I grew up in the Nancy Reagan "Say no to drugs" era, a message hammered home by a clever "This is your brain on drugs" TV ad showing an egg (your hapless, drug-addled brain) frying in a hot-buttered skillet. Conspiracy Theory grew up in a different era and had an unapologetic love of marijuana.
It was an ever-present fixture in our apartment. I'd watch Conspiracy methodically prepare his joints, often while lecturing me on the healing properties of marijuana. It helped with his glaucoma. It fostered creativity. It eased nausea for cancer patients.
At first, I withheld judgment.
At the time, I didn't even drink. I had too many memories of my dad's bow-wow babes, and I equated getting drunk or high with getting raped or having a train run on you. It was your own damned fault if you were stupid enough to let yourself become incapacitated or inebriated around men.
But Conspiracy was my boyfriend, and pot was allegedly good for me. Under his tutelage, I gave it a try.
Make that four or five tries.
Conspiracy made smoking weed look easy, but I soon discovered it was hard, hard work. It entailed puffing, choking, coughing and sputtering in a vain attempt to hold the magic smoke in my lungs long enough to actually get high.
The first few unsuccessful attempts were in the privacy of our apartment, and one attempt was in public, at a Yale off-campus party Conspiracy and I somehow ended up at.
But finally, the day dawned when I must have chocked things down the right way, because suddenly I felt like I was floating. And hallucinating. I could literally see pink elephants marching across my eyelids. Then, I was in front of the refrigerator, scarfing down food with even more abandon than usual. And having sex with Conspiracy in the living room because it made me horny, too.
That was the first, last and only time I got high.
There were three things I didn't need help with: food, sex or hallucinations. Anything that made me even hungrier or hornier than I already was had to go, and I found the mild hallucinations more terrifying than entertaining. My mother was manic-depressive. If my brain cracked, I wanted it to be of its own genetically cursed accord, not because I smoked the funny green stuff.
Conspiracy, of course, continued to smoke regularly, as he probably had since before I was born.
It lit a flame under his already glowing smokestack of paranoia and grandiosity. His eyes darting from left to right, Conspiracy would recount some of his misadventures as a 1970s counterrevolutionary, sometimes backing up his recollections with cold, hard evidence – a box full of blacked-out FBI surveillance reports documenting his every move, obtained under the Freedom of Information act.
Other times, the pot convinced him that he had other-worldly powers. One evening, we strolled through the Yale campus after he'd smoked up. We approached a flickering streetlamp, and Conspiracy stopped, transfixed.
Periodically waving his arms and gaping in awe, he exclaimed, "Look! I'm commanding this streetlamp. See? When I move my arms up, the light goes out."
No, I definitely did not like pot.
I sighed and suffered in silence. I did a lot of silent suffering in that relationship.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
The Return of the Porno Pictures
Several months after my disastrous attempt to emulate Josephine Baker by posing for pornographic pictures, I was racked by stark regret.
What if those pictures ever came out? How would I explain them to my dad? Why had I risked my future for a whopping $60?
I told Conspiracy Theory about the whole tawdry incident.
That was part of our relationship. Me confiding in him. The only thing I kept secret from him was my relationship with Dollar, my abusive psychic. Everything else was fair game. I even gave him permission – permission! – to read my diaries. (And then more or less stopped keeping a diary. At least on a subconscious level, I didn't really trust him with my deepest thoughts and feelings.)
Conspiracy's reaction to the porno pictures was part knight in shining armor, part lecturing dad.
The lecturing dad portion included a refresher course on one of my fallen heroes, the first black Miss America. She had been stripped of her crown when naked lesbian pictures hit Penthouse. Conspiracy showed me the Penthouse issue in question, which I'd never actually seen. I was shocked at how coarse the pictures were, and how unattractive the unquestionably drop-dead gorgeous beauty looked in them.
Once show-and-tell ended, accompanied by a tirade on how this punk grad student could have ruined my life, Conspiracy set a plan in motion to get the pictures back.
He wanted to raise holy hell up and down the campus. Demanding an audience with this or that dean. Letting the powers that be at Yale University know that Sleazy Grad Student was taking advantage of undergrads. Demanding that this guy be expelled.
All of that would have meant publicly admitting I took the pictures, testifying, holding myself up as an innocent victim. And sweet little innocent miss I wasn't. I had been a willing participant, after all. They weren't bondage pictures. Sleazy Grad Student hadn't tied me up and forced me.
Besides, Dollar the psychic was on the case. I consulted her about Conspiracy Theory's plan. She assured me that his raging revolutionary tactics were not necessary. She and The Church and The Spirits had me and my naked pictures well in hand. I didn't have to worry about them ever coming back to haunt me.
So I told Conspiracy that I didn't want to make it a big deal. He sputtered in rage at my cowardice and unwillingness to move forward, then settled for a less confrontational tactic. He dictated, and I typed. The resulting legalese document stated that the pictures and negatives were to be returned, that they were not to be sold, that dire consequences would befall Sleazy Grad Student if these conditions were not met. There was space for three signatures: mine, Sleazy Grad Student's and Conspiracy's, as the third-party witness.
We telephoned Sleazy Grad Student and scared the piss out of him. We arranged to meet. Sleazy Grad Student signed three copies of the document and presented me with a stack of compromising 4x6 photos and the corresponding negatives.
One of the negatives was missing: the second-to-last shot he took, of me spreadeagled against black sheets with a prop artfully placed near my vagina. I'll never know who the recipient of that negative was. But except for that one phantom shot that was apparently floating around in some dark, murky underworld, my dignity had been restored.
Conspiracy suggested that I place the photos, negatives and one copy of the signed agreement in his locked briefcase for safekeeping.
Without a second thought, I did.
What if those pictures ever came out? How would I explain them to my dad? Why had I risked my future for a whopping $60?
I told Conspiracy Theory about the whole tawdry incident.
That was part of our relationship. Me confiding in him. The only thing I kept secret from him was my relationship with Dollar, my abusive psychic. Everything else was fair game. I even gave him permission – permission! – to read my diaries. (And then more or less stopped keeping a diary. At least on a subconscious level, I didn't really trust him with my deepest thoughts and feelings.)
Conspiracy's reaction to the porno pictures was part knight in shining armor, part lecturing dad.
The lecturing dad portion included a refresher course on one of my fallen heroes, the first black Miss America. She had been stripped of her crown when naked lesbian pictures hit Penthouse. Conspiracy showed me the Penthouse issue in question, which I'd never actually seen. I was shocked at how coarse the pictures were, and how unattractive the unquestionably drop-dead gorgeous beauty looked in them.
Once show-and-tell ended, accompanied by a tirade on how this punk grad student could have ruined my life, Conspiracy set a plan in motion to get the pictures back.
He wanted to raise holy hell up and down the campus. Demanding an audience with this or that dean. Letting the powers that be at Yale University know that Sleazy Grad Student was taking advantage of undergrads. Demanding that this guy be expelled.
All of that would have meant publicly admitting I took the pictures, testifying, holding myself up as an innocent victim. And sweet little innocent miss I wasn't. I had been a willing participant, after all. They weren't bondage pictures. Sleazy Grad Student hadn't tied me up and forced me.
Besides, Dollar the psychic was on the case. I consulted her about Conspiracy Theory's plan. She assured me that his raging revolutionary tactics were not necessary. She and The Church and The Spirits had me and my naked pictures well in hand. I didn't have to worry about them ever coming back to haunt me.
So I told Conspiracy that I didn't want to make it a big deal. He sputtered in rage at my cowardice and unwillingness to move forward, then settled for a less confrontational tactic. He dictated, and I typed. The resulting legalese document stated that the pictures and negatives were to be returned, that they were not to be sold, that dire consequences would befall Sleazy Grad Student if these conditions were not met. There was space for three signatures: mine, Sleazy Grad Student's and Conspiracy's, as the third-party witness.
We telephoned Sleazy Grad Student and scared the piss out of him. We arranged to meet. Sleazy Grad Student signed three copies of the document and presented me with a stack of compromising 4x6 photos and the corresponding negatives.
One of the negatives was missing: the second-to-last shot he took, of me spreadeagled against black sheets with a prop artfully placed near my vagina. I'll never know who the recipient of that negative was. But except for that one phantom shot that was apparently floating around in some dark, murky underworld, my dignity had been restored.
Conspiracy suggested that I place the photos, negatives and one copy of the signed agreement in his locked briefcase for safekeeping.
Without a second thought, I did.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Chump Change
From my point of view, the first chink in my relationship with Conspiracy Theory appeared the first time we made love, when he tricked me into his bed. But from his perspective, the first chink in our relationship appeared months later, when, in his words, I "tried to chump him."
He was right. I did try to chump him.
But my intentions were pure. Or as pure as they can be when they are driven by fear.
You see, I was about one year into my relationship with Dollar, the abusive psychic. She had recently eloped. I sent her off to her new life in New Jersey with a hug, a greeting card and a small amount of cash. It was the closest thing she had to a bridal shower, because she literally ran away from home without her family's blessing.
As soon as she got married, her demands for money increased exponentially. Every time the phone rang, she was on the other end, asking for $200 or $300 or whatever amount she claimed was required to wash away whatever new affliction she claimed I was cursed with.
I seethed with anger. It wasn't lost on me that she was asking for more and more money, and I blamed her new husband. He must be putting her up to it.
Then, I would push those thoughts aside. She was my friend. Surely she couldn't be ripping me off. And what would happen if I didn't do as she asked? She would speak in this dire, spooky voice about how bad my life would be if the Spirits didn't get what they needed. Consequently, I would give her whatever money I had or take out a credit-card cash advance.
She wanted $500. I didn't have it, and I couldn't charge it. I can't remember what the curse was this particular time. On one occasion, the curse was that my mother would die. Another time, my darling four-year-old foster niece was in jeopardy.
"Your boyfriend has the money. Ask him for it."
Afraid of whatever dark dilemma she prophesied, I did.
Conspiracy didn't cuss me out. But he didn't give me $500, either.
I lied to him regarding what it was for, something Dollar probably coached me on beforehand.
Conspiracy wasn't having it. He was firm in his no, and he didn't make a big scene about it. But now he secretly saw me as a gold-digging predator, the same way that I secretly saw him as a liar I couldn't completely trust.
He was right. I did try to chump him.
But my intentions were pure. Or as pure as they can be when they are driven by fear.
You see, I was about one year into my relationship with Dollar, the abusive psychic. She had recently eloped. I sent her off to her new life in New Jersey with a hug, a greeting card and a small amount of cash. It was the closest thing she had to a bridal shower, because she literally ran away from home without her family's blessing.
As soon as she got married, her demands for money increased exponentially. Every time the phone rang, she was on the other end, asking for $200 or $300 or whatever amount she claimed was required to wash away whatever new affliction she claimed I was cursed with.
I seethed with anger. It wasn't lost on me that she was asking for more and more money, and I blamed her new husband. He must be putting her up to it.
Then, I would push those thoughts aside. She was my friend. Surely she couldn't be ripping me off. And what would happen if I didn't do as she asked? She would speak in this dire, spooky voice about how bad my life would be if the Spirits didn't get what they needed. Consequently, I would give her whatever money I had or take out a credit-card cash advance.
She wanted $500. I didn't have it, and I couldn't charge it. I can't remember what the curse was this particular time. On one occasion, the curse was that my mother would die. Another time, my darling four-year-old foster niece was in jeopardy.
"Your boyfriend has the money. Ask him for it."
Afraid of whatever dark dilemma she prophesied, I did.
Conspiracy didn't cuss me out. But he didn't give me $500, either.
I lied to him regarding what it was for, something Dollar probably coached me on beforehand.
Conspiracy wasn't having it. He was firm in his no, and he didn't make a big scene about it. But now he secretly saw me as a gold-digging predator, the same way that I secretly saw him as a liar I couldn't completely trust.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
The Good, The Bad and the Ennui
Conspiracy Theory was by no means rich, but he's the closest thing I've ever had to a sugar daddy. And I always really wanted a sugar daddy.
Still do.
At least in theory.
Conspiracy was sweet to me in many ways. During final exams, when I was in the computer room at 3 a.m., sweating it out for a paper that was due at 8 a.m., suddenly he'd appear out of nowhere, swaggering into the room with a big grin and an arm full of hot chocolate and sandwiches.
He also gave me the most beautiful coat I've ever owned. The coat was a soft, brown-plaid wool with a big belt and the coolest coral-colored buttons I'd ever seen. I loved that coat. (Not everyone did. My brother called it "the ugliest coat I've ever seen, but you wear it with such panache.")
My fabulous coat (since when is my brother a fashion expert?) was one of many gifts of clothing from Conspiracy. You see, one of the local hustlers found out that Conspiracy had a new lady friend, and he'd periodically knock on the door with hot clothes at super-discount prices.
The apartment was another way Conspiracy showed his devotion to me. It was a two-bedroom apartment, and I had my own room. I paid Conspiracy rent money, but it was not a 50-50 roommate split. He subsidized my existence, in more ways than one. Moving me in caused a bit of family friction, because he had initially promised the extra room to one of his sons, then retracted the offer because he preferred the thought of living with me.
I don't think he could help it. I think he was totally smitten.
He was extremely protective of me. The apartment was around the corner from the New Haven YMCA, which at the time was Homeless and Ne'er-do-Well Central. One of the hang-out-at-the-Y guys scared me. He was short and brown-skinned with an unkempt afro and a thin, tight slash of a mouth that made him look like a demented Muppet. When I would walk by on my way to and from class, he would mutter threats and eye me like easy prey. I told Conspiracy, and he leaped into action. I don't know exactly what type of bodily harm he threatened, but I never, ever had a problem with any of the guys at the Y ever again.
Once, I slipped in the bathtub with a loud thud, and Conspiracy was in the room faster than lightning to make sure I was OK.
He really did care about me, and I also cared about him.
But that didn't stop our relationship from going from good to bad, and plain old ennui drove a lot of that deterioration. Conspiracy was hip and young for a 50-something, but he was still a 50-something. I was a 20-something, and it was inevitable that boredom would set in.
Still do.
At least in theory.
Conspiracy was sweet to me in many ways. During final exams, when I was in the computer room at 3 a.m., sweating it out for a paper that was due at 8 a.m., suddenly he'd appear out of nowhere, swaggering into the room with a big grin and an arm full of hot chocolate and sandwiches.
He also gave me the most beautiful coat I've ever owned. The coat was a soft, brown-plaid wool with a big belt and the coolest coral-colored buttons I'd ever seen. I loved that coat. (Not everyone did. My brother called it "the ugliest coat I've ever seen, but you wear it with such panache.")
My fabulous coat (since when is my brother a fashion expert?) was one of many gifts of clothing from Conspiracy. You see, one of the local hustlers found out that Conspiracy had a new lady friend, and he'd periodically knock on the door with hot clothes at super-discount prices.
The apartment was another way Conspiracy showed his devotion to me. It was a two-bedroom apartment, and I had my own room. I paid Conspiracy rent money, but it was not a 50-50 roommate split. He subsidized my existence, in more ways than one. Moving me in caused a bit of family friction, because he had initially promised the extra room to one of his sons, then retracted the offer because he preferred the thought of living with me.
I don't think he could help it. I think he was totally smitten.
He was extremely protective of me. The apartment was around the corner from the New Haven YMCA, which at the time was Homeless and Ne'er-do-Well Central. One of the hang-out-at-the-Y guys scared me. He was short and brown-skinned with an unkempt afro and a thin, tight slash of a mouth that made him look like a demented Muppet. When I would walk by on my way to and from class, he would mutter threats and eye me like easy prey. I told Conspiracy, and he leaped into action. I don't know exactly what type of bodily harm he threatened, but I never, ever had a problem with any of the guys at the Y ever again.
Once, I slipped in the bathtub with a loud thud, and Conspiracy was in the room faster than lightning to make sure I was OK.
He really did care about me, and I also cared about him.
But that didn't stop our relationship from going from good to bad, and plain old ennui drove a lot of that deterioration. Conspiracy was hip and young for a 50-something, but he was still a 50-something. I was a 20-something, and it was inevitable that boredom would set in.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Baltimore and the Big O
I never found Conspiracy Theory all that attractive. We were roughly the same height, and when I wore heels, I was taller. He was so slim I could never squeeze my big-boned self into his jackets or sweaters, let alone his pants. And then there was the 32-year age difference. Oh yeah, that.
But despite the fact that Conspiracy never made me swoon over how fine he was, he did hold the distinction of being the first man to make me come.
It happened en route to South Carolina, where my mom and stepfather lived. I was going to visit them for the holidays, and Conspiracy offered to help me drive.
It was an interesting trip.
For one thing, I got to meet Conspiracy's elderly aunt, who lived in Baltimore. Talk about bleak. Baltimore looked even worse than New Haven and Detroit. Chinese takeouts with four-inch-thick bulletproof glass and crumbling neighborhoods filled with ladies like his aunt who were too old to leave.
If Aunt Conspiracy was shocked to see her nephew with a girl young enough to be his daughter, she didn't let on. What she couldn't hide was her sorrow at how he had turned out. She revealed it in the way she caressed an old picture of a young Conspiracy wearing an Air Force uniform. As if that picture were her real nephew, and she was still mourning his long-ago death at the hand of the middle-aged revolutionary he'd become instead.
Further south on our trip, Conspiracy and I stopped at a Waffle House in North Carolina, near where he grew up. We walked past a table of white men, and the racial hatred was so thick, it hung in the air.
I'd only experienced this kind of racism once before, when I was in high school. My dad was driving me to a gifted and talented summer camp in western Michigan, and he decided – of all places in the universe to stop – at a McDonald's in Jackson, Michigan. Home of the Jackson state prison, primarily populated with black men from Detroit. As we got our burgers and fries, the white townspeople grew dead silent and glared at us with out-and-out hatred.
And now racial hatred was back in the air, in a different small town, in a different state, with a different group of white people. Conspiracy noticed me noticing the tension and acknowledged that yes, he'd grown up here in Klan country. And he wasn't about to take any sh*t. The angry white men could see it in the way he walked with his head held high, his back straight and his stony face daring them to f*ck with him.
But the most memorable moment of the trip took place in a high-rise hotel room in some anonymous city along the I-95 freeway. It was daytime. The long, striped curtains were drawn, and we were on the bed making love. Suddenly, the room started spinning and I felt like I was floating on air, high above the bed and the baby-blue hotel-room carpet. It was my first orgasm, and it was magical.
But despite the fact that Conspiracy never made me swoon over how fine he was, he did hold the distinction of being the first man to make me come.
It happened en route to South Carolina, where my mom and stepfather lived. I was going to visit them for the holidays, and Conspiracy offered to help me drive.
It was an interesting trip.
For one thing, I got to meet Conspiracy's elderly aunt, who lived in Baltimore. Talk about bleak. Baltimore looked even worse than New Haven and Detroit. Chinese takeouts with four-inch-thick bulletproof glass and crumbling neighborhoods filled with ladies like his aunt who were too old to leave.
If Aunt Conspiracy was shocked to see her nephew with a girl young enough to be his daughter, she didn't let on. What she couldn't hide was her sorrow at how he had turned out. She revealed it in the way she caressed an old picture of a young Conspiracy wearing an Air Force uniform. As if that picture were her real nephew, and she was still mourning his long-ago death at the hand of the middle-aged revolutionary he'd become instead.
Further south on our trip, Conspiracy and I stopped at a Waffle House in North Carolina, near where he grew up. We walked past a table of white men, and the racial hatred was so thick, it hung in the air.
I'd only experienced this kind of racism once before, when I was in high school. My dad was driving me to a gifted and talented summer camp in western Michigan, and he decided – of all places in the universe to stop – at a McDonald's in Jackson, Michigan. Home of the Jackson state prison, primarily populated with black men from Detroit. As we got our burgers and fries, the white townspeople grew dead silent and glared at us with out-and-out hatred.
And now racial hatred was back in the air, in a different small town, in a different state, with a different group of white people. Conspiracy noticed me noticing the tension and acknowledged that yes, he'd grown up here in Klan country. And he wasn't about to take any sh*t. The angry white men could see it in the way he walked with his head held high, his back straight and his stony face daring them to f*ck with him.
But the most memorable moment of the trip took place in a high-rise hotel room in some anonymous city along the I-95 freeway. It was daytime. The long, striped curtains were drawn, and we were on the bed making love. Suddenly, the room started spinning and I felt like I was floating on air, high above the bed and the baby-blue hotel-room carpet. It was my first orgasm, and it was magical.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Protege
Time for a quick refresher course on Conspiracy Theory, my "radical revolutionary" college boyfriend – who just happened to be old enough to be my dad. When we left off, Conspiracy Theory and I had shared our first night together in his friendly, platonic bed. Despite the silent betrayal that I never dared voice, our relationship progressed pretty quickly after that.
In a matter of days or weeks, but definitely not months, I moved into Conspiracy's apartment on the outskirts of the Yale campus. It was the nicest place I'd ever lived in, with its beautiful hardwood floors, sunlit living room and general air of cleanliness.
And, at first, our relationship went well.
I was the fresh, clean sponge, and he was the bucket filled to overflowing with knowledge, drama and pain that he needed to share.
And boy, did he share.
In painstaking detail.
The night he was almost killed by fellow members of his revolutionary group, because he was "bad jacketed" as a spy. How the FBI's COINTELPRO program destroyed lives, pitting husband against wife, friend against friend, radical group against radical group, until nobody felt safe trusting anybody and his revolutionary party imploded from the inside.
There were the never-ending ramblings regarding which party leaders were government agents sent to destroy the party. All the young pretty women who later went on to get college degrees, have great careers or marry white men were the prime suspects, followed closely by any of the men who later achieved mainstream success.
Because the real revolutionaries like him had suffered and weren't allowed to have great lives. "They" – the government and the military-industrial complex and the New World Order – had seen to that.
Conspiracy had experienced prison time and notoriety from a historic, well-publicized criminal trial. His relationship with his wife, a fellow party member, grew strained and eventually ended in divorce. Then he'd immersed himself in a long-term relationship with a white woman who shared his left-wing political views, but he now suspected that she was a spy sent by the government to infiltrate him.
Conspiracy poured all of his bitterness into me in the name of education. He declared that I was his protege, the empty vessel that could absorb all of his knowledge and help him make sense of the past.
At first, I found his monologues exceedingly interesting. But over time, as our relationship dragged endlessly on, his long diatribes made both my stomach and my head hurt.
In a matter of days or weeks, but definitely not months, I moved into Conspiracy's apartment on the outskirts of the Yale campus. It was the nicest place I'd ever lived in, with its beautiful hardwood floors, sunlit living room and general air of cleanliness.
And, at first, our relationship went well.
I was the fresh, clean sponge, and he was the bucket filled to overflowing with knowledge, drama and pain that he needed to share.
And boy, did he share.
In painstaking detail.
The night he was almost killed by fellow members of his revolutionary group, because he was "bad jacketed" as a spy. How the FBI's COINTELPRO program destroyed lives, pitting husband against wife, friend against friend, radical group against radical group, until nobody felt safe trusting anybody and his revolutionary party imploded from the inside.
There were the never-ending ramblings regarding which party leaders were government agents sent to destroy the party. All the young pretty women who later went on to get college degrees, have great careers or marry white men were the prime suspects, followed closely by any of the men who later achieved mainstream success.
Because the real revolutionaries like him had suffered and weren't allowed to have great lives. "They" – the government and the military-industrial complex and the New World Order – had seen to that.
Conspiracy had experienced prison time and notoriety from a historic, well-publicized criminal trial. His relationship with his wife, a fellow party member, grew strained and eventually ended in divorce. Then he'd immersed himself in a long-term relationship with a white woman who shared his left-wing political views, but he now suspected that she was a spy sent by the government to infiltrate him.
Conspiracy poured all of his bitterness into me in the name of education. He declared that I was his protege, the empty vessel that could absorb all of his knowledge and help him make sense of the past.
At first, I found his monologues exceedingly interesting. But over time, as our relationship dragged endlessly on, his long diatribes made both my stomach and my head hurt.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
How 'Nita Got Her Groove Back
My blog is starting to whisper to me again, like a love song on a summer breeze.
I don't feel pulled to jump back into the long, strange saga of Conspiracy Theory just yet, but I do feel pulled to write. That's a good start.
It's hard to believe that it's been a month since my last post, but it's been one of the best months of my life.
I'm starting to get my mojo back.
Freed of the stress of three years of jobs that I hated, I'm free to remember and partake of things that I love. Like yoga. I'm seven weeks into a consistent, three-times-a-week practice, and my back, neck and hips are starting to thank me.
I'm two-and-a-half-months into "Sugar Sobriety." I made a promise to myself – and kept it – that I would not eat sweets or desserts at all, unless it was a social occasion with friends. It's made life so much easier. No more making excuses for eating tubs of Trader Joe's Peanut Butter Cups. The weight has been pouring off of me. I'm 17 pounds lighter since May, and 29 pounds lighter since I went back to Weight Watchers last spring.
I've been cleaning up my very cluttered home office. It was a treasure-trove of bad-job nightmares. Notes from job interviews (before I took the jobs that turned out to be duds), receipts from boring business trips, performance reviews that made me question what I was doing with my life. Even piles of audition "sides" from three years ago, when I pulled the plug on my acting dreams, went back to work and started shoveling chocolate down my throat as a panacea for the pain.
Last week, I actually booked and shot a student film that came to me out of the blue. The experience underlined and punctuated a lot of the reasons I stopped acting (playing a loudmouthed tollbooth operator named Laronda, no racial stereotyping there), but it still felt good to know that I could shake off the rust, win an audition and shoot a scene.
And I finally decided to tackle the elephant in the room: the fact that I'm not dating at all and haven't been in a serious, committed relationship since I broke up with Brown more than 10 years ago. I joined a support group based on the Calling in the One book, so I'll be spending the next seven weeks really discovering what I want in a relationship and what's holding me back from having it.
I'm looking forward to actually being able to talk about new guys I'm dating and new lessons I'm learning, instead of merely resurrecting the Ghosts of Boyfriends Past in an effort to understand how I could have been so stupid or why I ever dated so many pointless, abusive jerks.
I don't feel pulled to jump back into the long, strange saga of Conspiracy Theory just yet, but I do feel pulled to write. That's a good start.
It's hard to believe that it's been a month since my last post, but it's been one of the best months of my life.
I'm starting to get my mojo back.
Freed of the stress of three years of jobs that I hated, I'm free to remember and partake of things that I love. Like yoga. I'm seven weeks into a consistent, three-times-a-week practice, and my back, neck and hips are starting to thank me.
I'm two-and-a-half-months into "Sugar Sobriety." I made a promise to myself – and kept it – that I would not eat sweets or desserts at all, unless it was a social occasion with friends. It's made life so much easier. No more making excuses for eating tubs of Trader Joe's Peanut Butter Cups. The weight has been pouring off of me. I'm 17 pounds lighter since May, and 29 pounds lighter since I went back to Weight Watchers last spring.
I've been cleaning up my very cluttered home office. It was a treasure-trove of bad-job nightmares. Notes from job interviews (before I took the jobs that turned out to be duds), receipts from boring business trips, performance reviews that made me question what I was doing with my life. Even piles of audition "sides" from three years ago, when I pulled the plug on my acting dreams, went back to work and started shoveling chocolate down my throat as a panacea for the pain.
Last week, I actually booked and shot a student film that came to me out of the blue. The experience underlined and punctuated a lot of the reasons I stopped acting (playing a loudmouthed tollbooth operator named Laronda, no racial stereotyping there), but it still felt good to know that I could shake off the rust, win an audition and shoot a scene.
And I finally decided to tackle the elephant in the room: the fact that I'm not dating at all and haven't been in a serious, committed relationship since I broke up with Brown more than 10 years ago. I joined a support group based on the Calling in the One book, so I'll be spending the next seven weeks really discovering what I want in a relationship and what's holding me back from having it.
I'm looking forward to actually being able to talk about new guys I'm dating and new lessons I'm learning, instead of merely resurrecting the Ghosts of Boyfriends Past in an effort to understand how I could have been so stupid or why I ever dated so many pointless, abusive jerks.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Blog Interruptus
It's been nearly five weeks since my last post. Pretty ironic, since my one-time and future goal is three posts a week.
But there have been lots of reasons. Some excuse-making and some legitimate. And some that I haven't publicly aired.
That's still my goal.
But I've decided to stop trying to whip myself into shape where this blog is concerned.
Over the last month, I've made some really big changes in my life. I've taken beach days and let a lot of the job bitterness go. I deleted Sudoku off my computer and eliminated chocolate from my kitchen cupboards. I'm walking every day and going to Weight Watchers every week. And best of all, I've resumed my yoga practice, another something that I used to love to do and that became a "should" that I never got around to.
And in that spirit, I know that my blogging consistency will come back when I'm back in touch with how much I love this blog and how important it is for me to release my demons from the past by reliving them, writing about them, learning from them and then letting them go for good.
Thank you for sticking with me through my less-than-consistent posting.
I'll get back to Conspiracy Theory in a few weeks, after I shore my spirit up with additional yoga and beach days.
But there have been lots of reasons. Some excuse-making and some legitimate. And some that I haven't publicly aired.
- I don't feel like it. Somewhere along the way, my blog went from being something I loved to do to something I "had" to do. And that took a lot of the fun out of it for me.
- Woe is me, I'm unemployed. Two months ago, the dream-job-turned-nightmare let me go. I couldn't write because I was too busy crying, stuffing my face and watching reality TV.
- I'll start writing again when I get a new job. Counter-intuitive, I know. What better time to write when you have 40-90 extra hours in your life that aren't be sucked up by a useless and demeaning job? But in my case, I've found that I'm more productive in all areas of my life when I'm busy. Sloth comes naturally when the opportunity arises.
- Is this blog worth losing two of my closest friends? I've literally lost two friends over this blog. The first was someone who revealed a shady side to me after reading my blog (who I haven't directly confronted), and the second was someone who was incensed that I wrote about a three-week relationship I had 19 years ago with the man she's now married to.
- Dear me, what if a potential employer, an imaginary boyfriend or my dad sees this? I consciously made the decision early on not to hide behind a screen name, but let's just say my courage wavered a bit when I Googled myself and saw "Don't Be a Slut" as the top link.
- What if Conspiracy Theory sends me an acid bomb in the mail? It's taken writing these first few posts to get me to realize that after all these years, I'm still afraid of Conspiracy and his rage. I know I'll get past it, but in the meantime, it's easier not to write about him.
That's still my goal.
But I've decided to stop trying to whip myself into shape where this blog is concerned.
Over the last month, I've made some really big changes in my life. I've taken beach days and let a lot of the job bitterness go. I deleted Sudoku off my computer and eliminated chocolate from my kitchen cupboards. I'm walking every day and going to Weight Watchers every week. And best of all, I've resumed my yoga practice, another something that I used to love to do and that became a "should" that I never got around to.
And in that spirit, I know that my blogging consistency will come back when I'm back in touch with how much I love this blog and how important it is for me to release my demons from the past by reliving them, writing about them, learning from them and then letting them go for good.
Thank you for sticking with me through my less-than-consistent posting.
I'll get back to Conspiracy Theory in a few weeks, after I shore my spirit up with additional yoga and beach days.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The Friendly, Platonic Bed
Conspiracy Theory always emphasized friendship. He and I were friends. That word – friends – would come up again and again throughout our relationship, even years after we broke up. And it came up the first night he asked me to stay over at his apartment.
I wasn't invited over as a potential girlfriend or a potential lover. I was invited over as a friend.
Conspiracy had recently moved into a beautiful two-bedroom apartment a couple blocks west of the Yale campus. The floors in his apartment were shiny, blond hardwood. The floors in mine were old, dark hardwood.
I had recently run my hands down the rickety banister in my building, splotched with peeling, dark green paint, and gotten a splinter. When I told Conspiracy Theory, he scoffed. The landlords who rented to Yale students were slumlords. They knew we would only be there for a semester, so they didn't put any money into the place and they didn't care if we complained. I shouldn't have to live in a place like that.
I roomed with two other girls. One was the same year and the same residential college as me. Even though she was two inches shorter, 20 pounds heavier and three shades darker than me, the white kids couldn't tell us apart. The other girl was a year ahead of us, a senior. She was Korean-American, from California and a rock star who'd been tapped by a secret society.
There was nothing wrong with my roommates, no overt conflicts, no drama.
I just didn't feel close to either of them. I felt alone and invisible in my own apartment, even if I was sitting at the dinner table, holding a conversation.
So I spent more and more time with Conspiracy Theory, who offered interesting conversation, complimentary observations and my favorite, free meals.
He invited me to stay the night at his place, even though he only had one bed, a full-size futon.
He assured me that we were friends. And friends could share a bed without it being weird or even sexual in nature.
I took him at his word, and climbed into his friendly, platonic bed.
Some time before daylight, things got decidedly less platonic. There was kissing. There was touching. And there was Conspiracy Theory whispering in my ear, "Thank you so much for the gift that you're giving me."
Oh, my God, he thinks I'm a virgin.
It was a surreal moment.
I was a bit shocked by the sexual overture, but not at all unwilling. It wasn't a bad experience ...
... until I realized I'd been had. In a totally premeditated way.
He had stashed condoms under his pillow. He'd planned to have sex with me all along. All that friendship crap had been a ruse to get me into his bed.
I didn't push him away, I didn't recoil, and I didn't confront him about his little white lie.
The condom-under-the-pillow incident became a microscopic stain on our relationship that only I could see. It was the secret betrayal I never got over, never forgot and never talked about to anyone because it was proof positive that I was gullible and stupid.
I wasn't invited over as a potential girlfriend or a potential lover. I was invited over as a friend.
Conspiracy had recently moved into a beautiful two-bedroom apartment a couple blocks west of the Yale campus. The floors in his apartment were shiny, blond hardwood. The floors in mine were old, dark hardwood.
I had recently run my hands down the rickety banister in my building, splotched with peeling, dark green paint, and gotten a splinter. When I told Conspiracy Theory, he scoffed. The landlords who rented to Yale students were slumlords. They knew we would only be there for a semester, so they didn't put any money into the place and they didn't care if we complained. I shouldn't have to live in a place like that.
I roomed with two other girls. One was the same year and the same residential college as me. Even though she was two inches shorter, 20 pounds heavier and three shades darker than me, the white kids couldn't tell us apart. The other girl was a year ahead of us, a senior. She was Korean-American, from California and a rock star who'd been tapped by a secret society.
There was nothing wrong with my roommates, no overt conflicts, no drama.
I just didn't feel close to either of them. I felt alone and invisible in my own apartment, even if I was sitting at the dinner table, holding a conversation.
So I spent more and more time with Conspiracy Theory, who offered interesting conversation, complimentary observations and my favorite, free meals.
He invited me to stay the night at his place, even though he only had one bed, a full-size futon.
He assured me that we were friends. And friends could share a bed without it being weird or even sexual in nature.
I took him at his word, and climbed into his friendly, platonic bed.
Some time before daylight, things got decidedly less platonic. There was kissing. There was touching. And there was Conspiracy Theory whispering in my ear, "Thank you so much for the gift that you're giving me."
Oh, my God, he thinks I'm a virgin.
It was a surreal moment.
I was a bit shocked by the sexual overture, but not at all unwilling. It wasn't a bad experience ...
... until I realized I'd been had. In a totally premeditated way.
He had stashed condoms under his pillow. He'd planned to have sex with me all along. All that friendship crap had been a ruse to get me into his bed.
I didn't push him away, I didn't recoil, and I didn't confront him about his little white lie.
The condom-under-the-pillow incident became a microscopic stain on our relationship that only I could see. It was the secret betrayal I never got over, never forgot and never talked about to anyone because it was proof positive that I was gullible and stupid.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Attention, time and money
I'd known Conspiracy Theory since my freshman year. He was a fixture on the Yale campus. He'd stop by the African-American Cultural Center (better known as "The House"). He'd come to "white Yale" events of interest that were open to the general public. He'd stroll through the Yale campus.
And everywhere he went, he talked to students.
And everywhere he went, students talked to him.
You see, Conspiracy was a bit of a local celebrity. A self-proclaimed "radical revolutionary," Conspiracy had been a member of a famous organization known for its Afros, berets, black leather jackets, feline emblem and firearms. He had been a defendant in one of the most famous criminal trials of the late 1960's/early 1970's.
And now, 20 years later, he considered it his duty to make sure that Yale students and New Haveners alike knew American history as he had experienced it.
He was not a stalker, a predator, a man obsessed with fresh young meat. His ex-wife was in his age group. So was his ex-girlfriend, a middle-aged white woman he had lived with for many years. And after me, to his credit, he went back to dating women who were "age appropriate."
I think that him dating me was much more of a departure than me dating him.
I already had a history of dating older men. My first sexual experience at age 16 was with a 40-something. And courtesy of my mom, whose second marriage was to a man more than 30 years older than she was, I didn't think the age difference was all that strange.
So how did a 52-year-old radical revolutionary and a 20-year-old Yale student get entangled in a live-in romantic relationship that lasted over two years?
Attention, time and money. In that order.
It was my junior year at Yale, and I had moved off campus with two other girls. My entire time at Yale, I felt angry, isolated and depressed, and moving off campus hadn't made much of a difference.
The biggest difference was that I could no longer count on the dining hall to feed me.
I had to feed myself.
And I hated to cook.
So, initially, one of Conspiracy's greatest selling points is that he would take me to dinner.
At first, our get-togethers had the air of platonic friendship, no strings attached.
After two years of feeling like an invisible black girl lost in a sea of indifferent, rich whites, someone was actually listening to me and using words like "smart" and "beautiful" to describe me. Attention.
On a campus that moved at a frenetic pace and where I found it hard to make meaningful connections, someone actually wanted to hang out with me. Time.
And as a broke girl living on Fruit Loops and Brach's Orange Slices (because the T-Factor diet said I could eat anything I wanted as long as it didn't contain fat), having someone buy me dinner made me feel powerful. Money.
Attention, time and money turned Conspiracy into an instant friend and in short order, into a lover as well.
And everywhere he went, he talked to students.
And everywhere he went, students talked to him.
You see, Conspiracy was a bit of a local celebrity. A self-proclaimed "radical revolutionary," Conspiracy had been a member of a famous organization known for its Afros, berets, black leather jackets, feline emblem and firearms. He had been a defendant in one of the most famous criminal trials of the late 1960's/early 1970's.
And now, 20 years later, he considered it his duty to make sure that Yale students and New Haveners alike knew American history as he had experienced it.
He was not a stalker, a predator, a man obsessed with fresh young meat. His ex-wife was in his age group. So was his ex-girlfriend, a middle-aged white woman he had lived with for many years. And after me, to his credit, he went back to dating women who were "age appropriate."
I think that him dating me was much more of a departure than me dating him.
I already had a history of dating older men. My first sexual experience at age 16 was with a 40-something. And courtesy of my mom, whose second marriage was to a man more than 30 years older than she was, I didn't think the age difference was all that strange.
So how did a 52-year-old radical revolutionary and a 20-year-old Yale student get entangled in a live-in romantic relationship that lasted over two years?
Attention, time and money. In that order.
It was my junior year at Yale, and I had moved off campus with two other girls. My entire time at Yale, I felt angry, isolated and depressed, and moving off campus hadn't made much of a difference.
The biggest difference was that I could no longer count on the dining hall to feed me.
I had to feed myself.
And I hated to cook.
So, initially, one of Conspiracy's greatest selling points is that he would take me to dinner.
At first, our get-togethers had the air of platonic friendship, no strings attached.
After two years of feeling like an invisible black girl lost in a sea of indifferent, rich whites, someone was actually listening to me and using words like "smart" and "beautiful" to describe me. Attention.
On a campus that moved at a frenetic pace and where I found it hard to make meaningful connections, someone actually wanted to hang out with me. Time.
And as a broke girl living on Fruit Loops and Brach's Orange Slices (because the T-Factor diet said I could eat anything I wanted as long as it didn't contain fat), having someone buy me dinner made me feel powerful. Money.
Attention, time and money turned Conspiracy into an instant friend and in short order, into a lover as well.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
The story that's never been told
After Number Two came Conspiracy Theory, my first real boyfriend.
I can also honestly say that he stunted my growth and controlled me in many ways.
You see, Conspiracy Theory was an older man. Much older. As in 32 years older. As in five years older than my mother and four years younger than my dad.
So our relationship was never balanced, and it was never equal.
And in hindsight, it was never honest. The entire relationship was shrouded in secrecy and paranoia and dangerous ghosts of the past, because that was Conspiracy Theory's world. A world of shady characters, life-threatening betrayals, government agents, police brutality and intricate, internecine plots.
So even though we dated out in the open (causing much wagging of gossipy New Haven tongues, both on and off campus), our relationship was never open. I became the keeper of secrets, both his and my own.
So much so, that I told no one much of what I'm about to write down. Not even my own diary, because in the early days with Conspiracy Theory, I stopped keeping a diary.
So I must go from memory. Memory that's sometimes hazy, sometimes out of sequence. Memory that won't necessarily give me full insight into what 20-year-old me was thinking and feeling at the time. Memory that's colored by how things ended and by the viewpoints and opinions of the woman I am today.
But imperfect or not, hazy or not, scary or not, it's time to unearth those memories, unbury those secrets and tell the story of my two-year tryst with Conspiracy Theory.
It's the only way I know to get my life and my power back.
- He was my first orgasm.
- He was the first relationship that lasted more than a few months (and in my entire life, there have only been two that I could measure in years – Conspiracy and Brown).
- He was the first, last and only man I have ever lived with.
- He's the only man I ever introduced to my family.
- He's the only man I kept in touch with years after breaking up.
I can also honestly say that he stunted my growth and controlled me in many ways.
You see, Conspiracy Theory was an older man. Much older. As in 32 years older. As in five years older than my mother and four years younger than my dad.
So our relationship was never balanced, and it was never equal.
And in hindsight, it was never honest. The entire relationship was shrouded in secrecy and paranoia and dangerous ghosts of the past, because that was Conspiracy Theory's world. A world of shady characters, life-threatening betrayals, government agents, police brutality and intricate, internecine plots.
So even though we dated out in the open (causing much wagging of gossipy New Haven tongues, both on and off campus), our relationship was never open. I became the keeper of secrets, both his and my own.
So much so, that I told no one much of what I'm about to write down. Not even my own diary, because in the early days with Conspiracy Theory, I stopped keeping a diary.
So I must go from memory. Memory that's sometimes hazy, sometimes out of sequence. Memory that won't necessarily give me full insight into what 20-year-old me was thinking and feeling at the time. Memory that's colored by how things ended and by the viewpoints and opinions of the woman I am today.
But imperfect or not, hazy or not, scary or not, it's time to unearth those memories, unbury those secrets and tell the story of my two-year tryst with Conspiracy Theory.
It's the only way I know to get my life and my power back.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Stop dating jailbirds
"Anita, stop dating jailbirds."
That was the completely unsympathetic and unsolicited advice I got from my friend, Theater Goddess, as I strolled the Yale campus one evening shortly after Number Two got arrested. I was recounting my tale of woe to her and a few other girls.
I expected sympathy.
After all, my boyfriend, had, quite tragically, just got arrested.
Her tone of voice was unapologetic, unsympathetic, matter-of-fact and almost bored.
"Anita, stop dating jailbirds."
I was hurt by her insensitivity.
Back then, I was egalitarian in my dating choices. I didn't discriminate based on educational level. I didn't discriminate based on social class. I didn't discriminate based on criminal record, drug use, sexual history, morals, values, looks.
I didn't discriminate at all.
I accepted whoever chose me.
That's why I cringe whenever some allegedly well-meaning black leader decides to help a sistah out by writing a book or making a speech about how educated, unmarried black women need to stop being so picky and just settle for whatever we can get.
To that I say, bullsh*t, bullsh*t, bullsh*t. Stop dating jailbirds. Stop dating men who have less education than you. Stop dating men who are in a much different income bracket than you. Stop dating men who don't share your values. Stop dating men who don't share your credit score. Stop dating men who have baby mamas (unless, of course, you have baby daddies).
Yeah, I said it.
Just stop.
Even if people call you a saddity b*tch. Even if it means being alone. Even if that leaves you with no one to date.
Just stop.
Dating boys who were uneducated, who were in and out of jail, who had baby mamas, who had sporadic incomes, who had low self-esteem, who had bad credit, who had values that weren't compatible with mine did not make me a saint. It didn't pull them up to my level. It dragged me down to theirs.
Have standards, girls, have standards. Stop dating jailbirds.
That was the completely unsympathetic and unsolicited advice I got from my friend, Theater Goddess, as I strolled the Yale campus one evening shortly after Number Two got arrested. I was recounting my tale of woe to her and a few other girls.
I expected sympathy.
After all, my boyfriend, had, quite tragically, just got arrested.
Her tone of voice was unapologetic, unsympathetic, matter-of-fact and almost bored.
"Anita, stop dating jailbirds."
I was hurt by her insensitivity.
Back then, I was egalitarian in my dating choices. I didn't discriminate based on educational level. I didn't discriminate based on social class. I didn't discriminate based on criminal record, drug use, sexual history, morals, values, looks.
I didn't discriminate at all.
I accepted whoever chose me.
That's why I cringe whenever some allegedly well-meaning black leader decides to help a sistah out by writing a book or making a speech about how educated, unmarried black women need to stop being so picky and just settle for whatever we can get.
To that I say, bullsh*t, bullsh*t, bullsh*t. Stop dating jailbirds. Stop dating men who have less education than you. Stop dating men who are in a much different income bracket than you. Stop dating men who don't share your values. Stop dating men who don't share your credit score. Stop dating men who have baby mamas (unless, of course, you have baby daddies).
Yeah, I said it.
Just stop.
Even if people call you a saddity b*tch. Even if it means being alone. Even if that leaves you with no one to date.
Just stop.
Dating boys who were uneducated, who were in and out of jail, who had baby mamas, who had sporadic incomes, who had low self-esteem, who had bad credit, who had values that weren't compatible with mine did not make me a saint. It didn't pull them up to my level. It dragged me down to theirs.
Have standards, girls, have standards. Stop dating jailbirds.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
This is how women get AIDS
According to the Centers for Disease Control, African-Americans represent 12 percent of the U.S. population and 46 percent of those with HIV/AIDS. Looking back at my relationship with Number Two, it's easy to understand why.
Because we let our men dog us, and we don't stick up for ourselves in the ways that matter.
I have never had a grown-up conversation with a man about his sexual history before becoming his lover. (Partly because that would have meant divulging my sexual history. And partly because as a first-date kinda gal, I didn't do a lot of talking to begin with.)
I have never insisted that a man and I both get tested before having sex for the first time. (How exactly do you bring that up? "Here, honey, roll up your sleeve so I can draw some blood, and while you're at it, please give me $200 so I can buy this anonymous STD test, mail the sample to a lab and wait for the results.")
I have never insisted that a man wear a condom or else get out of my bed. (And I have a really juvenile confession to make about the reason why: It was one of my secret tests. "If he brings the condom and puts it on, that means he's a good guy, and he's responsible, and he cares about me." Yeah, right.)
I don't have AIDS or HIV.
Not because I was smart.
And definitely not because I was careful.
Simply because I was lucky.
I knew what I was supposed to do, but somehow I didn't have the courage, the nerve, the audacity, the outspokenness, the self-love, the assertiveness to do it. And I kinda hoped I could make it his job, like taking out the trash or opening the car door.
But the statistics don't lie.
Our men aren't going to protect us, because men don't like wearing condoms. And apparently, many don't like monogamy either.
It's up to us to protect ourselves.
It's been four years since my last sexual relationship, and I don't know when I'm going to meet someone I want to get hot, sweaty and horizontal with.
But when I do, for the first time in my life, I'm going to have to care enough about my health and well-being to actually insist that he get tested and wear a condom.
Am I the only one who finds this difficult?
- He was screwing me, his ex-girlfriend, and quite probably, other men.
- He was a "first-date-only" condom guy.
- He engaged in what medical professionals politely call a "high risk" sexual position where blood-to-semen contact is not uncommon.
- And, most importantly, I let him do all of the above.
Because we let our men dog us, and we don't stick up for ourselves in the ways that matter.
I have never had a grown-up conversation with a man about his sexual history before becoming his lover. (Partly because that would have meant divulging my sexual history. And partly because as a first-date kinda gal, I didn't do a lot of talking to begin with.)
I have never insisted that a man and I both get tested before having sex for the first time. (How exactly do you bring that up? "Here, honey, roll up your sleeve so I can draw some blood, and while you're at it, please give me $200 so I can buy this anonymous STD test, mail the sample to a lab and wait for the results.")
I have never insisted that a man wear a condom or else get out of my bed. (And I have a really juvenile confession to make about the reason why: It was one of my secret tests. "If he brings the condom and puts it on, that means he's a good guy, and he's responsible, and he cares about me." Yeah, right.)
I don't have AIDS or HIV.
Not because I was smart.
And definitely not because I was careful.
Simply because I was lucky.
I knew what I was supposed to do, but somehow I didn't have the courage, the nerve, the audacity, the outspokenness, the self-love, the assertiveness to do it. And I kinda hoped I could make it his job, like taking out the trash or opening the car door.
But the statistics don't lie.
Our men aren't going to protect us, because men don't like wearing condoms. And apparently, many don't like monogamy either.
It's up to us to protect ourselves.
It's been four years since my last sexual relationship, and I don't know when I'm going to meet someone I want to get hot, sweaty and horizontal with.
But when I do, for the first time in my life, I'm going to have to care enough about my health and well-being to actually insist that he get tested and wear a condom.
Am I the only one who finds this difficult?
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Girl-on-girl is just not appropriate
I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about fights. Of the Jerry Springer variety. Of the verbal sparring variety that I engaged in with Tay Tay over Number Two, a fool who didn't deserve either one of us and, as it turns out, was probably gay.
Tay Tay, to be sure, was ignorant and obnoxious. She called me up on more than one occasion to bait me with tales that "my" man was really "her" man. And the evidence is certainly in her favor, until we get to the fact that maybe "her" man wanted to be with a man.
Which would at least partially explain why he treated her – and me – so badly.
But at the time, my 19-year-old self blamed her for making him treat me badly, blamed her for continuing to be involved with "my" boyfriend, blamed her for being the ugly b*tch with the wart on the end of her nose, which is how I actually thought of her.
What I didn't consider at the time is that the ugly b*tch with the wart on the end of her nose was pushing a baby stroller and the baby in that stroller allegedly belonged to "my" boyfriend. The same guy who took me to her apartment on our first date to pick up his stuff.
Her side of the story was never told. So why did I blame her?
I have a hopefully more enlightened bottom line today when it comes to boyfriends and their baby mamas, ex-girlfriends, ex-wives, ex-whatevers, also known as "the horrible women who ruined his life":
Flash forward to my early 30's, three years after I broke up with Brown. I was in a relationship that wasn't serious or satisfying, but after three years of crying and walking the floor, it was my first attempt at moving on.
Ring, ring went my cell phone ... in my cubicle, at work. On the line was a 21-year-old chickie-poo with some dramatic story about how she got my number off her ex-boyfriend's cell phone. I was polite to her, even as I explained in an even tone that I wasn't interested in her or her drama.
And that night, I called the new boyfriend and explained that my problem was with him. He was sleeping with other women, and that wasn't something I had agreed to. End of relationship, end of story.
It's so much better when women treat each other with respect, instead of attacking each other.
Tay Tay, to be sure, was ignorant and obnoxious. She called me up on more than one occasion to bait me with tales that "my" man was really "her" man. And the evidence is certainly in her favor, until we get to the fact that maybe "her" man wanted to be with a man.
Which would at least partially explain why he treated her – and me – so badly.
But at the time, my 19-year-old self blamed her for making him treat me badly, blamed her for continuing to be involved with "my" boyfriend, blamed her for being the ugly b*tch with the wart on the end of her nose, which is how I actually thought of her.
What I didn't consider at the time is that the ugly b*tch with the wart on the end of her nose was pushing a baby stroller and the baby in that stroller allegedly belonged to "my" boyfriend. The same guy who took me to her apartment on our first date to pick up his stuff.
Her side of the story was never told. So why did I blame her?
I have a hopefully more enlightened bottom line today when it comes to boyfriends and their baby mamas, ex-girlfriends, ex-wives, ex-whatevers, also known as "the horrible women who ruined his life":
- Take whatever he says about her with a grain of salt. But do listen carefully, because what he says about her is probably remarkably similar to what he will one day say about you.
- Remember that he was there, too. He may talk about how she did this or she did that, but he ain't no innocent bystander. What was his part in accepting the drama or adding fuel to the fire?
- If you have a beef with her, your beef is really with him. If their relationship is really over, there is no you and her. It's you and him, and on a separate note, her and him. He's the responsible party, and the deserving recipient of your rage.
Flash forward to my early 30's, three years after I broke up with Brown. I was in a relationship that wasn't serious or satisfying, but after three years of crying and walking the floor, it was my first attempt at moving on.
Ring, ring went my cell phone ... in my cubicle, at work. On the line was a 21-year-old chickie-poo with some dramatic story about how she got my number off her ex-boyfriend's cell phone. I was polite to her, even as I explained in an even tone that I wasn't interested in her or her drama.
And that night, I called the new boyfriend and explained that my problem was with him. He was sleeping with other women, and that wasn't something I had agreed to. End of relationship, end of story.
It's so much better when women treat each other with respect, instead of attacking each other.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Hittting him where it hurt
I'm not sure whether the suspicion that Number Two was gay had ever crossed my mind or whether it was entirely planted by my new boyfriend, Conspiracy Theory. But once the suspicion took hold, a lot of things about my relationship with Number Two made sense.
Him calling me an "Eveready" in a sulky tone because I wanted to have sex and he didn't. Him sodomizing me. Even him going to jail.
The idea that being a chronic minor offender meant you were a gay definitely came from Conspiracy Theory. He claimed that all the "don't drop the soap" horror stories didn't apply all that much to the real penitentiary where the real inmates were. He claimed it was the local city jails where the real gay action took place. That guys who were gay but too chickensh*t to come out of the closet would find ways to get arrested so that they could hump the other in-the-closet short-timers.
It sounded plausible. Because I knew that Number Two was a revolving-door offender.
When he was arrested, he instructed me to call an aunt and uncle and ask them to bail him out. They refused to help him "this time" in a tone that suggested that "this time" was maybe the third or fourth or 10th time.
So now I believed Number Two was gay.
And that's what I threw in his face, the day I confronted him, fully enraged, over the fact that he still owed me money, had stolen my tools and had put a ding on my credit report.
The argument started over the money, but as it escalated, I threw it in his face that I was just someone he could "f*ck up the butt." Every time I mentioned his predilection for sodomy, he flinched. So I kept saying it. Loudly. With the intent to hurt him.
(For his part, he retaliated against me in a way uniquely common to black New Haveners confronting black Yalies: he kicked me out of the race, declaring that I "wasn't really black.")
By the end of my tirade, he was in tears. And I was riding high on a cloud of vindictive rage. I'd hurt him. Not as much as he hurt me, but it felt GOOD.
I saw him around occasionally after that. There was an exchange by the mall, where he gave me some of my owed money and also demanded that I return a tacky, chipped ring he had given me off his own finger. I flung it onto the sidewalk with all my might, against the advice of Abusive Psychic, who counseled me, "Anita, you're crazy. You never, ever give back jewelry."
Then there was the time I was walking past his tiny apartment, and he introduced me to a short, cute brother with pretty eyes as his "roommate." Roommate? His studio apartment was the size of a matchbox. The mattress on the floor took up the whole room. If they were roommates, they were sharing a bed.
And then there was the last time I saw him, a few years later, after I had graduated and moved to South Carolina to live with my mother. I was driving in the backwoods, in some godforsaken small town, with no idea of where I was or why I was there. I turned into a little gas station or convenience store to make a U-turn, and heard a voice say, "Oh no."
I looked up, directly into his horrified face. He was from South Carolina, and apparently had moved back home. I was the last person he expected or wanted to see.
I didn't even speak or acknowledge his presence. I just turned my car around and drove away.
And that concludes the Number Two diaries.
Him calling me an "Eveready" in a sulky tone because I wanted to have sex and he didn't. Him sodomizing me. Even him going to jail.
The idea that being a chronic minor offender meant you were a gay definitely came from Conspiracy Theory. He claimed that all the "don't drop the soap" horror stories didn't apply all that much to the real penitentiary where the real inmates were. He claimed it was the local city jails where the real gay action took place. That guys who were gay but too chickensh*t to come out of the closet would find ways to get arrested so that they could hump the other in-the-closet short-timers.
It sounded plausible. Because I knew that Number Two was a revolving-door offender.
When he was arrested, he instructed me to call an aunt and uncle and ask them to bail him out. They refused to help him "this time" in a tone that suggested that "this time" was maybe the third or fourth or 10th time.
So now I believed Number Two was gay.
And that's what I threw in his face, the day I confronted him, fully enraged, over the fact that he still owed me money, had stolen my tools and had put a ding on my credit report.
The argument started over the money, but as it escalated, I threw it in his face that I was just someone he could "f*ck up the butt." Every time I mentioned his predilection for sodomy, he flinched. So I kept saying it. Loudly. With the intent to hurt him.
(For his part, he retaliated against me in a way uniquely common to black New Haveners confronting black Yalies: he kicked me out of the race, declaring that I "wasn't really black.")
By the end of my tirade, he was in tears. And I was riding high on a cloud of vindictive rage. I'd hurt him. Not as much as he hurt me, but it felt GOOD.
I saw him around occasionally after that. There was an exchange by the mall, where he gave me some of my owed money and also demanded that I return a tacky, chipped ring he had given me off his own finger. I flung it onto the sidewalk with all my might, against the advice of Abusive Psychic, who counseled me, "Anita, you're crazy. You never, ever give back jewelry."
Then there was the time I was walking past his tiny apartment, and he introduced me to a short, cute brother with pretty eyes as his "roommate." Roommate? His studio apartment was the size of a matchbox. The mattress on the floor took up the whole room. If they were roommates, they were sharing a bed.
And then there was the last time I saw him, a few years later, after I had graduated and moved to South Carolina to live with my mother. I was driving in the backwoods, in some godforsaken small town, with no idea of where I was or why I was there. I turned into a little gas station or convenience store to make a U-turn, and heard a voice say, "Oh no."
I looked up, directly into his horrified face. He was from South Carolina, and apparently had moved back home. I was the last person he expected or wanted to see.
I didn't even speak or acknowledge his presence. I just turned my car around and drove away.
And that concludes the Number Two diaries.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Long absence explained
It feels like a billion years since I've blogged. My personal life has been in a tailspin. Or, to be more accurate, my professional life has been in a tailspin. And since I don't have much of a personal life, when my professional life is on tilt, I am on tilt.
And honey, I have been on a full-blown, woozy, dizzy, shouldn't-have-eaten-that-damn-cotton-candy-before-I-jumped-on-this-stupid-ride Tilt-a-Whirl.
I won't bore you with the gory details, except to say, remember my rosy, hope-filled post of three months back about my glorious new job?
Not.
Not even.
Hell no.
Wrong turn.
Oh sh#t.
And a thousand other cuss words come to mind.
I've been working an absolutely insane amount of hours, 10-15 a day. I took 2 days off the entire month of January. As in one Saturday and one Sunday, what most people call a weekend.
But that's not the worst part.
I work for an asshole. The biggest horse's ass I have ever had the displeasure of working for in my life. Someone so cartoonishly asinine, I will one day shamelessly lampoon him in the most ridiculous situation a writer can ever conjure up for a hated buffoon. One day, I will roast and skewer this dude so badly in a piece of fiction I will laugh myself hoarse and pee my own pants while I type. And I'll include just enough real-life characteristics that he'll know it's about him. And I'll send it to him, along with an autographed picture of my middle finger.
Or maybe I'll just send him a sincere thank-you note, because I had an ephiphany.
As someone who has had a lifelong history of verbal abuse and of surrounding myself with abusive boyfriends (until I just gave up, got fat and stopped dating), I developed a pattern. A pattern of believing all the bad things people said about me. A pattern of believing that when other people dissed me, it was somehow all my fault.
And for a split second, two days to be exact, I started believing Asinine. I started believing maybe I wasn't good at my job. Maybe I didn't have what it takes. Maybe I could have or should have done something better to win Asinine's respect.
And then, in the midst of a fitful sleep, which has been an all-too-common occurrence as of late, it hit me.
None of what Asinine was saying was true.
Very little of what was going on is "my fault."
I'm not to blame because some dumb asshole treats me badly.
I deserve better.
Funny how the life lessons repeat in every area of your life until you "get it."
And honey, I have been on a full-blown, woozy, dizzy, shouldn't-have-eaten-that-damn-cotton-candy-before-I-jumped-on-this-stupid-ride Tilt-a-Whirl.
I won't bore you with the gory details, except to say, remember my rosy, hope-filled post of three months back about my glorious new job?
Not.
Not even.
Hell no.
Wrong turn.
Oh sh#t.
And a thousand other cuss words come to mind.
I've been working an absolutely insane amount of hours, 10-15 a day. I took 2 days off the entire month of January. As in one Saturday and one Sunday, what most people call a weekend.
But that's not the worst part.
I work for an asshole. The biggest horse's ass I have ever had the displeasure of working for in my life. Someone so cartoonishly asinine, I will one day shamelessly lampoon him in the most ridiculous situation a writer can ever conjure up for a hated buffoon. One day, I will roast and skewer this dude so badly in a piece of fiction I will laugh myself hoarse and pee my own pants while I type. And I'll include just enough real-life characteristics that he'll know it's about him. And I'll send it to him, along with an autographed picture of my middle finger.
Or maybe I'll just send him a sincere thank-you note, because I had an ephiphany.
As someone who has had a lifelong history of verbal abuse and of surrounding myself with abusive boyfriends (until I just gave up, got fat and stopped dating), I developed a pattern. A pattern of believing all the bad things people said about me. A pattern of believing that when other people dissed me, it was somehow all my fault.
And for a split second, two days to be exact, I started believing Asinine. I started believing maybe I wasn't good at my job. Maybe I didn't have what it takes. Maybe I could have or should have done something better to win Asinine's respect.
And then, in the midst of a fitful sleep, which has been an all-too-common occurrence as of late, it hit me.
None of what Asinine was saying was true.
Very little of what was going on is "my fault."
I'm not to blame because some dumb asshole treats me badly.
I deserve better.
Funny how the life lessons repeat in every area of your life until you "get it."
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
A Flower and Spandex Friendship
There was no getting back together with Number Two, but that didn't mean we were completely done with each other.
Toward the end of the summer, he called to give me some song and dance about how before everything happened with Tay-Tay, he was starting to fall in love with me. I politely told him it was over, but I had a false sense of serenity. I believed I could go back to New Haven and see him on a cordial, friendly basis.
I had spent the summer starving myself down to a size 6 and entering two "starter pageants," Miss Black World Michigan and Miss Michigan International. To my deep consternation, I failed miserably at being a beauty queen. Apparently, I couldn't walk. I didn't have the right clothes. I didn't have the right weave. And even though I was dizzy and hungry as hell from slurping Slim Fast plus one small meal a day, I was still considered 20 pounds "overweight."
I had also met a really good-looking guy on the Boblo Boat and convinced myself I was in love, even though we only saw each other a few times, and he kept stringing me along and standing me up.
But I digress.
When I got back to New Haven for my junior year, Number Two spied me strutting down the street in black-and-pink, floral-print spandex biker shorts. (Me and my booty were particularly effective at turning heads that day.)
Less than a week after returning to school, he came to see me with flowers in hand, and we went for a ride in my raggedy car, which promptly broke down for what felt like the millionth time. I didn't even have money for a tow truck, so I took Number Two's offer to buy my car for $200. He paid me $100 cash up front and was supposed to pay the $100 balance in a few weeks. Plus, I had left the tools my dad had bought me in the trunk.
I guess you can guess how this story ended.
Our new-found "friendship" was every bit as trifling as the love affair.
Fast-forward about five months, and this fool still owed me money. He claimed my jumper cables and toolbox had been "stolen." And on top of that, I had an $80 ding on my credit report from some stupid movies I had rented for him just before he went to jail.
It was time for another cuss-out session, only this time I was out for blood. And I cut him to the quick with what was really festering under the surface ... my nagging suspicion, egged on by my new boyfriend, that this fool was gay.
Toward the end of the summer, he called to give me some song and dance about how before everything happened with Tay-Tay, he was starting to fall in love with me. I politely told him it was over, but I had a false sense of serenity. I believed I could go back to New Haven and see him on a cordial, friendly basis.
I had spent the summer starving myself down to a size 6 and entering two "starter pageants," Miss Black World Michigan and Miss Michigan International. To my deep consternation, I failed miserably at being a beauty queen. Apparently, I couldn't walk. I didn't have the right clothes. I didn't have the right weave. And even though I was dizzy and hungry as hell from slurping Slim Fast plus one small meal a day, I was still considered 20 pounds "overweight."
I had also met a really good-looking guy on the Boblo Boat and convinced myself I was in love, even though we only saw each other a few times, and he kept stringing me along and standing me up.But I digress.
When I got back to New Haven for my junior year, Number Two spied me strutting down the street in black-and-pink, floral-print spandex biker shorts. (Me and my booty were particularly effective at turning heads that day.)
Less than a week after returning to school, he came to see me with flowers in hand, and we went for a ride in my raggedy car, which promptly broke down for what felt like the millionth time. I didn't even have money for a tow truck, so I took Number Two's offer to buy my car for $200. He paid me $100 cash up front and was supposed to pay the $100 balance in a few weeks. Plus, I had left the tools my dad had bought me in the trunk.
I guess you can guess how this story ended.
Our new-found "friendship" was every bit as trifling as the love affair.
Fast-forward about five months, and this fool still owed me money. He claimed my jumper cables and toolbox had been "stolen." And on top of that, I had an $80 ding on my credit report from some stupid movies I had rented for him just before he went to jail.
It was time for another cuss-out session, only this time I was out for blood. And I cut him to the quick with what was really festering under the surface ... my nagging suspicion, egged on by my new boyfriend, that this fool was gay.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Ign'ant Phone Calls
Why, oh why, did Tay-Tay call my house as soon as Number Two got out of jail?
Foster Mama didn't play that. She called Number Two and asked to speak to Tay-Tay. He refused to put her on the phone. So she told him in her meanest Foster Mama voice to "leave all that bullsh*t in Connecticut" because she "wouldn't have any of that breaking up her home."
Then I called. "Hello, is Tay-Tay there?"
"Who is this?"
"This is Anita. Put that bitch on the phone."
"Oh, man, I don't believe it," Number Two groaned.
"Well, believe it, baby, put that bitch on the phone!"
He handed the phone to her and click! That trouble-making bitch hung up on me.
I called right back. "Is there a motherf*cking reason why I was hung up on?"
"Uh ... the cord is broke," Number Two mumbled.
And that's when I started cussing him out from can't do to can't try. But it wasn't a particularly empowering cuss-out session. Because I was cussing him out for still being with her, instead of cussing him out for who he'd been to me. My tirade continued until he said, "I guess it's your turn to hang up now."
Bam! I took his suggestion.
By this time, Foster Mama and my foster sisters had gathered around like they had ringside seats to the most comical Friday Night Fight ever.
Number Two called back seconds later on Foster Mama's phone. I went into my bedroom, closed the door and called him back on my phone line.
"Anita, I don't understand why you're cussing me out. I haven't given you any reason to do that. I guess all this time you were secretly hating me and I just never knew it."
That instigated another barrage of cursing about how he threw me out at 3 a.m., how he didn't care about me, how he was stupid for still dating Tay-Tay.
"Anita, why are you cursing so much?"
"Because I motherf*cking can!!!! Now that I'm home with my family and I'm free, I can talk how I want, look how I want and be how I want, without somebody trying to change me into somebody else!"
Around this time, Tay-Tay started cutting up in the background. "Who's on the phone?"
"Tell that bitch Anita's on the phone!"
He didn't.
"Well since you're her motherf*cking guardian, give her this message. Tell her ugly black ass that she's a stank ho, and I'm just glad I didn't get her cooties."
Tay-Tay started throwing things. "Who are you talking to? Who's on the phone?"
Number Two, probably while ducking, gasped, "Tay-Tay stop that. Why are you breaking my stuff. That phone cost a lot of money!"
I continued screaming into the phone, until it dawned on me: This fool wasn't even paying attention to me at my angriest, most foul-mouthed best. Tay-Tay had truly won.
"Well, I hope you two live in unhappy bliss. Don't call me, and I never care if I see your face again, and tell that bitch she better not call my house no more, and if I see her face again, her ass is mine!"
With that I slammed the phone down, with red flames shooting from both ears, and yanked my bedroom door open to storm out of the room ...
... only to have Foster Mama and at least two sisters almost fall on top of me. They'd had their ears pressed to the door the whole time.
Foster Mama didn't play that. She called Number Two and asked to speak to Tay-Tay. He refused to put her on the phone. So she told him in her meanest Foster Mama voice to "leave all that bullsh*t in Connecticut" because she "wouldn't have any of that breaking up her home."
Then I called. "Hello, is Tay-Tay there?"
"Who is this?"
"This is Anita. Put that bitch on the phone."
"Oh, man, I don't believe it," Number Two groaned.
"Well, believe it, baby, put that bitch on the phone!"
He handed the phone to her and click! That trouble-making bitch hung up on me.
I called right back. "Is there a motherf*cking reason why I was hung up on?"
"Uh ... the cord is broke," Number Two mumbled.
And that's when I started cussing him out from can't do to can't try. But it wasn't a particularly empowering cuss-out session. Because I was cussing him out for still being with her, instead of cussing him out for who he'd been to me. My tirade continued until he said, "I guess it's your turn to hang up now."
Bam! I took his suggestion.
By this time, Foster Mama and my foster sisters had gathered around like they had ringside seats to the most comical Friday Night Fight ever.
Number Two called back seconds later on Foster Mama's phone. I went into my bedroom, closed the door and called him back on my phone line.
"Anita, I don't understand why you're cussing me out. I haven't given you any reason to do that. I guess all this time you were secretly hating me and I just never knew it."
That instigated another barrage of cursing about how he threw me out at 3 a.m., how he didn't care about me, how he was stupid for still dating Tay-Tay.
"Anita, why are you cursing so much?"
"Because I motherf*cking can!!!! Now that I'm home with my family and I'm free, I can talk how I want, look how I want and be how I want, without somebody trying to change me into somebody else!"
Around this time, Tay-Tay started cutting up in the background. "Who's on the phone?"
"Tell that bitch Anita's on the phone!"
He didn't.
"Well since you're her motherf*cking guardian, give her this message. Tell her ugly black ass that she's a stank ho, and I'm just glad I didn't get her cooties."
Tay-Tay started throwing things. "Who are you talking to? Who's on the phone?"
Number Two, probably while ducking, gasped, "Tay-Tay stop that. Why are you breaking my stuff. That phone cost a lot of money!"
I continued screaming into the phone, until it dawned on me: This fool wasn't even paying attention to me at my angriest, most foul-mouthed best. Tay-Tay had truly won.
"Well, I hope you two live in unhappy bliss. Don't call me, and I never care if I see your face again, and tell that bitch she better not call my house no more, and if I see her face again, her ass is mine!"
With that I slammed the phone down, with red flames shooting from both ears, and yanked my bedroom door open to storm out of the room ...
... only to have Foster Mama and at least two sisters almost fall on top of me. They'd had their ears pressed to the door the whole time.
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