I Won't Do That

I believe that instead of run-of-the mill, regular new year's resolutions, everyone should ponder on their own "I Won't Do That" lists, and have a good time being true to who you already are. Enjoy not doing whatever you have the luxury of not doing, all while practicing self-accountability by sticking to it all year long. Makes for a nice twist.
These are a few won't dos that I've been pondering for the last nine days. I won't:
1. Go hungry just to prove a point. Because food is delicious and life too short not to enjoy it.  I'm not suggesting to anyone to just overeat for the hell of it, but anything that even whiffs of self-deprivation is a no-go. I admire all of the folks with the discipline and desire to eat less for certain desired results, but whenever I find that portion control is not working for me, I'm eating whatever I want.
2. Be cold. Because fuck being cold on purpose. Too many folks are out there as it is, cold (and hungry) because they can't help it, and anybody who is doing a freeze out, in your own house or car or other space, talking about saving money, fuck your so-called budget. And if you're too cheap to turn up the heat when you have guests, fuck you, too. I've been a guest at folks' houses and been cold while they knew it. That's some heartbreaking mess. I refuse to be cold in my own house.
3. Miss new release movies waiting on someone to go with. I'm tired of waiting for stuff to come to DVD. I'm about that big screen life.
4. Stop using petroleum-based products because they are generally frowned upon in the natural hair and skin care community. Sorry, not sorry, all of you hard core, better informed and more deeply committed than I all-natural folks. My lips like Vaseline. And so do my knees, elbows, and the heels of my feet. And my edges don't seem to mind a little Blue Magic, once in a while, either.
I'm sure there will be more. It's still plenty early in the year.

To the Man I Marry...

Considering that my previous post was about my fear of swelling up like a beach ball, whether through poor eating habits, a lethargic exercise regimen, or some tragic metabolic failure, I know this is going to sound like some straight bullshit, but I think I'm in love...with spaghetti w/fried fish on the side.  Go ahead. Judge me.
I'd first heard about this ridiculous combination of "main dishes" when I was a freshman in college, and met my neighbors from Memphis.  Well, I hadn't given it much thought until today, when I stumbled on a thread on Facebook about spaghetti.  Then someone mentioned fried fish on the side, and bam!  My dinner menu was planned.
I even went out and bought a fancy new electric deep fryer.  And let me tell you, deep fryers have come a long way since my grandma's Fry Daddy days.  No splattering.  No burnt oil.  No burnt food.  Lovely.
Well, long story short:  Yum and yum.  Not orgasmic *yum yum* but something to the effect of pleasantly pleasing *yum yum.*
Which brings me to a semi-unrelated-related note.  Although I haven't a clue who or where he is, I had such an enjoyable meal this evening, that I feel fairly certain that my future husband will be the man who makes me a meal of spaghetti and fried fish.
Yeah. Sounds like bullshit to me, too, but that's where my head is at right now.

*Nomnomnom*

But seriously. I could really use more of this in my life. 

Unreasonable Fear of Fatness

I have a very real, but unreasonable fear of being overweight.  Not just overweight, but obese, swollen, like a giant marshmallow, looking like I'm suffering from a permanent bad reaction to a bee sting. 

Unreasonable, because I'm fortunate enough not to have any physical health issues or restrictions that would prevent me from exercising and maintaining a healthy weight and attractive figure.
Unreasonable, because I've been thin, svelte, athletic, or moderately curvy for most of my life.  Unreasonable, because I'm genetically blessed and predisposed to having a small-medium frame.

But very real because I'm very lazy.  Very real, because in the last two years, I've gone from a curvy size 12 to a voluptuous size 16, and no one seems to have noticed but me.  People tell me that I look good, and no one notices or knows that none of my old clothes fit, because I'm wearing all new ones.

I'm about to retire from the Army within the next few months, and I really don't like exercising.  Truth is, I never have, but soon, very soon, I won't have to.  That's the rub.

As much as I know and appreciate the physical, emotional and psychological benefits of exercise and endorphins, and a healthy diet, I am not ever excited about any of it.  I'm rarely ever motivated to move more than necessary.  I'm kind of ashamed of that.

And worst of all, I don't want to be living a swollen life.  God help me. I've got to find my motivation.  Vanity is not it.

I Kinda Hate Her, Whoever She Is

And so, the lust of my last several days seems to have a love-lust interest of his own.  Of this I'm not sure, of course; but I got a tiny clue yesterday when I overheard something that I was pretending not to be interested in hearing.
Damn!
And so, I kinda hate her.  In a purely "I don't really care" sort of way.  None of that stops me from daydreaming (or trying to night dream) about him.   That beautifully toned, dark and muscular body.  Naked, of course; and with a bad-ass tattoo from his reckless youth, or possibly, a sexy-mysterious scar, somewhere prominent or barely visible, but begging to be kissed.

Men and Sex

Sometimes, I wonder just how much attention men actually pay to a woman's body during sex.  I know that men don't mind imperfection, any more than women do.  I mean, it's not like you're starring in love scene on the big screen, or making a home porno, but still. 
How much do men really mind a little back fat, or muffin top, or a little extra meat on the thighs?  Do they really notice when our legs aren't freshly shaved?  Eh.  Probably not.
The point is, we notice it on ourselves, and for me, well...I get a little embarrassed thinking about what he might be thinking.  Yeah.  Silly, I guess.  I just want to feel attractive.  I want to feel like I look like somebody whose bones he wants to jump all the time.  *Sigh*  I miss being in a relationship.
And for those women out there with steady beaus and husbands who have your periodic losses of interest in sex, if it's an appearance/"I need to tidy up" type of issue, I get it.  That whole self esteem thing is heavy, and probably drives down the sex drive.  But for all else, such as that, "I'm tired," "I got a headache," "the kids are in the next room," (y'all KNOW you can have quiet sex), or "I'm mad at you right now" type of stuff, all the damn time...you bitches make me sick.

A Few Bars of Thank You

There's this neighbor of mine who shall remain nameless, but the man gives me an itch I can't explain, and I want him to scratch it.  It's a like a tingling that sneaked up on me, and I suddenly understood why women become serial masturbators.  But that ain't enough for me.  It never has been, and it sure wouldn't be now. 
I never understood what women get out of masturbating, but the way I feel about him right now, I understand what they're trying to get.  He literally gives me the hots in a spot that I want him to fill.  Like right now. I. Want. Him.
It's the damnest thing, because I hardly noticed him the first time I saw him, but after I heard him speak, something sparked.  Or maybe I'm ovulating and just feeling frisky.  He's handsome and well-built, dark features, smooth skin, polite.  Somebody I certainly should have noticed before now, but whatever.  I notice him now.
Whatever it is, for the last several nights, I've found myself lying in bed, picturing him.  First, his smile, then his lips, then his completely naked body, intertwined with mine.   Or, at this moment, mine straddling his.
Sometimes, a man's accent is all it takes for me to pay attention.  Sometimes, a slow, southern drawl.  Other times, a thick and sharp northern turn of phrases.  Have mercy, this one is from somewhere in New York, and it's all over him, and just...doing something to me.
I close my eyes and see that smile, however casual it must have been when he first flashed it at me, and I think how he has to know that it's his money maker.  His words, whatever the hell he's saying (I'm not really paying attention), make me want to bite my lips.  I want to kiss him.   Deeply.  And then, Lord help me.  I want to do some really ungodly things with him.
Even now, I'm picturing him naked, lying on his back, smooth chest, neatly trimmed nether regions, waiting, expecting, welcoming.  If I could dictate my dreams, I'd go to bed right now, and just wait to fall asleep.
I feel the need for his hands, strong and firm on my hips, guiding them slowly, or fast, if that's what he likes, as I slide myself, wet and willing, down onto his waiting, expecting, welcoming, beautiful dick.  At this point, I don't care if it's lovemaking or fucking.  I'll take either one.
His grip on my hips instructs my rhythm, and I follow.  I'm aching to feel him throbbing, thrusting; to hear him moaning, to hear myself purring.  We match perfectly.  Perfectly.
He could talk dirty to me.  Or he doesn't have to say anything.  Just keep hurting me with that perfect stroke.  Nothing too rough.  Yet.  But definitely nothing gentle, either.  Just enough to make my back ache, and my body hum a few bars of thank you.
And that's just the beginning.

Somewhere in here is a story.  Maybe not a big story, but something.

Basic Business No-Brainer

Whatever you're selling, make it as easy as possible for someone to spend their money on you.

As if the buying public weren't already impulsive and impatient enough, the world of e-commerce has made it too easy for potential customers to quickly lose interest or become distracted with other options.

If you're inviting someone to buy your product or service, they shouldn't have to work to find it.  If you provide a link, make sure it works.  If I can't get to your stuff within one or two clicks after clicking that link, then you've probably lost a sale.  Do better. 

Either you're ready to sell, or you're not.  If you're ready, be ready.  If you're not, don't make excuses about it, and then expect people to wait until you've got your shit together.

Being in Love

Being in love keeps you in a good mood.  Losing love reminds you that you're human.  Remembering love makes it all worth it.  Appreciating loves makes you willing to work for it.  Knowing love almost makes you believe that it's better to have loved and lost, etc., etc.

Woke up from a cold medicine-induced haze around midnight.  Turned on the TV, clicked the Guide button, and got enticed by the description, "R.Kelly:  Sam Cooke Live."  Hmm. 

I've long said that R. Kelly got his singing style straight from studying Sam Cooke.  Tremendously talented, R. Kelly.  Too bad his demons seem to have taken over his spotlight.  Absolutely LOVE Sam Cooke.  Another tortured soul, brimming over with talent, but gone too soon; and under tragic circumstances.

I turned the channel to that station, only to find one of my favorite Whitney Houston videos from "The Bodyguard" Soundtrack.  Dumb TV Guide got it wrong again, but I watched it anyway, instantly nostalgic for my uncomplicated, yet angsty adolescent-to-teen-to-young adult years.  To call her voice remarkable would be to grossly understate the experience.

Then I logged onto the Internet to find that Whitney Houston just died.  Yes.  I literally gasped and went numb.  It made me very sad.  

Out of habit more than anything, I opened a new tab, and logged on to find too much commentary, much of it very mean, most of it self-serving and gratuitous, all of it repetitive, all over Facebook.  For the 3rd time in about a week, I thought of deactivating my page, but people keep finding me there; and I actually enjoy being connected.  I wish I could find (or Facebook would provide) the feature that allows me to turn off the news feed.

People love to post judgments as if they don't have any of their own demons to battle.  Shut up.  Others like to get on soapboxes, berating and belittling folks for mourning and contemplating the loss of a super star, as they feign to champion the plight of the military and civil servants who have served and died in the line of duty with little notice or fanfare.  Shut.  Up.  As if celebrities choose to die for the world-wide recognition and with the attention of eclipsing the acknowledgment of the rest of us.  Hell, I don't know.  Maybe some of them do.  There's a more morbid than usual thought, but...*Shrugs*  But they ARE celebrities.  People know more of them than they do the rest of us.  Their lives (and deaths) are news.  So, shut up.

And all of these pop up tributes?  Ugh.  So damn tacky. 

Let's all parade around on stage, TV and radio, belting out karaoke-esque covers and spouting endless commentary, and call it a tribute.  Yeah, there's an original thought.  No one will see straight through that.  And what a tragically fortuitous coincidence that the award shows are just around the corner.  I can almost see the Oscar and Grammy producers scrambling as I write this.

Her tarnished image and questionable, highly scrutinized lifestyle aside, Whitney Houston's was arguably the greatest voice of a generation.  Indeed, a tortured soul, brimming over with talent.  There never seems to be enough time, but I'm glad that I was here to witness and truly appreciate her gift.  I get chills thinking about the glorious sound of her voice.  My goodness.

 Okay.  Now, I'll shut up, too.

The Season of Overeating

Is it possible to develop an eating disorder in your 40s?
I love to eat. A box of cookies.  A can of chips.  Leftovers.  Jello.
I don't binge and purge or whatever that is.  I just eat.  Maybe it's the weather.  It's probably the weather.  Nah.  I'm just lazy and unmotivated.

Shit That Makes Me Want to Shoot People in the Head

No, this is not PTSD.  Not a cry for help.  I'm just rummaging through some venting tidbits that need to work themselves out of my head.  Read again:  VENTING.  Not encouraging any already crazy fuckers with no coping skills and no social skills to cross the line into bodily harm of others.

I figured that since I shouldn't name my blog something like "Shit That Makes Me Want to Shoot People...," then I ought to at least make it the title of my first post.  "Today's Truth" just felt too vanilla.

I'm thinking about things that bother the shit out of me.  Liars. Slow Internet connections.  Generation X-ers who think it's cute, clever, or enlightened to text full conversations like teenagers.  Grow your grown ass up.  Rude, disrespectful people.  People who don't know the difference between self-esteem and self-entitlement.  Get a clue.  The world doesn't owe you shit.  People who keep me waiting, especially when I'm spending my money.  Websites that play music.  I hate looking all over the damn page just to find the pause or stop button.  Uggh.  Unprofessional.  Amateurish.  Annoying as fuck.

I hate overused word pairs, especially trials and tribulations.  Suddenly, everybody's Job or Jesus Christ.  Can someone please write about your freakin' hardships without acting like you just carried a cross to Cavalry?

Did a mysterious storm swoop down and destroy all of your property and kill all of your kids?  Do you have sores covering every inch of your body?  I didn't think so.

But even if  you could cite personal hardships of biblical proportions, it is overdone.  Over.  Done.  So are tragedy and triumph.  Body and soul.  Vitamins and minerals.  Umm...sick and tired.

I'm sane, but not normal.  I'm kind, but impatient.  I'm sure that I'm too considerate of others who don't give a shit about me.  I hate telling people no, but I will.  When I do,  I have guilt issues that depress me for hours, sometimes days.  I really wish people wouldn't cross boundaries, physical, emotional, professional boundaries.  I work too hard.

I've loved the wrong people too much for my own good.  Been made a fool for a few good times.  I have great scars and grotesque open wounds, only visible when I put them on the screen.  I've too many missing pieces, but otherwise, I'm perfect.

*Sigh*  Of course, I don't really want to shoot anybody in the head.  That feeling has managed to go away since returning home from Afghanistan.  But I sure would like to pistol whip the fuck out of a few folks.  That feeling manages to linger on (and on) a bit longer.

Yeah, yeah.  My unwillingness to forgive is dragging me to hell.  Got it.  It doesn't change today's truth.  Maybe tomorrow's truth will be different.  Hmmh.