Tag Archives: alone

Two Women

The two women met in an unfurnished apartment.

“I like it,” one said, “I think” (unusually sheepishly for her nature).  “It’s got some,” she rotated her wrists up in the air, looking for the less poetic word, “‘good light’.”  It took a talent to be so vague.  Or it took years of mutual knowledge and histories of hurt.

The younger one averted her eyes quickly.  She was getting better at busying herself in the kitchen.  Throughout her childhood, she’d witnessed mother’s chaos when other people came over to visit their place.  They had been lucky that way, due to her father’s reputable profession:   Always finding better living quarters, so others came over quite a bit.  Wanting to be the talk of the town, mother buzzed and chattered in the kitchen; and she would bang the drawers with aluminum dinnerware and slam the cupboards in an orchestra of her exhibitionist domesticity.

While mother whipped up meals and refilled drinks, her girlfriends wandered around nosily, every once in a while coming upon a tiny girl, with eyes so large they took up half of her face, playing her own game of house in the furthest corner of the bedroom.  Alone.

“So cute!” the women hissed, turning on their heels unhappily for having to divert their poking.

Mother continued conducting the percussions in her kitchen:

“She’s so quiet, that child!  She’s all — my husband!”

The women moved about the living-room; lurked by the family’s photographs; touched, shifted, sniffed, demanded to know the origin of things:

“You are one lucky bitch, I hope you know.”

“They meant it as a compliment,” after the women’s departure, mother would attempt to clarify things — the delicate things that her daughter could not understand yet (but perhaps with time, she would).  The evil smirk of the local Algebra teacher branded itself into her memory:  How could these women mean anything good?  But mother didn’t want to hear it:  “Stop asking stupid questions anyway!  This is adults’ business.”

But now:

“So,” the older woman spoke from the bedroom doorway and eyed the open, empty space.  “Are you going to ask Mike to ship you the bed?”  (Pause.)  “Or do you plan to house this draft in here forever?”

“What do you mean by that?” the young woman stopped, knife in her hand.

“I mean, haven’t you, guys, divided things up officially yet?”

The young woman looked back down at the gutted pickled fish under her fingers, on the cutting board.  It was a task that every Russian woman performed from A to Z.  From A to YA.  From A — to I.  Her mother would’ve drowned the detailed fish in a pool of sunflower oil; and it would stare out, with dehydrated eyeballs from underneath a layer of butchered onions meant to cover up a job so messily performed.

While peeling onions, mom would begin to cry demonstratively:

“Oy!  I so pity the little bird!”

What did the bird have to do with the fish?  The bird — to I.  The I — to eye.  Still, mother was a funny actress, so the child would spit with laughter.  She couldn’t help it:  She was still in love with her original prototype back then.

She now thought of that one time a thin fishbone lodged in her throat for a week; and how she gagged every night, while mother hooked her sharp nails into the back of her tongue.  For months to follow, sometimes, loose scales would reveal themselves stuck on her clothes or skin; or swimming in buckets of water with floor-scrubbing rags.  Mom was a disaster in the house.

In her own kitchen, however, the young woman never kept the head.  She wished she had a cat to feed it to.  A cat — to make-up for the missing child, to make the loneliness less oppressive.  She stared at the oval crystal bowl, with even filets of pink meat, neatly arranged.

She herself was a better housekeeper, yet heading toward a divorce nonetheless.  Most likely:

“Mike and I aren’t talking, mom.  You know that.”

“Oh!  Yes.  I see,” the old woman eyed the empty bedroom yet again:  Why so much space for someone with defeated ovaries then?  “You, young people!  You have no concept of marital endurance any more.”

 

She swore, he thought of the idea first.  At least, that’s how she remembered it.  In his defense (why was she so willing to defend him?):  In his defense — she wasn’t “willing”.  He was right.

“It’s just that… something isn’t working,” Mike told her over the phone, the week of one Thanksgiving which they’d agreed to spend apart.  He “couldn’t do it anymore”.  Her work.  Her books.  Why was he always taking second place after her life?  Once she hung up, she cried, of course, but mostly out habit; and out of habit, she started losing weight and sleep.  That’s what a wife in mourning was supposed to look like, she decided.  She cropped her hair, and started wearing pants and laced up wingtip shoes.  In their crammed-in basement apartment in the Bronx, she found room to pace and wonder, “Why?  Why?  Why?”

Her girlfriends were eventually allowed to visit the site of her disastrous marriage.  They bitched; they called him names.  They lurked, touched, shifted, sniffed.  They studied family photographs, still on display, for signs of early check-outs.  The women patted her boyish haircut and teared up a bit too willingly, some of them — being slightly grateful for feeling better about their own men.

And then, one balmy New York August afternoon, she called him from a pay phone in Harlem.

“Meet me for dinner.”

An hour later, he showed up with lilies.  After a dry peck that tasted unfamiliarly, she lead the way to a Dominican joint whose wall-full of French doors was always taken down for the summer.  It breathed the smell of oil — and of fried everything — onto the sweaty pedestrians on Broadway.

On their side of the missing wall, the night dragged on with a strained politeness.  His eyes were glossy, wet.  She stared out onto the street.  From either the heat of New York’s August and the lack of ventilation, the giant buds sweated under the plastic wrap; and by the time they finished picking through a pile of fried plantains, the lilies open completely, and just like everything at that time of the year — from sweat glands to subway sewers to perfume shops — they began to smell aggressively, nearly nauseating.

“I’m going to California,” she announced after finishing her white fish.

“Why?”

She looked down:  After their six-month separation, she had begun to wear dresses and curl her hair again.  She’d gained a certain swagger in the hips from wearing flat shoes through every season in New York.  The flesh of femininity was finally beginning to lose the aftertastes of her youth’s self-loathing.

Not having gotten an answer, “When?” — he examined her with wet eyes of a lab.

She looked down again.  The suppleness of her brown chest surprised her.  She looked up:  “Soon.”

Vagueness as a revenge:  She’d learned that from her mother, the best that ever was!  She owed him nothing.  He was the one who’d given up!  He was the one who left!  But now, it settled at the bottom of her stomach, along with the plantains, like something begging for its freedom.  And she, in her defense, was no longer “willing”.

(To Be Continued.)

“All the Lonely People: Where DO They All Come From?”

She always comes in here, right around this time (which probably says a lot about her, and the same — about me).

And when she appears — she is impossible not to notice.

You can tell a lot by the way a person enters through the door. Some come in with certainty, as if they own the joint.  Some have indeed been here before:  They call out to the sleepy cashiers or the slightly baffled manager, and the rest of us are meant to take notice of the commotion they’ve created.  Others slip in quietly:  They tread their ground with no presumption; and I would like to think they spend their days causing the least amount of damage, in the world.

Local young couples come in here, to play out yet another day in the perseverance of their love.  It’s them against the harsh world — together.  Them — against us!  And I don’t blame them:  Togetherness — is hard enough.  So, I watch them seeking refuge in each other’s company, because they still haven’t lost their love’s ability to hear — to receive each other — completely.  They still haven’t taken the privilege of their intimacy for granted.  Lucky kids!

Other times, this is the place for friends:  buds and girlfriends, best friends.  And they vent to each other about the little injustices in their relationships and lives; and expect alliances from the people at the other end of the table.

But she always comes in here alone, right around the same time. It is her voice that I hear first:  It sounds like baby-talk that comes from a child who’s having a hard time growing up.  I’ve often heard that voice from children with newly born siblings.  They aren’t ready to share their parents’ love yet, and they still cannot comprehend where their self-importance has gone.  So, they regress, even if only in their voices.  And that’s exactly how she sounds.

Her clothes are simple, most likely begotten from a thrift store:  A pair of loose jeans of no particular label and a long-sleeved crew neck sweater of pastel color.  She wears thick, beige socks around her perpetually swollen ankles and a pair of nursing shoes.  It’s not that she appears poor, just not well-off.  And for that, the rest of the joint finds her at fault.

Or maybe, it’s her face:  Something is not right with it.  Her brown skin is deeply lined, although there is an overall puffiness on her cheekbones, forehead and neck; and under her eyes.  The distance between her ears and chin has collapsed due to her absent teeth; so, she protrudes the lower jaw and smacks her lips a lot.  The eyes are bulging and big, striking in the lightness of their hazel color.  They make you lower your own gaze when confronted with hers.  They are fully present, no matter how far and how long her mind appears to have been gone, by now.

“Can I sit here?” she’ll say, in that baby voice, asking for a group of girlfriends to move their purses from the chairs at the table she prefers.

That table is the worst!  It’s right by the door, in the outer row, with the draft hitting her from both the outside and the overhead vents.  When sitting there, there is no way she wouldn’t get in the way of people, coming over for their refills of coffee and water; and I’ve seen a few act discombobulated by her positioning.  But she is sitting right by the door, as if already apologizing for not fitting in here. And before we notice — she will be gone.

The girls always act rushed when they move their bags, and they get uncomfortably silent once she finally sits down.

“Can I have some ice for my drink?” she’ll ask the Mexican fry cook, from behind the glass counter.

It’ll take a few tries to notice her:  She is tiny, plus, she’s got that baby voice on her.  And sometimes, if the kid at the fry station is new, he cannot understand her while he studies her face with embarrassment.

And I suspect it is her face:  We all get stuck on it a little.  Something is not right — with her face.

She’ll then sit down quietly and eat her meal so methodically she betrays her lack of family and money.  Only the people that have known poverty eat like that.  And I wish to apologize to her — for all of that pain and injustice; and for the shunned reactions of others.  They think if something isn’t right with her face — something must be not right with her.

But her only fault, really — is the lack of beauty.  She is not exotic, as retired youth has a chance to become.  Neither is she dignified from the excess of money to take care of herself.  She is simple, plain and just a little strange.

She comes and leaves alone; and while completely alone, she starts and finishes her meal.

One of these days, I shall strike up a conversation with her (but only if she’s willing to let go of her loneliness), and we’ll share a meal.  And we may even share a silence.

Because she always comes in here, right around this time, alone; which probably says a lot about her, and the same — about me.

Hit the Road, Jack!

A heavy heart.  She believed it to be a condition of the true. 

“Not now…” her girlfriends in bad relationships pleaded, their faces looking like sad dogs or startled babies, right before they howl with grief.  “Maybe tomorrow, you can tell me the truth.  But not now.”

They were hurting, like so many:  An epidemic of the living.  She understood that.  But she always thought it was better to hit the road.

Her losses — there have been many.  Plenty of little defeats.  But maybe it was her father, who as she remembered always stood so very tall; maybe it was he who taught her to get up and hit the road, again and again, even if merely out of habit.

He himself had long been self-discounted to the camp of the defeated:  Those who got through a listless crawl of days that were mundane most of the time — at their best — and chaotic for the rest of the year.  (Once, he confessed that he preferred the chaotic ones; because at least then, he couldn’t ponder his way through them.)

He had stayed behind, in a country that she fled before she too joined the defeated.  Because she wanted so much more than survival.  Because she got sick in the lobbies of its office buildings, hospitals and dorms, all smelling alike — like chlorine and mildew — waiting and waiting for someone to come and get you, only to give you another dose shit.  Daily resignation to injustice just wasn’t enough:  She wanted to strive, to flourish; to chase ideals, like a cat does mirror reflections on the wall.  She wanted the truth; and she had hoped, for the world.  

So:  She hit the road.

But the heavy heart followed.  (She believed it to be a condition of the true.)

“Truth’s okay,” a wise woman once recommended.  “But you have to say it with a smile.  Otherwise, you’re all sharp edges.”

“Look!  A roach in your salad,” she said; then remembered the woman’s advice — and smiled.  Better?

Every night, when heading home, at the end of all that striving and flourishing — the hour of the heavy heart would rapidly descend.  Because she knew that in between the white walls (which her lease prohibited her from painting), there would be no distractions.  Only pondering.  Only the truth.  (Oh, is that why she always preferred to be in the midst of a love affair:  Because she could reach for the voices of her lovers like others reach for a midnight snack?  But then again, she never knew how to end it.  How to wait for the end.  So, she’d either found herself “in the midst” — or hitting the road.)

Sometimes, she’d take the longest routes home, through the unpredictable neighborhoods of her city that she was beginning to memorize by heart.  Her sometimes heavy heart.   

“How do you not get lost around here?” her mother, always the passenger, asked her every single time.

“I’d rather be fucking lost, trust me!” she responded; then remembered the woman’s advice — and smiled.

Some nights though, she just couldn’t bear it.  After all of her failed attempts to get lost, she’d return to the white walls; leave the bags in the kitchen, then turn right around and leave.  Oh how she wished to live in a city with tolerance for pedestrians!  Still:  She hit the road.

And so, she would drive through her city, over and over —  through it, around — hoping to discover a new street.  To get fucking lost.  She hated those “Dead End” signs — always so brutal and non-negotiable! — and preferred one-way streets.  Those ditches on the road — she kind of liked them:  They always jolted her to an awareness and justified a complaint.  She liked shortcuts, through alleys and parking lots, especially when it was unclear if she was heading the wrong way.  The poorly lit streets of immigrant neighborhoods thrilled her and she rolled down her windows:  to get a whiff of their contented survival.

She studied other drivers, most of whom always seemed unaware of their living behind the glass walls.  She hated being stuck behind trucks and buses, even though most forewarned her of making frequent stops and wide turns.  So she’d zoom around them.  Prii — always brought bad news.  (She liked calling them “Priuses” anyway.)  So, she’d go around those too, while shaking her head and avoiding eye contact with the owners.

When following police cars, she never knew if she was allowed to go faster than them; because truth be told, she rarely knew the speed limit.

“WATCH THE ROAD” their stickers recommended.  Not:  “WATCH THE SPEED”.

So, she’d speed around those as well.

“Ooh, gurl,” one night, a driver of a bus she had just passed, attempted to talk to her through his cracked window.  She looked over.  Very much the jolly type, he probably never suffered from a heavy heart.  He was grinning:  A happy wanderer.

“Come wit me?” he said with some sort of a mishmash of Caribbean accent and street talk.

“Okay,” she responded, surprising herself with the sudden lightness of her own heart.

“Meh say:  Come WIT me!”  The man was in the midst of a sermon.

“OKAY,” she laughed.  “Where are we going?”

“Whedeva ya want, gurl!”

She considered:  “India?”

“Let’s — go!”

“Now?”

“Yeh, gurl.”

“Don’t you have passengers?”  She looked back at the monstrosity she’d zoomed around:  No wonder it makes wide turns.

“Ya make me wanna pull dis ting ova’!”  He grinned at her, with not a hint of creepiness, just joy and admiration.

“Well.  Then, let’s hit the road,” she said.

Of course, at the green eye of the traffic light, she’d sped past him, and past the orange monstrosity he was lugging around town, with seeming contentment.  Straight home she went, for the white walls of her apartment which she was prohibited to paint.  And when she stood in the midst of her kitchen — alone with her heavy heart — she thought:

“This isn’t so bad,” — and reached for the fridge, at midnight.

You Oughta Know, No?

Trying something new this morn’, my kittens:  Naked rant blogging — IN BED.  Knowing me (and some of you are getting to know me quite a bit these days, thank you very much), I am shocked I haven’t done this one before.

The thing is, this week:  Besides working really hard on my dreams (The Perpetual Dreamer is my life’s finally declared major), I’ve also invested a few hours on the most significant relationships of my life (which although do not currently include a romantic interest, but plenty of loves).

I’ve received my girlfriends’ strife and got updates from my comrades on the state of their own nostalgia for our no longer existent motherland:  Bohemia, alas.

“Hear me out!” — a gypsy man ordered me the other day while he endlessly wondered about his next wandering.  And I did.  I did:  I heard him out.

Compassion.

I’ve held my breath in silence yesterday afternoon while listening to my goddaughter far away from me, on the other coast, who hasn’t learned to talk yet but speaks volumes with her silence and her tiny furrowed brows inherited from India.  Breathlessly, I held back my tears to the noise of her twirling her mother’s cell phone, in her little brown hands; and when she finally produced a noise that’s impossible to spell or imitate — (was that Malayalam, my love?) — oh how I wept!  But then, again:  I’ve claimed my breath back:

Compassion!

Now, I’m sittin’ here, in my canopy bed, with the most gorgeous skies tempting me from outside.  My body — albeit its looking delicious this summer already, thank you very much — is feeling as if someone has ran it over with a truck.  Better yet:  a tank.  Exhausted:  That’s what I am, my kittens.

But regardless the state of being, I always come back to the blank page, every single morn’, as I’ve done for years, on my own.  Alone.  But now:  You’re here.  And these every day reunions beat every other desire I may harbor.  It’s permanent — this wanting to be read.  And even though I never allow myself the hubris of assuming that I may change a life — with my words — I hope I at least reveal enough compassion.

Compassion…

“How do you find what to write about?”

I hear a voice from another day — a voice of one of my broken-hearted.  She’s always thought so highly of me!  She wishes for my strength and esteem and discipline; while little does she know that all I wish for — is her time.  She’s still got time on her side — time and youth, you see? — while I’m perpetually running out.  Too young to know what chronic nights of loneliness feel like, she thinks I don’t cry behind my closed doors and curtains; that I’m immune to doubt.  She thinks my compassion comes freely, at no cost.

How DO I find what to write about?

Compassion.  That’s it.  It never runs out.  That’s my privilege, in life — and my burden:  I’m never immune to humanity.  No matter the stupidity or the disappointment, I always come back to it.  And now:  You’re here.  And even though I never allow myself the hubris of earning your understanding, your misunderstanding — I just cannot afford!  Because these tales come from my compassion:  FOR YOU.  For the sake of you.  For the sake of my own kindness.

Kind-ness.

The hero of today’s rant blog shall be named Stan.

Stan was a simple man, my kittens; not really artistic or fearless.  He just wanted to live his life, to live it out in calm — in some blah-ness of a simple survival.

No, he didn’t want much.  Aspiring — wasn’t his thing.  Ambition was somebody else’s spiel.  Because to live — wasn’t even his choice in the first place.  He was sort of born one day, to a pair of unartistic, fearful parents, somewhere in the middle of the country.  They taught him how to walk and to use the toilet; then, sent him off to school.  Then — college.

Stan got by.  Started losing his hair early.  Met a girl.  Learned to wank himself off.  Married the girl — knocked her up, clumsily, in the dark; then, returned to wanking himself off, alone.  Pleasures were always simple for Stan.  So were the solutions to his problems.  (I wish he didn’t have any, to tell you the truth.  But then, we are never granted more than we can handle.  So, Stan’s lot had to be lighter than mosts’.)

“I hear California is nice,” he said to his wife one day.  She was in the midst of matching his tube socks after doing laundry.

That was the day of Stan’s midlife crisis.

So, they moved.

And that’s where Stan and I met:  At some random gas station on Western Boulevard.  I was running low, in the midst of my Perpetual Dreaming.  (Otherwise, I’d avoid that street at all costs:  It’s got a special talent for inspiring depression.)  And Stan?  Stan was on his way back to Glendale.  This — was his regular stop.

At first, he was the jerk answering his cell phone at the gas pump next to mine.

“Is this fucker suicidal?!”  I thought and looked at him with the disgust I learned on New York subways.  Don’t know about his simple life, but I still had plenty of aspiring to do!  Ambition — was my spiel!

Stan noticed the look, realized his wrongdoing.  He brushed his thin hairs over the bald spot, lowered the phone and said:

“I’m so sorry, M’am.  I have to get this!  My wife…”

Stan started weeping, my kittens.  Subduedly at first, just so he could finish the phone call.  But once the flip phone slid into the pocket of his un-ironed khakis, Stan became all about his “ohs” and “goshes”.  Repeatedly, he tried to double over the hood of his car, then the trash bin with pockmarks of gum all over it.  He tried so hard to face away from me.

“Sir?  Sir, let me…”

With my hand on his hunched over back, I tried to guide him to his driver’s seat. But Stan was all about his “ohs” and “goshes”, clutching onto that filthy trash bin:

I was running low that day; but when compassion flooded — it took me with it, good riddance.

I’m in the Mood for Love-ly

Mmm-mornin’.  Mmm-moany mornin’.

It was a long night, kittens.  But that’s a’right:  I have another long — and mmm-magnificent — day ahead.

But I did greet this day for you already, bright ‘n’ early.  I did that!

While most kittens were whirring quietly in their cots, I spent the first hours of the morn’ pontificating with a fellow gypsy and a stunning heart:  on the nature of love, and art, and the world itself.  All the way from the other coast he told me that the world was still magnificent (despite my recently lost love); and as he could see it from o’er there, it was waiting to be treaded on.

“And did you know,” he told me, “there aren’t many interferences along each path — but opportunities to learn?”

“Really?”

I was already drifting off, leaving my gravity behind:  We, fly gypsies, often don’t need our feet.  He brushed my forehead with his words of gentle and intimate knowledge of me; and then, he left to do his own treading.  Bye-bye, baby.  Bye-bye, boo.  Mmm.

So, today:  I’m packing up.  Suddenly feeling like I’ve shed a few kilos off my back, I am in the mood to recoup and get ready to move again.  There is a tribe of gypsies hollering out my name in their bard songs, on the coast of the other, tamer ocean.  (Oh, how I adore them, for keeping my heart!)  A few solitary ones are waiting for me under the scorching suns of Mexico, and India; and somewhere in a quirky town in Texas.  And then:  There is my father — the quietest of all, who has patiently waited in the other hemisphere, for the return of his prodigal child.  (I’m on my way, P.  I’m well on my way.)  And when we meet, we shall sit around the pots of my slowly simmering, healing stews and reshuffle our stories as if they were cards of Solitaire.

Mmm, ‘tis the season — for reunions.

But while I’m gathering my belongings and courage today, I shall be treading quietly.  Very, very quietly.  The thoughts of today’s meditation are vague and ever-so-changing.  They remind me of an abstract watercolor painting:  At any moment, another stroke can change their entire gist.  Another color can shift the mood.  So, I’ll try not to speak much; ’cause I don’t want to fuck it up.

It doesn’t happen often — today’s Moment in Between — because generally of an impatient mindset, I never sit for long enough to let it pass.  So intensely I insist on living my life that I rarely sit in silence.  Instead, I continue moving, shrugging off the urge for prayer as something I could do in mid-step.

“I don’t have time for this!” I tell myself and others when confronted with a suggestion — or an ultimatum — to chill out.  “I’ve got shit to do!”

That may be true, my darlings, but one’s ambition does not negate those privileged moments of silence and aloneness.  To the contrary, if one decides to devote a life to a great empathy for humanity, aloneness — is mandatory.  Because by its very definition, compassion is a recognition of one’s self in another.  And how in the world am I going to recognize that self if I, myself, don’t know my self?  (Sorry, kittens:  I’m probably sounding a bit too So Cal for some o’ ya.  I’ll be back to my East Coast Bitchy in no time.)

Last night, I heard a lovely actress with a delicious accent and painfully poignant heart eloquently speak of the common introverted nature of all artists:

“It’s that thing of having to inhabit… yourself,” she said, “whatever that is… And it can often be quite uncomfortable.”  (Ah, Cate:  Ever so magnanimous you are!  You give us, humans, way too much credit.)

So before I bounce again — toward the other coasts and countries, and loves — I’m just gonna sit a lil’.  Alone.  Quiet. Mmm-meditate.

…But what’s this I’m hearing?  A voice of a man screaming aggressively on my street.  How dare he?!  Despite having Hollyweird’s zip code, my ‘hood is stubbornly quiet.  So, what’s all this, sir?  How dare you?!

I look out of my window:  If only I’d see him, I think, I can forgive his unknowing act.  But:  Not a visible soul in sight.  I study the yard below and the baby-blue guest house whose single staircase is always decorated with drying canvases.  A woman in a headscarf quietly steps up to its wide window, while wiping her hands on the bottom of her apron.  Like me, she’s cross-examining the street for the source of the disturbance.  Apparently, she too — is asking for silence.

“Oh,” I think.  “So, you’re the one creating all this beauty,”  Despite heaving treaded this side of the world for over three years now, I’ve never met her before, my kittens, only her art.

She looks up.  She sees me.  I freeze:  I am not ready to hang with others yet.  Mmm-m’am?

She is older than me, much better lived in; less stubborn.  I can see she used to be a stunner.  Her forehead is un-crinkled, unlike my own:  She’s taking it easy.

“Mmm-m’kay, O’Keeffe.  I’ll take your lead.”

I manage to do a half-wave, then slide closed my window.  ‘ Cause I’m sitting alone — in silence — today, don’t cha know?!

“I gotcha,” — she nods, then leaves her window open and walks back to her work.

Mmm-mornin’:   mmm-mazel tov.

‘Cause My Momma Taught Me Better Than That!

Once upon a time, I had a lover…

(What does this have to do with today’s celebration of Mamas’ Day?  Hmm, I dunno.  Maybe ‘cause my motha is the most sexually liberated woman I’ve ever known?  Or because, after every break-up, she is the first to bless me to “Go forth — and fuck!”

Or to quote her more precisely, that shawty says:  “Vhen van penis leavez — replace vith anozzer!  NEXT!”

Motha’s pretty rad, in an insane kinda way.)

So, anyway:  Once upon a time, I had a lover.  A friend of a friend, he’d been flirting with me for years, warming up all of my orifices with not just his Tall, Dark and Handsome routine but with his talent to make me laugh that equalled to that of my motha’s.  (See:  my shawty is gonna be all o’er this rant blog!)  But the one thing I’ve learned from a previously debauched affair of my late twenties is this:  Never settle for leftovers.

You see:  The player — had a girl, and a lovely one at that.  Of some exotic Eastern European heritage, she was driving him insane with that untamed, shameless sexuality we Slavs are known for; but also with her snappy ‘tude.  After the first few years, the girl’s sassiness transformed into bitchiness, and she was making this player suffer, for real.  But no matter how much he complained to me about being mistreated, I kept my ears open — but my Frederick’s of Hollywood on.

Naturally, when the mean Eastern European dumped his confused American ass — he came running to me; and call me an idiot, I received him with my arms — and legs — open.  (Frederick’s of Hollywood — OFF!)  But instead of nurturing him through his break-up into my Next Ideal Boyfriend (Tall, Dark and Handsome), I agreed to act as a stand-in for the woman who’s walked out on him such a short time ago, her perfume still lingered in the air.  And in his bedroom.  And in his car.  I mean:  I could taste the lovely inside his mouth!  Brutal.  Yet, still:  I signed-up to be the rebound.

When we agree to that, my darling sistas, I guarantee we don’t make our mamas proud.  So, okay:  I’ve refrained from the dignity-raping, karma-wrecking, heart-breaking role of the Other Woman.  But when I climbed on top of that player right after the Love of His Life has climbed off — I did myself no justice at all.  For lost loves take time to mourn; and not until the brokenhearted commit to wrapping-up their tragic acts can they be willing to start the next chapter.

Once upon a time, I sat butt-naked on this player’s kitchen counter to compensate for our height difference; and while I was nibbling on frozen mangos and his neck, he pulled away and said:

“When you walked in tonight…”

“Yeah?” I purred, moving on to the earlobes — and more mangos; but he stopped me by cradling my chin with his manly hand the size of my lil’ Eastern European face.

“You looked so beautiful — I thought, ‘WHY IS SHE HERE?!’”

Once upon a time ago, I shrugged off the player’s comment as some odd compliment by a man which would take me years to decipher.  I didn’t have years!  I was a horny woman, on a mission!

But after just a month, that affair would go shit.  Despite our friendship (or perhaps because of it), the man treated me with flippancy and indifference; while I kept telling myself that after enough time, he’d snap out of it — and there I’d be, in all my goodness ‘n’ glory.  And, of course:  We’d live “happily ever after”!  But one night, he stood me up for a film date — and surprisingly quickly, I was over his manly taint.  (That man was lucky my motha was never made privy to that ending of our love story; or she’d pull a Tony Soprano on his ass — and the Tall, Dark and Handsome would be no more.)

Last night, something crawled up my ass.  (Settle down!  I wasn’t having sex.)  I couldn’t sleep.  Oh, yes!  I remember:  I was releasing the most recent love of mine, upon his request.  It took me a couple of weeks to stop throwing tantrums and realize the man just didn’t want me.  Despite the excuses he granted me:  bottom line — he wanted out!

With my self-delusions evaporating on every exhale, I slid open my windows and turned off the lights, letting the hollers of youth playing their Hollyweird games on my street enter my sanctuary.  How I was hoping that their voices would overcrowd the one dominant one in my head — and in my very gut where there lives my motha’s intuition — and I would distract myself enough to reunite with the illusion that I finally got the man I wanted!

“He’ll change his mind.”

“He’ll come back.”

Yet, there I sat, in the dark.  Alone.  Alone — again.

In the midst of this post-break-up meditation, I heard the ghost of the Tall, Dark and Handsome…  and asshole!  (Sorry:  Motha has taught me better than to lose my graces; but during break-ups (and behind the wheel of my sports car), I often suffer from Tourette’s.)

“WHY IS SHE HERE?!” reiterated the player; and suddenly I realized that besides being complimentary at the time, his comment was a recognition of his unworthiness — of me! — and his unreadiness to be with a magnificent woman my motha has taught me to be.  He needed to pay his dues, still; to suffer through more bitches in his life; until he himself realized that he deserved to reach for the goodness I was proposing with my taut body (again: thanks, mom!) and my generous, compassionate, exceptional heart (ditto!).

Now, this rant is not about horn-tooting.  (Hah!  That sounds naughty:  “horn-tooting”.)  It’s more than that.  This — is a fucking parade through your towns, cities and hamlets, my ladies.  To celebrate you — the magnificent daughters of your magnificent mothers — is my mission.  But since I may not be around during your own personal lapses of self-worth, I pray you listen to your mamas; for they are the ones reminding us that we deserve to be loved by men who, day in and day out, strive to be worthy of us. 

But then again, in this unhappily ending story, it’s not about our self-esteem (and if you ever let a player affect it, I myself will go Tony Soprano on your taut asses).  It’s about the men’s.

Until then, we, good girls, are better left alone — and single — and magnificent, just like our mamas: