Rome – cobblestone street – May 2012

I walked

through a foreign city

with native feet;

the dust footprints

of my great-grandparents

glowed through stone

to guide me

The post To Rome, With Love appeared first on EVA SAID IT.

Protecting mama with a balloon sword at a birthday party in 2005

Happy Mother’s Day to all the amazing moms reading this!

Motherhood has been my biggest joy/headache/money pit/anxiety source/love well/hug ‘n kiss machine/happy place ever!  Yep. It’s all those things. And sometimes it can feel thankless. But if you listen in the small moments…it’s truly not.

In June 2002, I was a newly single mother of an 18 month old. My son’s father and I had recently split, and I was finding my way through the endless do-it-all lists I made, just to ensure I didn’t miss a “we” task that was now a “just me” task. Here’s a sample…

To-do:

• 7:00: din = chicken nuggets + broccoli, Blue’s Clues
• 7:30: Dino book – “How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight” + 1 other
• 8:00: shower – wash his hair!!
• 8:30: bed – check nightlight battery
  
• 9:30: make mac ‘n cheese for tomorrow, pack lunch bag, lay out clothes, sort laundry & leave for drop tomorrow AM, milk: am I out? make shopping list to take in AM, rinse silk blouse – ask mommy abt vinegar on underarm stains – wtf now, juice boxes into freezer, pack cheerios

That 9:30 slot is a little heavy, right? But after my toddler was in bed, that’s when my night really began. Dog tired or not, those juice boxes weren’t going to freeze themselves for my son’s lunch the next day.

Adding to the pressure, I was working on Wall Street at Citibank.  I had joined the sea of suits and cut my teeth in finance at a top international bank, with a hard-nosed boss and no short supply of backstabbers. I’d been there only a little over a year. Can’t slip.

One amazing thing about being part of such a huge organization was the employee support. I was fortunate to have an annual allotment of company provided daycare, free of charge, on site at a Citibank location just 3 blocks from my Wall Street office. It was quality care that my son enjoyed, and I never felt worried about leaving him. What a relief to have that off my plate for a little bit!

But that meant having him ready to leave the house with me at 7am, stroller in hand, with his day bag, plus my work bag, IN my business suit, and on Wall Street by 8am so we could make it those three blocks and back. I had to be at my desk by 8:30 with not a hair out of place. When I tell you my hands were full…it’s an understatement. That Hindu god with 6 arms? Yeahhhhh, she’s got nothing on me.

Every morning we joined the ton of suit-clad commuters swarming from the train station on Broadway and Wall, walking across the entire length of Wall Street, towards the river. It was a human ocean of blue/black pinstripes (it’s  New York…it’s just what we do in finance), some armed with newspapers, others with cell phones as they shouted planned buys/sells, red Ferragamo power ties flipping in the wind…as my single mama self speed walked her Nikes in and out of the crowd, weaving closely on the packed sidewalks as I hurried the hell up. No one expected a stroller on Wall Street, and the business men resented stepping over or aside for me at corners (I needed that sidewalk cut-out to cross!), or slowing down when I cut in front of them artfully. Dude…I’m late! And I need my job! There’s no golden parachute over here!

These days, there’s tons of residential buildings on Wall, and you’ll see moms and nannies and dogs all the time. But back then, I was out of place. Despite working shoulder to shoulder with those same powerful men in their offices, I was now a nuisance to them on the street, and had more in common with their wives and house staff. I felt the glare and saw the frowns. There’s a powerful stigma attached to being a single working mother, especially around the boy’s club on Wall Street, and double especially if she’s a brown mama. Fuck them, but I was still making less commuter eye contact as I settled into our new routines. I have to admit – it affected me.

One morning, as I speed-walked and weaved, I glanced down to see a smiling and giggling toddler boy…and heard him say “Go, Mama, GO!” My son had two fists up like a winning athlete, smiling so hard his eyes were crinkled, and he was ecstatic.  His hands clapped an awkward toddler clap as we reached the corner. He was winning the Stroller 500!

Actually…we were winning it together.

He was so proud of his mama, and all these slower moving rich men could eat his dust and hers too!  I needed his perspective and joy in that moment as we schlepped through our new life together. I laughed with him and smiled the rest of the way to daycare and my office. We were a unit, a team, and we were going to win. Just like we won that day.

“Fuck those stares and frowns. Team Us, bitch!” <– loose grown-up translation of my son’s toddler message

To this day, I can see his giggling, crinkle eyed face, with cheeks drawn into a tight-apple smile. I can hear his joy and pleasure in literally overtaking the ruling class foot by foot. And when I need a boost and a reminder on a tough day, I play the audio in my head: “Go, Mama, GO!”

This Mother’s Day, it’s my word to you. Whatever your life is, whatever your struggle is comprised of, don’t stop. Grab a hug from your child and use it as fuel. Don’t give up. You can win.

GO, MAMA, GOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The post “Go, Mama GO!” – A Mother’s Day Tale appeared first on EVA SAID IT.

Ok, so I adapted that bit of rapper financial wisdom (“Scared money don’t make money.”) to suit my purposes. Sue me. Thank you, oh ye wise sages, masters of the hoodrat anthem!

But it’s true. Pretending to be happy is more work than it takes to actually BE happy.  Honestly, it’s exhausting from the inside out.  And no matter who you fool on the outside, you still know the inside truth.

Emotional pain is a funny thing.  It has a million different possible causes: grief, lost love, depression, career issues, education setbacks…etc. Yet with all those sources, there seems to be only one great healer: time.  Everything can fall to shit in an instant…but paternity test results time’s healing passage feels like the l o n g e s t wait ever.  Time waits for no man…and it doesn’t speed up for a mofo either.

Thanks to a terrible break-up in 2005, perhaps no one knows that better than me.  I learned a valuable lesson and  made myself a promise: don’t fake happy for others’ comfort unless you’re trying to solidify your misery.

Despite breaking up in February, the warm month of May found me thin as a rail and sad every single day. My friends and family, bless their hearts, were tired of hearing me drone on like Eeyore with honest answers to the question, “How are you?”  You could see in their eyes that they instantly regretted asking.  I mean, shit…if you don’t wanna know, don’t ask!  Instead, their whittled patience sometimes brought on charming responses like,  “he was nothing anyway – you should be over him.” Not exactly helpful to a depressed person…

Joy seemed to be all around me…and in everyone’s life but mine. There was a glass wall around it: I could look and be close, but I just couldn’t seem to touch it on the other side. Everyone else was behind the wall, laughing and telling me I should join in, seemingly oblivious to the wall I was pressed against.  They were sick of me not laughing too, tired of inviting me places I declined to go, and understandably DONE with hearing my “looks like rain” forecast on sunny days.

But I couldn’t help it.  It was how I felt. I had to do something! At this rate, I’d be alone with my sadness (where I kinda secretly wanted to be) forever. Where was time, with its late ass?! Father Time must be Jamaican. In hindsight, I should have sought therapy. But no one suggested it, and I wasn’t thinking clearly…obvs.  So I made a wrong choice: I was going to FORCE myself into Happyland!  I reasoned that that would make others around me happy that I was happy, and then they’d be relieved that I was better, and maybe I’d be close enough to THEIR happy to actually let some rub off on me! Like how lice hop from kid to kid in grade school! Happiness was like lice! Yes? NO. YES!

Well, if happiness was like lice, then sadness was like cockroaches.

I showed up at events and smiled a believable smile in picture after picture.  I laughed THEEEEE loudest at a joke, and came back with a snappy reply of my own. I was in Miami and the Caribbean several times in just a few months, posed on a beach in a bikini like a lady of international leisure and mystery!  But the only mystery was in my head: why is this not working? Everyone else seemed truly happy or only periodically down. But when the event was over – when the joking friends went back to work – and when the bags were unpacked at home…I still laid in bed, though tired from a day of pretending, and stared at the ceiling. The sadness cockroaches were coming out of their hiding places in the dark.  Ironically, faking happy had only made me more legitimately sad.  And each time a person bought my all-healed-now act, it made me that much sadder.

So…I stopped. Just like that. I stopped faking happy.

I said “today’s not a good day” and declined events I really didn’t want to go to. I stopped letting people pressure me into saying “I’m fine” when fine was actually far from where I was. Don’t get me wrong – I didn’t return to my “the sky is falling” face. I had hit the bottom of my sadness when that was happening. Instead, I reminded myself that the elusive “one day” WAS coming…if I could just hold on through the now…it WOULD be better “one day”.  Easier said than done, but I gave it a shot and took the time I needed for me to face it, rather than burying it to make those around me happy. (I mean, didn’t they already have enough happy on their side of the glass wall anyway? Damn happy hoarders…)

“One day” did come. Somewhere along the way during the next couple months, I realized I had stopped TRYING to be happy.  I just was.  My laugh was back, my appetite had returned, and I really did want to go to the places I was invited. So I went…and I actually enjoyed myself.

In retrospect, imagine how much faster I might have been happy again if I had only had the courage to seek therapy or to simply NOT decide to do things I didn’t want to do for the sake of other’s comfort.  I buried what I felt to project status quo.

Not worth it. Never is.

And that’s the lesson: be true to YOU. Honor your wants and needs rather than being concerned with how others think you should feel or what they think your “happy” should look like on the outside. If you need help, GET the help. Whatever the cause, do the work to get to happy, rather than employing the wallow/complain/hide strategy.  Whether it’s a career change you need to make or an ex you need to get over, a relative you need to properly mourn… “one day” comes.  I promise.

Bonus lesson: Raid Spray is very effective at killing cockroaches and ants. I also hear R.I.D. kills lice pretty well.  You’re welcome.

The post Fake Happy Don’t Make Happy… appeared first on EVA SAID IT.

So…we’re friends, right?

I mean, we’ve been smack-talking our way through page after page of my fuckery snarky tales of life experiences gone awry for some time now.  You know me well enough; you get a sense of who I am. That said, you know for a fact that a woman who writes about threesomes, tweets about blowjobs, and encourages quickies is no prude, right? RIGHT?

Ok, great. ‘Cause she also ABHORS all male revues.

That’s right. I hate male revues. If you like it, I love it for you. But…for you.  Needless to say, when a girlfriend invited me no less than three times to a revue she’s attending, I passed.

The phrase, “Django Dick” was tossed around.  That didn’t make it any more appealing to me. (So, is this dick gonna drop N-bombs at me all night? Is this dick gonna fight for my freedom? “Give! Us! Free!” Wait…wrong movie…whatever…) I just can’t!

And I know what ruined it for me: a night out at a male revue in Brooklyn, NY, with my girlfriends. —> Teaching moment: nothing good can come of “the 2 train to New Lots” and the promise of “a sexy, classy evening of male entertainment.”

I’ll never forget it.  The audience was hungry for man-meat. And as each dancer came out, the crowd was being whipped into the next level frenzy. When a dancer was done, he literally jumped lap to lap, woman to woman, across the rows in the audience, picking up dollar bills as he straddled screaming and chortling women. As each sweaty man dripped his way across my legs, I was horrified.  Please say those are sweat marks he’s leaving behind?

By the time the hour-long show was over, I just wanted a shower and a gallon of Purell.

It was so gross to me. Sweaty, half nekkid men (ok wait, that part’s not bad), jumping lap to lap across a sea of pawing women, all waving dollar bills and shouting like Jesus himself announced a sale at the weave shop Barneys.  YICK!

And the costumes these dudes wore! It was like a butt-nekkid Village People concert. A few stand-outs: a “cowboy” with his peen in a leather schlong casing with fringe for extra attention when he whipped it around; a construction worker, clad in a hat, vest, and “tool belt”…ahem…that showcased his hammer; and a dude in some sort of Native American costume with a suede and feather dental-floss thong.  (Actually, I feel like that last idea was a good one, and I’d rock it for The Mister as a fun “dress up” idea…but I don’t wanna see Sweaty Stranger Man Cakes gyrating past me in it…)

The worst moment though? When it came time to bring women on stage for personal embarrassment attention, they sought out the most Precious’-understudy-or-body-double girls in the room and just had their WAY with them on stage. Two men lifted this one woman onto the cowboy’s shoulders, where he proceeded to bury his face in her jeans-covered crotch, as his cohort yelled on the mic, “Yeaaaah! She ain’t had that in a while!” O_O

I mean…these women were squealing and enjoying the attention, but I was mortified for them.  The performers seemed to be mocking their paying audience more than serving them.  The male strippers had a very different attitude about the service they provided than that of their female counterparts. While some female strippers might not respect their clientele beyond what he’s willing to hand over in singles, I’ve never seen open mocking and humiliation/condescension as part of their act unless you agree to pay more for the school teacher treatment, in which case it’s $50/15 min….uhhh…nevermind.

Nothing about that show felt like the “turn the tables – now we throw dollars at THEM” empowerment moment my girlfriends tried to sell me.  Nope.  I was skeeved.

Now granted, not all male revues are the same, and I’m sure that somewhere out there is the actual “sexy, classy evening of male entertainment” that was promised to me. These days, I’m just more inclined to find that night in my own house.

But if you’re headed to a male revue, have a great time! Bring lots of singles, tons of Purell, and watch out for the fringe-swinging cowboy – he’ll poke your eye out with that “Django Dick”!

The post Passing Up The All Male Revue: A Case of “Django D*ck” appeared first on EVA SAID IT.

I had a whole ‘nother piece planned for today, but a fun conversation on a radio show last night left me feeling like I had to speak a little further on something that’s been BUGGING me since I saw it.

Sisters in your 20′s, this piece is written especially out of love for you.
Read on.

Last night, I was honoured to be a returning guest on the super fun “Cocktails and Conversations – Wednesday Wind Down Night Cap Edition” show on Blogtalk Radio. One of our discussion topics was King Bey herself, Beyonce. It’s Bey Season and homegirl is everywhere, per her successful promo formula. When the time comes, the Beyonce machine kicks into high gear: performances from inauguration to Superbowl 2013, the Mrs. Carter World Tour is coming, the ink on a PEPSI deal is dry, a sit-down with Oprah dropped, and right after it came her own documentary/beauty piece, “Life Is But A Dream” as an HBO exclusive. Whew! I’m tired just listing all that!

Bottomline: Beyonce is every place you look, and I am NOT mad at that! Well, except for this one thing…

As we talked about the documentary, one of the show hosts mentioned a line that had really stayed with her, and me too, since watching. In a clip, a 25 year old Bey is shown toasting her then-boyfriend at his 37th birthday dinner in December, 2006.  As part of her toast, she says to him “…You taught me how to be a woman...”  ::insert SOUL cringe and record scratch sound effect here::

As I sat on my couch watching, my mouth kinda fell open. Here was a beautiful and extremely talented young woman in her 20′s…handing over credit for her womanhood to the man she’s in love with?  Did I just hear an international superstar, woman of her own means, and idol of little girls around the world…give her power away so completely in one blanket statement? ::blink blink:: O_O  Why was she talking about her man, Jay-Z, in terms usually reserved for a wise and aged forebear like a mother/grandmother/father?

I swear, my heart hurt to hear her say that. It’s a HUGE statement to make. In fairness, 31 year old Beyonce didn’t have this vibe about her; it was a VERY 25 year old statement. But it’s also a dangerous one to put out there without the benefit of your listening audience knowing how you meant it.  We can’t know what was in Beyonce’s mind when she laid credit for her womanhood at her then-boyfriend’s feet: was she referring to him showing her how to move in the industry as a powerful woman? It stands to reason that she wasn’t giving a birthday toast with a sexual connotation of “how to be a woman”.  But did she literally mean that this man moulded and shaped her, as one might do with a child? Can’t be…has to be the “in the industry” slant…I hoped.

If grown men and women were sitting on a show panel dissecting the many ways it could be taken, younger women and little girls at home hearing it might be struck by the statement too.  Rest assured, somewhere, there’s teens and pre-teens who heard “…You taught me how to be a woman...” and didn’t come to the same logical conclusion that I did, but instead took it at face value. There were women in their late teens and early 20′s who heard it and might’ve added an undue crown to the head of a controlling boyfriend.

In the back of an impressionable girl’s mind, lines like that inadvertently help plant and water a seed that says “it’s okay and healthy for a man you date to have influence over your thought process and help you form your way of thinking and behaving; it’s okay for a significant other to ‘raise’ you in some ways and shape who you become, not unlike the way a father might do to a daughter.”

Ladies, girls, sisters: NOTHING COULD BE FARTHER FROM THE TRUTH.

In actuality, that type of influence is the open door to a potentially lifelong controlling mindfuck, if the power is put in the wrong hands. But you don’t know how it’ll turn out at the time, do you? Beyonce has a happy outcome, with Jay-Z clearly having used his influence benevolently. I don’t think he’s the rule though; given the opportunity to ‘create’ the woman you want and influence from a young age, can you say for sure who might be sinner or saint?

I’ve used Bey’s line as an example because it’s reaching hundreds of thousands of women around the world, but that line is just one symptom of a greater illness.

This April, I’ll turn 38…and not one ounce of my womanhood is due to a man’s influence, and certainly not the influence of one I dated. Of course, my father, grandfather and uncles were influential in the usual family way of setting how I view men. But it was my mother, my aunts, my godmother and my grandmother who laid the map I followed into womanhood. Life’s ups and downs have made us closer and I know I have resources to turn to when I have questions. I have solid and tangible role models to whom I give credit and thanks.

I feel like there’s been a break in thinking since I was an impressionable teen, finding my way. That break has given rise to the Tyrese/Jody wisdom tweets, the Steve Harvey cheap suit books, the Rev Run inspirational bathtub texts, and the assorted speaking-tour circuit of “relationship experts”.  ::rolls eyes:: 

A man teaching women how to be women? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that the VERY epitome of condescending patriarchy at its FINEST?!?!?! #pleasantries

In my opinion, there’s a generation of women coming up who’ve twisted and tied their power to a man. It’s the very opposite of what our mother’s generation worked so hard for.  Blame can be shared any which way… but the truth is that it’s OUR fault.

Listen: each one, teach one.  A man can’t make you, you can’t let him break you, and your foremothers knew better than any man you could ever date or marry. Actively seek to create bonds with women of all ages – your older sisters have something to share, no matter what their walk of life, and you have something to impart to someone younger, even when you don’t realize.

Who run the world? Not the girls sitting home reading cheap suit books… WOMEN.

The post Men Teaching Womanhood? Sorry, Bey, But I Don’t Think So… appeared first on EVA SAID IT.

Listen…

I. Am. SICK!

SICK, I tell you!

It’s taking all my focus to look at my laptop screen and tap the keys right now.  We’re talking the determined sleep bounce of a crackhead when crossing the street (I’m from the South Bronx, remember?), or the laser-like left/right of a DUI straight line test taker (for all you people with suburban problems). “I’m not as think as you drunk I am, Occifer!”

I felt fine when I started my day, but by midway though it, I felt achy and tired. I fought it off and kept it together with tea and my office heater. I even popped some echinacea and vitamin C horse pills. But by the end of my commute home, I couldn’t fight it anymore.  I struggled to walk The Dog and flopped on the couch.

Oh yeah…and somewhere in there I managed to make dinner for The Boy and feed The Dog.  That’s about it. ::taps out::

And here I am. On the couch. Laptop and tea at arm’s reach.

And here’s where my bitch of an inner voice (lets call her “Mildred”) opens her fat trap: “You know there’s laundry sorted and waiting, right? And what about the dishes? Are you gonna be able to help The Boy study for tomorrow’s midterm? You have to. 7th grade – the high schools will see this year in depth. C’mon. SMH. We have work to do.”

I envision her as all my youth idols rolled into one: an elegant woman in a Donna Reed dress (google it, whippersnappers), Jackie O triple strand pearls, and Claire Huxtable’s wisdom on Lena Horne’s graceful frame, with a hint of Sophia Loren’s plentiful figure. Only her name suggests her drill sargent nature.

You know, I can’t argue with Mildred. She’s helped me through some hard times and reminds me to be my best. As a single mother, Mildred has helped me stay focused on what needs doing for the greater cause of child rearing; she’s talked me into finding that last ounce of energy long after my eyes start to droop and I think I just CAN’T do one more thing in the house or at my office.  Deadlines? Mildred’s a beast with those. And true indeed, there’s laundry and dishes with my name on them.

But you know what? Fuck off, Mildred.

::Mildred clutches her pearls::

Yeah I said it. GO FUCK YOURSELF, MILDRED! (I mean, that’s basically what I said, give or take a fuck.)

The world isn’t going to come to a crashing end tonight if there are dishes in the sink tomorrow morning – I asked the Mayans AND the Oreo cookie people! They each consulted their sacred disks and sided with me. Laundry? The Boy and I each have a bazillion pairs of socks and underwear for exactly these occasions. Let those piles sit on my bedroom floor another 24 hours – nothing’s “dirty enough to get up and walk away yet“, as my grandmother used to say. But hey, laundry, if you are, then walk your happy asses to the laundry room, mmmkay?

And the midterm? Okay, that one’s sticky. But I’m not the one in 7th grade. I keep having to remind myself.  I can take a seat in the passenger side – it’s someone ELSE’S job to drive now. I’ve been teaching independence, good study habits, and drive/focus for 12 years now. Something has to have stuck, right?!

::Mildred leaves in a huff:: God, I hope she goes somewhere and gets laid…she’s kinda uptight!

For caregivers, it’s so easy to talk ourselves into coming absolute LAST on the to-do list. Mothers, and single mothers especially, fall into it without a second thought.  Whether you’re the primary caregiver for one or for many, don’t forget to take care of YOU, too.

What good are you to anyone else if you’re unwell, physically, emotionally, or mentally? Give yourself permission to be kind and gentle to the you that needs a little repair and rest. It’s normal. It’s human. It’s what you would do for someone you love. Love YOU enough to do it.

The sun will still rise tomorrow if something remains undone; tides will rise and fall; Beyonce will still have the flyest lacefronts in the game.

So ladies… actually, all my readers, but with a special note to single mothers…tonight, this post is my permission slip to NOT be Superwoman, and instead be a resting woman. And it’s YOUR permission slip too, for whenever you need a reminder to take a break. Print it out and keep it. Share it with someone else who needs it. Cape removal is tough, but worth it.

Echhhh, here comes Mildred. Let her speak one…more…damn…time. Silence is golden, but duct tape is silver. (I’m from the South Bronx, remember?)

The post BREAKING: Superwoman Writes Hall Pass; Has One For You Too! appeared first on EVA SAID IT.

In this age of one-click-everything-access, it’s no wonder that more and more people turn to the world wide web for romance, as easily as their favourite porno pizza. Matchmaking sites were pioneers, touting their success rates and parading engaged actors couples all over our screens. These days, many folks have taken the matchmaking into their own hands, using vehicles such as Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, seeking love actively (see also: “The Thirst”) or by accident.  Allegedly, it happens.

But how can you tell who’s who? Do geo-stamped pictures and words on computer and phone screens offer enough proof of life, let alone any proof of love? The dangerous phenomenon of internet love has recently yielded a  show, and a new entry into the lexicon: “Catfish”. The show is dedicated to catching the liars and fakes at their game through investigation and plain ole logic. And unless you’re under a rock, you already know that  much ado is currently being made in the press of one Notre Dame football player, Manti Te’o, whose late lady love may never have even existed.  Even with a dramatic tale of  death from leukemia, “Lennay Kekua” might never have been more than the internet persona of a Te’o acquaintance.

Is Te’o a sloppy publicity stunt puller? Or the victim of a legitimate love hoax, played cruelly across the miles and cyberspace lines? Either way, he’s a laughingstock and a headline scandal at present. Far fall from being a Heisman-trophy-bound media darling, no?

You might feel it’s all well and good to discuss the Te’o scandal from a comfy distance, while your cousin down at the welfare spends hours making memes dedicated to creating witty “Catfish” one-liners and jabs at potential investigation outcomes. However, there’s REAL heartbreak in some folks’ quest for internet love. Sucker or not, you  may even know one: that vulnerable person who’s genuinely looking for real connections on the internet. Or worse...true love.

Make no mistake though, kids:  Cinderella’s internet boo never came to save her.  The prince was before her, in flesh and blood. She left a slipper behind to be retrieved…not a copied and pasted DM.

There’s more than one lonely soul who really does think his/her @ replies and ‘likes’ are building true relationships across the miles. That may be true for penpals. But I’ve seen women (usually) convince themselves that they’re in a romantic relationship with a person they’ve never met, never shared the same 100 mile radius with, and only know via words on a computer screen after an interaction on a social network introduced them. They’re convinced that for one reason or another, the person on the other end of the keyboard cannot book a flight to be here in person, EVER, and THIS medium is all they have.

::blank fuckin’ stare::

Unless that other party is in a Turkish prison or off at war, that’s a lie. Read that again, because some of you need a kick in the ass. YOU’RE BEING LIED TO.

Sounds crazy when I put it that way, right? Well, it’s even crazier that I know a couple girls who have, in the past, taken themselves off the market and out of the dating scene because they wanted to be loyal to an internet boo. When asked if they’re single, they would hesitate, finally saying they “have a boyfriend”…

But honey, do you? It was painful to watch, and almost impossible to get through to them.  Once, I flat out said to a girlfriend, “How is he your man when you’ve never looked his penis him in the eye? Never breathed the same air?” I all but laid out the reasons she seemed crazy to turn down dates with flesh and blood men  for what was an emotionally intense/draining internet boo.  Every week, there was a new story of some crisis she was helping him through, and how he needs her (see also: “The Mindfuck”), and yet…he had never come see her.  She offered to go there…but there was never a good time for his schedule.  Eaux. I see.  And when she tossed around the word “love”? Ohhhhh, man.

The story was always the same, no matter who the guy or the girlfriend: work issues, family issues, planned trips with hours of mutual flight selection and “does this work for your schedule?” inquiries on both sides… followed by the inevitable “I don’t think I can make it afterall – something’s come up – I’m so sorry – I was so looking forward to finally seeing you!”

And they always ended the same way: he gets another “internet boo” and “cheats” on her with flirty @ replies and ‘likes’ that (I guess?) constitute “internet boo cheating”.

The bottom line is very simple: when people know what they want and are serious about being with another person, they make tangible moves toward that end. Flights are a given, not a negotiation.  Long distance love yields real plans to shorten the miles. And sexual fidelity is a mutual promise, rather than a one-sided by-default outcome.  Love finds a way, and MAKES one when there seems to be none.

Smarten up, kids. I’m not saying internet love is impossible, but use your common sense.  If you’ve never even met, you’re pretty damn single. Sometimes, we see what we WANT to see, rather than what’s in front of us. You really don’t know what’s going on in the life on the other end of the keyboard. Married? Girlfriend/Boyfriend? Total fake persona? Anything is possible on the internet.

That is… except booking a flight to see you this weekend… because my aunt’s cousin’s neighbor’s dog is coming in, and I’ll have a house full, but I was sooooo looking forward to finally meeting you! You understand, right Boo? Still love me? Tweet this post once for ‘yes’, twice for ‘no’. ‘Like’ it on Facebook if you’re not sure. If you share it on G+, we’re internet engaged*.

*Nawl.

The post Cinderella’s Internet Boo Never Came To Save Her appeared first on EVA SAID IT.

The holidays are a time of great feats of fashion. With the myriad of parties to attend, what chic New York girl doesn’t put careful thought into each outfit she plans to wear for every holiday party on her schedule? I am no different. But this year’s planning took me to uncharted territory. And I’m never going back.

The first event on my full dance card: a corporate party at a chic midtown venue. My deep sapphire dress fit like a glove. Ordered weeks in advance, I was all too thrilled to open the garment bag on the back of my office door and show a friend what was in store for the evening.

“Ohhh this is slinky! You’ve got Spanx for tonight, right?” she inquired.

“Spanx? No, I don’t wear them. I look fine in it – why would I need Spanx?” I asked.

She was fervent in her cause: “Ohhhh, honayyyy! EVERY woman needs Spanx! I wear two pairs! You should run over to Bloomie’s and grab a pair – they just smoooooth out all the lumps and bumps!”

Now, the woman in front of me was super thin. She’s had two children and not an ounce of flab ANYWHERE. She’s tall and quite slim – just what were these Spanx holding in on her? She’s blessed with a naturally thin body type. As for myself, I’m curvy, but in shape and not “lumpy and bumpy”. What are these lumps and bumps she’s trying to help me avoid? Is there elephantiasis she thinks I should hide? I don’t WANT to hold in my curves!

But yet, as my friend pointed out, Kimmy K wears Spanx…Jessica Alba wears Spanx…why not Eva? What could it hurt? If I’m already happy with my figure, couldn’t this only make me HAPPIER still? Right? Right. Wrong. So off I went and grabbed my size in a $70 pair of Spanx that covered from right under my bra to mid-thigh length. My friend nodded in approval as I showed her what looked, to me, like a modified post-surgical body stocking.

Then…came the torture. Despite being my size, I got them to mid-thigh and couldn’t see how they could go further. Calling my distress over the stall of my office bathroom to my pal, and contemplating a request that she step in and help me, she said “No, that sounds right. Now, YANK!”

So I did. And she was indeed correct. They stretched and gave a bit just so I could wiggle them up to my ribcage and adjust the legs over my thighs. But…now that I was in this black sausage casing…who was gonna come pry me out at the end of the night?! What army was going to assist me on wine-induced bathroom runs? I silently thanked God that I had peed before buttering my backsides into this get-up. I made a mental note to take it easy on liquids: I can’t fight like this with a dress on too! And then I wondered: how do Spanxed-up women ever get laid? These things are a modern day chastity belt – he just CAN’T still have an erection by the time the two of you pry the pussy out of these things! Sheesh!

And then I slid my navy blue dress on over my head. POW! The fabric slid and slinked across the Spanx like butter. I couldn’t deny – the dress felt extra sexy with a sleek under layer beneath.

I opened the stall door and stepped into the full-length mirror…and was sorely disappointed. I looked…exactly the same. ::sad trombone sound here:: Actually, no, I take that back. My butt looked smaller in the side view. Do you know how unhappy that makes a curvy black girl who LIKES her curves? VERY.

“Oh my GAWD – you look amayyyzing in that! See? Aren’t you glad you tried them?” asked Beanpole. I. Was. NOT.

But it was time to go, and I wasn’t about to fight my way OUT of these punishment panties in stilettos and full make-up. Sweat out my roots Struggle to UNDRESS before the event even began? NOPE! Off I went, tightly wrapped in Spanx and disappointment.

After a night of few cocktails (didn’t wanna pee, remember?) and fidgeting with my riding-up-and-down-undergarments (they don’t stay put – try pinning them to your bra if you can – and just discreetly adjust the thighs), I was very happy to yank them off in my bedroom. No man can EVER see me shimmy out of them again. And what’s the point of a sexy slinky look if it’s a can’t-touch-it trap? I burned them buried them in my lingerie drawer, and will mostly likely never use them again.

Bottomline: I know lots of ladies who swear by them, but they’re not for me. Do what makes you feel confident and sexy. Whatever “lumps and bumps” my sweet girlfriend wanted to help me avoid are probably better known as “hips and ass”. I’ll take them over the agony of getting in and out of Spanx any day.

So this New Year’s Eve, I’m asking all my sisters to make one resolution: clean out your shit-filled closet love yourself enough in 2013 to accept what you see in the mirror, or love yourself enough to do the work to change it. Shortcuts and tricks don’t work long-term. Love you for you!

::singing:: “…’Cause my bawwwdy’s too bootylicious for ya bayyybe…”

The post Eva in Spanxland – A Cautionary Tale & Resolution appeared first on EVA SAID IT.

Let’s just cut right to the chase: Facebook is a shady little minx. Between the constant privacy setting changes and we-just-posted-your-private-message-heauxtivities scare, FB is always up to no damn good for your life.

But that “Friends You May Know” tool? The absolute devil! For example, it keeps suggesting I add a woman with whom an ex cheated on me.  Yeah, Zuckerberg, you could indeed say we have penises friends in common.

The internet in general is a shade-filled playground, laced with land mines and beds-you’ve-been-in pits of quicksand. I’m not talking about the we-parted-on-good-terms exes; I’m talking about the hope-you-fall-on-a-cactus exes. Is there really any reason to tempt fate by welcoming a bit of your past to your constantly updated present?

Nope. But it sure can be fun when your ego wants to rub someone’s nose in their mistakes there’s a purpose to it!  Hear me out. Story time!

A few posts back, I wrote about the time I spent in an abusive relationship. Wouldn’t you know that of ALL the exes with the nerve to look me up on the internet and press “request friend”, HE did?! The internet makes people brave and dumb y’all…

He even sent a note: “I believe I whupped your ass across my livingroom once know you. If not, then I apologize.”

So I thought about it for a moment. The high road meant ignoring the request completely. It was the mature thing to do…so I did the opposite. I realized that while I had nothing to share with him specifically, I didn’t have anything to hide from him either. I’m stronger than ever! Why not let him see that I was neither afraid nor sad in this life of mine?  So that’s just what I did. I accepted the request and allowed him three days of access to me. I let him see this life that I’ve built…happily and without him…and then I pulled the plug.

::DELETE!::

It was a feeling of magic. People take the internet SO seriously these days that unfriendings and unfollows seem to dole out blows akin to banishment from mythical kingdoms. This was bigger than anything I had had the strength to say when we were together. I was young and naive then. Now, not so much. Funny thing about being a grown-up: you know all the childish buttons to press.

Sure enough. Another note appeared in my inbox.

“Unfriended me?” was all it said.

I didn’t reply. It was pretty self-explanatory. DUH! Can you see me anymore? No? Ok then, Einstein. Guess what I did!

I know what you’re thinking. Sounds so childish, doesn’t it? Parading my life in front of someone, when I’ve matured and grown past whatever relationship ills I once had with him…it’s not adult behaviour, is it? It was all ego talking, wasn’t it?

Of course it was! That was the whole point!

For me, in this instance, it said “here I am – fine without you – take a peek.”  I let him have a glance into who I am today, and who I always was, but now he saw me through the eyes of someone who literally clicked a button to request re-admittance into my life….and waited to be accepted.

Oh! And perhaps the best part? I did some clicking around of my own on his page. Lo and behold, he was still writing the same self important drivel he did back then and calling it poetry, still fancying himself an artist of the highest caliber, and still hanging out with the same underachieving crowd from over a decade ago. Why had I ever liked him exactly? I couldn’t figure it out. I actually laughed out loud!

Sometimes closure comes years after the fact. Other times, closure is as simple as packing a bag and shutting a door. For me, this unfinished business was neatly wrapped up with the click of a button. It was a final “fuck you!” in a new digital format, expressing what I had been too young to say when we were together. I admit: after all these years, I wanted my little bit of get-back! There’s nothing like forgiveness turning the tables!

So next time an ex says “accept lil ole loser me into your new fabulous life PLEEEEEEEEASE!” requests you somewhere on the world wide webbernets, stop and consider: what is there to gain here?  Then, act maturely. Or…do what I did and have some fun!

::cues up Beyonce’s “Ego” and sings::

“…Ego so big / you must admit / I got every reason to feel / like I’m that bitch…”

The post Facebook, The Ex, And You (Well, Me…) appeared first on EVA SAID IT.

Hey everyone!

As we move into this first feast of the holiday season, I just wanted to touch base and wish you many blessings and much happiness with your families!  Some of us will sit at tables of ten, while others with dine in sensational solo style. Whatever the case – be thankful.

In the post-Sandy New York area especially, please remember those who are less fortunate and have no table at which to sit, no dinner to fuss over and serve, and perhaps not even a permanent address to call home. If you can give time, a meal, or a smile – I implore you…GIVE IT.

I play too damn much joke a lot on here, but know that when I count my blessings, I count each reader among them. Thanks for reading, for sharing, for commenting, for being patient when I pull a disappearing act.  You guys rock!

Also, this Saturday, I’m honored to be on the panel for the First Blogger Conference, hosted by the wonderful ladies of Cocktails and Conversations!  We’re on the air at 8am, EST, so if your turkey coma has worn off, tune it and check us out!

Presenting the Panel!

Oh! One more thing: –> Kraft processed cheese slices over half boiled macaroni is NOT mac n’ cheese. <– Don’t put one damn struggle plate in my timeline tomorrow kids!!! And them cheap plastic/Styrofoam/paper plates? C’mon now. Act like your mama gave you some training please.  Get-it-to-fucking-gether!

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

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