The Beginning Again

I'm bad at finishing things. My best friend from college can tell you. My mother can tell you. When things have natural endings it's fine. School is over after four years. You can't continue to have sex with that Afghani boy you met in Germany because you are getting on a plane in 3 days. But when the ending is completely up to me, I get incredibly antsy and unsure. My aunt is always sure to point out this fact once a month. She thinks I have a penchant for getting into abusive relationships. She needs to get a life. I just turned 26 (oh god), and I'm pretty sure that women in my age group, in this city in particular, routinely screw, moveinwith, and marry fuck ups. There is no shame in that. Sex and the City says so. The real shame is in staying. In smiling when he insults your cooking, your body. Staying after you are pretty sure that he is cheating but you have no real proof. In procrastinating on that conversation about boundaries when he slaps your face a little to hard in bed.

That's where I am with this blog. I literally think about it everyday. Something stupid, funny, frustrating, or sad happens and I think I should be writing it somewhere, somewhere here. But I think about all the responsibility that comes with writing. About this same time last year I had a series of actual fights over content here. For awhile I contemplated ending it, but, like I said, I can't end things. Not even things I am ambivalent about an obsessed with at the same time.

Hello again dear reader. Let me catch you the fuck up. In April, I left my job. It was literally the best professional decision I have ever made because the environment was literally making me ill, but everything has a catch. UNEMPLOYMENT SUCKS. At first it was fun. I had nothing to do during the day. I watched cable television. I drank daily. But after the second month, I have begun to feel this acidic, acidic boredom. Drinking wasn't a high. I started a few affairs with people who I don't like, or who don't like me, or who suck in bed. About a week ago I turned 26 and with that came much introspection...and liquor. I realized I should use this time to do things that I haven't been able to do. Like blog consistently.

And anal.

A Dream Deferred

The inauguration of Obama in conjunction with MLK Day really got be thinking about leading a purpose-driven life. Truth be told, ever since I graduated from grad school I have just been existing devoid of real friendship, artistic pursuits, and good sex. Yeah, I really miss sex. The last two weeks have been a haze. I took a medical leave at work because I was having a tough time with depression and anxiety. Aside from rest, the plan was to look for a new job and finally discover what I actually want to do with my life. The answer is utterly simple. My life has been about theater and comedy for as long as I can remember, but because of my over-achieving medical family I have opted for more traditional forms of education and employment. Now at the ripe old age of 25, I realize that it has all been a waste of time. But how do I fix it? It's clear I hate my job and need to get out. Do I look for a better (paying) job in my educated field? A part-time business job and some other part-time work? Or do I go balls to the wall waitressing and getting bit parts? It's the hardest decision I have ever made. But every decision has felt like that. UPENN or Princeton? Boy or vibrator? Reconcile with my mother or let that horrible bitch die alone? I have made the right ones so far, but the stakes have never been this high.

MLK Day

Today I took a vacation day. If you know me, you know that this is pretty out of character. I pretty much never take a day off. Well, in 2008 I did take off a Thursday and Friday off as “mental health days” at my best friend’s behest because she believed employers became suspicious of just taking off one day in the middle of the week. I can’t lie; it’s hurting me a little. We only have 10 days off a year. We only observe 4 national holidays and it turns out I will have to work during two of them. Taking today off may mean that I can’t take off a day during my birthday or Rosa’s wedding. And yet, the thought of working is incomprehensible. I work for a foreign-born super-famous black medical professional. He doesn’t observe MLK Day. Some bullshit about MLK said it was a privilege to work and so we must work at every opportunity. It would have been better to tell the truth. “I will make $75,000 if I work that day instead of staying home.” Its like how I was denied a raise on the basis of leaving 45 minutes early on Christmas Eve (when I had been doing my and someone else’s job for 2.5 months). The truth is just like everything else in American culture, this holiday, this collective national memory, has been swept under the rug in favor for those old American gems of consumerism and selective memory. A floating holiday? You have to be fucking kidding me.

It begs the question of what I have been sweeping under my own personal rug. I try to think about my life and his memory and how to live life to the fullest every year at this time (when I remember. There were a couple of times in college when I had exams or something and totally forgot). It would be a lie to say that I am happy. I am unhappy. More than unhappy. I think I went into a career in public administration because I really wanted to do something with my life. To contribute to something, to some disenfranchised people. Blacks. Latinos. Gays. Those with HIV/AIDS. Artists. Instead, I spend my days massaging the ego of a person who does good work, but it’s becoming ever more apparent that I am not ever going to be a part of that good work. I push paper and read blogs and write emails and wait for 5:45 each day. I can’t live like that any longer. Clearly, not everyone can be an international icon of peace, a new brand of president, a local treasure. I just want to find treasure in myself and my own community. My self worth shouldn’t be tied in my employment, but as a (childless) adult, I realize that my work is all I have. And so to make up for the fact that the economy is in the shitter and I may never find a new job, I decided to work outside my work and to let that show for my heart and intentions. Blogging and writing plays doesn’t necessarily commemorate MLK Day in a meaningful way, but it’s 2009 and it means I’m committing to a more purpose-filled life. At the heart of it, isn’t that what MLK stood for most?

What We Get Into

Best Friend and I spend an ungodly amount of hours trolling for sex. Like gay men in the 80's. We (well, she recently) identify a target. Notice said targets haunts. And then we sit at his favorite bar and wait. We wait with prepackaged witticisms. Sometimes people overhear us and laugh. Sigh, such is our life.

Best Friend and I sit in bar waiting for several hours

Me: [throwing up hands] Where is he?
Bartender: Who are you waiting for?
Me: Nobody
Best Friend: No one.
Bartender: Well, you're Nobody/No One should be here any minute

[2 hours elapse]

Me: Do you realize that we have been sitting here talking about nothing, waiting for this boy?
Me: We're practically Waiting for Godot
[Beat]
Best Friend: No. We're waiting for Goodick.

Celebrating 10 Years Too Late

Most nerds are used to celebrating things late. First dates. First miniskirts. First frenchkisses. First fuck. But by 22, even the nerdiest of nerds seem to get all the romantic/sexual firsts down.

With the exception of me!

I would like to announce....my very first hickey!!!! I tried to get one of these in college so badly, but I couldn't bruise that easily. Well, this dude I see now did it with ease. I was excited...until I realized I had to go to work like this.

Here's to my next sexual first being more age appropriate.

**This is taken almost 72 hours after the incident. It was much worse before.

Catching the Bouquet

Last week Best Friend and I attended a mutual friends wedding at our alma mater. It was all fun and games and merry foolishness...until I caught the bouquet. This made Best Friend laugh feverishly for two days while I hid my face in shame due to a fine ass Latino air pilot sliding a really small garter up my leg. I told another friend of all the peril.

Me: I caught the bouquet!
Her: Haha. Oh my goodness!
Me: I was mortified. The bride is so small. He kept trying to push her garter all the way up my leg and it wouldn't fit!
Her: Please. My garter will be the exact same size as one of my guest's belt.
Me: Sigh.

"Use Magnums and Lube Next Time"

When it rains it pours, or at least that what it feels like to most people. Shortly after landing a part-time gig in retail, I scored a semi-pretigous, yet low-paying job in my field.I even got called back on some interviews for theater stuff. I started writing short stories again. Everything was good.

And then boys entered my life. Boys can mostly be counted as good; I know orgasms can. That doesn’t stop the fact that if you work 6 days a week and sometimes forget to shower.

That’s as witty as it gets folks. Yesterday I did a rain dance in the sun because I got my period. I anxiously await my period every single time I have sex especially when it’s with someone new. And with me, it’s pretty likely it’s with someone new. But this situation was bigger than some of the others. A condom broke. One that I was using with me and my coworker, who was my friend with benefits at the time. As a sexually active single woman New Yorker, condoms and citysearch.com are necessities. I tend to think of them as fail proof. I even have to admit I judge those 16 year old girls waddling pregnant on the subway. Humph. She should have used a condom. It never really occurs to be that they might have. And that, just like me, they are susceptible to drinking that 3rd beer (even though they’re 16), resulting in their vags become less like Waterworld and more like the Sahara. That’s what happened to me. 2/3 a bottle of wine, a large penis, and my inability to have enjoyable sex longer than 45 minutes apparently make a condom go boom.

Twice.

I never really believe in horoscopes or any of that other bull shit, but it is true that I can change the way I feel at the drop of a hat. Some people might call this manic depression. For now, let’s stick with just being a Gemini.

The latest topic that plagues my mind with restless indecision is relationships. Yeah, a 20 something New Yorker is confused about relationships; it doesn’t sound that aberrant. Maybe I should give you the context rundown to help you understand how sex and I have such a fucked up relationship.

I am weary of dating someone like the Thug. Someone who has a lot of curb appeal, but nothing within the walls. Someone who still lives at home. Someone with no degree or some kids. But there comes a time where its hard to tell if you're being cautious and in tune with your needs or if you're just being a snob. So, I keep running down the stats of this new boy who I'm mildly infatuated by and this is what I come up with:

• 24 years old [younger is hardly ever good]
• lives at home [at least he pays rent]
• only has part-time job [still works about 32 hours a week]
• hasn't had a gf since high school
• weighs like 20 lbs. less than me [argh]

The stats are not outstanding. But the person is. He makes me smile. It's not serious and I don't have to think. He kissed in between my boobs. I think that says more about a person than a degree ever would.

The Worst Thing About Being Employed

I don't come as often as I used to. When you are unemployed and you are looking for cheap ways to pass the time, masturbation is key. Also, we all know it helps with stress. My closest friends (and sometimes grandmother) can always tell I have had sex when I smile for a whole day and am kind for no reason. Why are so many marriages breaking up? If I had sex on tap, I would be quite pleasant, even if that meant paying bills, taking care of kids, and making mac and cheese (from scratch!). I guess most married ppl aren't fucking that often. Oy.

Now that I have 2 jobs, I don't have as much time to get myself off. Today has been a good day for my nether regions because this week I discovered PornHub was SOOOOO much better than YouPorn. I'm too poor to pay and too unimaginative to think shit up on my own.

However good I can make myself feel, however, is not a substitute for actual pounding.

My Body Hasn't Gotten Used to Working

Be careful what you wish for. After all the long waiting and wishing and bitching and moaning, I have a job. I thought it would feel good. Feel great. But only parts of it do.

The One Thought I Had After The First Day of My Career

On Monday I started a career in medical non-profit management. I had one singular thought as I sat talking to Best Friend during happy hour.

Me: From stint as a career woman, I have learned one very important lesson! [Pause] It's time for me to marry a rich man, have kids, and lay down.

Best Friend: You learned all this after just one day?

Me: Yup.

Happy Fourth of July

Everyone have a happy holiday. But I just have to ask:

Would it have been SO bad if we were still owned by the British?

Peace.

My Thoughts On Abortion

Everyone, the whole world, knows I am a feminist. I'm not a suffragist nor a bra burner so that puts me in the Third Wave category. In any ideology or political party, there is a spectrum of intensity and views based on shared values and norms. The thing I most identify with is the concept of choice. We fought to win the vote (for the sake of this argument, I'm not going to go into racial history and politics). We fought to go to work. We have that now.

You want to stay at home and raise kids? Go do it! You want to work and never have a child? Go do it! You want to marry a girl? Who cares!

My mother is the best feminist I have ever known. She hasn't worked for 22 years. She has been divorced for 10.

Everyone is free to make their own choice. Feminism has empowered us to make the decision that is best for us. I will work my entire life, I hope. I want kids someday. Husband? That's ok too...if there is a prenup.

As women of developed nations, we sit around squabbling about who is better than who because of their domestic choices. I have a secret. I make a mean chicken. If I had a man living with me, I would go down on him most days. We shouldn't spend our time caring about such frivolous topics. What should we be caring about?

• We have the right to work, but we still get paid a whole hell of a lot less for doing the same job (with the same level of experience)
• Women all over the world still do not have ability to work
• ....Or have a say over basic actions in their daily life
• When women do not have the ability to work, they are forced to stay in unhealthy situations
• Even in developed nations, domestic violence and rape are underreported and inadequately addressed
  
• When women do not have the ability to work, they often participate in transactional sex to maintain their lifestyle
• Transactional sex often leads to greater susceptibility to STDs, most notably AIDS

That's what I care about. I have spent most of my academic life studying histories, trends, and policies for women and people of color. For an EXCELLENT reference, check out City of Women by Christine Stansell.

But I digress. We all know the glaring omission in my list. Abortion.

Last week I had a procedure. After my regular Pap Smear, my OB-GYN Nurse Practitioner let me know that she found irregular cells on my cervix. I had to make another appointment called a colposcopy. The procedure consisted of painted my whooha with different types of acidic solutions then scraping the outside AND THEN THE INSIDE.

As I walked to a cab outside, I pretended not to notice the strong burning feeling. And then something occurred to me.

I could never have an abortion. The colposcopy left me physiologically, physically, and sexually scarred. Waiting to see if I had cervical cancer sucked. Getting the inside of your cervix scraped sucked. Not being able to take a bath or get boned for 2 weeks sucked.

I can only imagine what it would be like if it was a baby. If I was in a bad position.

Along with choice comes responsibility. Realizing I don't ever want to be in the position to have an abortion (let's be clear-I would still do it in extreme emergencies) made me realize I need to change my habits. No more hooking up with guys I don't even like. I should look before I leap.

Figuring out I would never have an abortion came to a surprise for me. I still do believe that old white guys in Congress shouldn't decide what young women do with their bodies. I have the right to keep my baby if I want. And to not if I change my mind. And that's why feminism rocks.

The State of Brown Love

Lately it has been hard to meet people. Needless to say, grad school is filled with all girls. Most black people in undergrad OR grad school are women. I always tell Best Friend that there are exactly 6 eligible, educated black men in America. One is gay, Two are ugly, and One is my brother. That leaves just 3. Ready, Set, Go! I kid, but this is just a mere exaggeration of the truth.

I have no problem dating white boys. I have dated like 10 of them. Best Friend dates them almost exclusively. On the outside, a person would say that she does this because she hates herself and has self-esteem issues. It's far more complicated than that. If you just take me and 3 of my friends at random (and in this case one of my friend's sister) you will find: rape, molestation, gang rape, child abandonment, cheating, children outside of marriage, physical/mental/verbal abuse and AIDS. Black and Latino men were the perpetrators in every case. All the aforementioned women went to an Ivy League school.

Such is the state of brown love. We have all recovered well considering. But last year I realized that I wanted a brown man. Someone who I didn't have to explain cultural nuances to. Someone who is better in bed (yet another generalization, but this is based on my experience). My new self-imposed rule led me to sexy black manville galore. Yay! But then...Boo! Did I mention what I found in sexy black manville? Kids, criminal records, grammatical errors, parental roommates, no credit, even less income, and chlamydia. Again, this has been my experience. Nevertheless, I have rejected the black uppermiddle class woman's mantra: Girl, there ain't no good black men out there! I forgive everything, but somehow I am losing faith.

As to what I should chant now- I have no clue. Perhaps the saddest part.

Type A Personality

For years I have denied that I have a Type A personality. I do like things in order. I constantly complained to any roommate I ever had that she was too dirty. I like to have piles and make lists. Or at least I used to. During my second year at Princeton I realized that I just didn't give a shit. Well, I didn't give two shits. I loved my major and my friends. I realized I was not committed to being well-known or nice. I was not going to exercise obsessively. I refused to spend 15 hours a week studying chemistry. I stopped pre-med course. I took a deep breath and relaxed. I decided that I was different than all those other Princetonians. I showed my difference by participating in arts and wearing "ghetto" fashion. I wore an afro and a pink netting shirt over another equally ridiculous shirt. I trotted around on stilts.

As I sit here, I reminisce fondly. I am not Type A!

Then why have I planned out my entire dinner schedule for the week based on the free time allotted for the day? Oops.

The worst psychologist in the world can tell you that I obsess about the small things now because my world is filled with so much uncertainty. I like to take control. Part of me needs to be perfect. Not the Princeton version of perfect; my version of perfect. In this fantasy, I'm allowed to be overweight but only by so much. I MUST fully pursue creative outlets if I do not get a very high-status job (in the non-profit or government arena, of course). Obsessing over my peculiar watered-down version of perfection is worse than the pursuing the standard white corporate version.

So, I am not actually Type A. I am its sick chubby-black-girl-with-a-social-conscience derivative.

The question is (besides that generic bullshit) is why. I can't say that my first week of being quarter-century years old has been bad. I got a full-time job at the store I like to shop at most. On average, 2-3 people call me back for an interview. Just for the hell of it, I put out resumes for artistic jobs. One organization called me back! The cutest boy ever wants to have brunch.

And then the obsession starts. Will I forever work at a retail organization? Do I fully pursue writing and performing now that I have some steady employment? If so, do I pursue arts administration or directing? Why did my best guy friend from college text me and not say happy birthday? My doctor told me that my ovaries aren't working and that I have high cholesterol. Oh my god! Does that mean I am fat? What if I can't have kids? Fuck, I didn't even know I wanted to have kids for real. Does this boy know that he is cuter than me? Why is he trading down.? Am I good in bed? Will Best Friend resent me if I get employment quickly? What the fuck am I doing with my life?

And so it begins. I can't be alone with myself. I try to cover every minute with something, something that helps me calm down. It's not that hard now since my life is filled with doctor's appointments, interviews, and my job. Best Friend says I'm no longer allowed to say I'm unemployed. That makes me feel a little better. So does the gym. And eating local food. And getting off. And updating my closet. And ice lattes. And paying off bills.

A new list begins, but in a far more helpful direction. Until I learn better, this is how I cope.

It turns out I am Type A after all.