Monday, June 28, 2010

Everything I Do...I Do it for.....who???

Now I want to say something
Something that's been on my mind
It's really very simple
But the words aren't easy to find

Hey family. I've been gone but, hopefully, not forgotten. Getting some things together on the career front. Studying for my certification, lobbying for a promotion, yada, yada. Doesn't leave a lot of time for writing. Somehow, however, I found time to book a cruise for my birthday. That's right! I'm setting sail! Right after I test for my certification I should be back to writing, drinking and having an undignified celebration of my life thus far. Now, while trying to fit in prep appointments for my cruise something crossed my mind. Something that disturbed my spirit so much, I had to make time to share. Picture neck-o-da-woods 2010. Legs spread, mouth open & poised to scream....rock with me for a few....

Didn't know that I can feel this way
I'm not a yes kinda woman
But I'd do anything you say
We don't have to scream & shout it
We don't have to tell the world about it
It's easy when you feel the way I do

Pissed! That's how I felt. Utterly pissed and damn uncomfortable. There I was, prepping for my cruise, doing what all women must do when bathing suit season hits. You guessed it! Time for the brazilian wax! Usually I'll just do a bikini wax (yeah, I do it myself) but for some reason (maybe it's the itty bitty swimsuit some negroes encouraged me to buy) I said to myself "it's my b-day cruise! balls to the muthafuckin walls: let's take it all".

Pause: Ummmm...someone should have explained what the hell "all" entailed. Don't laugh! It aint as simple as it sounds.

The world of short and curlies is VERY complex! It takes a professional that has passed health exams and yearly mental checks to handle the short and curlies. I mean, this chick had CERTIFICATES on the walls! Testaments to her genuis of handling the short & curly. Now, I'm not completely off my rocker. I've gone to this woman before. I dye my shorties and have them cut into fun shapes. I may even vajazzle every now and again to compliment the jewelry I already have in that area. I knew who I was dealing with, certificates, goggles, magnification light and all. I'd seen how mama handles her work. I thought surely, I can trust her judgement.

Anyway, as stated, I was on her table, cheeks out, legs in suspended stirrups, cracked open while she hummed, prepped, powdered, trimmed...enjoyed herself. Somehow I got the feeling this aint your average. She asks in Japanese "Shai sama, all off or strip?" I patted it and responded, in Japanese, "strip please. just make her even. ya know how I like it." Then in English "no homo." She raised an eyebrow and looked mysteriously around for an interpreter that didn't exist. Then patted it and got to work.

Now, that it's over let me ask you....who the hell pays for this level of torture??? Now it aint my first time at the rodeo but surely they didn't take that much off last season. I would have remembered. And it's not until you feel wax touch places that only a wash cloth or an OBGYN has gone that you realize, you aren't in Kansas anymore. By then, it's too late. The wax has been laid. You can't get off the table and run cuz you will get twisted up in the furry stirrups. She is looking at you with a sinister smile and says ever so quietly as she lays the strip "hold your breath. this may not be pleasant." MAY NOT???? What the hell kinda shit is she into?? Then I realize, Japanese. The whole world bases their bondage and torture techniques off of shit the Japanese started. DAMN! DAMN! DAMN! Aint but one way to get the wax off. She rips the strip. She looks at me and says

are you going to cry?
Me: No heathen! But I do punch.
Demon: (she blinks)I'll get you glass of water
Me: Vodka. You better get me vodka.
Demon: men like (she blinks again, pats her handy work. returns with water)
Me: Pedofiles. Pedofiles like. That's what we call those "men". My dude. Not a pedofile. Will not like.

She doesn't know I don't have a man. I implied otherwise because somehow, whenever I'm in such a situation, I feel the need to make it clear that I'm hetero. Somehow it comforts both of us. She frowns and gets back to work. Now through all this, we aren't even going to talk about how fingers were moving my piercing out of "the way". Uh-uh. No homo. We aren't going to talk about how she asked me to turn over and said "now behind"...nope. It's too much for my spirit. Disturbs my mental mind too much. I know it happened but I don't believe in that shit and frankly it makes me uncomfortable (for you Ndygo) to discuss how I found myself looking at parts I haven't seen since I was 6. And for good damn reason. I'm 30!! I'm old enough to know (and appreciate) if there's a house, there needs to be a lawn. Grown women - you aren't supposed to look like this! And though I know it's what I asked for, I didn't know what the hell I was asking for. Where was the "bitch behave" memo on this??

In the end, I left feeling cheap and used. I mean that psycho didn't call or write or anything. I had to CALL HER to see how life was going, if the kids were out for summer. No flowers. No nothing. All that "familiarity" in some countries we are considered married! After all that torture...and dropping $80 on your ass...I got to TELL YOU don't forget to write?? What kinda tomfuckery is that???

Oooh I do it for you, and only you
You know I do it for you and only you
Yeah you know it's true
I do it all for you

Now, the truth be told in it, I was doing it because I have to fit in a bathing suit and all that extra afro hanging out just aint fitting. But the whole process got me to thinking (I do that when I'm pissed) about all the shit sisters do....and for what?? for who?? Think about it. We either d.i.y or pay good damn money to sit someplace where we can wax, dye, color, straighten, yank, tweeze, fluff and scent ourselves to damn death. Trying to be his extra clean fantasy. You know how much Victoria's Secretions makes off of those lotions?? Making your pussy smell like rain, raspberry tea, sweet pea, cucumber melon. WTF is that?? And WHAT pray tell do his balls smell like? I haven't seen one damn man bounce his sac in a jar of jasmine and hydrangea for us! It smells like balls!!!! And that's if he respects ya! smells like sweaty balls. Lucky us, we should understand he's been working all day. Or, if you are just a screw, his balls may smell like the ass he's dragging behind it. Not ne'er a jar of honeysuckle & white gardenia or stress relief spray up on it fuh ya. Do you hear me? Do you get what I'm telling you? And it wouldn't even cross your mind to require the same level of effort from him! Please sista, raise your hand if you ever told a man to not even approach unless he soaked his sac in, at least, a bottle of Pine Sol cuz the woodsy-outdoor type turns you on. *insert sound of crickets here* Exactly!

We go through torture, hell and high water to make ourselves look how we were never meant to look (past the age of puberty), smell like something we were never meant to smell like and feel like we were never meant to feel (smooth like a baby's butt all over). You aren't a baby's butt. You are a working, fighting, breathing, surviving grown ass woman. You just might make it through all of that with a rough spot on your baby toe and a hair bump! Let that shit be! You earned it. And besides that, NEWSFLASH, he aint do shit but shower... 8 HOURS AGO... and that was for work! Not your ass! But you are not only supposed to shower and smell like you're the only mammal on the planet earth who has never taken a shit...not enough. Nope, take it a step further, you are supposed to remove every inch of hair that isn't above your eyeballs! Meanwhile, this sucka can come to bed looking like he descended from a clan of Yeti, smelling like he has a job and expectations of being viewed as sexy. Hair on his back, in his ears & even on his butt. And we are supposed to overlook it. Really? I say no. Sistas, come to bed with a weave growing out your back and shit growing out your ears. See if he doesn't cock an eyebrow, turn on the game & wait for you to get some damn behavior.

If you lose your direction and can't seem to find your way
You don't have to worry, I'll be right with you anyway

I don't get it! We do all this shit...for who? Someone who wouldn't even THINK of, much less follow through, doing any of it for you. I hell with it. Until I see a waxed ball sack soaked in seabreeze and smelling like Andes Candies bet not nobody never (yeah, I know about 40 negatives up in that piece) say shiiiiiiiiit to me about wanting a hairless, trimmed, shaved, smell like fresh baked brownies pussy. Nigga you first! Endgame.

It made me truly wonder, what the hell would happen if we just...stopped. Picked a different path. Put up a detour sign whenever he suggested minimal hair or other unnatural preferences. Personally, I like smell goods and do it for myself. However, if one day, we all just lost our behavior and decided to present ourselves to them in the same careless "well I showered didn't I" way they present themselves to us, with no thought or concern of their preference on hair or smell, etc. would our worst fear of being "undesirable" come true. I suspect the answer is ....HELL NO. He'd screw ya anyway. It's a male. He may talk about ya after, but what do you care? He's talking to himself. You're snoozing and comfy without even asking if he has any preferences about how one should present their down under...JUST LIKE THEY DO.

The other day, I asked one of my DNT sisters (hats off to ya mama), what is the new fragrance for the fantasy box these days. She said, I don't know. I gasped. How the hell could one not know? I mean true, I was asking but that's because I was using a lovely fragrance I purchased overseas. Now that it was empty I wanted to know what new scents I should try. She stated matter of factly, "my pussy smells like pussy". WTF! Are you serious? That's allowed? She said, yeah! I'm not dating anyone. Oh, it's allowed when you aren't dating. I knew that but still, one can be ok with pussy just smelling like it's ...supposed to?? What a fresh (no pun intended) outlook on life. It hadn't dawned on me until that moment, since I scent up just cuz I wanna whether I'm dating or not, that I don't even know what my natural scent is. I mean, you hear men say all the time they like the smell of it. Do you? We spend our entire adult lives covering it up so how the hell would you know if you like it or not? You've been scenting hairless cotton candy. That aint authentic scent! Do you really think whatever you are scenting is what she came here smelling like? Did you honestly convince yourself that pussy smells like Peeps candy?? I doubt it. This sharing time with my DNT sister made me aware that not only could this be a teachable moment for him, hell I could learn some things about me. Ahh, I told you this world of short & curlies is a complex one. It can lead to make-ups, break-ups, self discovery and "baby wtf is all that hair doing there" moments. It can make ya re-evaluate your whole swag.

ok, this rant is over. I'm bald. I'm steeling myself against the itch that I know will come when all the curlies grow back. I'm angry cuz demon wax lady didn't think enough of our experience to text me later, no homo. And thanks to the lack of hair I'm overly sensitive to contact. I sneeze and damn near have an epileptic seizure. Cross my legs in a meeting and my eyes roll back and I start to drool. It aint fittin. All....for a bathing suit and because society (men) believe it isn't attractive to ride out au naturale. And I know in the end, I'll keep scenting, keep waxing (though not this brazil bull, yall can have that) and keep shaving the pits and parts. Even though there isn't a man here...somewhere along the way I got brainwashed into avoiding my natural state and only find beauty in the shaving and scenting of it all. But I swear, one day, when I'm married and he's trapped I'm gonna sit around in my sweat all day. Not shave a thing but demand he go wax cuz it's my "preference". Maybe take a ho bath at the sink and then sit spread eagle in the bed and tell him to lick it. Why?? Cuz somebody is gonna have to pay for the shit we go through...might as well be the one I love. LOL

Oh I do it for you and only you
You know I'd do it for you...

Lyrics by Bonnie Tyler: I Do It For You

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

The Ms. Celie Effect

Its that time of the year again....graduations, vacations, end-of-year reports and massive cleaning projects. Though, I regret leaving my massive fan base ("The Tappers") to wander aimlessly, I hoped you missed me!

Anyhoo, I recently had a conversation with an older confidante of mine. She was brainstorming about her steps with a potential suitor that she started talking to again.

I seem to be THAT girlfriend. The one you haven't talked to in a year but if you recently found love or divorced your husband, I'm the first one that pops into your mind. Whether its helping you pick out your freak'um dress, watching your kids so you can get some, or guarding your freak nasty skeletons like The Mint. I'm full-service. LOL!! But I digress...

In her conversations with her potential, he mentioned his concern about his daughters' thoughts about their fledgling relationship. She dispensed some advice to him about discussing their feelings about her coming around more often, and that this is a special person to him. This all sounds like wonderful parenting advice, especially if your kids were 12 year-old. But these were grown ass 30-something women like myself. That's grown folk business, as long as this woman didn't act indecent or indignant, what could they say?

I held this belief very firmly and it wasn't until this recent conversation was my thinking ever challenged. My confidante gently let me know that her suitor really cared what his daughters thought and wanted to handle this right considering some of his behaviors of the past and she respected the fact that he wanted to gently bring her into the fold.

I had to process this for a minute because she really supported his intentions and gave him a handle around thinking about his daughters. She mentioned that it was the right thing to do.

Hmm, the right thing to do? Acknowledging his daughters feelings and being thoughtful about their role, if any, in this. This took me a minute to rock with, as Shai would say. I looked at my own experience with my parental units.

As long as I have known them they have been separated. Mom Dukes was always hesitant about bringing new men around Numpsy and I. Even when they were crazy about me, she never overexposed us to them. Hell, I've even played the Littlest Wingman on several dates with her.

Now Papa Bear, that's a different story all together. Shit, I ain't have a horse in any race he was running with the ladies. Papa Bear stocked his stable with fillies that definitely weren't feeling me and I wasn't crankin' on them either. But I wouldn't dare say a word about my feelings towards them. The fear of being rejected by him was paralyzing. Papa Bear had a habit of always choosing the side of the women he dated over anything I said that may contradict them. Sadly, this has happened more times than I liked to admit.

So I learned to keep it in and accept whatever he did. In my history there were more women I disliked than liked and I continued to suffer in the silence of being voiceless and defenseless. Its funny, even though Mom Dukes set the example to follow, it was Papa Bear whose actions and choices seemed to had a more penetrable affect on me.

Thus the Ms. Celie Effect. (Sidebar: I am operating on the assumption that all The Tappers have seen the Color Purple at least 20 times. If not, put it on your Net Flicks.)

Ms. Celie was soooo use to being treated badly that she actually corroborated with her abusers and perpetrators. Whether it was turning on display, on the command of her stepfather, like some chattel he possessed to suggesting to Harpo to beat his wife when she didn't obey his command. Sometimes the pain of mistreatment is so bad that you subject others to it, intentional or unintentional, because the idea of you being the only one suffering through this is too brutal to bear.

Who Papa Bear dated wasn't as much of the issue as it was that it didn't matter what happened to me in the process of his dating. There was no future for me in his thinking or acting. How I would benefit or suffer was never a consideration, and the idea of speaking up on the issue was both beyond my process and mired with consequence.

Flashback sequence: I was around 10 or 11, when Papa Bear picked me up for a weekend visit. We were going to visit with his new "Lady Friend" as he called them. Now, because he was late as usual, I spent my time eating Funyuns and falling asleep, so you can imagine the hotness. So Papa Bear suggested I get something to freshen up with from the store and use it at Lady Friend's place. Well, get to Lady Friend and he made it a point to say obnoxiously in front of her, "now go in the bathroom and drink that whole thing of Scope down". Lady Friend busts out in laughter along with him. To this day, the idea of being the butt of his joke was beyond hurtful. And that stupid wench laughing just put the dagger in further.

As I got older, I realized how many of my girlfriends were princesses to their Dads (and not in the prissy ass way either). Their Daddies are the greatest men in their lives and the last thing any of them wanted to do is intentionally undermine their daughter's feelings to get some pussy. I guess I wasn't so lucky.

Thinking back on what my confidante was doing, I finally get it. It IS the right thing to do....matter of fact, it is the expected thing to do.

How can anyone, whether family, friends or lovers, dare say that they truly love you and that you mean the world to them, if they could care less about respecting your presence, time, space or well-being?

And so the Ms. Celie Effect continues on like the butterfly effect (check it out on Wikipedia if you need to).

As I sit thinking about myself and my experiences with this, the next question in my head is: when do I start putting knives to the throats of muhfckas?

'Til Next Time,
~ T-Gyrl

Monday, June 7, 2010

Seasons of Love

525,600 minutes.
525,600 moments so dear.
525,600 minutes.
How do you measure, measure a year?

Ah! On to the business of loving, living and ....well. Death. It seems to be the only constant lesson in my life lately. I'm usually better at this. This life and death thing. You see, I don't feel cheated when someone dies young. I've seen death too many times on too many different faces to NOT know better than that. I know plenty of 80+ year olds who have yet to do a thing with the talents, love and laughter God gave them. I know 28 year olds who have forged their own path, loved fully and followed every dream (even if they never made it a reality). I know, it isn't how long you live, it 's what you do with the years you've got.

In daylights? in sunsets?
In midnights? In cups of coffee?
In inches? In miles? In laughter? In strife?
In 525, 600 minutes how do you measure
your last year of life?

When I was struggling with cancer it wasn't the idea of death that scared the shit out of me. It was the fear that I may never fully live. I'd had my bumps and bruises growing up. Lost more than I gained. From getting arrested (several times), to dead brothers and best friends, to joy rides in cars (I didin't pay for) to living in another country for three months just roaming & learning I still hadn't done anything that impressed ME yet. I hadn't fully loved or been loved in return. I hadn't had children or adopted. I hadn't done that peace corps work I always said I would do. I hadn't really been laid thorough & right (hell not even courted fully & righteously. LOL). I hadn't lost my mind completely. I hadn't ever felt free and open. I hadn't ever felt home. I hadn't impressed ME. It was the thing I regretted most. That feeling of not having lived fully. Even death was common business for average living. It was humbling to say the least. When I survived, I got to the business of living. Nope. Still haven't accomplished everything I wanted to but at 30...haven't done half bad for myself.

In diapers? Report cards?
In speeding tickets? In contracts?
In funerals? In births?
In 525, 600 minutes how do you figure
our last year on earth?

So perhaps you can understand my reaction to my friend's, the scientist, declaration that his best friend (since elementary school) had cancer. Cancer. It took a while for it to sink in from this side of the fence. I'm not usually the one in the "waiting room". Cancer. I waited. I watched. Wanting to be there for him but not really knowing how since both being on this side of the diagnosis and being with him in this capacity were new. I followed his lead. I kept my thoughts inside, just as he is prone to do, even though I knew, that could only last (for me) but for so long.

Time passed. This weekend he let me know the cancer that was in his bones had metastasized to his lymph nodes. It had become terminal. I knew this from the moment he said lymph nodes but I let him tell me. It seemed like he needed to say the words. He wasn't ready to tell me but from his behavior from the past week I could tell something was wrong and had begun to nag him to open up. I know, I gotta stop nagging. It's rude. I know. But it's also rude to be less than who you are and who I am, is a woman who needs communication. So sometimes we will bump heads on that. LOL. This time, I chose to follow my instincts, my truth. I looked at him and asked him "So what are we going to do?"

525,600 minutes. 525,600 journey's to plan
525, 600 minutes, HOW can you measure
the life of a woman or a man?

He said, in a very professional voice, "Assuming there is something we can do. Look, once it gets to your lymph nodes there's a 1 in a billion chance that you will survive. I will be at his procedures , before and after, and of course be as much a support as I can." And though it wasn't the time, I couldn't help but smile. I loved his response. While completely missing what I was asking, it showed the beauty of him. Of our friendship. The vast difference in who we are. It's in those moments, when we see things completely different, that I see balance and he sees hinderance. I was in no way asking about the bff's physical condition or his diagnosis. He is dying. As we all are. That is not to sound callous. It is truth. From the moment we are born we are working on dying. It's the only absolute left. So, my heart says, what are we going to do? Not about his death. About the gift of his living... My heart says, how are we going to celebrate his life with him, while he is still with us? Plan the moments of no behavior. Live out loud until there isn't any noise left to make.

In the truths that she learned? Or in the times that he cried?
In the bridges she burned? Or the way that he died?
How about love?

With my brother I didn't have a chance to laugh until I pee'd (not that I want to currently) or simply live out loud without consequence or behavior. And even if I had...hell, why not give it another go? But my best friend...the moments that keep me smiling is my last summer with her. Somehow, fate figured out that we needed time to lose ourselves in each moment.
Money and time weren't a thought.

Let's celebrate the year in a
life of love and friends

I remember stealing her mom's car and calling into our summer jobs to say "we'll be late". That was AFTER we were already AWOL for two days because we decided to drive to Philly (instead of the Giant as her mom asked) to party with my sister and her college friends. We told her very wealthy uncle we were on a college tour so he just kept feeding money into her bank account. More excited than a 16 year old with a playboy model that his niece was thinking about...well...anything...but COLLEGE? Oh, he funded all that debauchery in hopes she was "getting it together". And we did see colleges! I (the good one) made sure of it! We waved at the academic buildings as we stumbled into bars, frat parties, strip clubs. That was our last summer and was the least of our shennanigans that year. The very next summer, her boyfriend thought her better dead.

Share with them your love
You've got to, you've got to live inside love
Measure your life in love

So, as I laid there, stroking his back and listening to the medical explanation. I was plotting...maybe they should just go to Africa for a month and live as brothers of the bush men. Eh! Then no one is getting any for a month and I'd have to delouse & spray him with anti bacterials upon return. Not sure the bff's system can take that. But I want them to spend time just celebrating his life. Wear your own self out I say! The scientist was kissing me at this point. Asking me what I was thinking. I told him too many things to name. Which was true. I was thinking of him, his bff, my losses, my gains, how to get them to the playboy mansion for a weekend of don't ask/don't tell living, about why in the hell would anyone want to laugh until they pee. I was thinking about summers in Philly pumping "Money Aint a Thing" and my bff's voice in my ear. I was thinking of our friendship not being a burden to him while he has so much on his plate. Thinking...what are we going to do? About living, loving and laughing? About your broken heart and disappointment? About the time he still has? What's the next step in Justin's living. Plotting...what are we going to do? My energy already carrying him away to the next season and praying that I can help him to make it more than he expected. So that, when the time comes, they have celebrated their life in a way that leaves them too exhausted to say goodbye or do anything other than remember the love of a brother and good friend.
Seasons of Love! Seasons of Love!
I'll measure your life in love.
Seasons of Love lyrics from the musical Rent