March 21, 2012. Wednesday. And the news everywhere is blaring the details of the murder of a 17 year old black child named Trayvon Martin in Sanford, FL, by a non-black man named George Zimmerman.  Some say he’s hispanic, some say white, some say hispanic passing as white. It matters not. Trayvon was killed while walking back to his father’s home in a gated community carrying nothing but Skittles and a can of Arizona Iced Tea. Deemed “suspicious” by presence of a hoodie by an overzealous neighborhood watchman, he was shot and killed in cold blood.  You’ve heard the details. You know the story. You also know the outrage it has produced in communities all over.

But my 11 year old son does not.

And I can’t let television or newspaper stands we pass be the ones to tell him. I also can’t let the news come to him from his classmates, far removed in their Manhattan private school lives, just as he is. For the most part, their families can afford for this to be a passing headline that’s “such a shame and tragedy” till it falls from sight, if they so choose. Most of his classmates won’t grow up to be black men.  But… I need to convey to my son that, in our case, it’s personal. He needs to understand that this case is about me…about him…about his father.  Maybe that’s too much to ask from a 6th grader. I decide to give him the facts and see what he says.

As we walk the six blocks from the bus stop to school, we have a talk.

I ask if he’s heard about a young man named Trayvon. He says he hasn’t. I’m relieved.  His mind will receive it without any minimizing views to erase. His reaction will be his own.

“Well, he was a 17 year old boy in a town in Florida. A man named George Zimmerman shot and killed him, claiming it was self-defense, while patrolling the area as part of a neighborhood watch program. He followed Trayvon, despite being told NOT to, because he said he looked suspicious in the hoodie he was wearing.  A scuffle occurred, and Trayvon was dead when the police arrived.  The man who shot him was not arrested and remains free.  You might hear about this in school, but I wanted you to have the facts.  You don’t have to argue anyone down if they try to tell you other details that contradict this, but I know some kids might not really understand what happened. Someone may make an inappropriate joke. Maybe his name is funny to them or whatever. They just don’t have the details in a very serious matter. That’s not your responsibility to school them. Simply state ‘he died – and this isn’t funny’, and walk away.”

He nodded.

“And also, we have somewhere to go tonight, if you don’t have a ton of homework. There’s a protest in Union Square that I want us to attend. It’s important to me that we show our support and agree publicly that what happened was wrong. They’re calling it the Million Hoodie March, and everyone’s going to wear hoodies to show how silly it is to think that hoodies worn by anyone of any color automatically make them suspicious.”

“Ok, Mom. But what did the guy who died do? What did he have?”  He’s waiting for a thug tale.

My throat closes. I can feel my cheeks get hot and my eyes go blurry with the first salt of tears.  I blink them back furiously because LORD, DON’T LET ME CRY WALKING DOWN 3RD AVENUE!

“A can of iced tea and a pack of Skittles,” I say quietly.

My son’s head snaps to face me and I see it. The look on his face. His eyes are wide as saucers and his mouth is agape in a gasp.  It’s not a look of surprise alone, though. It’s a look of recognition. My son…sees himself.

“Wait, he didn’t have a gun, too?!” he asks in disbelief.

“No, baby.  He went to a convenience store, bought some snacks, and was walking back to his dad’s house in the same gated community.  Zimmerman felt he didn’t belong there. So you see, this wasn’t a fair fight, and even less fair that Zimmerman is free.”

We walk the rest of the way in silence.  As we approach the building, my son turns to me and says, “I won’t talk about it in school, and if anyone brings it up, I’ll walk away. And look, I’m already wearing my hoodie, too.”  He yanks the hood of his school emblem fleece out from under his jacket. A quick kiss and he disappears into the building.

As it would turn out, he worried through the day about me at a protest, and we did not go. He grew concerned on hearing that OWS was part of it and begged me that we stay home and safe from potential mayhem. I acquiesced.  We supported with pictures of us in our hoodies, shared information from those at Union Square with Facebook and Twitter friends, and focused on his math test prep for the night – finding the area of triangles, parallelograms, circumference of circles and hoodrats.

But one thing stays with me: my son saw himself in Trayvon Martin.  He eats Skittles. He drinks Arizona Iced Tea. He wears hoodies. He is black. I was proud and scared of his young wisdom at the same time. In one incredulous look, I saw the hamster wheel turn in his head…”could that happen to me?”

…and the fact that I CANNOT say 100%, “No, never”…is eating my heart alive.

An education won’t save you. (Trayvon is reported to have been an A and B student.) Being an athlete won’t save you. (Trayvon played football.) Living in a nice area doesn’t protect you. (This happened in a gated community where he was visiting his father, not on a street corner in South Central.) Would a suit have protected him? (Probably not. Dr. Henry Louis “Skip” Gates, Jr. got arrested on his own Massachusetts front porch. The Harvard professor is a SUIT, honey…)

This country has so much work to do concerning race. It won’t be solved in my lifetime, and doubtfully within my son’s. Racism has gone undercover, to match its deeply ingrained history in this country, and usually only raises its head in subversive day-to-day ways. An apartment rental denial here, a promotion bypass there, and always with the appropriate paperwork in place.  No one wants to be a provable racist.

And then there are rare instances like this, where a child is hunted by an armed grown man on foot, and shot in the street like a dog…

It’s Emmett Till all over again.

And I’m preparing my son on so many different fronts that it’s exhausting…but necessary.  The unspoken rules that black men have to follow to (hopefully) avoid suspicion and trouble.  The respect for humanity enough to NOT condemn all of any one race, white, black, or purple.   The discernment to know when to walk versus run – Trayvon did what I tell my son – why run if you’ve done nothing wrong! When is it enough? When are black boys safe?

I don’t have an answer to give my son. FUCK! I don’t have an answer to give my heart.

“You need to change the name of your site, because Eva hasn’t said SH*T lately…”

- my lawyer to me, right before the Valentine’s Day series

THIS negro… Dude really thinks he’s funny.  See how people talk to me? Hpmh. No respect at AWLLL. Remind me to not say sh*t about paying his invoices too, that is, if I was ever intending on cutting a check to begin with.  #ThugLife ::chuckles::

But yes, I did indeed take a long hiatus in posting. Somewhere around September, the world exploded on my calendar and writing for my site took a back seat. A far back seat. Like, a “sitting on the last bench with the bad kids” back seat. I hate when that happens.  Sometimes, it’s unavoidable though. Between writing for some paid assignments (YAY!), helping my son settle into 6th grade (not so YAY!), and traveling to and from Jamaica for family things, AND then the holidays…my schedule was WACKED.

However, I was also working on other creative projects. One of which, I’m sharing with you here. =)

Since 2007, I’ve been part of a photography series of female subjects in various states of natural undress, entitled “The Universal Woman”.  The series studies and celebrates women of all shapes, sizes, and shades, capturing the “Universal Beauty of the Human Form” using non-traditional models and subjects. It has shown around New York City in various galleries and sold many prints to private collectors. Now, it’s becoming a book.

To be clear: I AM NOT A MODEL. Let’s get that first declaration out of the way now.

As a matter of fact, most of the women in this book have never shot before. They’re women like me and you: mothers, wives, sisters, career women, homemakers. They’re women who laugh, cry, get fed up, love, hate, do laundry, feel like superheroes one minute, feel like failures another. But when they (and you) look in the mirror, I hope we all see the same thing: beauty.

Some of the women you will see in The Universal Woman series are rail thin, others quite Rubenesque and full figured. Warning: you will see breasts, thighs, hips, and…well…other stuff too. But in many cases, not faces. The idea is to appreciate all of a woman’s curves…not figure out which face goes with them. Most of the time, you can’t match them up anyway. And, no, I won’t tell you which ones are me. If you see my face, that’s knowledge enough. Feel free to guess though. 

Here’s a sneak peek pic from the series. It’s raw and untouched, save for the credit and watermark added. It’s one of my faves, despite that I am tired and a lil sweaty in it. LOL! You can see my freckles, and every flaw…and I proudly own each one.

Preview from "The Universal Woman" series...

The second declaration: yes, I’m (tastefully) nude in all my shots. And, no, I don’t wanna be in your video, don’t want to be on your man’s man’s promo flyer for his night at da cluuuuub, and have no interest in shooting with you, Mr. I-Am-An-Instagram-Prodigy.  Also, don’t hold your breath waiting to hear about an appearance at Sue’s or Magic City, unless it’s with my fist full of singles. ::makes it rain on your browser window::

It was liberating and empowering to shed my fears and insecurities, or in some shots SHARE them. I’m me. Flesh, bones, flaws…and beautiful. Just like you.

For more images from the series, please visit www.harlemphoto.net.  Feel free to share the site or drop a note about it. (Caveat lector: I don’t wanna hear about your pervy cousin who wacked off to a pic or two, mmmmkay?) Release date and other info for the book will be published there soon, and I’ll be sharing it here too.  From time to time, there’ll be more previews to come!

So yeah. I’ve been a busy girl, and this is the first of a few projects you’ll be hearing about.

I’m gonna go pay burn some lawyer invoices now. Toodles!

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.

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.

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

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!”

So I want you to raise your kissy-face-picture-taking hand and take this pledge. Say it out loud, say it strong and proud!

1) I will stop doing single-outfit-bedroom/bathroom-sink-photoshoots for Facebook/Instagram/Twitter, etc. I realize that ten pics of me wearing the same clothes, at the same dirty sink, with the same face and only slightly different “eyebrow faces” are not believable as “random candids”, no matter what insightful hipster captions I may write beneath them.  I understand that I look desperate for attention, vain, or both.

Instagram Douche Example

2) In 2012, I will cease to use the terms “zoo” or “movie” to refer to an evening of hoodrat shit with my friends.  I understand that popping a few 40s and doing our best “thug poses” for the camera wouldn’t qualify for those terms at any rate, and under no circumstances will I use the nonsensical word “zoovie”. My Ciroc fantasies  are simply not that epic. I hereby throw “zoo”, “movie”, and “zoovie” in the trash…and toss “swagu” in with it. If something’s dripping from me, it’s most likely not a slang pasta sauce derivative.

3a) Ladies:  This year, I will find a new pose. I acknowledge that the skeptical half-mouth trout pout only makes me look like a sarcastic fish. I realize this isn’t attractive, let alone to be done in all my pictures.

Sarcastic Trout - requisite middle finger included...

3b) Guys: This year, I’m retiring the strange “point-at-dude-next-to-me” pose.  It’s not clear to me that two guys, standing side by side pointing at each other is…well…pointless. Ditto this for the sunglasses in the club poses and the 6-dudes-smiling-with-one-bottle pics.

4) I will stop bragging about my drink choices, especially if they came from rhyme-necessitated phrasing in urban music. I further understand that “Marvin Gaye and Chardonnay” is not a drink. Unlike a “Bartles and James”, I cannot buy a six-pack at 7-11 and bring it somewhere.

and finally…

5) I vow to learn the difference between “slander” and “libel” by reading their definitions somewhere other than Twitter.

Actually, let me help you with that last one:

slander: Law . defamation by oral utterance rather than by writing,pictures, etc.

libel:  Law . a. defamation by written or printed words, pictures, or in any form other than by spoken words or gestures.

b. the act or crime of publishing it.

Meh…what am I saying…You read me, but you ain’t HEAR me though… {See what I did there? }

*Photo edits courtesy C.J. Figgs because I’m lazy as hell today…

Seems to me that a threesome is the top glamorized, sexed up fantasy wishlist item for every man out there, whether he admits it or not. But I have an answer for everything. Every. Damn. Thing. My works of reason will suck the joy out of flying kites and eating cotton candy if you let me.  And since I’ve been asked, to the same final NO each time, I’ve had time to do my research and perfect my arguments. Feel free to borrow them and use to negotiate or negate. I won’t judge you!

These would be my terms:

1) Number Three cannot be another dude.
I think this one is pretty obvious, but that down low ish will catch you sleeping if you let it.  Who are these women who are cool with that much meat coming at them at once? And who are these guys who agree to it? Crossed swords just sound awkward for everyone involved. If I were to see that, I’d look askance at my man every time he undressed. I can only imagine how my  man might feel. YUCK.

2) We need to agree on taste in women. I get final approval.
She can’t be everything your overweight-midget-with-a-limp-porn fantasies demand and leave me with this face: O-O I don’t care what I agreed to, I’m leaving. And since this activity is to fulfill something you want, I don’t think making sure she’s not a The Hills Have Eyes reject is a small request.

3) She cannot be someone already known to you.
If you come up so handily with “Geeee, I just happen to have a friend…”, that tells me you scoped her out before we had this conversation, perhaps even for other reasons of your own.  Sorry, but we can’t use that one last heaux you meant to fuck but didn’t get around to number you took in the club before we got together.  We’re also not using your freaky ex. She is NOT rocking with you tonight for old time’s sake. Reminisce booty? Not on my watch, Bub.

4) We have to agree on how to find her.
We live in the internet age, but is this something you really want to take an ad out for? How does a couple go about finding a third in a safe way, without sounding like a Bonnie & Clyde/Kidnap You For Prostitution Ring scam? Craigslist is skeevy. We’re talking about inviting someone into our bed, not asking them to come take our leftover sofa for $20. I don’t want those used cushions. Thanks. O_o

Other options include hitting up a swinger’s club (I’d go, but just for shits and giggles with my partner), befriending a stripper and talking her into it, hiring a professional, bar hopping and hunting together… so many choices and none sound appealing to me. I guess the best one is bar hopping and hunting together. Takes away the ability to pre-plan it, as you never know when/if you’ll find her, but it’s a way to make sure everyone’s on the same page and do the deed before anyone can think about it too much.  SIDENOTE: I don’t know the best way, and you shouldn’t know and be too eager with the suggestions here either, Buddy. BE. EASY.

5) I don’t want to have to see her ever again. Anywhere.
Running into her after the act, by accident, in a normal course of daily life, would be less than ideal. We can’t choose someone we might see at the grocery store, someone only twice removed from our social circle, or connected too closely to our daily lives. She’s not auditioning to be a new BFF to either of us. She’s disposable. (Sorry to all you ladies that have been 3s, out there reading this. Truth hurts.) In that spirit, sub-rule 5 is that neither of us can contact her solo. If we both reach out, that’s fine, assuming it has  been mutually agreed upon. I mean, maybe it’ll be a good night afterall! Hey! Who knows! Freak how ya wanna freak! But neither of us can make contact without the other being privy and part of it.

6) I don’t have to tell you what I’m NOT doing with Number Three, do I?!  DO I?!?!
Okay good. Because that shit’s not even happening on your birthday, on Christmas Day, Canada Day, Doris Day, the day you won the lottery…NO. I. WON’T.  ::straightens hair and ditches the crazy eye:: That said, ladies, agree on limits with your partner so as to manage expectations for everyone involved. *cough*

Overall, all these conditions are rooted to one thing for me: trust. It’s a major factor. We’ve all seen the threesome-gone-wrong movies. What if she’s crazy and and wants me for herself? Oh, yeah…I mean…or you…yeah…you all for herself.

For this reason, some say it’s something to do with a person you’re not emotionally connected to or invested in, making it more an activity to be had with a jump-off or a fling.

I disagree. Flings and jump-offs owe you nothing and discretion is a fading art form.  I couldn’t even see this scenario with someone I couldn’t truly trust. I’m a firm believer that in a real relationship, you should be willing to “go there” with your partner and try new things at least once in an environment where you can be free, safe, and comfortable.  If anyone IS uncomfortable, you never have to do it again. No judgement. No fear. Just safe exploration between two consenting adults. Right? Yeah. In a perfect world anyway.  But why not increase the odds of a good outcome? I can’t imagine THIS much freedom or comfort with a transient.

Lots to think about before agreeing, and some of these aren’t so easy to consider, but they usually ended the conversation where it stood. Imagine having a dusty, 2 inch thick, bound agreement thrust at you at the mere mention of “menage”. Yep. That’s the effect these rules have.  A threesome could be a great night to remember and repeat or the worst moment of your relationship. Don’t take it too lightly in the name of a porn .

Whew! Thank God I’ll never have to worry about any of this because I’m not the type to have a threesome…but if I waaaaas…

“If you have to announce that you’re shutting the fuck up, then you’ve completely missed the point of shutting the fuck up.”

- My Lawyer to Me, early 2011

The nerve, right?! I mean, how dare he!  And the worst part? He’s right.

Absolutely correct. Shutting the fuck up, and knowing when it’s time to, is something you just DO, you don’t further discuss.

But I didn’t always see it that way. Quite frankly, a lot of women don’t…till we have reason to…and then it just might be too late.

Let’s flashback to 2005. I had undergone a pretty bad break-up when my mother said to me, “Eva, he wasn’t strong enough for you anyway. You won every disagreement. You need someone who can tell you to shut the fuck up.” (Yes, that’s what my mother said it me. My lawyer, my mother…people are gonna need to learn some damn respect round these parts!  SMH…)

I railed, “WHAT?! If a man told me to shut the fuck up blah blah blah…”

She clarified, “No, that’s not what I literally meant. A man who loves you won’t talk to you that way and I know you wouldn’t take it. I mean you need a man that when you bark like a big dog, he barks back loud enough to turn your big bark into a little YIPE…and you respect him enough to actually stop and SHUT THE FUCK UP. He also needs to know when to just tune your ass out.“

O_O Ohhhhhhhhh…

See, now she had a point. And I agreed with it. If I don’t respect you, I’m very likely to steamroll you. It won’t be on purpose, and I might even be very sorry afterward. But once I’ve steamrolled you, there’s no turning back.  Respect is key. ::shrugs::

That respect factor ties in to two other issues:

1) Let’s say we have a problem to solve. I don’t care who owns the best idea, so long as it’s the one we go with. Do I have faith that you know what you’re talking about and are correct? Or do I think you’re spouting off to seem like you do, at my cost or whoever else’s cost? Is your ego the first priority and everyone else collateral damage? If I’m just going to have to come behind you and do it over anyway, I’ll just show you why you’re wrong now. If your idea is better, show me by doing it right. You’re not automatically right just because you say you are and have a penis. (Sidenote: proper use of said penis might, however, buy my silence as I go do this task over. Oh, I’ll grumble about it, but not loud enough for you to hear. Quid pro quo… See also: dickmatization.)

2) The “Ah-HA!” moment of being right is powerful stuff – especially when you’re on the “Oh! I Was Wrong” end of it.  It can be diminishing for a man to be wrong on a subject his lady really does know more about.  It’s a delicate moment that can go horribly awry if he decides to grandstand and try to look right on principle. Yes, those guys DO exist. I dated one once. He was wrong… A LOT. So, I told him…A LOT! In front of whoever was around…which only made it worse.  But my whole thing is, if you were wrong and insist you’re right, past the point of logic, and as a show, then you put your own huevos in my grinder.  As eager as you are to be right, is as quickly as I’m pulling up the Wikipedia page to show you how wrong you are. Matter of fact, let’s pass this bitch around, shall we?!

Further, if indeed I DO issue a pass and decide to shut the fuck up, my man has to be aware that just because I didn’t say anything, doesn’t mean I didn’t see anything. Gentlemen, we keep a lot to ourselves sometimes in the name of peace. Don’t take that for granted. Not every getaway is clean, and all shut eye is not asleep.

So you see, this shutting-the-fuck-up business is very tricky stuff.  Sometimes, the “Ah-HA!” moment” isn’t worth it. Sometimes, it’s easier to just do the task yourself. Sometimes, a man should just know better than to try me that day.

But overall, it’s about picking your battles and not crossing swords every single time you can. You may have reason to, and be completely correct, but will the benefit of being right outweigh to potential damage done to attain the win? ::shrugs:: Nope.  All in all, that’s the lesson it took me time to learn: battle selection.  I probably owe an ex or two an apology for pointing out their obvious stupidity belaboring a point or three.

You get the point. I’ll just shut the fuck up now.

Oh! Dammit, maaaaaann! I’ll never get the hang of this…

Girlfriend on argument with live-in boyfriend: “He’s trippin. ::tears:: We haven’t spoken in 2 days. I’m so mad about XYZ. ::snot-filled breath:: I don’t know what’s gonna happen with us. I even slept on the couch.”

She then drops the deets about the angry sex they had in the kitchen a few hours before that.

Me: “Girl…get out my ear. I have work to do.”

I don’t get it. Angry sex, that is. Now, I can hear some of you already, saying I’m nuts and it’s some great lovin’ and I don’t know what I’m missing blah blah blah blah blah…  But here’s my point of view.

Let’s say my partner and I have an argument. I’m not a big proponent of going to bed mad. On the few occasions when I have done so, I tossed and turned and woke up feeling terrible about whatever he and I were quibbling over. I’ve even dreamed about the rift! It’s like personal punishment on TOP of the disagreement! In the past, it’s even been enough to send me right into his arms with an “I hate that we argued – let’s just let it go.” I can’t hang. I’m not built for all that.  We’re gonna talk this out here and now, because if it goes much longer, I’m gonna be pissed that it did, on TOP of whatever already had us pissed to begin with. And if it’s truly a serious, multi-day matter, then we deal with it till it’s done. That’s how I solve mess.

What I don’t do though, is stop mid-argument and give you some pissed-off pussy. I just can’t! Shit, that doesn’t even sound appealing! (Say it out loud: “pissed-off pussy”! YUCK!) If we’re arguing, and it’s truly a matter that has us disagreeing, I’m not trying to give you an all access pass to Disneyland cloud the matter with physical intimacy. If I’m mad at you, I’m mad at your penis too. Don’t touch me. There either. It’s a little too up-close and personal if we’re beefing, in the most personal of ways.

::side-eye:: I heard that! Yes, it IS still personal, even if she’s bent over the side of… uhh…nevermind.

Now, yes, some may say that that is using sex as a weapon. I disagree. For me, I feel like being intimate mid-argument diminishes whatever emotional or factual point I had to begin with.  In life, you’ve seen people say before a debate or public speaking engagement that “picturing the crown/opponent nude will put you at ease” only half as a joke. The theory is that it’ll make the speaker take the crowd less seriously, thereby making the speaker less nervous to face them. No thanks.  I’d like you to remain just as nervous to face me as whatever the situation demands. Take me and this pussy seriously, dammit.

I also think that men and women process sex differently in a relationship. Sometimes, sex wipes out whatever else is going on. I’m generally an easy-going person, with relationships that aren’t normally spat-filled. If I feel strongly enough to bring it to conflict, I’m not risking it being disregarded over some ass. I actually have heard guy friends say “I hit – how mad can she be?” Sir… ::lowers glasses:: SIR!  I have batteries handy, thanks.

To illustrate just how awkward angry sex seems to me, I wanted to show you the leg-scissors scene from the 1989 classic “War of the Roses”, but can’t find a clip anywhere. Here’s the next best thing. Picture sex, in the middle of the following exchange.

I don’t know, but “angry peen” doesn’t sound appealing to me. I’m literally being stabbed with it! Am I alone? Ladies? Angry sex? What say you?

*There’s actually no other things. It just sounded cuter that way. =)

UPDATE: Found it! Just don’t listen with the sound on. I think it’s in Russian. Hilarious sounds, but NSFW because it sounds like a porno.