Coffee Rhetoric: love
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts

March 02, 2012

Date Like A Dummy, Think Like a Foolio, REDUX

Foreword: Overcoming Interracial Dating Myopia

I realize this is the second time I've re-posted an essay but I've been a bit lazy busy working on a few other things and I've got a few topic ideas I need to mentally sift through before blogging them. Additionally, I've been reading some rather… disappointing things across the Black Blogosphere and feel that certain posts apply. Rather than blogging the same thing in some other written variation, I figured I'd offer a brief foreword as a prelude to the re-post. I've been reading some interesting articles (none of which I care to link) and some equally as interesting-- (if not downright disturbing) -- commentary from readers... many of whom are Black women. It seems as if a certain sub-group of my sistren has the dating game all twisted and are vigilant about 'White Knighting' other ill-informed forum commentators… throwing other Black women under the bus in the process.
The concept of agreeing to disagree, respectfully, seems to get lost in translation whenever the issue of interracial dating comes up.

Living and letting live, would be the ideal way for one to date however, those of my sistren (mostly) and brethren who are emphatic about dating other don't seem to be genuine in their dating intentions, as they almost seem to be political. In pushing their agenda(s); climbing on a soapbox and using their respective relationships to antagonize others for who they're attracted to-- (even going so far as to resort name-calling). In being completely frank in my assessment, much of the vitriol I read, came (and comes) from a collective of Black women who are seemingly still hurt by prior relationships and harbor feelings of resentment (despite proclamations of feeling empowered and free). I actually just learned about terms like "DBR" (Damaged Beyond Repair) - Black men and have read pointed attack-words like "stupid, weak, (fat) Black women" and my favorite, "DBR enablers".  Language like this is counterproductive and sanctimonious, as the people at the helm of the hate, demand to have the right to love who they want to love yet, can't seem to do so in earnest.

I never understood why the topic of interracial dating has us (the Black community) at such odds with one another; or why some folks are supposedly so happy with the opportunity to explore their options, yet are so pressed by who someone else is sleeping with or dating and seem bent on projecting their personal aesthetic on others… and will lash out when all their prodding is rejected.
What the hell is wrong with us? Why can't folks just genuinely like who they like, date and marry who they want to date and marry, without there needing to be a motive or agenda behind it; and leave other folks to their own dating devices? Do we really need a How-to manual written by a few self-righteous proselytizers with an axe to grind on something as superficial as "how to attract a White man", belittling other Black women for not trying "something new" and demanding that they mold themselves to fit a beauty mold, dictated by societal norms? Additionally, do we need to be subjected to rap songs ridiculing Black women for not having the right complexion or hair? People who are genuinely empowered, free, and secure with their dating choices, don’t need to indulge in extraneous foolery. Folks have got the game all twisted and need to succumb to the four G’s (Good Goddess Get a Grip!) Just... stop.

Anyway, without further ado...

December 06, 2011

Love Rain...


I fancy myself a pop-culture pundit of sorts and so am not ashamed to admit that this includes my succumbing to the Reality TV/Celebreality machine. Likewise, I also try to stay abreast of social media buzz and peep what blogs, cyber-mags, and social networking forums are on about. The two mediums seem to go hand-in-hand, particularly when the "Black Twitter" collective is concerned. Black tweeters bring the LOLz and they come, guns blazing, when skewering Black celebrities for some foolish infraction. Black politicians, especially of the Conservative-Republican variety, aren't above Twitter reproach either... (Herman Cain-kabob anyone?).

Perhaps the best, below-the-belt barbs and Twitter hash-tags come during the hours reality shows such as Real Housewives of Atlanta, The Braxtons, Basketbell Wives, Love & Hip Hop and shows of that ilk are on. Some of the more snarky Black tweeters hit their mark with their quips during some of the more ridiculous, off-the-cuff scenes. Then there're those who incite the rest of us to chorus and ask "Huh?" after they’ve tweeted something... well... dumb or misguided.
Per usual, folks did not disappoint during Love & Hip Hop, which was followed up by the premiere of T.I. and Tiny: The Family Hustle, VH-1's latest reality offering, which documents the lives of rapper T.I. (fresh from a second prison stint) and his long suffering girlfriend-turned-wife Tiny, of Xscape and BET's Tiny & Toya fame.

Surprisingly, Black women on Twitter seemed to saturate their chonies with crème-de-la-lady leche and began espousing the virtues of  true  love during some of the more pivotal scenes on Love & Hip Hop (when rapper Jim Jones finally implored his  mother to stop antagonizing his embattled and always battling lady-in-waiting, Chrissy Lampkin. Jones later pledged his undying affection for Chrissy by placating her o’er top of a roof for a Moroccan inspired dinner with all the decorative fixings). T.I's - (who makes it known under no uncertain terms, that he wears the pants and bankrolls day-to-day operations in his relationship with Tiny) - obvious loyalty to his blended family and wife is undeniable. In fact, seeing it played out on TV caused a collective genital quake across Twitter however; the relationship has been fraught with well-documented legal troubles and alleged cheating. But this did not stop some women from christening Jim and T.I.'s dysfunctional relationships with their women as the blueprint for Black love. I’d be willing to wager that some of these admirers of dysfunctional love, were some of the same detractors of single-motherhood who suggested single moms should aspire to be like Beyonce and Jay Z, shortly after her pregnancy announcement. They lashed out, calling all Snarky McSnarksteins jealous haters who can't get a man or sustain a relationship ...  ...  ...  OK.

One writer for the popular online publication, Clutch Magazine, posted a whole article citing these two televised relationships as heartfelt and wrote:

"Say what you will about Tiny and T.I.’s hoodrich love, but theirs is the type of relationship many long for: Loving, affectionate, fun, respectful, and supportive. Just like Jim and Chrissy, watching T.I. and Tiny interact on screen made it clear that they are genuinely in love and they want the world to know."  

Much to the chagrin of some commenters, who cyber side-eyed the piece... 

"T.I and Jim Jones… you have to be kidding!  What I don’t understand is this constant need to look to celelbrities [sic] as role models. I mean I really don’t understand it. I would like to hope these old a$$ men would want to settle down. T.I with all those d@mn kids! Jim jones and Dipset with the way the [sic] talk about women…"

Listen, while no one deserves to be crucified for their past and everyone has the right to err, love, and be loved; Why is it that some in our community put these dysfunctional "ride or die" relationships on a pedestal (especially when a man of questionable character is at the helm, trying to overcompensate for having put  his paramour or wife through years of hell), yet will belittle others (usually when a woman *read unwed baby mama* is the crux of the conversation)? While it's undoubtedly love that they're feeling, it just isn't the standard for Black Love like some people are trying to suggest. Relationships riddled with drama may work for some, but doesn't for everyone else, and if that makes me sound like a bitter, single, jealous hag then... that's the ignoramus, narrow view of a naysayer. 

This comment from the aforementioned online magazine sums it up: “You can’t turn a hoe into a housewife, but you can turn a drug dealer into a husband?” Well, I guess you should ask Beyonce and Tiny.  Apparently thugs can grow into men, probably an exception and not a rule though. While it’s cute, sweet, and seems genuine, don’t get wrapped up in the love and hip-hop thinking it could be you."




March 14, 2010

Push. Kick.

 To be able to reach the heights of purity you have to suffer through deprivation and humiliations. And what could have been a descent into hell becomes liberation.
-Catherine Breillat

<- ("Inner Peace" by Monica Stewart )
Being wanton, needy, and susceptible to dubious dating advice from so-called "experts" does not equate to being comfortable in one's skin and with one's sexuality. It's the minutest of details that illustrate that feeling of true liberation from the trials and tribulations of man/woman relationships, sex, and dating in general. A certain level of genuine aloofness... where you take sour lemons and make yourself a stiff (generous with the vodka) Lemon Drop martini, and rejoice.  Suddenly, the dead cow being sold to you gets a one-way ticket to the abattoir, providing you with delicious steaks to grill (medium rare), masticate slowly, swallow and then shit out in the bog pan later... relief and then flush, thank you very much.
 ("Contemplation" by Lee Ransaw) ->
The wishy-washy personality, inconsistent explanations about his state-of-affairs, knack for wasting your time, seeming comfort in being mediocre, inability to stick to a plan and see it to fruition, and bizarre extracurricular activities... none of it matters. Suddenly, not feeling obligated to return phone calls and texts in response to foolishness feels nothing short of... well... good, for what's good for the goose is definitely (without question) good for the gander. Closure is not seeking ... closure. Giving as much as you're receiving... in the form of not giving a shit... it's second nature now. Being on hiatus... succumbing to the frenzy of intimacy when *you* see fit to do so at your discretion, and being OK with it... never lamenting over what you aren't experiencing at that moment in space and time, because you're preoccupied with more pressing issues ... True freedom. Truth! Some might cry "CYNICISM!" ... but I chalk it up to being there, having done that, learning how to give the side-eye and moving on, and not projecting... because bitterness only increases one's self-imposed prison sentence. 
It's all about not caring, and meaning it. Learn it. Live it. A supple skin to wear for sure. *sips Lemon Drop martini*




March 04, 2010

Leave Me Alone!

Black women. We've been labeled as Mammies, Jezebels, Golddiggers, Undesirables, and now Tragic Figures?  Yes, 2010 seems to be The year of years to bash Black women, in yet another redundant cycle of trash talk about why we are, the way we are. Some might read this post and disagree, but then those of you who do probably aren't Black women and are whispering under your breath for me to shut my gob because, Michelle Obama is this country's First Lady. It's just that simple, really. *insert side eye here.* 
It seems as if every publication I read, or program I watch has an article or segment discussing why Black women are single. Forget the construction of the pyramids or the Bermuda Triangle. ... Black women being single in high numbers seem to be the mystery du jour! To hell with finding a cure for AIDS or getting over this country's health care, job, and economic crises. Black women are single and it's our own fault. The world needn't be bogged down worrying about the important issues... but should mull over my love life instead. You see, Black women... we're just too driven and unyielding. We're difficult to please and our need to find our place in the world and plant our flag is off-putting... apparently. How dare we try to better ourselves or even entertain the notion of having (insert danger music here!)... EXPECTATIONS. Not to mention we aren't trying nearly as hard enough to look like the vixens in the rap and R&B videos. 
According to these articles, newsreels, blogs, and public forums of the like, seems like the only, and I mean THE ONLY way Black women can reconcile being tragically single is to date White men, and ONLY White men. This White Knight In-waiting, will apparently salvage what's left of our lonely years, and is a last resort to prevent us from dying alone with nothing more than a house filled with cats, all of which would undoubtedly nibble away at our rotting corpses. To hell with dating someone who has mutual interests, regardless of his skin color or ethnicity. Who cares if you like various types of men from all walks of life, with GREAT PERSONALITIES, or if you're even interested in going that route? Racial/Ethnic fetishization is definitely the solution to our habitual singledom! Non?  *shrugs*
Listen, I don't know why my sex and dating habits have become public fodder for the media and various other men and people to pick apart and scrutinize. I guess the fact that many Black women aren't rocking back and forth in a corner or curled up under the covers in a fetal position, because no one has "put a ring on it"... or aren't bemoaning the fact that we're single or unmarried doesn't occur to those of you doing the judging and marking ticks in your little notebooks. We aren't the only group of women who live singly, however, our White counterparts are merely single, looking, and living footloose and fancy free a la 'Sex And The City.' They're simply exploring their options and building their careers until Mr. Big catches their eye and having a great time playing the field in the interim. Why can't this simply be the case for Black single women as well? Why are we scraping the earth for scraps, clucking around like confused chickens... looking for any remnants of a good man... rather than just exploring infinite possibilities and having fun too? 
Everyone's an armchair anthropologist or sociologist these days, especially when it comes to Black female sexuality. Our femininity... our desirability is constantly up for debate. Men (especially) have mucho jokes and take low brow swipes for days talking about our appearance, our attitudes, and our personalities. Residents holed up in their glass houses, throwing stones. Black women aren't good enough because we want better... or at least according to Black male comedians and social critics turned dating experts, with dubious track records of their own.
I've grown tired from reading these statistics about the numbers of Black women who aren't hitched. Why is this even newsworthy? Why is anybody still single in this complex era of love and dating rules? Moreover, why am I being told to date this type of man or that type of man... do *this* with your body, but not *that* by critics who can't even fathom... who don't even know my core and all of its wonderful complexities? 
Men, the media, and so called experts on Black female sexuality can tout off a long list of reasons why Black women are single and the primary, b.s. song is that our standards are too high. The last time I checked, having standards (within reason), is a common thing to expect. Men also are notorious for having outlandish standards, and those very same standards could also be indicative of why many of them are hopelessly single and are prompted to fly overseas to woo desperate and eager foreign women. Most of those who're anti-standards seem to be sub-par to mediocre at best and so complain the loudest about a Black woman's high standards.
At the end of the day, I'm single because I've chosen to be. Because I'm preoccupied with various other things in my life that fulfill me or keep me too busy to lament over such nonsense. Perhaps it's also attributed to my impetuous and overly sophisticated bon-mots and risqué coquetries... perhaps not. I'd like to think I'm a little more multi-layered than most would have me be. 
No one has the right to dictate the reasons why so many Black women in America are single, and claim it as fact. There is no one, fundamental reason why. It just is, what it is. We aren't some abnormal sub-species. And anyway, mind your own damn business. That is all.

April 04, 2009

Hormones and Obsessive Love

Friday was one of my worst, dark days. I haven't had one of those in a long time. Hormones. They were all over the place. Rampant mood swinging. I was extremely hot. Bloat, bloat, bloat. And on top of that, I had a horrible dry cough of meth head proportions My sinsuses were (and still are but not as much anymore) bothering me. Is this what happens when we (women) age? Do our hormones act ugly and randomly decide to shake us up for shits and giggles? A co-worker (after I expressed to him that I wasn't in the mood) leaned over and started singing Tomorrow, from Annie. That was the nail in the coffin for him. I went stone cold. My look sent in slinking away. I later sent an email apologizing, but reminding him that patronzing a woman while she is in the throes of hormonal shape shifting is a big no-no, especially after he'd been warned earlier. He realized his mistake and said he was only trying to make me laugh, but that he definitely understood that was NOT the time. Case closed.
I'm unapologetically human. I may seem otherworldly, but I'm not. I'm a human being whose emotions span a wide spectrum. Just so happened, I was caught off guard while a work, and not feeling well.
Been keeping a low profile this weekend. Relaxing, will probably luxuriate and have another Spa Day if I could peel myself off of this chaise lounger, and do something fun and exciting... like ummm... laundry. Oh goody gum drops! It's piling up. I hate doing laundry, but I need clean panties for tomorrow. Perhaps I'll make turkey bacon and eggs first though... as soon as I get up.
On a completely unrelated note, a few days ago while dusting, I came across a VHS tape of 9 1/2 Weeks which starred Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger. It has been a while since I've seen that flick. Even longer since I popped a VHS tape in a VCR. A highly charged erotic drama about obsessive love. How one man meets one woman, and instead of courting her in the traditional sense, and getting to know her, and caressing her tenderly... completely pushes her to her limit by exerting control over her through emotional emotional abuse, coercing her to engage in a series sexy, and eventually dubious and at times dangerous, sexual situations, and then he caresses her gently. Kim's character finally reaches her breaking point and dips.

Mickey professes his love, only after she decides she has had enough of his psychological games and quits him. His character starts going into an abridged discourse about his life and where he grew up as Kim's character packs her things, but it's too late. Kim wanted to know that stuff in the beginning of the relationship... before the sadomasochism.

I'm reminded of the book, The Story of O by Paula Reage and published in 1954, which explores the very same themes... obsessive love, dominance and submission. Themes that have always piqued my curiosity (not in a way that makes me want to partake). I've always wondered what prompted someone to become so lost in another person, that it manifests itself in an unhealthy compulsion. More importantly, what makes a person to submit his or her will, or to engage someone who is so infatuated with them or who essentially hurts them, and breaks them down psychologically? Kim Basinger didn't really submit to being dominated, not in the traditional sense of S&M relationships where it's usually consensual, and both parties understand the rules of that type of courtship.

She was sort of, bullied into submitting to Mickey's whims. Unlike many other women, Kim's character finally found her derring-do and extricated herself from the situation, when things got unhealthy. Healthy Love vs Obsession. Why, if he loved her so, did Mickey's character manipulate and play games, instead of simply making love to her and taking her as she was? I suppose Kim's character, recently divorced, was feeling vulnerable, just getting back into the dating world, and was somewhat subsceptible. Why do people manipulate and hurt their paramour if they love them so? I know women, who seemingly have their act together, but who are wittingly, well, unwitting participants in this type of obsessive, sadomasochistic relationship. No amount of encouragement seems to make them leave. While they complain about how unhappy they are, they seem comfortable wallowing in that sort of misery, despite how much they say they want to move on. Co-dependency plays a large part, I'm sure. I'm just curious about obsessive love... the takers and the willing participants. What's going on here?
Thoughts?

February 15, 2008

... Didn't You Know This?

That wretched, waste of time and money holiday... the one that starts with a V and shall remain nameless, is finally done and over with.
I always find it amusing when couples wait once a year to do something thoughtful and sexy for one another, before settling back into the routine of being jerks to one another. I smirked on the inside as a co-worker discussed how mean and cold his siggy other acted toward him, prompting him to consider calling it quits over the past weekend, before she called apologizing... all sweetness and light. Bitch knew that V day was on the horizon, that's why. Word on the street is that he got her an assortment of lovely gifts anyway.
I rolled my eyes as I listened to the frazzled bartender at restaurant Hot Tomatoes, sitting in wait for my lunch as he complained about the dozens of reservations overwhelming the restaurant for the evening... "people don't realize, we'll be extremely busy and they expect to be in and out in like 45 minutes!"
"Call me jaded, but I don't understand what all the fuss is about..." I opined. "It'll be done and over with in hours, and couples will go back to clawing at one another's throats on the 15th. But perhaps I'm just saying this, because I'm single..."
"Yeah..." he agreed before throwing up his hands at the ringing phone and rushing to answer it... Another hopeful patron probably wanting a reservation, no doubt. And then there was that attractive, young, sharply dressed and perfumed Hispanic couple I passed on the street later on that evening, after clocking off from work... arguing en route to Hot Tomatoes, as girlfriend struggled in her pointy-toed stiletto boots, to keep up with her agitated boyfriend, as they stomped to their destination over melting snow piles.
Ask me how deep my scowl furrowed, as I shook my head at the tacky assortment of plastic hearts, pitiful looking single red roses individually wrapped and contained behind cellophane plastic (for a whopping 5 to 10 bucks a pop), white teddy bears holding red heart pillows with the words "I Love You" painted on the front, and other stupid bric-a-brac vendors were hoping to hawk to desperate last minute shoppers, who didn't have time to order that delicious (and pricey) flower shaped cantaloupe bouquet from Edible Arrangements.
The most infuriating moment, however? ... Walking into CVS Pharmacy and discovering every last bit of fucking chocolate... every box of Hershey's Pot O' Gold (on sale for $3.88) sold the eff out!! The inconsiderate vultures. I wanted to push the shelves over in blind, white hot fury, but instead purchased a pack of cellulose facial sponges, black liquid eyeliner, and gum and stormed out into the damp, dark winter malaise, in a moue of glossy indignation and disgust.
The bitter ramblings of a young woman, never having been in love and cynical about the complex maze of dating? Perhaps. Or maybe just realistic and an staunch advocate of consistency in genuine behavior and emotions, just 'cause... not prompted by some corny holiday, that dictates you should go broke buying someone's affections once a year.
This morning, as I made my way to the entrance of my place of employment I came upon a sad looking, red, heart shaped mylar balloon, with Betty Boop on the front... flirty and dripping hearts lying on the ground. Dejected on February 15th. The last remnants of the previous day already forgotten and only remembered to begin with, due to some overwhelming sense of obligation. Half deflated and out of place in the backdrop of a crisp, bright, wintry-white morning as people hurried around it, rushing about in long, black winter coats... faces grim as they clutched their oversized Starbucks cups as if the 14th never happened. Clutching my own dark roast, I stopped and looked down at it. I shook my head. That pretty much summed up V-day. I stepped on Betty's face with my favorite pair of calf boots and rushed in to start my day.
P.S. to the man whose phone number I accepted a couple of weeks ago, because I thought you were genuine... TEXTING a response to someone's voicemail message, after "hoping" that they'd call: "Thanks! Talk to U Later" and then following up by calling at odd hours: 7:30 AM as you're getting in your car (I heard you unlocking your door), calling and then hanging up sans leaving a voicemail, texting "Are U up??" @ 12:20AM on a week day are NOT the proper ways to woo someone for a date and is rather dubious. Been there, done that... and the shirt I have to prove it? I use it to clean around the house. Strikes one, two, AND three. You're out!

January 23, 2008

No Love

Amidst all the chaos, the trials and tribs, my fall and subsequent rise. In the crux of my moving, job hunting, cursing my bad luck, finally starting and now settling into a new job, apartment hunting, contemplation, absorption, ups and downs... In the midst of this egomaniacal reverie... I haven't, not once, entertained the thought of dating, men, signiffy others, sex or lack thereof, or the joys of digital manipulation, even. It has been awhile since I've lamented over my solitary confinement. I haven't thought about ghosts from my pasts at all. They've all become nameless, insubstantial phantoms. I don't wonder what they're doing, I don't care where they are. I don't remember how they look, smell, how much they got on my nerves. What they did to make me sigh with resignation. No dating... away with the online dating profiles, peer to peer contact, considering dating prospects, making eye contact and averting my gaze right before something clicks... all of these things have become my current reality. Because I haven't thought about it until this second, none of it has really mattered or made me feel any self-loathing and self-pity. Oh, I've become quite used to my aloof and cold nature and have settled into my chilly exterior (my interior is quite warm). I honestly don't know what to make of it really. I'm neither pleased with myself or unhappy about how self contained and focused I am. Once things have quieted down, only time will tell what the dating future will conjure up. What creatures will come slithering out from under their moist rock, which normal, sane, handsome gentlemen will take me off guard in spite of myself or what embarrassing yet salacious fodder I'll feed to the masses (or perhaps keep to myself). ... Only time will tell. I am ready for another adventure abroad... this much I know is true.

September 02, 2007

The Voice inside the head of The Voice inside my head

I'm a head case. There I said it out loud, finally. A beautifully broken mess whose affliction is of moderate- (or epic depending on the week)- proportions and could use some shrinking. But here I am, constantly self-diagnosing and looking inwardly sometimes, to no avail. I'm basically a guinea pig. A willing participant in my own experiments.
I engage in behavior I probably shouldn't engage in, I think thoughts I probably shouldn't entertain. Somehow, it all works for me. Weird and twisted? Yes. But it works. I'm daring, I'm self contained, I'm antagonistic, I'm aloof, I'm self involved, I'm introverted, I'm extroverted, sometimes I'm misanthropic, I'm egotistical, I'm meticulous, I think I have a touch of O.C.D., I hate hard, I love and trust almost never, I'm neurotic, I'm a hard shell to crack, I'm genuine, I'm angry, I'm quiet, I observe, I'm content, I'm sated, I'm dissatisfied, I'm suspicious, I'm passionate, I'm sexual, I'm jaded, I push, I prod, I push away, sometimes I want to hurt myself, sometimes I want to punish myself, sometimes I want to reward myself, sometimes I want to disappear, I'm tempestuous and I crack under pressure from time to time, I am also calm, unflinching, & have a stone cold resolve, and sometimes I live in an alternate universe, I have insomnia and can't breathe when I close my eyes and so am afraid to fall into a deep slumber and yet sometimes sleep falls over me without effort. ...
Somehow... these idiosyncratic things work in tandem with and against me. I don't think my neurosis will ever find a balanced medium. When I'm alone, these things are obvious to me. When I integrate myself into the general populace, these things are not discernible and I'm functional. I function quite fine, in fact. This is why they work in tandem with me. My demons and I have an understanding. We don't always see eye to eye, but we have an understanding and we've made some semblance of peace.

August 04, 2007

Bearded Lady

I hate body hair. I've been an avid shaver since the age of 12 and use depilatories and creams (provided they're safe, hypoallergenic, and wont skin me alive). I don't get hair on my legs but I shave the imaginary ones I know are there anyway. The only visible hair I acknowledge is the thick, coarse mass on my head. Luckily I'm not a woman who requires electrolysis, monthly bikini waxes, and who needs to shave her chin. I think my complex about body hair developed during my middle-school years.
Whilst taking a pre-pool shower before the required swim class I resented in the most violent of ways- (we had to get suited up and then rinse off, in a communal shower- any body lotions perfuming our persons, before diving in the pool, so as not to get residue in the water)- I happened to look to my immediate left at one of the more popular girls in my class, rinsing off and talking animatedly to her friends while they waited to walk with her to the swimming pool. She wasn't addressing me at all. She didn't even look in my direction but that didn't stop me from looking in hers, to listen to whatever superficial rant she was rambling on about. I hate myself terribly because I also happened to look down. In the Netherlands, I noticed she had a thick, black, coarse Chia Pet growing out the sides of her green one-piece. The beast couldn't be contained, and so it snaked it's way from each side... mocking me. I was horrified. I averted my eyes quickly and scurried to the pool. Needless to say, that experience scarred me. I rushed home right after school, found a men's Bic razor in the medicine cabinet, and shaved my delicates, arm pits, legs, you name it, I shaved it off. I shaved it off and never looked back. I shaved with passion unbridled.
Fortunately I have minimal amounts of body hair and shave the ones that sprout up a couple times a week. As far liking men with massive amounts of body hair and unruly beards, I prefer long, unkempt beards and hairy backs. That being said, I met a good male friend of mine for a drink a few days ago (his treat). My dear friend. Attractive, well dressed, with a keen fashion sense. My friend of the nice light brown skin (a result of Italy intermingling with Africa). I feel confident relaying this story because I know the likelihood of him reading it is... well... not very likely as he's not technologically savvy nor does he have access to the internet and rarely ever web surfs (knocking on wood). My dear, attractive sweet friend. Whom I've known for a spell and who I always suspected was closeted behind thick winter sweaters, coats, button downs, shoes, and summer apparel. Tucked waaaay in the back behind the "in case I run out of laundry" wear. His choice. His demons to slay. I stand behind him regardless. I just would like to see him happy. I'm a huge supporter of his (prospective) brethren. They make my heart dance and sing. I understand why they choose the rainbow as their symbol. I'm a self-described hag and think it's important for people to be themselves and not hide what they can't help being. I keep my mouth shut regarding such matters, because it's not my place to dictate to someone when they should be themselves. Anyway, my dear friend seemed rather flirty and touchy-feely... leaving me flummoxed. He threw me off even further by relaying an erotic dream he had about me. Despite my confusion, I responded the way any mature adult would. ... "EWWWWWWW!!!!! UUUUGHHHHH!!!"
"You weren't saying that in the dream." He said, coyly.
I clasped his hand in one of mine and used my other to pat his, platonically and friendlike and then quickly changed the subject. I turn 30 in a matter of days. Lately, I've been singing the praises of singledom. I enjoy my solitude more and more and appreciate it for what it is. That being said, I'm not dead nor am I desperate. I don't want to live out the rest of my single days playing a beard. It's not a lifestyle I envisioned for myself and it'd make for a pretty inactive and boring sex life, no? That charade would also be murder on my drain pipes and a bitch to sweep up, as it'd grow wilder and more bedraggled... becoming evermore out of control and hard to manage, that not even Nair or Epilady would be able to contain it.

July 30, 2007

Permutations on Love

Often on this blog, I lament a lot over being single and not having found my Rebel Prince, not ever having been in love, so forth and so on. As the aging process continues it's cycle (I'll be 30 next month), I realize that I'm not even ready to settle down with someone. A man would truly have to be something akin to one of the 8 Wonders of the World in order for me to fall head over heels and give up the solitude I so enjoy more and more each day. Fellow blogger, Hedonistic Pleasureseeker said it best, when she commented on the Over It entry:
When married people try to set me up I get a little suspicious. First, couples only seem to want to socialize with other couples. It's totally lame, but at least be a little flattered that they're trying to make it "ok" for you to be a part of their little group. Unattended marauding females being so dangerous and suchwhat, you're "safer" around their boyfriends/husbands if some OTHER guy has claimed ownership of your vagina. Men won't respect YOU, but they WILL respect the property rights of other MEN. I know, it's creepy, sexist and gross but it's the truth. Another reason I get suspicious is that I sense that some of them are jealous of my freedom and want to make me as unhappy as they are. Misery loves company! I love not being joined at the hip with someone I have to constantly negotiate with. "What do you want to do?" "I don't know, what do YOU want to do?" BAH! I want him to get out of my house so that I can take a bath and paint my toenails in peace!
I could not have ranted it better myself. As I believe I stated before, being a loner... enjoying my solitude does not mean that I am ALONE or lonely. All of this pining for someone... wanting... grasping... hoping... was all for naught. Particularly considering that I quite possibly would've had the relationship not having been ready for it or even truly wanting it. I would've grown stone-cold like a neglected cup of coffee. The concept of a full time lover would've grown stale. I don't even really want to entertain potential suitors or go on dates anymore. Having a hubby or a live in lover would mark an end to dancing in my underwear as I sing along to the Dream Girls soundtrack. It would mean no more sampling sauces and dipping the spoon back in the pan (a luxury I enjoy since I'm cooking for one). I'd have to eat Nutella out of the jar, on the down low. And worst of all, I'd have to share closet and bathroom space! I'm certainly not ready for that. If I happen upon a bar all by me lonesome, that's the way I want and planned it... and have every intention of leaving alone. A woman sitting with a glass of wine is nothing more than that. It's not an indication that she's on the prowl, hoping to be chatted up and treated to an additional drink and regaled with lascivious stories... at least that's not the case with me. Perhaps all I wanted all along were warm boy parts to keep my mattress warm. Notwithstanding the fact that the thrashing, tossing, and turning my dreams generate produce more than enough heat. How enlightening.

July 12, 2007

Over It

Dear Dating "Experts",
I've never been one to follow or give much credence to dating rules. At the same time, I've read my fair share of the advice dispensed in books, in magazines, on television shows, and various other media outlets. I admittedly gave some of what you all said some serious thought. A lot of your dating propaganda sounded good and it made perfect sense. To some degree it still does. However, at this stage in my solitary life I'm truly and really over it. It's exhausting, and an awful lot to swallow (no pun intended) considering most of it is to no avail. Going with the flow and truly enjoying being single never felt so good! 30 is inching near. In fact, it will be my reality as soon as next month. I look forward to it and welcome it with open arms. I'll envelope this milestone and smother it with a massive bear hug and a thousand sloppy kisses, dating experts. As the day looms, my singlehood doesn't feel freakish. The sympathetic, slow head shakes and reassuring "You'll meet someone soon" comments will continue to be met with indifferent shoulder shrugs. It's not that bad. Really. There is a huge difference between being alone and being lonely. I'm far from lonely.
You see, all the dating advice in the world can't predict when or how complementary love will happen. Knights in shining armor, rebel princes, Mr. Right ... none of these fantastical specters can be forced into existence based on a list of dating do's, you all seem to love to comprise and update at every turn. In fact, I'm not even sure that kind of perfection exists. All your ruuules and dating how's are perfect for helping Mr. Right Now materialize like a light breeze... before evaporating into a blast of hot, thin air. While I know you all mean well, you need to let the masses be. No amount of orgasmic bed tricks, pretend bashfulness, or man-scaping is going to force someone to fall in love if they aren't ready or genuinely feeling someone. Let us single people fumble towards ecstasy on our own without your unwarranted tsk tsking. Let the cards shuffle and unfold naturally. More importantly, stop making single-hood seem like an incurable social disease that burns, oozes, and leaks if left untreated.
xoxo Coffey

June 23, 2007

I'm Feeling Nostalgic...

This is how I grapple and scrap, in a nutshell. My feelings dance back and forth, like this sometimes...

May 19, 2007

Could THIS be the reason WHY I'm single??? This online quiz I took, has me pegged ALL wrong!

Update: I re-took this cupid test... to see what sexual type I was... I answered the questions, the same, exact way, and came up with a different result than, Ghengis Khunt, Brutal Sex Master. This one sounds more like me, than the former.

The Dirty Little Secret
Deliberate Gentle Sex Master (DGSM)

Innocent but fundamentally sexual, like the word "finger". You are the Dirty Little Secret.

Few women have the confidence for sex mastery, and among nice girls, like you, it's almost unheard of. So congratulations. You've had plenty of adventures, but you've remained a kind, thoughtful person. Your friends appreciate your exploits. They even live vicariously through you.

Your exact female opposite:
The Wild Rose

Random Brutal Love Dreamer
You seek pleasure, but you're not irresponsible. You are organized and cautious, and you choose your lovers wisely. One, you don't like dirtbags. And two, you like to maintain control. Or at least lose it selectively. You might notice that older men single you out. They have an eye for your sensual nature. Take it as a compliment.

You enjoy making people happy, and it's inevitable that many guys will fall harder for you than you for them. You're not completely comfortable in a serious, long-term relationship right now. Our guess is that the key to extended happiness will be finding a responsible, but kinky, mate.


ALWAYS AVOID: The Hornivore (RBSM), The Manchild (RBLD), The Last Man on Earth (RBSD)

CONSIDER: The Bachelor (DGSM), The Backrubber (DGSD)


Link: The Online Dating Persona Test @ OkCupid - free online dating.

May 15, 2007

Fureur

Last night, I re-visited the Japanese horror flick, Ju-on: The Grudge and then followed it up with the American rendition, The Grudge. The original version felt as chilling, as if I were watching it for the first time. I still felt goosebumps as I watched the haunting and disturbing images float across the screen. The American remake was slightly less compelling, but wasn't short on providing chills. The Grudge is about a supernatural curse that is born after a wife and her young son die violently, in the grip of rage and sorrow (at the hands of the woman's husband, in a fit of jealous anger). Anybody who comes into contact with the curse, of course dies, causing it to grow and constantly repeat itself in a deadly chain of events... bouncing from person to person and feeding off of them. After watching both films, I began pondering the power and emotion behind passion and rage. I'm a passionate and tempestuous woman. When I was young and precocious, I had a difficult time harnessing those emotions and my anger. As annoying and selfish as preteens and teenagers can be today, I commiserate with them to a certain degree. Their young brains are still developing. That coupled with raging hormones and being caught in the throes of adolescence as well as being on the cusp of adulthood. Sheer insanity. Once we blossom into adults however, we are responsible for our behavior and how we choose to channel passion and rage. Some of us harbor it more than others. Our brains may be developed and common sense should no longer be a foreign concept at this point in our lives, but it still requires a great deal of restraint and grappling, to harness such intense emotions. I know I grapple with it, anyway. There are some with laid back, tranquil personalities sans incident and despite whatever turmoil and anger they may be feeling. What can I say, I'm intense. I boil, I seethe, my insides churn (even if I don't project that emotion externally). Kissing, eating, sex, anger, contentment... all of these wonderful and ugly things, I experience with an unbridled intensity. Passion and rage work in tandem as far, as I'm concerned. And are just as strong if not stronger, than the act of loving. Pondering and realizing all of this, I've come to the conclusion that perhaps this is why I may seem aloof to strangers or to those who haven't gotten to know me completely. What is in fact me showing restraint and being miserly, by not laying my emotions bare, for someone who is unfamiliar to me, to cash in on, and not having earned any of it. That's me, not wasting that passionate anger on the petty and insignificant. This applies to the brief relationships I've had too ... the confusion some of these men have felt, when I didn't chase them down or beg them for their time... me simply opting to move on and not look back. I'm personable and cordial enough and I open myself up, juuuust wide enough. I don't feel compelled to expend that type of energy on someone, with abandon and without thought. That passion, I'd rather save for something (or someone?) exciting and relevant, and channel it in productive ways, and have it paid back to me ten fold. I'd hate to waste passion and rage on the undeserving, only to have the results end up a tortured entity that continues on in a familiar pattern of anger and sorrow.

March 28, 2007

Puppy Love

A couple of days ago, while en route home, I happened upon a little boy and a little girl all of about 7 years old. Ponytail hanging past her shoulders, the little girl ran around a telephone pole, giggling sheepishly as she was being chased by the little boy. She had olive colored skin, long dark hair with tendrils at her temples, and a pink shirt. It just happened to be gorgeous outside. The scene was somewhat cheesy and surreal, really. I rubber necked and watched, as the little girl ran around in a circle around that pole, pink baby doll shirt flying behind her as she flicked her ponytail over her shoulder, squealing and laughing as she tried to escape the young lothario. Hers was the kind of cute, that guaranteed a transition into a comely, young woman. The little boy, brown skinned, with a striped tee shirt on, chuckled as he chased her... pleased with himself even. He was determined to catch his intended, as he ran after her... and around that pole... arms outstretched, hoping to grasp some part of her. He was a handsome little devil... the type of handsome that would allow him to morph into an attractive young man, who would make young women blush and look away from him sheepishly when he accosted them. While the scene was indeed cheesy, it was cute. Cute in its innocence. I watched the two laughing... the young Casanova and pursuee. Hopefully, in about a decade, this young woman wont have to navigate the choppy maze that is dating. Perhaps courtship and chivalry, as it once was and should be, will have made a come back and she wont have to lament over its complexities, as many of us now do. Perhaps the mysteries of love wont be so elusive.