His reputation preceded him, as is often the case with big personalities.  I didn’t really get to know him until I was about seven.  Memory isn’t my strong point, but I’m pretty sure we met on a Friday.  Lots of poignant events in my life had a way of happening on Fridays, so we’ll stick with that for now.  I liked him right off the bat.  Everybody did.  Sometimes, even with the very young, you know when they have “it.”  That thing which makes people take notice.  My mom thought my infatuation was so cute.  My dad, so him as trouble, so he was not nearly as amused.  He tried to steer me away, but I was smitten, so it was too late.

I just wanted to be around him and hear his voice, even then.  I would drop everything to listen to him.  He wanted to be my man, and had told me as much.  I let him be just that.  My young fantasies always involved him.  My first slow dance was with him.  He needed love.  My love.  Who was I to say no?  There were other crushes, but he was my constant love.

After years of being tight, out of the clear blue, he called me a bitch.  It stunned me.  Have you ever had your mother unexpectedly smack the hell out of you, and all you can do is give that hard blink?  Saying it was hurtful enough, but everybody heard him.  In my embarrassment, and my inability to process it, I explained it away.  My dad gave me the knowing, “I told you so,” lecture.  My mother suggested that I leave him alone.

He made an effort to make up for it, so I gave him another chance.  I was his sister; his queen.  We would go on for hours about building, not only ourselves, but all black people.  We could talk about Malcolm and Haile and the beauty of our black origins.  He said I was his beginning and his end.  His words made me move as he spoke to my needs.  He knew me.  We grew together.  As we grew, his intentions became more explicit.  I remember the day my father found the words he’d penned for me and angrily threw them in my face.  He could never understand our thing.

Young love, however, eventually grows restless.  Rather than fight a losing battle, I set him free to be the person he felt he needed to be.  Of course we kept in contact, and I didn’t always agree with the things he said, or the manner in which he said them, but I understood why he was so damned angry.  Though I set him free, others were more selfish.  They stifled and took from him.  Any efforts he made to grow were met with disdain, disinterest, and derision.  I stayed in his corner, because that was all I knew to do as far as he was concerned.  I felt partially responsible, because it all started with him trying to give me a voice when I lacked words.  He was my champion.  The guilt that came with abandoning him was unbearable.

Anger with what the world was throwing at him caused him to lash out at me again.  He was much more vitriolic.  I was never enough of anything.  Not pretty enough, my hair wasn’t long enough, my lips weren’t thin enough.  So he would parade his new girls that met his qualifications.  There were certainly enough of them.  It was as though he could not miss an opportunity to showcase his disrespect.

The girl he loved since pigtails was replaced by strippers and porn stars, and one at a time was never enough.  He needed all of them, and so many were willing.  They loved him for the same reason I loved him.  For that shine he had within.  We retained contact when I became a mother, but it was always so strained.  How could I let my kids in his company?  I couldn’t.  Not often.

Despite the hurt, I still would light up when he called.  You do that with old loves.  You don’t forget who they were.  Especially when who they were was so sweet and good.  When consider someone mine, it’s hard for me to see things any other way, even when the writing is on the wall.  Sadly, the dashing figure in the shiny suits and the dark shades morphed from the person I know, to the person I knew.  True to form, even now he puts up bravado, but I know him too well to not recognize that he is lost, and unable to figure out where he’s going.  The way he treats women, whom he once regarded as his sisters, is nothing short of disgusting.  And since they know who he used to be, they think there’s still a chance.

And even after all this time, he reminds me that he used to be an excited youngster who could render me paralyzed with amazement.  I’m talking about someone who was beautiful, who was bold, who was black.

“Cuz who I’m talkin bout y’all is hip-hop.” (c) Common

And I STILL love him.

But he hate me.

So, Neyo n’nem have that catchy little song about how they want their woman to be independent and such.  She has her own thing, her own money, her blah blah blah.  Here’s my question to that:  Muthafucka, is your tub clean?  How often do you clean your refrigerator?  Is there FOOD in your refrigerator?  Real talk.

I know a lot of guys that speak this independent jargon, and their apartment looks like Beirut.  Okay, I’m making my own money, can you hook up an edible gumbo?  Do you refrain from wearing the same pair of socks two days in a row? Do you wash your baseboards?

Check it fam, I’ve got this independent thing down, and as an independent woman, I am not trying to be your mama.  I want YOU to be up on the good fabric softener and know how to make gravy from scratch.  Yeah…that’s right.  There are a whole lot of yall still going to mama for your laundry.  Hell, a lot of yall are still going to mama for your laundry because YOU LIVE THERE.  I just want the playing field to be leveled.  It’s no problem for me to have my own thing.  Do you have a complete set of pots?

Okay…these are just jokes.  It’s not the 50s, and women are making their own money.  But still…what you got on my jambalaya homie?

This morning, I checked my Yahoo mail account (I usually just check this once or twice a week).  The home page has a bunch of little articles (I’m sure you’re familiar, but I’m just feeling chatty), and the one that caught my eye was “4 Questions to Never Ask Your Guy”.  It goes without saying that I had a field day with what those four questions could be, but I wanted to see how things play out in date land.  My first thought was, “Who are these women that ask these questions?!”  Then I thought, “This is in desperate need of my commentary!”  So, here goes:

1. “Am I better-looking/smarter/etc. than your ex?”

Who gives a steaming pile of caca?  You are clearly SOMEHOW different from his ex, otherwise, you would be his ex too.  Unless, of course, his ex held a propensity for asking stupid ass questions, NOW you’re going to be his ex too.  There are certain things about a man’s past that are crucial to know.  “Are you wanted by the law?”  “Have you been tested for ‘the bonus’?”  “How many times have you been married?”  Shit like that is crucial because these things can feasibly affect your feature together.  But you’ve got issues if you think he cares that the woman who set his shit on fire had bigger boobs than you.  And if you ask a dude that THIS CHICK used to rock with, if I was smarter than you, then the answer is yes, because I’m smart enough to know that inane shit like that doesn’t matter.

2. “Do you love me?”

What?  Okay, different people have different views about dropping the “L” word.  Some people feel the guy should say it first.  Some believe you should say it when you feel it, blah blah blah.  I won’t get into all that.  But I will tell you how a LOT of dudes let you know that they love you:  they SAY it.  If a guy hasn’t said it, it means that either he’s not sure, or he doesn’t feel it enough to take it there.  Bottom line, dude isn’t ready.  Do you like being backed into a corner for shit you ain’t ready for?  Didn’t think so.

3. “Can you lend me some money?”

Again, who are these people?  They spoke of substantial shit like down payments on cars and shit like that.  (if you can’t afford the down payment, how are you going to pay the note?  Moreso, how are you going to pay the note AND repay your loan?)  I’m not saying that The Kid has never received money from a dude.  However, I WORK, and I take great pride in not being the “handout ho.”  Get it together.  If your shit is so shaky that you can’t pay your own rent, then you need to take that time you’re spending dating and get a second gig.

4. “Are you cheating on me?”

My damie, my damie.  More times than not, people (read:  women) ask this question because there are other issues in the relationship.  I’ve never quite understood the need to assault the extraneous issues, and ignore the thing that’s right there.  If your issue with your man is that you’re not spending enough time, or he’s always working late or whatever, deal with THAT. Maybe he’s at work because he has to raise the money for your stupid down payment on your car?  Or maybe, he just doesn’t think like that.  Yes, lots of dudes cheat, but not ALL dudes.  When that’s the first place you go every time things don’t go right, you’ve probably got some healing to do before you embark upon another relationship.

Now, you may ask yourself, “Why listen to this chick who can’t get a relationsihp to last longer than that show ‘Cop Rock’?”  To you I can only say, don’t listen then.  But keep in mind, I kind of happened to deal with the experts, so you could lend credence to that.  Also, if you subscribe to the theory that even a broken clock is right twice a day, then you should at least give credence to two of my opinions.

I woke up this morning feeling just a little off.  Even after I said my prayers, thanking God for another day, I was still a little blue.  So I really amped myself up, like you wouldn’t believe.  Music, joking with the kids, positive thoughts.  I even threw mascara and my favorite lip gloss into the mix.  Still, snake eyes.

So I came out of the parking garage, and the sun hit my face, and it was just such a beautiful feeling.  So I tell myself, “Whatever it is, shake it off.  It’s going to be gorgeous today.”  As I proceed across the street, still feeling off, but trying to get into the veritable “climb every mountain” playlist I’ve got on my iPod, and as I stepped up on the curb…

BUSTED

MY

ASS.

Usually, falls don’t bother me.  I’ve never been particularly graceful and ladylike in the maneuvering department.  However, to fall in a crowd of people, and have all my books and notebooks and magazines scattered everywhere, so uncool.  Fortunately, I didn’t bust the knees out of my pants or anything like that, but it was still a pain in the ass.

Typically, when I fall, I laugh at myself.  I’m not sure if it’s out of embarrassment, or because I’m always party to shenanigans of some sort.  I couldn’t wring a laugh out of myself this time.  Not even a chuckle.  Because today, my falling just really isn’t funny.  Whenever I make headway, it’s like the universe puts me in check and says “Sit down, bitch!”  And the thing is, I don’t even think I know how to sit down.  Not now.  Not when I was two and in a body cast.  I can’t stay down.  I remember being in a fight, and getting my ass thoroughly whipped by a chick three times my size.  But I wouldn’t go down, because in my mind, I could lose, but that behemoth was going to earn that fucking victory dance.  (And no, this is not a feel good story about how I gained her respect and we became friends.  If I see that bitch in the street TO-MOR-ROW, I’m diving on her.)

I don’t mind the struggle, because, if I weren’t struggling, I promise you, I’m not sure what I would be doing.  But sometimes, I just want things to work out.  I know everyone has their own shit to deal with, but sometimes, I look at other people’s lives, and they almost seem charmed.  I know people, and I’m not even talking rich people, but just regular ass people that seem to have life handed to them on the regular.

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful (and I guess that means I know that I do), because I have two beautiful healthy kids, and people would kill for that.  But I scrape and struggle, and I can barely see how I’m gonna get my kid the skateboard and gear he wants for his birthday.  And what makes that suck even MORE is the fact that if I can’t get it, he won’t say shit about it, so my great kid learns that the reward for being a stand up cat is…being a stand up cat.

My point?  I dunno.  I’m just in a foul mood.  So I have one of two choices:  take it out on everyone around me (ugh), or sound off here, in my spot.  I think I made the better choice.