all the "girls" this time, but more so in the new character played by Jennifer Hudson.
I saw my old numb self in Carrie as she feels jilted and back to square one with Big.
I saw my old bitter self in Miranda as she struggles with being over worked on all levels, in a rut and feeling disrespected by her husband.
I see my current self in Samantha as she finds herself having an internal battle of wondering where did the old Samantha go. She definitely feels as if she has lost herself behind a man.
I see my current self in Charlotte as she basically is being blessed with everything she could have ever want, but is terrified that something bad may happen because things are going so well.
I see my current self in Louise (Jennifer Hudson) as she has a new lease on life - via moving to New York - was broken hearted but is open to love and very optimistic!
Definitely, these ladies are a lot older on and off the screen. The writing and their acting reflected such in the movie. However, the movie still stayed true to form of the show with the growth and maturity that the ladies have done on and off the show in the past four years.
As for Jennifer Hudson, she was beautiful in this film. She just glowed. I really loved the hair! What I really want is the dress she wore on the "Pink" Carpet during the New York premier.
Note to self: got to look up the designer to check, crack a face and cry at the price.
What better way to spend a Friday evening with a few buds to laugh, cry and vent together.
A typical girls night out right? Just add in the good sex and you got yourself a good evening.
1. Viewing Kimora Lee Simmons' reality show.
I cried.
Last night's (Sunday) episode was a part two to Kimora and her production team staging the Phat Fashions fashion show for New York's Annual Fashion Week. A segment of the show features Kimora giving her oldest daughter, Ming Lee, a pep talk about her hair. Ming Lee, 8, was about to take part in a rite of passage that all little girls of color (or perhaps any girl) goes through at some point. In prepping for the fashion show, Ming Lee's hair was about to be "blown out" or straightened via the blow dryer. Kimora's pep talk was more of handing out "the law" in how to keep up with such a hair style, plus bumping up Ming Lee's chores around the house - to washing dishes.
After a kiss to seal the hair and chores deal, and Kimora's daughters asking her how old was she when her hair was blown out - to which Kimora responded "at the age of 13 when I was hitting the runways in Paris" - an emotional mommy began to break down and cry. Ironically, I was crying right along with Kimora as she (maybe with a little bit of dramatic overtones) talked through tears of how her babies are growing up before her eyes and it was all too much for her.
I thought about my own daughter. How she is a little over 13 months now. I look at her now and compare pictures I took of her last year when she was a few weeks old. She's definately older. She has her own personality. She is starting her journey of becoming her own unique spirit. I'm anxious, scared and happy at the same time to the different rites of passage she will go through - menstrual cycle, first bra, allowed to have boys call her, wearing stockings, wearing high heels, makeup and of course hair permed/straightened.
I was roughly 12 when my hair was processed. My mother was furious. At the time I didn't understand what the big deal was. I just knew I was tired of the hot comb. I had enough war wounds (hot comb scars) behind my ears to plead my case. My grandmother agreed and "ordered" it done. Aunt P, who worked as a beautician at the time, commenced with the order. PCJ (as it was/is called) or Pressing Comb in a Jar did the trick. Funny thing is, all those years I spent with processed hair, I finally let the chemicals go. It's been eight or nine years as I've returned to my "au natural" roots (which do need some professional work here and there), and began a regime of washing my hair every two weeks and either letting it air dry into a bush or finding the patience of pressing my own hair with the hot comb - only to make it managable to comb and not bone straight.
However, back to Kimora....
It was at that moment of her "breakdown" that I truly gained respect for Kimora as a business woman but more importantly as a mother. Though she is demanding and a bit of a diva with her over the top ways, the love she has for her daughters is not for show for the Style Network cameras. It's real. In all that she does, she always makes it a point that no matter what, when her babies need her she is there.
I can only hope that I am doing just the same for my own daughter. I'm always careful to continue to let my passion for writing and all that I want to do drive me, but making sure it doesn't leave my daughter in the dust somewhere. Whatever I achieve in life I want it to be for us - God, my daughter and myself.
2. Reading Certain Girls
Since I began reading Jennier Weiner's latest novel, I've been happily entralled in Cannie Shapiro's world again AND her daughter, Joy. Ironically, I laugh when I read Joy's thoughts, because like any adolescent in this world what "tween" doesn't think their mother is a little "off." As I've been reading I have noticed that I see myself in both Cannie and Joy this time. Joy represents my "ugly" teen years, but she also represents something new in my life... yes my Snickerdoodle. Though Cannie is a little older than me in this book (she's in her 40's where as in Good In Bed she was right on the bullseye as my current age - late twenties) I still related to her on some level as she flashes back to her twenties to relive some horrid "single mom/writer" moments.
What's funny here.. in keeping with the theme of rite of passages...Joy is obviously about to go through one with her bat mitzvah on the horizon. However, as I keep reading it seems that her rite of passage is coming in another form as well..learning the real truth of how she came to be and beginning to understand her mother's intentions, ways, persona...etc.
Part of Cannie's past deals with a book she wrote that was based on her life. However, she fictionalized it with a hyper/over sexed heroine as she told a tale of how she over came some of her issues with the men in her life; a father that didn't want her and a boyfriend that was a pile of....shit. Not to mention a mother that eventually admitted that she was a lesbian. Naturally Joy ends up reading the book and at the moment is seeking answers, on her own, about her mom and dad's relationship and her existence.
When I initally started blogging (in 2002) and decided that what I wrote would eventually end up in a manuscript or book form, a lot of it did sound like a broken record. That was because it was during the time when I was in my depression and part of my solace or my comfort zone at the time was through sex. As I began to put the pages together, I didn't like what I saw. Granted it was my truth. That shit hurt. Still, I always worried about who would eventually read my truth if in fact it did get as far as being published. Who would it help? Who would it hurt?
My manuscript has been changed so many times because
1) I'm never going to be happy with it until my brain can finally say "STOP!" That's just the writer perfectionist in me.
2) Though I did fictionalized it, those who are close to me will know it's about me. So what will my mother think, especially in some of the mother vs. daughter scenes?
3) Since becoming a mother, I now feel it's my duty to use it (or perhaps anything I write) as a tool to teach my daughter a (few) lessons in life.. for when she is older and is able to comprehend what I went through.
In reading about Cannie and Joy, it's also bringing up a couple of the same issues I had.. umm HAVE... with my mom.... the over protectiveness and the broken communication line. Where I am currently in the story I do feel as if the crap is about to hit the fan. I'm just anxious to read about it and see where the two Shapiro ladies will go from there.
Another rite of passage...being able to face your truths, the whole truths so help you God.
Ten years ago this year I graduated from high school.
My next door neighbor "K" is a senior at my alma mata. Ironically her aunt is the music/choir instructor there - thanks in part to my mom who told her about the opening during my freshman year when the janky instructor at the time was being a bit of a scatter brain.
Lately I've been taking a special notice in K. It's hard to believe she is the same "girl" who would stick up under her aunt during our choir rehearsals. This is same chic that would get a kick out of my father's antics and would bring him a small token back from her family vacation. In a way I've unspokenly called her my little sis, especially since her schooling sorta followed in my foot steps. Aside from high school, she also attended the same elementary/jr high I attended.
Nevertheless, I've taken some joy or delight in watching K grow up before my eyes. I've figured this must be what it felt like for my long time neighbors to watch me grow in front of them. Proud and filled with a sense of pride. I'm even more excited for K as prom time is coming up. By my calculations (and if the school still runs on the same "graduation schedule") prom should either be this weekend or next. Graduation should be three weeks away.
In silently traveling the senior year journey with K, I can't help but to revisit some of my own feelings about my high school experience, especially as my class reunion is set for July. A couple of inquires have been sent to me via email or MySpace asking if I will be in attendance. I answered an old friend back via MySpace by telling her that most likely not. I hope to be doing some traveling around that time. Another old friend, who I was close with back then and reconnected with via the internet, is a part of the committee. She's been keeping me informed of what's what - not to mention the postcard mailer and the reunion package sent to my house. Then just the other day, a third friend sent me an email asking would I be there. I haven't responded.
My feelings about high school are very indifferent. Yes, there are a few people I would love to see again - mainly the few folks that survived high school with me. However, I really didn't like high school. It was a Catholic institution with a diverse group of students but majority Black. We were probably considered the most (or perhaps one of the) ghetto schools in the Archdiocese. I say that in light of some of the "upper crust Catholic schools" I battled with on the tennis court during my time on the varsity tennis team. A lot of us (students) came from a decent background or home life and yet I still didn't like the school. For a while I use to think it was because of the people in the school. Something about everyone urk'd my very nature. I use to think "this one" was too childish or "that one" was spoiled beyond belief. I hated the cliques that presented itself during freshman and sophomore year and believe me by junior year I found myself shaking my head at a lot of dissovled friendships.
No. I wasn't any kind of outcast or some reject that everyone ignored. No, I wasn't popular, but I had friends and I got along with most. I stayed quite, only trusting a couple, and even then I wasn't all that telling. I was active in choir, tennis and was delighted when I did the photography class and helped out with the year book. Being an aspiring writer, I even helped to come up with something (a passage) to be painted on the school's shed (it's a senior tradition to paint the shed reflecting the school and class spirit of the current senior class)
Still I couldn't stomach high school. I now realize I was expriencing a (perhaps) pre mature growing pain... or maybe not. I blame my Aquarius nature - the wise beyond years "fluff" - because I was soooooooo ready to move on to the next phase of my life. By then I was working part-time in the federal government and I was looking forward to college..more so the (so-called) going away part of college. High school, though it had its excitement, bored me and frustrated me. Also, I was partially "home-sick," meaning I was missing my "REAL" classmates that I had literally grown up with from Pre-k to 8th grade and desperately tried to stay in contact with. I managed to hold onto one, who after to all these years she still calls me her best friend and I do the same - even in our time of open space as we grew into adulthood.
It was eneivitable. I was growing up. No turning back.
By my senior year I was in my own world. I still managed to function in school, but slightly talking less to my friends, which prompted some of them to wonder what was up with me and even lightly tease me for being so... "aloof."
After the research paper, finals, prom and graduation I was rid of "them." The class of 1998.
Every once in a while I would bump into someone. On my college campus. At my old OBGYN. At a grocery store. At Ben's Chilli Bowl @ 4 am after a night of clubbing. At the club. Online. On the subway train to work. At the mall.
Then MySpace happened.
(Curse Tom for creating such a daft site)
I won't lie. I was curious to know who turned out to be what and doing what close to ten years later. I sent a couple of request. Virtually befriended some. Some sent a request to me. Perhaps a few I was shocked that they remembered me. I approved their request. Then some time later I began to get a funny feeling. It was almost as if I were back in high school again. However, that feeling wasn't just contained to my old classmates, it was really for the whole site.
Then 2008 rolled in with announcements on the reunion.
When the talks first developed about the reunion, for a minute (just a minute) I contemplated on my attendance. Would I really care to see these folks again? In all honesty, no. Other than the couple of friendships from high school that managed to maintain after, I have no connection to my old classmates.
I feel "aloof" again as the excitement around the reunion builds.
I'm sure it will be a swell time for those involved, but I wish to do other things.
High school is so past tense in my book.
Forgive me "father" for I have sinned it has been several days, maybe weeks, since my last confession.
I've been on a slight mission ever since I purchased a dress a week or so ago.
My mission...finding the perfect black patent leather clutch purse.
After my free oil change (thank you Mazda), I ended up at Target today and was very disappointed in their selection. Really... how hard can it be to find a nice black patent leather clutch bag without big silly bows? I know I'm a child of the 80s but DAMN!
COOOOOME OOOOOON!
I steered the cart away from that department, picked up a few items for the Snickerdoodle and landed in heaven.
My eyes lit up when I saw the stationary/card section.
Okay, I don't know what it is about me and greeting cards or stationary exactly. I don't even know when this addiction started. I have a fetish for pretty paper thingys. I literally have a collection of greeting cards that I have not given to anyone, because they are too pretty to give to just anyone.
Hey some people collect stamps.
Me....
I'm a pretty paper person.
I did manage to pick up a couple of Mother's Day cards that I will be giving to my mother and grandmother. I still have May birthday cards to pick up. oye!
Eventually the cards I have in my collection will go to someone... well.. I'm not too sure about the card with the glamour high heel (as pictured above). I simply adore that one. So if anyone gets it, they better damn sure appreciate it.
Anywho....
Needless to say, I caved to my greeting card addiction right there in the middle of Target. To hell with the clutch purse...for now.
On to Barnes & Noble.
My original mission with B&N was to pick up the May issue of Allure Magazine (I actually got the last copy! Did everyone know this was the annual "naked" issue?)
Again, I was in heaven.
1. I was in a freaking bookstore. I miss buying a book or two.
2. B&N has just about any pop culture and sub pop culture magazine you can think of. I'm a straight up glossy, airbrush, feature writing, artistic photography, quirky article, inspirational and motivational, 1,000 word count..... WHORE!
Along with Allure, I picked up two of my favs.
Black Book and Fader (oh I missed reading Fader!)
I also picked up the 2008 edition of Writer's Market! Oh how I NEED this as I scope out who to query for freelance projects and even further my search for a literary agent!
(Big Score for me!)
Also, I could not resist another Jennifer Weiner book.
OK! Stop! Hold it! The last book by Weiner that I actually own, read and loved was her first, Good In Bed. I could relate to that book on so many levels - and probably even more so now. Ironically I thought about that book last night. I had the urge to re-read it, but my butt was too lazy to get out of bed to hunt for it in my maze of boxes and such thanks to renovation inconvenience. I never got around to reading In Her Shoes, which I'm mad at myself for - since I wanted to read the book before seeing the movie. I didn't bother picking up Little Earthquakes, because after reading the synopsis I wasn't interested. However, today I just couldn't refuse her latest, Certain Girls. The story picks up where Good in Bed left off. So yes... if you are a Jennifer Weiner reader... Cannie Shapiro is back!
With nothing much more to say I would like to be excused now from today's confession. I'm eager to do some self assigned homework in drumming up some ideas, reading a chapter or two in The Purpose Driven Life and skim through my magazines while drinking some ice tea and wiggling my toes under my covers.
If there shall be a penance for my addictive ways let it be the Snickerdoodle refusing to sleep unless she curls up with me. I can handle that.
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