Keeping Up with the Jonzee still at the right spot.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

First Time was the Worst Time

I'm now firmly planted in my 30's. Which means that I am at my proverbial "sexual peak". Let my boyfriend tell it, I'm insatiable. Honestly, I could do something sexually related everyday, and not get tired. But see, he's nearly 30 and his peak was going on during college--just like the books in health class said.

Ain't that a bitch.

I have been trying to be empathetic. I'm trying to think back to pre-peak. And the best way to do that was to go back to time number one.


Most of my girls had been lost their virginity by Senior year. I took a lot of pride in the fact that I had not. I hadn't figured out how to master the pressure cooker that dating this one guy had become, but I was managing to avoid the "deflating of the cherry"--though he was pissed every time we ended a make out session. This made much easier by the fact that I had moved to Cleveland and he still lived in NY.

But see, even though I was a virgin, I also had my playa card firmly planted in my wallet. Or at least I thought. Then the summer before college hit. I had yet to give it up to the boyfriend. But I wasn't totally stupid then (maybe a little naive) and I ain't totally stupid now. There is no way in hell that the Center on the basketball team and the Principal's son wasn't getting his loving somewhere else--of course to spare me. LOL.

I appeared to be the attentive, dutiful girlfriend. Sending the love notes and racking up the charges on my grandmother's phone bill with calls back to NY. But by the summer, with the appearance still in tact, my hormones were raging. Plus my pop and I were not getting along and were having a long standing beef about me going to NYU. What better way to give my hormones something to chew on and really piss my pop off than to start kicking it with the the 'ignant wanna be thug, suburban boy from next door. With his tall, lanky, light skinned curly haired, light eyed self (back when light skinned was still in--and for the record it is not making a comeback) Hmmm. Anyhoo.

Much to my father's dismay and my hormone's joy I found someone to keep me occupied. So much so that though I never had a curfew, my Pop tried to institute it the summer before college.

The bad boy next door made it his business to try and take my cherry away. He gave the full court press on giving that thang up. I turned him down---over and over and over again. Sheeeit, I still had a man, and if someone was going to take it, it would be him. Summer wore on. I went away to school. And then that boyfriend of mine screwed up---the girlfriend and the girl on the side met. Game over.

Pissed, I returned home that summer. All of my girls had by now, been lost their virginity. So on my 19th b-day, I said screw it. I called up the boy next door and told him I was finally going to give it up.

And I did. I snuck across the driveway avoiding the heat-sensored lights, and laid my virginity down. After it was done. In my head, I thought, "That's it?" And all summer I kept doing it thinking it would get better. And it simply got worse. It was whack. It was boring. He was a lazy lover.

And I wish I had waited. While I have been fortunate to have a couple of boyfriends who did there thing. It still didn't interest me that much. I was kind of like Ms Celie "I just let him lay on top uh me and do his business." So, I guess I'm making up for lost time at 30.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

They don't Dance No More--But this'll do

I was in 'Bama at the family reunion. And I am sorry but after I saw my little cousins, who aint so little, do this? I was hooked. So, Im'a need a pass on this one.

If I stabbed him, I'd be Wrong. Right?

My situation is not unusual. I am 30 years old and I have two roommates. Perhaps it is unusual for folks in other places, but those who live in the megalopolis corridor (Boston to DC), and particularly those who live in NYC know, that when the average one bedroom within 6 miles of the center of Manhattan is nearly $1500 (1800 in Manhattan), roommates sound like the best idea in the world.

That is. Until one day you wake up and realize you could stab a muufuuca.

I have two male roommates. And that has actually never failed me before. Yes, I have had to be the mother hen in some cases. But because we have been friends or friends of friends--and all of the them liked to entertain--keeping things relatively clean was not a big deal. Of course, there were a few times I had to be like "I'm not Hazel" but I'm sure there were a few for them as well.

But my current roommates are in a whole different category. The one roommate is never, ever here. He's always with his S.O. When he is he always does the big projects. Like clean out the basement. Mow the lawn. Scrub some other shit that needs to be cleaned. Sweet. Do you.

The other one? He gone make me stab him and help him move in with Jimmy over in East Rutherford by the stadium. He is a slovenly and lazy, and if it weren't for me, we had have baked on caked on dirt and God knows what else in this house. And now that I am rarely home, it pisses me off that I still have to clean after him.

Cooks? Washes the dishes, leaves the crumbs and shit on the counter. Takes a shower? Leave huge clumps of black hair in the drain. So tired I am of throwing it out, that now I stick the shit to the mirror. Do you think he has a gotten a clue? Naw. Trash? I used to collect all the trash on the first level and take it out because it is always full. Then I started collecting the trash, bagging it up, and putting it by the front door so someone could take it to the bin on their way out in the morning. Now, right now. The trash is overflowing and his...whew. He decided to just make a new trash bag right next to it.

Oh and lets not forget the rest of the bathroom. I was away for 10 days. I came back the bathtub was so dirty I almost threw up. And lastly there is the yard. I have taken care of it all summer. I have asked, directed, and initiated a cleaning charge. He said he would do it. The shit looked like "Where the Wild Things are". So what does this numskull do? He goes and gets the neighborhood crack head with a weedwacker to clean the yard, who promptly commences to whacking down the two rose bushes.

I've never met a more lazy motherfucker in my life. All he does on the weekends is sit in his room, play some stupid war game, and watch his plasma. Its not like he has a difficult job. I mean at one point I was in school full-time, working full-time, had a new relationship, and was trying to write my thesis, and still kept my shit together.

I'm too old for this shit right here. This muufuuca gots to go.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Breaking up is easy to do

Man. I sometimes I think don't want no stinking boyfriend. For real. To keep a good relationship thriving feels like too much work sometimes. I've been in a relationship for 6 months now. Now that the novelty of having someone to cuddle with, and take to various and a sundry family and friend events has worn off, I'm starting to mourn the life I had mastered. The single life. I am not a commitment type. Though I have purported through out my four years of not having an official-type boyfriend, and two years of self-inflicted no-nookie rules, that it would be so great to have a mate.

But there are moments when I think...Whatever.

I mean really. I know he is a great catch and if the chicks out there knew what I knew, I'd have to beat many a girls' ass (just jokes). My friends fawn over him. My mother acts like he's her new son. He's smart (well not as smart as me, LOL), but smart nevertheless. He's cute. He puts it down in the... anyway. He's gainfully employed and his color and gender will put to bed the familial rumors that I am a) a lesbian b) gonna be with a white man (which is funny, because other than a few sexual mishaps, I have never dated a white dude) He's also pretty thoughtful, communicates well, and really wants to make me happy. And is willing to move if some fabulous opportunity happens to pop up for me. And for all I can tell, he loves me a great deal.

But he's still a royal pain in my ass sometimes. He's stubborn as hell--sometimes to his detriment. Refuses to make any effort to dress like a grown-man and not a perpetual college frat boy and will barely admit that the clothes I bought garnered lots of compliments. He's A real man's man--which means when I try to describe how I feel sometimes he looks at me like I am a) crazy b) some silly emotional chick. Also, I'm not sure he has any clue how to be romantic--unless it was shown on SportsCenter or some other iteration of ESPN programming.

Sometimes it feels like it would be so easy to break up. I was pretty good at being single. I know how to flirt (well I had to relearn it last year--but I digress), I think I can get a date, and living in NYC has helped me get my sense of style back so that I can look good while getting said date. I don't have to be responsible to anyone but me. And NYC is full of fine ass men--from across the globe. Who needs one? When one could date many, right?

Sheeeeiiit, breaking up would help avoid all the bullshit that in the past has been bound to go down. I been a playa (well not so much the last couple years--but I still got my card) for a minute. I know how it works.

Breaking up could be soooo easy. So why is my fool ass trying to do the hard thing. I can do the single thing in my sleep. This requires something I am not used to particularly if it is going to remain as good as it has been. Not breaking up is hard. I have to work on being communicative, and a liiiiittttlllle less difficult and demanding. I'm working on being giving. But some days I don't want to. I want to take the easy way out.

But alas, the easy shit, if I rememeber correctly, just isn't as fun.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

What's the purpose?

I have been trying to write a post for this blog for over a week. After sparking a debate in one of the yahoo! groups I am in regarding Michael Vick and various and a sundry other professional black athletes, I decided I would blog about it.

That post is still a draft. And it has changed direction, content, and points each time I visited it to try to finish it.

See, I really don't want to write. When things are pretty good--or at least normal blogging about whatever seems easy. I try to follow the "no planned posts" rule that a number of my blogger friends live by. For the most part I have lived by that rule as well. But lately, even the unplanned posts, seem to have absconded with my ability to post something remotely interesting.

Things are not necessarily so good now. I know some would say I should feel otherwise. I am quite well aware of my blessings, my achievements, and my journey to be where I am today. But I cannot help, as of late, to feel anything more than a great sense of misdirected failure.

I am thinking its time to see someone--of the professional vein. Maybe I am just to hard on myself. But it is making it quite hard for me to focus. What I do know is this:

1) My job is not challenging at all. I sit here most of the time. It'll look good on my res and the schedule is pretty flexible, but otherwise I'm just an analyst too far away from the community development aspects of the deal who barely has anything to do. (Oh and I did I mention, I am not paid that well either)

2) I need and want to move. I really, really, really want to move to Atlanta. Always wanted to live there. DC is my default because via reflection I have come to accept that DC was home--very much so.

3) I am applying to law school now, right now. My professors have asked me why I want to go? What do I think that I will get out of it? They are my favorites and they think it is a waste. I don't. Law school has always been a very personal goal for me. I want it. I want the flexibility the degree allows. I want to be able to do many things that a JD makes possible. I'ma stop listening to what others think and apply. Shit, I can always defer. Or even not go. But I'd rather have the option than not.

4) Clearly, it is easier to make my points in bullet. I'm going to try to cut that shit out.

Back to seriousness.

I still think, even though I have made it around to figuring that much out, that I need to go see someone. I remember when folks of color would dismiss the value of a mental health professional. And I have had my reservations too. But honestly, I can't keep having panic attacks. I can't keep breaking out in hives or not being able to motivate myself to leave the house. Professional help and prayer and I think I can figure it all out and be myself--on a regular basis again.

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

So, there is a such thing as celebrating too much?

This year, I said I was going to celebrate 30 three times. So what did I do?

Celebration 1 : Five days at an unnamed resort in Jamaica; and a jaunt to a currently embargoed nation in the Eastern Caribbean

Celebration 2: BBQ in DC for my DC homies. They flaked a little. But the one's who showed up made it all worth while. Oh and the after party in NE--getting my go-go on!

Celebration 3: Drinks and appetizers at a cute little Cuban joint in LES. With homemade bomb-ass brownies for desert.

See this where the problem arises:

Celebration 4: Surprise party thrown by my wonderful boyfriend and three other friends.

See, by celebration 4. I just wanted to go sit somewhere. I didn't sleep that well the night before. And then my fool ass had the nerve to go with one of my girl's all the way to Philly at 1PM when I had to be home by 7--back in damn near Manhattan.

I was excited about the surprise. But at the same time, I just wanted some quiet time. My girl threw me off from what I thought was a surprise party by telling me that she and he could not agree on location and theme. So, I was like "hmmm".

When Saturday rolled around, I was so tired I was hoping for "laid-back" not raucous. I was good for the first two-three hours. Then some haters showed up, and my artificially propped up energy went south.

I am so damn glad my b-day is over--until labor day.