. . .And In This Corner

I went on a first date last night. Admittedly, I met this chick in a dark bar and I have really bad eyesight. I was just hopeful that when she showed up, I didn't have a beer goggle situation. Originally, we were supposed to meet up Friday afternoon for a late lunch (read early dinner date). Originally, originally, I had suggested having lunch together in a casual and not-at-all-date-like-setting sometime during the week. Here’s the thing. I can’t eat shit. No gluten, milk, soy, eggs, nuts…you name it and I’m pretty sure I can’t eat it. I spent all week stressing out about trying to find a restaurant that fit my non-committal vibe and also served food I could eat. No easy feat, even in New York fucking City. I wanted to avoid a gluten-free place cause, let’s be honest, that just plain sucks. So I found a place and by the time I had it all figured out, she rescheduled. Fine. Saturday night dinner date it is. I gave up all control and let her pick the place with the soft instructions of no Italian and no Asian.

When she showed up she was still pretty. She then proceeded to spend 30 minutes making fun on my gluten-free ass. Within the first 5 minutes I was told I was not ‘date material’ because I don’t eat Italian food (which, unless GLUTEN-FREE, would kill me!!) and because I don’t eat/like cheese (still made out of milk last time I checked). If we had gone to the restaurant that I had stressed to find for our originally scheduled casual lunch soiree and she had acted like the ass she ended up being, I would have completely lost my shit. At this point I’m about half an hour into this ridiculousness and decide I’m in it for the story from here on out. I am a curious person with thick skin. It’ll be fun and logged for research.

I'm a lover not a fighter. I enjoy a hefty serving of spirited debate. My friends and I are most often debating sports, Harry Potter, and unfortunately, politics. I don't like fighting with girls. Girls I like. Girls I want to date. I see no need to argue.  By this standard, this date is a fight…of the cock or sword variety. Typically on a first date, I leave my cock and my sword at home. This gal was double fisted and raring to go. She gave me her ENTIRE resume. I feel like I should have taken notes in case I meet someone that wants to hire an over-educated know-it-all. She was really smart, which is always my thing. It was hard to get off on the smart when it was heavily shrouded in her bitter and jaded anti-pregnancy, anti-breast feeding, and anti-children diatribe. I LOVE children. And I said so kind of just to shut her up, to which her response was a pedophile joke. I shit you not. ALL of this happened on a first date. A pedophile joke that was really painful and I had to literally beg her not to keep going with it.

To add to the growing list of ‘things this chick hates’ she also hates my neighborhood. I hate my neighborhood, too. Somehow, without actually living there, she hates it more than I do. It was a sticking point throughout the entire date. I hate Brooklyn. I also hate all of the Bronx. That's because I'm from Queens and people from Queens hate everywhere except Queens. That is the sole reason I still haven't adjusted to living in Brooklyn for the last 12 years. I didn't need to talk about my hatred of Brooklyn, nor did I bring it up, but apparently this topic quite intrigued her. What’s worse, she interlaced her hate expression with a completely inappropriate bad sex story. ON OUR FIRST DATE! The bad sex girl lives in my neighborhood. She complained, quite accurately, about every piece of shit detail that I deal with on a daily basis living in my neighborhood during her story of going to this chick's house to get laid. I interrupted and said "that poor girl". She said "why that poor girl?" (Disclaimer: I generally say what's on my mind. Usually, people like the fresh and frank way I speak. Jess told me not to be normal Y'A on this date. I was so fucking muted I had to go to the bathroom and look myself in the mirror to remind myself of the shit talker I usually am. This spontaneous utterance was the first sign of true me.) As I thought about how I would answer this, I reminded myself that I don't like to argue with girls. Even her. A chick I certainly did not like at this point. So I come back quickly with "you cast aspersions on a girl because of where she lives." Nice save.

I understand first dates are nerve racking. You don't want to seem anxious or nervous and telling yourself not to be anxious causes anxiety. I stress about details and things like that because of my mild, barely noticeable, OCD. This girl was on another planet. Having an agenda on a first date is very common. Her agenda was to let everyone in the restaurant know she had the biggest dick. Unfortunately, she ended up just being a big dick. When she cracked a joke about me not coming home with her I said "I thought we established that 5 minutes into the date." Not a trace of sarcasm or humor. I think she got it. So I walked her to her car and she is doing her big dick walk and big dick talk and I told her she is just too competitive. She chuckled. I thought I was competitive. I will kick your ass in Wii Tennis guaranteed. This chick was on a completely different level. It’s called not fun.

As I got on the train I mused to myself about how this chick should apologize, but knew she definitely wouldn’t. Imagine my shock when I got a half-assed non-apology apology for her assholishness (my word not hers). She blamed it on fatigue and thanked me for hanging. I responded ‘Thanks and sleep well’, to which she got pissy. I am the Queen of apologizing by not apologizing. It is a really bad trait. I could smell this shit a mile away. How was I supposed to react? As I sit in my shitty apartment in my shitty neighborhood drinking a cold gluten free beer that's actually good (despite her making fun of it viciously), I had to give myself credit for being a fucking saint throughout this whole ordeal.

Know When To Say When

"Hi I have OCD and food allergies. Would you like to go on a date?"

"Sure"

"Great. Let's go a week from now. I'll OCD the hell out of the plans. It's going to be perfect [the way God intended it to be]"

Then it happens. Not the date, but she asked to reschedule. At this point I would rather her cancel entirely. Rescheduling just starts the OCD clock all over again. I'm not anxious, but my OCD is. My OCD is not quite sure I will be able to plan whatever it is we are now going to do on no notice. So, I have decided to lay caution to the wind and not think about it at all. I'm going to try to do this date thing like the rest of you people. By the seat of my pants. I must give her major kudos for letting me know 24 hours in advance though... 

The moment you know you can't or don't want to make the date, inform the other person immediately. This might be the first sign that you are barking up the wrong tree. I once had a girl who shall remain nameless [EE] who would invite me to any and everything. I didn't even know these were dates that I was saying no to until Jess told me. She wasn't getting it. Not only was I the wrong tree, she would tell me I'm the wrong tree repeatedly. I didn't get it. I chalked it up to schizophrenia and cut her off.

My friend suffers the same daft inability to see real life. By not taking the hint, he goes around being a door mat. The weirdest thing is he is a HE. I didn't think guys had these problems. He meets these guys, sets up dates and they consistently cancel. He then hounds these guys to reschedule with bated breath. I feel bad for him. Why? Because he calls me close to tears when these guys consistently bail on him and I have to say "He's just not that into you".

So where will I go with this chick whenever she wants to actually go out? I have absolutely no idea. That is pretty refreshing. How long will this new found freedom for my brain last? I have no idea. I'm willing to bet it will last up until the minute she texts me again. In the meantime, I will take myself on a date today. I'm never late and I'm easy breezy. Clearly.

My Ten Commandments

10. I promise never to be compelled to take a selfie in the bathroom of my local Outback Steakhouse (or any public restroom).

9. I can’t wear makeup and if I could, I wouldn't, because all natural is hot and no matter how many times I hear I would look pretty with whatever, I’m not convinced. And I like imperfect teeth. Not meth mouth, just teeth that have character.

8. Never judge a book by its cover. I like women. Strong women. Smart women. Short haired women. Athletic women. OPINIONATED women. I don’t care how you dress. Have something to say and we can be friends. Gender expression is not sexuality. Just love.

7. I like to bite… ;)

6. Thou shalt not admit to liking Miley Cyrus. Rihanna is OK because of the, ummm, you know, artistic value of her, errr, videos and the message she is trying to convey. Errrr, yeah, so again no Miley Cyrus.

5. I’m a gay boy trapped in a lesbian’s body. I can’t explain it, but I enjoy the hell out of it.

4. Cleanliness is next to godliness. And I don’t believe in the traditional god, just the god of clean ass. So worship in the shower altar twice a day.

3. I promise no matter how drunk I get, I will never talk about my ex.

2. I do not believe in monogamy. The plus is I never cheat. The minus is I never lie. The bonus is a completely stress free relationship.

1. I will never marry. I know what I would like to wear. I know how I would have my wedding. I envision this all at gunpoint. I believe in love. Soul crushing, all encompassing love. I don’t believe legally sanctioned love makes it sparkle any more than it already does. Love free, live free, fuck marriage.

I'm Off The Sex

I'm officially off the sex. Well technically, you have to be on the sex to get off the sex. So technically speaking. sex is no longer on the table in the future, but like I said I wasn't previously offering it up as a main course on said table. So more accurately, I give up. I know my problem. I haven't dated in so long, I really don't understand the rules anymore. So I'm on the train reading my tablet today and people board what must have been 42nd st. I'm reading my tablet doing the introverted thing. Someone boards the train and stands in front of me. Let me be specific. This person, crotch first, is adjusting their position in front of me. I'm not paying attention. Adjust. Adjust. The train is not crowded enough for all of this. One more adjustment and the shoes of the person touch my bag. Enough already. I put my tablet in my bag and look squarely at the crotch positioned inches away from my face. I look up. I look up and down. Good GOD the hot dyke who clearly wanted to get my attention whose crotch stood before me was hot. Cute as hell. Black pants with a brown belt. Brown oxford shoes with turquoise shoe strings. Grey button down with the sleeves rolled up to the mid forearm. This chick was very fucking  cute. So what the hell was all of that primal bullshit going on before I actually looked at her? I personally like to keep my crotch as far away from everyone while on the train. I think it is rude. So some chick comes on the train does all of this bullshit to get my attention and says not one word to me. It doesn't make sense. And this is the reason why I am done. I haven't dated in so long, that I have no patience for the games and I don't get the rules. I'm more of a text me 4 days before you want to hang out kind of girl. So when girls do this and they do do this, I have no idea how to react. Is this the mating call of the modern lesbian? The kindergarten notice me notice me sort of way. If hot crotch would have said anything to me, I would have stayed on the train instead of savoring her crotch for one stop. 

Golf, Tennis, and Other White People Stuff

My co-worker likes to play the "If We Were Slaves" game. If you have never heard of this game, thank god for your blessings. It is a game I could only conclude was made by an only child who spent summers alone and wanted to distinguish herself from her imaginary friends. At least once a week she plays this game to her immense amusement, while I silently weep for the future.  Here goes: "If we were slaves, we would both be house Negroes, but I [she] would most likely be confused for an out of state cousin." You get it? We are both fair skinned, but she is the fairest one of all. This clearly means the world to her. I would rather be invisible when she says it. At work.  To the public. It is funny that she is obsessed with her lightness and yet everything I do is considered "White People Shit".  I love asparagus. White People Shit. I asked what I should eat as a black person and the answer was green beans. I like salad, raw spinach and kale and I sauté instead of frying. I read everything and do research and love the violin and I don't listen to rap music. White. People. Shit. The biggest laugh had at my expense was the word "cutlery".  I use the word regularly as would be expected from someone smart enough not to waste time saying three words that have been neatly summed up into one. Cutlery. A huge confused laugh was had. "Who says that?"  Who doesn't?  What should I have said?  "Forks, Knives, and Spoons"? What idiot would say three words when one has been created to sum it up nicely? This was also White People Shit, but more specifically, I speak like a white person.  I have heard this all before. Never by my black friends from HS and college who spoke exactly like me. Dare I meet people from different parts of NY. This is when I encounter the inter-race stupidity. I am told I know everything.  I correct them and say I don't know everything.  I try to learn everything and there is a difference.

What’s worse is that everyone assumes I won't date black people. Some of my oldest friends insist I won't date black people because I “don't like black people shit." Like when I cringe when some idiot says the word "nigger" around me. In reality, I like women and I don't care what color they are wrapped in as long as they are smart and have a good sense of humor.

I like golf. I love it. My mom bought me an indoor golfing set after I asked for it when I was nine and I have loved it ever since. I love tennis. Really love tennis. I mean Monica Seles, Maria Chonchita Alonzo, Arantxa Sánchez Vicario and not just Venus and Serena.  My favorite sport to play is volleyball. I am a huge sports fan. I like to read. I love music. Are these qualities black people don't like? I sat every night drinking tea while my family watched little house on the prairie. My mom, to my dismay, loved westerns. Is this not black people shit? Or is it people shit, which is probably what my mom would say about this whole stupid conversation.

Adrift

There’s a lot to be said post-divorce; or rather, a lot that you’d rather not say. After years of voicing every concern, petty grievance, and minuscule malcontent there is a freedom in not saying anything at all. I fought endlessly with the Ex. Challenged every single statement she made, questioned every difference of opinion as if mine was law and unequivocally accused her of mental duress because, more often than not, we didn't see a goddamn thing eye to eye.

Fast forward to my current relationship and it would appear that the problem is not she, but me. I don’t want to budge. I am a curmudgeon. I want to be left alone, free to speak when the mood strikes me and free to remain distant and aloof just the same. I spent ten years fighting the Battle of Codependence and realize that my definition of freedom may just be a bit extreme for the faint of heart. I speak a language unfamiliar to most. It’s a lonely space – this place stuck between trying to be ‘normal’ and trying to make sense of the lifetime lived with another person in cohabitation and complete dependence. How does one go from the tense ‘we/us’ to ‘I/me’ without missing a beat? How does one maintain a hard fought identity ensconced in a fairly solitary life while trying to maintain a relationship with someone who rightfully demands more than just the ghost of a gf? How do I keep myself while sharing my self, yet stand firm in my personhood?

I’m just one woman adrift, seeking an answer that is probably already apparent. I am easy to love. I am hard to comprehend. I am open and willing and funny and enticing. I am hardened and battered and stoic and cold. There is now a doorway so small, so conditional, that it doesn't really matter who approaches, I will cause a retreat. I will lay it bare and tuck it away so that no matter how hard she tries, I am impenetrable.

Another Year

I always knew I would have kids. I envisioned myself being married to a doctor, having two children and divorced by 26. I was going to raise my ingenious children with my ex-husband in complete amicable bliss. My children would grow to cure cancer. Reality is somewhat of a tempestuous beast. I had fallen in love at the age of 15 and that would render all of my plans moot. My nephew, Edwin, came to live with us October 1992. I was 15. He wasn't one. I was done for. We were inseparable.

As time went on, I came out. Of what I don't know. The closet, a cloud, a funk? No one, I'm sure, expected me to be straight. So when I had a girlfriend who had a son three years younger than Edwin, it was somewhat ho hum. My life changed. I didn't go away to college because of him. I told my mom I would take guardianship of him when she died. He was 8, I was 23, and she was gone. I had a college degree in my pocket, a kid I adored in my hands and a girlfriend I couldn't live without. I couldn't have been more overwhelmed if I tried. Eventually, I had to move out of the house of my raising due to circumstances beyond my control or anyone's understanding. To Brooklyn we go. Kid in tow and me with no clue.

I'm adopted. It took nothing for me to bring Edwin into my bosom as my own and bleed for him. It is that adoption laying over  both our heads that I thought would keep us together. I was better than my mom. I was better than his mom. I made sure of it. I maintained the shittiest of jobs that would help me keep him in the things he wanted and needed and keep us having dinner together every night. I was struggling, but we were happy. Or so I thought.

When it came time for my nephew to act like the man he thought he was, it was too late. I was no longer with my girlfriend. I decided I wanted to be single so I can focus on Edwin in this foreign land called Brooklyn. I held mindless jobs beneath my intellect so I could be the parent he needed. I was involved in school. Heavily. From Kindergarten on, I was that parent. The one all of the teachers knew. That is until he hit me.

My brother called today to wish me a happy birthday just in case he couldn't call me tomorrow. He told me Edwin came to see him. He tells me this not to hurt me, but to inform me. He said he was driving a brand new car with his younger brother. He said he gained weight. See, I sacrificed everything for my nephew. My education, my livelihood, relationships, sex, but I couldn't sacrifice my dignity no matter how much I loved him. My nephew was my child for 18 years and I couldn't see myself as a woman taking that from a child. My nephew's birth mother contacted him on facebook three years ago and he called me to ask what he should do. She hadn't seen or spoken to him since he was two. They were fast rekindling old times and this kills my brother. Like he raised him. Like he is me.  

So what? Why now? I'm having issues right now and I don't know why. I'm having dreams. I plugged my hard drive into my BluRay player and I saw a video "Edwin singing in the shower". It wouldn't play. So I sang the song he made up in the shower in the video like it was today. It was over a decade ago. When I think I'm good, I'm not. When I don't think about him, my brother calls me with an Edwin story. When friends ask me about him, I'm truthful but evasive. I don't know. When I'm honest with myself, it makes me sad. 

Now here I am 3 years removed from my nephew. I don't want to have kids and I don't know how to be in a relationship. I don't believe in regret. I believe in lessons learned. So what did I learn from this? The same thing I learned from my ex. Nothing. I would do it all over again.