Ma'am Or Mistress? Don't Judge Me!

Mistress: A woman other than his wife whom a married man has a continuing sexual relationship. I had to consult Merriam-Webster in case I misunderstood what I thought knew. There was no gray area, 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. Tough times 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 Black Card. 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 Keyshia Cole 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 Lil' Wayne beat every-now-and-then but when did stank hoes become so popular? They're glamorized. Bouncing on the laps of Rappers 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.

He Was Stoned (As In Rhine)

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.

Childhood Swift Kicks and Ex-Flavored Potpourri

So 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.

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.

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.

The Turned-Off Diet

Now 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.

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.

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.

Soul Food and Life Recipes

I 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.

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.

Happy New Something! Day 1

I 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.

Me As Plan B-The End Of The Beginning

Have 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.

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.

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.

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?

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.