Mother's Day

Mother's day is coming up---and I only know this because of a marketing promotion I am working on at work. I haven't heard from my mother in a year. That's normal since she and I aren't that close and she views me as the evil bane of her existence. Last year on Mother's day, it was she who called me to wish me a happy MD. She seemed cheerful, and hearing her accented voice made me happy, as always. I get sentimental. I love my mother despite all the downs we've been through. It's been a while since she's contacted my siblings as well. Last I heard she moved down to Miami. I was thinking of commemorating this Mother's Day by filing a missing person's report with the Miami-Dade boys in blue. Or I can continue being cluelessly optimistic about her whereabouts and praying she's somewhere safe where she has no access to phones or internet or pen and paper. Only, I wonder where that is...



Jajadore

Life Happens

I haven't posted in a while. Over the past week, I've been adjusting to the newly single life and contemplating how to not be so dysfunctional in life. Which is hard to do when you've lost and alienated most of your friends and loved ones, as I have done. The ex helped me move last week. And by help I mean tossed my belongings into shiny, black garbage bags and dropped them off at my new, temp residence in NW DC. That event was ripe with metaphoric imagery. Not even a hug goodbye. I wish I could say I'll never see him again. Unfortunately he's attending my little brother's college graduation this weekend. The one good thing our relationship produced is their friendship, I guess. I moved in with new roommates, who clearly see me as a subletter and nothing more. They're cool and all. Just hella off-standish. Any attempts of mine to initiate conversation and get to know them better results in them giving me a quick response and ducking away. I want to tell them, don't be afraid of black people--we don't bite! Jeez! Or maybe, I give off ANGRY-BLACK-WOMAN vibes. I've given up on that end.

So this weekend I went to my fave night spot--a rinky-dink, dilapidated West African restaurant-cum-nightclub called Ghana Cafe in Adams Morgan. I went solo. Jammed to the live reggae band. Soaked up the positive vibes and spirit of African beats. I danced most of the night with a cute Kenyan guy. We flirted and laughed and danced until 2 in the morn'. I drank two drinks, and apparently two drinks too much. Because I was so tipsy gave the cute Kenyan the wrong number by accident. How ironic. I guess this is my punishment for giving out fake numbers all those other times!

Sunday afternoon, hung out with a Osman K., a friend with revoked benefits. He's a former Peace Corps volunteer and works at PC headquarters in DC and I thought from the jump he was just a cool, engaging, an good listener and disarming guy. We could hang out and discuss everything from politics to culture to sex with a welcome candor, enjoy each other's company and I counted him as a close friend and confidante. That was, until last night.

The background? We met last summer and had a fling. No strings attached. Nothing serious. I was on a hiatus from my relationship with my bf. OK's bedroom style involved intense, scary-ass, masochistic handiwork--which I really wasn't really cool with. He could have been a rapist in a former life... So I cooled things off before heading to London last fall. Our friendship was platonic and had been that way for several months. Obviously, OK didn't get the memo. I needed to talk to someone, but as soon as I get to his place he proceeds to hump my thigh like a starved dog and put his paws all over my ass. We discuss the run of the mill politics, sex, society, sex, African foreign relations, sex. After pushing OK away several times and telling him I'm not interested he asks for a massage and offers to give me one in return. I'm like: why not? MISTAKE! BIG MISTAKE!

OK starts lapping at my back like a hungry cat to a bowl of milk. So I (disgusted, and fed up at this point) shift away and excuse myself, telling him I need to leave before he gets any more ideas. That's when the verbal assault begins. He goes into a raging diatribe about how I'm all talk and no action, how he has no time for my teasing, how he doesn't want to sleep with me (using more vulgar language), how I'm not all that, how he could call up someone who really wanted to screw and have me watch how a real woman does it, and then tells me not to call him again. That's just an abridged version. The tirade included vulgar insults to my character and my female anatomy and threats to hit me and to call the police. WTF?! Because I didn't put out? Good luck, psycho. What are we in high school, again? Whatevs! I bolted outta there like a thief in the night!

Like, where do I find these raging, insecure assholes parading as men? What is it about me that attracts them to me? I admit, my feelings were hurt, not by the insults. But by the fact he had reduced our friendship to sex and threw it away after I rejected him. He became such a stranger to me, showing me a dark side I had never before seen. At the same time, I'm grateful I saw that in him, so I won't be wasting my precious time on false friends any longer. Was our friendship that superficial all along? Can a grown man and woman be friends without that stigma of unrequited sexual attraction? I wonder.


Jajadore

The last nail: A dear john letter

This weekend--a month after our tumultuous break-up--I'm moving out of the ex's condo and in with roomies. I am relieved. The final nail.

Good morning, Ben. Thanks for taking time out yesterday to remind me of my final day in your condo. I enjoyed our strained pillow talk, my attempts to initiate closure, your not-so-subtle threats of eviction and other humiliating law enforcements, your malignment of my character, and the manifestation of our mutual dislike of each other. You have managed to sully most of the positive memories, the respect and the perception I’ve had of you by your pattern of taciturn, brooding, non-communicative, hostile behavior in the past week. I’m glad we are able to end this on an honest and civilized note. You seemed to have taken pleasure in putting me down, and underestimated my fight and perseverance as a survivor of even more distressing life events, of which I won’t remind you.

Please take great pleasure in knowing that as a first serious step to putting you and our dysfunctional, doomed relationship behind me, I have found a room in NW DC and have agreed to move in today after work. I will need some help transporting my items from your condo to my new room and I am only asking you because I have no one else to help me. Also, I’d like to arrange a time in the future to move my other belongings into U-Haul storage. I think it’s best that I erase any sign of my ever being with you or living with you, so you, too, can make a speedy recovery from this messy break-up and move on to a more satisfying and healthy whatever you are looking for.

I look forward to the surprises [hopefully pleasant] that bachelorette-hood has in store for me, enjoying my vibrant 20s, and maintaining jubilant happiness in myself, my passions, my dreams, my God, my health and my true, unconditional friends and loved ones. I hope you take time, also, to candidly re-evaluate yourself as a person, a partner and a friend; how you can improve on your flaws; deal with your temper, immaturity and insecurities as a man; and ponder having an active role rather than a passive one in future relationships. The nice guy routine that you’ve long used to abscond responsibility for your slew of past failed relationships and appease your ego is a weak crutch and won’t save you from future heartbreak. And know that while the truth hurts, living a lie is far more detrimental. This is our truth. That we aren’t meant to be. I am happy. I will always love you. Even though right now, I honestly do not like you. I’ll end things here. See you this evening. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.


jajadore

preguntas!

1. Oh shit, I’m 23! Where did time go?
2. Why am I looking for apartments in DC when NYC or London is where I want/need to be?
3. When will I start taking my label ugoseven as seriously as everyone else does?
4. Why do people stare at me wherever I go? Am I that gorgeous or do I have 16k green diamonds hanging from my nostrils?
5. Am I having a premature quarter-life crisis, or what?
6. When did I become such a commitment-phobe?
7. Why am I happier now that I'm single?
8. Why can't I lose these last 7 lbs?
9. Why are all the cute guys at my gym gay?
10. Where is my mother? No, seriously, I've fucking lost her in America and I kinda miss her!
11. Could my boyfriend evicting me from his condo (he got the sheriff to notarize the eviction letter!) be the best thing to happen to me this year. I think so...
    

C-R-A-V-E

1. SLEEP
2. PUPPY
   
3. PLATFORM SHOES
   
4. TREO 750
5. HOLIDAY
   

I'm selfish

The beau still doesn't get it. Last night he pontificated that he understood what I wanted: a man that responds to me emotionally, will be there for me, etc., etc. WRONG! I am not leaving him for another man; I'm leaving him for me.


jajadore

Stuff I like

A few weeks ago, a friend turned me onto the popular blog Stuff White People Like. Absolutely hilarious and spot on most of the time! Posts attracted hundreds of comments, which led me to wonder if there was anything out there parodying black people's predilections. I googled and googled and found nothing. It didn't take long for an enterprising blogger to capitalize on the popularity of culture-ridiculing banter. Today I stumbled upon the new blog, Stuff Educated Black People Like. I can appreciate young people poking fun at a topic that was once very taboo, and-as evidenced by Obama's "Reverendgate" and ensuing speech on race in America--still is. I think these blogs, while fun and sarcastic, can help us discover idiosyncrasies that make us each unique and similar, at once. I'm waiting for someone to start a Stuff (West) Africans Like blog. Now, speaking from experience, that ought to be a hooooooot!



jajadore

Fashion Copywrongs

I hate knock-offs just as much as any other fashion designer trying to establish industry cred. But, there's a reason fashion designers haven't had much success implementing fashion copyright in court. Call it the industry's worst-kept dirty little secret. Because very little that we are offered in fashion these days is actually original. Take this popular crimson and cream colored number form fashion darling Marc Jacobs latest collection. Done and done! All the young fashionistas love Marc, myself included. But the vintage on the right is the real thing, and at 1/20th of the price--only a die-hard label whore would waste her bucks on MJ. One of my fave pasttimes is trolling e-bay for vintage frocks. I admit, I get a lot of inspiration from the pretty dresses I find and the unbeatable prices have my wallet on EMPTY every week!


jajadore!

Freeing Felicity Jr.

I remember when I was younger avidly watching the hit-show, Felicity, and thinking that could never be me. The coming-of-age drama focused on Felicity--a shy, awkward, vanilla and pretty girl--who follows her high school crush--the hunky popular guy--to New York to go to college. Nowadays, the premise of a quiet female stalker would be a bit unromantic and odd (thanks to increased media coverage of killer women and vengeful lovers) but the storyline was gold in 1998. In May 2006, "Felicity" became me. Not even two weeks after graduating college, I moved to DC presumably to take on a competitive internship at a global PR/communications agency, but surreptitiously to be closer to my now ex-beau.

Before I met him, I had spent nearly every university break in Los Angeles, where my mother lived. I fell in love with the open-minded, free-spirited, sunny, crazy nature of LA. I fed off the blind ambition, and youthful energy, and struggles of my new friends, all aspiring actors-slash-somethings, natch, and dreamed of one day dressing them for their premieres when they hit it big. Nightlife was epic. Anything, literally, could and did happen. Weather was heavenly. I soaked up the sun and my skin turned a velvety dark brown hue the Virginia sun could never give me. I designed and sewed my swimwear and wore it to Venice and Santa Monica. The beaches were perfect for people watching. And there was never a dull day in LA; it didn't take long before I decided I wanted to make a living there, once I earned my degree. I didn't want to be just another pretty face. Go to fashion/textiles school, intern and start my own swimwear label.

But, plans got derailed when I met the beau, fell head-over-heels in love and wanted to be closer to him. Mistake! Big Mistake. Two years of my life. Down the DC drain. Working for bland non-profits. Deprived of fashion things and the beach. Stuck in the rut of day-to-day routine. Work-gym-sleep-work-gym-sleep...The occasional escape to NY on the $35 Chinatown bus did little to satisfy the hole. In the back of my mind, always, I wondered 'what if?'.

I'm a natural risk-taker, ambitious, carefree, stupid, stubborn and acutely perceptive. LA is a rough town and very expensive. Not that much more expensive than DC, though. It's like you're paying for good weather year-round over there, though.

After ending it with beau a week ago, I've been doing some thinking. Even I scare myself when I "do some thinking." LA is back on the table, along with a host of other "international" cities including Miami, where mamasita now lives. I begrudged my ex-beau for a long time because into every decision I made, I factored him and his plans. And I compromised my ambitions and goals a bit. For love.

Now, I am single. I am selfish. I am bittersweet. I am happy. And I want it all my way.


Jaja

The break-up

Adieu!

The beau and I broke up. For the 3rd time. After 2 and a half years. It was time to let go. It wasn't pretty. Broken dishes (his). Wild tears (mine). Adrenaline thwarts better judgement. Flagrant accusations and proclamations of hate go flying(both). Boys in blue. A safety boxed gun. At his condo. And, his older brother, who absolutely hates my guts. The wingman, waiting in the wing for me to screw up, so he can swoop in and tear me apart like a vulture. Actually, I think he wants me so badly and hates that he cannot have me, because it's just senseless to loathe another human being as much as he does me. I initiated the split. The beau wanted me to move out of his condo ASAP. He knew I had no on else and no where to go. And he was going to throw me out like yesterday's garbage. No sir. The police were called and found me locked in the bedroom in my panties. I smashed the dishes and wine glasses on the kitchen floor. And hid beau's safe box, which contained his .45. Because I knew it would piss him off, which it did. But, how can an officer resist the charms of a tear-stained-cheeked damsel in distress and in panties? I got off with a warning. Even after the bitter brother tried to convince cops I was the bad girl who may use the gun. I didn't even have a key. I don't even like guns. The next day I apologize. I was wrong...to break the dishes and say those mean things. After three smoke-free months, the beau begins puffing the cancer sticks again. I feel guilty and responsible for his falling off the wagon. 24 hours after the climactic break, there we are, curled up in each others arms, as if it never happened. That's my sick, twisted idea of love. Real love. Crazy love. That's how we end and it's still over. This ain't reality TV....


jaj'adore