The Daily BIC: Welcome Worn

"you better tell her, tell her, tell her..."--Teedra Moses

It's not going to happen, boo. Time to go.

It's been forever since I've done a political post since by and large I don't really care anymore, but this warrants it. Typically when a woman hangs in there, I champion her. But Michele Bachmann's BIC transgressions transcend simple persistence. The fact that she's even cast her lot amongst the Amityville Horrors that is the composite Republican Presidential candidate camp is the first in the line of lunacy she's drawing. The bigger issue is that, ideologically speaking, she's one of them.

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Love For On Sale

I'm in the process of killing a friend of mine. It's been a slow, brutal death of this dear, longtime companion. We've been together for decades; we've loved, lost, thrived, and survived. I'll miss my old buddy, but all good things come to an end, nothing lasts forever. My friend had a beautiful name, Wishful. Last name Thinking.

I'm definitely not a pessimist--in fact, I'm on the optimistic side of pragmatic. It's just that from a very young age, I was made intimately aware that things just don't always shake out the way we wish they would. And more recently, I've realized that life is sometimes about the hard decisions and sacrifices one has to make for the sake of the bigger picture. I'm too brilliant a woman to wait for something that's never coming, consequently giving up the chance to have everything else I want. I spent a great portion of my childhood and my adult life waiting for my breath to be taken away. But I haven't stopped breathing yet. So I've given up the ghost. I've given up on love.




It's not that I don't believe in "LOVE" the romantic concept; I do, deeply. I get emotional at select weddings, I love those black-and-white silhouette commercials for anniversary jewelry, I can't stop grinning at old people who adore each other after decades of being locked down, and I absolutely live for those freaking Google Superbowl commercials about moving to Paris and siblings and putting together a crib. I regretfully tear up at movies in the new American cinematic genre known as "Films Like The Notebook", and I wish I had two more hands to give four thumbs up to Love Jones'-esque Black Love. I love love, and I passionately believe in it. I just don't believe in it for me.


While I enjoyed the book years ago, I'm no blind devotee of what I now recognize as the insidiously sinister 48 Laws of Power; but there's one law that comes to mind when I think about my decision, and that's Law #36: "Disdain the things you cannot have". When I think of the things I want a man to bring into my life, a fairytale romance is decidedly low on the list. Years ago, I wrote a 64-point list detailing what I was hoping and waiting for, and while I stand by it as an amazing amalgamation of qualities in a really primo dude that I'm sure exists somewhere for someone, reading it again feels tired. I want a man to do the things men do--someone to protect, provide, and defend, to check out the things that go bump in the night, take care of my car and take out the trash, lay the pipe consistently, make babies, and be a great dad. Someone I can give my great qualities to who'll generally appreciate them. Maybe specifying that the sound of his name or his touch or really anything about him offers pleasure or even evokes a genuine smile is weighing my list down. Real talk: I've had mind-blowing sex with several people that I didn't love (a couple I didn't even particularly like very much), and honestly, I could and would do it again (not the several, just the whole loveless bit--in the interest of clarity). An orgasm is an orgasm is an orgasm, and the only thing I ask is that it regularly come from something without a motor. I'm easy. My loveless sexual experiences have been some of the better ones of my life, actually. Add to this that the optimistic side of me feels that in the right circumstances with the right guy, a kind of love might evolve. Hey, it could totally happen.

Men have come along. It's not like I've been in desperate unrequited situations time after time. When I think of some of the ones I let slip through my fingers on principle, guys I couldn't bring myself to "fall for" for various reasons over the years. What was really wrong with them? Some concerns were valid, but some were just honestly me, waiting on the upgrade. Thinking that something was better somewhere. Waiting on the devastating love, waiting on the soulmate.

My point? I'm training myself to live without. I used to think I needed romance and passion, but that totally imagined need is exhausting. Taking inventory and deciding that's it unnecessary feels like a breath of fresh air and a weight off my shoulders.

The beauty is that I don't really have to live without. I'm a writer, a creative who can conjure worlds with a pen, with music, with my imagination. I draw worlds lyrically all the time, and I live in those worlds while I'm creating them. Perhaps a white bread real life will strengthen the muscle that fuels my brush across that proverbial easel. Perhaps when I really need a fix, I can make one up.

My friends who know me don't think I can do this, give up. But those who doubt me might underestimate the power of my desire for other things. I really want children. I really want a sense of safety in this earthly realm. I really want to truly focus on my career and not worry that I'm swimming against the current, wasting my best years. And while I'm addicted to change, adventure, and new experiences, sometimes I just want to sit still somewhere with someone and not feel like every change in season will bring a 180 degree change in my life. I imagine having the peace, the chill of having one constant, one thing that's true. I used to think that thing was love. But I realized that it doesn't have to be. It doesn't have to be.

Wish me luck.

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To my subscribers: Apologies in advance. This site is currently undergoing some change, and a result, over the next couple of days you might receive emails of old posts, much like the one you received a moment ago. If you notice, that was an old post written in August 2010 and it will not be featured on the current homepage, as all posts are chronological. Just wanted to assure you that I will try to avoid any communication that doesn't include new posts. Thanks again, as always, for actually subscribing.

That's all.

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The B Is Bitter

"it's about time for a miracle..."--Beverly Crawford

bit·ter/ˈbitər/:
1. Having or being a taste that is sharp, acrid, and unpleasant
2. Causing a sharply unpleasant, painful, or stinging sensation; harsh: enveloped in bitter cold; a bitter wind
3. Difficult or distasteful to accept, admit, or bear: the bitter truth; bitter sorrow
4. Proceeding from or exhibiting strong animosity: a bitter struggle; bitter foes
5. Resulting from or expressive of severe grief, anguish, or disappointment: bitter tears
6. Marked by resentment or cynicism: "He was already a bitter elderly man"


They say that everything you need to know you learned in kindergarten, and while that sounds cute and sells a lot of t-shirts, it's not true. Because as I closed out my twenties several weeks ago on the morning of my 30th birthday, clinging to one of the 12 pillows on my bed long after my daily automatic 8:30AM coffee brew had gone cold, I realized that the most important thing I've learned was taught to me by the unmistakable brutality of my current geographical location on the map of life. Latitudinal: decidedly unemployed. Longitudinal: decidedly unsexed. They meet at a little point named Malcontentment in a swarmy region I like to call Childless in Rapidly Declining Fertility.

There's a decades-long argument in the faux-feminist stratosphere (read: the place where otherwise eloquent women fill voids in their lives by writing books and essays rife with rhetorical questions) about whether or not the female sex can have its cake and eat it too. Regarding which, I've guilelessly believed that I would be a part of the vaginally-gifted population declaring "yes, we can". Why not? Can we have lives and children? Can we have children and jobs? Can we have careers and fun? Can we have husbands and sex? Can we have protein with carbs? There are just so many un-answers to the question of whether or not women can 'have it all'. But the crudity of my late twenties, markedly void of the elusive pot of gold the motion picture industry's been pushing since the early 20th century, has taught me a woman's most important lesson: not only can you not have it all, sometimes you can't have any of it.

Just one would make a difference. The dream job. The kid. Of course, at this point in my life, one actually would preclude the other--get the dream job and it would push babies even further down the line; have a kid right now and I'm almost guaranteed to end up on some sort of government assistance--unemployment excepted. I can't even take a man into account without chuckling at this point because even in my wildest dreams I can't imagine who would sign up for this freak show. And so, from the vantage point of my stunted, sexless, sexless existence, I have had to stop and realize I'm not alone. Many women are at a crossroads; other chicks are, like me, being tossed around by their circumstances and their hormones like a shrimpin' boat in a tempest.

So I've been toying with the idea of writing a book. Nothing else has panned out, so why not? I've tossed around a couple titles and decided to share a list of books I'm thinking of pitching, the titles of which are lines many women need to hear or have already heard and ignored, no matter where they are in life.

• Pregnant Bridesmaids Make People Uncomfortable: When Your BFF Gets a YES on her EPT

• I Might Not Even Let You Babysit: A Guide To Picking Godparents God Would Actually Pick 

• You're Too Old To E-Stalk, But If We Do It Together It's Normal: Supporting Your Friends' Unnatural Fixation With Exes Who've Moved On

• Cool Aunts Wear Skinny Jeans: Co-opting Other People's Children When Personal Options Are Few

• You Know You Couldn't Afford That Wedding: Putting on Airs While Putting Off Home Ownership and Draining What's Left of Your Parents' Terminal 401K

• The Vibrator Makes Me Cry: The Myth of Masturbation As A Viable Substitute 

• Is This A Joke: A Daily Journal with Guided Meditation

Cheers!

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The Process of Elimination

"you worried 'bout the wrong thing..."--Kanye West

Let me first say that I believe and fully support a woman's legal right to choose. God gives us the right to choose; the least the government can do is follow suit. And I, for one, could live without the litany of fetus legislation that's constantly being proposed. I also think it's the dumbest, red-herringest argument in the world to propose defunding Planned Parenthood, which happens to provide abortions in some of their nationwide clinics.

But. Having established legislative loyalties, I am also a person who does not believe in abortion personally, even while remaining dedicated to legally supporting it as an option for American women. The issue I take is simple, and it delivers a message to the larger culture: Stop trying to coax 'the sexy' out of abortion. It's not going to happen.

I am not one of those nutjobs who advocate endlessly counseling pregnant rape and incest victims about 'the right to life'--if you get pregnant by your father, counsel concerning the right to life is probably one of the last things on your mind. And, really, who among us but women who have gotten pregnant by rape or incest understand the level of trauma it results in, and who else but someone who had personally suffered that trauma could truly measure the weight of it on her shoulders? Every woman should make her own choices regarding what's right for her, her family, and her body. That's different for everyone, for a myriad of reasons. I want abortion to be, as Hillary Clinton once put it, "safe, legal, and rare". Incredibly rare.

But.

Even being "pro-choice" (not, as right-to-lifers put it "pro-abortion"), I am also not one of those people who think it appalling for there to be some rules and prerequisites for an abortion or for an order to be observed once the choice is made. I don't think it's some shockingly intrusive imposition for a woman to be shown a video of what's going to happen once she's on the table, and I don't see any harm whatsoever in having the process described in detail by the administering doctor. In short, I don't think we need to be fighting so hard to protect the delicate sensibilities of those who have opted to end a pregnancy, because, hello: An attempt at deterring a woman from having an abortion is not a bad thing. I am, however, obviously in the minority of choicers with this position, evidenced nearly every time I log onto my favorite "girly" blogs, at least the ones with fairly liberal feminist sensibilities. Which is pretty much all of them.

It seems as though every time I enter the blogsphere I come upon an angry feminist rant about how disgusting the attack on the 'right to choose' is, and I get it--sometimes. I believe in a woman's right to choose, mainly because it's dangerous to take that right away. The legality of the choice of whether or not to eliminate a pregnancy is a slippery slope, legislatively speaking. There's a such thing as the concept of giving the government too much power--let them legislate restrictions on whether or not a birth happens, for instance, and next thing you know birth *options* are on the congressional chopping block and natural births are suddenly mandatory except where medically impossible. And then the next thing you know, not breastfeeding is against the law and the tax on Similac mirrors that of the tax on nicotine. It might sound crazy, but you know it's not. All I know is: No one better try to force me to deliver anything naturally or I'll be having an Epidural and/or caesarean section with each of my beautiful little Canadians.

There is most certainly a war on women's bodies across the globe, and if we're truly going to be the land of free and home of the brave, that freedom has to include a woman's right to govern what happens in her own body in the same manner that will always be true for men. That said, we don't have to champion abortion like it's the automatic reaction to pregnancy. It's almost as though a portion of the population wants women to consider abortion no matter what their circumstances. The advertising campaign would go something like this:

"Pregnant? Happily married and wanted to be a mom your whole life? Consider an abortion!"

"Pregnant, 35 and in a committed relationship with a man who wants more kids than the Duggars, but not yet married and don't want to bring shame on your family who doesn't really care because you're almost 40? Consider an abortion!"

"Being pregnant sucks. Have an abortion."

"Worked really hard on your six-pack this year? Consider. An. Abortion." It's as though babies have become some type of feminist burden, as though they're no longer viewed as a gift from our Creator.

Well, they are. And it really boils my blood to see people wasting precious time picketing about parental notification, waiting periods, procedural education, and all the other legal rigamarole surrounding abortion debates. Let's keep it legal, but let's not make it akin to getting a pedicure. Let's not get so coarse as a society that we lose sight of the weight of ending a life. Children are God's most precious miracle. Yes, I believe in a woman's right to choose because I believe choice is a gift. But life is an even better one. Treasure both.

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Make It Stop.

"you go back to her/and i go back to black..."--Amy Winehouse

Scott Adams, the creator of Dilbert, once famously
said, "Reality is almost always controlled by the people who are the most insane." And yet not even Adams could have possibly foreseen just how applicable that statement would be to greenlighting execs at the American Broadcasting Company, more famously known as ABC, who have broadcasted the decade's #1 most appropriate Talk Soup fodder in their unfortunate "reality" hit, The Bachelorette.

I've never even watched The Bachelorette, but I have followed the development of the show since its inception in the blogsphere. And honestly, in this dumbed-down culture, you don't have to bite the lemon to know it's bitter as hell.

This season's "bachelorette", who appears deeply insecure and self-loathing, is supposed to be looking for a husband--even as she invites previously-dismissed contestants back who have called her "ugly" and a "loser" on [inter-]national television and clearly have no interest in her outside of "playing her with head" (his words, not mine).

Then, some geniuses writing for the show thought it would be a good idea to have the contestants pose for wedding pictures with this chick to see how their wedding photo would look? I can't.

When I started this blog four years ago, I said that The Bachelor, with it's insipid "rose ceremonies" and track record of completely unsuccessful relationships (even to this very day), was the height of BIC. That assertion must now be amended as the seemingly matchless lunacy of Bachelor has now seeped into its relatively successful sub-franchise. Hopefully, ABC will soon stick a fork in both of these shows. Although, that might be a moot point since it's pretty clear that television will continue to find new and uniquely disgusting vehicles in which women can put the underbelly of finding "the one" on full display for the kicks of the viewing public. Heavy sigh.

That's all.

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Single.

"and so I sit at home and just pretend/love is not for me..."--Tamia

Recently, a friend's friend suggested that I see a "Christian" documentary by the name of Soulmate.

Okay.

Now, let me preface what I'm about to say about this film with the fact that it's presumptive and not based in fact, since I haven't watched the entire thing, and refuse to do so. But as the friend's friend raved about it as a ministry for single women, I was simultaneously curious and incredulous. For my part, I'm just not one to sign up for "single" things: singles' groups, singles' clubs, singles' parties, singles' events, stampeding to the dance floor when "Single Ladies" comes on like somebody rang the dinner bell in an 19th century orphanage--it's all a bit ridiculous to me. I have never thought of myself as a "single" person. I'm Ms. Brown and one day I'll be Mrs. Brown-____________. "Single" connotes something I don't see as my truth: that I’m not whole somehow, or less than. It's not that the actual word says that; it's what society has attributed to the word that I don't receive. I'm not "single" because I'm not a part of that community of people who revel in the ability to whine about being alone. I'm just a young woman--a whole person-- who is not yet married.

In any case, out of curiosity and at the bidding of the friend, I watched the trailer for the documentary. And afterwards, I had to rebuke what I saw in the name of Jesus. First of all, the trailer opens on the statistic that 47% of Black women are unmarried, which is the first of several major downers in the three minute piece. What about the fact that 53% are married? Glass half empty much? Then come the interviews. [Paraphrasing]: "I'm 52, I've never been married and have no children." "I'm 47 and people ask me if I even want a man because it seems like I'm having so much fun without one!" "My husband contracted HIV in a homosexual relationship and gave it to me."

None of this was sounding particularly sexy.

It's not that the information isn't valid. And not that I begrudge anyone somewhere to go to feel a part of a community and to get a better understanding of their circumstances as they see them. But as for me and my house...nuh-uh.

Bottom line: I refuse to commiserate with sad, lonely people. All that does is create an atmosphere for that loneliness to metastasize and fester, mildew into depression, and effectively block blessings because one is too downtrodden to see the light from the dark place they've fallen into. This might not be true for everyone, but it's my view of the vast industry that caters to "singles", "singles", of course, connoting 'people who would rather be married but just haven't gotten lucky yet'.

I would much rather focus on being joyful about where I am now and celebrating where I know I'm headed--and one place I'm fairly sure I'm not headed, by the grace of God, is 52, childless, and unmarried. Not that I'm better than that or above those circumstances, but it's just not what I feel is the promise over my life. I think it takes understanding what God is doing in your life before you get to the point of desperation, the point when watching a documentary about menopausal women who've always lived alone seems like a good idea.

No one is saying that procuring that level of wisdom is easy, but the fact is that it's more than likely that a huge portion of women are missing the point. I don't believe that 47% of these women are meant to be alone; I just don't buy it. And the changing of this dramatic statistic takes the changing of a mentality of a bloc of women that have become mired in their marital situation, or lack thereof. For instance:

 Black men aren't the only men on earth. Not saying I don't want one myself- -God knows I do (*Color Purple Sophia voice*) --but if that wasn't my destiny, I'd have to find a way to live with it. I know; I hate to hear it, too, because frankly I feel like I'm entitled. But no one can deny that joy and pleasure can come in many colors.>/i>

We need to start thinking about these things at a younger age. Too many women put their entire focus on their career (believe me, I'm guilty too) and make their whole young adult life about status and professional advancement and then want to put the rush on the husband search when the snooze button on their biological alarm is on its last ring. We need to be more focused on family building and partnership potential when we're younger. Of course, that means less promiscuity and more wisdom in dating when you're young, which is an entirely new conversation, and one I'm not willing to engage since that clearly wasn't my mindset when I was younger.

Coupled with the idea of a new mindset is the subject of choices. When I was a little girl, my father used to tell me that too many women date married and/or totally unsuitable men for 10, 15, 20 years, and then end up alone and past childbearing years. Yes, he really told me this as a child. I'm grateful now for his mildly inappropriate conversation with me, because I see what he meant--simply that we are often the sum of our choices in the area of partnership. Dating married men or waiting for men who are simply ridiculous for a myriad of professional, criminal, cultural, spiritual and plain practical reasons has to stop. We can't hitch our wagon to losers for decades and then think that dreams will come true the minute we step to the side of right. Some men just don't deserve a chance, and desperation isn't going to help any girl's cause. We need to be looking at the big picture with everyone we date if we intend to be partnered. "I'm just having fun right now" can easily turn into 52, childless, and alone--or worse, 42, divorced, and alone. Last year, when I was trying to decide if I was going to break up with someone I'd been dating for a month who was certain I was his wife, I called my father for advice because something didn't feel right. I told him my issues with the dude, the pros and cons, and my dad gave me the best advice. He said, "Just don't let him waste your time, babe. That's the only thing a man can take from you, is your time." We need to stop letting guys who aren't going to make the cut waste our time, energy, and resources. Every day they take is a day we're not in position to receive the good that's actually coming. We retard our own progress by filling up our time with the undesirable. Black women know that trimming the ends of our hair is essential to growth; you hang on to an inch or two for "length" and pretty soon you're cutting off five inches of split ends. We should apply this lesson to our partnership search and cut the dead weight.

I'm the last person to jump on the bandwagon of that societal bottom-feeder mentality that attacks Black women for not being perfect as a group. It's disgusting how a lot of folks [Black dudes] say Black women are lazy, dumb, fat, ignorant, selfish, materialistic, willful, bossy, mean, don't want to go anywhere exotic, don't like to hike, scared to swim, don't want to kayak, have too many kids...and a lot of the other nasty things thrown around after being exposed to the delectable cultural delicacy that is your typical White or Asian woman (I mean, let's face it). Check it: I don't ever want to deny White, Asian, and/or White Latina women their positive cultural stereotypes (see Jay-Z's "Girls, Girls, Girls" for footnotes). But I reject negative classifications of Black women. Yes, there are plenty of dumb, morbidly obese, lazy, ignorant Black women just as there are plenty of dumb, morbidly obese, lazy, ignorant White women. [I left the Asians out because, to be honest, I've never seen a dumb, obese, lazy Asian; I just haven't. So sue me--but you probably haven't, either.] And, as most people with half a brain know, there are plenty of gorgeous, brilliant, adventurous Black women in all shapes, sizes, and colors, each bangin' in their own way, who are not partnered. Now admittedly, some of them are crazy (see name of site)--but that's another topic for another conversation. All this said, I implore Black women to take care of ourselves, live outside of the box, try different things, really live life. Big ups to Tyler P, but he is not a cinematic genius. Turks&Caicos and Barbados are lovely--and many thanks to LisaRaye and Rihanna for their respective tourism development efforts--but there are some islands on the continent of Asia that would make the entire Caribbean look like Jones Beach. Sit-ups are not a workout. Perhaps these are things about which those of us who know better should be spreading the word.

And last but not least, God is not your man and has zero desire to be your husband. It's everything to be in relationship with God, but know that He called us to partner. So for all the women who haven't had sex in 20 years or a date in 15 steady talking about "all I need is Jesus" but laying in bed every night watching Tyler Perry films, salivating over the strategically placed hot guys: It's pretty safe to say you're not living up to your potential.

Not that there aren't some things that need to be changed about the corresponding men as well, but I'm not going to get into that for two reasons: one, because we'd be here all night (you wanna talk about a soapbox…); and two, because I truly believe that women changing will force men to change. In fact, I think women changing is the only thing that will cause a change in men. Nearly everything men do is because of the 'power of the p-u…'(more Jay-Z; not sure what's wrong with me right now), and women need to re-learn to harness and leverage that power for good.

I have several best friends: one lives here in Los Angeles, two in the NY Tri-State Area, one in the San Francisco Bay Area, one in the Washington, DC area, and a first cousin who's like a sister that lives in Pittsburgh. I've really loved two men in my life romantically, and been quite fond of a great many more. I live in a courtyard-style Melrose Place -esque Hollywood Hills apartment building with over 30 units and many friendly neighbors. I live in a city of millions. I have family all over the globe that loves me, and I love them. I have a father I adore in Texas, a dear stepmother, and a not-so-little-brother and sister I can't live without. I have a mirror-image mother resting in peace that I carry in my heart everywhere I go.

So let it never once be said that I am "single". What I am is simply not married. Yet.

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High Maintenance: Naked and Unashamed

"if you stay ready/you ain't got to get ready..."--Suga Free



There are few less humiliating positions than naked from the waist down and spread eagle in front of someone's face with a mini desk fan blowing in between your legs, but earlier this week, Nadia, my 60-something Italian brazilian waxer (yeah, unpack that), managed to make it slightly more uncomfortable. Maybe she thought she was enlightening me; maybe she was just bored. Whatever her reasons for re-introducing one of her favorite topics as she ripped wax strips from my butt, she did it with gusto.

"When you have a man," she explained in her just barely comprehensible Northern Italian accent as though I was a new-school Corky, "you want to look nice." This from the woman who had declared on my last visit that it was clear, judging from how far I'd let things go, that I was currently unattached.

"Well," I explained less feebly than the last time I'd seen her (and much sooner than the last time I'd seen her as well), "I do this for myself. I like to look and feel nice for me."

"Right. I understand." She always sounds as though she doesn't believe me, as though I get myself waxed praying that someone will pick my name from their little black book that very night and change my life with some wild monkey sex. Which is clearly a joke. Not that I'm down on wild monkey sex. And not saying I'm above temptation...but I'm above temptation. At this point, it's kind of frivolous to, uh, throw away my confidence, so to speak. "But you will have a man again, and you will need to make sure you look good. Still look good," she added hastily, surely noting that my intention was never to not look good. Even in my workout clothes on my way to my exercise class, I was sporting mascara and concealer, a fact that the former beauty queen (not really, but maybe) wouldn't have missed.

But the fact is that nothing can convince Nadia--a woman who, even leathered by years of European sun, is still absolutely gorgeous, with huge, thick, ethnic waves of mildly graying blonde hair and a twinkle in her pencil-rimmed brown eyes that says she has always known how to have a good time--that a broad, specifically me, isn't just waiting on a man. Why else, her tone surmises, would we keep it all together?

I agree...and then I don't.

When I was younger, I never stepped out ungroomed under and over my clothes because I honestly didn't know whether or not I was going to be having sex with anyone when I left the house. But at this point in my life, there's one thing I know for sure about each day when I wake up in the morning: That under no circumstances am I going to be having consensual sex at any point before the Brookstone alarm clock next to my bed reads 12:01AM. One might expect with all the time and money and effort I've spent over the years keeping myself up that I have a surplus of those resources while I'm on somewhat of a pause, waiting for my life partner. But one would be frightfully wrong.

It's funny to me now to think that I spent a better part of my 20++/30- years defending myself from the "high maintenance chick" label. Even though I house a bit more than the average amount of female vanity (a gift from my lovely and amazing, self-conscious, critical mother), still I shunned that classification. It stung a bit to me, and when I was new to young adulthood, I desperately wanted to be known as a low-maintenance girl. I felt like I was easy; I wore sweats and t-shirts a great deal of the time (mostly a 6'6" ex's oversized XXL velour sweatpants that took three tight drawstring knots to keep up and tight souvenir/message tees),went makeup-free all of the time, and wore my natural hair out and curly most of time. I drank beer in lieu of cocktails. I fried chicken in my pajamas with my hair wrapped up for my boys from the basketball team when we kicked it. And despite these things, even those same guy friends would inevitably admit that they found me "high maintenance". No matter how little primping I appeared to do, for some reason I could never escape the characterization.

Fast forward some years. I've gotten increasingly comfortable in my own skin--and yet that's not to say that I do less to keep myself up. Getting comfortable in my own skin has been more of a coming to terms with who I really am and embracing it. Recently, my BFF/sister Kimberly began a revolution in her life that she calls "naked and unashamed". Like Eve in Genesis--before the fall--Kim aspires to feel totally comfortable in her own skin, oblivious to the things proverbial fig leaves and trees can cover up. I admire her resolve. She's a beautiful girl who doesn't need the trappings the female beautification industry stuffs down our throats and convinces us we need. And honestly, I feel the same way about myself. My ex used to tell me that I looked the same with and without makeup. He didn't understand why I bothered, and he always insisted I was sexiest just chilling at home in my sweats and glasses. I appreciated the sentiment, but there were certain things I just couldn't go out into public without and without doing back then.

The same is true for me now.

I can embrace "naked and unashamed"--to a point. My "naked" is a bit different than the "naked" one might expect. My "naked" is immaculately groomed. You're not going to catch me without my legs, armpits, and arms shaved (yes, arms) or my eyebrows shaped, because I shave every other day and I have my eyebrow lady on speedial. You're not going to catch me on bush-mode, because Nadia is written into my bi-monthly budget just under groceries. If I can at all help it, you're not going to catch me with major breakouts, because my skincare regimen is tight. Yes, I'll go without makeup on any given Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday--but the glowing, clear skin it takes to do that requires consistency and dedication from which I never waver. You're not going to catch me without my hair done too often; and you're not going to catch me without a fresh mani-pedi on too many occasions, either.

I know that everything I do, put together, is a bit too much for some people. The truly "low maintenance", especially. The women who can fall into bed unshowered at night and then hop up in the morning, brush their teeth and then go out into the streets for the entire day without so much as looking into a mirror--I'm not that girl. I have to shower before getting into my bed, even if I already showered and then went just stepped outside to run to the store or take garbage out. When I get up, there's a whole routine that has to be followed--and I have to allow myself enough time to do the entire thing, or I just can't make it through my day. I used to be embarrassed to admit it. But after years of getting familiar with my true self and accepting who I am, I no longer care about people's judgment regarding my choices. It's especially rich to know that I don't do it for anyone else; I do it for me, because ultimately, I have to live with and look at myself. And I need to like what I see. Because what's most significant to me is not that I'm "naked" in the sense of exactly how I came into this world, but that my insides are naked and my intentions naked, and that anything manufactured about my character and personality have fallen away. When others encounter me, what they see is what they get. I don't have to put on airs to please or comfort others, and I don't have to pretend to have interests and desires beyond what I'm doing with what I've been given. At this point in my life, it's refreshing to look at the big picture and truly be pleased with the stripped version of myself.

I think every woman goes through a period in her life in which she compares herself to others, looks at what other women do to themselves as a guidepost for the things she should be doing. But there also comes a time in most women's lives where concerns about others fall by the wayside and suddenly, like a lightbulb being turned on, the only opinion that really matters is your own. Sometimes when I look at my life and feel a twinge of regret that things didn't go differently in one area or another, I remind myself that this time and place in my psychological development is the perfect time for promotion. Because I'm no longer interested in being anyone I'm not, and only interested in celebrating what I'm working with, as opposed to hiding.

I identify with pre-judgment Eve, a woman who was clearly looking for meaning and identity without feeling like the keys to either were to be found in her physical circumstances. Though cautioned by the fallout of her choices, a large part of me identifies with Eve's quest for self-fulfillment and her willingness to strike out and try something different in her journey, unencumbered by pesky self-consciousness. Though it's far from completely insignificant, my physical self-image is an increasingly smaller part of my life as I embrace all life has to offer me and all I have to offer it. The way I look is important to me, but there are so many other things about myself that I put before it, things I would choose to hold onto over anything physical, were I given a choice. I wouldn't trade my talents for my looks; I wouldn't trade my natural kindness or my generosity for anything. My grandmother always said that it didn't matter how pretty you were on the outside if you were flat out ugly on the inside, and I agree. The natural fruits of the spirit I've been blessed with that grow with every passing year are far above anything I see in the mirror.

So yes, I keep it all 'fried, dyed, and laid to the side', and I probably always will. But I'm also not burdened by secrets or extensive self-criticism, and the comfort I feel in my own skin physically translates to confidence professionally and spiritually and emotionally.

I keep myself up, and no one can disgrace me by pointing that out. Because what's paramount to me is that literally and figuratively, when I stand naked, I truly feel no shame.

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BIC Redux: B.A.P.S.

"well i guess i'm tryna be nonchalant about it/and i'm going to extremes to prove i'm fine without you/but in reality i am slowly losing my mind..."-Mariah Carey


"Uh uh... you need to scoot over cuz I ain't got no problem sleepin' on this expensive white carpet, cuz I know its poodle hair."  Who said it? Click for the BIC, and enjoy this last day of BIC History Month. 'Til next year!

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BIC Redux: Uncommon Thief

"diamonds are a girl's best friend..."-Marilyn Monroe




“I didn't have high goals and high ambitions, and that I was going to become the world's greatest jewel thief. It just got out of hand.”  Who said it? Click for the BIC, and Happy BIC History Month!

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BIC Redux: Nasty Girl

"if you ain't scared take it out/i'll do it like a real live nasty girl should..."-Vanity 6




"He used to come to my house when he wanted to play around; now he goes and finds his pleasures on the other side of town. Honey, your husband is cheatin on us. I know you thought you had a good man, a man that you could trust." Who said it...and why? Click on the trifling quote for the historical BIC background and Happy BIC History Month!

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BIC Redux: Going Postal

"i have no intention of paying for my crime don't fear...and i don't feel about it..."-Macy Gray

"I walked up to him and I said to him, you have been annoying me a long time trying to get this children. I have no objection of you getting them in the schools at all, but why torture me? Why torture me? I’m no help to him by killing me. Don’t mean after all Congress is signing anything. By torturing me, don’t mean Congress is going to sign. I can still get a blood clot from this aggravation today. After that day, Congress isn’t going to sign anything, and I’m just dead.”  Most BIC is harmless...but every now and then it's certifiable. Click on the quote to get the full scoop from one of the most under-discussed attempted murderers in BIC History, and Happy BIC History Month!

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BIC Redux: Slippery When Wet

"that's why i'm easy...easy like sunday morning..."-Lionel Richie

"I said to one member of the press, 'Let me ask you a question: Would you have liked it the other way if it was said 'Lionel Richie Beat Up His Wife? Does that sound better?' The guy said 'no.' Then I said when a couple has an argument and it gets physical, wouldn't most guys just not throw a punch at all? I didn't do anything to Brenda. And that sounds better than I knocked her out." I suppose it's pretty obvious who said it, so just click through for the BIC backstory and see why Lionel might still watch his back in hotel rooms. And of course, Happy BIC History Month!

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BIC Redux: The Honorable Cynthia McKinney

"i'm not ready to make nice/i'm not ready to back down..."-The Dixie Chicks

"It looks like the Republicans wanted to beat me more than the Democrats wanted to keep me."  Who said it? Click for the BIC. Happy BIC History Month!

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BIC Redux: Ooh Baby Take It I Don't Want To Tease You

"nothin to be shy about/nothin we got to lie about...."-Aretha Franklin

"..all you got to do is make sure he stop at the drugstore and handle some business...don't be comin 'round here with no big belly talkin' bout you didn't know what to do."  Who said it? Click on the red quote for your daily BIC History Month redux. By the way, I must say I love the way I wrote these posts ages ago and yet they're new to new folks and still entertaining to the old folks. Happy BIC History Month!

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BIC Redux: Dr. Feelgood...Again

"visiting hours are nine to five and if i show up at 10 past 6 well i/already know that you'll find someway to sneak me in that door..."-Alanis Morissette

"We must stop this love affair with the fetus." Who said it? Someone BIC, that's for sure! Click on the red quote to walk back down memory lane. And of course, Happy BIC History Month!

Oh, and by the way....the photo to the left is one I took myself of a massager at Brookstone. That's right, a massager. Now get your mind out of the gutter....;)

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Stir, Reheat, Serve

"cuz i know that you're gonna tear up the place/punch me in my face and pull the hot grits out..."-Usher

I kind of just realized that Black History Month began today--sue me; I've been crazy busy and unless the US is giving out reparations for slavery as a gift for this huge commercial "holiday" *sarcasm*, it's not exactly at the top of my list of priorities. In any case; I digress. It's Black History Month, which means that it's also BIC History Month, the monthlong celebration-of-sorts of crazy Black women, which this blog has observed since 2008. As a third anniversary celebration (and because I have no time to research), I'll be serving leftovers until I have time to cook something up. That said, feast your eyes on the very first BIC History Month post, featuring the tragic fate of Mary Woodson, tortured side ho of R&B/Gospel legend Al Green.

Happy Holiday!

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Motherlovin' BIC

"i got a story to tell...."--Biggie Smalls

Today is the 18th anniversary of my mother's death and while I've done a BIC tribute to her before, I've never done it on this day.

It's odd: I miss my mother every single day, though the pain has no doubt lessened year by year. In laymen's terms, now only sad movies--or let's face it, commercials--tear me up.

My mother was a rare kind of woman they really don't make anymore--and I say that sincerely. She was born in December 1949 and graduated high school at the age of 16. She moved out of her parents' home at 18 to "the city" and took care of herself, working hard, until she met my father ten years later. All she wanted in life was to be married and have children. She was the kind of woman that women today look down on because they don't have any goals outside the home, but when I think of my mom I think of how awesome she was at her job of being a mother. She breathed, ate, and slept it and was phenomenal. She loved God. While she'd been raised Baptist, when I was small child she took an extra interest in the Bible and started taking a ministry class at church for greater understanding. She had great faith. We prayed together every night.

She took such ridiculously good care of my father and I--cooked every meal we ate (and was an amazing cook), meticulously washed and pressed all of our clothes (even the underwear), was the library volunteer parent at my school, my room parent who organized the holiday parties and birthday celebrations, my girl scout troop leader, and in the PTA. She and my father were faithful volunteers with the homeless ministry at church and my mother also with the Border Babies ministry she loved, where a group of women would go hold the abandoned babies at the local hospital while they were waiting for homes to be placed in. She kept our house spotless and beautiful at all times--it was a big joke in our extended family that Bonnie would be up until midnight cleaning her house every night and would start calling people at 11 to entertain her while she cleaned, not caring whether they were sleep or not. She cultivated my love of music by starting my piano lessons at the age of six and making sure I got a gorgeous upright piano. When I went to camp every Summer, my mom would start mailing letters before I left so that I would get letters every single day I was away, including my first day there ("My Dear Ashleigh, you're still here and I miss you already. Your dad is laying here sleep while I write this letter---and has the nerve to be snoring. Loud too!!"). She encouraged me in everything I did and put everything she had inside of me to make sure I had all the opportunities in the world and the confidence to back them up. My mom and I spent most of our waking moments together. We ran errands together, we read at night together, we made tacos together every Saturday night while watching the Golden Girls on the TV in the kitchen. We made Christmas desserts for people on the holidays while playing Nat King Cole. We even took baths together. We made each other laugh and I never, ever doubted that I was the absolute best thing in her life. She was the best thing in mine.

As a last resort in 1990, my mom had a then-highly experimental bone marrow transplant at Duke University about 18 months before she died. She and my father had to move away to North Carolina and leave me with relatives for four months because the surgery and the subsequent process would leave her without much memory, strength, or immunity. She would be in ICU for months afterwards. I begged her not to leave, but I remember my mother bursting into tears in the TCBY parking lot and telling me that she wanted to live to see me get married and to see my children and that's why she had to go. I went to visit them in North Carolina one time, over Christmas. My father was living in an apartment not far from the hospital. They'd let her out of ICU for the holidays on a trial basis. My mother looked like a totally different person--her gorgeous hair was gone again, she was about 10 shades darker from radiation, and she was painfully thin. She went with me to the lounge on her floor and I played the piano for her because that always made her happy at home. When I was done, I turned around and she looked surprised. "You play the piano?" she asked.

My mother died in 1993 after a very long illness that began when I was 18 months old with a mastectomy. The fact that she was able to be the woman, wife, and mother that she was while heavily battling cancer for 9 years is astounding to me. I have tried to put it into words, my feelings about her, many times--through song, poetry, and prose, and I can never quite express just how peerless she was to me. She wasn't perfect. I don't ever want to make her a saint because she *was* super BIC like every other woman in my family--she had a temper, she was dramatic, and she would curse you out on a dime over her family--or on a bad day, over a parking space (in the parking lot at the mall). She habitually lied to my father about her shopping habits and made me lie, too ("don't you tell your dad we were at the mall today"); sneaking out to her trunk to bring in bags after my dad was asleep. She doled out whoopins like candy to her only child who struggled with a major 'backtalk' jones. But, she was my best friend. No one has ever and I don’t think anyone ever will love me like she did.

My father and I were always close, but of course we got much closer after my mother's death. We were a new team with new starting players, and we had to get to know each other without my mother in the middle making everything perfect. But one of the most amazing things my mother ever did was choose my father. Everything from the time she married him to the day she died, she did for me. I consider it the highest blessing that the only things my mother ever wanted that she didn't get was to see me grow up. She had an incredible life filled with love, travel, joy, romance, family, and faith.

And still, I can't wait to properly honor the woman she was. Not just with the family I raise myself, but in the world. This is only a start.

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Fight or Flight

"should i give up/or should I just keep chasin pavements/even if it leads nowhere?"--Adele

When my little sister Raegan (the light of my life) was a baby, we lived in a lakefront community. When I wasn't dragging her with me to the mall or Dairy Queen to meet my friends, Rae and I would walk down to the lake and feed the ducks, one of her favorite things to do. Well, in the South, if you spend enough time outside, you'll see some things--living things--you probably don't want to see. On one particular occasion, we came across a humongous black garden snake, just um, snaking, his or her way through the bushes by the lake. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I have a phobia of reptiles...a tremendous phobia that at one point caused me to not even be able to say the word "s-n-a-k-e" or see a commercial or magazine ad containing one without going into convulsions. While I'm still scared to death, I've come a long way. But back in 1999, I was still terrified beyond words. So of course, when I encountered said reptile, I lost it and broke into a continuous series of bloodcurdling screams, planted to the ground and unable to move. My two year-old sister, however, dropped my hand, turned around on her little toddler heel, and raced back though the maze of bushes and across a bridge to the street without saying one word. My family still laughs about it today--how baby Rae had never seen or even really heard of a snake, but knew that she'd rather ask any questions she had later.

Knowing this is one of my favorite stories, today my father called me to tell me that my baby struck again. Raegan, who is now a beautiful 13 year-old girl, was in the movie theater in the Bronx yesterday afternoon when she saw a rat. Although she was with a group, without saying a word my sister turned on her teenage heel and booked it outside into 20 inches of snow without one word. Nevermind the folks she was with and nevermind that she's visiting NYC and shouldn't be darting off alone. She had never seen a rat up close before, but knew she was over it as soon as she did. So she ran.

All of this running got me to thinking. My sister has always been the kind of person who avoided hurt and danger. As a little kid, when you told her not to touch the stove or oven because it was hot, she would leave the kitchen. As a kid myself, I often ended up in big trouble (not to mention the ER several times) because I had to see how hot the stove was (burns), why I wasn't supposed to hang off the deck (dislocated shoulder) or ride my dad's riding mower (allergy-induced asthma attack and a broken fence). I never trusted when someone told me not to do something; I had to try it myself. When Rae and I encountered ole Blackie-O back home at the lake, I stayed (and screamed) while she got as far as she could. And even in the situation with the rodent today, I find it unlikely that I would have just taken off the way she did. Most would say my sister is far less outgoing than me--she's naturally more reserved, cautious and mindful of other's opinions to my wild disregard for rules and regulations. However, when it comes to something that doesn't jive with her gut, she gets the hell out of dodge regardless of what anyone thinks. I tend to stay.

So as I often do, I started thinking of what kind of woman she will be. I look at her with her new little bob haircut, her brand new contacts replacing the glasses we're all used to, braces removed, her long legs and the skinny jeans she puts them in every day, that noticeable hip curvage and [insert gasp] breasts and I start thinking about what kind of romantic relationships she'll enter and how I can help her avoid my mistakes. But my sister has one thing on me: she's blessedly incurious.

Curiosity can be a wonderful thing, but then again, it also killed the cat. I've been in several relationships that I should have left, but in effect, stayed and screamed. I look at my sister and think, thank God, she will know when to say when, when to turn around and run: before things get ugly and well before they have a chance to sour or spin out of control.

I don't want her to miss out on the important lessons I learned, but obviously I pray she can find her path to the answers more easily. I don't want her to turn and run from everything, but I think it's wonderful that she hasn't inherited that morbid curiosity that made me push love's envelope so many times in the past, had me hanging on just to see how the story could or would end. What I ended up seeing instead was just how awfully we could treat each other, how disrespectful and finally, how devastating things could get. I don't want that for my sister, ever. I want her to walk away from volatile situations and to like nice guys. I want her to get her kicks from good conversation and sweetness, not from constant drama and an endless cycle of breakups-to-makeups.

I think I'm in luck. Over Thanksgiving, we talked about her little boyfriend (I say little but the kid is 14 and 6'1"), to whom I was introduced by phone and had three weeks later when I got home for the holiday been thrown to the bricks. "He's mean," my sister told me. "And he's a Republican and doesn't like Obama. That's annoying." And, at least for now, that's my girl.

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Sisters Are Doin It For Themselves

"i'm takin care of business/baby can't you see..."--Vanessa Williams (nee Isley Bros.)

Recently, a young football wife decided to take the matter of groupies into her own two hands--and I'm using mine to applaud her. You don't know Tia Robbins, but she is your personal hero.

Tia, who married NFL baller/St. Louis Ram Fred Robbins in May 2009 after nine years of dating, has gotten herself a day job. The best kind--the one where you're employed by yourself. Tia started a little business called Off the Market, which is a social service (read: event hosting) company for athletes and their wives. Basically, Tia decided to get other athlete wives to sign up to party together--with their husbands. Said husbands will be so busy partying with their colleagues and wives that they have less time to entertain the golddigger set. Tia signed all kinds of elite businesses to sponsor parties and activities because--genius moment--they get to advertise to a clientele that can more than afford to buy whatever they're selling. [Oprah voice] Brillllll---iaaaant!

In any case, Tia's thoughtful contribution to the art of inspiring fidelity got me thinking about what other businesses are just out there waiting to happen. Some girl-power enterprises just waiting to happen after the jump.

Business Name: Cheater 2 Keeper
Founder: Juanita Jordan
Prospective Membership: Anyone Shaunie O'Neal can help Juanita drudge up.
Purpose: Educating celebrity wives on how to draw out a marriage, even after multiple divorce filings, to maximize the ultimate divorce settlement.
Slogan: Liar, liar pants on...list of things I'm getting in the divorce.
Events: Monthly lingerie and champagne parties where the ladies fantasize about marriage to their new husbands with their old husbands' money.
Staff: Shaunie O'Neal
Based In: Chicago, but with a satellite office in LA.
Additional Services: For additional fees, Juanita's assistant will handle your initial divorce filings to scare your husband straight and then hire out her shark attorney to handle the final filing and trial several years later.
Silent Investor: Sheila Johnson, former wife of Bob Johnson
Famous Owner Quotes: "Thank you, your Honor."

Business Name: Settle to Soar
Founder: Michelle Obama
Prospective Membership: Young, impressionable girls; young adult single women….and countless golddiggers with a bit of patience.
Purpose: Educating women on relationship-building and supporting a man with potential; emphasizing the need to date smart, ambitious men with a longterm goal.
Slogan: Make that man; don't let that man make you.
Events: Mixers at some of the nation's best schools, athletic camps, and performing arts academies; workshops on spotting and attracting diamonds in the rough.
Staff: Barack's female junior staffers willing to work in exchange for Michelle's personal matchmaking hookups.
Based In: Michelle's mother's DC apartment
Additional Services: A matchmaking service, one-on-one training, and a college application service that helps young women get into great schools to meet up-and-comers. In an upgraded platinum membership, Michelle will personally put in a call to get you the job where you can meet your match.
Silent Investor: Pauletta Washington
Famous Owner Quotes: "Cute's good. But cute only lasts for so long, and then it's, 'Who are you as a person?' Don't look at the bankbook or the title. Look at the heart. Look at the soul."

Business Name: White Not Weak
Founder: Elin Nordegren
Prospective Membership: Delicate-looking white women married to philandering celebrities
Purpose: Boxing club and anger management classes for no-joke white women who married groupie-happy celebs with the impression that they would be faithful.
Slogan: Does Elin Nordegren have to choke a bitch?
Events: Weekly boxing parties where women can spar, monthly golf workshops where they work on their pimphand swing, and one annual anger management class. A workshop by special guest Brenda Richie will be conducted for the standout members who deserve extra special treatment.
Staff: All the people outraged at the audacity of Tiger to cheat so flagrantly on his good, clean white wife
Based In: Sweden, Florida, and/or LA. *kanye shrug*
Silent Investor: Hillary Clinton
Famous Owner Quotes: Don't Speak. Swing.

Business Name: SugaMamas
Founder: Beyonce Knowles
Prospective Membership: Career-focused women with little desire to procreate but high desire to marry.
Purpose: Educating women in the ways to get the marriage you want without the babies you promised.
Slogan: Promise high. Deliver low.
Events: Quarterly "An Evening of Gynecologists", a gala where women can mingle with the nation's top gynecologists and discuss integrating old-school rhythm methods into new-school lifestyles and schedule tubal ligation procedures.
Staff: No staff needed--everyone comes when Beyonce calls.
Based In: Rocawear NYC Offices and House of Dereon's offices in Houston
Additional Services: No additional services offered.
Silent Investor: Matthew Knowles
Famous Owner Quotes: "When it happens; it happens...whenever I decide to have them."

Business Name: Bundle Your Joy
Founder: Alicia Keys
Prospective Membership: Celebrities who do something foul and need to improve their self-image through procreation.
Purpose: Guides "the other woman" towards the exit from the public hot seat--by making a baby.
Slogan: First comes infidelity, then comes love, and then comes baby in the baby carriage. Oh, yeah, and then comes marriage.
Events: Private parties where married celebrity men can bring their celebrity mistresses and love freely before their divorces are finalized.
Staff: Alicia's "people"
Based In: Alicia & Swizz's home
Silent Investor: Bobby Brown
Famous Owner Quotes: "If you ask me, I'm ready."

Business Name: Men Love Bitches
Founder: Hillary Rodham Clinton
Prospective Membership: Both the powerful professional woman married to the powerful man and the everyday laywoman that Hillary really stands for. Basically, any woman who's not going to take any @&%$ off her egotistical, power and/or sex-addicted man.
Purpose: To make sure women don't take any @&%$.
Slogan: We're not taking any @&%$.
Events: "The Annual Husband Hunt" where members go in groups to catch each other's husbands in the act of cheating. Monthly shakedowns at the Watergate building where mistresses are waterboarded until they confess to cheating with a member's husband.
Staff: Chelsea Clinton
Based In: Washington, with a satellite office in Chelsea Clinton Mezvinsky's apartment
Silent Investor: Mark Mezvinsky and Bill Clinton
Famous Owner Quotes: "If I didn't kick his ass everyday, [Bill] wouldn't be worth anything."
"Put your dick up, Bill. You can't f&%# her in here."

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New Rule: Stay In Your Lane

"sex so good..do you remember?"--Marsha Ambrosius

So, while perusing Jezebel yesterday, I came across an oh-so-lovely piece (sarcasm) about one of the topics closest to my heart...wait for it: celibacy. Surprise, surprise. Jezebel, whom I love but in all fairness treats the topic of abortion with all the weight of a drinking game, was attempting a stab at the sensitive topic of what I like to call pillow-cradling, or the showerhead sales pitch.

Well, I have some advice for Jezzy and their prize writer, Anna North. Keep your opinions to yourself.

One of the best things about topical non-fiction is the chance to write about what you know. So why get someone whose labium are probably still swollen from the weekend to handle the topic of keeping it in your pants? Admittedly I'm hating, but honestly, this journey is one of the hardest things I've personally ever done.

I make jokes, but I can't wait until this is over. It's been just about two years. Two. Yeah, yeah, I enjoy the clarity, the sureness of self, and most especially the choices I don't have to make in this time waiting; I also totally understand what is meant by the "sensuality of celibacy". Truthfully, I feel sexy all the time, and don't have to be having sex to feel that way. Sexiness is something that comes from inside, from knowing your intrinsic worth and knowing what you're sitting on (pun somewhat intended, but not quite as intended as it sounded). Celibacy is not for the faint of heart.

Anyhow, the chick who decided to pick up a pen and delve into a topic that I happen to actually live every day did a cute little piece with the appropriate jargon and the appropriate tongue-in-cheek tone that screams "just go get laid already and put everyone at ease!". Because, like it or not, people freak out when they find out that you're not riding the bone. They have a motherloving cow most of the time. And I'm not just talking about men, who are used to hearing women say they don't or have never had sex (and be lying through their teeth a large percentage of the time) that when I tell guys I'm celibate it's almost always received with the requisite "oh but wait 'til you see my dick" look of curiosity and intrigue.

But the women? The women lose their minds, like my choice is somehow an affront to theirs. I've learned to take it in stride, but I was personally never that woman. When people told me they were virgins and/or abstinent, I always shrugged it off even though I was turning down absolutely no opportunities to hit the pipe. Bygones, I suppose.

I picked my favorite phrases that North picked of the book she was reviewing, a tome on going a year (pttth, just a year!?) without sex, appropriately called Chastened and written by an author named Hephzibah Anderson, whose name sounds eerily like her sexual choices are made by a minister from the Hebrew Israelites. In any case, they are not; and I'm sure Chastened is just great, but I won't be reading it--for obvious reasons. The only time I want to hear a discourse on celibacy is when I'm commiserating with one of the many friends whose sex lives have also been put on the proverbial shelf.


On the one hand, the idea that guys will only do cute things if you dangle sex just out of reach is both clichéd and depressing — what does romance really mean if it's just an extended ploy to get laid? But on the other, maybe Anderson's year of chastity helped her focus on men who would give her what she wanted, who wouldn't leave her "emotionally frustrated."

There are several things wrong with this statement, but the glaringly obvious h is the comment about romance. Um, romance is pretty much by definition just an extended plot to get laid. All male-female interaction is; and I don't mean that in a jaded, carnal way, but in the practical sense. All sexual/romantic interaction between men and women is about getting laid. Even and especially when you love someone to the moon and back, that desire for the sexual connection is always there. As humans and sexual beings, we do romantic things as expressions of that desire, which is not bad or wrong. Why else do men do what they do? The "just to see you smile" rap? Yeah, to see you smile, because your smile makes him wanna hit. We shouldn't be so coarse in mind; it doesn't change love to say "I desire copulation with you". True, when you love someone, you can deny yourself something you want in deference to what makes them happy, but it doesn't mean that your desire shrinks or goes away as a result. It's incredibly naïve to think that "cute things" are done without consideration for the oochie-coochie that follows.

The second issue I take here is that people expect far too much from plain old celibacy when they have no experience with it. North's comment that maybe the year helped Anderson focus on "men who wouldn't leave her emotionally frustrated" is idealistic at best. Celibacy isn't a magic fairy that makes you good at relationships, draws all the right men to you, and leaves everything right with the world. It helps. But it doesn't do the hard work for you. When I got off the proverbial pot, I already, as my priors will tell you, had major issues with intimacy and was notoriously horrible at interpersonal communication in a romantic sense. Therefore, my relationships always imploded after being punctuated with television-worthy performances of the dreaded "what do you want from me??" -"I dooon't knoooooooowww!!!" scene.

No longer having sex to cover up just how awful my relationship-building skills were has been a major plus, but as I found out in the three substantive relationships I've attempted in the past two years, it did not magically take away my issues. I've naturally gotten better at certain things due to age, self-awareness, and putting in the work and self-analysis. But it wasn't the refraining from sex that did that for me; it was the honesty I decided to give myself. The "emotional frustration" North mentions has definitely appeared during my celibacy--and I didn't have sex to relieve it.

Anderson leans a little hard on the notion that women want more commitment and less casual sex than men do — there are lots of women who don't want marriage or babies, who don't fall in love when they have sex, and who have only benefited from the (as yet incomplete) sexual liberation of modern life.

To this, I'll take a leap and say that there is a significantly large portion of women that want commitment and not casual sex, and an even larger portion of women who don't want to admit that's what they want because it's not en vogue in this day and age. To be fair, I can't totally thumb my nose at the "sexual liberation" argument, because I've had my fair share of casual sex. There was a time in my life when I didn't even spend the night, or allow guys to spend the night at my place. I was disaffected and uninterested and it actually felt quite good.

I was young and having a good time, trying not to think about consequences. But when all was said and done my extended teen years slammed into my young adulthood, and the screeching halt left me with a desire for the real, the grounded, and the stable. Trying to combine a casual sex life with this need was a recipe for disaster, and ultimately created a sneaky, oversexed, and overly self-concerned person I didn't like--and wouldn't want to know a woman who did.

As women, we should treasure our role as the rock. We were created to be the bottom line, and it's a valid hypothesis that men run around chasing their own dicks because we're overly concerned with freedom and project that onto them. I've learned by watching those I love that choosing the one, right person will actually free you, and that's the current goal.


But Anderson's right that women and girls are often encouraged not to be "clingy," and to act, at least with guys they're seeing, like they don't want a relationship — even if that's exactly what they want. And what they do want, whether it's love, sex, or a combination of the two, often gets lost amid what they're supposed to want — an ever-shifting standard that usually has something to do with guys wanting them.

Even though this statement is mostly spot-on, it's high time women screw the "what we're supposed to want" or "I don't want to be seen as clingy" jive. That was my whole intention behind this website, it's time women stop apologizing for being a little left of the center that men created. We are different--we desire different things and are wired differently, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Though I consider myself a feminist, I find the movement thoroughly flawed because so many women still want to act as though there's no difference between the sexes, as though they're interchangeable. Well, they're not, and thank God for it. I love being a woman, with all the crazy thoughts, and mood swings, and complexities that men couldn't imagine. That's why they love us, too, whether or not they'll always admit it. Women need to lose the egos and concern about looking "normal". We're not men's idea or patriarchal society's idea of normal because we're not men.


Women have been writing about these problems — about the meaning of sex and commitment in a world where women are supposed to be sexy but not slutty, and to act carefree about relationships while still managing to get married before they're over the hill — for long enough that they've come to seem like exclusively female issues.

Women have always written about these issues because they affect us so much more. Even just physically speaking, we bear the larger brunt of burden where sex is concerned. If there's a pregnancy, guess who's up to bat? Guess who doesn't have to be? And then emotionally and spiritually speaking, there are such things as unwanted attachments and there are such things soul ties. Women write about this because biologically speaking, we come to a crossroads where we are forced to make decisions about these things, even if our choice is not to engage in the discourse and to continue down a casual sex path indefinitely. For a woman, who was created to give life, and who, societally speaking, is more expected to settle marry than a man, even opting out is a decision. Men can be bachelors until they're 50, and it's odd, but not as odd as a 50 year-old woman with no children. One is treated with the shake of a head, like a petulant playboy who just hasn't made a decision, and the other is treated like a sad sack, or someone whose decision was made for her. This, of course, is jacked and unfair, but it's the truth of the matter, and writers are all after the truth. So of course women write about it more--the burden of truth leans far more heavily on us.

Overall, I think it's valiant that celibacy has become such a topic of discussion lately. On Jezebel over the weekend, there were five different posts on celibacy, which is more no-sexing than I've ever heard in a feminist discourse at once, and even one about celibacy being "hot" right now. As much as I recommend it for a number of reasons, and as much as it's done for me spiritually, emotionally, and mentally, it's not child's play. There is a physical, carnal consideration that is often beyond trying to navigate. It doesn't remove desire from your life; in fact, at times it greatly intensifies it. But the lucidity with which I can approach my decisions about love and relationships are without the dickmitization I faced in the past, and I can't be mad at that. No, I don't think celibacy is "hot". But I think it's cool.

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1.03.01

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23 Questions...And Answers: The Misanthropic BIC Edition

"that's why the lady is a tramp..."--Ella Fitzgerald

I usually serve my BIC sunny side-up, because, well, I'm truly a glass half-full kind of person. Let's face it: there's absolutely no other way to handle being single in this day and age other than sheer, unadulterated optimism. But, alas, sometimes my pragmatism does get the best of me. And with that said, I cannot tell a lie when I ask:

1. Aren't you praying Obama doesn't even run for another term? I'm so over the whole Black president thing; let the Republicans back in to screw shit up so they can be blamed--or give Hillary a shot. Because let's face it, things are going to improve at their own pace either way.

2. Isn't it astounding--and ironic--how much more warmly the public has embraced Alicia Keys' alleged home-wrecking since she got pregnant?



3. Now that Tyra's done us all a favor by taking her awful talk show off television, isn't it time for ANTM to follow suit? Baby steps, Ms. Banks.


4. Gaby Sidibe is fabulous as a person and an actress, but she should not have been on the cover of Elle. The experiment didn't quite work. There, I said it.


5. When are we planning to lose the feminazi rhetoric and admit this chick who authored and distributed (yes, distributed; c'mon it's 2010, what did you really think would happen if you emailed pictures of penises and corresponding ratings) the "Fuck List" (which is in fact not a "list", but a powerpoint presentation) is not a feminist hero, but just a regular, run-of-the-mill um, slut?


6. It's been said before, but isn't Jersey Shore a travesty against humanity?

7. Can't just about anybody be a "pundit" these days? Although I actually like most of what she stands for, the fact that Meghann McCain is a "political analyst" should scare the living daylights out of everybody. 7b) Has the girl ever met an interview she couldn't valley-girl giggle her way through?

8. I'm convinced that a significant amount of men are being conditioned to tweet all the wild disrespectful sexual comments they would never say to a woman's face. Way to go, Progress.

9. Didn't the Republicans let the proverbial dogs out with Palin? They opened the gate for her in desperation and Christine O'Donnell, Carly Fiorina, and Michele Bachmann ran out behind her.

10. I'm not really a fan of hard liquor and especially not a fan of Diddy, but isn't Ciroc Coconut truly a delicious and incredibly smooth cure-all? Double on the rocks, please!

11. I'm a huge Leonardo DiCaprio fan, but after watching Shutter Island, in addition to the also recent and amazing Inception and Resurrection Road, I'm wondering if it's a contractual requirement that his characters' wives be crazy as hell, and what issues he might have with playing opposite a female character that's not criminally insane and suicidal?

12. Isn't it ridic that Mel Gibson is now blaming "male menopause" for his social snafus? Newsflash: men don't get to have menopause. Midlife crisis, yes. Menopause, no. I've seen women going through menopause--they can't sleep at night and break out into intense sweats at the drop of a hat like someone's thrown a bucket of water on them. Men don't go through that, just like they don't pass other human beings through their genitalia. Sober up, jackass.

13. Are people finally starting to get that that whole "I hate homosexuals" thing is really code for "I fantasize about sex with someone of my own gender constantly"?

14. Isn't it always the worst people with the worst reputations who want to be "googled"? "Google me!" You can't possibly really want anyone to do that.

15. Has not the internet been a coincidentally and remarkably sweeter place to visit since Beyonce went on her "break" and Lil Wayne went to jail?

16. In my celibacy, I've gained a heightened awareness of celibate celebs: Gaga, Nicki Minaj, Mya, Lenny Kravitz. I try to quiet the cynical part of my mind that says they screwed someone the same night they gave the interview.


17. Somehow I missed this brilliant display (which, for once, I say without a hint of sarcasm), which I deeply regret. Two thumbs up, girls!

18. I was speaking with a friend the other day, and I think I've finally learned in my 20-something years that when a man says "I'll make it up to you, babe" it really means "deal with it, bitch".

19. While I champion celebrities who stay tight-lipped on their private lives, doesn't Mariah Carey specifically need to announce her pregnancy ASAP? And it definitely looks like a girl...

...or two.


20. The play "For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf" is phenomenal. By raise of hands, who believes the chances Tyler Perry screwed the whole 40 year-old legacy up on film are greater than 50%?

21. If ever there were a such thing as a baby-making necklace, leave it to Betsey Johnson to create it. That said, by show of hands, who dares me to wear this to the grocery store this weekend? The irony should sink in in 5, 4, 3, 2...

22. Speaking of Tyler Perry, wouldn't it make sense for J.Lo to be the star of his next film? Since Jennifer's ventured so boldly into the area of horrendous productions and Tyler's an expert on them, shouldn't they just make art together?

23. Is it just me or is Stacie's husband on The Real Housewives of DC more gossipy (and slightly b-made) than most of the women on the show--except Stacie?

Bonus/24. So is Toni Braxton overly philanthropic, cursed, or just an idiot?

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One Last Request

"and you don't remember..."--Mariah Carey

Hey you? Mr. Former Lover?  The man whose last name I used to scribble next to my first all over my favorite writing notebook like I was 16 instead of 26? The last man I did Kegel exercises for? Yeah, you. Could you stop coming to my church? I mean, I know that's a horrible request of anyone, and I hope that the Lord will forgive me for what I am feeling in the wickedness of my deceptive heart, but I just. Keep. Praying. You will find another place to pretend to worship once every two months.

Because when I'm up front singing and trying to minister, trying to be in the Spirit, hands raised, eyes closed...and I lower them and open my eyes and I see you? My heart drops into my thighs. When I see you, I think of the many nights we stayed up until there was sun, the movies we went to see, the late dinners, the early breakfasts, the games we played. I think of our heart-to-hearts, when you took my hand and said "Ashleigh, just talk to me. I'm right here." I think of how you spelled my name right in the first text you sent me; I think of the night after a year had gone by when you said that even with your horrible memory, for some reason you remembered every single detail of the day you met me and told me everything about that moment, even what I was wearing. And even with my laundry list of priors, you were the first man I really talked to, the first man that invited me to be real, the first man that looked me in my eyes and truly listened to the words coming out of my mouth. The first man I trusted for real, the first man whose word felt like bond. I think that's why in so many ways I felt like you tricked me, but then again, it's more likely I tricked myself.

And all of this is why I'm asking you if you might find another place to pretend to worship once every two months?

Because when I see you now, I think of the many ways you twisted me, both literally and figuratively. I think of showers in your apartment; I think of fully-clothed conversations in restaurants where I clearly explained what our physical relationship meant to me, what it meant in my relationship with God, and I think of moments where you told me you understood and that I could trust you. And then, inevitably, I think of your selfishness; I think of your disrespect. I think of your maliciousness and your immaturity, unintentional or not. And I feel disgusted with myself. When you walk in, I feel like I have to repent again, every Sunday...and God says I'm forgiven. I asked for forgiveness a long time ago, and it was granted. And yet, every time I see you I'm reminded. And all this during an altar call.

And so, I ask if you might stop letting the devil use you and find another place to pretend to worship once every two months?

Because every time you walk into the sanctuary, the enemy has a small victory. I'm just keeping it real--in the name of Jesus. I'm a new creation, and my mind has been transformed; but the recesses of my heart, where you poured all those shiny words and false hopes like pancake batter...they're still mush. And when we were done, you left holes, sagging and dripping, larger and far more porous than you found them. God came and filled those in. And yet somehow I feel that same old sucker punch when you come swanning into the sanctuary like you're doing everybody a favor by getting to church just in time for the sermon.

I was there first; I should get custody of this place. I can't and don't want to bogard Jesus; but I can bogard my church, right? I shouldn't have to worry about being confronted with my bad choices and checkered past there, right? Or maybe I should. As I type that, I'm giving God a cautious and respectful side-eye.

You've been coming for almost two years--once every two months anyhow--and you haven't joined. Does that mean you don't love it? Because I do. There are so many other churches in LA. There are so many other places for you to go. And I used to want you to get that Word... But now I think: can I send you CDs? Transcripts, something? Do you have to show up?

And then I dare to wonder why God hasn’t brought the man that's really going to love me. Could it be because I'm still hung up on the one that didn’t?

I don't know. All I know is when I was with you, you had a bond and relationship with God that really attracted me to you. You had daily devotions; even with your crazy work schedule, you read your Bible every day. You inspired me. I had left the old me on the altar just before I met you, and I was ready to be new with you. Oh, the irony.

Picture it: the night I decided was the night, you were in the shower, and I found your devotions notebook right behind your side of your bed, propped up against the wall. And I admit, I opened it. And I read your notes, your scriptures, your thoughts and meditations, and I was so surprised and impressed. Wow, he really does read the Bible, I thought. He's not just saying that! Imagine. And outwardly, it was clear that God was moving in your life something crazy. And now, fast forward and He's really, really moved. What you came here to do has been made so real for you; He's done huge things in your life. This town is small and the business is even smaller. I know everything, every victory, and I'm so happy for you, baby, truly. You appear to have the world.

So, since you have the world, can I have my church?

Seeing you makes me think of what I gave you just because you loved Him, what I trusted you with because I trusted that He was guiding your path. Because let's be real: a sista was a little lukewarm, a little naïve about what exactly dedication to God truly meant, a little still stuck in her piping hot flesh even though she was walking around in a newly saved, reborn, and rededicated temple. And she made you wait six whole months, remember? And she wanted to trust you, and she wanted to feel like it was right and like it was okay. But it wasn't okay. What she gave you didn't have the best ROI when all the many waves of dust settled, and even though God forgave her, she still had to pay the price. She still got set back; she still got disciplined. She still had to deal with the fallout of her disobedience--but you didn't. Not in the same way.

I never told you but that last time, before we ended things, I was actually on my way to your house that evening. I didn't get sick, and I wasn't tired. What really happened was that I was sitting at the stoplight at Manchester and Sepulveda--and the light was green, but I just didn't feel quite right. And God said "open your Bible right now." And it was on my backseat, and for once, I didn't question Him, I just did it. And oddly, or not so oddly knowing the God we serve, I opened right to Jeremiah 15, a scripture I'd obviously read but hadn't truly ingested. And God said, "Who will have pity on you...who will mourn for you? Who will stop to ask how you are? You have rejected me...you keep on backsliding. So I will lay hands on you and destroy you. I can no longer show compassion." I was terrified. And I turned my car around, and the sex--mind-blowing as it was--was over. (Except for that one time the following September when I tried to bamboozle myself into believing double-backs didn't count....but God knows I always learn the hard way. No pun intended. )

I know I was the best you ever had. I know that. It was the best for both of us. It went down so easy, and it tasted amazing. That connection, that feeling, that intensity. I remember getting up on Sunday mornings, fresh from a long night of getting it in with you, and going to church and praising God for you, and your dick. The unmitigated gall of me. The deception was just so damn deep.

And now. I'm asking you if you could find another place to pretend to worship once every two months?

Because I'm in that house every Sunday, seeking His face, trying to be a part of the body, trying to be a part of the solution, and you, you are still a part of the problem. My problem. I don't know about the larger problem; I just know that when I open my eyes and lower my hands and see you, I see something that's not God, or just not god-ly. Maybe that's wrong to say, but for me, that's what you represent. A decision that altered the course of my life, however small in measure. You haven't tried to represent anything else for a long time. At the heart of it, you're not my old love. You are just a man I used to spend time with, one who has seen me fully naked, and with whom I have done things that would make the Kardashians blush. Yes, you were that man once. Yeah, I loved you.

Of course, I had low expectations when we met that beautiful, sunny Sunday morning in March. But I was comforted and disarmed by your Midwestern flavor, fresh off the boat, wearing a real live suit and holding a real live Bible, waiting for a ride to a real live church. All those low expectations turned to slush and washed away when you leaned down and kissed me for the first time, three and a half years ago now on that unusually humid April LA night. Me in my sister's purple sweater and the skinny jeans I can no longer fit, my still-favorite cowboy boots on as I sat on the edge of your bed. I felt something shift and lock into place, like you were my missing puzzle piece, or the key that turned my lock. I left that evening knowing that even though I would fight it, I was going to give you my heart. I went home and told my sister that I'd met the man who would be my husband. That single, sweet, simple kiss, up to this very second in time, was so amazing it opened up a whole new world in which I felt so close to God. I felt like Love was real. I had never experienced anything remotely like it before. And I just knew that despite my marathon sprints from Love, it had found me. I knew in that moment I would never be the same. And I never was.

But neither were we, after all was said and done. We barely speak now, and when we do, it always devolves into something regrettably ugly; and even though I've forgiven you and pray you've forgiven me, sometimes I find it hard to look at you without wanting to slap your face. God forgive me. I never questioned your relationship with God after we were done, because I never doubted your love and your faith. But now I wonder if you even love God with the same vigor. I won't explore the evidence, but keeping it one hundred: can your prayer life be that deep when your behavior is straight from hell?

There was a time when I was moved by you. But I am no longer moved. You messed with my resolve, you messed with my head, and now you're messing with my worship.

And we can't have that.

So, I'm gonna pray on this. And I'm gonna ask God to bind this spirit of contention and cast it out. That's what my spirit says to do. But my flesh. Sweet Jesus, my flesh wants to know if you could find another place to pretend to worship every two months.

I would be eternally grateful.

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