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Archive for the month “May, 2013”

Splitting Hairs

***Warning. Mature, graphic sexual content. Stop now if you get offended easily.

When you really love people, even if you do for them something you didn’t feel like doing, you know you’ll feel worse if you don’t do it for them anyway, your feelings, time, money, lack of energy be damned.

And when you do it, you are actually glad you pushed through to make the person you love happy and your relationship lives to see another day.

It’s really quite simple. It’s the theory of reciprocity is the foundation of truly loving someone and being an active participant in a relationship.

Nothing is free.

People, with the exception of babies, do have to earn your love and the perks that come with it.

Even as a child grows and learns to share, show and give love, parents are getting a return on their investment too.

If this person loves you just as much as you love them, you can think of a million moments where they were in the same position and dug deep for you and in my opinion, that, more than just the warm, fuzzy, feeling we confuse as love is what propels us to fight the urge to be lazy, selfish bastards and give that person what it is they desire.

So I have all kinds of problems with people who have no real history with me making demands, or asking me to change myself or straight up asking me for anything or expecting anything, or having critiques about me.

Expect nothing, appreciate everything.

I was placed in a very uncomfortable position this morning and via text, of all places. I should have woken up to a “good morning beautiful text.”

Instead I was told I’d get more head if I went completely bald.

If you’ve been with me on this blog for a long time, you know how I feel about shaving and men coming out of their faces making demands on how I maintain my yard. https://29tolife.wordpress.com/2012/08/23/tmi-alert-a-hairy-situation/

I took a deep breath and shared my views and how like a box of chocolates, hey, depending on how I’m feeling you never know what you’re going to get.

I don’t want anyone to choke on a hairball, but to hold my pleasure hostage and impede one of the most successful methods of getting me off, because you want me to look like a porn star, or six-year-old, or six-year-old porn star, I got beef.

All I ask is that you keep yours clean and wash your balls and under your balls.

This expectation of women makes me angry. And when you tell me what to do with my nether regions, I feel like it’s an omen of things to come. I feel like there’s some control stuff going on and you want to see how much I bend to what you want.

Fortunately, I know better. I’ve had men in my life who loved it any way I served it up.

One even liked it after I worked out, because the sweat turned him on.

So having enough confidence in myself this time has made me speak up and set the record straight.

Some women might say, hey, it’s not that big of a deal. You want the guy to eat you out right? He wants to eat you out? He’s successful, and wants to do it. Do your part so he wants to continue to do it. Take the L. Someone else will keep it bald and buff it everyday to have a man like that.

And that’s a valid point.

I just don’t appreciate the double standard. Maybe some days I don’t want to squirm in my seat at my desk because of the coarse, prickly hairs growing in that I can’t scratch in public. I’m sure they will frown upon me putting a back scratcher in my pants. Someone will be offended.

Thing is, I’m not anti grooming down there. I’m not.

I’m particularly pissed at his specificity to the matter. And I’m livid at having to read this shit at 7 a.m. ( Here’s some context. This all started from a conversation last night about me baking pies, and him asking if I want him to eat my pie again…)

He said bald.

So with that in my mind, he acknowledged that I had maintenance going on down there and that he wasn’t picking hairs out of his teeth, but in order for me to enjoy his services more regularly, I had to go all the way.

I said what I had to say honestly and then I left it at that.

But I was fuming for most of the morning, including now.

We are supposed to go see a movie tomorrow night. But I’m feeling some kind of way. Am I being unrealistic and immature? Or do I have the right to feel comfortable sexually?

That’s a no-brainer. I want to feel comfortable.

And maybe he isn’t the one. Maybe for just the right one, I’d get a Brazilian every day. I doubt it, because I feel the right one is going to love me, and my puss no matter what kind of hairstyle she’s rocking that week.

I ranted to a close male friend and he confirmed that I was right.

But now this has me thinking, what may not be a big deal to other people is a big deal to me. Every time I’ve tried to please other people who did not go out of their way to sincerely please me, left bitter, awful tastes in my mouth that spread resentment all over my body like an aggressive virus.

So instead of questioning my ability to love, my capacity for giving and my aptitude for submission to a future husband, I’m going to be selfish for a moment and be a grown woman for once and say, “I want what I want. Someone is going to give me that.”

I’ve also decided that people who really love you and know what you like, love and totally hate, they simply won’t ask you to do something they know you don’t like. They wouldn’t want to put you through that much of an inconvenience.

At least that’s how I feel and that’s how I treat the ones I love.

Charles Ramsey Shut Up This Black Bourgie Broad. Thank You, Sir.

When I first heard the clip of Charles Ramsey, the Cleveland man credited with saving three women and one baby who had been missing for 10 years, I laughed.

Here we go again, I thought as I recalled Sweet Brown of the “ain’t nobody got time for that” fame.

We’ve seen folks like Sweet Brown and Antoine Dodson (Bed Intruder viral fame) or random Black lady with rollers in her hair, talking in an animated way and folks usually laugh as they recount witnessing a crime or something newsworthy happening.

As a person of color in the media, it always bothered me.

And when I went out to cover stories, in the “hood,” yes, I interviewed these folks to get the facts. And within the rules of ethics I was taught in J-school, without changing their voice, I would correct their grammar lightly. In some cases, there is greater impact in leaving the quote as is, bad grammar and all and even allow damn or a hell to further illustrate the story.

This was not limited to just black folks in the hood, I extended this rule to white folks in trailer parks or in rural areas as well.

When Charles Ramsey’s videos started going viral, I was SOOOOOO ready to dismiss him as yet another person who will milk this 15 minutes of fame and coon it up to the highest bidder. But I can’t be mad. A come up is a come up and if he can parlay the situation into a better one for himself and his family who am I to judge?

I think America was ready to write him off as just another clown, talking about barbecuing and ribs and salsa dancing with his neighbors, the abductors of these women.

But as more interviews come out, despite memes that show striking similarities to Clarence from the barber shop in “Coming to America” I see Charles Ramsey for who he is.

I dig him. He is unapologetically himself, and he’s sincere. Yes, he’s wearing a backwards baseball cap in an interview with George Stephanopoulos, but he is passionate and still getting over the fact, that he’d been living next door for a year and never knew there were three young women being held prisoner.

His honesty is refreshing. The fact that he doesn’t like being called a hero is wonderful. The fact that when reward money was mentioned during a CNN interview, he said that he has a job, and that the women should get the money, that let me know, he’s quite cognizant of how he wants to represent himself and his own integrity as a black man. This dude has probably never had any media training in his life, and the fact that he has been able to control his image as he sees fit, with a palpable sincerity, speaks volumes to the kind of man he is.

Ha, America. You were not expecting this kind of hero.

You were not expecting this kind of black man in the form of this kind of black man.

The fact he even said out loud that it was a dead giveaway something was wrong when a “pretty, white girl” ran for safety in the arms of a black man, made me sit straight up.

He knows what society thinks of him, and he is totally aware that they are watching him and forming opinions of him.

Without totally changing who he is or his appearance or his off the cuff responses, in my opinion, he is giving a brilliant representation of a large number of voiceless black men who go to work everyday in this country.

They are not criminals. They are not rappers or athletes. Or even President Obama.

Charles Ramsey in all his glory represents legions of invisible black men who fall between what society deems the best and the worst.

They may not have what some consider are the best jobs that make a whole lot of money, but they work and they are proud of the fact that they work. And if you don’t think what they do is good enough, well, you can step. And they’ll tell you that.

These are the uncles at the barbecue, the ones who run Bostons on your asses at a spades game, but who will strategically scare your potential boyfriends because they love you. Their knowledge of their neighborhood and the people in it will surprise you and they’ll give you directions using land marks in a heart beat. “Now go three lights down, if you passed the McDonalds, you went too far…”

They care about people, even strangers.

These are the same men, who will give you a jump when you are on the side of the road after three brothas wearing suits wizz past you. They will get down on the ground and change your tire. And when you offer them money, they’ll be the ones to say no, tell you to have a nice day and disappear just as quickly as they appeared to help you.

We make fun of the Charles Ramsey’s of the world. The Jeromes, and Rodneys because of the way they dress and talk.

I’m glad that Mr. Ramsey is getting the admiration of an entire country that tends to fear and try their darndest to avoid him. If I saw Mr. Ramsey in the street, even as a black, woman out-of-place in his neighborhood, I’d be quick to roll up the windows and find my way back to the interstate.

So thank you, Mr. Ramsey. Your actions and your reaction to all of this has humbled me.

I’m glad Americans are getting to see the men I’ve seen and known who exist in NY, in Detroit, in Jackson and in Chicago or Oakland.

These are the same men who may not get on the news because they’ve stopped another man from beating on a neighbor, or helped fix a water heater of an elderly neighbor.

Men like Charles Ramsey aren’t your usual heroes. Gasp. They don’t run down a field, or dunk a basketball. These men quietly pay their bills, take care of their children, and try to make their women happy.

I’m quick to be frustrated with black men these days and jaw on about how they need to get their shit together and do better; but even Mr. Ramsey and the way he’s handled this situation–on his own terms, still with class– was like a gut punch to my own elitist feelings toward black men who may not have the educational or socioeconomic status similar or greater than mine.

So if you are laughing at Mr. Ramsey about the way he talks or dresses, you aren’t looking closely enough and you are missing out on a valuable lesson.

Sure, the autotune videos are funny and clever, and even when asked about that, with the acumen of a politician, he simply remarks, “If it makes the people happy…”

I salute you, Mr. Ramsey.

As one commenter posted online, I truly hope that Mr. Ramsey does not have a criminal background, because that would be the next big story.  Even if he did, he still should be celebrated for what he’s accomplished, but once again. This is America. He is a black man.

And he’s showed us he knows it.

Related links that I suggest:

The Griot.com wrote a great article http://thegrio.com/2013/05/08/charles-ramsey-is-an-american-hero-not-a-hilarious-meme/

Launching a Business and Falling in Love: More Alike Than I Realized

So here we are.

I’m a scardy cat. I will admit it. I’m always freaked out about stuff before and while doing important things. I’ve mentioned that in my reporter days, I could never go out on a story without taking my “calm down dump.”

Seems like the knots in my stomach were VERY real and until I could take that dump, I wouldn’t be right to go out there and nab that story.

I am freaked out because I finally stopped making excuses and got to work on my tee-shirt website.

I worked with one do it yourself site, which required a lot of doing it yourself and I ended up frustrated, and left the work undone.

I allowed the defeat.

Finally one day, I realized, maybe I should just pay to use another, easier, more user-friendly site and keep it moving.

Pride aside, you don’t know enough to build it, or at least build it with these tools.

So with my mind made up to pay for a really great site, I got to work last night. It turns out the really great site has a free option. It’s limited, but it’s free and perfect for where I am in the process now. I will be upgrading, but I’m glad I started working on it.

The vision is coming together beautifully. And that’s what’s scary. Crap my pantalones scary, yall. Because here I am.

The photos, my models, who are my friends and the site looks mighty professional and sleek, in my opinion. I really can’t believe what I’m seeing. I’m so excited. All of my hard work since Fall 2011 is really starting to show results.

Straight up, if I didn’t have an artist of a friend of a photographer and gorgeous models who went to work and totally represented exactly what I wanted, the shirts would look like poo, if I tried to do this alone.

They elevated the game. I can’t even take credit.

But I’m scared. I had all of this planning, all of these classes I took, and now, basically the only real thing left to do is to get some inventory to get going and launch. Just put it out there and launch. See if people dig it, take some orders and go.

The planning and the learning helped me heal and gave me purpose it was an awesome distraction from my pain that allowed me to be creative. But now the nuts and bolts stuff I’ve been working toward is about to begin.

It will be time to launch. It is soon time to go out there and try and see if people feel what it is I’m putting out there. The idea I was afraid to say out loud, will be out there for the world to consume. This is no longer philosophical, folks.

Oh, that’s scary.

Deciding to follow a dream is a lot like allowing yourself to fall in love. Sometimes your expectations are too high, sometimes your expectations are too low depending on your skill level, history of success and self-esteem.

Both are highly risky, both are highly scary, but man when it works…

People looking in from the outside have all kinds of opinions. Some people agree with your choice, some question it, some hate it.  Some people think you are crazy for trying.

Launching a business and falling in love are so similar.

You find yourself thinking about both all of the time. You imagine what your future will be like if it all goes really well.

You try your hardest to make it work.

You want to be your absolute best for it.

You can’t deny the connection you feel to it. It haunts you.

You will spend a lot of money and make a lot of sacrifices and you won’t care about that unless it fails.

Something that keeps you going, that feeling reminds you that if you try hard enough, if you believe hard enough, it won’t fail.

“I Don’t Know” Soulive and Amel Larrieux

Lancelot Vs. Kyle Barker the Results Show

It’s been an interesting, eye-opening weekend.

In my last post, I waxed on about how Kyle Barker had this strange power over me. I alluded to his love of weed before, but after speaking with him and having drinks with him and hearing him wax on about how his recent trip to Jamaica was awesome because of the amount of weed he purchased and consumed and how he engaged in reckless drunken, and high behavior…

My bubble was burst.

I sat thinking, “What the hell? You are a grown man. You were on one of the most beautiful islands on the planet and weed was the only thing you can rave about? Not the scenery, not the food, or the music or even the beautiful people?”

Now fast forward to the next day, where a simple text between me and Lancelot turned into me spending the entire day at his lovely home. Sitting outside on his deck making drinks and talking about everything. Businesses, home buying, family, “the racism of low expectations,” so much. I cooked dinner. When the sun got in my face, he pitched a tent.

Looking at his well-manicured yard, he talked about the weeping willow which seemed to be the centerpiece.

I went nuts because, in one of my dreams from last week, when I was traipsing around the South, there were weeping willows a plenty. I love those trees. I told him about that dream. He smiled and said, “Well, I guess you are supposed to be right here right now.”

I kept staring at that tree. I told him he should rent his yard out to old church ladies so they could hold teas there, it was just that beautiful. I stretched out and let the cool breeze hit me. I saw birds with vibrant colors. I joked that even the air smelled different in his neighborhood than mine. And we probably live barely five miles apart.

I told him about how I used to marvel at trees down South. The real skinny ones that lined highway 95 or 85. You could tell they were old, but somehow they were ridiculously tall, but never snapped or bent. I used to think giants like the ones from Jack and the Beanstalk had to live up there.

“Strong roots,” Lancelot said.

“Yeah.”

He chuckled when I could see the colors on the wings of the birds and how excited I was to see them.

“This is what beautiful days should be like,” I said.

He said my amazement reminded him of when got lasik eye surgery and how it seemed like the entire world became this insanely vibrant place, with so many new secrets revealed, the smallest details of life normally missed, unfolding, now undeniable.

We talked all day and all night.

He loved the food and we ate until we were full.

We mixed drinks and I joked that usually I use the cheap stuff, when he offered up the good stuff. And boy there is a difference between the cheap stuff and the good stuff.

I was gone.

I paid for it dearly all day Sunday. But we still had a great time.

Day fell into night and at some point, he grabbed me and kissed me passionately. My head was spinning from everything I drank and from the moment.

I found myself nervous and quietly saying, “Please don’t kiss me like that if you don’t mean it.”

And I gave in.

Kyle Barker couldn’t be half the man Lancelot is on his best day.

Case closed.

Lancelot is the man who will tuck you in.

Kyle Barker will fuck you.

Lancelot is the man who will make you breakfast.

Kyle Barker will be long gone by then.

Lancelot will make you tea and bring you water and an aspirin.

Again, Kyle Barker will be gone and smoking.

Lancelot is the man who will reach for you in the middle of the night and hold you closer.

Kyle Barker will be gone and smoking.

Lancelot is the man who has a ten year plan and has long term visions he is certain of.

Kyle Barker has a great job, but he’s not game changing anyone’s life or providing folks with opportunities to empower themselves.

Lancelot is the man who won’t sell you a dream, he makes them come true and they are better than you originally imagined.

Kyle Barker is a means to an end guy. He does what he wants and what works for him at the moment.

Lancelot knows how to share. He gives freely. He is open, he is honest.

Kyle Barker is vague but that’s probably because he’s high.

Lancelot challenges you to be better.

Kyle Barker doesn’t care if you are better or worse as long as you aren’t wearing any panties.

I want to be better. I want to be more serious about my dreams and goals. He amazes me. I am inspired.

I respect him deeply.

And he’s a great kisser.

This is a no-brainer.

Kyle Barker Returns, Again

A situation that took place yesterday kind of starts out the way the guy from the barbershop in Coming to America tells his story about meeting Dr. Martin Luther, the kang.

Clarence: “One day, I was walking down the street, just walking along, feeling good. I walk around a corner, A man walk up, hit me in the chest. I fall on the ground, right. And I look up and it’s Dr. Martin Luther King. I said ‘Dr. King?’ and he said ‘Ooops, I thought you were some body else.’ ”
Sweets: Oh man, you lyin’. You ain’t never met Martin Luther the King.
Clarence: Knocked the wind out of me, yes he did.
Sweets: No, he didn’t.
Clarence: Yes, he did.
Sweets: No, he did not!

Well. No, someone did not hit me in the chest after I walked around the corner, but it felt that way. And I was left feeling like the wind was knocked out of me, just the same.

I was rushing off to the metro near my job, to meet up with friends in DC after work. I looked great, felt great, like my friend Clarence and all of a sudden, I hear a man cat-calling me.

I’m grown. I aint got time for that. So then, the voice yells my name.

I twist around to see where this is coming from.

Lo and behold, it’s Kyle Barker.

Damn. Dressed like Harrison from Scandal (Always has. He’s been wearing gingham dress shirts for ages. I joke with him and call them picnic basket and graph paper shirts), looking so good and smiling that million dollar smile.

Oh he has a great smile.

So, I smile say hello. He asks me what I’m doing here and I tell him that I work nearby. He’s shocked because basically he works in the building across the street from me. He asks me how long have I been working in that building, and I tell him rolling my eyes, six years.

So we laugh at the coincidence. He asks me where I am going and tells me to hop in and allow him to drop me off to the metro. He has to switch out of the turning lane to get back toward the Metro, but he does. As we get closer, I tell him where he can drop me and he says, no, he wants to wait for another car to move out of the way to keep me in the car longer. I laugh him off and switch subjects.

I ask him if he’s still djaying and to let me know when he’s having the next gig. “Maybe I’ll grace the place with my face,” I said playfully.

“And your ass too?”

“And my ass too.”

He tells me he likes my hair and continues to look at me like a desert cart. I’m taking in the view myself. Damn, sir. Trying to fight instant flashbacks of old, naughty behavior, I’m calm, I’m cool. However if he saw or felt what was going on in my panties, I would have been a goner. My cover completely blown.

The sun was shining, I had on an amazing, super flattering Ann Taylor dress. It was, the peeerfect moment you pray for to have the man who pisses you off yet, curls your toes see you. I mean, I would have never calculated that moment for myself so well.

I was laughing at the irony. Kyle Barker hadn’t really crossed my mind. And BOOM. There he is.

Fine.

But before I drifted into my primitive thoughts and had Ciara’s “Body Party” playing in my head on repeat, upon entering his vehicle, the smell of stale weed met me in his car. I had to laugh about that too. He’s fine, he’s smart, he’s educated and has a good job, but him and that damn weed.

I used to smell it on him and taste it on his lips, back in the day. But I didn’t care, not one frigging bit. He put it all the way down.

I was having an Olivia Pope moment. He’s my Fitz. He’s my Mr. Big. No matter where I go, or what I do, I can’t seem to escape his draw. The magnatism.

He makes me primitave. It’s intense, the desire. He’s no good.

We’ve gone over this numerous times on this blog. No good. But uh, uh, uh. He’s fine.

So we make a little more small talk, I keep it short. Got places to be. I bid him adieu. So he purposely says the corny line, like, “I hate to see you leave, but I love seeing you walk away.”

I laughed, and casually said, “Thanks for the ride, darlin.” And stomped off like a true G.

And like a true G, I never turned around to look back at him in the car.

Yes, hunty! Go in and let have! I was giving it everythang, strutting to the Metro like he didn’t phase me. (Inside, I wanted to straddle him in the car. I need Jesus. For real.)

Oh rapturous fabulousness!

And in honor of our ridiculous fauxlationship, Wale’s Bad. Shout out to Olivia and Fitz and Olivia and Jake… Bad girl…

Since I mentioned Body Party, why not?

The Week O Dreams Continues; Oprah, I Mean, Ms. Winfrey, Pays Me a Visit

My most recent dream did not involve a man, or love or exes.

Thank you, God!

My most recent dream involved me hitting the road and visiting a dear friend in the state of Ohio.

I managed to pull over on the side of the road and get into an argument with a coach of what seemed like a new version of the Bad News Bears. I couldn’t remember much.

But another part of my dream, or a second dream that sticks out in my mind is that I had a ten-minute meeting with Oprah.

That’s right. I was kicking it with The Mighty O.

She was just as splendid meeting her in dream life than I would have ever imagined in real life.

Yeah. Play that back.

Lol.

Okay, so we are in a lovely room. Sunlight has entered. Lady O was wearing some soft, white top that I’m sure Olivia Pope, already has in her wardrobe. I’m sure.

Women with the confidence to wear delicate white clothing and not look afraid of dirt touching it all day inspire me. They are truly fearless.

Anyway. For some reason, I know I really only have ten minutes with Oprah, so I’m trying to make it count.

So, I keep it simple. I’m not asking her for a job, or a loan, or to send me to college. We are simply talking about books. We are specifically talking about “Twelve Tribes of Hattie” and while although she put her stamp of approval on it and made it apart of her book club, it left me feeling some kind of way and quite sad.

We agree to disagree on the awesomeness of the book, and I felt so at ease with Oprah. She was so awesome and gracious and present in the moment with me. She didn’t rush me, this was our time. She was all in. She wasn’t condescending or diva-like. She saw my humanity and we enjoyed our brief conversation.

Well, I felt really comfortable. Too comfortable. And I began to speak. I said, “Ms. Oprah…”

I was instantly stopped short. Oprah interrupted me.

Making one of her “honeychile” faces she looked me straight in the eyes and said, “No sweetie. Not yet. Ms. Winfrey.”

And she laughed.

And I had to laugh too. Totally embarrassed, thinking I committed the worst offense of all time, I think I managed a quiet, humble, “Yes, yes, Ms. Winfrey.”

Her smile and laugh was warm. She asserted herself to correct my misstep, but it was in a confident, kind, instructional way.

She did it in a way, not like a diva, or not like she was speaking down to me like a peasant.

It was wonderful.

But what I appreciated most was after her gentle, yet authoritative response was that she said, “Not yet.”

Not yet?

Hol up.

Does this mean, Opr… I mean Ms. Winfrey wants to actually speak to me again, where I can get to call her Ms. Oprah? Not Oprah, because I don’t even think Gayle can call her that. I just want to be able to like a good child, raised by Southern parents, refer to her lovingly as Ms. Oprah. It really is respectful. I mean it in a highly respectful, old school way.

Oh rapturous joy!

Does this mean Ms. Winfrey has taken an interest in me???

Oh what a dream!

There are a few things I can gather from this in real life, that I’ve been mulling over as I share this awesome story.

One, I have something in me that can be attractive to people from all walks of life. Humanity is shared, therefore from the youngest to the oldest, richest to the poorest, we can connect and we can learn and give and take something valuable from one another. Period.

When you walk into a room humbled by that fact, you can own that room.

I have some level of power and influence within myself that I haven’t tapped into… yet.

There was something so powerful and hopeful about that dream. Maybe I will meet Ms. Winfrey someday and she’ll think I’m awesome.

But I also learned something from the way Ms. Winfrey, in one sentence, spoke with such conviction into my life and hers, by saying yet… and by also reminding me of who she was in an authoritative, yet kind way.

It reminded me, one you can let people know who you are without being loud, or boisterous or saying, “Do you know who I am?”

Don’t be afraid to correct people when they have not earned the right to call you by your proper name. Don’t be a jerk, but when you know who you are, you can confidently let people know where they stand with you, without being offensive or coming off like you are better.

Be unapologetic. Let people know who you are. And know who you are so when people get it wrong, you can stop them right away.

I’ma say it one more time.

When you know who you are, correct folks right then when they incorrectly say who they think you are.

I got chills off of that.

That level of class speaks volumes of you and elevates others, because you took the time to respect them regardless of status or income or amount of power.

You can energize someone else “lower” than you, by showing them respect, giving them hope and showing that you share the same humanity.

I woke up this morning feeling like I could take on the world. Could you imagine if I actually met Ms. Winfrey? Lawd.

I’d just go ahead and run for president 2016 myself and really believe I could win.

“Lighthouse” by Fantasia (This is my latest, favorite positive jam.)

More Dreams, Ex Appreciation Week, and Greece?

Alrighty folks. It seems like this week has been the week to have strange dreams and strange things happen.

I woke up this morning and sat straight up in my bed.

This time I dreamt of my ex from freshman up until the summer leading into junior year of college.

Again I was in the South. Totally in New Orleans. I was hanging with my ex as comfy and cozy as can be. We were affectionate and exchanging our usual quips and jokes rapid fire. His mom was there, but in real life she loved me. In the dream, not so much because she said I didn’t speak to her right away when I got in the house. His younger brothers were there too.

Everything felt like real-time, but his youngest brother kind of stayed around the age of 12, but his middle brother was the correct age. Anyway, Mom was throwing a lot of shade and making reference to my “expensive clothes” and my “expensive bag.”

I was laughing, because I wish I had expensive clothes. What I consider expensive and what other folks consider expensive are totally different things. One of my friends said I could save more money if I didn’t go shopping as much as I do. But my response was that I shop at Marshalls, Ross, and H&M. I’ll buy tons of clothes for like $60. And I like Macys. But I’m not a high-end girl, by any means.

Anyway. This dream had me really crazy because I’ve decided to go with all of this. I’m deeming this week Ex Appreciation Week.

For better or for worse, I chose a handful of men and made them my life and my world. I shared my hopes, dreams, love, mind and body with these folks and they had an impact on my life.

It is what it is.

I’m thankful that 2 out of the 4 of them, I could have a drink with and actually enjoy their company with.

The other two, well, you know about them.

As for Greece, I told you folks about a great dream I had the night before last.

Well, I was talking to one of my besties last night and what does she suggest?

A trip to Greece. I didn’t mention my dream at all. She just brought it up.

So I’m freaked out.

I don’t think I’m clairvoyant by any means, but I do feel like maybe there is something in Greece that I need to see or do to give me some inspiration and direction. So it looks like I need to get my ducks in a row and figure out how to get to Greece.

 

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