Tag Archives: good woman

“Ashes, Ashes!” — All Fall Down!

How ever do you hurdle over a good woman?

I had to get out of bed today, at the start of daylight, and write this one down.  And in the morning, I was pretty sure I dreamt the whole thing up.

Habitually, I jump-started the morning, today:  Coffee — on, alarm — off.  Teeth, curtains, phone calls.  Fuss with the landscape of my schedule.  Inevitably:  Work!  Read some; work, read some more.  And not until I reached for my journal to jot down a well-molded sentence by a fellow writer well-versed in the humanity of men (no, not mankind — but men, specifically) — that I found the scribbles in my tired handwriting, back at the start of daylight:

How ever do you hurdle over a good woman?

After writing that, I tangled myself back into the womb of my sheets and I remembered that normally at this hour, my men would become my sons.  My children:  I find them, in my sleepy stupor of suspended dreams, and I memorize their faces.  Those — are the faces I choose to keep in the front; because it is then, I believe, a man’s humanity — is at his best.

So, ask me how to hurdle over a man and I might whip up a game or two.  I usually carry on with this one play:

I stay in touch with the resigned game partner, especially if it was his idea to stop playing.  Why, why, why would I be tempted to pick at this dried-up scab, earned from our silly horseplay?  After years of this pattern, I must admit:  For the stories.

Yep, the stories, my children.  Immediately after a break-up, they are never redemptive but mostly recyclable.  Between the two of us, it’s a game of “Remember When?”; and for a while, that’s sort of titillating enough, in a sickly way.  Before “Remember When?”, I used to run the marathons of “But You Did This!”, but that would always turn out to be bad for my finger joints; because there would be just so much wagging a scorned lover could do.  But during “Remember When?”, eventually, the tempers mellow out, the egos settle down:  And soon enough, we are able to have a conversation.

It is time, then, for a game of crooked mirrors.  Not so long ago in want, in need, in blind love with each other, we suddenly find ourselves roaming around a funhouse, looking for our better reflections.  Truth be told, by that point, we aren’t even interested in the most flattering reflections of our selves (and we even have an occasional chuckle at our expense).  We are just looking for a couple of matching ones.

“Does your truth — match my truth?”

We keep on wandering.  So very tired we are by then, by all the previous wagers and competitions and games — by the finger wagging and “you’re it!” tagging — we both know this somewhere near the very end.  Silence would follow this game if mutual truths are found.  If not — we go for a few more tours around the funhouse.

“How about this truth then?  Does it seem true, to you?”

At this point in the game, redemption is yet to come.  At this point in the game, redemption — is not even the point of it.  There may be some forgiveness, along the way, mostly for the sake of closure; and that self-forgiveness is sometimes so selfish — it’s profane.  There may even be some letting off the hook of the other scorned party, but mostly out of exhaustion.

But redemption:  It demands time.  It’s a sentence we must serve, willingly or not; and maybe not until the next loves — the next games with karmic losses at the end — that salvation comes.  Until then, we are just wandering around a funhouse, comparing truths.

(But then again, that’s just me.  Out of all the choices of child’s play, I’m always in the mood for some storytelling.  So, that may not be the name of the game, for you, my children.)

So:  How ever do you hurdle over a good woman?  

I’ve never played this one, so I have no clue.  But ask me how to hurdle over a good man (because we always fall in love with his goodness, first; with the best of his humanity), I may whip up a game or two:

Take baths:  They are womb-like — the ultimate homecoming.  “Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub…”

Hide away his letters, and all of his words; his residues, his scents.  Then, put away your own:  The perfumes you used to wear to leave on his pillows and in his hair; the lotions with which you rubbed his tired joints (before the finger wagging started).  And when there is an urge to dig it all up again:  Surrender to it.  Oh, yes, my kiddos:  It’s gonna be a lengthy round of Hide-and-Seek.

Whatever you do, don’t sign-up for a round of Simon Says:  You’ll end up wagging your fingers, again. 

And finally, alas:  Silence Game.  You can’t skip that one, sorry; not if you eventually want to start winning some.  In the beginning,  you just might be curious to see who can hold his or her breath the longest.  But do follow through.  Play the Silence Game:  You can’t skip that one, not if you want to stop losing!

So:  Say uncle.

‘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:

Karma isn’t a Bitch. It’s a Cunt.

Sh, my beautiful baby-boys:  I have a gorgeous angel in my bed.  Please don’t wake her!

She had flown in the other eve from afar:  One of my East Coast guardian angels who, over the course of our decade-long friendship, had seen me wrestle with some serious shit on the way to becoming the rad broad that I am.  (Motha tells me modesty doesn’t run in our fam’.  “Repeat after me,” she orders me around:  “Lucky you — to know ME.”  Obediently, I follow the lead.  Never underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion!)

Back to my sleeping angel. Born on some exotic Mediterranean coast, just like the gypsy scribing this rant blog, she had never settled — for a place or a man unworthy of her stunning self.  Instead, she continued her flight across the skies of the world, occasionally marking her coordinates with a post-card to me.

And I?  I treaded upon the ground beneath, looking up only when I’d trip myself up:

“Did you see that?” I’d ask the skies of those multiple cities in which I played hide-and-seek with my homes and loves.

“I think:  You’re amazing,” the voice of my girl would ping-pong from one timezone to the next.

Alas:  Never underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion.

So, I’d scape myself off the ground, relocate my gravity and resume the epic search for the next city in which my love could be hiding.

Last night, while the angel dozed off on a floor pillow underneath a caramel-colored light that blended with her skin tone, I was alerted by messages from two women in the midst of their heartaches.  One had just tripped herself up on her intuition:  She was not getting the love she needed from a man.  The other — tumbled over the limbs of her lover who, while stretching those and putting on his running shoes, suddenly wanted to “pursue other options”.  One was a grown woman who, in this ever-so-transient city of LA-LA, knew better than to expect for a man to stay.  The other — still a baby, a girl-child with no more than a single previous heartache — was straining her eyes at the horizon in an attempt to see just what her leaving lover was referring to.  But no matter the drastic difference between the two hearts, both women were in the midst of being left.

This isn’t about your shortcomings, dear baby-boys; for we all have a share of those.  (What did I tell you?  Never underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion.)  Besides, no matter how much this ranty cunt wants to unleash, I have a sleeping angel in my bed.  So, I better keep my voice down.

It’s really simple, baby-boys:  The size of this world is overwhelming, I know.  I’ve earned myself some badass calluses treading it.  And as my angel tells me, it is indeed worth every curiosity and wondering eye of yours.

But behold:  KARMA.  It’s bad enough you might have inherited some shitty one from one of your previous lives.  (I know I have!  Otherwise, why the fuck am I trippin’ so much?)  So, in this lifetime, I’d suggest cradling that bitch as gingerly as your manly arms allow.  And when you make a choice to leave a woman (especially a good one), I recommend to do so gracefully.

(I know, I know:  Break-ups are messy.  In the face of a departing love, shit get thrown around; and usually both parties are equally guilty at betraying their former loving selves.  Shiva knows, I’ve climbed over enough ruins of my own post-break-up war zones:  I threw shit — he threw shit right at back me; I ducked out of the way; I slipped up on that same shit; I fell.  But if you are the one doing the leaving, have some mercy — have some grace! — and don’t destroy your new ex.)

I’m aching:  As of last night, the world included two newly single girls.  (As if it needed more of us!)  And I weep, my dear darlings, not just for the fact of that very injustice (because I think, my two girls — are amazing!); but for the brutal destructions the two departing men have chosen to leave behind.  I cannot even bring myself to reiterate the laundry list of their grievances with my angels.  (NEVER underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion, I warn you!)  Instead, I’ll reiterate this:

If you want to leave — for Shiva’s sake, GO!  But don’t rough handle your former love — or your karma.  Just like you, we will eventually “pursue other options”:  other homes, other cities, other loves:

“When he’s ready to love me again, someone more capable might be loving me,” the baby angel wrote to me last night.

So, please leave us behind unscathed.  Because when you choose to love a woman (especially a good one), you’ll no doubt leave a mark.  But when you choose to leave her — marking the territory is simply brutal and selfish; and unworthy of your former loving self — your BETTER self — and of your karma.

Ah.  I hear a shuffling of feathered wings…

Sh, my beautiful baby-boys:  I have a gorgeous angel in my bed.  Do YOU?