HAPPY ANNIVERSARY

One year ago...

There’s that moment when the exhaustion burns from the whites of your eyes, straight back to the hook of your damn head.

If you peep over at the clock radio you’ll be at once rendered blind by the hot, fuzzy red, and incredulous at how much time has escaped you. How little is left before you must abandon your bed.

Speaking of which…the sheets are bunched up in all the wrong places. Pillows stationed at random checkpoints, marking spots where you’d posted up for undetermined stretches of time.

Your stomach is folding over itself, and you wonder if this is what happens when you’re asleep...bec that’s what you should be doing at this particular moment.

But who can sleep at 1, 2, 3, 4 in the morning…

“You see what time it is?”

“I don’t care to look.”

The newness blossoms in the wee hours. The fundamental necessity of sleep is rendered optional, when you lose yourself and all track of time within the amusing cadence of the voice in your ear. Laughing, sighing, and making a mockery of your anytime minutes. ;)

FRIENEMY

What do you do if you hate one of your significant other's good friends?

I know we've discussed this before, but there's this situation that I'll explain in the comments that has a different spin.

Discuss...

VIP

I am VIP.

I’m not on any list. I didn’t tip the guys at the door. Nor do I know the owners. I’m just a loser who happens to win this time. Win big, even.

The preparation is typical. I wasn’t looking for a party, still reeling from the last one actually. Hung over. Swearing off the scene with a sincere exhaustion. But then I caught a glimpse of a flyer. Heard whispers that folks were hanging out. That there's someone I should meet. I decided on a whim to head out. Again.

It’s crazy cuz the preparation is usually a production in and of itself. The outfit, the entourage, the chaser. But this time I went easy, seduced mildly by the music, though miles away. See, the pulses found me. Got my fingers tapping. Had my feet happy. Head nodding. Easy. Soon I was in full effect mode, three-stepping myself into a full sweat all the way to the velvet rope. Again.

I didn’t know the promoter from Adam. Never laid eyes on the club. And yet I slid in like a seamless DJ transition. Like a Fat Man Scoop mix [editor’s inside joke: Why did I forget until this very moment Scoop and the matching sweat suits. Cannot? Oh yes you can, and you will! All my real live bitches throw ya hands up!...] Even fit in with the décor as if I had somehow been privy to the blueprint. It’s fly. One of those rich ngga lounges. It’s all plush love seats and beautiful people. Free drinks and dope music. I’m old school, so I always go for the music. Seduced by the ladidahdi of it all. I’m wopping my ass off.

This place is for frontin'. So clearly, it’s packed. There’s every type of somebody here. The sexy deep oak of a brother in jeans that are a prisoner to his perfect high ass. The seductive beholder of long loose curls and unruly spaghetti straps. The breathtaking chick with the brush cut and impossible heels. Dude too fine to get turned away at the door just because he’s got on a wife beater and Timbs. The pouty bartender with the felatial lips.

I feel the eyes as I walk the gauntlet of who’s who. I barely glanced at the mirror before leaving the crib, yet I’m hyperaware of all the skin I’m showing. Aware that I’ve yet to shed that pesky winter weight. Well aware that I’m thick all over, no vestige unclaimed, my skin chief among them. My reflection is clear to me in your eyes. I walk directly into them, sight unseen. Except from the inside out.

I’m digging this party shit.

I like the way you knew our rhythm before it was even ours. You pulled me close, and I fit. Your hands log carefree miles along my spine. Your fingers find the loopholes in my logic while lining my scalp. Pulling at my sensibilities, and my locs, like I won't notice. You aint slick, son. But your moves are, and I fall in step, again. You dumb down your classical training and Bogle with me.

You grab my hand and I think we're on our way to refresh our glasses. Instead, fingers tightly interlocked, you lead me through a tunnel that seems buried, soundproof and sparcely lit. Your lips graze mine and we exchange a split second of secrets. In that muted moment we're once again tangled. I'm on my back, wrists gripped together and pressed into the sheets. Kisses rained on my forehead, my lips, over my neck, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs. Tiny nibbles on my bottom lip. Gentle sucking that easily becomes more urgent. My own voice is foreign to me, a coarse whisper of moans and unintelligible mumbles, my breath still tangled mercilessly in the cage of my throat. Warm breath on my skin. A soft kiss. The generous offering of tongue, a deeper parting. I'm struggling to maintain some kind of composure, my eyes filling with tears because I'm so damn overwhelmed because everything about this touch, this skin, is just perfect. I'm fighting it, fighting giving in, letting go, and flailing in vain to keep a hold on my last wisps of sanity. Well placed pressure, one hand on my hip.
And I'm gone.
Lost.
Falling. Again.

We climb a narrow stairway and enter another space. This one more beautiful than the first. More exclusive. Intimate. Thrilling. I'm pleasantly surprised by this spot, glad I came. But even this, this next level, is unexpected.

You open my hand and kiss my palm. Hold it to your face, then to your chest. You pull it away for one more kiss, but not before allowing me the thrill of a beat. It is then that I hear more music, a litany of all the sweet things you mean to me. This is clearly our soundtrack. All the songs repeat your name.

You put in my possession your keys, your ID, your phone... your lifelines. There is an entire party whirling around us and yet I see only a tint of brown, your eyes meeting mine, as you tell me to hold tight. The colors of music splash in bold strokes around me. Is it possible that this level is more crowded than the last? In fact, as my head stops spinning I'm realizing the chaos that ensues. Where have you taken me? It's mad familiar, these heavy hues and shrieking signs. This is the place you been telling me about.

Your eyes never leave mine, and I try to follow, but I stumble. Your shit goes flying. I reach to collect them but the velvet rope that clipped me, is in fact a barricade. This is some bullshit.

Yo, but I'm VIP! There's no one to whom I can plead my case.

I can't get past the rope. What they dont tell you at the door is that despite your admission, there is a rope beyond the rope. A space where even you cant reach. VIP has VIP. And I'm losing. Again.

I'm sitting here watching you and I can't reach you. I'm inside, you brought me up to the highest level, you've entrusted me with your life, and I can't even keep it safe. It's my job to see what only a select few are allowed. I've made promises. We've made investments. And there you are, beyond my reach. I can't hold you to me and let tears stream down my bare skin. That's what it's there for.

Your shit weighs a ton, so you step away and make sure it doesnt nudge me. That I don't break a nail or something. You share some when prompted, but it's a rather foreign concept to you. I know this. So chivalrous with the heavy lifting, you are. I stand and watch you crumbling from the stress, unable to help. Maybe it's because I'm half naked that you won't let me. Or because my locs are thinning and greying. Am I losing my strength?

Or is it just that there is nothing I can do? Like there's a wack (down souf) song playing and we just gotta wait it out.

"I'm worried about you."

"I know, mama."

"It's killing me."

"Me too."

"What should I be doing?"

"Just being with me."

"It's not enough."

"Why not?"

"Because neither of us is ok," I say.

"But I'm honestly at a loss for what else to do."

"Just feeling helpless."

"It'll be over soon, babe."

The music plays on. We dance this oblivious dance, as if there isnt a million miles between us. Between us and the next level. Between where we stand now, and from that which we came. I gather both strength and patience in that quiet path we traveled. I collect desperation from the sadness in your eyes, and mostly in your voice. It doesnt stop me from reaching. And dancing. Doesnt stop our music.

I'm glad I came. You're very important to me.

THE GIFT

"Wise, write me something."

Ok...


The thing about birthdays is that they're all about the gifts.

There was the time you told me to keep my schedule clear. You sent me a text that morning with explicit instructions...

"Here are the directions. Be there at 12. I know you. Don't be late! Text me when you get there."

I find myself downtown, my heels clicking on cobblestone, the high noon sun guiding my steps. Even standing under the awning I wasnt sure what to expect.

"Go in and ask for Lisa. She's waiting for you. Take some time and relax and allow someone to pamper you for once."

...Or something to that effect (you know you're recall is laser and mine is aging.) After the most rejuvenating, fantastic facial ever, I walked around for a bit before calling to thank you. It was literally months since I had made the off comment about my skin feeling like shit. You listen. It was easily the most thoughtful gift I had ever received.

What about last week, when I was too weak to lift my head for juice and meds, but not too weak to text you. Sick, jet lagged, chest on fire, hung over. You used your resources and found the one place that delivered to my crib and had lunch sent over within the hour.

Or the time I had a long, stressful week. Long, hectic Friday. Long, turbulent flight. We sat at the bar staring down shots #2. Your hand playfully resting on my thigh. Like it belonged there. Sharing food and laughter. And afterward, exhausted, collapsing on fluffy sheets, legs and lips locked, anticipating a shower.

"Me first." I watched you disappear, disappointed that you left me out. Drifted off while you were away. Nudged awake by anxious hands in my hair.

"Take off your clothes."

How off guard was I, naked and surprised, at the soft crackle of the carefully lined and lit candles that accented the warm bathroom? The bubble bath with water that matched me perfectly, not too hot, not too cold. Or maybe too much of each equally. You left me with a card to read, and to relax, knowing that I hadnt all week.

After all, I knew then...

I knew that every day would seem like my birthday.

It's the little things...

Every day that I wake up laughing at a sweet or frisky or ridiculous or blue or encouraging message.

Going to bed frustrated that I can't be closer.

Busting out laughing at how much we bust out laughing.

Our sweat dripping onto a dance floor.

When I called you first, crying with bad news.

Exploring a new city.

When I lose track of time (and ask you how many days).

Laying in your lap showing you how to twist my hair.

Dancing all hard, and singing all loud, even though you're the Talented One.

Pouring you a drink that I know will get you talking.

Making each other CDs.

When you let me pass out in a cab.

Eating til we're out of breath (not to be confused with being out of breath after running to food).

Each hour you keep me company while I'm in class.

Plotting on travel vouchers.

Every time you ask me to write you something...I know the best gift is you.



(Hmmm...is it YOUR bday yet?!)

XROADS

It's almost the end of the year? Are you effing kidding me?

I'm hard pressed to summarize '07, because so much happened and didn’t happen. I got a lot accomplished, I wasted a lot of time, I grew up, I stayed the exact same, I moved on, I got stuck, I was rewarded and punished, devastated and overjoyed. Mother has lived...

Looking back at some posts from a year ago, I'm struck by a couple things. I was at Love (the club) not long ago ago...right around the same time I told you guys about last year.

Then there was Thanksgiving. Went home. Enjoyed the fam and friends. Had pretty much the identical routine that I had Thanksgiving '06...travel on Thursday, get home at dinner time, making a pit stop at the liquor store. The crew gets together to cook tacos and drink and ponder our places in the world. Old School party at the one grown and sexy club in town. Face off with him...

---
In Tha Club, Thanksgiving '07...

My cousin and I walk over to the bar and immediately see a few folks. My camera's out and the smiles light up the dark dance floor. Then I see Best Friend Guy across the way, with his girl in tow. I sneak over, lurk behind their backs, turn the lens to me, reach my arms in front of them and snap a picture of the three of us. They turn around confused and erupt in excited 'Oh Shit!s'. I'm only slightly buzzed at the moment, and yet it doesn’t occur to me that Best Friend Guy's BBF (him) is probably also in the building. When it does, I order two drinks.

This year, today, he exists in my life only in memory and hidden photos, exponentially more miles apart than his city is from mine. And while I let go of him in '07, the weight of '05 and '06 float to the surface like the ice in my drink. Like the bodies always do.

When one of my BFFs arrives at the club, he's drunker than I care to mention (let's just say he got kicked out of the party 3 times, and each time managed to find his way back in), and he wants me to be where he is.

I oblige. And no sooner than I do (to the tune of back to back to back Gooses), someone stalks over to where I'm dancing. The presence is familiar... and annoying. He reaches for the tight hug, and I respond with the knuckle tap, unable to make eye contact.

"Wise & Him!" Before I can retract, my boy has his lanky, drunken arms around both of our shoulders, announcing our names as the title it once was. My face gets hot, and I walk, almost stomp away, embarrassed as hell.

The rest of the night I'm extra aware of being watched. And when he finally walks up on me for a dance, I know without turning that it's him. His body still fits on mine the way it always did.

But what's different is that it no longer matches. It's so... last season. Outdated. Unwanted. Old.

As '08 looms, I'm thinking I need to change up my routine. I need to be in different places with different people, instead of always with the familiar ones running into familiarly unfamiliar folks. I can say that judging solely by what is documented on this blog, something's changed with me in '07. As so many of you have commented, I write different. I don't talk nearly as much shit. Who the eff AM I?

I vow that in '08 there will be more of the same... only different.

Hollerrrrrr!

STILL

[We now interrupt the regularly scheduled programming
(and by programming, I mean my unfortunate hiatus due to the end of the semester.
Jameil has however, graciously granted me some leave time without penalty)...
to bring you *gasp* a post!]

I woke up this morning and the other side of the bed was still.

I still smell you there.

I followed the trail of clothes strewn about the crib, from the bedroom to the kitchen. My bra and coat near the front door. Jeans with a sock still stuck in the foot. The fuzzy one still MIA. I’ll be rocking the fly track jacket you left. It’s still on the floor of the closet.

The movie is still in the player, still unplayed. The photo album still unopened on the couch. The book I wanted to show you, still unread.

There is still a pool of Calgon blue water in my tub. I won’t shower for an hour or two, cause I love that your scent is still on my hands and neck.

The bowl of pineapple still where we left it on the bathtub edge.

Tea candles burned down to the tin casings still line the sink.

The loc gel and clips are still there too. My freshly twisted hair now a sweated out mess. Don’t feel bad, I’ll fix it good as new like you like.

You know what I still feel every time I walk into the kitchen. I spent considerable time washing dishes this morning, yeah cuz we left behind too many unfinished drinks (how DARE you!), but because I just wanted to be in there, ya know?

I still can’t believe I let you, us, smoke on the couch. The scene of many crimes.

The silence is still. No shuffled soundtrack of your ridiculous laugh. I.tunes is still on shuffle though. Prophetic and well-timed as ever. My head still kind hurts...mostly from busting out laughing every few minutes. The one-liners, yo.

I started writing this while you were still here.

It’s still cold in here. Heat still not working. And though now I have no recourse but the covers, I’m still warm.

I’m not used to this, still.

[We now return you to my absense...already in progress...]

SEPARATE BUT EQUAL

“I understand that he needs to get his shit together," I say. "I’m proud of you for not wavering on that cuz you, pre-Mommy days wouldn’t give a fcuk. But I also think that it’s a mistake to try to front like you don’t have real feelings for him. On a very personal, important level.”

Curly scratches her scalp hard, as she tends to do when someone is talking sense into her.

“But do you really think he would fit in here?” She nods her head over to the center of my living room. “Could you see him chilling with us??”

This time I turn. My body hangs halfway off the couch, an errant beer bottle cap imprinting my back. An ice tray filled with green specks, remnants of our jello shots, a mere memory. One overturned Rasheed Wallace sneaker with a gleaming white sock still in it. A pack of Newports that won’t see the light of day inside my crib. Three dudes huddled, tossing dice against a wall of my school books.

“Drink the CARD-eye (Bacardi…they have a nickname for every fcuking thing), son.”

“Yo B. Ali.cia Keys…you’d eat the box straight no chase?”

“Yessir. Roota AND toota, kid. No question.”

I turn back to Curly, my contemplation complete.

“Does ANYONE fit in with us besides us??”

We’ve all done it before and it just doesn’t work. I mean, I LOVE these kids. Couldn’t get rid of them if I tried. And at one time or another we’ve all figured that this MUST mean that EVERYONE will love us.

So we bring the occasion signif other around. Introduce them in the flesh to the names they’ve heard in countless stories. They already know the faces bec they’ve stared back from photos that dot all of our cribs. Not to mention our distinct differences and personalities make it impossible not to know who’s who.

And it usually looks the same. We’re all together, cooking, eating, drinking, smoking, laughing. If we’re feeling particularly nostalgic the yearbooks come out, or better yet the video from Greekfreak ’96, or a yellowing invitation from the party at Club Baja in ’99, or the cups stolen from the dining hall, or the orange traffic cones copped that one night after…"wait, when WAS that??”

And the signif other, sitting dutifully beside their respective mate, does just that. They sit. And listen. And probably yawn a million bored yawns. But we never notice.

Every once in a while someone will engage them. But 9 times out of 10, and not even out of spite or rudeness, just out of sheer urgent hilarity, someone will interrupt with another inane inquiry. Even my ex, who went to high school with us, and knows these kids well, was overwhelmed every time.

So without discussion or consensus, we all just one day stopped bringing outsiders around. For no other reason than that it’s painfully obvious that without having lived our history it’s just not nearly as comical or heartwarming or entertaining to hear us recall it, no matter how animated and Oscar-worthy the re-enactment.

“I think the days of rating a potential mate based on compatibility with our friends are long gone. I mean, it’s one thing to get your friends’ opinions of the person, but that’s about it.”

“You guys told me not to fcuk with Peter.”

“Unanimously.”

“I shoulda listened.”

“Should have. But I’m sure every one of us would tell you the same thing about 8 Mile. He just doesn’t necessarily need to be dragged kicking and screaming to hang with us when we all get together.”

“Weazy, feel this beat! You aint freestyle all night, ngga!” My attention, again, pulled to the center.

“You beg me to get with it/to spit it/I stay committed/and get more head than Coop’s fitted”

“Ayyyyy! Wise, remember that time I walked in on you and…”

*

Is this a universal misconception? That your friends and your mate must be compatible or all bets are off?

Some people have Mate-Friendly friendships. You know, the kind of friends who are multipurpose. You can effortlessly bring around a mate, a boss, whoever.

Others, like me, have a core group of friends who are perfectly suitable and welcoming one on one, but impossibly (but never intentionally) exclusive in a group.

Or maybe no friends at all.

What say you? Do you bring your SO around your friends? Is it a litmus test of sorts?

What about when around theirs? Do you feel alienated?

Does it even matter??

HOLY EFFING MATRIMONY

What the fuck is up with weddings?!

So one of my older “brothers” got married Labor Day weekend, and if it was a nightmare for me, I can only imagine the hell they went through.

What I cant imagine, or I guess what I can’t figure out is why the hell weddings seem to bring out the absolute worst in people. People with whom you’re related, no less.

Maybe it’s the conventions that are unreasonable. Maybe it really IS too much to ask your family members to set aside their criticism and just go along with the colors you and your spouse-to-be have selected.

And like, how dare you expect your entire crew to fucking TRAVEL, since the bride to be isn’t from where you’re from.

And who in the hell decided that the groomsmen have to effing bring back their own tuxes?? I don’t care how nice of a gift (ipods) you gave their complaining asses.

The more I think about it, the more I can see how ridiculous the entire set up is. I can kinda see why the NY folks were so pissed that the hotel THEY selected cuz it was cheaper than the one recommended by the couple, was more than a few miles away.

I guess I can let slide the heckling coming from the back rows of the Catholic ceremony, cuz after all, there WAS a lot of standing and praying.

I cant blame said NYers for choosing not to mingle at the cocktail hour at the country club reception. Hell, I wanted to sit alllll the way in the corner on the balcony overlooking a fantastic golf course too, joking about us enjoying this now because it’s the last time our black asses will ever be somewhere this nice. I WANTED to, but shit, the bar and food were on the other side. And I happen to ENJOY mingling with fine folks with dough.

And not that I didn’t tip the bartenders even though the gratuities were absorbed by the couple, but I dunno, that’s the decent thing to do at an open bar. The INdecent thing would be to bitch about it not being top shelf (it was, there just wasn’t no fucking Henney, ngga).

And if a person doesn’t HAVE a credit card, then it’s useless trying to explain the concept of frequent flyer miles. So yeah, might as well hate on the honeymoon destinations of Thailand and Malaysia and simply rationalize the fact that both make at least 6 figures, and have no kids (the opposite of you).

I wont even mention the rings. Them shits WERE insane.

It’s tough when you grew up one way but elevate beyond it…but your friends and fam haven’t. It aint easy being a rock star at a rap show. A Mohawk amongst brush cuts.

And it aint easy keeping your mouth shut when you’re out of your element and asked to follow someone else’s conventions.

But for Christ sake, it’s a wedding. Shut the fuck up, clink the damn glass a few times, get out on the dance floor when you hear the Cha Cha beat drop, eat the damn cake, stop worrying bout the bill unless it’s YOUR AmEx it’s showing up on next month, get drunk, and SMILE.

Is it really that difficult?

WTF?!

WOULDA, COULDA, SHOULDA

I have many friends going thru effed up break ups right now. And some languishing in ridiculous relationships. My boy Coop says it’s because when you meet someone, you actually send forth a Representative of yourself. Some people are able to maintain the persona for longer than others, but invariably, that shit don’t last.

And sooner or later the real you shows up and more times than not it aint the YOU that you introduced to your s.o. and vice versa.

I agree. And it sort of takes away the comedic value of me saying to friends…

“You shoulda married ME. I wouldn’ta gotten knocked up before we even met eachother’s friends.”

Or…

“Had you baby mama’d ME, I woulda NEVER legally changed the kid’s name behind your back. Then cussed out your mom and made us move out of the house you grew up in (mortgage-free) into a bullshit ass townhouse (rental)."

Or…

“Damn, if you had moved in with ME, I wouldn’t have broken your cell phone in a minor altercation.”

Or…

“Whoa, I’m moody, but to not talk to you for an entire week because you’re a vegan and the smell of my turkey burgers made you slightly nauseous, is just crazy. I’da just tofu’d it up!”

It’s all jokes, lightens the mood, makes convos about these relationships less depressing.

But it’s also true.

I wouldn’t do any of those things and they know it. Because they know ME. We’re friends. Genuine ones without alter egos.

But the fact is, there was something about these relationships that attracted both parties.

Something that kept them there.

Something that only they can understand.

So I wonder, why don’t more people fall in love with their friends, people they know?

Is it because there is an intrigue in a new relationship, in which we embrace the opportunity to reinvent ourselves?

Because new people allow us a chance to be new people with new characteristics and new futures?

Do we just like having as many avenues and resources available to us as possible...so if the relationship fails, the friendship is still there for our refuge?

Because friends just know too much…or perhaps not enough?

Or do we just love anticipating the Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda?...or maybe we just all have really ugly friends.

DEAD OR ALIVE

I failed to gauge my breaking point. I thought they were dead to me.

Bear with me pls if you were born after 1985… but does anyone (grown) recall that Wu skit…the one right before M.E.T.H.0.D. Man…where Meth says he’ll fcukin, he’ll fcuking sew your azzhole closed and keep feeding you, and feeding you, and feeding you…(“Roll da dice man, roll da DICE...From the slums of Shoalin…”)

I feel kind of like that.

Tortured. And full. And nauseous.

Like maybe I tried to down a grown-man shot of tequila and couldn’t handle it, so there was nowhere else for it to go but back up my throat.

Or like that Mr. Wizard experiment (again, post-’85, I apologize, I don’t mean to exclude you), where he fills the beaker with water until the ping pong ball rises to the top and falls out.

I’m saying, I feel like the waste in my past that I have long since discarded…has finally resurfaced like a body bobbing in the East River.

Ok, lemme backtrack…

Ladies and gentlemen…

Welcome to the latest installment of Loser Week…where every waking moment seems a testament to the fact that your real life sucks and vacation was all but an unsustainable illusion to the contrary.

The last time we visited Loser Week was probably after my bday. The symptoms are always the same…

…Irritability upon arrival at baggage claim

…Irrational overeating of irrationally overpriced airport food items such as Pizz.Uno and N@thans

…Extended periods of sulking

…Fi0na.Apple, Meshell, or other depressing soundtracks on repeat

…A pile up of dirty laundry (usually in your still-zipped suitcase)

…Delayed response to phone ringing (may also include a delay in changing your Extended Absence voice mail msg, making people who call think you're still away even tho you've been home 2 days already)

…General malaise and self pity

...Ducking into a shady bodega to buy Blacks, when you don't even smoke



Right now I’m sitting in the Ft Lauderdale airport, only halfway home, as a symphony of thunder roars around me. Normally when it rains, the earth gratefully absorbs the water.

So do I. Normally.

When things happen, bad things…I absorb the shock and keep it movin. Swallow. Digest. Release. It’s the natural order of things. Circle of life, or some D!sney shit like that.

I know where the bodies are buried, and I allow them to rest in peace. After all, I’m the gravedigger.

Except some times, like this week in Mexico, the dead roams free, like the Thr!ller video (dammit, even if you were born after 2005 you seen Thrller. It’s required viewing for cultural citizenship).

So there I was, lounging aside the Carib Sea, going all Haley.J0el.Osment, seeing dead people and sitting and reminiscing with them. Driving me out of my mind.

All week my mind was a red carpet for lovers I lost or let go. I’m talking a nonstop procession of flawlessly coiffed corpses, tuxed up and tap dancing for paparazzi flashbulbs like there was never a eulogy spoken, or heart snapped in half.

And dance they did, these rigor mortised reminders. All day and night inch worming through my mind like the fcuking Tap Dance K!d (remember circa ’84 they said he died from spinning on his head in a MJ video…and but then he was on D0nahue and then Silver Sp0on (and later played Carlt0n Banks, duh) and everybody was like, hold up, that little boy ain't dead!…).

It was like I could no longer hold it. Like the memories were being jammed down my throat while Meth pulled needle and thread. Like those relationships had never really croaked.

Because when you let go of someone you’ve let in, you HAVE to kill that bit of the brain that they occupied. Autopsy that muhfcuka, examine the cause of death then make sure it doesn’t happen again. No breath. No pulse.

But in truth, you never fully close the casket. You subconsciously leave it cracked. Just in case.

And just in case you ever try to pretend that your mind is fully in tact, that you didn’t surrender a piece (and peace) of it to the undertaker, they come back like Laz@rus.

They claw through the dirt that you’ve thrown on top of them.

They swim back to the surface no matter how heavy the cement blocks.

They wind back up your digestive tract like bitter bile.

And reappear. Alive and well, just as you had hoped.

And for a series of split seconds you entertain the idea of rolling away the stone that has blocked any vestige of resurrection.

No, no time for miracles. It’s time to find a new ditch. A new shovel. A new distraction. A new breaking point.

A new cause of death, Loser.

R.I.P... Him

He’s dead to me. And not even in a bad way. He didn't do anything wrong.

More like, in a necessary way. It was his time.

I planned a trip. Didn’t tell him until it was all said and done and the airline got their money. I have other business in town. But he was the reason. He just didn’t know it.

There’s a lot he didn’t know, actually. He had no clue that I still felt as strongly for him as I did a year and a half ago. He had no clue that I had plans. Dreams, really. Nor that they involved him.

I was waiting for the right time. Waiting for me to feel completely comfortable with the idea of being vulnerable to him again. Waiting for him to show me that he wasn’t a bitch. That he could handle this kind of communication.

But mostly just waiting for us both to emerge from a hectic few months of travel and work and school and shit.

I could no longer wait.

I booked the flight.

Made the arrangements.

Packed the warming lube and Durex.

Even as my overnight bag swelled, the weight of the ensuing loss was apparent. I acknowledged it. Folded it neatly, and zipped it up tight and stood it upright in the corner next to the door.

I remember at my dad’s funeral feeling a peculiar sense of vanity. I was well aware of all the eyes on me, me hidden behind large dark shades, dry eyed for the moment, walking down the aisle of the church toward the casket that held his shell in a dry-cleaned suit. I remember being fully cognizant of the outward appearance, much like I did when walking this same aisle as a bridesmaid in my sister’s wedding only a month prior. *step, together. step together. don't forget to smile.* All this attention was lavished on me at the funeral and I enjoyed it. And I felt bad about it. I knew that it was a natural thing. I like attention. And if you feel like shit, if you’ve lost something significant, why not wanna have some attention to hold you together?

I know that getting on the plane and seeing him will end in a death. A significant one, even.

So why not wanna have some attention to hold you together?

The plan was to arrive there. Give him a bubble bath. Join him. Embrace the vulva-vulnerability, his head in my hands. Fcuk him senseless. Say goodbye. Without opening my mouth, except to take him all in.

I remember the hot Jamaican sun beaming down on my back and watching the casket being lowered into the red earth. I remember wanting one more glance at its platinum façade, but knowing that it had to go.

I planned that that last time with him, also the first time, actually, would cum and go. I would savor every thrust. I would give him more than he had earned. And I would bury him, finally. Even if I wanted one last look.

Why not leave on an orgasmic note?

I know it seems absurd. Comparing the death of my pops to ending a relationship that never was. No, it IS absurd. (but it's so dramatic and poetic and shit)

But so is making plans without notification.

So is falling in love and not staying there.

So is walking away without a fight.

Or with one, for that matter.

So is unzipping the overnight bag. Unpacking.

Trashing the Durex.

Stashing the lube.

Abandoning the plan. With or without him.

I have other business in town. It’s now the reason.

He’s dead to me. In a very good way.

And I can finally, FINALLY move on.

And LIVE.

Feels great.

Airport Guy: A Romantic Comedy

I’m usually the girl hustling thru security, hitching a ride on the little scooter. Friday morning I arrived at BWI on time, in fact, with plenty of time to spare.

As I approached the departure gate, I noticed that my boarding pass said something to the effect of “THIS IS NOT A BOARDING PASS. PLEASE RETRIEVE PASS FROM GATE.” That’s a new one. I went to inquire and apparently the flight was overbooked. No biggie. I’m not late, nor am I on standby.

Right?

“Is anyone interested in volunteering to step off this flight (9:30am) in exchange for a travel voucher worth the price of your one-way fare plus $200?”

I pondered it. Even called my ride to ask if it was cool.

They asked several more times before it was my turn in line to settle up my boarding pass issue.

“Ms. Wise, we are currently overbooked. This means that you do not have a boarding pass …”

Priority standby is what they called it. The next flight is at 12:30.

I signed my paperwork and go grab some breakfast. When I arrived at the new gate I sat where I could hear the employees working. It was a shift change and the new chick was mad bitchy. Talking about passengers after they left.

Within a few minutes of me arriving a man went up asking if they needed volunteers.

“Yeah, but we’re overbooked all day so we can’t even confirm you on another flight today…or tomorrow.”

I overhear this spiel many times over the next hour or so, and it’s oddly unaggressive compared to the feverish sales pitch of the last flight. What seemed before like a routine bump now was looking like something else.

“Looks like this flight is overbooked too, huh?”

I looked up at the smiling stranger. I recognized him from the earlier flight. He was also contemplating taking the voucher just like me. I overheard him calling his ride, just like me. He was asking mad questions of the staff, and I remembered thinking he seemed so antsy, so anxious.

“It is, but there have been quite a few people offering up their seats,” I replied.

“Well they better start bumping dudes off this one like they did on ours!”

That was the first of many laughs in a very short space of time. Before I know it, this stranger and I were old friends with a list of inside jokes.

“I’m Darryl, by the way.”

“I’m Wise.”

“I’ll definitely remember that, if not because you’re a beautiful young lady, then because that’s also my sister’s name.”

“Ahhh, your sister must be fantastic.”

Darryl approaches the gate on behalf of both of us. I appreciated his initiative ad his kindness. He comes back looking amused.

“They don’t know what the hell they doing, but you’re #1 on the standby list and I’m #2, and there are still six people who haven’t checked in yet.”

Naturally we start cracking on the other folks at the gate. Dude with the bad hip who missed his flight yesterday and thinks he’s getting on this next flight. Granola chick with the dirty kids.

“There’s only so much longer I can sit and listen to my !pod. They need to wrap this thing up.” And with that he whips it out and impresses me with the depths of his musical tastes.

“What you know about !NXS?” he asked rhetorically.

“Wow! The “Kick” album?” He stopped and looked at me for a delayed moment, before breaking out into a smile.

“Not to scare you or anything, but I just fell in love with you a tiny bit,” he said, measuring it out with his fingers. “I’m impressed, Wise.”

“Me too. You’re the one who actually has the album. That's a throwback to like, 5th grade.”

So I pull out mine, and we have an !pod battle. We share another intimate musical moment when we both shout out Hall & Oates at the same time.

By now the flight is boarding and there are still people missing. But they’re not offering any vouchers, not asking for any volunteers. WTF?? Ok, no problem, because the flight closes ten minutes before the scheduled departure time, in which case those empty seats are offered to the standby list.

Right?

“Attention all passengers on Flight 1234 to Shitsville. It is now ten minutes to the departure time and if you are not checked in, your seats will be given away.”

They repeat this three times. By now, it’s 5 minutes to take off time. Why are me and Darryl still not on the damn plane?

Three minutes. Someone runs up. Let on.

It’s now the time of departure and they are still allowing muhfcukas on the plane! Now, I’ve been known to miss a flight or two…and I have been denied access for arriving at LEAST 15 minutes before the departure time. More than twice.

Then why in the hell did they let a wheelchair roll up three minutes AFTER departure time and get on, while me, Darryl and a bunch of other standby schmucks sit and watch??

“The next flight is in an hour and a half. Wanna go to the bar?” And with that offer I fall in love with Darryl a tiny bit.

Two rum and cokes later we learn that we know some of the same people, have both been to Vegas in the past month, and that our 30th birthdays were four days apart. A fellow alcoholic Aries.

He’s cool. No outward pretensions. Genuinely respectful and decent. Funny as shit. A party guy without being an idiot. A secure professional on a weekend trip home to visit his mama.

We end up being screwed on the next flight as well, and he supported me wholeheartedly as I let the supervisor HAVE IT. He didn’t try to placate me in front of them as a display of “decorum” (I fcuking HATE when dudes do that docile shit, especially when it’s something to legitimately be pissed about. Don’t play that, ‘Everything is ok, sir. I’m not an angry Negro like my girlfriend here’ bullshit!) He just sat and smiled.

He lives in the absolute opposite direction yet he offered me a ride home. Made sure I’m straight before heading for his car.

When I put my number in his phone at his request, I labeled it 'BWI Wise'. As I’m sitting on the train back home he texts me…

“If we turn back we can still make a flight to Vegas.”

If this was a movie he’d have been Hugh.Grant or Tom.Cruise and he'd have had me at ‘standby.’

But it’s real life…MY real life, so of course there’s no fairytale ending.

I am not physically attracted to him in the least. At all. Not even a little.

*sigh*

Nonetheless, I fall a tiny bit in love with the notion that there are Darryls out there. Nice guys with funny jokes and good conversation.

Guys who don’t flip out in public, but who will have your back if you do. Guys who go out of their way to be kind.

But would it have been so difficult for him to be a tiny bit cute?!

My life blows.

PLATONIC BREAK UPS/YOU WANT ANSWERS

Apparently Young Epsilonicus doesn’t respect his elders, and as such has tagged yours truly. As if the blog aint personal and illuminating enough, he wants to know even more.

Things You Don’t About Wise…That I Havent Already Told Y’all Nosy Azzes

I was born in a hospital. No midwife.

One of my brothers was a breach baby. That shit is hilarious to me for some reason.

When I was little I used to battle this girl named Larri on the bus. My brother wrote my rhymes. I used to also perform for all the class parties.

My friends and I once broke into our church and ate the snacks.

My cell phone carrier is Sp!nt. I have unlimited text msgs.

I really wanna fcuk Regg!e Bush. Really.I prefer tamp0ns to woman diapers.

I write for magazines and books.

I'm lazy. Once got fired for it.

I'm obsessed with sweet potato fries.

I once had a dance off with Shaq. He won.

My right tit is bigger than the left.

I think I'm lactose intolerant.

Like I said, what haven’t I already told you??

Ya know how bl0ggers do that thing where they invite everyone to ask them questions?
Eff that. Don't ask me shit.

I'm kidding.

Ask away.

In the meantime, I wanna run something by y’all…

We been talking about ambiguous muhfcukas. Ya know, the guy who says one thing and does another. My Neil suggests that guilt is a major motivation in such behavior. I can get behind that theory. Makes sense when you consider how many bitches simply act an azz so that a girl will break up with him so that he doesnt have to break up with her…

But what about friendships? I mean, sure it’s tough to get out of a relationship, but how do you get out of a friendship? They’re supposed to be unconditional and unbreakable and shit, right? Real ones, anyways.

Well, I have a friend who has outgrown a friend and wants to “platonically break up.” But how do you explain to someone (who you’re not fcuking), that you’ve outgrown them? Someone who has had your back…that you don’t feel the same need or even desire to talk or hang out daily. That you have outgrown the friendship.

Particularly when they are still holding on for dear life.

I don’t really know how to counsel my friend.

Damn, I wonder if they asked bec they’re trying to get rid of me…

AMBIGUOUSLY RED VDAY

Oh, the day of the Red is almost here...

Happy VDay to all the lovers.

I would have hoped to have had more to say this year, but I think I summed up the holiday pretty well last year.

As you may recall, I pretty much think VDay is an excessive excuse for material unrealism.

But the beauty of the day really does resemble the color red. VDay at it's best reflects the radiance of rose-red. Bright and vibrant. Red hot!

And at its most lukewarm and tepid, VDay is like the palest pink. Brittle and delicate. Pretty, but petty.

It can be a torturous continuum, a life-changing spectrum…this Love thing. And I hijacked the following piece from a m*space blog that I received via email...because I think it represents love at its exact middle. And if you’ve ever been there, you know how extreme it can be...particularly on VDay.

[PS...I DIDNT WRITE THIS PART...]

am·big·u·ous [am-big-yoo-uhs] –adjective
1. open to or having several possible meanings or interpretations
2. of doubtful or uncertain nature; difficult to comprehend, distinguish, or classify
3. lacking clearness or definiteness; obscure; indistinct:

Okay, so this is not a diatribe against ALL men... this is just for my "ambiguous" brothers (be they black, white or other) And I'm not talking about guys on the D.L. (or on second thought, maybe I am... that would explain a LOT! But I digress...)

My question is simply this... Why?!

Why the ambiguity? Why do you tell us you love us one day and the next day say, 'I don't know if I believe in love'? Why do you call, 'just to hear our voice' and then disappear for a week? Why do you tell us we're a 'beautiful woman of quality and that any guy would be blessed to have us in their life' and the next day introduce us to the bimbo you just met that is probably your soul mate? WHY?!?!?

Do you live to keep women off kilter? Does it provide you with more options? Are your true emotions a mystery even to you? Is your mind an ever changing river of chaos and confusion? Is it really that freaking hard to know how you really feel?!

Here's what I propose... if you like a girl, tell her, pursue her, make sure she KNOWS that she's the one for you. Don't give up until she's rocking your last name and having your babies. Happily ever after, ya feel me? It's a beautiful thing.

Conversely, if you aren't feeling her in "that" way and you just want to be friends, no harm, no foul... but don't tell her "I love you" (it's confusing), don't say, "We should get married" (not cute, not fair), don't invite her to foreign locals or your Cousin Sadie's wedding saying, "Seeing Rome (or Alabama) with you would make the trip perfect" (blah, blah and BLAH!!!) No holding hands (it's intiimate), No lingering hugs while whispering, "It's SO good to see you!" (that's not friendly!) Let the following be your guide... If you wouldn't say it or do it to or with your male platonic friends, you shouldn't say it or do it to or with your female platonic friends. See how easy that is?

And while we're at it, "Babe, Beautiful and Sexy" are not ways you refer to a friend... at least not one you want to NOT get the wrong idea. So that, "Hey Sexy!" salutation you like to throw around? Lose it! Lose it today! Keep it friendly. Completely friendly. Your female "friends" will thank you!

Even the Bible says that it's better to be hot (for our purposes here, in love) or cold (friends) than it is to be lukewarm (ambiguous)... The Bible says that the Lord figuratively "spits out" those that are in the middle, those not making a strong decision about Him one way or the other. I'm with God. Make a dang decision! Am I your "Bud" or you "Boo?!" (tee... hee... ) I know that "Bud/Boo" thing was corny, but typing it made me laugh. :)

Now, back to my diatribe...

Most women are not a mystery. I think I can speak for most of us when I say we just want to find someone to love who will love us back. When you boil it all down, that's all most women want. Maybe guys too? You can make this quest a lot easier for all of us, if when you feel it, you say so. And when you don't (and you guys KNOW when you're not feeling it, stop acting like you're so confused), don't pretend you do. It provides no ego boost to the girl. It doesn't help her make it through the day. All it does is confuse, frustrate and irritate. That, my brothers, is NOT cool.

Okay, I'm done now. Sorry for my rant, but I've just had too many conversations with my friends recently that start with, "So he said, 'I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you,' what does that mean?"

And my response?

Sadly, these days... absolutely nothing.

Take care and God Bless...
-YNB

"Do You Know A Carlos?"

>>OK here goes PART II...

But first read Part I...

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2006...11:51PM

“I remember those days when Hell was my home…”
That’s my 'not sure who this is' ring tone…

“Hello, this is Wise.”
That’s me answering the number that I don’t recognize.

“Hi, do you know a Carlos?”

Awww Lawd. Every woman, at some point in her life will get this phone call. If she’s lucky, she either won’t know dude, or will be long over his azz.

I was prepared for this…or so I thought…

“I’m sorry, who am I speaking to?”

“This is Carlos’ daughter’s mother. I have his phone and I got your number from a text you sent him.”

“Really. I don’t know any Carlos.” [I really don’t. And dudes, trust, if I had known him his biz woulda been out on the corner of Front Street.] “Where is he from?”

“The Bronx. He’s Dominican. They call him Nino?” She was asking, not telling, holding her breath for my answer.

“Naw Mami. I really don’t. And believe me, if I did I would tell you.”

“I’m sorry to be calling you,” she said…sounding like she was slowly coming undone, “but I took his phone, and I saw the text and I just pressed talk.”

“What did the text say?” I ask…still silently scanning my memory to figure out who the hell this might be.

“I don’t even know. Like I said, I just pressed talk. I never EVER called another woman before, but I just been going through it with this man.”

Like I said…up until this point, I could have dictated the convo verbatim. But I could have never scripted what followed. Except maybe the tears that came quickly.

“What did he do?” I ask. Shit, YOU called ME…so the least you can do is entertain me, cuz aint shit on TV. [editor’s note: for real, for real…are TV programmers on permanent hiatus or something?!] damn…digress…

“What did he do?” I ask…sincerely.

“He told me to quit my job to stay home with our daughter, who is 2, and THE DAY I quit he tells me that when he went back to Dominican Republic this summer, he got this chick pregnant.”

“Damn.” I probably only said this in my head, or if I said it out loud she probably didn’t hear me, bec by now she was a sniffling, hiccupping mess.

“I told him I couldn’t stay here with him in the same bed and I left and came back every day to see my kids, and I just got tired of doing that so I told him he had to leave. I put him out. I flipped the fcuk out because he was telling me that he told her it was over, and I didn’t believe him. I pushed him out of the apartment and we were fighting and he beat the shit out of me. I blacked out and woke up spitting up blood. So now I have an order of protection against him, but I don’t have anyone to watch my daughter during the day. She is 2 years old and is autistic and she has special teachers that come to the house, and someone has to be here with her. So I just sit at home all day and go crazy trying to figure out what the hell to do.”

“Whoa.” I’m sitting down now. Listening intently, as if this was one of my home girls. “So why do you have his phone?”

“I took it because I needed to see if he had called the girl. But of course by the time I got it all his calls were cleared out. All except the text messages. That’s how I got your number.”

“I really don’t know any Carlos from the Bronx.” [editor’s note: No offense to any Boogie Downers (dammit Slishy just hear me out)…but I don’t do the Bronx. Literally in my 7 years living in the City I been to the Bronx MAYBE 7 times. And 2 of those times including last month, were at Hostos College, so I don’t think they count.]

“He’s 39 and he owns a bodega?” Again asking…hoping to jog my memory. And I’m really thinking hard now, like, maybe did somebody give me a fake name?

“Naw, I couldn’t tell you the last Puerto-, I mean, Dominican dude I met. Much less from the Bronx.”

“I’m so sorry. I NEVER called a woman’s number before.”

“It’s ok, I know how it is,” I say. “So, why did he tell you to quit your job?”

“I swear to God, he was telling me to quit for a long time and I kept telling him no. But then he said he didn’t trust the babysitter and you know you can’t tell a mother no shit like that. So I quit because my daughter is autistic and now I’m stuck. My job was begging me to come back, offering me better hours, more money and I was like naw I gotta quit, cuz someone needs to be here while the teachers are here with her, and because of the order of protection I cant have him here with her. He can’t come within [however many] yards of me or the kids.”

She continues…”See he went to DR in August and I was pregnant with our second baby.” [chick speaks in Rosie Perez warp speed so I’m trying to keep up] “While he was gone I lost the baby and I was so upset that he wasn’t here, then come to find out he was down there with this young bitch.”

“How young?”

“17. And gets this bitch pregnant. Then he comes home and I find out he’s calling her and shit and yet he’s telling me that he told her it’s over. But one day he comes home after work and where I live there’s not a lot of space to park so when he comes home I leave for work and he parks in my spot. So I come home and we’re moving the cars and I take his phone to check my voice mail because I lost mine. This muthafcukah don’t know how to set up his voice mail so I thought I was calling mine but it went to his. So I set up the password and heard the message from her. So I flipped on him and that’s when he beat the shit out of me. So when he was locked up I called the girl to find out. But I don’t speak Spanish…I’m Puerto Rican…but I don’t speak Spanish so I had my mother talk to her in Spanish and ask her when they met and what was going on. She said they met in August, slept together in August and then she got pregnant.”

“How you know she’s really 17? How you know he aint lying about that too?” I ask.

“Because he showed me her fcuking picture. She looks 14! And I swear to God I don’t know why he showed me that picture because now I have that visual stuck in my head of like, her azz on his balls. Oh my gosh! Plus you can tell the chick is young because she don’t even know her own cycle. Any woman knows you don’t have sex like 2 weeks after your period! Plus she said she was pregnant all quick. I wrote down the calendar of when she said they were together. There’s no way that could even be his baby. She’s just young and dumb.”

“So did she say they were together?”

“No she told my mother that she didn’t really talk to him that much. So I been online trying to look up his phone bill to find out if he was calling her too or if she was the one doing the calling, like he told me. But Spr!nt wouldn’t let me open up the bills because I don’t have Adobe.”

“Oh girl, you can download Ad.obe for free from their website.”

“Oh for real? Cuz I got dial up so you know that shit is gonna take all day. I’m gonna have to go to the library tomorrow. I swear to God I’m so sorry for calling you. It’s so late, too. I am just out of my mind trying to figure out if I did the right thing by kicking him out. Because I am almost all the way through my savings by being out of work, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. A lot of parents with Autistic kids apply for disability but when I tried before they said I made too much money. Now I just applied again and do you know those muthafcukahs said I cant get it because I have life insurance! God forbid something should happen to me I need that insurance. Now they got me over here contemplating getting rid of it! I tried to get an evening job from 5-12, but I also have a 12 year old, but there’s no way I’m gonna leave her in charge of the baby. Especially not at night. I swear I wish my daughter was regular.”

“No Mami. Your daughter is a blessing just the way she is. I’m sure she is a beautiful blessing and you need to just gather strength from that blessing.”

“I know she is,” and she is weeping now, and says, “but she just gets so frustrated because she can’t talk and we cant understand her sometimes. So she gets so upset when she can’t communicate with us. I’m just saying if she wasn’t autistic I could at least leave her at daycare and get back to work.”

“So where is your mom?” I ask. “She can’t watch the baby?”

“My mother has a bad arm and she cant keep her. And I have a sister who don’t work, she don’t do shit but she refuses to help me out. And the thing is I always do everything for everybody else, but nobody wants to help me when I need it. Im SO sorry for calling you!”

“Listen, it’s ok. I understand. Let’s just figure out what you can do to get back to work. I mean, there has to be some kind of special daycare for your daughter. There has to be SOMETHING.”

“I’ve tried and there isn’t. I’ve asked her teachers and all they say is that if she goes to the school there has to be someone here at 3:00 to get her off the bus, and if I work I wouldn’t be here. But if I work evenings I don’t have anyone to watch them. He used to be here but now that I put him out I’m stuck. I gotta go back to work."

"Does he help you out at all?"

"He gives me $400 every week, but I got rent, a cell phone, car insurance. And I'm almost out of my savings."

"Girl, you are better off than most. I know girls in your situation right now who don't have a dime to their name and a man with even less. At least you got your stash," I offer. She's obviously not a slug chick. She just got a snake dude.

I just need to see the phone bills so that I at least know if I did the right thing.”

“You want me to look it up?” I say, already at my computer typing in the website. [I got Spr!nt, too]

“Would you mind?”

“What’s the number?”

[OK this is hella long. This is a good stopping point…and when you come back for the dramatic conclusion, just click the link for Part II at the beginning of the story. But for those with nothing better to do…here goes…]

I look up the bill and sure enough there are a bunch of calls to DR.
NO calls from there.

“Ok, so what you gonna do if he did call her?” I ask…stalling.

“Do you feel safe around him?” still stalling…

“I know your feelings are running amok, but what will happen to you emotionally if you let him come back just to watch your daughter?” still…

“And you don’t got no brothers to whup his azz or nothin’?” still…

“Are you afraid to tell me what’s on the bill?” she says, in an eerily calm voice.

Deep breath. “Ok what you wanna know?”

“Did he call her on Sept 12, the day he got out of jail? 809 area code.”

“He called her at 3:32 pm, and then again at 3:42.”

“I knew it.”

I’m looking thru the phone bill, blogger fam, and dude was quite liberal with the chit chat.

“Most of the calls are at midnight or around then. And they’re also for only like 5, 9 minutes. The longest call is only like 15 minutes. And it wasn’t on no, “Call me right back” either, bec there are no incoming calls afterwards.”

“Any 800 numbers?” she asks.

“Oh calling cards. Nope.” [I later found 2 quick ones]

“I fcuking knew it. This whole time he was telling me that she was the one calling him. What the fcuk is he even doing with a 17 year old? What the hell do they have to talk about?”

“And you know what, he didn’t call at all the entire month of November.” I announce.

“Fa real?” A glimmer of hope. I could hear it. But she kept it real. “Whatever. At least now I know. I asked him what she had that I don’t and he said that honestly it was a bullshit little relationship, just him calling and saying ‘hi, how’s the weather’ cuz he would never leave his child out there like that. But still, he threw away our family for a little girl. Bought her a damn cell phone so he could call her. He is 39, and he said, ‘she’s young, she’s not gonna like me for long. I’m getting older, looking older. She don’t want me.’”

“How old are you?” I ask.

“29.”

“Awww. Me too.”

“Wow. I swear I cant believe I’m talking to a complete stranger. Im so sorry.”

“Mami. You’re good.”

We sat on the phone for 2 and a half hours. Two women bound by an errant text msg. I had her read me the text I sent and turns out I thought I was texting a friend in Philly as I was driving thru.

I was struck by how different our lives were…yet how easily that could have been my life, my man’s phone, my dilemma, my burden. I thought about a very good friend of mine, whose story is not far from this one.

“Well you have my number now. Don’t be afraid to use it again,” I say and mean it.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate you looking up his bill for me. I’m gonna download A.dobe tomorrow so I can see it for myself. But thank you.”

“Good luck, girl. I know you will make a way to get back to work and take care of your baby.”

“Thank you so much. I can’t believe you actually talked to me for this long. Thank you.”


You know the part on the Brady Bunch after the last commercial, but right before the end credits…that last 30 second punchline? ...Well, this is it…


The next day I went online and looked up Autism day care facilities in Brooklyn. I found a site, emailed the director and the next morning got a response.

I called Mami to give her the info.

As the phone was ringing I realized I was calling HIS phone. I didn’t have her number.

She answered. Surprised to hear from me. Grateful for the info. Turns out she did some more digging and found a spot around her way that might take her daughter.

She’s a lot more stable, now that she knows the deal. She confronted Carlos with a copy of his phone bills. He did the typical Trife Negro move and tried to turn it around on her…accusing her of invading his privacy, threatening to tell the cops that she stole his phone.

Son, how did you get the copies…did you violate the order of protection?

That shut him up.

Obviously she’s heartbroken. But she’s prepared to move on.

But there’s a little piece of me that hopes she’ll call me again and tell me that she’s back to work and back to life.

Do You Know A Carlos? PT II

>>PART I

>>Now for PART II...

I look up the bill and sure enough there are a bunch of calls to DR.
NO calls from there.

“Ok, so what you gonna do if he did call her?” I ask…stalling.

“Do you feel safe around him?” still stalling…

“I know your feelings are running amok, but what will happen to you emotionally if you let him come back just to watch your daughter?” still…

“And you don’t got no brothers to whup his azz or nothin’?” still…

“Are you afraid to tell me what’s on the bill?” she says, in an eerily calm voice.

Deep breath. “Ok what you wanna know?”

“Did he call her on Sept 12, the day he got out of jail? 809 area code.”

“He called her at 3:32 pm, and then again at 3:42.”

“I knew it.”

I’m looking thru the phone bill, blogger fam, and dude was quite liberal with the chit chat.

“Most of the calls are at midnight or around then. And they’re also for only like 5, 9 minutes. The longest call is only like 15 minutes. And it wasn’t on no, “Call me right back” either, bec there are no incoming calls afterwards.”

“Any 800 numbers?” she asks.

“Oh calling cards. Nope.” [I later found 2 quick ones]

“I fcuking knew it. This whole time he was telling me that she was the one calling him. What the fcuk is he even doing with a 17 year old? What the hell do they have to talk about?”

“And you know what, he didn’t call at all the entire month of November.” I announce.

“Fa real?” A glimmer of hope. I could hear it. But she kept it real. “Whatever. At least now I know. I asked him what she had that I don’t and he said that honestly it was a bullshit little relationship, just him calling and saying ‘hi, how’s the weather’ cuz he would never leave his child out there like that. But still, he threw away our family for a little girl. Bought her a damn cell phone so he could call her. He is 39, and he said, ‘she’s young, she’s not gonna like me for long. I’m getting older, looking older. She don’t want me.’”

“How old are you?” I ask.

“29.”

“Awww. Me too.”

“Wow. I swear I cant believe I’m talking to a complete stranger. Im so sorry.”

“Mami. You’re good.”

We sat on the phone for 2 and a half hours. Two women bound by an errant text msg. I had her read me the text I sent and turns out I thought I was texting a friend in Philly as I was driving thru.

I was struck by how different our lives were…yet how easily that could have been my life, my man’s phone, my dilemma, my burden. I thought about a very good friend of mine, whose story is not far from this one.

“Well you have my number now. Don’t be afraid to use it again,” I say and mean it.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate you looking up his bill for me. I’m gonna download A.dobe tomorrow so I can see it for myself. But thank you.”

“Good luck, girl. I know you will make a way to get back to work and take care of your baby.”

“Thank you so much. I can’t believe you actually talked to me for this long. Thank you.”


You know the part on the Brady Bunch after the last commercial, but right before the end credits...that one last 30 second punchline?…well, this is it…


The next day I went online and looked up Autism day care facilities in Brooklyn. I found a site, emailed the director and the next morning got a response.

I called Mami to give her the info.

As the phone was ringing I realized I was calling HIS phone. I didn’t have her number.

She answered. Surprised to hear from me. Grateful for the info. Turns out she did some more digging and found a spot around her way that might take her daughter.

She’s a lot more stable, now that she knows the deal. She confronted Carlos with a copy of his phone bills. He did the typical Trife Negro move and tried to turn it around on her…accusing her of invading his privacy, threatening to tell the cops that she stole his phone.

Son, how did you get the copies…did you violate the order of protection?

That shut him up.

Obviously she’s heartbroken. But she’s prepared to move on.

But there’s a little piece of me that hopes she’ll call me again and tell me that she’s back to work and back to life.

"She" Is Not Me

She made this bed.

And as I watched her lie writhing in it, restless, cold, stiff…my initial amusement later turned to sympathy.

I have a relentless habit of putting my feet in other folks’ shoes.

So when I saw her on Black Friday I wondered not if, but how much she regretted making the trip.

They walk into an upscale nightclub at the tail end of a private birthday party, just before the DJ would take over. Turns out the person throwing the party was his old football buddy. He walks into a sea of familiar faces, all foreign to her.

All except one.

She walks behind him, her steps subtly strained and reluctant. He is in his element, home, among friends, good people from his past. He’s greeted with genuine welcomes, daps, hugs and cheek kisses, and she watches from a step behind.

And as she rounds the bar, following him to a spot she hopes is beyond the crowd, she sees a face that is all too familiar. The face that haunts her memories of betrayal. The poster child of her insecurity and distrust of so-called plutonic friends.

It was her. The chick who had tried to take her place.

I saw her give the home wrecker the ice grill, a venomous mix of ‘I can’t believe this bitch is here,’ ‘did he know she was gonna be here,’ and ‘I wanna go the hell home.’ I saw her whip out her cellie and compose a flurry of furious text messages.

But she was stuck. Out of town, out of her element, out of place. I watched it all go down. The way the home wrecker used good discretion in turning her back when they entered, then reluctantly greeted him when he awkwardly approached. She sincerely explained that she was there for the private party of the football buddy, who ironically had been her Junior prom date. He settled in at the bar just past her. Just past her, but not far enough for the two women to avoid a direct line of vision.

Home wrecker played it as cool as she could. Downing Moet and ducking in the arms of her plutonic male friends, trying to persuade them it was time to go. But she was in no way being discreet. She was a bit extra flirty, her laugh a bit extra loud…just, extra! And she would not stop smoothing down her hair and checking her makeup. And none of it went unnoticed. Not by her or him.

Backstory:

She loved him. They’d been through a lot, a move among it all. He left her behind for work, and she remained by his side as best she could. It came easily, not because of her devotion but because they had been friends first. Little did she know, he had slowly come to see her as little more than such.

He was a good man, a great boyfriend, never a wanderer… so it came as a crushing blow when she felt his attention slipping away, focused elsewhere, she realized. The confrontation was severe, as was the blow induced by his honesty. Yes, he had been serious all those months that he had been expressing his uncertainty about their future. Yes, there was someone new…the Homewrecker.

She managed to convince him to give it another try. Despite her insecurities, despite the distance, despite their never ending battle about his bubbling social life, and abundance of plutonic female friends. Down South, where she was from, it wasn’t like that. Guys get phone calls and emails and text messages from girls who are giving it up. Plain and simple. She couldn’t get that out of her head…especially not after his one indiscretion.

She knew that there was a reason why he had drifted. They were of different breeds. He, a music-obsessed social butterfly…she, a more subdued homebody. Basically it was their past, a history of having the other’s back, that bonded them for another full unproductive year.

They ended it a while ago. Stopped speaking at her behest. But there were Thanksgiving plans, he reminded her, in an effort to get her to end the silent treatment. She finally spoke up two days before the holiday, and asked if she could still come to his hometown for the weekend as planned. She needed closure. In layman’s terms…another try. He said he’d think about it.

He called in reinforcements, but the decision was ultimately his. He says he feels like he owes her at least that after everything they've been through. Agrees when she says it shouldnt linger any longer. Would prefer to end it on a positive note rather than with the mess the last time they spoke, when SHE finally stuck a fork in it. They drove home on Wednesday after work.

And her plan might have worked had it not been for them pesky plutonic friends and that bitch. All night, he was mobbed by acquaintances, a good number of them women. Dancing and hugging and chatting them up. Sure, he and her were not together, but no doubt the point of this trip was to try to salvage what she could of this relationship. But this was overload. It was Thanksgiving dinner all over again… a constant barrage of overindulgence, and the subsequent nausea that followed. She was overwhelmed by it all and had nowhere to run. If he was still her man, she could demand they leave. Or at least if she was home she could drive herself or get a homegirl to come scoop her.

Instead she had insisted on taking this ill-fated trip, a last ditch effort to hold a man who was too polite, too indecisive, too sympathetic, too guilty, too scared to firmly end it. She exploited his wish-washy nature, and got trapped between the mistress and a hard place.

But it was the exact blunt trauma she needed to move the hell on.

Glad she aint me. I woulda never took that trip.

Me, He, and DC

Gilbert Arenas scores 45 points and I stroll into the arena with 5:43 left in the game, just as he’s taking his final bow. Lebron is already on the bench. Defeated.

Just my luck. A hunnid bucks on tickets squandered like I got it like that. I’m so sure it’s a sign of the night ahead. DC however, had other plans for me.

I’m thinking for sure I’d get back to the whip, parked on a side street just off Union Station, and the tires would be slashed or better yet my Club would be bent in half and left on the street in lieu of the truck.

Not tonight, the car’s all in one piece, unscathed and waiting for me and my boy Cartr. We hop in, thinking for sure there’s a liq store still open in the hood. What kind of town is ghetto azz DC if there’s no after hours liqa sto?? Ok cool, well at least this feels familiar…disappointment, that is. Cuz see that’s the type of luck I’m accustomed to. Much like the left side of my hair, which refuses to play nice like the pretty right side. *sigh*

We drive on in search of a club I had no intentions of ever revisiting.

Back story: Me and my boy drive to DC for the game, and plan to hook up with another *friend* who is in town for a bday party. I dressed for a classy lounge. At the bday boy's behest, I end up at Love.

“I can’t believe I’m waiting in line for a club that will charge me $15 to get in…all for a boy.”

That’s the text I send my girl Curly while waiting outside the spot, with the sound of drunk metrosex white boys humming in my ears. Nothing against Dream/Love/whatever name you know it by. It’s a beautiful club. But I’m not the mega-club every weekend chick. Nothing against those who are. I’m not a nightlife snob by any means…unless there are durags involved, and in that case I’m stayin in and watching somebody’s marathon on MTV2.

Get inside after waiting too long (NYers SWEAR they never wait online at home so they’ll be DAMNED if they do it out of town. I am of that belief.) ...and I am pleasantly surprised to find there’s no cover.

I don’t even head straight to the bar. Cuz I’m anticipating this to be a complete waste of an evening, longing for the reliable comfort of the remote.

But soon my anxiety subsides, as one after another attractive man in v-neck and tie, pin stripes and cuff links, neat tapered edge ups, in fly square-toes parades by. It feels like forever since I’ve been in the company of so many dudes who could get it.

First floor playlist: Beyonce, Jay, Sean Paul.

Me and Cartr make our way up a flight. Settle at the bar. More boys. More booze. More boom.

Beyonce, Jay, Sean Paul.

Third floor. Puerto Rican* night? I had no idea. Cute.

Daddy Yankee and them. And that one reggaeton beat.

“You in?” I text.

“Yeah, 4th floor.”

Bypassing the pointless velvet rope, we climb yet another flight. Smoky. White people. More Puerto Ricans. An (East) Indian contingency.

Beyonce, Jay, Sean Paul.

The bar. The usual. Sipping. I’m feeling content now. The club doesn’t suck. The crowd is cool. The three song rotation is aight.

I lose Cartr momentary.

I take a sip of the Goose.

And something happens.

They play a new song. Dare I recall it as Ole Skool.

I sip again. And this time it’s Timber.lake. I’m sexy.
Ok, this is cool.

I sip some more, and the whole scene changes, and I’m feeling the club and the DC boys and even the girls in their summer ensembles and enviable curls cascading onto smooth shoulders. Even the whites have rhythm here.

I sip some more and I’m actually enjoying myself, glad I came. Not so pissed that we missed free t-shirt night at the Verizon Center.

I sip again, and I see him. In his black button down and tight jeans. Cuban tight, not rock star tight. Shorty has thighs, you see. I make out his bald head dipping in and out of my view. He’s feeling the ole skool, too.

And he’s dancing with some girls, and I’m watching and smiling and taking notes. And he’s consorting with his rainbow coalition of boys, and enjoying himself, and thank God I am too or else this would not have worked.

I politely wait until he wears out some chick and moves on to a group dance. I sidle up beside him, behind him actually, and do that ‘back to back, guess who’s dancing behind you’ thing. And he feels me without looking and we immediately step into a familiar dance that we have yet to rehearse.

He turns to me, and does the ‘hit it from the back’ dance, and I oblige. He twirls me to him for a hug.

“So good to see you, Wise.”
“I’ve missed you.”

I meet his boys. Take the birthday boy by the hand and head to the bar for shots of Patron. Really cool guy I learn, and we exchange biz cards. He’s in Law School at American, and says, we shouldn’t be strangers.

“Where’d u go?” he texts me as I return to him, reading it in front of him.

“There you are,” he says.

“We’re finally dancing,” he says, smiling, shouting in my ear.

“We danced at my crib that time.”

“Oh yeah,” he says. Pulling me in, knowing I’m being bashful.

“Your hair is so long.” I respond by tickling his baldy, the way he always likes. He plays in mine, the way I hate, today. My hair's already a mess.

You ever see the girl in the club who is dancing with some guy, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, like a Christmas bow, her eyes closed, and she’s just swaying to the music? She looks like she’s either tossed, a hopeful ho, or at a 60s sock hop with her steady.

Well, maybe, just maybe she’s just enjoying the moment. Maybe, just maybe, his hands around her waist feel like rest... and maybe, just maybe, I was exhausted, and his shoulder felt like a down pillow and I didn’t care that there were 10,000 other people watching me daydream.

Maybe, just maybe, I had a great time. Dancing. From one floor to the next, laughing and sweating and gyrating, and not caring, and kissing, and singing along, and getting low to songs I normally hate, and smiling. For hours without interruption.

Every time he leaned in, it was like fitting in the last piece of a jigsaw. Our pecks are puzzlingly perfect. Despite a background that is less so.

“When you coming home for Thanksgiving?”
“I get in Thursday night,” I respond.
“Cant wait to see you again Thursday. That is if you can pencil me in.”

Ever the azzhole, I open my cellie, open the calendar and show him that I’m booked. He laughs and pulls me in closer. Kisses my forehead and calls me cute.

And as the Sean Paul morphs into Cham morphs into Elephant Man morphs into Marley...he looks me in the eyes and sings the words to me. So I do the same.

"I don't wanna wait in vain for your love."

If only he knew that that very song is his designated ring tone in my cellie.

Gilbert Arenas scored 45 last night, and so did I. It was an MVP night, on a day I thought couldn’t be salvaged.

Cuz I don’t have good luck. I just have nights like these, followed by early morning text messages, then calls from the airport just before departure.

I have lulls in the reality of a long distance fantasy world, in which I can enjoy the here and now.

Then why am I preoccupied with the ‘there and then’?

Why cant I just enjoy the moments?

Why I always gotta take the L?

Cuz I feel like I'm outta luck.

*In Upstate NY where I’m from all Latinos are Puerto Rican. I never met a Mexican or Dominican until college. So references to them as such are more regional than it is politically incorrect and short sighted, ok? Cool.

How Wise is "So...Wise"? 4

Part I
Part II
Part III



Part IV: "Wise Matters"

So he’s gone back to Detroit, and what follows is an intense barrage of constant phone calling, text msgs and emails, now even more sprawling and revealing. Daily. We leave no stone unturned in our communication. We discuss our connection, our fears, our fate, our daily stresses and successes, our fav sexual positions. I imagine him in all of them, not just for the sport and pleasure of his maintenance, but because I’m falling for him and know that doing him will be much more than a conquest to discuss later.

But alas, we’re both attached. He confides in detail now that his relationship has always been faulty. They became exclusive just before he was shipped back to Detroit by his job. I’ll never forget him saying it wasn’t “serious.”

I call him on it.

“How the hell is an exclusive relationship not serious?”

He explains in this actual email [note from Wise: I'm really not as psycho as this may appear. AOL auto saves all incoming and outgoing emails. No, for real...I'm serious. And don't act like you don't have a special saved folder from your special someone, dammit!] :

"Wise,

My life was normal before last Friday [ed.'s note: 4th of July weekend] now it's filled with drama :) lol I'm just kidding, some drama is worth having. I think I've had the best time I've had in a while with someone and I thank you for that sweetie. I meant it when I said I could of stayed at your place all weekend and just talked to you and would of been content. You are so amazing to me. You have everything I look for in a woman and I feel so at home with you, when I'm around you or talk to you. I hate to think like this but I really do feel to some extent that I'm out of my league when it comes to you, I'm still shocked that you are actually feeling me like that...wait, what am I talking about, I know I'm a pimp, shoot :) J/K [NOTE FROM WISE: HELLLLO! Can you understand why he's perfect for me? SO damn corny and adorable!!] for real though your level of intelligence, your beauty, your sexiness(you are sexy as hell I hope you know), your sweetness, kindness, caring, etc, etc, etc it's been a while since I've felt like this and it feels good.

So many questions and uncertainty are still out there though. Every day that passes by the more and more the realization of how difficult this is (will be) sets in. I know there many things that need to resolved. From there what's next. Something that makes me cringe is that when you look at the facts things don't really look too good for me (if I were in your shoes looking at me). Commitment/relationship issues, long distance issues, open communication issues(which I haven't had with you).Whichever path we take I don't want it to be filled with drama. I'm not one to look for it but it seems to follow me a bit :)

You're totally right about the 'casual' thing. I wouldn't want to do that. I care for(wow) and respect you waaaaay to much for you to just mess around with you. If we have something together I know it would be something special, something serious. But I do know I wouldn't be ready to rush things initially..I would want to take them slow and let things run their course. I've been burned by getting into situations like that without really understanding the whats/whys/hows of my wants and what I could provide to the relationship. Going into them blindly. Just like you said that you've had a tumultuous year on the relationship tip I have had one too(that's somewhat what we got into last night).

When I broke up from my relationship about a year ago...The girl in Chicago was around as a friend who was very interested. It could of been a rebound thing and even though we said we were still just friends we didn't act like it by the amount of time we spent together and our actions. Before you knew it I was in a situation that I didn't know how I got in but I was comfortable in because of the type of person she was. But I didn't feel like this was it, this was my ultimate connection/love of my life. I was content and happy that's probably why I thought it was ok to enter the relationship.

Maybe I spoiled everything because I wasn't ready to enter that relationship to begin with and I never allowed myself to have those stronger feelings for her, which she has for me. And it was too late to gain them by the way it started, dating other people because we weren’t exclusive, then deciding to be together but having to deal with the long distance even though a strong foundation wasn't there. Thinking that I need to move on but having an uncertainty of what will happen once that is done or (is it the right move?) Like you said last night it's not fair to be with someone b/c they're so into you when you might not have the same exact feelings. When I say I feel like such a bad person sometimes that's a perfect example of why. I don't want to put you (or myself) through anything like this so we'd have to take our time and figure out what's really best for us or how it could be done. Is this the right time? I guess there never is a right time you just have to go with your heart.

With all that said how do you really feel about this weekend and her coming?..answer only if you want to or feel comfortable. As far as your situation I feel like the less I know the better...I feel I don't want to pry (or know really) b/c I trust what you're feelings are for me and that's all that matter to me. Anything else will be resolved when we know where we're at with each other.

Well that felt better getting a lot of that out. Another long ass email that's all over the place, you know how I do ma ;) I'm hoping this doesn't confuse you more or scare you a bit. I just want to be open and honest with you hon. I don't want to sugar-coat anything because you deserve to know it all. Well I need to go...Write back when you can...I'll be looking forward to it :) Have a great day Ms. Sista.
~Ford

Well damn. Who wouldn't be gassed?

One of the things I love about him is that he’s not a player, not out trying to run game (and thank God, cuz as you can see, shorty has NONE). And he's keeping it real, which is a requirement when dealing with me. He acknowledges the difficulties and isn't trying to hide details to use as refuge later on. So I trust him. I trust that despite the challenges, despite the relationships we're both in, and despite the distance, we BOTH want to try... so it's now safe to let my guard down (something I RARELY do). It's real, it's intense and it's worth pursuing. Because I believe that he’s honest, and definitely because he’s saying what I want to hear. And dammit, because this feeling he's awakened in me just feels so GOOD.

Now me, I’m in a “relationship” that was faulty at best. It’s one of those things that had gone on too long, and for that reason is difficult to let go. But there’s no love, it’s very complicated and becoming mostly a struggle. So Ford is not only my dream guy, but he also becomes my savior. Right on time. He would come and rescue me from another pointless relationship. Resurrect me.
So for several months our communication grows stronger, and we get closer. We coordinate our schedules and travel home at the same time in order to see each other. He’s relentless in expressing his feelings for me. In touting me as the woman of his dreams. Of acknowledging that he loves all of the things about me that I love about myself.

Thank you notes and thinking of you cards sent in the mail.

Really sweet morning text messages in French (thank God for translation websites!)

Hours of pillow talk.

And it’s sincere. It’s pure and fun. It’s on a whole 'nother level from what I’ve become accustom to in dating. He’s living proof that there are good guys out there. He’s attractive, intelligent, cultured, well-traveled, grounded, funny, outgoing, ambitious, can appreciate women without being doggish, and most of all is emotionally available, which is HIGH on my must-have list.

He’s not ‘center of attention guy’, which is usually what I attract, because of my own personality. But I’m really loving the fact that he’s low-key – almost shy even, yet really outgoing. And I’m REALLY loving the attention, the affection and the genuine lust he has for me.

Needless to say, I fall in love with dude. I never utter it to anyone but myself...but convey it in the type of attention, support and affection I send back his way.

And soon I'm taken aback when he informs me that he is breaking it off with Chicago chick.

...keep scrolling down...it gets "better"...PART V: THE FINALE