ONE WORD….

“The re-education of me.” Mama didn’t raise no fool, so I’m a smart girl though I don’t always act like it. Even still, this “smart-ness” always helps me figure out (after the fact) when, where and why I started to travel down paths which will eventually lead to my extreme frustration.Anyhoo, my word of the day is EFFORT. A relationship does NOT work without this being actively exercised by BOTH participating parties. Not saying that relationships can’t exist without it (because the existence of a relationship without it is what has led to this long rant) but without DUAL EFFORT, in my world, they’re bound to fail.I have learned a few things in the past couple of weeks.
Allow me to share:
No. 1:
I’ve spent a lot of time putting in EFFORT to prove to someone what should already be crystal-clear: I am a 10, perfect in all my imperfectness and in a total, always growing and developing, package. While it is important for a man to know that the shorty he is dealing with is a “10,” as they say, it is also important for a woman NOT to exercise all of her dime qualities too soon. Save the sincerities, kindness, affections and home cooked meals for after HE has put in EFFORT and shown that he is worthy of your “ten-ness.” If he’s smart, he should understand that 10 is only the tip of the iceberg. 100 is only a hop, skip, jump and maybe a few sprints, around the corner and down the block—if he puts in the EFFORT.

No. 2
Do NOT excuse what is unacceptable. For example, you say, “honey, you know I love spending time with you and coming over to your apartment is fine but we’re going to have to spend some time at my place as well.” Lover Boy responds: “yes honey, I know and, I will.” This of course never happens because he always has a wide variety of excuses as to why his apartment is more convenient. If you give him an inch, he will take it all the way to the goal line. Block that BS before it gets past center circle.

No. 3
Do NOT settle for unacceptable behavior because you love him or brother is fine or you don’t want to be lonely or the, sex is amazing or you love his family, etc. This s the golden rule that we always KNOW is true but sometimes takes us forever to incorporate. By settling, I compromise my worth and at a certain point HE must realize (and if he’s the A/B combo he’ll already know) that it’s going to take some EFFORT to not only get me, but to keep me.

P.S.Lover Boy just hit me up and says – –  Well Camron, why don’t you ever show me that you are interested in getting to  know me!!! I’m tempted to respond back to him with one single word….say it with me, EFFORT!

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A Good Hair Day and No Damn Umbrella….

It’s like a dream to me, I would have never known

– Chrisette Michele

I had a fresh hair do and no umbrella.

It’s the evening of Valentine’s Day.  It didn’t smell like rain when I got out of my car, even though I knew it was in the forecast.  Maybe I was too excited about being taken out on a date-date by a may-an to pay attention.

I met Mr. Conversation a few months ago at a fabulous hotel party.  I’ve been on plenty of dates, but I haven’t had a “real” one like this in a long, long time.  The kind where the man will drive you to your destination safely, look out for you for the night, and after, take you wherever you want to go.  By my calculations, it’s been almost a year ( roughly the time I’ve been broken up with John) since that happened.  I’ve grown too accustomed to the QC kind of date, where you meet him at the location and you both get in your cars and head home in opposite directions at the end of the night.

I walk into Mr. Conversations house and am greeted by a big, wide, fine-looking, great-smelling man, who says hello to me…well, very warmly.  I’ve never seen him dressed up.  He doesn’t have to wear a suit for work, and he doesn’t really like to.  But for Valentine’s Day, he has broken out a suit and some hard soled shoes ( fresh shine).

Just when we’re about ready to go, I look out the blinds and realize it’s pouring rain.  Of course it is.  It rains every time I see this man.  It’s as if we’re living in Love Jones but without all the smoky cafe`s and stuff.

Mr. Conversation doesn’t have an umbrella.  Mine is in my car.  But nothing will ruin my Valentin’s night.  We’re going out.  I’m eating a piece of Valentin’s Day red velvet cake!  My freshly done hair will have to be damned.  I will get wet to go on my Valentine’s Day date.

I steel up.  Breezily announce that I am still good to go and there is no need to be late for our reservation.  If he’ll just give me a towel, I’ll throw it over my head and hope for the best.

He looks at me as if I’m stupid…and starts taking off his clothes.

“No, baby,”  I plead, reaching to button him back up.  “We can do that later.  I still wanna go!”

He laughs, smiles at me like I am the cutest thing ever.  “I’m gonna run to get the umbrella.”

Huh?

This beautiful Black man undresses, redresses in basketball shorts and a wife-B, and runs out in the pouring rain to get the umbrella from my car.  Then he runs to his car – still in the pouring rain – to swing it around to the closest entrance so I will stay as dry as possible.  Then he runs back into the house, soaking wet.  He dries off, undresses, and redresses.

He looks at me.  “What?  What I do?  Hmmm?”

I’m staring at him as if he is a superhero and I am Lois Lane.  My hair and good dress have been saved from destruction.  “You’re amazing,”  I blurt.  I tiptoe up, grab his face, and kiss him.  “Thank you, Mr. Conversation.”

“C’mon,” he says, forcing himself to pull back.  “We have reservations.”

When he’s ready again, he takes me by the hand and leads me out of the house.  I happily follow.

Mr. Conversation takes me to a fabulous Italian Restaurant uptown.  I let him order for me, and he picks out a wonderful dish Italian Sausage and Pasta dish.  The only thing that is off is that Mr. Conversation keeps checking his phone all night, texting someone, then apologizing profusely each time.

“Did something happen at work?” I ask.

“Um…..no. I….just gotta take care of something,”  he says mysteriously.

I nod.  “Okay.”  I don’t even let my mind wander to some next chick.  He’s a man.  He has man business to tend to.  I keep eating my pasta.

The phone, on the table now, goes off again.  He apologizes before checking it and typing back.  I’m starting to get annoyed.  I’ve been sipping on water.  I order a glass of white wine when the waiter strolls by.

“I gotta run out.  Okay?”  Mr. Conversation asks.

What?  I think it.  I don’t say it.  “Sure.”  I try to sound as nonchalant as possible.  I am slowly seething.

He goes away for about five minutes, then returns.  The phone doesn’t buzz or ring again.  It’s back in his pocket.  We have amazing conversation, and I eat until I’m stuffed, but I am still thinking about the Valentine’s Day red velvet cake that he had been promising me for weeks.

When the waiter comes by to run down the dessert options, Mr. Conversation shuts him down before I can answer.  Is he in a hurry to get somewhere?  Did he make plans to do something after this?  Maybe all that letting him order for me and lead me around has gone to his head.  Red velvet wasn’t on the list of items the waiter ran off anyway, I justify.  No red-velvet cake for me, I guess.  It’s the only thing that keeps the evening from being perfect.  Oh, and his ringing phone.

I get a doggie bag, and Mr. Conversation carries it with him as he runs to get the car in the rain and swings it around for me.  All the way back to his house, we’re laughing and joking in our own little world.  I’m still annoyed about the phone, but I’ll bring it up tomorrow, after Valentine’s Day.

Back at his condo, I kick off my shoes at his door.  Mr. Conversation runs ahead to the kitchen, then calls me in.  “I have one more surprise for you,” he says when I’m walking through the doorway.

I’m beaming.  “Really, what?”  I stick out both hands like a little kid, waiting for my gift.  I even close my eyes.

He laughs.  “Open your eyes, silly girl!”

I do.  And there is nothing there.

He reaches into my doggie bag….and pulls out a cake.  A homemade red-velvet cake.

“Here,” he says, placing it in my hands.  It’s still warm.

He gives me the back story.  The morning, Mr. Conversation realized the restaurant didn’t have red-velvet cake.  He called a friend who bakes and told her the problem in a panic, then asked if she could whip up a cake.

Of course, it was an inconvenience.  He pressed.  He had to have it.  She said she would rush home as soon as she could and make the cake.  All of the texts throughout the evening were updates about the cake’s status:  “I put it in the oven.”  “I took it out the oven.”  “It’ll be cool in 20.”  “I’m icing it now.”  “On my way.”

I don’t know what he said or did to impress upon this woman the importance of the night or the person he was entertaining.  But this gracious, phenomenal woman, whoever she was, not only made the cake at the last minute, be then she jumped into her car and drove in the pouring rain to deliver it to him while we were at the restaurant so that he could feed me red-velvet cake on Valentine’s Day like he promised.

The cake is amazing.

The night is amazing.

Mr. Conversation is really friggin’ amazing!

“You are the sweetest thing ever!”  I blurt to Mr. Conversation – not for the first time.  I go up on my tiptoes for another kiss.

He has that look again, the one he gives when he’s trying to brush off a compliment.  I swear he would blush if he could.

The Truth….

There are truths in this life, that I guess we sometimes don’t want to face.  Weaknesses that we know we have, and those god awful qualities that need some assistance.  It’s like that broken record that keep playing the same damn verse in your life over, and over.

I’ve known for so long my weaknesses.  I figured it out a long time ago.  I guess I thought TIME would make me stronger, but in reality…time doesn’t always heal things or make things better on its own.

There are certain things in this life, that need full service of the heart, mind and soul.  Changes need to be made, by no one else but myself.

The TRUTH HURTS

There I said it.  THE TRUTH DOES HURT, ESPECIALLY MY TRUTH.  My truth hurts because there is no control over it other than to close up and put protection walls around something you thought others would appreciate.

I guess not everyone was taught the same?  I guess not everyone treasures the same things.

I guess we all have our work cut out for us.  This is life is just a test as I’ve said many times before.  Today I am failing miserably.


I put away childish things…or something like that……

Charlotte North Carolina’s CIAA conference week…, there was a fabo day party at a place called Strike City. I was standing at the bar with Shalanda, twirling a piece of my ponytail around my index finger and waiting for my drink (they ran out of glasses) when a very lovely, chocolate, six-three , beareded specimen appears beside me. He elbows for room at the bar, bumping me.

“Mister,” I say, glaring at him and pushing back into my space. “I know you see me standing here.”

He assesses me for a few moments without saying anything. Then finally blurts, “Ya lil ass is working the hell out of them damn jeans ” What?!

I fix my mouth to curse him out and he cuts me off. “Those must be your jeans that show off your ass. Yall women be trying too hard for attention. I like it though.

What?!

I cannot find my voice for some reason. Then he pulls my hair. Smiles. Is he flirting with me?

“What’s your name, cutie?”

He is.

God help me but I find his asshole-ish-ness appealing. We chat about everything except the usual things people chat about when they first meet. He’s totally random talking about glass bottom boats, the percentage of men in the United States who stand 6 feet or taller (14%) and perms. He orders our drinks (“you’ll have what I’m having,” he says). He hands me my glass of whatever and with a wink, he departs.

The rest of the day, every time he passes me, he makes a point to speak. He takes my near-empty glass and replaces it with a fresh drink. Another time, he pulls my hair again. Another time, he saddles up to my friends and introduces himself as my future ex-husband. He catches me on the dance floor doing my slightly-tipsy 2 step (normal for NC) and he grabs my hand, and we dance. No bumping and grinding and backing it up, actual, real dancing. We were totally in sync. He knew my next move before I did. He’s a GREAT dancer. I’m totally feeling his energy. Five dances and one almost-sticky shirt later, I scream, “Mister, who are you?!” and laugh with glee.