Moving On, the Safe Way

I just read a blog where someone asked about when is the best time to introduce a new boyfriend or girlfriend to the situation when you've got children at home. I've thought long and hard about this situation, myself. Pookie and I still live together, but I'm always weighing my options on moving on.

I've told myself that I don't really see myself getting married until after Pumpkin has graduated high school. I absolutely hate the idea of another man entering the picture and playing my son's father. Pookie and I may have our share of problems, but his father is fantastic and I get weirded out at the thought of another man filling (or trying to fill) that role. Don't get me wrong, I can see myself dating again, but as far as moving another man in, I just don't see it happening.

I can't help but to look at the model my mother left for dating while having children, and it certainly left a lot to be desired. I'd always sworn to myself that when I had kids, I'd be nothing like her, and thankfully I've stuck to that. The funny thing is that it wasn't until I was a mother that I really realized how much she screwed things up. I guess that sounds pretty harsh, but I'm not that known for holding my tongue.

Anyway, in terms of dating, I'll never forget the first man she brought home. It was a hot day at the beginning of summer and a guy showed up. And he never left. Literally, he just showed up. No talk, no discussion, not even mentioning him ahead of time. He just showed up and stayed. I guess she got tired of the broke bastard because a few months later, he disappeared just as quickly as he came. Mom had 4 boyfriends (three of which I met) and one she married. Two years later, the marriage was over although they had dated for well over a decade.

Like I said, I saw how she did things and I remember how I felt, and being that I vowed to be a better parent than her, I know I'll have to do things better or at least differently. When dealing with her boyfriends, I'd always felt like a forced third wheel. I love my son so much that I can't imagine forcing him to be in close parameters for a long time with someone that doesn't respect him or even someone he hates. To this day, he may only be two, but I refuse to let him interact with people I don't feel worthy of him. I've literally scooped my son up when I saw that some effed up people were trying to talk to him. Gosh, I didn't intend for this blog to be about my own faltered childhood, but damned if it isn't a vent.

Anyway, enough of my shattered dreams. I am deathly afraid to put my son in a situation like those that I encountered. One of my greatest traits is my ability to feel empathy. When dealing with other people I will either recall how I've felt in their position, or I'll imagine how I'd react if I were in their position. My empathy makes me a pretty compassionate person. I don't know how I could possibly date if my son absolutely hated someone. Now I am of course speaking as if my son was a logical person. If he hated every dude I dated, I'd have to deal with that and work with him to remind him that I loved him and that he'd always be my son. That's another thing I wish I'd gotten-reassurance that I was loved no matter who mommy was banging.

Oh well, me having a fucked up childhood helped to assure that my son will always have better than I did. I love my Pumpkin so much that I'd move the moon and stars to keep him safe and happy. I think I'm already doing better than where I came from.

Malika and Her Boobs Vol. 2

I blogged a while ago about my issue involving my boobs and not wanting them to hang to my kneecaps in a classy strappy dress that I was planning to wear to my classmate's upcoming birthday party (it's on my other blog here). I really wanted to look good in front of my classmates to the point where they made lewd comments about me and my huge perky knockers. Well, I at least wanted the guys to make nasty comments, I would have settled for the women looking at me enviously and wanting me dead because my bosom was so upright and ample. My homie Shaunnika suggested that duct tape my boobs up, which brought me to last night.

I started getting ready a few hours early. I shaved my pits, my legs, my vajayjay, and my toes, all in an effort to look my best. I even threw my girdle on and my pretty panties. It's not like I was expecting to get action or anything, I just wanted my underclothes to look as pretty as my outer clothes. And then it was time.

I pulled out the duct tape and started on the right one. And then I tried the left one. But unlike the first time where they looked upright and happy, they looked weird. I was perplexed. So I started over, and this time they looked okay. But then I put on the dress and damned if my boobs weren't lopsided. One hung straight down, while the other was clearly forcibly facing my left. Frustration set in. I went to Pookie and asked if my tatas looked okay. Naturally he said that they looked fine, in an attempt to get me to hurry the hell up. I knew what needed to be done. I grabbed my jacket and walked outside. I went to my neighbor Barbie's apartment and immediately said to her "I need help taping my boobs."

I've only known Barbie for a few months but between conversations, advice, watching my son, and making the best damned sandwich I ever had, she's been a God send. Now I'll have to add taping my boobs to her list of accomplishments.

Barbie, our friend Yvette and I headed to the bathroom and closed the door. The first order of business was to take off the duct tape, which had started to settle onto my skin. DEAR GOD. Have you ever waxed your nipples? Well, I don't have any hair on my jugs so I have no need to wax them, but if I did, I imagine that is something what I went through last night. Barbie and Yvette wanted to slowly and painlessly try to rip the tape off, but time was short and my frustration took over. Being the dumbass that I am, I ripped the tape off of my boobs. I remember seeing the skin clinging to the great tape as I pulled if off with all my might. I saw stars as. I wanted to cry. My eyes watered. My boobs hurt and they hurt bad.

Once we got the original set of tape off, Barbie began to apply the more tape as I held my breast firmly into position. Yvette sat back and cut the tape into strips for our mission. All I could think was how much some perv would be willing to pay for footage of three women in the bathroom playing with boobies and using duct tape. After much measuring and trying to figure out the best way to execute Operation Tape Tatas we found the best way. Barbie taped them up. The only problem then was that they were once again crooked.

Thankfully, the tape hadn't set in, so taking this set down wasn't as bad. This time we were able to go back and fix them, and just like I imagined, they looked perfect. Barbie even had me jump up and down before I left to assure that they stayed in place. It was time to party.

I got there and it was great seeing all of my homies from Southwest Dekalb High School. Pookie sat off in the corner with his brother, while I went off and sat down with my homegirls. I let everyone know that if my boobs popped out, they were to let me know immediately because I wasn't trying to end up on the internet. For some reason, I would have been more embarrassed about duct tape showing than I would have been about my actual teets hanging.

My old friend Kenshala started talking and I told her about my apprehension with my boobs. She told me not to worry about it and that if they pooped out, she'd let me know. The song "Blame It On the Alcohol" came on, and I knew that I had to hit the dance floor, since my dearly departed cousin loved this song. I had to bust a move in his honor. The only problem was that as soon as I got down they started to come out. Kenshala pointed it out. Thankfully, I'd hit the dance floor wearing my sweater, so we fastened it. But that didn't stop Irma and Chyna (yes I named my boobs, don't judge me!!). I knew what I needed to do.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom and went into a stall where I prepared. Of course the tape had settled again. Once again, I went for quick and painful to get it over with. I saw stars. And then for Irma (the one on the left). Again it hurt. I couldn't believe that I was in a public ladies' room ripping tape off of the delicate skin of my breasts. After I dried my eyes I went back to the dance floor. I was ready to get down with my bad self.

Unfortunately, Pookie had talked me into wearing an uncomfortable pair of shoes. So despite my going back and forth over the issue of "the ladies" I still wasn't able to dance because my feet were in immense pain. FML

Malika Goes Back to School

Well, as you know, I've been looking for work for a while now. Actually, my father has hooked me up with a job and I'm actually pretty stoked about it. But that doesn't mean that I'm not constantly looking for something else. Anyway, I looked around at jobs and so many of them are paying next to nothing. All I could think to myself was that I spent a decade in college only to look at job boards that only pay $12/hr.

Then I got to thinking about what I'd like to do, and it brought itself back to what I've been thinking about for a minute. I'd like to get into social work. So a masters degree in social work it is. I'm actually pretty geeked about it. I can still do my own thing on the side and work full time while getting my degree. Who ever knew that the girl they called stupid would be the one to get her master's degree?

I'm looking at going to Georgia State University and they actually offer a degree in African American Studies. Too bad I can't do that one too. The more I think about it, the more excited I get. As soon as it gets warm (I swear to God, it's so freaking cold right now. Black people aren't meant to live like this!) I'm going to go down to campus to beg my way into their graduate program. If that doesn't work, I'll be back at my alma mater. Either way, soon I'll be a graduate student. How cool is that?

It's Okay to Brag

Talking with Pookie recently, I'd asked him about men bragging about sexual conquest. Somehow, the question came up about men talking about their sexual exploits at home with the Mrs. and he said something that I took slight offense to. Apparently, men don't brag about their sexual exploits with their significant others. I was outraged.
From what I was told, men would be bored to share the sexy details of the same chick they've been banging for the last few years, so unless a man and wifey do something really sexually thrilling, the average man keeps sex talk about his woman to a minimum.
Perhaps it's just my own selfish reason, but I'd have no problem with Pookie bragging on our sexual exploits. Hell, it's not like I'm dropping drawers all over the place, so if someone knew how I got down with him, I'd have no problem with that. To be quite honest, I'm proud to boast about me and Pookie's sexual exploits. Over drinks, I'm ecstatic to share with my homegirls how talented he is.
Call it an ego boost, but I know that there are so many women that are prettier, smarter, richer, and skinnier than me, so at least I can get my jollies by being proud of the fact that the man I'm living with knows what makes mama happy. I used to think that my ex that I was with for years was awesome, but dear GOD! He has nothing on what I've got now.
But anyway, I'd be okay with Pookie bragging on me. Frankly, I'd be honored to make it to the sordid conversations where men brag about banging some hot chick. As a matter of fact, with my checkered history, I wouldn't be surprised if I've already been the subject of a few naughty locker room conversations. Hell, I've always been a conversation piece. ;)
So anyway, between the two of us, I'm apparently the only one that can and will boast about how good I've got it at home.
Take that all of you skinny, rich, smart, pretty women! At least I've got one thing on you!!