Life of No Regret (At Least Not for Me)

Some years back, when my father was still married to my step-mother, my dad called me and commented on the fact that my mother had married her long-time boyfriend and recently moved to Florida. "She's in Florida and retired, huh? Boy, I sure messed that up, that could have been me!" Part of my father's kicking himself also stemmed from the fact that he had 2 younger children with my stepmother and feared going through the child support monster again, while my mother's children were all fully grown and out of the house. I will say, knowing what I now know about money and all parties involved, I understand that had my father stayed with my mother, neither of them would have been retired, even without extra young kids, as my father let money slip through his fingers like water. They would both still be working, well into their 70's, not a single dime having been put away. My father is actually still actively working, while both women, are now divorced from my father, and are also retired.

I'm now at a precarious space of trying to curate a life of peace and happiness, as I glide into my own retirement in some years. I still plan to return to Los Angeles, only this time, I'll be returning on my own terms. My car will be paid off (or far closer to it), and I plan to live in the Long Beach area. The only thing that I see possibly deviating my plans is if the rain in Los Angeles stays this frequent. Yeah, I'm not moving somewhere rainy. But again, those are my terms. I fully intend to live in L.A. when the Olympics hit in the summer of 2028.

The little bit of dating I've been doing has been frustrating as of late, because while I am focused heavily on moving my life in a certain direction, I'm finding that men my age are still waiting tables, and barely putting money to the side (if at all) or they're looking for a mommy/bangmaid, who will care for them like tiny infants. I have zero interest in either.

Anyway, I chatted up with an old friend last night. While I tend to fall on the feminist side of the spectrum, he's far more masculine centered. It creates some pretty interesting debates for the two of us. I still occasionally tip my toe into the dating pool, but I find myself recognizing that as I get older and closer to many of my personal goals, the men just aren't up to snuff. Hearing my friend's thoughts on dating only makes my dating experiences that much more interesting. I confessed to my friend that as I get older and focus more on the relationship that I want for myself, I'm seeing more and more how men just aren't cutting the mustard anymore.

I told my homeboy how I feel like so many of these guys really just aren't where I am, and I fear that many of these guys will look up and realize that I'm securely on the West Coast, living my best life, and all of sudden, the "hey stranger" text messages will begin.

While I'm being careful about all of my life choices moving forward (financial, sexual, friendships, career, etc.), my fear is that the same guys that played me to the left will realize that their options are running low and they will suddenly look up and find me as far more of a viable option than they did when they were just sticking their dicks in any hole they could find. And those same guys will suddenly recognize that as their bodies slow down, and their dicks stop working, and the rent gets more expensive, and as they realize that they're thisclose to dying alone, they will suddenly remember what an amazing woman I am.

My guy friend referred to those guys as "hospice husbands." Men who spent their whole lives running the streets, but suddenly want to get married in their golden years, in order to be taken care of. Being that I worked in hospice roughly 6 months ago, and saw closely how lack of proper planning could land someone in the most horrible position, the term hit home. They may experience blindness, back problems, Alzheimer's, cancer, diabetes complications, all kinds of other fun stuff... and suddenly they want me to step on in and save them from their bad decisions. Or at least significantly soften the blow of dying of sickness. Reminds me of a person I know who's dad had been running the streets and when he finally got sick and ready to take his final dirt nap, he up and married the side piece he'd had for 30 years. Yeah, he was ripping and running for 30 years, babies and all, and only once he got old and about to die, did he decide to marry her. What the fuck kinda consolation prize is that?!

Watching people grow old and sickly is sad. It can be a long, painful process that requires changing diapers, losing sleep, navigating the bureaucratic red tape of insurance companies and benefits. It's long, complicated, and arduous. I know how the process goes, because it's basically been my job for the last decade and a half. And I'll be damned if I'll put forth that sort of effort over someone who couldn't even be bothered to work with me and hold me down, while I planned for our perfect life in our 60s.

It's so cliched, but true. My life is good and it looks like it can only get better. My home is peaceful. I recall a few months back when my cousin came over and she commented how she could tell that I'd been meditating in my bedroom because it was so tranquil. My friends are doing well. It's been a slow stretch, but I'm finally starting to pay down bills and save some money. My skin looks good. Can't front, I look damned good for my 40s, almost 15 years younger. I can run a mile without getting winded and I'm buzzing my way through writing book number 2, so I can start the self-publishing part for both books.

When you feel this amazing, and your life is this breezy, it only makes sense to continue doing what you've been doing to create that space. Buddhism, mindfulness, and meditation certainly ushered in this feeling of peace and happiness and I'm fiercely protective of it all. It someone so much as sneezes too loudly, I politely step away. I no longer feel like I owe anyone an explanation for why I refuse to entertain them. I have finally accepted that it is on me and me alone to protect my peace and move into a space of further growth and light. I'm noticing a lot of difficulty around me. Welp. Not my monkey, not my circus.

2023 and Beyond!

When the weather started to turn cooler, I started looking for my favorite sweatshirt. It's kind of a faded black shirt, and a bit thin, made from a thin cotton blend. I mean, thick enough for a cool, breezy day, but thin enough to not have you be a sweating mess on a warmer day. It was my favorite sweatshirt. On top of it being just cozy enough, it also had the outline of the continent of Africa on it and I got it on clearance for like $6 from Target. So not only was it warm/cool enough, it was also a great price and fashion staple for my Blackity Black Black ass.

As soon as I noticed it missing, I figured he took it. Ugh. To contact Theo about my favorite sweatshirt or not? As I read the words of Lama Surya Das, I was amazed at the timing and decided that it wasn't worth the headache involved to get back my precious shirt. I would let detachment win this round, and decide that sometimes it is simply best to let go and accept that nothing really belongs to any of us anyway.

I was really excited about the New Year. Perhaps it was the viral prison known as COVID, and just all of the shit of the last 3 years, but this year felt like the first time in forever that there appears to be a collective sigh of relief. People seem genuinely happy and excited about the future. People are ready and anxious to move forward and leave the trauma of the recent past behind.

Personally, I can honestly say that after the mess that was 2021, followed by the first half of 2022, I'm seeing so much to be happy about. Things are falling into place. I'm excited about my professional and creative prospects. I'm ready to start planning my next epic birthday trip. Although, I decided that based on some upcoming goals, the 2023 birthday extravaganza will have to be my last one. At least for now. Fact is, I still want to focus on saving some money for my child to go away to college, in addition to saving for me to move back to Cali, in addition to my desire to pay off my second biggest expense, my car note. There will plenty of time to play in the future, but those 3 items are at the top of my immediate savings goals.

My son is 15. My baby is 15. I've been experiencing some extreme cognitive dissonance lately, as I watch "The Boy" turn into "The Man." I really miss that fat baby that I brought home from the hospital. That gorgeous toothless smile and still melts my heart when I view old pictures of him. And now that baby is no more. I knew this day would come, but he's taller than me. Like way taller than me. His voice is noticeably deeper. I looked down the other day and observed hair growing out of his legs. I'm not nearly as weird as I thought I'd be about it. I guess it's because the Universe kind of slowly prepares you for it. But does it really?

My fear was that I'd become one of those moms who is unable to let her baby go, especially since he's my only one. But I've always been baffled by those people whose whole identity is tied up in their relationship to someone else. Sure, I love feeling needed and wanted by my child. But I have so much respect for the young man my son is growing into. He's kind, thoughtful, intelligent, funny. Every now and again, he and I will share a moment, where he tells me that I'm more like a friend to him. That warms me. I don't have to force him to tell me anything. He feels comfortable in that space. He and I support one another, although I am obviously mindful to keep proper boundaries. I love watching him grow into the man that he is becoming.

My other fear was that if he didn't shape up, I'd be dragging my middle aged son along with me for the rest of my life. Not that I wouldn't gladly support him in any way that I can. But I think that ultimately, as parents, we hope and pray that our children are independent enough to make intelligent decisions, so when the day comes that they are no longer under our wing, we can trust them to be able to care for themselves. And that's what's beautiful to me. That at the rate things are going, one day, we'll be on opposite sides of the country, or even the world, and I will know and trust in my spirit that my child is okay and able to navigate life on his own.

Anyway, all of this looking forward stuff has been awesome. New Year's Eve was a decent day. Busy as hell at work. I opted not to work that night, nor did I go out. Ever since my car accident around Christmas time last year, and the subsequent brain injuries that came from it, I'm terrified of being out around reckless drivers. I got an invite from a cousin of mine to attend his major NYE party, but I opted out. My last two car accidents may have seemed minor on the surface. But they left me with brain injuries that resulted in loss of proper mobility, plus a pronounced stutter. After both accidents, I remained terrified that I'd be stuck permanently with the brain injuries. I try not to focus on it too hard, but I remain terrified that one day, yet another careless asshole will slam into my car. But rather than stuttering for just 2 weeks, it'll be "the big one" and I will be unable to easily bounce back from another brain injury. At 42, you unfortunately don't bounce back like you once did. So I stayed home.

As the clock struck closer to midnight, I couldn't help but to think a bit about NYE last year. I was here with Theo, observing the fireworks going off in my complex. To their credit, my neighbors do amazing fireworks displays, comparable to that of professionals. I was also thinking about the fact that my ex, Steve, bought me the most adorable smudging set and I needed to use it. Time to clear negative energy from my home.

I peeked out my bedroom window, just after midnight, when I got a call from a number I didn't recognize. "Happy New Year" I hear a voice say. "Happy New Year, who is this?" I responded. 

"It's Theo," he said.

"Oh, hey," I uttered.

I wasn't angry. I wasn't even really excited. I was just shocked. Like what the hell did he want? 

"Well, I'm moving back home," he offered. "Where is home"? I countered. "Detroit," he said. 

"Oh, okay" was the only response I could give. I mean, just all around confusion at this point.

"Well, that was all I wanted, just telling you happy New Year," he said. "Thanks, you too" was the only thing I could think to offer. 

I got off the phone far more confused than when I answered it. Why the hell did he call? What did it mean? It certainly wasn't the kind of conversation I thought we'd have if we ever spoke again. And I didn't really think we'd speak again.

The thing that sucks about having news at midnight on NYE is that people are either out or knocked out, cuz #old. No one picked up. I had to sit with what just happened. 

Then it occurred to me. He called me because he'd been thinking about me! You sure as shit don't just happen to call someone at midnight on NYE unless there is some kind of planned something there. And just like that, I went into 2023 that much better. I felt lighter. I truly felt weightless. I mean, I wasn't planning on going into the new year thinking about him. He was genuinely in no way part of anything good or bad that I was feeling going into the new year. 

But the way he left when shit got bad was just wrong. And I felt so cheated, because at the end of the day, I was always there for him, and he knew it. He single-handedly fucked up our relationship, and he knows it. And what always stung me the most was how he walked away, as if I never mattered.

But then he called me. On New Years Eve. At midnight. I don't particularly care what it was for. He contacted me, letting me know that despite all of the bravado, he thought about me. Once I sorted through my thoughts, I realized his intention was to tell me that he was moving back (not that I really cared). The fact is that as soon as he moved out of my home, he moved back to Detroit. I knew that. He couldn't make it here on his own. And I wasn't going to continue to let him be my problem.

Only minutes after we got off the phone, it occurred to me- this would be the perfect time to ask about my shirt. I didn't give a damn about anything else. But seriously, I miss my shirt. I texted him to ask if he'd seen it. No response.

I woke the next day, still slightly confused. And again, concerned about the location of my missing hoodie. Since he didn't respond to my text, I took him off my block list on Facebook and inboxed him to ask if he'd seen it and asked if he'd accidentally taken it, would it be possible to mail it back. He quickly responded that he hadn't seen my shirt.

So there we have it. The end of an era. I can't explain how good it felt to get such a stupid phone call. No matter what his ridiculous reasoning was for calling me, it gave me what I needed. To know that as much as he showed his ass on the way out the door, at the end of the day, he still cares what I think (which is why he lied about moving to begin with). 

I'm able to go into this year with my head held high. My goals are in sight. My loved ones are healthy and nearby. Everyone who is supposed to be in my life is here. I couldn't ask for anything better than that.

But I still don't have my shirt.

Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be

So Lama Sura Das is my dude! (in my head at least) I credit the man for penning the book that introduced me to Buddhism. It took quite a few years for me to fully be able to implement it in my life. To the point where I intend to start a full business based around spreading the wealth of mindfulness, in addition to and I'm writing two books about it. I recently started following him on Instagram. I guess it's official.

My first introduction to him was his book "Awakening the Buddha Within." That book taught me how to allow Buddhism to heal me and make me a better person. It taught me how to fully exercise compassion for myself and others. It made me a better version of myself and allowed me to be whole and be comfortable in my discomfort and embrace change and the ebb and flow of life. Trips to the Soto Zen Center only completed the transition.

I tend to collect and hoard books. I dumped a lot of books when I moved to Cali, but I held firm to my books on Buddhism and mindfulness. I held on to them mostly as research for the books I'm still writing, but also because I hoped to pick them all up and fully immerse myself in them one day- and I guess that time is now. I was reading some other work on Buddhism when another author listed "Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be." I wouldn't normally have picked it up, except I recognized the author as Lama Surya Das and knew that it deserved a place in my collection, to be picked apart later. 

And my current job is apparently later. I often get quite a bit of down time and I knew early on that I intended to start reading between calls. The book didn't do much to tickle my fancy early on, but I enjoyed that it re-immersed me in Buddhist teachings, so I stayed with it. I rather like the woman that I am becoming and I'm exceptionally proud of her. I've done pretty good at shedding the former version of myself, so the name wasn't really needed, but it was what it was.

A large part of the book talks about death, more so as an example of major loss that most of us suffer. I haven't thought about Pete as much lately, although cold weather seasons and early spring tend to make me think of him more than normal. Just the other night, I stepped outside and I saw a giant star. And I felt him. I felt Pete looking down at me and smiling. I've suffered so much loss lately, that it felt good to be attached again.

The book discussed how we should accept the good and bad in our life. That we should acknowledge it and own it. We should accept it, examine it, learn about it, and release it. It was pretty cool reading in this book what I already know and practice. Then it started talking about journaling *ahem* Discussing writing down our feelings and thoughts. I guess I'm ahead of my time? Not quite, but still.

As I read through the book, one of the challenges it poses is to think about a major loss we've suffered in life. My mind immediately went to Pete. I remembered his smile. I remember how he always made me feel warm. I remember how without saying a word, I was always able to read him. Once he died, I realized how much he really gave to me. I mean, folks at the job were pretty sad that he died. But I was absolutely devastated. I took that to mean that he shared more of himself with me. Because anyone that saw what I saw in him and knew what I knew about him would understand what an incredible being he was. He shared his art with me. He shared his heart with me. No man has ever let me in that deeply. And then he was gone. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Next up, I realized that I mourn the pregnancy and family life that I never got. The one guy I got pregnant by was a lying sack of shit who made it his mission in life to punish me for not aborting the baby he told me he was okay with me getting pregnant with to begin with. I never got the loving maternity photos.  He never once kissed my protruding pregnant belly. He never rubbed it lovingly. I didn't get appreciation for loving this child and raising him to be an absolute rock star. Nope, I was shitted on constantly. And I mourn the praise and relationship that I should have had from my ex. I'm not angry as much. Just sad and disappointed.

Then I thought about the job that fired me for something I didn't do right after I finished grad school. I asked myself why that still hurt me so much almost 6 years later. And I realized that it was because I'd worked my ass off in school, only to land my first adult job and be dismissed. It hurt me on a personal level. What hurt even more was knowing how much my coworkers liked me and wanted me there. I just wanted to get a decent paycheck and pay my bills. After having to lean so hard on my family while in school, I just wanted for once, to be able to say "I got it, I don't need your help." And they took that from me. All for something that wasn't even my fault.

I thought about my amazing cousin, Tracey. What made her so special to me? I realized that after the tumultuous relationship I had with my actual big sister, Tracey, had the heart of what a big sister was supposed to be. For the short time she was in my life, we shared secrets, tears and laughter. She treated me like a young adult. She valued me. And she was taken from me too. I remembered how when Caleb was a baby, wishing like hell that she'd gotten to meet him. I imagined the tons of baby clothes she'd buy for her young cousin/nephew. I imagined her willingness to babysit, and see her being the only one in my family that could see how hard I was trying to stay afloat. Tracey was my real big sister. And she's gone.

(side bar- This is quite possibly, the most difficult post I've ever written)

The last thought that came to me was my ex, Theo. I think about that sorry piece of garbage far more than I care to accept. In spite of him clearly showing me that he brought so little to the picture (which is why I kicked him out fairly early). But why did I mourn the relationship? I don't miss him at all. I don't miss the relationship. But why am I still thinking about him now? I had to dig deep, but I realized it- I mourn the lie that he sold. He sold me a lie of wanting to go out on dates and grow together. Lies of connection and affection. Lies of appreciation. Lies of wanting me and not needing me. Lies of not resenting me for not needing him.

I mourn that he sold me on the idea of the ideal of the perfect connection, one he wanted but was nowhere near capable of achieving. He sold me on that lie- and he got here and pulled the lie from up under me. I mourn what was supposed to be.

I'm roughly a third of the way through the book. A lot of it is stuff I already knew. But I'm learning about things I didn't even know that I was grieving. Bring on the knowledge.

Lessons and Legacies

I didn't really watch Ellen's show. Daytime TV has never been my thing, outside of the addictive Young and the Restless (before it jumped the shark). Never the less, I heard about the recent suicide of Ellen's sidekick, Stephen "DJ tWitch" Boss. What struck me first was his poor wife. After the loss of Ali and me forging an even closer relationship with his widow, I have an up close seat to what that looks like. Watching her raise 3 children, much like Twitch's now widow. My heart hurt for him and his kids. But for some reason, my eyes and heart zeroed in on his poor wife.

I said before, I now work on a crisis line. I speak with people who are dealing with mental health issues. I often discuss our extensive training and say how they prepared us for the next apocalypse, while most of the calls are people who are just lonely and need a bit of support, especially in the middle of the holidays. Most of our training dealt heavily with individuals who are suicidal or homicidal. I'm kind of thankful for the support calls though. It keeps the job pretty light. I can almost hear people being relieved to be able to just have some kind human interaction.

The thing that kind of sucks is that I'm still in training. Many of the people who started when I did are no longer in training, and many of my trainers have assured me that I have it and I'm good to handle calls without the extra support. I'm still a little shaky on some of the paperwork aspects of the whole thing, but I'm comfortable and definitely ready to handle calls on my own. I'm confident in my therapeutic skills. 

Another thing that has helped me has been my decision to read at work between calls. I amassed a pile of books by my work desk, so that whenever there is a lull, I look down and pick something up. My latest book is called "Letting Go of the Person You Used to Be." I purchased the book because the author wrote what I consider my personal bible "Awakening the Buddha Within" and I heard that this was a good companion to it. I don't consider myself to need to let go of my former self as much (been working on that long before I picked up this book), but I enjoy that his book keeps me grounded in Buddhist teachings.

Last night, as I was with my trainer and another trainee, we waited quietly for another call. LGOTPYUSB was in front of me, some random business card holding my place. I realized that I had to go to the bathroom, but I decided to hold it (in spite of the fact that I recently told myself that as I get older, holding it is not something I will be making a habit of). As I read along, suddenly, I got a call.

I heard him crying. I wondered if it was a prank, as it seemed so dramatic. He began speaking. He told me that he couldn't take it anymore and he had a gun. He wanted to end it all. He said that he wasn't sure why, things in his life were well, but he still wanted to just end it all. My first thought was DJ Twitch's new widow. Her pain. Her confusion. I couldn't let that happen to another woman. I can't talk much about his issues, or even what I said (HIPAA).

But I assured him that he'd be okay. And I encouraged him to discuss his feelings with loved ones and to seek out professional help. And he agreed to it. He thanked me profusely. I thanked him for calling in. After he hung up, I immediately threw off my headphones and walked away. 

When I returned after a few minutes, my trainer told me that I'd handled the call amazingly. I was so full of adrenalin, I was literally rocking back and forth. While I was in the middle of it, I was calm and collected, quite the deviation from the spaz I normally am. But once it was over? Holy shit. Did he really call in here, seconds from shooting himself in the head? And I talked him down? Me? Me?

My trainer praised my quick thinking and my staying calm in the moment. I didn't raise my voice, I didn't make him feel bad or guilty. I encouraged him and allowed him to feel how he felt. I shared later with my trainer that I strongly believe that my Buddhist faith has allowed me to really meet people where they are with no judgement and to give them the same kind guidance and support I have needed in my darkest hours. Just coincidentally, earlier in the day, I was at the gym with a coworker, when I told her that after my suicide attempt, it wasn't uncommon for my friends and family to literally curse me out for trying to take my own life.

Looking back, I realize that they were fearful and worried for me. And they encouraged me the only way they knew how- by making me feel even worse. No one asked how I felt. No one hugged me and said they are glad I'm here. They told me that life is fucked up and to not be a pussy and just deal with it. I swore that I'd never be that person to other people in pain. I may fail at times. But I try damned hard to give others the support that I wanted and needed.

I did it. I was there. I met him where he was. And I used two people's tragic deaths to prevent another tragic death. Right place, right time, I guess.

Navigating New Nails

Part of my ride into recent adulthood has included getting professional manicures every 2 weeks. Something makes me feel so feminine and pampered by looking down at these gorgeous, brightly colored nails. This feeling was only heightened when I met a manicurist nearby who was able to create designs on my natural, short nails. 

I rather enjoyed the attention that my manicures bought. When I'd stop to make quick purchases, it wasn't uncommon for baristas and cashiers to compliment the complex designs my new manicurist laid out. I even had a man compliment me on my nails yesterday. It made me feel seen in such a small, yet seductive way. I've also heard other men, in passing, say how much they thoroughly enjoy seeing women with freshly manicured nails. Thinking back on it, I don't think it's about the nails themselves. I think it's more about a man being turned on by a woman who is able and capable of keeping herself together.

I was raised to never walk around with chipped, funky nails. The message it sent was akin to walking around, holding a sign that says "I'm a broke harlot with no home training." When your manicure outlives it's usefulness, you either go in for a touchup, or the polish comes off at home. There is absolutely no in between. Coincidentally, I met a woman my age a few years ago, and we both shared how our mothers instilled in us from the very beginning that you are absolutely not be caught dead walking around with chipped nails, lest you besmirch the family honor. 

Lately I started to notice that my nailbeds were getting weak from their regular trips in to meet with the nail lady, which resulted in more chipping my manicures early. I was out yesterday, and stumbled upon a nail shop, and long story short, I ended up getting my nails done by someone new and she even put acrylic on them, which would help prevent the chipping as my nails grew out. For the average layperson, this probably seems like a rather trivial thing to care about. But as we all know, that ain't me.

As a bit of a backstory, I swore that I'd absolutely never get acrylic nails after a good friend from high school had her acryliced thumbnail ripped off in her locker, right before graduation. Dozens of manicures throughout my adult life, and I'd always sworn them off, fearful. I stuck proudly to my gel manicures, with no desire to wander out into the wild, wild west of manicures. Young me, remembering my classmate wearing a massive bandage on the injured appendage, the rest of her nails blue and gold, our school colors, never desiring to delve into the possibility of such a horrific incident.

But as I watched the temporary manicurist slather a gorgeous pink shade on my nails, complimented by hints of glitter ombre, it felt amazing. Like I'd made it. While younger, I always observed the hands of women, fascinated by how neatly manicured their acrylics were. These were women who clearly valued their appearance, in addition to regular care. Theses were women that obviously had the money and time to do the little things for themselves that made them feel good.

I told someone a while ago how I'm 42 now, and I've literally never seen my mother's nailbed. My mother was a fierce devotee to her regular red polished manicures since I could remember. As I began to dive into adulthood in my late 30's, I began to gravitate toward things that my mother happened to love, including her Coach bags. My mother was a bigger fan of the plain black bags, and she wore the same bag regularly, until her bag fell apart and was promptly replaced. I, on the other hand, am a fan of Coach's more colorful offerings, and I switch all 5 of my bags out regularly. I still occasionally browse Coach's selection in store and online, my eyes peeled to any offerings that were colorful and bold.

I'll be honest, I rather enjoy it when I'm wearing one of my little pretty bags and some random person looks down and compliments me on my taste in purses. It feels amazing to be acknowledged as an adult with good taste, rather than the young woman trying her best to pull together whatever is the least wrinkled outfit in her closet.

Speaking of my mother, my biomother and I have reconnected lately. It feels kind of strange though. We first reconnected last year, when the family, knowing that Ali was sick, opted to pull together for what could possibly be our last holiday together. I mean, we all knew it was a possibility, especially since he'd lost so much weight. But still... who knew on Thanksgiving that he'd be gone by Valentine's Day? 

Anyway, my mother and I have connected again. I see that the house prices are dropping significantly, and I'm still not making major bucks, but I'm weighing the possibility of buying one, if the right circumstance presents itself. I ended up calling my mother and asking her thoughts on the housing market. We ended up having nearly an hour-long conversation about things like motherhood, my father (she told me why she'd finally divorced him), and of course, the housing market. My mother said that based on some things going on around me, including my plan to move back to the west coast, buying a house doesn't seem worth the headaches, especially if I end up having to rent it out to strangers in the end. It was nice. I almost don't recognize her, but I can say that I genuinely like the person that she is at this point, and I hope that she can say the same about me.

So here I am, I'm typing away in a coffeehouse, as my son is in the movies. I occasionally hold up one of my hands, to admire my gorgeous, non-chipped manicure, my trusty peach/multi-colored Coach bowling bag, guardedly close by. My once stubby nails are slowly being replaced by longer, shapely, consistently manicured nails and I'm having to get more familiar with typing like this.

And it's so reflective of what's going on in my actual life. I'm surrounded by nice things, in a warm and comfortable place, as I contemplate how far I've come, in addition to how far I still plan to go. Slowly knocking out my second book. Currently learning how to publish my own books. Plans for yet another epic birthday vacation in 6 months. I'm finally free to let go of what doesn't feel good and make decisions that I know are best for me. I'm learning. But I think that this is the best version of me yet. 

Healthy and Happy

I surprised myself recently. Devon had invited me to go to a Tambor party with him. Tambor is a large dance party that happens periodically in Atlanta. Devon had reserved a ticket for me at the door, but surprise to him, I already knew the woman at the door. I congratulated her on her recent wedding and waltzed on into the party.

I found Devon, tall and yummy, dancing his heart out. I quickly joined him. I managed to dance through at least 4 songs, and found myself surprised at not even being tired. I knew that I'd been hitting the gym more lately, as my schedule is perfect for it. But still, keeping up with him in the middle of the dance floor showed me that I've made more progress than I'd given myself credit for.

This morning, as I strutted into the gym, I decided that rather than doing the exercise bike or elliptical, I'd challenge myself to see how my jogging skills faired on the treadmill. Much to my delight, I was able to knock out a mile. 

Can't lie though, that treadmill was giving me the business!! I sweat like I haven't sweat in some years. I was exhausted. I felt those little beads of sweat appear on my head. I felt my knee start to question our relationship and threaten to leave me on the floor of the gym, battered and embarrassed. Thankfully, I finished before my knee and my ankle decided to remind me that I'm not 30 anymore and I was pushing my luck. Mental note, invest in a good knee brace!

I'm thrilled to see that in spite of it all, my body is doing okay. I'm making peace with the lil fupa that I've had to call my stomach, but my blood sugar numbers are low and my diet is steady once again.

After the last few years, it has become so apparent how important health is. I talked to a good friend recently, and wished him a happy 47th birthday. I encouraged him to start going to his doctor to make sure his health is okay. He assured me that he's' fine and that he'll start doing the doctor thing when he's 50. I told him that my beautiful cousin was only 47 when he died from cancer and that my friend, Pete, was only 47 when he died from a heart attack. My friend sighed and agreed to meet with his doctor.

Not only am I focusing on my physical health, I'm trying to focus on my financial health as well. In the new year, I plan to engage far more in investing and saving. My son has just over 3 years until it's time for him to graduate high school and I'm heavily focused on moving back out west. Things at my job are going surprisingly well and the beauty of this organization is that I can move literally anywhere in the world and transfer jobs.

I'm so thankful. I'm also planning to pour more of myself into writing another book or 2, and about to look at some self-publishing in addition to finishing reading a few books that I have piled at home. I'll be moving back into the city soon.

Christmas is coming. My soul is at ease. I am happy.

Past, Present, and Future

I'm chilling in a coffeehouse, with a fresh manicure, and the world is right again. There are so many things to love about this time of year, but I love how it tends to lead to reflection about the previous year, and the hopeful things for the following year.

I'm still a bit perplexed about the rollercoaster that 2022 was early on. I was in a shitty (short lived) relationship, in extraordinary pain from car accident because of said dude, I had just started a new job after a long string of previous bad jobs, the new job was crappy too, still decompressing from having to move back to Atlanta from L.A. and having to rebuild my bond and trust with my son, after my ex pumped his head full of lies about my me.

At some point during the year, things began to shift in the opposite direction. I finally had enough of the shitty dude and decided that his problems were no longer my concern and put his ass out. I obtained a job that helped me feel more confident about my ability to be efficient and effective, and then I finally landed pretty much endgame of the jobs I'd been hoping to land since I finished grad school.

I was supposed to meet with Devon today. He told me he had more ideas to share for my book. I'm kind of taking a backseat on the book (just through the new year), although I'm still keeping it in mind. He and I are going to meet up early Saturday instead. I love and appreciate that Devon is so dedicated to helping me push this forward, while so many of my exes always blew things off that were important to me. Not only is Devon talking to his network for me to help me move in the right direction, he genuinely seems to be just as passionate about it as I am. Anyway, we were supposed to meet, but my family is visiting town for the holiday, and we made plans, especially since this is the first holiday after 2 loved ones passed away. Alas, plans changed last minute, allowing me to get these nails done and decompress for a few before I go grab groceries for tomorrow.

While in bed this morning, I read an article that showed various methods of husbands using "weaponized incompetence," which is where someone pretends to be bad at something in order to 1. no longer be responsible for caring for it in the future. 2. avoiding responsibility if it is done poorly. Suddenly, I was taken back.

At my son's birthday party, a few years back, while he was trying to urge me to go to counseling with him, my son's father said to me "I still remember the good times we had." And I briefly jogged my memory and explained that I didn't have the same good memories. I said to him that I'm sure they existed, but at that particular moment, I was honestly having a hard time recalling any good memories. But the article today slapped me in the face with the truth. I had no good memories, because there were no good memories. At least not for me.

But of course my ex had the good memories. He had good memories of the relationship, because I was good to him! I remember how I'd see him balled up on the couch, and although he'd always claim that he didn't want a blanket, I observed his body language, knew he was cold, and brought him one anyway. He only told me towards the end of the relationship, that he appreciated that I used to do that. When I learned that he loved frozen candy bars just as much as I did, I made it a point to always keep them on deck in the freezer. One year, I realized that he and a few of his relatives shared close birthdays, so I reached out to them for all of us to have a family celebration together. All of those little things that someone does to show you that they love you and they're paying attention to you? I did them.

And what did I get in return? I got insults. I got called stupid, and bitch. I recall him following me to my bedroom and hurling insults at me, hoping I'd open the door and fight with him. Sometimes I'd win, sometimes he'd win. But who really "wins" when you live like that? I remember the countless lies. I remember him picking me up from the hospital after giving birth to his child, with fucking HICKIES on his neck. I remember some other chick calling my phone and telling me she might be pregnant by him. I remember him bringing some "childhood friend" into my home, another bitch he was fucking. Say what you want, but I never showed up at a dude's house and tried to play nice with whoever he was dealing with. Grimy ain't my style.  My son  recently said in front of me and a friend of mine "I still remember when dad hit you." I will live with that guilt for the rest of my life.  I remember him allowing his absolute garbage of a "friend" to slash my fucking tires and break my windshield (which my dumb ass ex had to pay to replace). I remember him sitting back quietly and allowing his family to attack me and accuse me of ruining his life, in spite of the fact that I got pregnant based solely on the lie on top of lie he told me when we first met. On top of that bullshit, he continued to try to attack me and harass me, even after we broke up and he was openly fucking the booger wolf he ended up with because I left him. 

Good times? Fucking really?! Where?! WHEN?!

(So now that I got that out of my system)

So this morning, something in that article brought it out for me. I didn't erase any happy memories. They didn't exist. At least, not for me. Thinking back on that mess, it's really quite insulting for him to make such a horrible relationship all warm and fuzzy, just so the doesn't have to deal with the consequences of how terrible he was, and hoping that he'll slide comfortably back into a relationship with me. It's almost as if in his mind, I'll always be there waiting in the wings for him, no matter how horrible he was to me, and he put that mess on full display by suggesting we go to counseling, as if we'd hit a minor bump in the road of our otherwise loving relationship.

No wonder I didn't go to counseling with his ass!! Who wants to return to that shit?! I'm sure he did have great memories of me. I was loyal, funny, kind, understanding, naïve, and downright stupid. But that's my story, I was there, and I own my role in it. He had an amazing woman who was kind, loving, creative, fun, and supportive. And in return, he was allowed to show his ass every fucking time he wanted to. And he ruined her. At least he's another woman's problem now.

I was definitely bitter for a long time. But I'm not now. I'm the opposite. I don't consider myself ruined either. I'm still that warm, amazing woman that he first met. But he'll never in life get the chance to experience her awesomeness again, and I'm fully fucking okay with it. I finally found the joy in being alone. I've learned the value of blocking out men and not feeing apologetic when I needed to mob out, based on all the red flags. I now have the power and the knowledge to run like hell if stuff is crappy early on, rather than standing firm in the shit storm, hoping it gets better. I'm finally looking ahead at retirement. I put in time for my spring and summer vacations last night at work. Obviously going back to L.A., but considering spending time in Denver also.

I'm focused on my son, making sure he feels loved and supported. I'm focusing on becoming the best woman I can be and being unapologetically outstanding. I'm focusing on moving back to L.A. once my son graduates high school in  a few years. I love me. I like me. 2022 has been a hell of a year, and a hell of a ride. 2023 is almost here. Bring it.

Tricks or Treats?

I wasn't able to attend the rocking Halloween party in the Hollywood Hills that I'd hoped for. My girlfriend expressed to me that her people hadn't gotten back to her in a decent time, so she started to lean toward the idea of us not attending. During that period, I started to look at my coinage and determined that I needed to stay put and start saving. My child has cost me a good amount of money over the last few months, and I finally told him that if the plan is to save money for him to go away to college with some spending money, we'd have to reign it it. He sheepishly agreed.

The fact is, I really need to get more control of my spending as well. I don't regret my traveling, and I'm already looking forward to a few more trips, it's just that in the meantime, I need to get some savings up before I hop another plane. But Cali is always in my line of sight.

Anyway, a week before party time, my friend called me and said that she still plans to go plus there was an invite to the Playboy Mansion on the agenda. My inner feminist was definitely torn. I mean, I technically could have still gone to L.A. with her, especially with the invite of a lifetime on the table. But I was committed to staying, plus I'd promised my young adult nephew that he'd be with me at the nightclub I had plans to attend. And don't get me started on the skeevy history of the Playboy Mansion. Reluctantly, I held firm that I should remain in Atlanta. Pretty glad I did. My friend missed the Playboy party because of airline crap and her time at the party in the Hills was cut short because of logistic issues. I would have been salty AF if I'd spent all that money to show up, only for the whole trip to be b.s.

The weekend came and I remained focused on having a sexy costume, not something I normally do. I gotta admit, it felt nice getting eyes all night, although I'm openly not really looking to date at the moment. I'm enjoying my current space of working on book 2, while working on further centering myself. I ended up meeting Trinidad James and got his phone number. Wasn't really trying to date him or anything, but he and I have a lot of mutual friends and I wanted to get to know more about him. I texted him a few days after we met, and his vibe was kinda off, so I aborted mission.

The interesting thing about that weekend is that my best friend was performing, so I stopped in, wearing my sexy genie costume, so he could take a picture. While there, I was surprised to see Devon step in. I froze. I knew I had to say something to him.

I'd first met Devon about 16 years ago, while I was working at Borders Books in Midtown. He was always a nice guy and we got along well. We happened to have a lot of mutual friends, as social media makes it easy to find out. Nothing much ever came of it all, in particular because I got pregnant around the same time.

Devon and I continued to see one another running around town. We'd always promised one another a hang out session. The time finally came for us to hang out. Poor Devon, when we finally did hang out, I happened to be in a pretty bad spot, because I was dealing with the breakup with my son' father. I was tearful. Angry. Confused. And Devon was patient. He was kind. He allowed me the space to be vulnerable, without trying to blame or take advantage of me. 

As I came out of that fog, I started to realize how much of a massive thank you I owed to Devon for that. We remained online friends, and every now and again, he'd comment or post something and I wanted so bad to inbox him and tell him how much his support meant to me that one night so many years ago. I just never could, without my fear of opening up that night. So when I saw Devon, I knew it was only right that I take the time to tell him what he deserved to hear.

He smiled then came over to me and hugged me. I immediately told him how much I owed him for that night. He told me that he barely remembered, and asked me to jog his memory. I shared with him how I was going through a break up and I was a tearful drag of a mess throughout the night. He said that it was all vaguely familiar, but regardless, he was glad to know that he was there for me and whatever was going on, he sensed that I needed a friend that night, and he opted to be it.

I had to run, but we agreed to exchange numbers, so that we could meet up and talk more. We met up at a local coffeehouse a week or so later. During our next meeting, I talked about my career, how my life greatly improved since breaking up with my ex, and how in spite of some occasional setbacks, things have been pretty good. Devon discussed separating from his son's mother and how he's been navigating since then. Because Atlanta is so damned small, coincidentally, Devon knew my ex's rebound skuzzbag in passing, and he confirmed that she was the walking mess that I knew she was. I also talked to Devon about my book project and the hurdles that it entails. He suggested that we link up again to discuss the book further.

Devon walked me to my car, like the gentleman he is. We hugged. But it was kind of a long hug. A nice, warm hug, of embracing a long lost loved one. I instinctively pecked him on the lips. He smiled.

A couple of weeks later, Devon contacted me. I guess I'm kind of jaded about men, but I was thinking that it had been a while. But then he texted me and mentioned that he'd told a friend of his about my book and he wanted to pow wow about some ideas. Damn. So we'd been out contact, but he was looking out anyway in the meantime. Color me impressed.

We agreed to meet for breakfast a couple of days later. It was warm, light, and familiar. We talked about traveling. He discussed his time in Africa and Brazil. He talked about his upcoming trip to San Francisco, and I told him how much I've walked across the Golden Gate Bridge 3 times over the last 5 years and it remains one of my favorite things to do, while San Fran is one of my fave cities. I told him that San Fran is also close to Yosemite and not too much of a drive from Reno and Lake Tahoe and suggested he take a quick detour if able. I asked if I could join him, if my scheduled allowed. He said he'd welcome it.

While there, my best friend happened to be in the area, as there was a Christmas Market in the neighborhood. My bestie stopped in and greeted us both (Devon and my best friend have also known one another for years). Afterward, Devon and I agreed to vacate and walk around the neighborhood and check out the items on sale. We laughed, we talked to the vendors. We almost stopped at an amazing coffeehouse in the area, but they were booked for the day. We agreed to stop in another day to check it out. We shared our favorite music and I threatened his life if he didn't eventually listen to Kendrick Lamar's DAMN. album, while encouraging him to check out Tyler the Creator's music when he gets a chance. At one point, we walked by a window, and I stopped to look at us, bundled in our full autumn attire, sweaters and coats. I joked that we looked like a couple from a Black romance movie. He snuggled with me and chuckled

He walked me to my car. While in the whip, we discussed the book further. I told him the gist of it, in addition to what I plan to do to market it, and who my target audience is. He told me some things that he felt would make the book more marketable. I shared that writing the actual book is the easy part, so I learned. The difficult part is finding a publisher that would love and push my book, like it was their own. As a creative, your art really is your baby and you want someone who will push the hell out of it, like their life depends on it. No one wants their blood, sweat, and tears to be thrown in a corner and ignored by a publishing house that doesn't see the vision that you do. Devon told me that with the availability my new job offers me, I should look at self-publishing. I told him he was right. I asked him to be my manager. He said he was hesitant to take on the role, but would offer consulting. I promised him "if I make money on this, I got you. If I eat, you eat." He nodded his head in acceptance.

As the day wore on, he said he had to get to the gym and I had to fetch a laptop from the repair shop for my son. We hugged. We kissed. We made plans to meet this week at another coffeehouse, another one of my faves that I knew he'd appreciate. He said he looks forward to it.

I drove home, taking it all in. It was so much, but so simple. I'll be honest and admit that I'm a bit jaded right now. I have literally lost count on how many times I've had a good time with a guy for him to turn around and be a mess and a half. I no longer get the hearts in my eyes and feel my heart stop beating when I spend time with a guy. I just don't think have any more of the "butterflies in my stomach" reserve. 

More than anything, I'm glad that my bullshit meter now quickly rules out men who are either going to waste my time, break my heart, or both. I actually went on a third date with a guy recently, only to realize that he's got a bit of problem with the bottle, and for me realize that I need to find a graceful way to make an exit. I'd be fucking stupid to take on another man with a substance issue after what I've seen in my personal life and at work. 

I haven't given him the "if I fuck you, we go together" speech, but that mantra has become a regular part of dating me, and if I see potential with a guy, he hears it. Part of keeping me from giving in too early is also my refusal to have him come to my home or going to his home. The good thing about working in the evening is that it severely limits the access men have to me too early, and significantly lowers our chance of hanging out late at night and ending up naked together after getting too comfy too soon.

I didn't give the speech to Jon (more so because I was just trying to get over my ex at the time) and I feel like our friendship will never be the same. Kinda sucks, cuz now when I hear his brother's music, it just doesn't have the same ring now.

Wild how all of this played out tho. I went from thinking I'd have a wild Halloween weekend in the Hollywood Hills, to building a stronger friendship (and possibly more) with an old friend of mine. How's that for #NoRegets, huh?

Ain't No Way

I'm enjoying the new job. Meeting a lot of people, learning a lot. It's a pretty sweet gig. I even hung out with one woman from my job today. We both work from home, but she happened to live in my neighborhood, and after telling her about the sweet Christmas decorations I scored, she met me at the store to get her own.

We both shared our thoughts on what we've done. I talked about the trainers I was paired with, some far better than others. My coworker talked a little about her husband, not that I pried. She seems happy, excited to decorate for the holidays. I jokingly gave her grief for having me out buying things the moment we got paid.

Anyway, this evening at work, I had a trainer I enjoyed. We had a lot in common, and like all trainers, I asked him the best way to keep my nose clean. He said that I'm doing good so far, which was all I needed to hear. As the night wore on, I got a call from a woman, seemingly desperate for answers.

Apparently, the woman's husband recently got a potentially terminal cancer diagnosis. She went on to share that her husband has had issues with substances in the past, and she fears that he is out getting high at the moment. The woman had only had limited interaction with the man, as he had mostly been gone for days on end, since the diagnosis. The woman was desperate for help, for answers. I listened to her practically pleading for some sort of intervention, anything, to save the man she loves.

My heart truly broke for her. I've seen what cancer can do and I can only imagine how a person would feel to learn that their spouse has it. Not only did I witness it in my own family, with Ali, I worked in hospice briefly and saw up close and personal what happens to families struggling with this diagnosis. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. Devastating only scratches the surface.

I explained to her that legally, there really isn't much that can be done. Police can be called if there was some sort of imminent risk to him or others, but there didn't seem to be any. I suggested that she call local non-emergency numbers, in hopes they will send out a mental health professional, but even that can only do so much. Technically getting high is not illegal and he is well within his rights to decline any medical interventions he may need.

I told the woman that I could have outreach done to the man to ensure that he was safe. She agreed, thankful for any help that could be given. I called the man and- he answered. He was possibly under the influence at the time, because he was almost jazzy. The man shared that he was fine and he wished his wife would not worry about him, he just needed time away. Now as I try to keep this as vague as I can (HIPAA is no joke), but pretty sure he was high as giraffe coochie.

It broke my heart that much more. To hear the woman's desperate, emotional pleas to save her husband's life and bring him home so he could seek treatment. And then hear him being almost annoyed that she cared enough to reach out to get him help.

It made me wonder all over again if marriage is worth the headache. Had she been anyone else that I knew privately, I would have told her that what I would do in that situation is to cut my losses. He wants to be sick, run the streets, then bring his ass back home (after making me worry like hell about him), so that I can nurse him and take him to doctor's appointments and wipe his brow?! And after years of dealing with his drug use too?! Tuh!!

I make no secret of my plans to return out west to live for a while. I want to bask in the sun and enjoy fresh fruit, and live by the beach, and spend my weekends hiking and exploring. I want to date beautiful men (or not), I want to do whatever makes me happy. I'm not necessarily against marriage, I'd be down for the right man/situation. I'm just against intentionally taking on the problems of another human being, when my life is so easy on this own. And this here was problems!

I told my guy trainer how my inner Black woman wanted to tell her pack her shit and start mourning him, because at the rate he's going, it's only a matter of time. But obviously, I'm paid $17/hr (the big bucks!) to shut the fuck up and follow the prompts. I joked that I've somehow become the homegirl that tells her friends to leave her man any time he fucks up remotely. 

*"He sneezes too loud?! Girl, you don't gotta take that, leave his ass!" 

*"He ain't taking you on dates and you're still giving him snatch?! Girl, you don't need that, stop fucking him and leave him!"

*"He ain't making you orgasm?! Oh hell no, he needs to be packed and ready to move out by the time you get home TUH-DAY!! Let him go give wack dick to that other chick!!"

The coworker and I both discussed how once you reach a certain age, you see what a bad marriage can do to people. How people gain/lose weight, lose their hair, lose their money, and their minds. People literally take years off their lives, all in an attempt to save someone that really seems not to give two shits about them (blame the drugs in their case, but still) and really don't wanna be saved in the first damned place.

She is either a better person than me, or a better wife than me. Cuz...