tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256961529228314442024-02-07T17:34:31.696-08:00 bitter? purge and surgemaya angelou said, "there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." bitter? is a life blog for everyone. purge and surge. i'll share mine if you share yours.
BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-45406405943424252132018-03-21T00:00:00.000-07:002018-03-21T00:59:20.834-07:00I'M BAAAACK...!<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">Nine years ago, I started this blog, and then I stopped writing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I stopped cold. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I landed a part time consulting gig outside of the entertainment industry. I had to learn the job.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">It became a real job. A full-time job, and I was grateful. Next thing I knew, I was managing dozens of people. It became an all-consuming, life changing behemoth. I stayed for nearly eight years. During which, Mom had a stroke and life became more serious.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">The last 12 months have been the most challenging of my life. And as cliché as it sounds, that which doesn't kill you, returns you to who you are. The one thing I know for sure is that when your soul is called to do something, it will not rest until that work is done. In fact, it will conspire with the Universe leaving you with no other alternative.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-converted-space">Alas, the time has come to write again. And though relaunching this blog elicits more than a few trepidations, </span>as a very wise and talented producer counseled, “Stacey, you have nothing left to lose.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Certainly, nothing or no one I'll miss! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1">The title is <i>"bitter? purge and surge."</i> When I first launched this blog, I wasn't really bitter; it was fun to write about. I realized later, that I was merely disappointed. This time, I gotta admit, I've got one foot in the bitter pool, while I'm focusing on the "purge and surge" of it all.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1"><span class="s1">My experiences are uniquely mine, but not that uncommon. I share them not to be an exhibitionist, but to allow you the space and freedom to share your stories as well. </span>Healing and growth can only be achieved when we set free that which has held us hostage. When we release the bogeymen, the ominous people and <span style="font-family: inherit;">things who have held our spirits prisoner, we have no choice but to fly.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A quick note: the picture above was taken 20 years ago on my BFF Tina's wedding day...it says EVERYTHING...but, I noticed that she's all scratched up...please rest-assured that Tina was not harmed in the taking nor restoration of this photo!</span></span><br />
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BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-1647170179943225552018-03-18T16:22:00.000-07:002018-03-21T00:11:05.691-07:00Holding the Vision<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Eleven years ago, I taught my godchild how to make a vision board. We grabbed a pile of magazines, scissors, glue sticks and poster boards and designed the lives we wanted. I found photos of handsome men, tropical beaches, exotic cars, big houses, stacks of cash, babies, and phrases like, "You Got This," "Wonder Woman," "Hollywood Power Player," and "Happily Ever After" and carefully adhered them to my board.<br />
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When my goddaughter presented her board, I was mortified. There were no cute boys, trendy outfits, silly girls modeling makeup, or various careers. Her board had all the makings of a perfect little house. She was 17, and she was clearly preparing for domesticity.<br />
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I panicked, "Are you trying to tell me something?"<br />
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She laughed, "No, Nini, I'm not!"<br />
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That didn't settle well. "Then why do you care about a perfect kitchen?" I asked. "What the hell?" I'd like to say that I was cool, but I was boiling inside.<br />
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She calmly replied, "I want a nice kitchen. What's the big deal?"<br />
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"No big deal, I would just think that you would have other priorities." I sighed and backed off. I had learned to pick my battles with my godkid, and I wasn't sure what this battle was. <i>To be clear, I believe a young woman should choose the life she wants...AFTER she's educated and it's really a choice!</i><br />
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The next day I was recounting the story to her mother, my BFF. "I think she's pregnant," I said.<br />
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"Shut up, she is not!" BFF responded, not happy with me at all. "How could you even think that?"<br />
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"Because this kid had no interest in entering a kitchen three weeks ago. It makes no sense!"<br />
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We hung up, annoyed with one another. The next day, BFF called, crying, "She thinks she's pregnant. I can't deal. Will you take her to Planned Parenthood to get a real test?"<br />
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Somehow I'd made it through adulthood without entering a Planned Parenthood. Now here I was waiting with the other mothers, best friends and nervous boyfriends, all of us staring at each other in silence. Finally after nearly an hour, my godkid emerged with a smile on her face. I was relieved, "You're not pregnant?"<br />
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"I am!"<br />
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I hugged her tight. For once, I didn't cry. "Let's go eat."<br />
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We went to the Cheesecake Factory. She was celebrating. I was <i>counseling,</i> "Let's talk about your options."<br />
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"I'm having my baby!"<br />
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"You're 17. What about college?"<br />
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"I'm having my baby. Finishing high school. Then college."<br />
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"This won't be easy. You have options."<br />
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"I'm having my baby! And keeping my baby."<br />
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"Can we talk about your options?"<br />
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"Hopefully, my parents won't kick me out, because I'm having my baby! And keeping my baby." She was determined. She had a vision, and nothing and NO ONE was going to stand in the way of that vision.<br />
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Suffice it to say that there were MANY challenges, but I was one of a dozen people in the room when she had her baby, and kept her baby. A baby who brought magic to all of our lives. And because my goddaughter had the love and support of her parents and family (and me), she did as she intended. She finished school; provided a great home for her child; and met the love of her life.<br />
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I may have taught her how to create the vision, but she taught me how to hold on to it, <i>without interference</i>...and bring it to life.<br />
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This week I went to visit my BFF and my beloved godkid. I noticed a spread of magazines, "Nini, I'm making a vision board," she exclaimed. "You're gonna love this one!"<br />
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"Oh great," I said, "Make one for me too, please!"<br />
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As my BFF poured my coffee, my godkid presented her board. It read: "I'm pregnant with twins. Congratulations Auntie!" And then she whispered, "This time, you don't have to take me to Planned Parenthood."<br />
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And this time, I allowed myself to cry.<br />
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Do you believe in vision boards? Are you able to manifest your visions? Share your story.<br />
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BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-51080266995154443692018-03-15T17:28:00.002-07:002018-03-21T00:45:01.038-07:00#METOO<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So yea, I have my own story. I was 22. Fresh out of Stanford. Still a virgin. <i>I don't say that with pride...I wasted my Stanford years.</i> <i>If I could do it all over again, I would spend more time exploring the nice, smart, young, available men in college...</i><br />
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Temping is one of the best ways to break into the entertainment industry. Upon my college graduation, I signed up with a few agencies and started accepting assignments. They were mostly mindless...and it was impossible to see how my Hollywood dreams were going to come to life until I spent a week working for a a record label with a deal across the street at Warner Bros.<br />
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It was Friday. The executive to whom I had been reporting complimented my work and asked what I wanted to do with my life. He had gray hair. He was fatherly, nice, friendly. So I shared what only my childhood friends knew, "I wanna sing."<br />
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"Well, you're in the right place for that!" he said. "Let's see what you've got, tonight!"<br />
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"Tonight? Like an audition?"<br />
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"Yes, once everyone clears out, you can sing for me!"<br />
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Stacey, the Stanford grad, was a virgin with no street smarts. No alarms sounded. I was excited!<br />
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Once the office cleared out, I went into Mr. Music Executive's office ready for my audition. He was seated in a velvet club chair with a drink in hand. And he was grinning, not smiling, grinning, like he possessed the keys to my future. And suddenly I was visibly nervous. Mr. Executive offered me a shot of tequila. I declined. And yes, I should have left at this point, but I wanted my audition. I wanted to be a STAR.<br />
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But, I stood there in silence. I had spent years annoying my family, my college roommates, <i>strangers </i>spontaneously breaking into song, but now I was mute. I stared at him. He stared at me.<br />
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"Anytime, Baby."<br />
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I was blowing my big break. I prayed for some assistance, and then it came to me...the perfect song. I started to whisper this gospel tune I'd learned years earlier when my mother briefly joined a Baptist church <i>(long story, we're mostly Catholic).</i><br />
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<i>Dear Jesus, I love you</i><br />
<i>You're a friend of mine</i><br />
<i>You provide my every need</i><br />
<i>My hungry soul you feed</i><br />
<i>I'm aware you are my source</i><br />
<i>From which all Blessings flow</i><br />
<i>And with this thought in mind</i><br />
<i>I know, just where, where to go.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>He was stunned. I was barely audible as I sang about my love for Jesus. No doubt, he was expecting some rendition of anything Whitney, Janet, Madonna even Paula Abdul would have sufficed. What the hell was this?<br />
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He cocked his head, "Are you sure you don't want the tequila?"<br />
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"No, I'm good," I said. "Sorry, I know that was a little shaky." I tried to physically shake it off.<br />
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"You have a beautiful voice...I think. You just need to calm down. Come closer." He motioned for me to stand next to his chair. And I did. "Go ahead, try it again."<br />
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<i>Dear Jesus, I love you</i><br />
<i>You're a friend of mine</i><br />
<i><br /></i>I sang louder...with feeling. And the lights went off. "Relax, Baby."<br />
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<i>You provide my every need</i><br />
<i>My hungry soul you feed</i><br />
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"Sing it like you're really HUNGRY." And his hands started caressing my thighs feeling their way to a place they had no right to be.<br />
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<i>I'm aware you are my source</i><br />
<i>From which all Blessings flow</i><br />
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And my voice cracked, my thighs clamped shut with his hands still between them. That was unintended. The tears started to flow.<br />
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<i>And with this thought in mind</i><br />
<i>I know....</i><br />
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I couldn't reach the high note. I stopped. Started to heave in his direction. He got up declaring, "You're not ready!"<br />
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I shook my head in agreement. Packed up my things and left without a word. I never returned to that office. I never pursued singing again. Many would say, <i>"That's OK!"</i><br />
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I called my college BFF that night and recounted the incident. She cried with me. And then I suppressed the memory until #METOO!<br />
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Any creeps in your past? Did you repress your bad memory? Share your story.<br />
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<b>PURGE AND SURGE</b></div>
BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-63830115120501095392018-03-12T12:30:00.000-07:002018-03-21T00:46:59.686-07:00How My Bitter Journey Began<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">I was eleven when I met my half-sister.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">Twelve, when my father chose to live with her and her mother. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">And thirteen, when he asked me to spend two weeks that summer with him and his new family in Oakland.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">It’s dishonest to call them his “new family” as technically they existed 3 ½ months before I came into the world; yet 3 ½ years after my father had started a family with my mother. It sounds terribly complicated, but somehow when you’re a kid, and those are the facts of your life, they are simply that, the facts of your life.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I spent every summer of my adolescence visiting my father and his family. And yes, it's when my BITTER journey began. I know its perfectly commonplace now, but I think there is something inherently unhealthy about a child being a guest in her parent's home...especially a female child going into a competitive female household. </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="text-indent: 36px;">My half-sister and I had little in common. She lusted for </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">Teddy Pendergrass, I dreamed of marrying Michael Jackson.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">I had a jheri curl, aviator glasses and corny clothing.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">She had relaxed hair, contacts, tight jeans and cool t-shirts.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">I was nowhere near her league, and she subtly and not so subtly let me know it.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">‘Nuf said (</span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">for now). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 36px;">For this particular visit, my mother drove me to LAX in her bronze coffee-stained Chevy Chevette. She was so proud of that cheap-ass hatchback because it was the first car she had purchased without the aid of my father. She maneuvered it as though it were a convertible Benz. Her black leather driving gloves caressed the steering wheel as if it were flanked in polished mahogany and tanned suede.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 36px;">She was a proud woman in her satin blouse purchased on sale at a consignment shop, and her Cleopatra Jones afro. She was broke, but classy. She could never accept defeat to the woman whose house I was about to enter. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">She coached me, “It’s your job to bring your father back.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">Ask him when he’s coming home!” </span><span style="text-indent: 36px;">The knot that appeared in that instant, stayed in my stomach for the next two weeks (hell, I think it's still there). I knew that my father was not a man to be confronted, to be questioned, to be challenged; at least not by my mother, my sister or me. In our traditional West Indian home, my father ruled, absolutely. <i>Even when he wasn't there. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">My mother called midway through my two week visit, </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">"Have you talked to Daddy, yet?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">"</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">No."</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Well, don’t forget to ask him when he’s coming home, OK?! It's very important!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">Somehow my mother was convinced that I had a magical power. That my demanding my father’s return would simply make it so. She didn’t see what I saw year after year. My dad like he’d never been with us. So loving, so funny, so big. Our house had always been quiet.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">No one ever shut up in this house.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">Here my father laughed and cajoled. He was a goddam Cliff Huxtable. </span><span class="s1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">This father was completely foreign to me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I could not break my mother’s heart by sharing these </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">truths.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">The ride to the Oakland airport was much harder than the ride to LAX two weeks prior.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">My father’s boxy Volvo constricted me from the moment that I sat down on its rich leather seat. I lowered and raised the window at least a dozen times. I was desperate to breathe fresh air.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">I was desperate to jump out of the car.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">I was desperate to do anything other than the task my mother had reminded me of the night before,</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">“Have you asked your father when he’s coming home?”</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">The</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">Beatles were on the radio singing, my father’s favorite song:</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Something in the way she moves, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">attracts me like no other lover.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">Something in the way she woos me.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t want to leave her now; </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">You know I believe and how!”</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">His head was cocked to the side as if replaying some great memory. </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 36px;">I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. My breathing became short and painful. My father stopped the car and turned to me.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 36px;">“What’s the matter?”</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 36px;">His Asian eyes, dark brown skin, and thick eyeglasses looked down at me with utter confusion.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-indent: 36px;">I couldn't look at him. I had no idea how I <span style="font-family: inherit;">was supposed to convince him that his vacation, not mine needed to come to an end. I thought of my sheroes. The bold women whom I admired, Diana Ross, Barbra Streisand, Cher. They would never let Dad get away with this shit. They'd speak up. Make Mom proud.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">”When are you coming home?” I cried.</span><span class="s1"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;">He stiffened, looked at me, then straight ahead, and said, “I am home, Babe!”</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"> </span><span class="s1"></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We drove to the Oakland airport in silence. I returned to Oxnard. Mission not accomplished.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Were you a parent's intermediary? Are you a parent guilty of using your child to communicate with your ex? </span> Share your story.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PURGE AND SURGE</b></div>
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</div>
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</style>BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-39281950009624007642018-03-07T12:30:00.000-08:002018-03-21T00:48:07.248-07:00Reclaiming Our Power<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmh1EZ3HZo5cCsYYUTLJEKjOLfGZ-UQr6ElItHAZTfDU-P4SbnPGwHpbB4bPCXwtDg9vvySSsT7jHUoJPpVYeESDzzbpxQe0ogM6G-rxxZbRjIvFCW2xU9uYvicw2stREOPJuFsDVkyeM/s1600/black_panther_shuri_600x338.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmh1EZ3HZo5cCsYYUTLJEKjOLfGZ-UQr6ElItHAZTfDU-P4SbnPGwHpbB4bPCXwtDg9vvySSsT7jHUoJPpVYeESDzzbpxQe0ogM6G-rxxZbRjIvFCW2xU9uYvicw2stREOPJuFsDVkyeM/s1600/black_panther_shuri_600x338.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Last night, I was chatting with a bestie from childhood. As I recounted my misfortunes, she started to laugh. Not giggle. Not chuckle. A full-throated, belly-laugh with snorts and gasps for air included. "OMG," she exclaimed, "you're a Stanford grad!"<br />
<br />
"That doesn't guarantee a problem-free life! What's your story?"<br />
<br />
She proceeded to share all of her mess, and we both started laughing so hard, that yes, we were crying. Here I was contemplating driving for Uber, while she was thinking about packing it all up to move in with her sister 300 miles away from a city she'd called home for 30 years. What the hell had happened to us? We got serious... real serious, and started to peel back the layers.<br />
<br />
She said, "I know it's all about the 0-8 years. I don't think I felt loved and cared for...of course, I know I was loved, but not in the way I needed to be...and because I didn't feel valued, I sought validation from external places...from other people...So I never lived my truth, and that's why I didn't come out until I was 50...yea, everyone suspected that I was gay, but I thought I needed to be straight...I thought I needed to be straight to be loved...and it almost killed me. I gave my sexuality all this power, and at the end of the day, NOBODY cared. Does that make sense, Stace?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, perfect sense. I know I've given my power away many times...to my parents who needed me to be a good girl in the midst of their chaos...to my half-sister who needed me not to exist on the Stanford campus...to coworkers who bullied me into dimming my shine...to men who I loved more than they had earned. I know it all too well."<br />
<br />
I think it helps to know that the power was never taken...it was freely relinquished, and can be freely reclaimed. We didn't cry about how we'd been victimized, we cried realizing how much power we possessed, and sought ways to help each other harness and reignite the fire within. Not in lofty, hypothetical ways, but in concrete ways with assignments and deadlines and scheduled check-ins.<br />
<br />
That's real power...the comfort of a life-long friend who can laugh with you through the pain, and help navigate you back to the light.<br />
<br />
<br />
Do you have a special friend with whom you can laugh through your pain? Share your story.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PURGE AND SURGE</b></div>
BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-91686395763898890362009-12-06T21:21:00.000-08:002018-03-20T10:48:14.279-07:00Haiku On Aging<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBf5G70ejHUEOkU9Qh4jR5GktJ_gTUYCFxBAPoiozuZavXTZZbFM0ruQtOjOekLbGwOYddMWo535upfdvAyF5n0VgfBnc2ylSX9nrfdPj2-P5V8osKa3NJRAJenuKGUbY8WZH_pjJpRno/s1600/aging+haiku.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="614" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBf5G70ejHUEOkU9Qh4jR5GktJ_gTUYCFxBAPoiozuZavXTZZbFM0ruQtOjOekLbGwOYddMWo535upfdvAyF5n0VgfBnc2ylSX9nrfdPj2-P5V8osKa3NJRAJenuKGUbY8WZH_pjJpRno/s640/aging+haiku.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
Between my two breasts<br />
Appeared a single gray hair.<br />
And then, another.</div>
BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-46331693108274640732009-09-22T07:45:00.000-07:002018-03-20T13:20:40.263-07:00Mid-Year Crisis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Been feeling a little blue (which always manifests as bitchiness)...yesterday realized that it was my 1/2 birthday, then found the list I composed six months ago of all I planned to accomplish this year...could only check one thing off...got a raise...yay! for me. Everything else, not so much.<br />
<br />
Lose 40 pounds (gained 20).<br />
Stop watching TV (bought a new one with HD).<br />
Find a husband (should have paid for the 6 months Match.com guarantee!).<br />
Release the bitterness (EMBRACING IT).<br />
Blog (this is gonna be a process).BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-46900220079885885012009-04-12T12:15:00.000-07:002018-03-20T13:02:08.446-07:00The Cable Guy
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><i>NOT THE REAL GUY, BUT REALLY, REALLY CLOSE</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">This is one of my favorite monologues from "BITTER." It was performed brilliantly by the wonderful and talented Kym Whitley. </span></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihudhW0m0zuJntmnxSrPV7eZqZBIbgkgEJ0Zm6unxq-rR_fVY_XxarUO8mGJi7AB3Tdvv4_zyvJL3fvU0ZBJifaFUolmFEkukg4QCGvWqZCBUHjDY2dF28yaGJsft2wQmSNHKH3jIEQ9E/s1600/kym+whitley.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihudhW0m0zuJntmnxSrPV7eZqZBIbgkgEJ0Zm6unxq-rR_fVY_XxarUO8mGJi7AB3Tdvv4_zyvJL3fvU0ZBJifaFUolmFEkukg4QCGvWqZCBUHjDY2dF28yaGJsft2wQmSNHKH3jIEQ9E/s200/kym+whitley.jpeg" width="150" /></a></i></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The cable guy comes to my mother’s house today while I am preparing to return home to LA. He's a like a typical Oxnard guy: Ritchie Cunningham with flavor; </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">an edge only acquired when you’ve been raised among the surfers, homeboys and homies. </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">He could hang with anybody, and it seems he’d like to start with me. He says, “This is a beautiful home!” But he’s not looking at its furnishings, he’s staring at mine. His eyes have not left my perfectly and purposely positioned cleavage. I laugh out loud. I’m sure I should be calling his supervisor to complain, but I’m not offended. It’s been so long since anyone has flirted with me that I am flattered. Hell, I’m grateful. He’s been in the house for 30 seconds, and I’m contemplating telling him that </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">these </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">beauties can be his.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I lead him to the den and sit (oh so delicately) on the couch. I place my Bichon, George on my lap and stroke him gently and (oh so lovingly). And as the cable guy’s checking out the cable box, I’m thinking, “There’s another box that needs tending over here, sir!!” I remember the romance novels I would sneak from my sister’s room. The heroines were never aggressive. They were subtle. They knew how to look at the cable guy, in that special way that said they wanted him without ever having to say a word. I try ‘the look’ on the cable guy. My eyes go aflutter as I lean in close. So close that I can smell the Doritos he had for lunch. I ask, “How long do you think this will take?” And while I’m not listening to his response, I’m wondering what he’d be like in bed.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">But he ain’t cute. My <i>stud </i>looks like the love child of Tom Arnold and Jim Gaffigan (sorry guys). Chubby and white with apple red cheeks and the reddest neck I’ve ever seen. I wonder what our bi-racial love child would look like.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Would our child--<i>my </i>child be so red?</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I lead the cable guy to my mother’s bedroom to check out the wiring. We’re in dangerous territory, but I maintain a safe distance, all the while sniffing his scent. It’s a little too earthy and greasy for me. But it’s manly, and I like that. My back straightens.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My breasts perk up.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But his back is turned, and the moment is wasted on me and my mother’s mirror.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I lean against the dresser with my back perfectly arched, and in my breathy bedroom voice I ask, “Where do you live?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">He smiles, and says, “Fillmore!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Oh, God. Fillmore. I start to think of Little Rock circa 1957 but without all the Black people.</span></span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">He continues,” It’s been real hot this summer. Average temp’s been about 104!” He wipes his brow and I see that the mere mention of heat causes the blood to rush to his neck which now turns plum red.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And for the first time in my life, I understand the term, ‘red neck.’</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">And I’m kinda over it, but I want my fantasy to play on.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I watch as he fiddles with the wires. </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">He’s nimble. His fingers are long and cleaner than I expect; I envision them touching me where I need to be touched.</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“Yeah, I know,” I say, “It’s been a really <i>hot </i>summer!” And he knows I know what he knows because I’m giving my dog way too much affection to be loving anyone human. I’m primed…<i>and I could be his</i>…I could be his this very moment, but now I am completely distracted by his redness.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">He curses and stops his work saying he’ll have to come back because he doesn’t have the proper equipment today.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">And I wanna say, “You’ve got all the equipment I need baby!” <i>But again, the redness. </i>He starts packing his bag, and his oversized jeans start to crawl down his ass, as he moonwalks his way out of my mother’s house.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">“My name is Paul,” he says as he offers me his hand.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>His eyes are kind; hopeful.</span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">And I think what I think when I encounter most men these days, “Maybe he’s the one!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">So what’s the problem? <i>The redness. The Fillmoreness. The cable-guyness. </i>Would this redneck man, make me into his redneck woman? Can a Black woman <i>be </i>a redneck? Would I suddenly morph into an All American Bud-drinking, baby on the hip-wearing, Chevy driving clone?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I can’t. I can't do it.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I take his hand, “It’s very nice to meet you, Paul.” I’ll have my mom call to book a follow-up appointment when she’s available.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And maybe I’ll see you around.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p8">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">He takes the brush-off much better than I do. I drive home along the coast listening to Gretchen Wilson and wondering if I could.</span></span></div>
<br />BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-14753936264128418712009-04-06T07:39:00.000-07:002018-03-19T23:18:19.531-07:00Living The L-Word<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiirLjXU3rY-rPhE1zqZMiaAlg0TjG__ecpfv-uLqyRTbXom699lNC0N08SfPjHrdQz0ZJieAr-D8o4g_Heu2srY1yfsT21sotTfUUFeh80D0uVRS5Yb_5J6aw9VtTmnVNwMmrfLe6IuRg/s1600/Lesbians.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="800" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiirLjXU3rY-rPhE1zqZMiaAlg0TjG__ecpfv-uLqyRTbXom699lNC0N08SfPjHrdQz0ZJieAr-D8o4g_Heu2srY1yfsT21sotTfUUFeh80D0uVRS5Yb_5J6aw9VtTmnVNwMmrfLe6IuRg/s640/Lesbians.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
It occurred to me, that while most women are seeking mates who live up to their fathers, big brothers, or other fantasy males (e.g. Brad Pitt, Will Smith, Bill Gates), I've been holding out for a man who measures up to my lesbian friends. Seriously. Someone who is as responsible, respectful, secure, kind and compassionate as my ladies who love other ladies.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This isn't a coming out piece. I'm quite happy loving and desiring men, and according to <a href="http://www.kinseyinstitute.org/research/ak-hhscale.html">The Kinsey Scale</a>, I am 99.9% heterosexual. However, I now understand what attracts straight women to women who are not. Lesbians are like super-girlfriends...they take care of you in a way that Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte could never fathom.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've always been a girls' girl. I have a large circle of female friends. They are my best friends, sisters, soul mates. The ones who've held my hand through all of life's disappoinments and who cheered when things went very well. And yet, when love came into their lives, and men became their central focus, things changed. Thin walls were erected as the protection of these romantic unions and their offspring became the necessary priority. And my single girlfriends? For the most part, they are experiencing several of the same issues as I. I often wonder if there is a silent competition for men and security that keeps us from being 100% in each other's corners 100% of the time.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Male friends? I'm starting to believe in the premise of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/When_Harry_Met_Sally...">WHEN HARRY MET SALLY</a>. I once thought I had several close male friends, but as time wore on, and true loves were found, our bonds faded. Again, perhaps necessarily. And the ones who remain single...there's a reason why they haven't attached to anyone. With very few exceptions (honestly I can only think of one), they are more insecure, more hyper-critical, more judgmental than I can handle. I'm fragile enough these days without the "help" of their constant analysis.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Which brings me back to my super-girlfriends. I have been astonished by the kindness and support I've received. Most friends will say, "How can I help?" And then it's on me to come up with the list. My super-girlfriends just do shit--without my asking. A card will arrive in the mailbox with a check and a note, "Hope this helps. Repay when you can!" An email will pop-up, "XYZ is looking for execs, I put in a good word for you. They are expecting your call." There'll be a knock at the door. "I went to Whole Foods, and I know how much you love their organic meats, so here you go." And it's all done in such a loving way, that I don't feel like a charity case. I feel like someone's got my back.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And perhaps it's because I've done such a poor job of picking potential mates that I can say in all honesty, that I've rarely felt so supported by any man. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I believe he's out there.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dear Mr. Future Husband,</div>
<div>
I know you're warm, kind, secure, funny, loving, accepting, and smart. And I trust that you're on your way to me. But seriously, I need you to hurry!!</div>
<div>
Love,</div>
<div>
You Future Wife</div>
BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-65263879325061390092009-04-02T21:41:00.000-07:002018-03-14T00:55:26.926-07:00A Momentary Departure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihdq0SMVHnO4c47GeOHwYKP59Q-StTDqAoX91oAwyAIgPs0Cg_yDMbMCnMVW8eHukUpI9PgRfVS0_sRDb2eXotZFnulkCzduLg_lXwk_tOvLUNrNhUJ0ax0KqInvxd7NPJGwz7Sdr-gzE/s1600/IMG_8380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihdq0SMVHnO4c47GeOHwYKP59Q-StTDqAoX91oAwyAIgPs0Cg_yDMbMCnMVW8eHukUpI9PgRfVS0_sRDb2eXotZFnulkCzduLg_lXwk_tOvLUNrNhUJ0ax0KqInvxd7NPJGwz7Sdr-gzE/s640/IMG_8380.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
In the midst of the BITTERness of unfulfilled dreams, and unlasting loves,<br />
I admit that I am BLESSED.BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-77903718717018546322009-04-01T12:57:00.000-07:002018-03-19T23:18:49.754-07:00Keeping Up Appearances<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJWJPKOIcWgeGJfDrCBdGSTp5Lgjv-sUX4XZKzKFoPRIejXS3KjsNnyt1uKKXEFqrp1acjCOD6znz3Y2OllM7pjXvJfYIzIEw6xpGcLxSYWEwjxd-PXZfF8_EyMlLgWB4o_fg8E9N1n-A/s1600-h/20090318-tows-star-jones-1-290x218.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319972589322059778" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJWJPKOIcWgeGJfDrCBdGSTp5Lgjv-sUX4XZKzKFoPRIejXS3KjsNnyt1uKKXEFqrp1acjCOD6znz3Y2OllM7pjXvJfYIzIEw6xpGcLxSYWEwjxd-PXZfF8_EyMlLgWB4o_fg8E9N1n-A/s320/20090318-tows-star-jones-1-290x218.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 218px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 290px;" /></a><br />
Watching <a href="http://www.oprah.com/article/oprahshow/20090318-tows-star-jones-weight/6">Star Jones on OPRAH</a> today I was reminded of a monologue I'd written for HOW I BECAME A BITTER BARREN SPINSTER BITCH. Seems that those of us who use food to deal with life's trauma/dramas employ similar methods to mask our discomfort. It's entitled: KEEPING UP APPEARANCES.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I want to lose 10 pounds. I always want to lose 10 pounds whether I need to lose that exact amount or three or four times it. I’ve learned to play up my other attributes depending on what the scale reads. </span></span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">130 + 10 and I go from a 36 B to 36C. I likes the growth. I head straight to Victoria’s Secret to purchase an Angel bra to properly display my new heavenly assets. I appreciate the attention I’m shown for my purchase.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br />130 + 20 and my skirts get a little shorter to show off my sculptured legs. They are strong and curvy, and capable of supporting my weight. They never let me down. I reward them with lots of cocoa-butter. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br />130 +30 and it becomes all about my eyes. Extra eyeliner - plumper, darker lashes - a perfect frame to attract men to my big brown eyes.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br />130 + 40 and it is all about my lips. I outline them in a dark plum pencil, smooth the color over the fullness of my cupid’s bow, and apply a shiny gloss. I know my lips are sensual, and the more attention paid to my lips, I pray, the more folks will pay attention to what is coming out of them, rather than what is being shoveled in. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">130 +50 and the hair always has to be done. Honey, I can’t risk people thinking that I’m not taking care of myself. I page through the magazines, pick a weave and book weekly blow-dries.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br />130 +60 always means a trip to the Neiman Marcus cosmetic counter so some kind girl can teach me how to draw attention to my perfect pimple and wrinkle-free skin. I make sure I glow and can give the appearance of being really, really happy.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br />130 + 70. And it’s all about the accessories. I purchase a slew of sandals, handbags, and sunglasses. I always have to have a fly pair of shades, and I make sure that I am properly manicured and pedicured. Trust me, I really am my flyest at 200 pounds!!</span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br />It costs me more to be heavy than thin, but I’m always rewarded when someone says, “Girl, you’re always so well put together!” </span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br />I then respond, “If only I could lose 10 pounds!”</span></span></div>
BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-30758197282795860492009-03-27T13:49:00.000-07:002018-03-21T01:30:53.675-07:00stop da noise, stop da funk<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-5h0qFiFHWm4QwwGqAiE01dMaRXmGbjhBpc1hTCRvbKREaxx5tdmPjpNNdvpxWL0WVdn2VO4buwIP59r7NhStiutn5QZj4Nbt7AOPN7mMlppEbseMefewFRknT1wJ8Dw-k2ue9ky2cQ/s1600/janet+if.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-5h0qFiFHWm4QwwGqAiE01dMaRXmGbjhBpc1hTCRvbKREaxx5tdmPjpNNdvpxWL0WVdn2VO4buwIP59r7NhStiutn5QZj4Nbt7AOPN7mMlppEbseMefewFRknT1wJ8Dw-k2ue9ky2cQ/s320/janet+if.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />
Everybody's talking, but nobody's saying nothing.<br />
Lots of opinions.<br />
No solutions.<br />
Now I'm in a FOUL mood.<br />
I'm really not trying to stay here.<br />
Too much to do to indulge in this melancholy.<br />
Gotta raise my endorphins<br />
--wake myself out of this funk.<br />
<br />
Gonna:<br />
<div>
<ol>
<li>walk the dogs</li>
<li>take a shower</li>
<li>clean the apartment</li>
<li>watch ELLEN</li>
<li>drive up PCH</li>
<li>drink some coffee</li>
<li>sext random strangers.</li>
<li>relearn "IF" (I miss the '90's)</li>
</ol>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="giphy-embed" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://giphy.com/embed/WToePZKXWTy8" width="480"></iframe><a href="https://giphy.com/gifs/janet-jackson-WToePZKXWTy8">via GIPHY</a><br />
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<ol>
</ol>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What do you do to lift your funk? Share your story.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Purge and Surge.</b></div>
</div>
</div>
BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-11648079408762474682009-03-26T22:43:00.000-07:002018-03-16T20:44:20.881-07:00My Mother, My Daughter pt 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
She's still here.<br />
<div>
She's still sick.</div>
<div>
HELP!!</div>
<div>
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BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-21673000501782462792009-03-23T17:18:00.000-07:002018-03-21T01:29:43.321-07:00My Mother, My Daughter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My mother is sick...again. A cough turned into brochitis? the flu? a bad cold? pneumonia? I don't know. It's bad though. How bad? Not sure. If I were to judge solely from the sound effects, then I'd have to say <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">really bad</span>--like she should probably be quarantined. Problem is, she's staying with me.<br />
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Mom has NEVER been one to suffer in silence. "Oh, God. Oh, God" cough. cough. cough. "Oh, no. Oh, no." hack. hack. hack. "Oh, Lord save me. No more. No more!"</div>
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"What can I get you , Mom?"</div>
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"Nothing darling..."</div>
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and 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...</div>
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"Do you have any apple juice? Feel my head, do I have a fever? Do I look swollen? Oh, God. Oh, God." cough. cough. cough. "I'm so sorry darling. Can you hand me some tissue? What channel is E!? Is the guy Madonna's fooling around with the same guy whose marriage she broke up? Can you make me some soup? What are you wearing? Where's the Tylenol?" And then playing favorites with my dogs, "Weezie honey, Grandma loves you, but get off me. I don't want to make you sick, too. No kisses. WEEZIE, go away. George, come lay with Grandma."</div>
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It's been A WEEK now. She's been to two doctors. She's on lots of drugs. She is getting older and things take longer to heal. And it's a trip. Watching my mother grow old. Becoming her caregiver. It's all a trip.</div>
BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-41866899551644810232009-03-21T00:00:00.000-07:002018-03-21T01:31:59.571-07:00HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME<br />
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Hmmmmn. <br />
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Happy to be alive?<br />
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That's all I've got. </div>
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Took me 10 minutes to think of it.<br />
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<b><i>SURGE AND PURGE</i></b></div>
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BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-62880427642939360722009-03-15T22:32:00.000-07:002018-03-21T01:33:10.066-07:00SHE THOUGHT I WAS A COW<br />
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Still going through the remnants of my storage. Today I attacked 20 years of clothing--sizes 6-16. Amazing. I pulled out the Pucci rip-off I loved to wear in 1992. It was a pleated mini with wild brightly colored shapes. I remember the time. Remember the boy who's eye it caught. I was so happy. Today, I couldn't get my left thigh into my treasured skirt-- I tried! I'd wear that skirt with my apple green blazer, a black turtleneck leotard, black tights, black patent leather mary jane slingback flats. OMG- I thought I looked so cute-- cuter if I could lose a few more pounds, but the jacket hid my belly well. <br />
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I idolized a co-worker who was a few years older, and several inches taller. She lectured me about getting into shape; I didn't think I looked that bad, but took her advice. I joined NutraSystem. When I reported back after joining, she asked how much I weighed. Embarrased, I admitted, "140, but I'm working on it!" She laughed aloud and said, "That's just crazy! I really thought you'd weigh less than I do." <br />
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The psychological warfare that takes place among young women.<br />
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After work each and every day, I'd take two aerobic classes, and then put in 30 minutes on the Stairmaster. My knees would ache, and I'd sometimes become light-headed, but I didn't care. I needed to be Hollywood thin. I'd eat lettuce for lunch. And lettuce with chicken for dinner. I could barely concentrate at work, but everyone kept telling me how good I looked. I was down to 124 lbs. Elated, I purchased a whole new wardrobe. My petite apparel fit for about a year, but was kept for 17 with the hopes and plans that one day it'd all fit again.<br />
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Oh, the psychological warfare that takes place within a woman!<br />
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BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-36996800350903102072009-03-15T01:40:00.000-07:002018-03-16T21:29:28.204-07:00She Told Me to Get My Own Man<br />
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Today was the day I cleaned out my storage--for real!! Once I did the math, I couldn't justify keeping all the books, clothing, old magazines, Fresh Prince T-shirts and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">MADtv</span> mugs at a cost of $2400 a year. Once it was a cool write-off, but folks without incomes, don't need write-offs!!<br />
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I couldn't manage the task myself. Had asked an Ex to help, but he got busy, and sounded really happy when I found other help. That was last week. This week, I didn't bother to ask. Nothing worse than feeling beholden to someone who doesn't want to be beheld!</div>
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So the mother and the sister came--my old faithfuls. The diabetics who both need knee surgeries were my standbys. And that folks says all you need to know about my life these days.</div>
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After hours of fussing at each other, we got it done--mostly. The receptionist started announcing that the joint was closing soon. "It's 4pm- you've got 45 minutes." We decided to start loading the car. We had 20 boxes, a tall 4-drawer filing cabinet, a bike, and an antique dining table which the favorite neighbors convinced me to refinish and keep. All of this had to be moved into my sister's 4-door sedan, and my luxury SUV (like how I threw LUXURY in there!). </div>
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We started by putting the table in the SUV. Cool. Then the bike. Not so cool. We tried every which way to put it in the SUV but it wasn't working, and since I've paid over $10,000 to hold on to my bike, there was no way I was leaving it at Public Storage. </div>
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"It's 4:45 you have 15 minutes." </div>
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By this time, I'm yelling at my mother. "I said I didn't want to do this shit this weekend. Why don't I listen to my own voice, when will I stop listening to yours!"</div>
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"Fine, listen to yourself and pay another $1000 to store this crap. I don't care!"</div>
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Just then a meticulous Hancock Park couple in their early 30's exited the elevator headed to their BMW. My mother plead "Sir, can you please help us put get this bike loaded." Mrs. Hancock Park looked straight ahead; without asking her permission, Mr. Hancock Park came right over. Mrs. HP shot me a dirty look, got in her car and slammed the door.</div>
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Mr. HP had less luck than we. He'd almost gotten the damn bike into my sis' car, but for <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">some reason, </span><span class="Apple-style-span">he</span> and mom decided the truck made more sense. So we made more futile attempts.</div>
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"It's 4:55, Public Storage will be closing in 5 minutes." <br />
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And as Mr. Hancock Park struggled, Mrs. Hancock Park got out of her car and screamed, "Let's go, NOW!" She looked at me and said, "You really should have gotten your man to take care of this."<br />
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Mr. HP muttered an apology, dropped the bike and quickly ran to his car.</div>
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I then screamed at mom to help me shove the damn bike into my sis' car, and because I'd said a prayer this time, it actually fit (without ruining the leather upholstery).</div>
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"You've got 3 minutes! The gates will close in 2 minutes!"<br />
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There were still 3 large boxes and a file cabinet that weren't going to fit. So sis and I dashed back upstairs reloaded the junk into storage, and with sweat dripping from our arm pits returned to our cars. We pulled out just as the gates started to lower.</div>
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And I had two thoughts:<br />
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1) Mrs. HP is a shrew who has no idea how lucky she is to have a "Honey Do..." nor how challenging is when you don't.</div>
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2) As much as I love the women in my life, I need my own "Honey Do" or the money to hire one!</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(lest I sound like ungrateful shrew, it should be noted that upon our return to my place, I prepared an amazing dinner for mom and sis-- who are the personification of that ridiculous women's anthem- WIND BENEATH MY WINGS!)</span></span></div>
BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-86177784412528100902009-03-13T17:59:00.000-07:002009-03-15T01:39:29.637-07:00Dirty Married PeopleIt's 6pm in LA- 8pm in Chicago where my college BFF is in bed AS USUAL with her husband. They have two young children who were forced to retire at 7pm so that Mommy and Daddy could have some alone time. I know this because the BFF phoned at 5pm, but since I was still working, I had to return the call. An hour later, and she's showered, powdered and ready for love!! My call is an interruption, and I refuse to hang up without a fight (read the title of this blog, folks!).<div><br /></div><div>And suddenly I'm transported to the early 70's, living on the outskirts of Pittsburgh, PA keenly aware that when both parents go to bed while it's sunny outside, it's not because they're sleepy. I walked in on my parents on a <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">very</span> sunny day, and I remember my playmates Rita* and Francie whose parents were always "napping" on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. The sisters weren't allowed in the house during those times, so they were usually hanging out with my older sis and I. One afternoon, they invited us over. I don't think we'd ever been inside their home, so we were excited.</div><div><br /></div><div>Upon arrival, Francie and her sister motioned for us to quietly enter the house. We were giggling as on our tippy toes we tried to make it up the stairs. Half-way there, Mr. Pepperelli appeared, staring at us as he tightened the belt on his robe. His hair was ruffled, his skin was flushed--I knew right away what was up! He didn't yell or curse, but he firmly said, "Girls go outside until your mother tells you to come in." And that's when Mrs. Pepperelli appeared behind him, arms fully embracing him. "I'll be out in a few minutes girls, and then we'll all have lunch." I could barely see her, but her voice was so damn raspy--like Kathleen Turner's. We all turned around and bolted out of there. I was in total hysterics,"You're parents are making sexy, you're parents are making sexy!" My sis quickly chastised me, but Francie and Rita had no idea what I was shouting about. They were just afraid that they'd get in trouble for waking their parents. </div><div><br /></div><div>When we returned for our tuna sandwiches some 30 minutes later, Mr. and Mrs P were still wearing their robes. And I thought, "Ewwwh! They're dirty!" Somehow I was cool with the afternoon tryst, but was appalled when they still donned their <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">loving</span> wardrobe during our lunch. "Ewwwh!"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>* all names changed</div>BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-12214873782334381222009-03-09T19:15:00.000-07:002018-03-13T14:04:54.965-07:00STOP HOARDING; SHARE WEALTH; ATTRACT ABUNDANCE.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCEkaOSXXq_CvpwPB6iZ6A-ro9VP70Aw3gHqBdOm0XTuROp2EgpNXJdZHo2Hou2sDl2xq7ZR5vjrn2WX3_m93xfcVO73l0y-yEUqQbFQ_wh-JNYqdUdY8GecmtqWMGg3VeyCMoYme79mA/s1600-h/yard-sale.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311391236163536674" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCEkaOSXXq_CvpwPB6iZ6A-ro9VP70Aw3gHqBdOm0XTuROp2EgpNXJdZHo2Hou2sDl2xq7ZR5vjrn2WX3_m93xfcVO73l0y-yEUqQbFQ_wh-JNYqdUdY8GecmtqWMGg3VeyCMoYme79mA/s320/yard-sale.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 237px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 317px;" /></a><br />
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I'm been changing my thoughts and actions in an attempt to change my life. Clearing out the old to make room for the new--lots of new. Decided the best place to start is my storage unit. I could have (should have) donated all of my treasures to Goodwill, but since I'm trying to make some extra cash I decided to have a yard sale. My favorite neighbors, Deb and Jen are moving and didn't want to take all their old crap to their brand new home, so they joined me, and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">coached </span>me. The last yard sale we had, I refused to part with things which held any sentimental value. The gray poncho I'd worn on a date had to stay. I couldn't let go of dusty books, picture frames, dried flowers, cracked dishes. It was a bit of a disaster. All my neighbors mocked me for months. This time with Deb and Jen doing most of my negotiating, I made a whopping $120, they made much more. </div>
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When left to my own devices (i.e. when D&J weren't paying attention), I ended up giving away the majority of my things (which for some reason was far less humiliating than selling them for pennies). One very cute brotha man was kind enough to look over my wares. Actually, I ACCOSTED HIM (was trying to accomplish two goals at once)! He declared himself to be broke and on his way to his girlfriend's place. So I asked him for $5 and proceeded to load him up. He walked away with relationship books, a relationship affirmation plaque, two cocktail shakers, martini glasses, flavored martini mixes, a brand new teddy bear, and my favorite Slow Jams CD. Some sistah somewhere owes me big time, 'cause if he's as smart as I think he is, he turned his $5 investment into a great date night! <br />
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And as I waited for karma to kick in, for the next brotha (or any non-specific race/ethnicity) man to invest $5 in my happiness, I loaded up my SUV and returned the rest of my goods to storage!</div>
BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-62725314385616581262009-03-04T21:41:00.000-08:002018-03-20T14:06:12.772-07:00THE BACHELOR or WHAT'S WRONG WITH DATING THESE DAYS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjvTRz2AdfbZz0xWn6aAtFxoTxhg5KUoW51DBV6EDpgEPV4ZMKpM3rWGuycKu6_IWnJK6Le_PgCGXRipcK9mMb47DXz_dnUuXHbxjtC1O8BtW7zqYH9kyDyZD59Z-ALWTOuosjf-Qxs1A/s1600-h/the-bachelor-jason-mesnick-no-shirt.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310322890687631986" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjvTRz2AdfbZz0xWn6aAtFxoTxhg5KUoW51DBV6EDpgEPV4ZMKpM3rWGuycKu6_IWnJK6Le_PgCGXRipcK9mMb47DXz_dnUuXHbxjtC1O8BtW7zqYH9kyDyZD59Z-ALWTOuosjf-Qxs1A/s320/the-bachelor-jason-mesnick-no-shirt.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 180px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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I'm so annoyed with this season's bachelor, Jason Mesnick, that I'm afraid if we met I'd spew bitterness all over him. </div>
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Not because he broke Jillian's heart, and Molly's heart, and then Melissa's heart, and perhaps even Deanna's before finally returning to Molly with whom he believes he's found true love. Having your heart broken is a rite of passage. Signing up to do so on TV, well that's on them!</div>
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I'm annoyed because Jason Mesnick highlights what's wrong with trying to find a husband these days--there are far TOO MANY OPTIONS, and it's turning even the nicest guys into jerks!</div>
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Yes, women have some options too. But the majority of single women I know, aren't single by choice. It's a numbers games. And the numbers, for Black women especially, aren't in our favor.</div>
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EVERY single man I know has exercised more than his fair share of options, finding the most imperceptible faults to disqualify women as potential mates. My father says that it comes down to something very basic. "Men need to feel needed!" Amazingly, Jason echoed this sentiment in his V.O. just before he proposed to Melissa--"I feel like she really needs me!"</div>
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My father went on to say that if I had wanted to marry, I should have returned to my mother's house upon my college graduation. He said that having my own home at such a young age had denied prospective suitors the opportunity to "rescue" me.<br />
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<i>Really, Dad? From whom do I need to be rescued right now? Aren't you the one who raised me to be independent? Now I'm supposed to feign neediness? </i><br />
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BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-87342582391430591332009-03-02T23:43:00.000-08:002018-03-16T21:28:02.998-07:00My Bichons Have the Relationship I Want<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnljDX0aMZyh3cVIVSMCBROpBCWC9PxWtwDuCLOzSXY5TX5WwK9Q8aQkbY7EFXWbwBGmF7OZFZPEEkyd7ivZGjLu4ej_b6DuL5vpU1h637w_6PQ_7ztU_1izGdfl7kPpuuRHhRxsZhUX0/s1600-h/DSCN1717.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310293799933194578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnljDX0aMZyh3cVIVSMCBROpBCWC9PxWtwDuCLOzSXY5TX5WwK9Q8aQkbY7EFXWbwBGmF7OZFZPEEkyd7ivZGjLu4ej_b6DuL5vpU1h637w_6PQ_7ztU_1izGdfl7kPpuuRHhRxsZhUX0/s320/DSCN1717.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a>Weezie and George are aged 2 and 6 respectively. I adopted them both as puppies. Weezie came when my workload increased, and I thought George needed a little sister to keep him company. I should have named them Janet and Michael, if I wanted them to behave like siblings. As soon as Weezie reached maturity, George claimed her as his wife. Seriously. Weezie usually seems too pre-occupied to care (perhaps she knows she can't get pregnant), but I, annoyed that she's getting all the action, yell and threaten to little avail. George usually ceases his repulsive (read: innate) behavior, but I know that as soon as I leave home, it's party time!!<br />
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And yes, I'm jealous. But it's not all about the physical manifestion of their marital relations, George and Weezie share a genuine canine love. They are respectful, tender, and nuturing. I've witnessed the establishment of rules and expectations which allow them to co-habitate with little discord. Weezie rules the roost, George rules the street. Plain and simple. </div>
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Weezie is my idol. The bitch has the perfect start to every day. George wakes first and makes certain that she is awakened slowly, sweetly and warmly. EVERY MORNING, he nuzzles her and proceeds to lick every inch of her body. She stretches to meet his kisses. And when it gets really good, she starts to lick my silk duvet. That's when I kick them off the bed.</div>
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When we take our morning walk, George becomes the protector. He stands between Weezie and any perceived threat. Oncoming dogs must first meet his approval. Unknown pedestrians are always given the once over. And when Weezie pees, he pees over her spot, so that no dog will know her scent (OK, so maybe he's a bit possessive). But when we meet a friend (canine or human), George usually steps back allowing Weezie to play and receive all of the attention. </div>
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<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310312803084726178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFC13IDcw7M-UWTrD_VwXnbjV5kYrDWtfSG8mHD8ql6FbsuOK1nI-ILxwxyEPS6uWsHBFidBVWh4LIRi3YSe8b73gRwwH678Rqlfy3wxnAZ_kqWS3kJz30GBkwed9J8tl8wuxkuKagSEM/s320/IMG_0034.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></div>
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Back in the house, Weezie always lets George eat first. She silently sits to the side, until he's full, and then she helps herself. And while that may seem old-fashioned to some, she's smart enough to reap the rewards. For when it's playtime, she chooses the toy and the duration. And when it's sleep time, she chooses the place and position. And if she doesn't fall fast asleep, George gives her love until she does. </div>
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Who isn't praying for that?</div>
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BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-72954460202967405382009-03-01T10:01:00.000-08:002018-03-13T16:46:20.611-07:00How Not to Find a Job<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1GJGmGfKyUivQ9-FbFFTj3D5cGKSyJaZl2worrxouhwheq2DfpWQxqqUuRgRksHvOCTbw9Ut4q3eUWYRmhtkSVAIpLrTshrkRPBn0OFrvHBJb4UmpX6eyI3uJkLKmz4ZZARSOv39zjU/s1600/interview+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="768" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1GJGmGfKyUivQ9-FbFFTj3D5cGKSyJaZl2worrxouhwheq2DfpWQxqqUuRgRksHvOCTbw9Ut4q3eUWYRmhtkSVAIpLrTshrkRPBn0OFrvHBJb4UmpX6eyI3uJkLKmz4ZZARSOv39zjU/s640/interview+.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Yesterday I attended a networking/mentoring industry event. As I am job-seeking, I was a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">mentee</span>, not a mentor. Well, to all y'all who may be finding yourselves in a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">similar</span> position, here's what you can expect:<br />
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<ol>
<li>Checking yourself in the mirror before getting out of the car--finding hairline grays--searching for mascara to quickly cover-up.</li>
<li>Arriving at 9:30am to eat the "light meal provided" prior to the speed-mentoring session scheduled to start at 10.</li>
<li>The schedule was wrong, and the program is beginning. Hungry, and now discombobulated, you'll be immediately seated in a chair opposite a very hip radio station executive mentor who gives you the once over and asks, "Why are you here? What can I do for you?" <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">(Reminiscent of HR interview at idol's new network when you felt summarily dismissed).</span></li>
<li>Upon presentation of your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">résumé</span>, you'll be told, "You have outstanding credentials, it's too bad, no one's hiring right now."</li>
<li>Someone in the center of the room will scream, "Your 5 minutes are up, switch!" and as in speed dating, every one will move one chair to the left hoping to find a little love, a little magic in the next guy.</li>
<li>And maybe he's the one. He's older than the last one. Thoughtful with kind eyes. Tells you about himself first--says the only reason he still has a job is because he's too old to be fired--he's protected. Looks over your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">résumé</span>. "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Hmmmm</span>!" He'll look at you and show you that he's wearing a jacket with your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">alma</span> mater's emblem. His kid went there too. "Use the Alumni network- no reason to graduate from a school like that if you're not going to use the contacts....you'll be fine, just follow my rules for success." You'll take out your pen and pad so as not to forget a word. "1) <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">perseverance</span>; 2) <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">perseverance</span>..." You're a quick study, you'll stop writing. He'll smile. "Just <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">persevere</span> kid, call everyone you know and offer to intern. Times are tough, and everyone will be happy to get some free labor!" BUT I'M IN MY 40's!!</li>
<li>Another scream from the center of the room- followed by an ear-piercing whistle. And when you're about to complain, you'll be told by your next mentor that the whistler is the organization's president, so...</li>
<li>Another presentation of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">résumé</span> followed by, "Wow, not sure how to help!" So you'll turn it around and practice your interviewer skills. "Tell me about yourself and your rise to the top of your profession!" And 3 minutes later, you'll be able to write an article on how to become an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">independent</span> radio consultant!"</li>
<li>Another scream, another ear-piercing whistle and you'll meet the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">hypnotherapist</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">tv</span> personality who'll stare deep into your eyes and proffer, "You have to do whatever it takes to get where you want to go!"</li>
<li>Next, no scream, just the whistle that could call a deaf dog to attention. And now you'll be faced with an in-house staff consultant. She doesn't hire, just makes sure that bosses are getting the most from their teams. It will be assessed pretty quickly that neither of you can really help the other, so you'll both opt for a quick bathroom break.</li>
<li>And switch. And now you'll be face to face with the best friend of one of your former assistants. Said assistant is now running her own firm in NYC, and best friend is a high-ranking network executive who remembers you from back in the day, but there's a hiring freeze at her network- so "Good luck. And I'll tell girlfriend that I saw you!" And you'll wonder if you were a good boss to girlfriend, and if she and best friend will be gossiping about you that evening?!</li>
<li>And switch. You'll be just about over it and grab some coffee on the way to the next mentor <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">with nothing to offer you</span>. But actually she'll have a few helpful hints about forging a career in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">blogosphere</span>, so you'll become a little optimistic. Until...</li>
<li>Switch. "Hey you! What are you doing here?" You'll respond, "Looking for a job, need an assistant!" She'll say, "Are you writing? YOU should be writing." "Yeah, I've got this blog--it's about being bitter, and..." "Don't be bitter, come to yoga with me." "Well it's about the journey. I was this person, I'm now this other person, and I so wanna be <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">that</span> person! Ya know?" Blank stare. "O<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">K</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">ay,</span> let's think about getting you a job. Have you been networking?" "Well, I'm here!" And she'll make an honest attempt to help, "Who do I know? What can I do?" And after a moment of contemplation, she'll pronounce, "God, this is so weird, 'cause I know you. For <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">god sakes</span>, I was <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">your</span> intern!"</li>
<li>Laughter.</li>
<li>Hysterical Laughter.</li>
<li>Tears.</li>
<li>Hysterical Crying.</li>
<li>You'll realize that you're still hungry.</li>
<li>And if you're lucky, the best friend who dragged you to this "supportive" event will grab your hand and drag you out!</li>
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BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-70202591013884561692009-02-26T00:34:00.000-08:002018-03-19T22:59:37.855-07:00Overwhelmed<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102);">regretfulchallengedoptimistichappyperserveringbewilderedscaredlazyfunnyhornybrokebrokenalonefree</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102);">And you?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102);"><b>PURGE AND SURGE</b></span></div>
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BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-17632118610988986832009-02-23T17:26:00.000-08:002018-03-21T01:32:29.756-07:00I'm Not A Motel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivBQ_wrhGgxZvmHu1BPyrhvTrMAK7XiERlUNBK9QDaFZOJ0DS8uZFcZw_gMI-taX9xoLAiPC9LwF0uvW0Zj8IksQiTQCmP7SSWxnB8gRAgobmMNFQy9lyy8F0r-gmdVijEIj17V6XNoBc/s1600/No-vacancy-sign-300x199-300x199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="199" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivBQ_wrhGgxZvmHu1BPyrhvTrMAK7XiERlUNBK9QDaFZOJ0DS8uZFcZw_gMI-taX9xoLAiPC9LwF0uvW0Zj8IksQiTQCmP7SSWxnB8gRAgobmMNFQy9lyy8F0r-gmdVijEIj17V6XNoBc/s1600/No-vacancy-sign-300x199-300x199.jpg" /></a></div>
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I'm one of those women whose exes always check-in. I'll get the semi-annual email, "Hey, how are you? How's your mom!" The seasonal text, "Hey, what's up? I'm thinking about you." The bi-monthly phone call, "How's it going? How's your mother? Father? Sister? The dogs?"<br />
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I'm always cool and appreciative of the concern. "I'm fine, thanks. Everyone's fine. Thanks for asking." </div>
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But what I really mean to ask is, "What do you want? Why are you emailing at midnight? Do you miss me?"</div>
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I used to think that an ex's reaching out meant that I was being thought of in a positive way. And that perhaps my ex was regretting his status in my life, and was in fact looking for re-entry. I've recently concluded that the concern isn't really about me. It has very little to do with me at all.<br />
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My best male friend said, "Men always check-in for two reasons, 1) to make sure they haven't become baby daddies, and 2) once that's been established, they need to know that someone out there still cares for them. That if their present situation doesn't work out, they've got an emotional resting place. You," he continued, "Are a nice soft place to rest!"</div>
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"Wow, I'm a great place to rest, just not stay. I'm a motel!"</div>
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"Hotel! A Five Star Hotel!" </div>
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"But not a house with a picket fence and backyard?"</div>
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"Of course you are. Someday, the right guy will think you're the perfect house! But since none of these guys did, stop making them feel better!"</div>
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Well, that hit like a TON of bricks. All this time I thought that even though I hadn't met my Prince Charming, I was so charming that men just couldn't forget about me. But, if I am to trust my friend's summation, I was simply boosting egos long after it was my duty! And that makes me BITTER!</div>
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What say you? Do you and an ex check-in periodically? Or do you change your number/email address every time you end a relationship? Purge and Surge.</div>
BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125696152922831444.post-34293201035780259672009-02-19T21:31:00.000-08:002018-03-21T01:32:47.426-07:00I Ain't Got No Mon-ey!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnHV6uarniDCaRKm8EVJErKZvo1p3Vi8L4jXobdazAd0LlmNuWTHyNIgygPkbaFcWSD3cTIIS8BWPexMFRLwg88Lz5bYZ7N_vkSYXHhK9MJSCFn4B-3x5IbiVznYh7D90sK5D_D2azVI/s1600/black+card.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnHV6uarniDCaRKm8EVJErKZvo1p3Vi8L4jXobdazAd0LlmNuWTHyNIgygPkbaFcWSD3cTIIS8BWPexMFRLwg88Lz5bYZ7N_vkSYXHhK9MJSCFn4B-3x5IbiVznYh7D90sK5D_D2azVI/s400/black+card.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The ONLY cool thing about being broke right now is that EVERYONE'S either in the same boat, or too scared to judge because they're a paycheck away from joining me! But in denial of that fact, they are being really nice, and really, really generous! When I pass up an outing due to lack of disposal funds, I receive a cheerful, "I'll pay!" from most everyone. Which is GREAT karma. When I was fortunate, I did my share of treating others less fortunate than I, so I don't feel weird about the payback.<br />
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But now I understand why some hesitated to accept my offerings. They were afraid of my becoming a Benevolent Abuser (BA). Here are three examples of such behavior:<br />
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1) BA 1 recently invited me for a short tryst. I was writing at home, and was happy to take an hour-long break. The hour turned into four, and my protests fell on deaf ears because she was paying.<br />
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2) BA 2 and I were late for a 2-hour movie, so she parked at a 30-minute meter. OK? One might expect that we’d take turns feeding the meter, but it was clear that I was expected to hop up every 27 minutes to avoid getting a ticket!<br />
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3) BA 3 invited me to dinner with him and his friends, and verbally attacked me when I chose to disagree with his POV. He then used his Amex in place of Hallmark to tender an apology.<br />
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In all three cases I believe that the Benevolent Abusers started with the best of intentions, but my financial vulnerability triggered something in their subconscious, and a power struggle ensued. On the surface, they were being “friends in deed,” for “this friend in need!” But a deeper look reveals the truth—they were purchasing my time. And once I allowed myself to be up for sale, boundaries were crossed.<br />
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Moral of the story: I SHOULD HAVE KEPT MY BROKE ASS AT HOME.<br />
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How do you deal with lack of funds in a social setting? Allow others to pay? Consume a small green salad and water then refuse to split the bill? Or forgo it all, opting instead to stay at home writing in your BITTER journal? Share your story.<br />
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<b>PURGE AND SURGE</b></div>
BitterStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03731640323654623851noreply@blogger.com1