::waves::

So way back when I started this blog, I promised you some creative stuff thrown in among my rants and reads, and did indeed post some of my prose and poetry.

I haven’t kept up with that promise lately though, have I?  I know. I suck. Fuck off.

I wrote this piece tonight, inspired by someone very dear to my heart…who I just confound at times with my “West Indian Woman” tendencies. (Yep. I’m an island girl. Born and raised in the South Bronx, of British Jamaican heritage. I am where Park Avenue and Halfway Tree meet, baby!)

This is in tribute to all the headstrong island girls like me, the prideful mothers, the strong wives, and determined single girls. Sisters, it’s in our genes. We can’t help it. But it’s also in tribute to the men who have to deal with us: we know…we know…

West Indian Woman

I’ve frustrated him tonight.
He doesn’t know what to say.
He frowns and spits,
“West Indian Woman!”
He doesn’t look away.

In the midst of our dispute,
a smile still finds my face.
You see, this man has told the truth.
I’m a West Indian Woman
to my dying day.

Stubborn pride –
and constant push –
He thinks I just want my way.
Surprised anew that I look back
with my steady, confident gaze.

I know no other glance to give.
No game face to return.
My fore-mothers gave me this spirit –
determination
as I walk this earth.

He thinks I’m being obstinate…
and that my island blood runs cool.
All he sees is a test of wills,
leveling “West Indian Woman!” at me
…as he might “MULE!”

I rise to mince some ginger.
“The night is cold. Tea?”
A smile curls
beneath furrowed brows.
His tone is tamarind sweet.

“You know this isn’t over, right?”
He can’t reconcile my ways.
But he has yet plenty time.
I’ll be a West Indian Woman
all my coming days.

(c)2012 // All Rights Reserved.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

If you follow me on Twitter, then you probably saw my tweets announcing my Valentine’s Day Blog Series: Two Tales of Woe and One That Rocked.
On this Valentine’s Day, the final installment, also with a twist. See, this one actually ties into the end of last week’s tale. Remember that abbreviated version of “I Got Dumped 4 Days After V-Day”? Well, this sprang from that. You’ll see.
Enjoy!

The Friday before a Valentine’s Day weekend. It’s a HUGE day for deliveries. Flowers, candy, telegrams, strippers… whatever you’re sending your Valentine, THIS is the day to get it to their office or miss the chance for you/them to show off in front of their lonely coworkers.  How much fun will a day centered around appreciating your beloved be if you’re not crushing the hearts of those around them and making that frumpy ole receptionist jealous? Wait, what? See? Exactly.

So as I sat in my office on that particular Friday, I knew to expect a huge display from my rather image conscious beau.  We were a long distance relationship, and the pressure to maintain a presence even when not physically present can be great. I felt it too, being a bit of a hopeless romantic myself. Just days before, I shredded pink and red paper to stuff a small box that was headed to his city, carrying several PS3 games I knew he wanted, and a card with handwritten “I love you across the miles - don’t even LOOK at no triflin heauxs, because I will shoot your ass” sentiments. (Yes, PS3 games. Romance and gifting are meant to suit the individuals involved. If you’re giving your man chocolate rather than the cigar/hunting rifle/video game he really wants, you suck.)

Sure enough, the display came. The most beautiful arrangement of roses I had ever seen arrived in a (the upgraded checkbox option) red glass vase, with a(nother checkbox option upgrade) box of chocolates and a card, expressing sentiments equal to mine. He mentioned how blessed he was to have me in his life and expressed thanks for what we have.  I was thrilled. Beyond thrilled even!

You see, prior to that, well, let’s just say I hadn’t had such good experiences with Valentine’s Day. ::glances at Valentine’s Tale of Woe number one:: ::shudders:: As I mentioned before, I’m a bit of a romantic. I love Valentine’s Day and the sentiment it honors! It just didn’t love me back. Valentine’s Day and I treated each other like rival high school girls: she was really popular and didn’t see me in the hallways, let alone could I hope to sit at her table at lunch. I understood. We each just pretended the other didn’t exist. It was easier that way.

Finally, Valentine’s Day and I were friends! Someone shared my sentiment equally and no longer was I doing nice things for someone and shrugging off their lack of enthusiasm, but instead, was feeling that feeling I had previously created for others. I was on cloud 9. (It had happened once before actually, but he only sent roses because he was cheating on me…and the other girl got the same arrangement and note too…but I digress…)

The one thing that stinks about a Valentine’s Day Friday? Carrying that vase of flowers home. LAWD did it suck! But I did it happily. And when my son saw it, he asked “Wow, Mama, where’d that come from?” So I told him. He and my beau had a good relationship. We were talking marriage and they got on so well – everything was finally coming together!

The next day was a snowy one. I refused to go a single place. Snowy Saturdays were made for my couch! Even the dog looked out the window and covered her face. But my son wouldn’t be still. “I’ve got to do something. But you can’t come. Can I call Dad to take me somewhere real quick?” he pleaded. I frowned. “What on earth could you have to do? You don’t have a job, pay no bills in this house, and don’t have a car to shovel out – sitcho ass down before you track snow on my floors,” I asked. He wouldn’t tell. Then it dawned on me. He must want to get a Valentine card for a girl in school. He’s getting to the age where he wouldn’t want to share that with mom, right? I mean, it’s just not cool. That’s a Dad moment. I agreed, and soon he and Dad were off.

I figured I had about a good hour to myself. Laundry? Dishes? Finally unpack from my previous trip to “his” city? Ten minutes later, I heard my son coming through the door. There went my “me time”!

I turned around to ask what he forgot and why he was back so soon…and stopped dead in my tracks…the words caught in my throat.

There was my son, holding up a bouquet of my favourite flowers, mixed with red roses, and a huge smile on his snowflake flecked face.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, mama! I’m a day early!” And he was indeed. I was in absolute tears as I smiled and hugged him tightly. There had been no little girl to impress, no secret Valentine to pick out. It was me.

“You really like them mama?” he asked as I put them in a silver vase. I responded, “I LOVE them honey!” And I did. He had gotten it right. SO right. No man had ever remembered that I don’t actually love roses, except in my garden, but instead prefer Casablanca lilies – my son did though. I was so surprised! It’s not like I ever SAID it to him. He just SAW.

I asked what made him go all out. He glanced over at the arrangement from my beau and told me a tale. Seems as we went about errands on Friday evening, he saw the bouquet at a local produce store and made note where to come back to, knowing that he couldn’t buy them in front of me.  My beau had gotten roses and he didn’t want to do that too, since he knows they’re not even my favourite. He had hoped for *just* lilies, but settled for ones mixed with roses, since EVERYTHING had roses for Valentine’s Day. He hoped I wasn’t disappointed.

I hugged him even closer. “Sweetie, I’m so touched that you went to all that plotting to get me flowers and make me smile. You remembered details! But you know what? You don’t have to spend your hard earned allowance money to make me smile and feel special with flowers. They jack up the prices this time of year JUST because they know men will buy them to impress ladies. You don’t need to impress me and spend big money, baby. HE DOES. He needs to show and convince me why he should be my choice as Valentine every day for the rest of my life… But you? You’re my Forever Valentine. Done deal.”

As you know from the end of my last entry, 4 days later, Mr. Big Show was gone, having done an abrupt about-face. But my Forever Valentine? That’s who my son was this morning. And every February 14th to come for the rest of my life. My Forever Valentine.

If you follow me on Twitter, then you probably saw my tweets announcing my Valentine’s Day Blog Series: Two Tales of Woe and One That Rocked.
This week, the second installment, but with a twist. Though my posts usually refer solely to romantic relationships, this one has elements of both. I was ready and prepared with my love-gone-awry tale when…well…you’ll see.
Without further adieu, I present “A(nother) Valentine’s Tale of Woe: Today I Got Dumped, And Other Fine Stories”.  Enjoy!

Readers…today…I got dumped. A relationship was brought to a crashing end. Via Facebook message, no less. Write it down. February 8, 2012. Add it to the list, but mark it with a star. This one was more painful than most previous experiences. You see, this one…was by a friend.

I was all set with today’s post, when I saw a new Facebook message circle thingy in my browser window. I clicked to find a short note from a good friend in another city, explaining that to preserve his current relationship, I had to go. Apparently, his girlfriend intercepted rifled through his emails and found old exchanges between us that made her uncomfortable, leading to this decision. (And no, not THOSE kind of email exchanges…get your mind out of the gutter! Where do I get you people from…) He hopes I understand that this is what his relationship needs, since I went through that too with an ex, and wishes my son and I well. Done.

I was kinda floored. We’ve been friends for 7 years, with a small dating attempt in the first month of that, and solid friendship since. We’d seen each other through break ups, kid issues (we’re both parents, though his daughter is now grown with two kids of her own), feuding family sagas, new jobs, etc etc. He and his daughter have been guests at my home, and even my coworkers and family know him. And a few lines on a social networking program ends it. ::shrugs:: I guess.

But lets backtrack.

Two weeks ago, I had dropped him a note to say ‘hello’ and see what’s new. Then I noticed he was no longer on my Facebook friends list. This didn’t really trouble me, because his profile had been active/deactivated many times in the endless, temperamental ”do I really wanna be here?” quandary of social networking. I shot over my note…and then noticed he’s also not on my Twitter feed anymore…(but that my baby sister and a coworker are still his Facebook friends?)…and he’s not in my Gchat list. Um…this isn’t a Facebook glitch. This is personal. I flat out asked, “Hey, did we have a huge row I forgot to show up for? I hate when I do that. LOL”.  And time went by. With no answer from my friend. I figured I had my answer and said as much. “Ok. Well, be well,” I sent back.

Fast forward to today’s missive, that starts off with “Sorry, love. I did mean to respond to this.” I guess. But when you’re busy changing passwords, adding diary padlocks and hiding pictures, I suppose things fall by the wayside.  The irony of this, is that they’ve been together for years, I’ve never been a secret, and many times asked to host them both when next they’re in the city. (They don’t actually really make it into town often.) I’ve also been an advocate for their relationship, for her view when he comes to me for advice or a vent session or during one of their ”we just broke up” months, and for him growing up in general. Though at a distance, I can say I was a friend to both.  Such is life though, right?  Meh…

I do know this much. He was right. I did go through something similar. A now-ex once protested a few of my closer male friends. He wanted them out of my inbox, off my Facebook page, and blocked from my Twitter feed. My cell phone and actual eyesight? HA! Don’t even bother asking. But I handled it completely differently.

See, my ex and I were contemplating marriage. But any man I marry has to be able to trust me and trust my judgment beyond his own insecurities, or we simply aren’t suited.  No one dictates who I can actually be friends with, and certainly not when the party they seek to oust has truly been a friend. Real ones are hard to find. Good marriages are too, but if your partner starts off dictating your friendships, you clearly aren’t on your way to one anyway.  And though the man I was with did eventually become an ex, he respected my loyalty and defense of those who were in my circle, and never raised the issue again.

I’ve never asked my man to ditch his female friends, nor have I caved to the one request I ever got. My circle is small, but true.  This isn’t the first time one of my male friends has ended a friendship at the behest of a girlfriend. What has happened each time is that when the girl is gone, and these insecure women do go, he’s back.  Apologizing, and asking to meet one of my girlfriends or be invited to my next event.  While I wish this latest dude the best, I don’t know that there’ll be room at my table in the future.  And so ends my tale.

Oh, wait. I promised “other stories”.

Ok, so, what happened with that ex who asked me to ixnay the alemay iendsfray? The heavily edited version: he sent me this giant bouquet of 2 dozen gorgeous roses in an expensive vase, a box of chocolates and a touching Valentine’s Day note explaining how lucky and thankful he was to have me, how blessed our love is, and blah blah blah… then promptly dumped me 4 days later. The reason? “We don’t want the same things. We have nothing in common.” Welp, and so ended the marriage talk he had started!

O_O

If you follow me on Twitter, then you probably saw my tweets announcing my Valentine’s Day Blog Series: Two Tales of Woe and One That Rocked.
This week, the first installment - A Valentine’s Tale of Woe: How 7 Good Words Became 7 Bad Words.  Enjoy!

Perhaps the most awesome seven words a man can say to his woman:  ”I’m taking you away for the weekend!”  All the more awesome and amazing if the trip is around a traditionally romantic time like Valentine’s Day, right? Right. Usually.  Sometimes. Never.

And amazed I was when my usually very busy exec boyfriend said those words to me near V-Day.  Not only did Mr. Busy want to get away with me, he had it all planned already! I didn’t have to lift a finger or research a thing, and all the details were a surprise. This. Is. AWESOME!  We were both busy urban professionals* with crazy schedules, kids, and an eye on our budgets.  (I should have known…I just should’ve known…but…you’ll see.)   *one in finance, the other in legal – not “urban professionals” like the weedman is an urban professional, OKAY?!

So Friday rolls around and after a week of excitement, I’m packed and ready to go!  Sexy lingerie for each night we’re away? CHECK.  Form fitting dinner outfit? CHECK.  Sky-high-leave-em-on-heels? CHECK CHECK CHECK! 

Incoming text message: “I’m stuck working a little late – can you take the train from Penn Station (he lived in NJ) to my station? I’ll meet you there and we can just go.”

This is different from the planned pick-up at my midtown office, but okay. I can be flexible. I’ve got a packed weekend bag with me, but I’ll live.

Outgoing text message: “Ok.  Where are we headed? ”

After a week of anticipation, I’m SO eager to know the destination! Vermont to a ski lodge? Upstate NY to a cozy cabin? The North Fork wineries of LI, with sleepy inns and daylong tastings?

Incoming text message: “The Poconos! Surprise!”

Oh.  I was surprised alright.  O_o  ::plays Price Is Right wrong answer music::  A coworker started singing the Mount Airy Lodge jingle at me. I kicked that heaux out of my office.  So…no inn? No apres ski? The Poconos?

I had gone there once on an 8th grade school day trip. Our school chose the nicest resort in the area, “Palmbranch”, which didn’t actually say much.  Surely things had changed by now, right? Right!

“Noooooo, it can still be good! There’s rental houses in that area and he’s known me for about 20 years. I’m sure it’ll be a nice place – definitely not a cheesy resort,” I rationalized to my coworker. We cracked a few champagne glass bathtub jokes and I was off for Penn Station.

As the train sped along, I whipped out my phone and found the top rated resorts in the area. And uh…yeah, it HAD to be a private rental.  I was sure.  I texted him, pressing for details so I could Google the shit out of it - hadn’t I waited enough?  But, he declined, saying I’d have to wait just a liiiittle longer. Ohhhh the suspense! This meant it HAD to be a big deal! It must be a real shithole can still be good! Awesome even, with this big production!

I got to the station, right down the block from his house.  I stepped onto the platform, hefting my FM shoe laden bag with me – ready to begin our romantic child-free Valentine’s Day weekend getaway extravaganza!  Except…he’s not there…

Wait. I came from midtown Manhattan…I could walk to his door…and he’s not here?  About 10 minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot. It’s cold and there’s a light drizzle, and I’m trying not to scowl, as he pulls up on the opposite side of the waiting area, two car lanes away, rolls down the window and hoodtastically yells, “AYO, EVAA!”

O_O

He didn’t even exit the car, let alone pull up to my empty curbside. AND he’s yelling my name across a parking lot? This is not a man who wants to get laid.

I avoided the startled gaze of the nearby white people and scurried to the car. I tossed my now deadweight bag in the back and hopped in.   Pissed Eva: “Um, what the hell was THAT?!” But the scent coming from his breath told me. He’d had a drink right after work. “Just one with the boys real quick.”

I was steamed. My thoughts: I schlepped a bag from midtown to Bumfuck NJ, and you worked late, had a drink, arrived late to collect me, and then proceeded to announce my name to the whole damn parking lot on TOP of everything else? Have you lost your muhfuggin mind?!

But I sat back. It had been a stressful week. I was already livid. Let me not make it even worse with an expletive laden tirade.  He loosely apologized and we were off. The drive calmed me down, though we drove mostly in silence.  Boyyyyy, this place we were headed better make up for all this mess. That’s all I knew! It can still be good!

We pull off the highway and are driving past resort after resort till I ask, “Ok, which one is it? We’ve passed all the names that I know from my Google research.”

And then…he names…the resort I went to in 8th grade. Palmbranch. With pride, too. Like he just told me we’re spending the weekend at Versailles.  I assure you, it was NOT.  While I didn’t wanna just crap on this lil plan of his, I couldn’t hide my disappointment.  Crestfallen Eva: “Um…I went there in 8th grade.”  Him: “Well, my boy hooked me up and…”

I was too busy shuddering to hear the rest. I think to myself, “A hookup? Well…this can still be good…maybe?”

Him: “…we just have to go to a meeting about some property…”

And then…it dawns on me. I HAVE TO SIT THROUGH A TIMESHARE PRESENTATION?! On our romantic child-free Valentine’s Day weekend getaway extravaganza?! UGH! How did I get roped into this low budget scam ish?!

After a few more halting sentences from him, after I’m already 2 states from home, I’m told we can’t get out of it. His boy recommended him to the agent and they already have our names and contact information. Great. Just. Fucking. Great.

I’m steaming, silent, and stuck. But still, I’m here now. So I might as well make the best of it, right? It can still be good, right?! Wrong. Right. WRONG!

As we wind through the lane toward the main hotel area for check in, I see a pretty Roman inspired facade, complete with Doric columns and a nice valet booth. My hopes are renewed!  A valet! How bad can it be?!  We stop in front of the entrance and no sooner do I say, “why don’t we just give it to the valet?” does a large The-Tunnel-On-Saturday-Nights type bouncer thug emerge from the sliding doors to point to a parking spot.

O_o

I was so confused. “But…but wait…there’s…no valet?”

And as I walked through the sliding doors, I saw for myself that, no, Eva, there would be no valet type amenities on this trip.  I entered…to find half the NJ hood standing in line with their badass kids, waiting to check in.  Everyone had donned their finest sweats, Timbs, gold teeth, and snot nosed BeBe’s kids as an accessory.  I looked around and felt the laugh rise in my throat. I couldn’t help but laugh as we joined that line. It can still be good though, right? It couldn’t get worse though, right?

It can.

We got to the counter, only to find out during check in procedures that our “presentation”…is a group presentation…at 8am…on Sunday morning. It was now 10pm on Friday night.

O_O

My romantic child-free Valentine’s Day weekend getaway extravaganza was *almost* 36 hours (not even) at a hood-filled resort, with 101 loud children.  I had left MY son with his Dad…to come be eyeballed by stank faced broads, surrounded by thuggish men, and pushed by ill-mannered kids.

I had HAD it.

“No, that won’t work. What’s the cost to upgrade us to a proper reservation?,” I said as I whipped out my wallet.

“Sorry ma’am, we’re fully committed to owners for the better rooms,” came the reply.

I. Was. STUCK.  But it can’t get worse now, right? It can.

We got to the room…a basement level, fluorescent lit efficiency condo unit on a far edge of the property.  It offered a great view (through the ONE window) of the trash cans out back.  I wish I could report that the bathroom was clean. Three words: grey jacuzzi foam.

And for dinner? We had to go off-property.  Nothing was open nearby, except for an Applebee’s type chain some distance away.  When we arrived, we had 45 minutes to choose from the limited late night bar menu, eat our greasy food, swill our badly made drinks, and get out.  They were closing.

One evening of that was enough.  When I was informed that the plan for the next day was to “enjoy the tired ass, bad kid filled activities on property”, I sprang to action.  I whipped out my phone and made a real plan. Breakfast at a diner, shopping at the outlets not far away, winery tours and tastings at three local vineyards, and dinner at a steakhouse. BOOM!

Perhaps the worst part? The salt in the wound? On no less than 3 separate occasions during the next day’s adventures, he said to me, “Oh, I’m getting brownie points for THIS trip!”, claiming credit and indicating expectation of gratitude for the good turn this ghetto excursion had taken. That 3rd time? Yeah I flat out said it. “I did this. THIS is how I spend a weekend.”

Oh, wait!

No, the real shit kicker?  On Sunday at 8am, the presentation rep asked why I seemed so discontent with my accommodations and went on what I knew was a free timeshare outing if I had no interest in timeshares at all.

Hol’ up…

Free?

FREE?!

As in, his boy didn’t “have a hook up”, his boy is a small fractional owner who needed to give over some suckers prospects?

And he paid NOTHING for our “romantic child-free Valentine’s Day weekend getaway extravaganza”…at a hoodrat infested family resort in the PA boonies?!

I cut that snotty rep to the quick with a terse-but-detailed account of all the unsavory aspects of my experience and then cut him too.  When I was done, she was apologizing through laughter and he was embarrassed.  We rode home in silence.

It was the beginning of the end.  Barely over a month later, we broke up after several other events showed me that, although he wasn’t a bad guy, we were clearly in two different lifestyle brackets…and each happy to remain in them.

So, yeah. You wanna get away on a ”romantic child-free Valentine’s Day weekend getaway extravaganza”? Hit me up at evasaidit@gmail.com. I’ve got seven less than awesome words for you:

“I got the hookup from my boy!”