Monday, April 28, 2008

20 Is the New 30?

"guess it's bout time i'm due another love/messin with this n**ga got me fallin apart..."--Teedra Moses

She's a natural beauty, stunning with or without makeup. A head-turner men can't help but whip around to take a peek at when she's walking down the street, or even in the next car. She's vivacious, with big, pretty eyes, a sweet smile and a sexy style. After years of begging off from eligible guys, she finds "him". The one. And being that he's the one, she pours herself into him like batter, determined to make it work. But the word "work" doesn't even begin to describe all the heavy-lifting the relationship requires. He's high-maintenance in one way or another, difficult, hard to understand and hard to deal with. He cheats or he ignores her or he puts his hands on her. He's always stressing her out and transferring his weighty negative energy onto her. And after a considerable amount of time with him, she's exhausted. She's still gorgeous, of course, but now there's something in the eyes--which, of course, mirror the soul--that says she could use some time away...from everything. Most people would guess she just looks really amazing for 32. How old is she really? 22.

Women that are truly gorgeous have a light about them, an enigmatic, ethereal beauty that supercedes video-vixen or supermodel standards. It's God-given, of course, and it draws in everyone, especially the opposite sex. Unfortunately, it often happens that the same men that are attracted to this light are the ones able dim it to the point where the woman is damn near unrecognizable. In an effort to not put too much of my friend's business in the street (because you have all been here), I can safely say that I had a crazy light at one time, before the last time I locked it down for SB. Dave cracks me up these days by insisting that when we broke up, I looked so beautiful everytime he saw me that it seemed like there a little person following me around with a beam light. I laugh, but I know what he's talking about; I had a crazy glow back then that even I could see. And there was a sliver of time after Dave and before I was bamboozled into signing back up for SB that I could have run for the hills. But no, I took my glow and my light and poured it into loving him. He could have made it even brighter, but that would have been too much like right. Needless to say, over the next couple years, the wear and tear of that love did a number on me to the point where I don't think anyone thought I had anything especially ethereal going on. Kim noted the other day that it was only after I finally got some sense in my head and back-outed from that relationship that I began to get my light back. And it's true, people that I didn't even know started to comment on my glow. And that's only when I put an end to the romance, when I finally managed to scrape him completely out of my life, I was suddenly back to the old me--only better.

It goes beyond the superficial: the bottom line is that being with some men can grate at your self-esteem. If he doesn't lift you up, tends to put you down, or is kind of neither here nor there on the whole, it does have an affect over timee. As women, we should expect to find a man that absolutely cannot believe we're so fly, for whatever reason we happen to be fly. He should not be able to fathom that you are so smart and talented, beautiful and cool. But a lot of men are quietly intimidated by a woman that has a lot going on, and, in the words of Vince Vaughn want to "isolate her and make her feel bad about herself". This is, of course, unacceptable. No man should be able to make or break a woman, but it happens every day. My friend told me last year that all the little things that different men say, over time, over years, adds up and it slowly chips away at a woman's core until she has messed up beliefs about herself. I believe this is true. You need the man in your life to counteract this; he should build up what has been broken and make it even more prominent.

Also, a woman has to be strong enough to get out of situations that look like they have the potential to do the opposite and cut them off at the pass. Because, honestly, if you're not careful, a man will age the crap out of you. Spending time with him can make you not do the things you want to do for yourself. And conversely, the mark of a great relationship is where you only get better without losing yourself or letting any part of you that you treasure go. I can't speak for everyone, but I actually do treasure my looks. And so any man that doesn't help and encourage me to look great and doesn't care if I look a mess as long as I hang around is not for me. A man should take away the burdens that stress you, not add to them. 30 is the new 20, not the other way around. And finding the right man should make you feel--and look--even younger than you are.

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Thursday, April 24, 2008


"do you remember our first kiss/it wasn't long enough/all of our conversations/all of your sweet pages/never long enough..."--Beyonce Knowles


So what crime I gotta committ [sic] to see you ma? April 1, 2007

U have been on my damn mind ALL DAY!! Check ur myspace when u get a chance. Left u something interesting. May 10, 2007

good morning beautiful. time to take over the world. call me when u can. May 29, 2007

So r we still seein each other 2day??? August 4, 2007

Oh yeah and u are so beautiful thought i'd say that August 11, 2007

up at 7 n in the morning thinkin of ashleigh December 9, 2007

Ashleigh when i first met you you almost gave me a cardiac arrest... Jan 1, 2008

Happy new year ms ashleigh if u remember me at all... January 1, 2008

claro que si te voy a llamar la otra semana. y tu como has estado todo bien? te extrano. February 10, 2008

I miss you. March 24, 2008


This, ladies, is my version of crack cocaine. Yes, I've admitted it before and I'll admit it again...I am a complete sucker for a sweet/sexy text message. I'd rather have a sweet text than a stiff drink. It's that deep. It doesn't take much, and I might not even like the guy very much, but I love a text message. As you can see, I hold onto them for dear life. They make me smile on bad days. I know I'm not alone. But today, I'm declaring something's got to give. These things may actually be detrimental to our mental health over time, keeping us tied to something that's not worth being tied to. And so today is D-Day...Day of Deletion.

Last year, when the SB situation imploded, I immediately rid myself of pictures, old texts, voicemails, everything. It was therapeutic and I've never once since then wished I had any of those things back. But it's a little scary to wipe out your whole dating history in one swoop from your phone, never to get it back. It's not a big deal to shake off the ones from homeboys who wish they were more. I just happen to be a girl that loves men and enjoys game, so I collect's kind of my commemorative sport. I get a kick out of the things men will say to try to get some, or being fair, to try to be with you.

But some texts aren't really game, they're just a "thinking of you" or special for some other reason. And the hardest part of what I'm doing today is ridding myself of the texts from Mr. Magic (yes, we've moved onto a Roberta Flack reference; formerly referred to on this site as Mr. Drastically Different)--the one guy from the past year that I actually liked, the one that rocked my world by (gasp) making me catch feelings (!!)...and currently the only guy I've given it up to since 2005. Mr. Magic is the first big OMG I've had since '03, when I last locked it down. He's grounded, cool, sexy and talented--all the top prereqs. Brakes: he's never in town and he never calls when he isn't. No likey. And so even though he managed to add an unwanted extra notch to my closely monitored bedpost to no avail (yes, I have a limit before marriage), he's officially got to get out of my brain. So, I'm ridding myself of the first text from the first day we met (that, by the time I started to like him, I managed to rescue from automatic deletion by just a few hours), the first one he sent that made me smile, and the only one that reminds me of the first time we kissed; I'm erasing the one that reminds me of the date of the first time we had sex. Hard as it is to believe, at my age I've never done anything like this before; I guess I've never had to. It's harder than I thought.

What we hang onto as women isn't the actual texts, it's the thought behind it. Chris Rock says women need food, water, and compliments and he's so right. I like to know that on New Years' Day, so-and-so was thinking about the day we met the previous year, however far apart we were, however long it had been since we spoke. I like to know that on December 9th, the guy I was then dating woke up at 7 and couldn't go back to sleep because he had me on his mind. It puts an extra dent in my dimple to remember how inspired I was the morning of May 29th when a super successful guy with whom I'd had a first date the night before thought enough of me personally and professionally to hit me up and get my day started before getting out into the world. There are texts from my ex that I'm still friendly with who often makes me smile, and a text from my sexy-mexi homeboy, the only person on Earth with whom I always speak Spanish.

But today, they've all got to go. Especially Mr. Magic. What am I hanging onto year-old texts for?

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The Daily DIC: The Case of the Missing BIC

"don't fool yourself/but tell no one else/that it's more than just an ordinary pain/in your heart..."--Stevie Wonder

The age-old question, that even my grown behind still hasn't quite fully grasped: why, when you still love someone, does it have to be over? Here's someone who apparently has more answers than me:

Putting aside my own selfishness since they were actually my favorite of the "celebrity couple" set and one that I had high hopes for, I really hate that Kanye and Alexis broke off their engagement. Since he dumped Alexis, this man has been bumming around town looking like the MTV, The Grammy Organization, and BET revoked all of his awards. Oh, well. I don't purport to know anything personal about those two, but I know they looked happy and now they don't. Maybe his calling off the engagement (and reportedly requesting his ring back) was premature? She definitely looked like she loved him to death, even his mother thought so. Unless she did something super foul, my advice would be to call the girl and get her back, but what do I know? I haven't had sex since last year.
Champagne on the hardwood for the happier times:

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Throwback BIC: My Name Is Not Susan

"i never wanna be the girl that you call your one and only/you know the kind of girl that you call on when you get lonely..."--Whitney Houston

Oh, Whitney. The OB (Original BIC), although we were none the wiser in the blissfully pop "I'm Your Baby Tonight" days. To this day, thankfully, no man has ever accidentally said another woman's name to me. And oh how Whitney's shuck and jive performance here (complete with more dancing than I've ever seen her do in the past 20 years) certainly discourages the misstep at all costs.

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BIC in Black

"goodbye/doesn't mean a thing/to you and I..." -Gerald Alston

Get ready to wail, folks. This BIC is in mourning. Life is a series of goodbyes: you meet, part, sometimes meet again, but mostly not. Sometimes the departure is welcome, but other times it sneaks up on you until one morning you wake up and realize it’s been three weeks since you’ve spoken with someone that you used to stay on pins and needles waiting to hear from. And when that realization comes for some folks it’s a cause for BIC. It’s a “wow, that dude hasn’t called me” causing you to try to ferret out all the info that you’ve been missing. It might manifest itself as a drive by on his block, a drop in to his favorite restaurant, or a call to his mama (just calling saying “hey” Ms. Jackson). You go through the five stages, denial, grief, BIC, anger (BIC squared) and “fuck him.” Until finally, acceptance. But there’s the other three weeks notice and that’s where I am. When you realize, it’s you that hasn’t called and he’s just taken that cue to give you what he thinks you’re asking for. No five stages here. Just resignation and the realization that, for a time, the three-week gap would have been unheard of. Now, it’s acceptance that what you had was great then and now you mourn. But if you’re lucky, the relationship evolves.

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Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Going To the Chapel

"i been fooled before/wouldn't like to get my love caught in the slammin door/how about some information please?"--Paula Abdul

Today, I studied my parents' wedding photo, the one where they're walking down the aisle of the packed, country Baptist church in which my mother was christened and baptised after the vows were exchanged (my scanner is still in storage, so I'll throw the pic up soon as I can). Surprisingly, I saw it differently than I have before--I don't know if it's just that I'm growing up and notice different things, or if I'm just always looking for clues from their past as a window into my future. I've always noted the broad smiles on their faces, the pep in their step as they both stepped in the name of love down the aisle in their all-white post-70's getups on that hot August day in 1980. My mama was rocking the curly natural and her killer curves in her cinched-waist tea-length gown and my daddy is in his all-white three-piece suit doing his best George Jefferson strut.

I've always loved the photo.
But what I noticed when I sat with the picture today is my mother's satisfied expression. It's not an ecstatic smile she wears, as I assumed it was as a child, nor is it disappointed. It just looks...content, as though she's thinking "well, that's finally over." For years, being a true Disney girl, I always projected my idealistic ideas of love onto my parents' union. I thought my mother felt like Cinderella on her wedding day, as though she'd found her Prince Charming and couldn't believe her life was going to be so amazing. Now that I'm older, I know that my PTA-president, elementary school room parent, Girl Scout leader, socialite mother was actually deeply in love with some hood rich thug named Phil who died in a car accident the year before she met my comparatively straight-laced dad. I wonder, looking at her lopsided grin, if she was thinking about him.

Then there's my father. He is positively glowing. His entire expression reads, "yes, I made the right decision. Damn, I'm lucky. This feels right." Considering my mother had to strongarm my father into marriage (he wanted to move in together), that's a statement. In fact, my father told me the rather comical story of how my mother set him straight when she found out he wasn't exclusively hers early in their relationship by telling him "if you think we're going to be friends after all we've done, you're crazy". That cracks me up because it's SO my mom, by the way; she was never one to mince words.

In any case, I bring all of this up because I'm nearing the age at which my parents married and I feel so unprepared for the charge. The picture got me thinking what my own face will look like on the day I get hitched, which is to say, I wonder what kind of union I will be entering. Will I be content, as though I just "made the right choice" (which isn't very exciting), will I be ecstatic, like "can this really be my life!" (the ideal), or will I just marry a great friend and be cool to be able to kick it with someone I can stand for...ever? (Ouch, that hurts to say still. There's absolutely nothing on Earth, presently, that I want to do that long). The palpable fear of forever aside, I realize I have absolutely no idea. I'm at a crossroads in my life and my womanhood where all three seem plausible and acceptable in their own way. I've been superexcited before, super in love, and that eventually imploded. I wouldn't want that to happen to my marriage. I've been with someone I could have been "content" to marry, also, and while the financial and emotional security of being with him was attractive, the thought of having contented sex and contented kids, contented vacations and polite holidays for a lifetime makes me want to cry. And I've sat back and looked at a homeboy like "yeah...I could maybe do that...", although once again, I can't imagine a life with someone I wasn't head over heels for, so lacking in passion. I don't think me, being me, could sign up for that.

When I was a little girl, I knew exactly how I wanted my wedding to look. In fact, it was a running joke between my father and I; whenever he went away on a business trip, he would bring me the newest edition of Modern Bride or Brides Magazine from the airport or the bookstore because he knew I loved to look at them and tear out the pictures of things I liked. I had a wedding notebook with all the information about my wedding. It had magazine clippings pasted on every other page. I knew who my bridesmaids were, how many of them there were, guests that had to be there, where it was going to be, I had the date...everything. The only thing I didn't have back then was any idea in the world of who the groom would be.

Oddly enough, certainly being [relatively] closer to marriage than I ever was at the age of eight, I have no idea what I want my wedding to look like. Yeah, I have flashes and ideas like anyone, but the overarching reality is that I have no idea what I want right now. For someone who likes to plan, like me, that's scary. Two years ago, I had fantasies of a big party wedding. I was still so in love then; I wanted to show off like I love to do. Two years later, that love is so gone it needs a new word for gone. I couldn't be happier, but I have to admit it feels like some of my dreams died with that love. When I conjure up the images of that fantasy in my head, I'm unable to insert anyone else's face into it. It's just no longer who I am. Who am I now? The Disney girl in me that still speaks very loudly, even at my age, envisions herself jetting off to Vegas in the dead of night, finding some place that's not too cheesy or ridiculous, spending a few days laying up as a married woman and going on about my passionate life with a passionate man I could just sop up, someone for whom I'm certifiably on fire. But this requires finding a love like that, an urgent, crazy love. Meanwhile, the grown woman part of me that's slowly but surely emerging keeps the baby girl part of me in check by reminding her that sometimes those loves are just smoke and mirrors, passion-driven escapades, flames that burn out and roaring fires that damage everything in their path. Maybe I need to be looking for someone who makes me smile and makes my life smooth? Someone I'll sensibly live with for a year and marry in a big church wedding? I don't know. That sounds too easy to be good.

I don't know what my wedding will look like, and although thanks to "Year of Yes" 2007 I have a better idea than ever of what kind of man I'm looking for and what kind of man I can't take. I dated more people in '07 than I ever have in life, and I only found one in the whole lot I liked. They all had something to offer, but only one really lit my fire. Of course, the fire hasn't come without requisite hazards; he was also the most elusive and emotionally constipated of the bunch. So I stop and think: if my mother had married Phil, presumably the love of her life, her expression probably would have been completely different in her wedding photo. But I wouldn't be here, and she wouldn't have married inarguably the best husband I've ever witnessed, who didn't just vow to be there for her, but really followed through in every way imaginable. So, in my burgeoning wisdom, I don't look down on my mother's contentment. I guess she was essentially thinking, "this should work out."

And, thank God, it did.

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Last Line of Defense

"if i didn't kick his ass every day, [Bill] wouldn't be worth anything..."--Hillary Clinton

("and're gonna LOVE me...")

After nearly six months of speculating exactly what kind of monster BIC mutation Hillary Clinton really is, it's become apparent that she is truly the BIC that won't let a man break up with her. Everyone knows a BIC like this: the boyfriend tells her "I don't think it's gonna work out; I think we're better off apart" [Iowa] and her kneejerk response is "Why not!? Yes, it is! It is going to work; you're not trying hard enough. What can I do?" The man hems and haws because really, he just wants her to go away, but she's just been around so long that he can't just write her off.

Sensing that he's serious about this decision to end things, the BIC gets crafty and screws him senseless [New Hampshire] so he can remember what he'll be missing out on if he really tries to kick her to the curb. Said boyfriend sighs and zips up his pants, resolving not to be bamboozled or distracted again. He begins flagrantly dating other women [Super Tuesday], to which she decides to turn a blind eye and focus on their upcoming anniversary [Pennsylvania] and how to make that special enough that he'll change his mind. Knowing that the anniversary is approaching and also knowing that he really does love her, he just can't stand her, he decides to go easy on her and tell her she'll always be his first love, it's just that he's met someone else that's better for him. Of course, BIC being BIC, this doesn't go over well at all, and she begins a disgusting campaign to win back his affection. She calls [superdelegates], texts at all times of the night [attack ads], emails incessantly [emails] and even has her loudest, most ignorant girlfriends call him to stay on his case [Bill]. Growing irritated, he begins ignoring her in an effort to be with the person with whom he wants to be. He will not, repeat not be in this relationship.

And so, desperate...she gets pregnant [Pennsylvania].

Of course, he's still not going to be with her. But now, he unfortunately has to humor and be nice to her until she gives birth, at which time he will love his child but despise its mother....catch my drift?

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Monday, April 21, 2008

Throwback BIC: Like A Virgin

"you made me feel/shiny and new..." --Madonna

Long before she became the yoga poster child with the chiseled arms and Beautiful Stranger pontifications, Madonna was a nasty girl. She did obscene things with wedding dresses and Black men, she made shocking videos and movies. And America loved it.

You know you used to love this cut. Although I distinctly remember getting slapped in the mouth for singing this in the house like it was okay, I retain fond memories of this song as well as the video. The interesting thing is that later in life, just as I came to believe that Like A Prayer was really all about oral sex ("down on my knees/i wanna take you there"), I was treated to the possibility that Like A Virgin was really just an extended metaphor for finding a man with a big, big, big...personality (;o)). I don't know if I identify with that, so I'll leave personal interpretation up to each individual, seeing as how I go so long between lovers that I always feel "like a virgin".

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Don't Speak

“’member when he told you he was bout the benjamins/you act like you ain’t hear him then you gave him a little trim…” --Lauryn Hill

Years ago, when I was way too young to know what the hell she was talking about, my grandmother told me that all men tell you what you need to know about them when you first meet them. The problem is, she asserted, that women don’t listen.

Why is it that we are so surprised when the inevitable occurs in our relationships with men? Why, when we get involved with a man that can give us anything in the world we want materially, are we surprised when he’s never in town, always traveling on business? Why, when we hook up with a man that asks us to marry him the first month in which we know him, are we shocked to learn that he’s the smothering, possessive type? And for the love of God, why, when a man tells us up front that he hasn’t had a girlfriend in a couple years because he’s “not good at relationships”, are we flabbergasted when he cheats?

Men do tell us what we want to know. They tell us when they’re cheaters, when they’re workaholics, when they’re scary-possessive. The problem is, in my opinion, that often we get so good to them that decide to give it a valiant effort. Sometimes, the effort works and there’s a happily ever after. More often, the deception begins. This is all to say that I don’t think men necessarily set out to deceive us—I do think they later use dishonesty as a way of hanging onto something that they may or may not actually be ready for.

I admit that I’ve listened to a man tell me something I didn’t really want to hear. And I sat and looked into his eyes and with all my intuition and discernment saw our entire relationship, its highs and lows and its ultimate demise…and yet I still proceeded. Why? Some part of it I can certainly attribute to my optimism and true belief in deep love and its ability to overcome. If you know me, you know that I believe in preposterous love, the kind of love that feels so good it hurts, the kind of love that doesn’t make any sense. I believe that’s out there for everyone and I believe that there are clear signs when you’re upon it, and it’s incumbent upon you to pick up on the signs, follow the breadcrumbs. Have I found that crazy love yet? No. But I think I’m getting closer because I’m finally old enough and seasoned enough to not be surprised by the behaviors of men. I’m no longer bowled over when things don’t go my way in relationships. My ear is finally tuned to the male frequency—I can see and hear and feel where things are going better than ever before. And yet, I’m still not completely exempt from acting from heart and not head. Does that ever really go away?

Call me crazy (and I’m sure you will), but I hope it never does.

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Sunday, April 20, 2008

Throwback BIC: Giving You the Benefit

"i could be a trip but i choose not to...don't gimme no reason not to trust you..." -Pebbles

This jam has such a special place in my heart; I spent a whole lot of time in the mirror in 1990 singing this song into cans of hairspray. Now that I'm older, I see how this record foreshadowed incredible levels of BIC behavior. Under the pretext of a 90's club jam hides the clear message of this monster radio hit: "I'm providing you with a small, fixed amount of time to try to make me feel better about being with you" (haven't we all been there?). Three important things here: a) he has to "work it on out", as in do something very different, b) he only has a minute, c) the entire burden of fixing the relationship falls on him as she apparently doesn't plan to do anything differently herself but try to control herself from wreaking havoc on his life.

Here's hoping whoever was getting "the benefit" was able to pull it together, but seeing as how her then-husband L.A. Reid ultimately proved to be the second stop for a woman now on husband number three, I'm guessing "the beneficiary" fell just short of glory.

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Friday, April 18, 2008

Had To Do It: Exit Strategy

"and when i try to walk away/you'd hurt yourself to make me stay/this is crazy/this is crazy..."

-Lauryn Hill

Welcome yet another guest editor, folks. You've marveled at the level of lunacy demonstrated in a young lady who does, in fact, share my genetic makeup in Tyra's post (actually, you've probably marveled at how crazy ALL the women in my family are seeing as how Tyra, Jawai and Courtney have put their two cents in--something in the gene pool ain't clean). Now, marvel at the mildly distubring antics of a young lady who might as well share my genetic burden, my best friend Ro. We've been through it all. And as I read her guest post, I laughed (nervously) out loud because I remember all of it. She, too, embraces the concept of "had" to do it, but asserts an interesting theory (not explored here), that if we trace our BIC antics, they're in line with our respective menstrual cycles. And so I introduce a woman to you who is patently certain, upon a review of the past decade or so, that all of the truly crazy things she did were within 7-10 before a period. Hey, just to get by, right?

** ** ** ** ** ** **

--- I started to write about walking away, without looking back, head held high. Then I decided to be extra real because quietly, being BIC is the easy part. It’s the aftermath where you just might have to pretend that “the crazy” was a release (an “eff it, I’m done) as opposed to a plea (“Baby I’ll turn around, all you have to do is ask me to stay”)-that and what happens when your BIC inspires extreme DIC (Dude is crazy).

Where what’s really true when I get to the point of BIC slipping, is I’m at the edge of madness- the illegal, can’t eat (or eat too much) can’t sleep (or sleep too much) and let’s not talk about the alcohol- the brink of I’m going to find someone, anyone just for the night, to stick it to you (while he’s sticking me) without you even knowing it. All this is preventable, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I pride myself on control-doesn’t every BIC chick? So when I get hoe-deporting, cross country moving, Godson losing, walking barefoot in the Oakland Hills at 6:00am BIC, you know it’s the culmination of a series of episodes that for my less-controlled, and in my opinion more emotionally well adjusted, BICsters, would never let escalate that far. At least they let off steam regularly. Whether that’s a sign of crying wolf BIC style (defined as weekly episodes of crazy) or the omnipresence of men that drive them to the point is irrelevant. I love that they have that constant release.

Back to control. So, I don’t trip. Any of my exes (and presents ) will tell you, I’m pretty damn cool. I can check out another chick’s ass, watch a football game (and throw the tightest spiral you’ve ever seen), cook, run meetings and rock 5-inch stilettos with a tight ass pencil skirt and make it work. What I won’t do is be treated like an idiot or be controlled (unless it’s in bed-but this isn’t a post about BIC fetishes, although now that I think of it, Ash should do one on the correlation between BICs, DICs and well...DICks). And I can be aloof. Apparently my behavior drives men DIC, hence the need for an exit strategy.


I moved to California in March 2006. Woke up one morning, called a good, good (male) friend who was involved with his own BIC chick and asked if I could crash for a few weeks while looking for a place (that move in and of itself was BIC as I ended up at his place for 5 months while dodging the biggest DIC on the planet) I left said DIC in Texas (long-distance relationship – I lived in NY) told him I was moving to Cali and for the first two months insisted that he couldn’t come and visit me because my roommate Leslie was anti-social.

There was no Leslie, I was living with the good friend, sorting out my life, coming to terms that he (the friend) would forever be embroiled with his BIC chick and couldn’t face the fallout from opening up to DIC in Texas precisely because I was not ready to deal with his brand of crazy, combined with the BIC of his twin sisters who were both engaged and summarily un-engaged in the same year amid rumors of one sister abusing her beau and the other un-ashamedly abusing her betrothed. Why did I date him given the genetic predisposition to crazy? I’d known him all my life, he’s brilliant as hell, a great catch, definitely not a commitment-phobe, he would throw himself in front of a truck if that’s what I asked and, ahhhhh the dick!

But, good friend aka voice of reason said, “tell him the truth.” And. So. I did. What followed was worse than the time I flew home from the UK to DC in a rage because I received and email from my then boyfriend- who I along with everyone else thought I was destined to be with forever-about having sex with another woman for “cardiovascular and recreational purposes” (I call that my inaugural BIC episode-I went to his house and then to her job…. not allowed to go into what transpired for emotional reasons, I will add though that he didn’t see why that might have upset me, after all--I was the one he loved). Worse than the time Texas DIC threw a fire extinguisher in our Miami hotel room because I didn’t want to wait in line at the club--I don’t do lines. Worse than the time Texas DIC screamed and threw his pot because I washed it with soap-as opposed just water because it needed to be seasoned. Worse than the time I had to leave DC in the dead of night and head to NY because he threatened suicide because he was upset at some other trivial situation…So you see there was a pattern. Everyone told me I was crazy for not marrying this prize, they didn’t know he was bat shit crazy.

I suppose I did drive him to some of the episodes. Yes, I did give him blank stares when he would fight with me, to egg him on. Yes, I did travel to Miami and not tell him, but really, I needed a break from the crazy. And yes, I did sometimes say I was home when I was not-but he wouldn’t have known I wasn’t at home if he wasn’t SITTING.OUTSIDE. MY HOUSE. WAITING. FOR.TWO.HOURS. My defense? Aaaaahhh the make-up dick! And he was sweet in his saner moments.

So I delivered the truth. “Umm, hello Texas DIC, I’m really living with a dude. Yes, I know I said I moved to Cali because I wasn’t ready to move in with you or anyone yet, but ummm, right…” He was calm. He was CALM. I’m like, “yeah!; I dodged a bullet. This moving thing is a great exit strategy”.

Until it’s not, because now we’ve got the interwebs, and the ability to blog, and email and cc all your friends and YOUR FATHER on an email about me. The love of your life, who needed to find herself (and did, but not with you).

So as I’m congratulating myself on being honest, I draft an email to him.

“So the truth is, I am not in the business of hurting you senselessly. I haven't been completely forthcoming b/c frankly i worry about your reactions, and long term, your emotional well being…. I just don't feel the way i used to. ..”

You get the drift.

I lay down to a contented sleep. And then I wake up to this response…

“Unless someone dies or if it's about [name redacted] I never want to hear from you again. Fuck you Rochelle.”

And here I thought I’d emerge unscathed. As the emails escalated in intensity and packages began to arrive (at my NY address-I wasn’t nuts enough to give him my CA address) with various artifacts going back 10 years, napkin from the lunch room in 8th grade that he saved etc…I know there are a few lawyers that read BIC and I do believe that’s stalking or at the very least harassment. I decided on a new exit strategy. SILENCE. To no avail. And Ash, who incidentally had also been cc’d on all the emails, thought she would jump into the fray in my defense. And got this (along with several “eff you”s on her voicemail -–he has a potty mouth-- in response:

You two deserve each other as "friends", whatever it is that you think that means. You are both fuck ups of the worst kind. Fuck off.

Note to self, DIC has no boundaries, you know you’ve got DIC when he tries to turn your friends against you.

So it went with my being called evil by another mutual friend he turned against me, and culminated with a poem on his blog…I won’t bore you with the actual stanzas unless you request it in the comments.

Just a few months ago, as more than a year later I’m still his favorite blog topic, there was a post about how he broke up with his new girlfriend because he was having issues getting over us.

DIC holds a helluva grudge.


This DIC is the most sinister kind. You encounter this, when you’re trying your damnedest not to show your BIC but by virtue of his inability to see that he’s making you crazy by not JUST SAYING what the EFFING DEAL IS, you (screw it, I) am reduced to periodic BIC episodes that wouldn’t have happened if full disclosure were the order of the day.

Let’s be clear, I’m a cool chick (see intro) but sometimes…I just have to say what’s on my mind consequences be damned. Which leads me to Saturday night. Great restaurant, great ambiance, I look hot, he looks hot…

Remember when I said that I don’t like being treated like an idiot? Well, true BIC is about failing to process whether or not you’re actually being treated like an idiot before falling off the deep end (this is also known as paranoia).

So we’re eating and wine is flowing and we get to talking, about his past (taboo subject w/BICs and DICs alike) long story short, turns out there are some things that I know that he doesn’t know I know that I want to get the straight story on.

And so I ask. And ooooh he’s good. He goes, well this never came up because you never asked. Ummm, right. DIC is smug, DIC doesn’t know this BIC is on the edge. Or maybe he knows. Because historically, this DIC has a habit of pretending to be oblivious. DIC is a wily devil. This brand of DIC is stealthy, subversive, he doesn’t trip either. He disappears, for days. Weeks. Then pretends nothing happened. Making you CRAZIER or depressed or crazy and depressed. I hate being “handled.”

I know, I know, you’re saying, “Aww Ro, that’s not DIC, he’s giving you space.” Subversive DIC knows you’re BIC, because he’s been with many, many perhaps BICier BICs before you. He pretends to not know in an effort to avoid the wrath, which only incites worse behavior. How much worse?

Worse behavior than showing up at an object of your affection’s nightclub every Friday for a year, worse than pretending you still lived in a city that’s at least four hours away from your real residence, worse than buying a new outfit every Tuesday because that was the day you knew you were going to see him (shout-out to my home girl and her Tuesday outfit!)

What’s worse? Laying as stiff as a board –awake for 6 hours straight next to him in bed-while he sleeps like a baby, alternating between planning to wake him up in the most painful manner you know and waking him up in the most pleasurable manner he knows-because there is nothing sexier than being on the brink.

He wakes up bright-eyed and bushy tailed and as though nothing is wrong said “what’s wrong.” Today’s exit strategy? Being a straight-up punk. Why? Think back to the beginning of the post. Sometimes you just want them to want you as much as you want them. So what do I do? Ran fast as hell before the BIC rears it’s ugly head. Out the door. Barefoot, barely light out, cold as hell. Clothes inside out.

He called. Like nothing was wrong.


Yes, DIC begets BIC begets DIC and so on. It’s a vicious cycle. I’m controlled but am re-evaluating that particular stance. I would argue that it’s the BIC (the letting go) that works. Men are terrible guessers, yet the BIC in us punishes them for not guessing what we can’t just say because that other BIC is shouting it from the rooftops and the message is being lost in the medium.

Two stories. Read between the lines. The exit strategy was thinly veiled fear. Fear of just saying no and fear of what saying yes really means. Giving up control. BIC let’s us do that and I really believe the DICs that respond, do so because it’s the closest thing to real we can allow ourselves to be with them.

Embrace BIC. At least until you find a better exit strategy.

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Honey I'm Home!

"you gotta get that dirt off your shoulder..."


Yeah, you would think I'd come back after well over a week of being away and have some great women-centric things to say, but before I get to our ish, I have to show you just how freakin cool our next President really is. Not only is he brilliant, not only is he poignant...he shares my deep, abiding love for the Roc. Yes, that's right. Our next president loves Jay-Z.

Video after the jump.

Today, Barack spoke to a group about the ABC debate that many are calling largely unfair and unprofessional, not just to Barack but to Hillary as well. This was the first debate I didn't watch in it's entirety, so I can't speak with complete authority, but I did watch plenty of clips and read the transcripts of the questions...and basically, I know enough to know that it was far from peaches and cream for B.O. However, he's apparently taking it all in stride--at the behest of someone we all here in the 21st century know pretty well. Let's see John McCain try to jump on that one.

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Wednesday, April 2, 2008


"Taking time apart can help a relationship build a better bond because you will both replenish yourselves during that break and will then be able to give the relationship the efforts and attention it needs to keep healthy." -Alina A.

Guys, I know it's been awhile since I wrote anything and I've been getting emails asking what's up. Well, since I often feel I'm in a marriage of sorts with my site, I have to admit that, as usual, I've been a little neglectful of my baby. I've got tons of things going on and a lot of work to do outside of this, plus I really need to give the layout a complete overhaul.

All that said, I'm redebuting early next week with a new look and new material. I've already got some great new material from a new guest editor that I'll be treating you to first thing back. Thanks for being patient with me; I'm really blessed to have so many new readers (!) and I want to give you more to read and something pretty to check out every day. So, excuse my dust and I'll see you next week.

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