tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25166281899465578132024-03-13T10:31:23.485-07:00A Table For 1 Please...Join me on my mission to say no to almosts, maybes, lack-lusters, the mediocre and not quite superheroes that happen to look good in suits. These are my adventures in singlehood. 365 Days of Absolutely NO Exceptions. And hell, who knows, maybe I'll stumble across Mr. Wonderful along the way!nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-53285648041005310982011-12-28T21:11:00.000-08:002011-12-28T21:29:48.107-08:00The Deal Is, The Men In Denver Are Dead<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaMURjvCzqrPdxZNUp3gfJ6YvEGQiImqCRpqP7vvq3oTn1o4ItUrWJnxiYTJltJO9n2c0H7uoTMPbYVK9DVSSPFSEFPHNYF7_j71zUvJdPgSAuS4KyIw_LKRxgRINHbmTIqnmOy6JOHrs/s1600/mister_right_now_tshirt-p235761636181539221zvx6w_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaMURjvCzqrPdxZNUp3gfJ6YvEGQiImqCRpqP7vvq3oTn1o4ItUrWJnxiYTJltJO9n2c0H7uoTMPbYVK9DVSSPFSEFPHNYF7_j71zUvJdPgSAuS4KyIw_LKRxgRINHbmTIqnmOy6JOHrs/s320/mister_right_now_tshirt-p235761636181539221zvx6w_400.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The deal is, the men in Denver are dead. <br />
Whitney said it right in Waiting to Exhale all the way back in <br />
1995. Like the brilliance of this film, not much has changed. I have the <br />
privilege (and I say this with a mouth full of sarcasm) to be a part of the <br />
Denver dating scene. It’s far past tragedy. No matter how frequently one <br />
visits various clubs, bars, events, churches, art shows or online adventures, Denver seems to be the meeting place of all things rooty-poot.<br />
<br />
So I spent the last year on somewhat of an urban sabbatical. Kind of an outside look in for the single soul. I researched, interviewed and analyzed the plight of the single woman in a city such as The Mile High and I have uncovered some extremely disturbing information. <br />
<br />
Apparently, I’m intimidating. I guess being: Educated, Attractive, Driven, Talented, Honest and Kind-Hearted <br />
scares men off. You may be thinking, “She should add narcissistic to the list” but please remember this was a research project. I asked 20 of my closest male friends to describe me in a few words and this is what t<br />
hey came up with. <br />
<br />
When asked the negative, the majority responded, “you are <br />
intimidating.” I sigh. <br />
<br />
From what I have unfortunately unearthed, all of my positives are also <br />
negatives. Now I’m no Scientist, but maybe the thin air has something to do with a decrease in testosterone? <br />
Or maybe just maybe Colorado is a test site for Comedy Central? <br />
Either way, I’m still single and its no laughing matter. <br />
Ok, I’m laughing a little. <br />
<br />
Snickering Spitefully. Denver is bad for relationships <br />
but great for business. So I work. <br />
<br />
I stepped away from my daily conundrum, I came to a life changing realization. I will no longer seek solice in any mediocre form. No need to settle because I'm simply bored. His first name Luke his last name Warm. I found myself reminded. How dare I find anger in the ticks of my own clock when God is the director of all time? TICK. He's headed this way even if he's somewhere well-dressed in the middle of Europe and walking. I believe there is a plan and I cannot adjust it. So I gather up on the super-soft blankets, re-up my Redbox selections and prepare for a long Winter. Its business as usual. Denver, I'm home.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-37621060121662437522011-07-05T20:49:00.000-07:002011-07-05T20:58:30.850-07:00Buddy Pass My Ass and Other Almosts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrivVEe0eTg3m-Rrb8DMD9h-cnQpeQZ3whyEdRoXX61J63w9TJRWStItsiI07BELCPO_d1PZ3f6g29PjmFaxKSr_NBBQRHPkvtPb8UqtTeeTHY2zKLuto30PvdxJPDGDK9xD6vR-XlPdA/s1600/puzzle1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrivVEe0eTg3m-Rrb8DMD9h-cnQpeQZ3whyEdRoXX61J63w9TJRWStItsiI07BELCPO_d1PZ3f6g29PjmFaxKSr_NBBQRHPkvtPb8UqtTeeTHY2zKLuto30PvdxJPDGDK9xD6vR-XlPdA/s200/puzzle1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Happily ever after remains on hold while simply existing is more active than ever. I'm a master of patience and novice to fairytales. I would quickly bet all of my Monopoly dollars on the success of us but that doesn't pay the bills. I've never been fond of games. I'm more responsible these days. Can't really afford to put all my hand-painted eggs in one designer basket. Especially since I don't like eggs and Chanel doesn't have an Easter collection. I call myself a starving artist as I survive off a simple diet of your well-intended maybes and half-ass promises. Can't put that between 2 slices of bread. I'm drained from hoping, tired of wishing and completely spent on waiting for you to find a cure for your guarentees of tomorrow. Tomorrow might not come and the way things are going, neither will I.<br />
<br />
(To Be Continued)nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-6674350697492694682011-05-25T23:34:00.000-07:002011-05-26T00:09:01.477-07:00Men Are Like Gum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSw5hiBtrjxbCiT_g9EH0He3H_LblmVGkKWoPBD5ufzXao2qHDm4A9jzvktnB9i9GstOak1aoPGVzZxaTOYu63Ay07P7BUWeTkeDPEfr2at27hGlCLn1OlcZ6XgRBbd01GTQZ_LUpeJsA/s1600/fruit%252520gum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSw5hiBtrjxbCiT_g9EH0He3H_LblmVGkKWoPBD5ufzXao2qHDm4A9jzvktnB9i9GstOak1aoPGVzZxaTOYu63Ay07P7BUWeTkeDPEfr2at27hGlCLn1OlcZ6XgRBbd01GTQZ_LUpeJsA/s320/fruit%252520gum.jpg" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div>Men are like gum, after awhile the lose their flavor and you just have to spit them out. I have a short attention span, this is a well known fact. But can I be blamed for the lack of talent in my current zip code? Dear God, I know I asked you to let me know when I'm wasting my time but this one didn't even make it through the warm season. Now, I will be forced to expose all wondering eyes to my amazing Summer dresses and he can only blame his boring self for their visual gift. He was fun in the beginning, but short term amusement has never been my thing. I avoid roller coasters and coffee with good reason. The effects are barely worth the experience and I am never left wanting more. He's a 7-Eleven caffeine low and Merry-Go-Round let down. Still, we took great pictures. He was what I can only describe as Fruit-Striped Gummy. Great in concept, but only a few minutes of unbelievable sweetness. Sad part is, after the sucrose is gone, I'm chewing on the equivaent of Elmers glue. I sigh. At first bite, he was unbelievable. Career focused, polite, a beautiful mind, dedicated to family and a brilliantly dressed home body. *Sigh* Another one bites the dust. I find myself humming to every Adele ballad wondering if she dated him too. Dear God, I know I'm not supposed to question you, but she knows him, right? If not, how did she so accurately bellow out our short lived story track after amazingly brilliant track? I'm not really questioning you God, I'm just saying. Gum causes cavites. He gives me a heartache. Coffee gives me the shakes and Adele, well she dated him I'm almost sure. I'm not closing this door completely, but I'm hoping he dumps the rainy day tunes and gets a Black-Eyed Peaish dance hall hair up his syncronized swimming ass. Dump the ballads, grab on to the bass and dance with with me already! Life is short and my patience for adult foolishness is limited. Keep up or keep out.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-37680982750244741112011-04-22T21:52:00.000-07:002011-04-22T21:57:35.893-07:00Like OMG! To Be 14!- Watashi wa Amaya desuI spoke to my niece today. I write about it because she's just way too cool and important to talk to me on most days. I'm honored because she's just nearly perfect. The girl most parents would want, I'm sure, but they don't know it until their perfect princess is on 16 & Pregnant or fist pumping with Snookie. So maybe she isn't the best student, but she is the coolest teenager I know and I know teenagers. I almost hate them. I'm 21ish (meaning nearly 30,) but I do remember middle school. I still know the days of begging for a hot pink thisorthat and begging to get acrylic nails. I remember sneaking out to get my eyebrows waxed and finding my way into rated "R" movies. I remember 14. It wasn't yesterday but only a couple days before that<em> I begged</em> Mom for a $125 pair of Nikes because so and so had them and some asky-kneed little boy so-and-so liked her because she dressed cool and I needed them. I didn't get the shoes. Amaya, she wouldn't want them. She wouldn't care about so-and-so or ashy-kneed little boy so-and-so. She likes candy and collects Japanese erasers. She wears t-shirts that have misprinted english words on them and rocks out to <em>Hotel California</em>. Urban Dictionary could read: <em>She is the definition of cool</em>. The Defeator of Bullies, the Daily Topic of Obnoxious Conversation and the Ultimate Everything that no one knows is the next best thing. They spend their days buried in "boyfriends" and reality show fashions while she is producing movie shorts for YouTube and re-writing the words of Lady GaGa. This kid is on to something! I am well aware she could possibly grow out of this so this is a tangible reminder of The Cool. A reminder when she faces heartbreak and her first "NO" from a lame Producer. Someone, on the other side of the world, thinks she is an inspiration. And as I look into my couture filled closet and decide which color to paint my nails, I miss her even more. A Friday night of self-reflection. She knows who she is and I'm still growing. We could all learn a little more from her. And Maybe, just maybe we should stop focusing on our sequinsed-covered lives and do the Amaya.<br />
<br />
Watashi wa Amaya desu...nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-2653739313447392652011-03-24T21:45:00.000-07:002011-03-25T06:46:41.858-07:00Anti-Old Testament Happy Hour Love Bugs and the New GuyOne day I got tired and decided to listen to God. His voice is cool like mid-April and sounds similar to Louis Armstrong in a What A Wonderful Worldy kind of way. After hearing all he had to say, I had questions. Not for him, I know better. But I needed a one on one with myself. WHY? Is the first question I had for me. Oh the years I could have saved! But they made for great stories. See God, he seems to know his stuff and yet, I tuned him out. How could I ignore a voice so great? All these years of trying answering everything for myself and then having the nerve to ask him why I kept ending up with such waste of timers. I pray more now. I'm obsessed with his baritone and I bet he sings to make lilies grow. Our relationship is more comedic which some might consider an anti-Old Testament of a mess, but hey, this is how we roll. Don't judge us. He knows me. He knows me so well, I guess he figured I was finally ready to meet a tangible mister who was created to strictly keep me in line. I am a handful. An occasional well dressed hot mess and an avid overachiever. I met my calm. Purely focused, eye-on the prize, look how much I adore you, tangible mister and I wholeheartedly wouldn't change a thing. I knew it made sense because I couldn't write about him.With others, words came easily. With him, words haven't been created. I have to stop writing to seek more verbs within my two favorite sources, my heart and thesaurus.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-75607734391894997192011-01-31T23:05:00.000-08:002011-02-01T07:05:04.058-08:00I Don't Wanna Grow Up-Swing Set DreamsEvery now and then I find time to think about the great wonders of my past. There is a -13 degree windchill and I'm trapped inside. Maybe I'm suffering from cabin fever or I could be having a moment of clarity. Whether affliction or affection, I find myself smiling today. My setting is a playground and my mind has been taken over by a sweet 7 year old sweetie pie who has butterfies in her tummy and can't help but hog the swing. I've been told I'm immature. I should bite my words and refrain from saying every single thing on my mind. I stick my tongue out at my critics and na-na-nana boo boo all over their opinions. This is a good day for mind games and gummy bears. I wish my playground had a slide and the swing had teleporting abilities. I could swing myself where I really want to be. I would go. I would leave tomorrow. No question about it, just ask me great barer of butterflies and I would chuck up the deuces and be out! I miss the smell of overbleached hotel sheets and never worn Louis Vuitton loafers. They don't come like that in Denver. I need to teleport. Not quite the thoughts of a child but its cold and I'm all over the place. I want things and I want them now! The teleporting swing, gummy bears and hotel sheets. I wish everyone knew him but I want to keep him to myself. Hey, I'm 7 in my head and I haven't learned to share. Don't judge me.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-43519476974177807672011-01-09T23:04:00.000-08:002011-01-09T23:08:55.240-08:00Eat Poop Terry McMillan!I have decided to check in at least once a week just so you know I haven't keeled over from lack of loving. I'm still here. This week was a good one. I found out I offended all of my exes that follow my blog (by my last post.) Mission Accomplished. Cry me a river homeboys. I can only hope to continue to offend and one day sue your asses for wasting my life. And to the most recent guy that stole 2 whole days of my week, you suck! This is not a friendly post. Each of you failed me. Individually and as a whole. I want out of this circle. After watching What Chilli Wants, (and don't judge me,) I have decided I need to be partnered with a completely new look. Not a circle, maybe a winding road of brillantly colored unknowns. I'm thinking big curly-haired green-eyed Jewish looking Indian face with dimples and dusty Pumas. Yes, thats what I want this season. I prefer he speaks broken English and tells me how pretty I am. I want him to ride horses on the beach and drive Italian cars with names I can't seem to pronounce. No, I want him to drive a Prius and cook like the Iron Chefs on Food Network. I will drive the fast car and ride the horses on the beach. My circle, yes my, "How Are You Going To Fail Me Today" circle has once again brught me to this point. Keep your Timberlands and your baby mamas. Embrace your struggle and Jay-Z. I will be reading Outliers over sushi and trying to figure out why I at some point decided Waiting To Exhale was the way to live. Kiss my whole newly international ass Terry McMillan! You should be charged criminally.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-92151042353617869712011-01-01T20:56:00.000-08:002011-01-01T21:03:23.909-08:001/1/11 - And 1 Of Me- Go Figure?Last year I started this off with a simple rant. It was the first year I realized exactly how an annoyingly strange cycle worked. But before I get started, I want to throw a little something out there. I love the opposite sex. I am not bitter or jealous or angry. I refuse to judge men that are set to wonder into my future by those that were booted to my past. I am looking forward to love whenever it graces my path. I pray for it. I wear my heart on my sleeve and a taser in my purse. Give me a reason to use my weapon of choice or invest in my happiness. Pick your poison but the last option tastes like honey and Pixie Stix. <br />
<br />
So, today is the first day of the New Year. The perfect time to start anew. I lost count of the references I have read about New Years Resolutions. Promises made to not-do-this or to quit doing that. I never got around to making one BUT I will stick to my theme of 2010. No Exceptions. I say this only as a reminder to myself. I spent my first day of the new year re-reading my postings from the past. I was interupted by the chimes of text message alerts, emails and phone calls from guess whos? Blasts from the past. Now "blast" is a stretch. Maybe I should call them "simmers" or "tiny sparks?" Others should be referred to as "fireworks" since they only lasted as long as the Summer holiday. All they left behind was smoke. Guess they figured that would blind me for their wackness when January 1st rolled around. <br />
<br />
These characters are really something. Not one invite for Thanksgiving. No surprise gifts for Christmas. Not an invite to a black-tie this or that for New Years Eve but New Years Day comes around and the phone is ringing. No flowers or gifts required. Number 1, no, I'll call him number 8 or 9. Number 1 is reserved for Mr. Wonderful and 8 or 9 isn't even close to great. He's regular like Mr. Pibb. No one goes out on a mission to buy it, but if its the last can left in the cooler, Mr. Pibb it is. Yes, we will call him Mr. Pibb. Anyway, Pibb came a calling. Wanting to know what I've been up to. Asking how my holidays were and what I did with my New Years Eve. I wanted to say, "I spent it NOT thinking of you, not even once not even almost" but then I would be a mean person. Maybe I should be mean for the New Year? Maybe he would get the point and THAT POINT is contageous and all the dummies get it like this horrible flu thats going around. Or maybe I will just post this on Facebook and pray that he's bright enough to know I am talking about him? Or maybe not. Hell, its not just him, my phone has been ringing all day. They are all resurfacing like roaches with deep voices and great cars. I'm over it. I really don't want to start this day on a sour note but he started it and I don't back down from insulting behavior. He started it. They started it. I'm finishing it and tattle-telling 3rd grade style. I wish I could put them in the corner and take away their toys. I would pawn them and buy shiny things and lip gloss. <br />
<br />
I don't play games. I quit school because of recess. <br />
<br />
Day 1 Act 2. Let's Go!nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-39171956612352672842010-10-23T21:30:00.000-07:002010-10-24T22:24:19.715-07:00Mr.Incredible: Act 1He told me he was it. He said it in our first conversation. There was something so absolute in his voice. Something so Honest Abe in his words. I remember thinking, <strong><em>Act 1, Take 100</em></strong> as I had heard this at least that many times. But he stuck to the storyline and never broke character. My goal was to figure out what script he was reading from as he was a sure bet for next years Oscars. His voice even sounded like a good idea and if I could taste his words I guarentee hints of mint flavored luxuries. <strong><em>"What page are you reading from sir?"</em></strong> It seemes as though he had read me front to back and memorized my thoughts as if they were lines straight from the story of ME. He's smooth like shades of lightly brented amber and I just can't get enough. I find myself wishing I could create one word that could perfectly capture what I see, but that would be unfair to Painters and Writers alike. I often catch myself wondering if I dreamed him into existance. I would pinch myself but pretty girls just don't do those things. I stepped out on faith deciding to believe as sometimes reality is far better than what I could dream. I'm down stage right and he's center stage left and I hope our characters collide somewhere along the lines of happily ever what have yous. He reads me like a best-seller and I want him like Christmas. He's first-edition Tolstoy and I am more Vogue's September Issue but I like him. Its magically simple and fun like the first grade. <em><strong>TAG,</strong></em> he's it.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-63387138241547969932010-09-26T08:47:00.000-07:002010-09-26T09:31:54.878-07:00Once Upon A Happily Ever Right Now....So I'm almost 30. Women tend to break up into pieces at this age wondering if they will ever find their "Mister" and I am actually pretty content. Now, when I was a child, I dreamed I would be married to a wonderful man at just about this age, with beautiful little girls that looked just like me. I also thought he would be a sword-bearing Prince, I would be a Rockstar and we would live happily ever after in a castle surrounded by real life glittery unicorns. I was a child, I believed in childish things. I searched for gold at the end of rainbows, knew I was a Disney Princess and pledged my allegiance to the beat of the Care Bears Countdown. Can't really blame me for being a dreamer. Now, I'm not quite 30, a recovering undercover over lover and forced to live in a realistic world. I refuse to believe God wants me to settle for something or someone I have absolutely no interest in. He loves me extra, I'm sure. I know he occasionally buries treasures deep down in the souls of trolls but he knows my heart and it has requirements. Beauty and the Beast is all great in concept but I've been there and opted out. God knows me better than I know myself and because of this, I rely soley on his plan to one day reveal my Mr. Wonderful. I may be a little impatient, I may, occasionally accept the attention of Mr. Almost, Mr. Maybe and Mr. Pretty Close but I am truly having a great time writing about all of it. In the meantime, I write. I smile. I hope and I love.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-45247804027901545052010-09-11T14:27:00.001-07:002010-10-03T13:49:13.005-07:00Dear God, What Is Your Return Policy?I wish life had a big giant pencil eraser and I could pink fuzzy you right off of my page and onto the floor. If I had three wishes, I would ask for more wishes and they would all involve erasing you off of my page and onto the floor. Dear God, Why do I fall for the numb nuts and ass clowns? I came up with what I though was a brilliant plan. Stay single, write about it and become rich and famous for being one of the few women that figured it all out. And then, well, then he came along. He dug into my mind and won me over with a somewhat southern accent and big freekin feet. Dear God, I do believe I failed at my self proclaimed mission. I wouldn't dare question you so I will instead ask for one favor. Could you please send a big giant pencil eraser so I could pink fuzzy him right off of my page and onto the floor? I don't ask for much.<br />
We seemed pretty great as a "we" and he was easy to write about (although I never did come up with much while I was with him.) Still, he had me smiling and I often caught myself spinning (Singing In The Rain style) in knee-length eyelet dresses. Dear God, why am I such a geek? As much as I try, I always stumble back into my hopeless romantic phase that ends up being more bad habit and less constructive growth. I am who I am and the ME that I am falls for the tall ones with accents. Dear God, if you're running short on erasers, can you Fed-Ex a giant bucket of White-Out? What is your address anyway? I have some HEAVY LOAD characters that I haven't been able to return. Maybe they weren't addressed to me? Hey, maybe they came from the bad guy that lives way down South? That would make more sense. Anyway, please forward "RETURN TO SENDER" stamps and I won't ask for much else.<br />
Warm weather is over and and so is hope for #7689 on my list of recruits. I hand out chances like weekend samples at Costco and they fail me every time. Isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing again and again while expecting different results? Hi, I'm Bonkers, nice to meet you. <br />
Dear God, why must I have a toxic affinity for bald heads and great suits? Or shiny cars and big talkers? Don't get me wrong, I also had a chance at a heavy-pocketed wee-little hobbit and that was not the business either. I just can't figure out why I can't find an eraser big enough to pink fuzzy these fools off of my page and onto the floor? Where is my White-Out?<br />
Dear God,<br />
You heard my cry and created something much more effective.<br />
Thank you for CTL ALT DELETE.<br />
It works much better.<br />
Sincerely,<br />
Your Hardheaded Prodgical Daughternextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-69861338098781601162010-07-22T08:02:00.000-07:002010-07-22T08:06:07.572-07:00FOR THE LOVE OF CUPCAKESDays have passed and I still can't find the right word. I guess the great minds at Webster haven't had the honor of meeting you. I've since turned towards the all-knowing Thesaurus which for the very first time, led me astray. Today i will continue to search for a word that means, "much more than amazing." I put my all into this mission, scanning the pages of random resources to no avail. I can't help but question why you don't come custom a with a label of beautiful descriptive words that even I can't pronounce. <br />
You make me stutter. <br />
The good In you could feed a nation. I question what planet you came from and pray it has established a strict no return policy. If only you came in a shade of paint; a Visually appetizing all things wonderful theme covered in Extra brown glossy coated goodness. Sleepless nights would be cured, I'm sure. But I'm no Artist. Monet should be jealous and I should thank your parents.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-67415136758498748002010-05-27T10:40:00.000-07:002011-01-02T19:40:01.564-08:00Dr. Croc Socks and My Comfy Couch<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I wanted to write about the character that showed up for Date #1 in <span class="goog-spellcheck-word" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat;">Crocs</span>, colored socks, creased jeans and stupid t-shirt then promptly fell asleep on my couch like he was in a drug induced coma. It was my goal to tell the horror story of how for hours, I tried unsuccessfully to wake his dead as a log horribly dressed corpse from my couch. Or how I had to <span class="goog-spellcheck-word" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat;">Fabreeze</span> every inch of what used to be my comfort zone while in pure Christopher Columbus style, he invaded my space and claimed it as his own. Simply replace Small Pox blankets with the overwhelming stench of Outlet Clearance Cologne and call my couch The New America. I wanted him gone. I banged pots together, I opened all the windows, I turned the volume all the way up on the TV, I yelled. Then I went to my room and locked the door. "Come on Doris, think!" I ended up calling my girlfriend, the Actress from Chicago, to call me from across the country. She's always been the genius. So I now had an "emergency call" and he had no choice but to leave. Real friends do those things at 4AM and tell you how stupid you are after. I tried everything my Passive Aggressive attitude would allow. All but, a big giant, "GET OUT!" I wanted to write all about, but the idea of him makes my brain hurt. His <span class="goog-spellcheck-word" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-image: none; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat;">Crocs</span> make my head hurt. I should sue. Sue him; Sue his parents; Sue Crocs.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Dating pretty much sucks. I'm kind of hoping GOD takes pity on me and just sends me the character I'm supposed to be with. Hopefully he has a Post-It on his head that says, "God sent me here for you, Enjoy." This way, I'll have no choice. Its official, I haven't had one date since October and I'm still smiling. I can't really complain. In the end, it all makes for great writing and at this rate, I'll have a book by December.</span>nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-18050254978307120322010-05-09T15:12:00.000-07:002011-03-24T21:18:21.936-07:00Simply Beautiful (The Remix)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjadgpTu4B2ZqA4zTkZoLq1-P0485b8uX5rzTroJ3qVqBQbG_s0SgIn-n12-MLFzABC0UhfwPX0SzvMdD1SCU_wXpkoOrHe2p_dFdr44NCtBNZhIU_yIu7Rt9dNTt5Wg9E-bSUG4kyOf7c/s1600/simply.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjadgpTu4B2ZqA4zTkZoLq1-P0485b8uX5rzTroJ3qVqBQbG_s0SgIn-n12-MLFzABC0UhfwPX0SzvMdD1SCU_wXpkoOrHe2p_dFdr44NCtBNZhIU_yIu7Rt9dNTt5Wg9E-bSUG4kyOf7c/s320/simply.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
He's like Christmas Eve <br />
He's Ali in a fight <br />
<br />
He's what i need in the morning<br />
<br />
and what i gotta have at night <br />
<br />
He's that lost hip hop<br />
<br />
He's my rhythm and blues <br />
<br />
He's that funky jazz music <br />
<br />
He's my favorite pair of shoes <br />
<br />
He's my rainy day <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He's my summer's night<br />
<br />
He's that one missing note on the song I'm tryna write <br />
<br />
He's my cup of tea you're that perfect spice <br />
<br />
Like being forehead kissed in the middle of the night<br />
<br />
He's my shining star you're on my birthday list <br />
He's my love it when I got it and my favorite thing to miss<br />
<br />
and even far away you're like a Cabernet <br />
<br />
He's like brown sugar soul you're like Billie Holiday <br />
<br />
He's my one last cry you're my wet when its dry <br />
<br />
He's like Mary J. & Meth you're all i need to get by<br />
<br />
He's my midday thought my unforgettable dream<br />
<br />
He's that that all-star player on my winning team<br />
<br />
He's my inspiration to create a nation <br />
<br />
He's like hearing my own voice on the radio station<br />
<br />
He's my new favorite thing <br />
<br />
He's on my Christmas list you're wrapped up just right you're like a birthday gift<br />
<br />
He's like everything I've wanted and like nothing I've ever had <br />
<br />
He's like a smile from my mama and a hug from my dad <br />
<br />
He's the answer to my question you're the truth without a doubt <br />
<br />
He's that tall glass of water in the middle of a drought <br />
<br />
WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD (you're like hearing it twice)<br />
<br />
He's like shopping all day then getting it ALL at half price<br />
<br />
then charging it all and never having to pay <br />
<br />
He's like everything is right on a can't go wrong daynextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-58846320244077747062010-04-06T09:06:00.000-07:002010-05-09T15:01:56.607-07:00The Crayola Conspiracy And The Open Booked Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUWC_dg0zenCZCPoaatw8gwhdYsLBN0ym_rZ3N9jSf5A0SmC-D-QqQ2QWKAtRRdaXOoQ476-8zyfpaPabBWGaITrW4m2VtM0A6fKgBYCICz2Qsi8pQZneL_XSWpFcL1M2ZhVdRt1MWOWE/s1600/crowded_crayon_colors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUWC_dg0zenCZCPoaatw8gwhdYsLBN0ym_rZ3N9jSf5A0SmC-D-QqQ2QWKAtRRdaXOoQ476-8zyfpaPabBWGaITrW4m2VtM0A6fKgBYCICz2Qsi8pQZneL_XSWpFcL1M2ZhVdRt1MWOWE/s320/crowded_crayon_colors.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div>I opened my eyes with a drowsy mind even after I slept my first whole night without a long distance “Hey You." I dreamed of writing you into my zip code with a pen full of airline miles and nothing but vacation time. I was late to work for the first time today. I was suffering from Southern Hospitality withdrawals. A make believe drug I imagined up sometime a few years ago and we never could get it right. A beautiful addiction to a living breathing work of art; Well, a piece of work at least. The distance allowed me the opportunity to dream you into the impossible. I've always been somewhat irrational. I speak in code and dream in black and white so I can fill in the colors as I please. I chose green for you, the reason why I said you should leave. Blue for the way you make me feel and red for the way I wish things could be. Color me Ridiculous if you choose but I don't think Crayola has gotten that far. I remain an open book to most but you never took the time to read me. Find me listed conventiently under: FAIRYTALES. Simple PROLOGUE READS: I smile at sparrows and dance in designer gowns on rainy Sundays as I clean house. I'm a natural cheerleader. I have my Mom's great legs and my Dad's dimples. I teach children at every given opportunity and wear stilettos like my life depends on it. My heart is big and my waist is small. I've been called, Pretty. God talks to me and I hear him in surround sound but sometimes I just don't listen. I work hard. I love harder. I'm worth loving back without question. I hate you for leaving but love you for not staying. I'm praying you away in the hopes of a worthy replacement. You're a novelty item. A much anticipated seasonal surprise. A turn to page 6 or page 72 for an alternative ending kind of someone. A wonderfully amazing secret that I just can't keep so goodbye my friend. I (fill in the blank) you.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-21447336051922202662010-02-25T13:40:00.000-08:002010-02-25T16:22:30.899-08:00Ma'am Or Mistress? Don't Judge Me!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" kt="true" src="http://www.womansavers.com/images/unfaithful_men_infidelity.jpg" width="212" /></div><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Mistress: A woman other than his wife whom a married man has a continuing sexual relationship. I had to consult <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1267133507_0">Merriam-Webster</span> in case I misunderstood what I thought knew. There was no <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1267133507_1" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: medium none; cursor: hand;">gray area</span>, the man actually asked me to be his Mistress. He said it simply like, “Please pass the salt.” or “Excuse me Ma'am, Do you know the time?” He was serious. As serious as the heart attack he is qualified for as his boisterous gut fights for freedom from his overextended waistband. I guess he believes he has some pull since he's somewhat of a Millionaire. I'm sure it works on some; it is a Recession after all. <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1267133507_2">Tough times</span> lead to ridiculous choices I assume. I would rather eat dirt. He disgusts me. I'm doing all that I can to hold back the sickness as it makes the voyage up my throat. A Mistress? Is that the only title I'm worth after spending all those years putting myself through college, climbing the corporate ladder and fighting to overcome vicious stereotypes in the industry? And although I have a drug-like addiction to the latest couture, I would NEVER consider accepting the title of Pre-Paid Hoe even if it came attached to an AMX <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1267133507_3">Black Card</span>. The other woman? The stuff great songs are written about. “Thank you for the compliment, Jack-Ass; now kindly suck a rotten egg.” I should be honored, I suppose. The quality of men in this dear State of mine is nothing to brag about. To actually find someone who is successful, attractive, kind and educated is less likely than winning the expired fight for Reparations. But I would rather live my life as the crazy cat lady that spends her evenings indulged in Lifetime movies and knitting for no ones. I'm not the Mistress type. Call me selfish. I still believe in fairy tales. I survive by the lyrics of sweet country songs and kind of loathe <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1267133507_4" style="border-bottom: #0066cc 1px dashed; cursor: hand;">Keyshia Cole</span> for all her angry Black woman ballads. Why can't we have happy songs that make it to #1 on the charts? I am guilty of appreciating a <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1267133507_5">Lil' Wayne</span> beat every-now-and-then but when did stank hoes become so popular? They're glamorized. Bouncing on the laps of <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1267133507_6">Rappers</span> and immortalized in chart-topping music videos. They make it soo easy to be soo easy. These are the same women that give him the strength and the nerve to ask me such a revolting question. I chose to say No, but there are many that would be honored to accept his vile request. If asked, I will happily pass on his digits as I'm sure he is still searching for the next best thing. Hey, I'm no Angel and I'm no Judge; I just urge you to be careful and prepare yourself to be smacked upside the head with a Karma hammer when you accept the position of secret skank. Onward and Upward.</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://chriscurtis.typepad.com/weblog/no_love_here-thumb.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://chriscurtis.typepad.com/weblog/no_love_here-thumb.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-84554450185162150232010-01-17T20:51:00.000-08:002010-01-17T21:40:56.814-08:00He Was Stoned (As In Rhine)<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Sweet smelling shit. A beautifully enchanting, brilliantly framed, overtly talented, stunning piece of sweet smelling shit-creatively disguised as modern art. I was entranced. I briefly inherited this sensational treasure only a few years ago. Soon after acquiring this small fortune, I caught wind of its many admirers. I decided it was better suited in the hands of a buyer that gave it the gallantry it so desperately demanded. Don't get me wrong, I adore the arts, but there are countless times I passed over a priceless stockpile for an overrated antique. I have the consistent misfortune of falling for the big flashy rhinestoned bobbles and passing by the diamond in disguise. I recently stumbled across the breathtaking subject towards the end of last year. Even more charming than the years before, I was intrigued by its presence. He was something wonderful I do admit, though he consistently fell short of my personal appraisal. He was inside-out pretty, but his effort was more Zales quality with a touch of QVC and nothing near Tiffany's. There were times I would rock that stone like it was snatched right of the neck of your local half-assed Emcee but I'm no Rapper. Week 3. Moving right along.</span>nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-82051589257778483872010-01-06T23:14:00.000-08:002010-01-06T23:23:14.239-08:00Childhood Swift Kicks and Ex-Flavored PotpourriSo my sister had her second baby a few days ago. I still don't have one. I'm not complaining, I have a chihuahua and he doesn't cry much. I just always thought by this age I would be married with a big fabulous house, a rotating shoe closet, a koi pond as feature in Home & Garden and 2 privately educated genetic perfections of my own. But No. Instead I have student loans and a 4 pound dog that snores. I'm not complaining. Sure all of my friends are married. And true I spend my late nights writing but um, well, I can't really think of a plus side right now. But at least I'm not with any of my exes. Now I'm smiling again. <br />
<br />
When I was 8 and Beth was 6, she was the cute one. I held my own in the personality department but damnit, she was always the cute one. We were both loved equally and I always adored her but my parents had it all figured out from June 8th 1984. I loved attention. To avoid jealousy, they always gave us the same everything. Toys, clothes, everything. Somehow, she always got the color I wanted. I would beg and threaten until she gave it to me. One time I told her she wouldn't grow unless she gave me what I wanted. She believed me and my death stare. I won. But somewhere between 8 and 28, I lost my will. The fight in me ran off with my childhood. <br />
<br />
Somewhere, I stopped winning and accepted the guy that was just a little bit more than OK. On paper, brilliant. In a suit, pure perfection. Together, we always turned heads. But there was always something missing. I know you think I'm writing of someone in particular; I laugh. But honestly, aren't they all the same guy? By chance, they happen to have different names, same M.O. If examined closely, each culprit has contributed to the current state of a pretty great me. So today, I've realized two things. #1. I can finally admit it, my type ain't right. and #2. I completely miss being 8 years old.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-20635120542293616782010-01-04T15:28:00.000-08:002010-01-06T21:28:40.946-08:00The Turned-Off DietNow that the holidays are over, Single men around the world are finally free to hunt without the pressure-filled gift-giving obligation. Christmas time was completely quiet around these parts. Not one date to a holiday party or invite to a random sports event...no phone calls, no surprise visits. No nothing. I admit I checked my phone several times to see if T-Mobile cut me off. But here comes January 2010. Week one, my little Blackberry was suddenly the hottest spot in town. My poor phone officially rung in the New Year with calls from male suitors from coast to coast. Any other day I would be flattered, but this year, I'm smarter. I'm not a Master of every game by any means, but I know my stuff. Call me Milton-Bradley. So, just for giggles, I answered the calls. No use in keeping the ass clowns waiting. It rung, I answered. I was unimpressed.<br />
<br />
First, there was the professional Athlete who assumed I would run to his beckoned call after one meaningless date last year. I guess some women are impressed by a man that spends more than half of his 1st year contract on diamonds for himself just to announce, He's arrived. I'll pass. The Brainiac quotes Family Guy and prides himself on indulging in hot wings and fresh marijuana served daily. Did I fail to mention the "Sup?" and "Hey Boo" texts? Seriously? Seriously?!?!?! We have to do better! I decided to keep his number around just in case I could use a huge laugh in the upcoming months. Hell, he is motivation for great writing material.<br />
<br />
Next, there was the Inventor. He's much older, crazy successful, somewhat attractive (if I drink a little and close my good eye) and he's actually pretty funny. He called too; Well, kind of. I met him a few weeks ago. We exchanged numbers, he asked me to dinner. He wasn't exactly my type but I figure that might just be the reason I'm still single. My type was obviously my biggest downfall. So here's to something new, right? So, the day before my try-a-little-something -new dinner, this AARP card-holding idiot tried to reschedule via TEXT! Now that I think of it, every conversation we ever had was by text! No phone call, no flowers-filled apologies-just a damn text! What ever happened to the men that sung beneath our balconies and begged for our company? Has Disney steered me wrong again? Whats wrong with these so-called men? I decided not to take this. I promptly called him all kind of stupids and kicked him to the curb. Who created texts? I'm sure it was a man, he's going down! Day 4-what a joke.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-372432625599426552010-01-02T22:54:00.000-08:002010-01-03T23:15:29.293-08:00Soul Food and Life RecipesI just had a conversation with my Great Aunt. She asked me who I'm dating now. She asks every single time I speak to her. Sometimes twice in one conversation-the woman is determined to marry me off. It never fails. I can't tell her about my 2010 mission to remain single because then I would have to explain the Internet and Blogs and well I opted to give her the "I'm just focusing on work excuse." Now she's somewhat of a comedian, a dash senile, and absolutely the greatest person I know. I'm convinced she should be deemed a National Treasure. The woman is brilliant. She speaks 5 languages, has traveled to all but 2 continents, is 80 something and teaches every single day. She's a walking masterpiece. Oh, and she's a Super Cougar. Now Aunt Mae the genius. One day, about 5 years ago, she asked me the ingredients to cornbread. I quickly said," Eggs, milk and a box of Jiffy." She was offended. So, off to the store we go-Aunt Mae complaining the whole way about my driving. My punishment for suggesting a damn box of Jiffy. Together, we picked out every single ingredient aisle by meticulous aisle starting with corn meal. I admit, I was a little annoyed. I wondered why she insisted on doing this the hard way, why we couldn't just use Jiffy and more importantly, WHY are we making cornbread when she can't cook to save a life? But I stayed silent. Ugh, I was slowly starting to hate cornbread. Anyway, in line for checkout, I realized Aunt Mae added chocolate chips to the collection of ingredients. She watched me as I picked them up. She said, "They were on sale." I thoughtlessly tossed them on the counter. She asked,"Do chocolate chips go in cornbread?" I was confused and completely tired of this bogus mission. Honestly, I thought she might have dipped too deep into the Chiraz. She smiled and said, "Chocolate chips don't go in cornbread and never forget it." She told the Cashier we didn't need any of the items we spent 50 minutes searching for, and walked away. That was 5 years ago. Only now do I realize what she meant. <br />
<br />
I been adding chocolate chips to my cornbread. Making exceptions for sale items even when I don't need (HIM.) I must send her flowers. If only I listened then! Day 2. Time to clean house.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-61829211445201292322010-01-01T22:15:00.000-08:002010-01-03T22:19:23.939-08:00Happy New Something! Day 1I ended last year with many questions of which, only a third have been answered and those answers didn't really make me happy which led to more questions. So now, I have double the questions I started with and absolutely no one to answer them since I deleted every single number of every single EX that I ever leaned on when I found myself with the misfortune of going to dinner alone. All deleted. Oh I wish Carrie Bradshaw was here. She seemed to know everything but nothing at all. At least she had great shoes. I love shoes. I would kill for this one pair of...Damn, I'm distracted again. (PAUSE) Ok, why am I here? Must focus. So, I've decided, after spending the past 7 or so years of my adult life with completely questionable characters and continuing to making excuses as to how they could be perfect if...blah blah blah-I've decided to make a change. Hell, its a new year! Besides, my ME is just not working. So, 2010-the year of NO menchildren, beautiful nightmares, players, show-boats, assclowns, jokesters or complete narcissistic pretty boys that make me sing clumsy coffee house songs and eventually motivate me to write bitter poetry. I'm done. From this point on, almost doesn't count. I am officially a stiletto wearing dateless renegade. I'm embracing my single and utilizing my ability to shout, "Hell No!" I'm not bitter by any means, I'm just done with the buttery bullshit. Day 1. No exceptions.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516628189946557813.post-6853206541939657912009-12-31T21:34:00.000-08:002010-01-03T21:48:18.210-08:00Me As Plan B-The End Of The BeginningHave you ever thought, “Damn I've wasted my life?” Don't. Every single moment spent are two moments earned all added up to create a beautiful story that if told honestly, will release others from their own personal prison. See, if I didn't spend the majority of my adult life (to this exact point) racking my brain as to why exactly I put up with the Player of the Year's Ultimate Understudy, I could be living half way across the world. Or, IF I would have set my foot down sooner, he would have married me by now. And just maybe, IF I WOULD have done all the things he demanded of me, then I would have landed the Bachelor of the Year all for myself and we would live happily ever after in premarital bliss just 1 block West of Wisteria Lane. Oh, if Great-Grandma Lucy could only see me now! Twirling my short black hair that I chopped off in my Waiting to Exhale moment as I protested his so close to right-winged antics. I sit here and travel back to the time when I almost lost myself. I hated Bush but stomached him for you. Spending my days coordinating the next big 5-course meal in the not so custom kitchen of his “I haven't quite made it house.” I find myself once again tuning out his mundane bellows as like a father, he reminds me, in a "How To Talk To Adults Tutorial," to watch my tongue before the arrival of Mayor So-and-So.<br />
<br />
If my skin had skin, it would crawl right out the door. Its in a late start race to beat my backbone that left just a few hours before. “Make sure you don't say” and “Maybe you shouldn't mention.” I grew to hate the same face that I wanted my future children to have. This is the man that wore those prepackaged shirts with the matching ties and I, well, you can find me combing through the couture racks of Saks and mentally stomping out the idea of him in my twice worn Louboutins. See, I was just a little bit caught in the middle of a dramatic comedy starring him, featuring me. And as I prepare my speech and accept the Oscar for Best Actress in "A You Should Have Left a Long Time Ago" role, I make sure to thank God first and then my Mom for teaching me to count to ten instead of dolly-whopping him with the nearest Williams-Sonoma saute pan. He was "great at everything," so he says. "Emerging Businessman of the Year," says Forbes. I simply say he sucks. But I allowed him to.<br />
<br />
I was the one that accepted his lies and pretended his late night conference calls all made sense and I, I changed soo much of me. I'm should be skipping along in my 20-somethings but I was pushing 45 with him. His extra-large love handles stuffed into the sides of his $600, 2 year old “Have I impressed you yet” suit actually begun to weigh on my slim frame. I started to feel heavy as if I were the one that indulged in the late night baked sugary delights. And as I watched him inhale in the last bit of Betty Crocker, I realized two things. 1. I'll never seen cake look soo vile and 2. He's been sucking the life out of me and I'm on the back end of 3 steps from dead. At only 125 pounds, And under his hypnosis, I believed I was the one that needed to hit the gym. I needed to focus on my career and most importantly, I need to stop adding soo much stress to his life. The only thing I needed to do was keep myself from kicking a new hole in his pompous.<br />
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Oh sweet nights! How do we as women lose ourselves in relationships? I'm not saying we should refrain from change. I truly believe it is important to grow together even if you end up growing apart. But soo many times we wait for him. We want to figure out what he wants first. He makes the relationship decisions. When did we become Plan B? “I don't know if HE wants to be in a committed relationship,” she says. So she settles for less. When in truth, we as women need to ask, “What do I really want?” Only then will we know our next step. Ask God first, and then our powerful female selves. Do you want him? Do you want this to move further? Are you willing to accept everything that comes with him? We are what beautiful songs are made of. We are powerful beyond measure. But why don't we realize it? <br />
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Its official, 2010 will be "The Year of No Exceptions." I have accepted my mission as I am officially the answer and never the question. Today I vow to never settle for Mr. Maybe in both business and pleasure. Follow me on my journey into a world full of ookey-dokes, half-asses, and show-boats to learn just how class will be dismissed in 365 Days of A Fabulously Single Me.nextoprahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14852314984409470339noreply@blogger.com2