My wish for you this New Year is my wish for all mankind: that you see clearly the world in front of you, the opportunities that surround you and the greatness that lives within you without fear or hesitation; that you rise to meet each new day with confidence even in the face of what may seemingly be your toughest battle yet; and that you learn to cherish each moment of happiness and tolerate the pain of loss without bitterness, envy or remorse.  Take the good with the bad, my friend, and then rise triumphant.  After all, that’s life.

Case in point.  As I was surfing said website, not the harmony one, but another piscine one, I came across a picture of a guy.  Guy referred to himself as a southern gentleman.  Oooh… I like… I’m down with it.  I dropped him a line and we commenced to communicate via email.  I guess he liked what he saw and my grammar gave him goosebumps.  We exchanged numbers and then played phonetag for two days.  He was getting frustrated; I could tell.  Dude.  It’s the weekend.  (Somebody shoulda told him.  Wait.  I did.  My profile specifically states, I do not sit around twiddling my thumbs waiting for you.  Whatever.)  On Evening 3, as I snuggle up on the sofa to watch a new dvd release that I could not catch at the theater, I send him a text asking if he’s free to talk before I begin my movie.  I know once the movie begins I will NOT want to be interrupted.  He responds instantly, “Why don’t you come and watch the movie over here?”  Wait, WHAT?  I swear my fingers typed it faster than Superman changed in that damn telephone booth.  Faster than Antwon Dodson was autotuned.  Faster than J.Lo dropped two babies out her womb, divorced Marc Anthony and made a comeback.  My eyes stared intently at the screen of my cellular device as my mind raced reminding myself that I was not crazy… I had only been communicating with old dude for three days… and I had “met” him on a dating website.  See, this is where the straight-laced, judgementals break out their ‘told-ya-so’s.  You told me what?  That I shouldn’t meet a man for dating on a website?  HOW ABOUT NOBODY SHOULD MEET ANYBODY THEY CONTACT ON A WEBSITE, MALE OR FEMALE, for the first time in a NON-PUBLIC PLACE?  That’s internet 101.  That’s not just me, or a thousand others who engage in internet dating, you twit.  That’s also you… as you purchase something on ebay from someone who lives 10 miles from you and offers to drop it off at your house and you so stupidly incline… Don’t you dare judge me.  And, yes, I am on one.  When, he finally replies and says, “My house.”  I have three words for him.  No, they are not “Go eff yourself.”  They are, “I don’t know you.”  Oh wait.  That’s four words.  Yeah, I probably meant the first one and he probably heard it in my text-voice too.  Cuz now, I’m pissed that you would even ask me to come to your place, a single female, living in L.A. that you met three days ago on the blankety-blank.com.  I don’t care how “nice” I look on my pics.  I could be a serial killer.  I’ve already assumed you’re one.  So, why not me?  <Text Silence>  I watch my movie and turn in for the night.  Safe and sound.

The next morning my phone rings.  It’s him.  Albeit earlier than my sleepy eyes can adjust to the name that scrolls across the screen, I answer in my most polite voice possible.  Because, of course, I misunderstood his intentions and he wants to apologize, right?  He’s a southern gentleman, right?  In my best Trey Songz voice: Leg-go… After the formalities of him telling me how hard it is to catch up with me (which I NEVER understand… cuz you have me now, and in ten seconds you won’t have me if you keep this ish up!) he says, “So what’d you do last night?”  Problem #1: You don’t listen.  Me: Uhhh… I… watched… a movie.  Him: Oh, yeah.  You coulda come over here and watched it.  Problem #2: You’re daft.  Me: Yeah… um… I don’t really know you like that.  Him: What?  I live in a gated community.  Problem #effing 3: You’re a moron.  Me: (subtext: You could live on the white house lawn…)  I still don’t know you like that.  Him: What do you think I’m a serial killer or something?  Bingo.  <Silence>  Him:  So can we meet for coffee?  Okay!  Now, you’re acting like a civilized person, not someone who hasn’t had sex in 6 months and is trying to get a stranger over to your house under the guise of “watching a movie.”  Me: Sure… where would you like to meet?  Him: Well, I live in such-and-such.  <Silence>  Me: Well, there are a million Starbucks between where I live and such-and-such.  Are you suggesting that I drive to such-and-such?  Him: Yeah.  Me: No, thank you.  Him: Well, why don’t we go to the movies? (HUH? Did you just pull the switch-up on me… cuz now it’s a bit humorous.  But, I’ll humor you.) Me: Sure… which movie theater?  (He suggests a movie theater near his house.  Oh boy!  This is even better than I thought.)  Me: I live in the valley.  So, can we go to this movie theater instead?  Him: Well, why can’t we go to this theater?  Me: Cuz that’s 25 miles from my house.  Him: But, it’s half-way.  Me: It’s our first date.  Him: Well, I might as well meet you at a Starbucks around the corner from your house.  REALLY?!  Me (with a totally straight face): There’s one on such-and-such (which is literally five blocks from my house) #subtext: a**hole.  <Silence>  Him: Well, why can’t we just go to the movies over here?  Me: THINKING – For the same reason I wouldn’t come to your house last night.  SAYING – You know, this isn’t going to work.  Him:  Yeah, I don’t think so.  Me: Best of luck to ya.  *End call* <Deuces>  You with me so far?  Good.  That’s not the best part.

Fast forward to… well… to today.  I get a “wink” from the same guy on ANOTHER website.  This is too hilarious to be true.  So, I check out the profile.  It is DEFINITELY old dude.  Short memory men. (Not all, just… some.)  I chuckle.  At least he likes what he likes.  I pulled him TWICE.  I send him a message with the other website in the subject line.  (Disclaimer: Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.  But, I had to let him know that I know exactly who he is.)   The message went something like this… Me: Alfredo, right?  We’ve spoken on the phone.  Thanks for the wink.  Him: Why did it not go any further?  Me: Because I refused to drive to such-and-such or meet you halfway on the first date. I don’t care if you live in a gated community or on the white house lawn. I’m a southern girl.  WAIT-FOR-IT.  Him: Do you want me to pick you up?

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am still single.  For the love of Chow Chows, French Bulldogs and Labradoodles!  If I have to go through all of that to get a sane answer or a chivalrous, gentlemanly gesture from a man who claims to be a southern gentleman, no thank you.  This is a bit dramatic.  I completely understand.  I also know that there are many women who would have not only met him halfway on the first date, but driven to his house to watch the movie the night before, and could tell you the details of the paint on his bedroom ceiling.  Simply put?  They make it hard for a woman like me.  Literally.  Oh well.  Moving right along!

Persnickety Self-Adjustment: If it wasn’t for audacity, some people would have nothing.

It started in Basic Training.  I had three drill sergeants: one white male, one black male, one Hispanic female.  A Neapolitan coalition of armed might if you will.  One day my female drill sergeant called me by my last name, because that’s what they do when you join the military, and asked me a very straight forward question.  “What’s your nationality?”  The puzzled look on my face should have given her a clue.  I answered, “Black, drill sergeant.”  The profound lack of reference to any nation in the answer should have given her another clue.  She fumbled along clueless.  “No.  I mean, what are your parents?”  I replied instantaneously and a bit incredulously, “Black and black, drill sergeant.”  And so it went… The questioning and the subsequent dismissal as if we were playing some cruel game of Connect Four genealogy.  It happened that day for the very first time and it’s happened numerous times since then whenever I visit New York, D.C., Chicago and some parts of L.A.  I don’t speak Spanish.  I’m not from Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, or any other Latin nation I would be most proud to represent if I were.  Heritage is important to me.  Why would I deny it if it were mine?  My great-grandma on my father’s side was from France. My great-great-grandpa on my mother’s side was Jewish.  My great-great-grandmother was an African pygmy.  My familial hues are most represented by people of color and I am unequivocally an African-American woman.  You with me?  I speak English.  In high school I studied Latin and French.  At a military institute off the coast of Monterey I studied Korean.  I’ve never studied Spanish.  Ever.  Although, I’m told I have an affinity for languages.  Insert “me” as Jason Bourne played by Matt Damon as he spouts German to the officers requiring proof of his citizenship then proceeds to disarm and disable both.

I’ve always wanted to be that badass.  I thought I was joining the military to be the female James Bond.  (We can thank a silver-tongued recruiter for that notion.)  The truth is the “needs of the Army” far outweigh any girl’s dreams of learning Russian to slip underneath the iron curtain and procure secrets vital to the continued freedom of our nation.  And… my test scores dictated otherwise.  They ensured years of adoration for bulgogi, white sticky rice, and kimchi were in my future!  In hindsight I don’t think blending in would have been a feat easily attained in the Ukraine. (I told you I’m a colored gal.  Don’t you DARE repeat that.  The term grates my skin!!!)  Consequently, I couldn’t pass for Korean any day of the week either, not even in winter when I’ve lost my summer tan.  I am quite versatile.  The languages I’ve studied come complete with accents which astonish a native tongue.  I’m a bit of a showoff.  We can thank my background in theatre and my position in the birth order as the baby for that.  I love languages and I never cease to amaze myself.  In Italy I picked up a few phrases of Italian after “Ciao Bella!” was engrained in my brain.  In Mexico, I found myself in the middle of a marketplace bartering for a blanket while screaming, “Veinticinco!  Veinticinco!”  This is in no way contradictory to what I wrote earlier.  It’s true.  I’ve never studied Spanish.  I learned my numbers from Sesame Street and Villa Alegre, the first national bilingual children’s program televised in the U.S.  I’m a chameleon and a very quick study.  I’ve been that way since I was five years old.  Blame it on great genes.

What’s my point?  I’m not sure.  This is now considered rambling.  The only explanation I have is my power of association went full speed ahead when I saw a sign tacked on a pile of empty boxes in the office that read “Basura.”  My deductive reasoning led me to the assumption that the sign read “Trash” or “Garbage” in Spanish.  Yes, even an idiot could have figured that out.  Thank you for the compliment.  The sign was thoughtful.  It was a solid attempt to communicate with someone on their terms instead of leaving to chance which items were regarded as important and which ones should have been discarded.  It made me wonder why I haven’t made more of an effort to take a Spanish class… or get a Hispanic boyfriend as one of my friends suggested.  (If I had taken her advice I shudder to think which Spanish words I would have learned first.  “Aye Papi!  Muey bueno!” does not count.)  Maybe I’ve yet to encounter a situation where my knowledge of the language was absolutely necessary.  Whatever the case may be, when I decide to learn the most widely used romance language in the world it will be because my desire to communicate has overcome my apathy.  It’s that simple.  It won’t be about the denial of my race or heritage.  My ethnicity will be questioned as long as my features represent a collection of 40 different nations.  My answer will continue to be the one given to my drill sergeant on that scorching hot summer day in Columbia, South Carolina.  But, perhaps it will be phrased more succinctly in my best voice a la espanol, “Yo soy morena!”

Persnickety Self-Adjustment: It’s more about who you are than who they think you might be.

When I am about the business of problem-solving (which BTW is “A-number one” on my resume – me – great problem solver – insert :::beaming smile:::) I usually (A) try to identify certain attributes unique to the situation or challenge that may give me insight as to the type of challenge I’m dealing with; (B) think about what has worked before and how it can be applied to the present; (C) consider all my resources; and (D) think about the possible outcome or consequences.  Hear ye!  Hear ye!  Superior Relationship Court is now in session.  The Honorable Me – or dishonorable if you count that trip to Cancun – presiding.  YES, I get to be the judge.  It’s my blog!  “The People vs. The Problem with Being Single” state your case.  Exhibit A: Certain attributes unique to the challenge of relationships.  I think people are crazy.  Myself included.  I think people are complicated.  I think just when you have people mastered, they smack it up, flip it and rub it down, changing your entire impression of them, breaking up a perfectly good boy band and requiring lots of lotion or water based lubricant to gain any understanding of what their true intentions may have been.  Conversely, I think people are wonderful creatures just waiting to amaze us and make us love them for all the reasons we knew we did in the first place.  I think there are people who are genuinely good who want to share positivity  and happiness with everyone they encounter.  None of these attributes negate each other.  They actually (and often do) CO-EXIST which is all the more baffling to me.  When it comes to relationships, conflicting principles make for extremely rocky waters.  Throw two people with opposite ideologies in the mix and you’ve got yourself endless nights of discussions concerning the Milky Way or why your momma won’t stay out of our business.  I’m just sayin.  Exhibit B: What has worked before?  This can’t possibly be applicable here.  If what worked before was still working I wouldn’t be explicating the state of my singleness.  It’s safe to say I don’t know what works – for me.  However, allow me to expound on what I have observed works for other people.  Stroking the ego of the opposite sex to the point of exhaustion.  Turning a blind eye to the folly of your mate even when the risk of disease, embarrassment or harassment from a scorned, adulterous, lover lays waiting at every un-protected turn.  Sexless, loveless, roommate-esque cohabitation.  Excuse making.  Indentured servitude. (Well, what else would you call it?)  And my absolute favorite in a facetious world: Flat out denial.  These seem to work for some people.  However, I am not willing to apply any of these supposed solutions to the challenge at hand.  Thus, my single status.  Exhibit C: Limited resources.  I’ve tried gyms, bars, grocery stores, networking events, fix-ups, online dating, and hailing strangers on Hollywood Blvd.  Well, everything except that last one.  I still have dignity.  Exhibit D: Examining the possible outcome or consequences.  Although this is the last exhibit, it is certainly not the least and has been the foremost on my mind as of late.  What’s the worst that could possibly happen?  Spending the rest of my life unmarried?  Having my best friend escort me to the award show?  Listing me as sole purchaser on the beachfront property in Brazile?  No matter how I view the end result there’s nothing that seems so dark or dim about being single that frightens me to the point of running to the altar with some fool who won’t drive 25 miles to see me on a FIRST date.  As my mother would say, “There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely.”  I’m not lonely.  Sometimes I may get a little lonely.  But, I don’t suspect it’s any more than married people.  Besides, I know men and women inside of relationships who are lonelier than me.  I wouldn’t trade places with them for anything. (See earlier post – Greener Grass http://wp.me/pCt83-21)

The truth is there is no apparent solution.  Singleness isn’t a problem, at least not in my court of opinion.  If it were I would constantly view myself as “flawed” or someone who needs “fixin.”  I hope I don’t portray myself as such.  I definitely hope my friends and family don’t view me that way.  If they do, they haven’t been very diligent about setting up potential award show escorts who look dashing in a European made tuxedo!  In all seriousness, I’ve learned to view relationships as a positive addition to my life rather than a necessity.  That was huge.  I hope you caught that.  It wasn’t always that way.  Once upon a time, I thought if I didn’t get married I would be viewed as a social pariah.  I thought it was somehow reflective of my worthiness-to-mate like a lame lioness ostracized in the animal kingdom. (I have absolutely no idea why I typed that analogy.)  Once upon a time, it took time, circumstances, many learnings, growth and wisdom for me to realize my true worth.  Today, it takes courage to say, “No, thank you,” to bullshit and know that someone who recognizes your value is just around the bend.  Tomorrow, it will take a little bit of serendipity to meet the man of my dreams here on earth.  In that magical moment, it is my prayer we both recognize the addition we bring to each other’s lives and decide we want to be together.  If not, I will neatly tuck him in the pond of my relationship experiences and continue to fish in the ocean of life while happily single.

Persnickety Self Adjustment: When something needs fixin, it could be your point of view.

Those memorable moments notwithstanding, I suspect many people other than my parents recognized my potential whilst I was busy being a foolish teenager using words like “whilst.”  Thank God, the gift of wisdom brings clarity.  I think.  I hope!  Standing with my sharpie in hand and the shoe on the proverbial other foot, I sensed a common ground of creativity between me and the spirit of the young Bar Mitzvah which prompted my written comment and a subsequent sotto smile of understanding.  Some would say, “What could you possibly have in common with a 13-year old, Jewish boy?”  Plenty.  Substance for one.  I am of the opinion that we are more alike than we are different.  Our commonalities are what make us civilized, human, able to function collectively in society without broad scale chaos or mayhem.  There are plenty of thinkers and doers.  But, in the equation of life we dreamers are a necessary component.  Don’t worry.  I know we make you nervous with our think-outside-the-box-ness and our anything-is-possible-positive-attitude-go-getter-ness.  I assure you, we mean no harm.  We simply want to be allowed to create freely.  My high school principal once told my mother, “She’s a free-spirit.  She’ll never be happy in a nine-to-five.”  (Ironically, 9-to-5 with Lily Tomlin, Dolly Parton and Jane Fonda was one of my first introductions to female-driven comedy!)  My principal was right.  I’ve held many, many, don’t make me recant the shoe selling or fudge making jobs on the path to attaining my dreams.  The cookie-cutter ones marked by intrusive structure with little or no creativity were stifling.  If there are hidden video cameras beside any of those desks, I’m sure they’ve caught me dancing, watching movies or sleeping on many occasions.  Not ever on company time, of course…  Lucky for me, my mom recognized early on that I was a non-conformist.  She supported every endeavor I embarked upon, even the dumb ones.  Her one caveat was that I always do my best.  You wanna be a pig farmer?  Be the best damn pig farmer there is.  Accept no substitute.  Study pigs until you breathe bacon and sleep in slop.  I’m just saying.

Somewhere in my late twenties I became slightly bitter with my mom’s ideology.  I thought there may have been a lack of direction on her part.  I soon realized that any attempt to impose direction would have immediately been taken by my younger, foolish self as a sign of creative asphyxiation.  My mother parented a free-spirit the best way she could – to let me be as free as I could be, as long as I was respectful and obeyed the rules of the house.  In her infinite wisdom she did it by creating a huge circle around me that allowed me to explore without feeling constricted vs. creating a maze with a set path allowing only one exit.  I believe she knew me better than I knew myself.  And, if I know me half as well as she did, I will have attained a great feat.  As a parent, I like to think I’ve learned “how to” by observing.  The truth is sometimes you have to “do and fail” in order to succeed.  I think back to all the times my mother must have watched me fall flat on my face.  I think about how scared she must have been when I left the nest barely able to fly and acquire food on my own.  I wonder if it ever occurred to her to say, “Don’t.  Stop.  Wait.”  I’m sure it did.  But, maybe, just maybe she knew that I was more of a Robert Frost poem than I could ever have known.  That the only leading which would have any effect was to say, “Watch the sticks, potholes and bumps along the way.”  If she were alive today, I think she would be proud.  A few bumps and bruises, but I’ve survived.  A few hills and valleys, but I’ve learned how to climb.  I found my way through the forest and the trees, because in my heart, I had already determined to take the road less traveled by.  My success today is not only predicated by what I do, but by who I am allowed to be creatively.  If I had had more traditional parents, I’m not sure I would have learned that.  If no one had written on the foam board of my life, I’m not sure I would have found my way.  I owe them a great deal for making me the woman I am today.  They saw the seed of what I could one day possibly be, they allowed me to be me, and that has made all the difference.

Persnickety Self-Adjustment: Greatness is determined as much by what you do as what you don’t do.

I was once a soldier.  I know that code.  I honor the American flag. I pledged my life in the preservation of freedom once upon a time.  I admire the living and respect the dead, now and always.  I have buried both of my parents and today, although I will not be there as a physical witness, I will bury a friend.   My friend was not a soldier, but he was a hero.  He did not risk his life in defense of our nation, but in the face of imminent danger he evacuated his wife and two daughters during Hurricane Katrina’s path of destruction and elected to stay behind with his boat to assist those in need.  He was the kind of guy who would help a stranger and go the extra mile for a friend.  He was as we say in New Orleans “good people.”  His passing has given me pause – made me examine my own life, consider those most important to me, and question my daily commitment to healthier choices in diet and exercise.  We won’t live forever, you know?  We get one shot at this thing called life and we have to make it count.  We have to try.  I woke up this morning and thought, “If I knew today was my last day, what would I say?  How would I behave?  Who would I befriend?  Speak less harshly to?  Forgive?  How would I cope?”  The beauty in death is that typically no one knows.  Yes, I saw “Flatliners,” but I missed “Hereafter.”  (I say typically because I also saw, “Dead Man Walking.”  However, I’m currently speaking of those persons not convicted under the death penalty.)  Neither I – writing, nor you – reading, know the time or place or the hour of our death.  I happen to think it is better that way.  I, for one, would be overwhelmed with emotion and likely overtaken with grief.  If the lack of time to plan didn’t kill me, surely the list of things-to-do would!  Oddly and very optimistically, I believe the focus of life should be actually living vs. prepping for death.  Death is inevitable.  We none get out of this life alive.  And while the details of death can become burdensome for those who are charged with the emotional and physical task of burial decisions, there remains a certain closure to be had when the final goodbyes have been said.

Maybe that’s what really bothers me about the lack of funeral processions in L.A. – so many hellos and not nearly as many goodbyes.  I’m sure it’s my own mortality at question once again.  If no one sees the hearse, the headlights, or the long trail of limousines, who will remember my passing?  Who will mourn my death and celebrate my life?  Who will give pause?  In the City of Angels are my only chances of being remembered relegated to the insistence of my burial in a military grave?  Where some poor sap (insert flashback of me from paragraph 1) sporadically drives past and recognizes my collective worth in service to my country?  The real question is, “When that day comes will I even care?”  I believe the answer is no.  Why?  Life is for the living.  When I have given my last breath in this body I will cease to care for the things of this world.  I only pray that those in charge of my burial have the decency to respect my wishes.  I hope that I am smart enough to leave instructions.  If I am not, maybe I am lucky that someone is operating with common sense and a small amount of knowledge in the way “she would have wanted it.”  At the very least, if anyone is listening now, please fly two Saints flags on either side of my grave and enjoy the pun of me being both a dedicated sports fanatic and a Christian.  After all, you see a lot of everything in L.A.  Maybe someone will see those flags flying in the wind, stop and wonder who I was, how I lived.  Maybe someone will miss me and mourn my death.  More importantly, maybe someone will smile and celebrate my life.  Until then and in the meantime, we must make each day count.  At the very least, we must remember those heroes, like my friend, who have come before us and we must try.

Persnickety Self Adjustment: Every moment spent thinking about dying is a moment wasted that we could be living.

It is my regular practice to purchase FOOD for those who beg outside the grocery store.  In this case, I made an exception and tossed him a buck or two.  Oh!  So, now there’s judgment?  So, now you want to add ‘gullible’ to the list that begins with ‘too nice’ right?  Newsflash, not all people who beg for money are scam artists and not all of them have a drug habit to support.  It is highly possible you have chosen that particular psychology to keep you guilt free… or to keep you from parting with your spare change… but the truth is… you are a miser and you care more about the leather interior in your car than you do about the common man. :::Ya damn right!:::  (I heard you.)  I won’t let you off the hook just because at times I happen to be entirely too nice.  The world needs more people like me… to build chicken coops in impoverished communities of third world countries.  Well… no… I haven’t built any chicken coops lately.  But, that’s beside the point.  I have a friend who took a whole troop of upper class, young adults on an experiential learning trip to Tanzania and they did!  The world needs more people like US!  If only to balance it out… if only to even the odds… Yes, I volunteer my time.  Yes, I give my spare change.  I’m not rich.  Many would argue that I could be rich if I did not give so much away.  I argue that I am rich beyond measure because I do.  Maybe I was moved because he was always so grateful.  The homeless, not-so-homeless, buzz-seeker that is.  Who knows?  I can’t be too angry.  I mean, he’s got problems I’ve never seen.  Next time I see him I’ll muster up my best Ice Cube impression and yell, “Yo, Smokey!!!”  Then ask, “Have you eaten today?  You want a sandwich?”  That’s right.  I won’t stop being me and chances are he won’t stop being him.  I can help a brother who’s hungry without funding his habit.  Until I get around to building a chicken coop, that’s the least I can do.

Persnickety Self-Adjustment: Things are hardly ever what they seem to be.  That doesn’t mean I should stop being me.

I am a self-professed muck up.  Oh yeah.  I am beautiful, smart, talented, witty.  The list goes on and on.  But, to quote a few words from India Arie… I’m an amateur in love.  It’s frustrating to say the least.  Those who have had the pleasure of knowing the boundaries or lack thereof of my love have seen my struggles firsthand.  As my friends tell me, “Hey… you can’t be good at everything.”  So true.  What’s difficult for me is that my view on life is essentially the same as my view on love.  It’s not complicated.  It’s simple.  You either do or you don’t.  You either will or you won’t.  It’s no different from the decision to live with spiders or cockroaches (I’m NOT referring to your significant other here!).  Entomology 101.  There will be challenges in each place you live… creatures of some sort… vermin… cohabitating with you… infringing upon your dwelling space… seen or unseen… they exist.  They are not there to intentionally ruin your life.  They are… doing their own thing – like the oddball quarter of the Sesame Street segment “Three of These Things Belong Together…One of These Things is Not the Same”.  I digress.  Most people move along in life “doing their own thing.”  However, when you make a move whether in life or love to be with someone there are a few things that are par for the course.  You will not always get along.  You will not always see eye to eye.  Most people are inherently self-centered.  (This attribute does not help a relationship, it actually hinders it.)  But, if it is companionship you seek, then it would behoove you to figure out what you need to do in order to survive.  May I suggest a can of Raid?  The number to a local pest elimination specialist?  A big Stacy Adams-like shoe?  My point is that there is no shortage of resources available to help you weather the storm.  You have to want to be there.

I happen to want to be in Los Angeles.  Thus, my tolerance for Charlotte’s web grows more and more each day.  It has to… or I would make myself miserable.  I’ve done it before – in relationships.  Stayed in the thick of it with little or no tolerance.  Contributed to the toxicity of the environment.  Convinced myself that I could fix something broken beyond repair.  Yep.  I was younger then.  Dumber then.  Less experienced then.  But, one thing remains consistent, I was willing to put in the work.  Love, to me, means putting in the work.  It’s simple.  Either you will or you won’t.  Either you want to or you don’t.  Here is the key that most people miss – it takes two.  With any relationship (friendship or otherwise) it takes two.  I abandoned 90/10, 80/20 and 70/30 for 60/40 and 50/50 about seven years ago.  I realized that my relationship overview needed an overhaul.  In the process I decided that those people in my life, whether they be on the other end of the phone, across the table, or on the pillow next to me, who share my space, time, effort and energy, should be worthy of such.  They should contribute to the relationship’s growth and well-being at a proportionate level - sometimes giving; sometimes taking; always seeking to coalesce.  The problem is: ain’t too many peeps out here nowadays tryin to do that.  In my best Shaneeka voice:  “Girl…  Co-ah-who?  You better go somewhere with them big words.”  I told you.  I’m an amateur.  What the heck do I know?

I’ve taken to collecting guerrilla stats.  For every happily married couple I know there are three unhappily married.  For every married man or woman faithful, I know at least five who bask in infidelity.  Trust me.  I’m being nice here.  I’ve had offers from infidels great and small.  (None so great as Robert Redford’s big screen offer to Demi Moore… cause to give any woman in her right mind pause.)  I just really hate complicating life.  If I ever answered my door at 2 a.m. to a woman with a baby in her arms I would want to be able to direct her elsewhere because her husband is not fast asleep post-orgasmic in my bed.  I believe in love.  I believe that when two people come together and decide to weather the vermin lurking nearby, albeit a damn nuisance, wonderful things await them.  I believe in honesty.  I believe in mutual interests.  I believe in respect and honor and decency.  I believe in failure and I believe in forgiveness.  F*cking idealist.  I can hear you.  Don’t think I can’t.  But, I still believe.  Compromise.  Negotiation.  Give a little.  Get a little.  Love a lot.  That’s my plan and I’m sticking to it.  Spiders beware.

Persnickety Snit Self-Adjustment: When things seems complicated, take a step back and simplify.  That is all.

In a strapless dress that would give any Kardashian a run for her money in a curve contest, I stepped out to attend a nighttime event.  I parked my car at one of the many downtown buildings and trounced off to meet my party.  Upon returning to the garage, the security guard engaged me in light and witty banter as I sought to reclaim my car.  1) I love to talk.  2) He was runway model handsome.  3) I’m a sucker for a guy in uniform.  As I strolled to the elevator leaving sparks lingering in the air, I felt the gaze of longing and desire’s intense heat baring down the nape of my neck and the base of my spine…  I pressed the button and secretly willed the elevator to arrive faster.  My defenses weakened and I heard myself ask aloud, “How old are you?”  He responded in one heartbeat, “Twenty-four.  Why?  Is that a problem?”  Damn.  Damn.  Florida Evans, damn!  How do I get myself into these predicaments?

Five months later, I’m sweeping up the pieces of his heart and my frustration for fooling with a youngun who was not ready for the likes of me.  Or was it that I was not ready for the likes of him?  You have to give pause when the guy you’re dating calls you at 1 a.m. to tell you he’s standing in the VIP next to T.I.  It’s ONE A.M. AND I HAVE TO GO TO WORK IN THE MORNING!  Who gives a @*$#*?  That’s precisely what I uttered into my cell phone.  Or maybe, just maybe, I had enough tact to think it but not say it.  We’ll never know, will we?  Why?  Because I was ASLEEP when the call came through.  Slightly delirious, I have been known to say ridiculous amounts of foolishness when awakened abruptly from sweet slumber.  I have no idea what my immediate response was that night.  I will tell you what I told him the next day.  DON’T EVER call me again at 1 o’clock in the morning to tell me you’re standing next to a rapper/celebrity/fashion mogul or even a neighborhood bum.  You had better be standing next to Jesus Christ to deem it necessary to wake me up and you had better be able to put him on the line to verify your whereabouts in glory.  Needless to say, I was a little miffed.  Again I say, maybe it was “I” who was not ready for the likes of “him”.  I’m not a brute.  I’m willing to admit when I may be wrong.  You have to be honest about what you’re getting when you date a 24 year old.  You’re in denial if you think it’s going to be anything other than great sex with cereal for breakfast.

So, I am back.  Back in Stride Again as Maze would say.  Back to the drawing board of life and love.  God, I love a clean canvas!  So fresh.  So shiny and white.  Representing all that is pure with dry erase marker potential beyond measure.  I can color it any way I like.  I can write high or I can write low.  I can fill the board to the brink or I can write one line at a time.  I love having choices.  The possibilities are endless.  Times like these make me wonder whether I’ll find happiness inside of a long-term, monogamous relationship.  I’m picky and I like my space.  Relationships are hard work.  They require roll-up-your-sleeves fortitude and forsaking-all-others forgiveness.  It’s a joint effort.  Not everyone is a team player.  I’ve discovered I’m not willing to be the little league coach coaxing you to victory every time.  Sometimes I want to be the inexperienced batter who gets the 4-ball walk.  The give and take, or the push and pull, are never guaranteed to equal 50/50.  Those are the chances you take when you go “all in”.  I have no doubt that I have what it takes to do my part, and then some, in helping a relationship to sail to a baby-you’re-the-bomb blissful sunset.  However, I know that due to the fickle nature of human beings and a touch of stubbornness on my part, it may happen at a time and place where and when I am least expecting it, or maybe not at all.  I’m cool with it, because I love my life.  I’m cool with it, because I’m happy with me. And, if I’m ever not cool with it and I long for something more.  I’ll say, “Pass the cocoa puffs, Love…” and wait to see what’s in store!

Persnickety Snit Self Adjustment: Don’t ever sell yourself a bill of goods that’s less than what you’re due… unless you’re willing to take a loss.

So… I’m back for now.  This moment.  The wee a.m.  Thinking about absolutes.  Never.  Forever.  Which seem so final.  I can usually tell the level of maturity one possesses by their use or misuse of generalities or absolutes.  Everyone does that.  Really?  I would never do that.  Really?  LOL!  Live long enough and you will understand a little more about life, a little more about love, and a thing or two about never-ever-forever.  You’ll understand that nothing is guaranteed, everything is a gamble, and the only thing constant is change.  The last time I thought about blogging I thought about you, the reader.  I thought about me, the writer.  I thought about this process: solitary yet communal.  It is the life of the introverted extrovert that you witness here.  I enjoy the thought of your eyes scanning the words I string together so carefully yet carefree.  I enjoy the thought that you know very little about me yet you gain insight with each commentary and opinion I share.  I am thrilled by the knowledge that one day I will close my eyes, breathe my last breath and have nothing else to say, but my words will live on.  Forever?  No.  For as long as you will read or relay.  My writing is as much for you as it is for me.  Although my motives remain altruistic, the pleasure I derive is egocentric at best.  I love meeting you here.  However, it is sometimes not the first or second priority in my life, and amongst other things it must wait its turn. 

I have a friend who is an accountant.  I would imagine that tax season is his busiest season of all.  Hopefully, his wife is a patient woman January 1st through April 15th.  I have a friend who is an educator.  She lives for the summers when she is free.  Nine months out of the year she gives birth to learned pupils.  During periods of particularly arduous labor her family and friends take a back seat and wait their turn.  It’s about priorities which sometimes shift and often change.  My life as a writer is exciting like the ebb and flow of the tide – one of my favorite analogies.  Whoever thought to put those two words together like beans and rice, salt and pepper, ebb and flow… Outstanding!  Now, do you see why I write?  (Actually, I spent many hours with the dictionary and encyclopedias as a child.  Perhaps my mother was watching high-browed television comedy or raising four other children!  Who knows?  I am eternally grateful she was not a fan of any show like the ‘Maury’ of that time.)  I love words.  I love thoughts conveyed through words.  I love communication, the art of storytelling, dialogue, poetry, prose.  An executive once told me that earning a living as a writer is tough.  She said, “I always tell writers to abandon it unless they absolutely have something to say.”  Makes you think, right?  I was silent for about ten seconds before I thanked her for sharing that piece of advice with me.  My sincere hope is that you will forgive me when the tide is low and ride with me when the tide is high.  On the crest of the wave with my face to the sun, I definitely have something to say.