Guest Blogger – By – Katrell Castain

Those of you who have been following me on Facebook, know that I have under gone surgery to remove the pins that were placed in my ankle from a previous injury a few years back. Well that has caused me to spend a lot of time, at home in the bed in front of my laptop. Also in the mist of going through surgery me and my long term , long distance love affair came to an end. Leaving me unhappily single. Needless to say, my summer hasn’t been the best. I’ve had a lot of time to just sit and think about things, and do some reflecting; and I’ve concluded that…..I’ve got issues and today is just one of those days where I’m not in the mood!

Today’s Guest Blogger is my very BEST friend Katrell ………Hope you enjoy!

“Who’s your White girl crush?”

I was sitting at the table across from this guy I just recently started dating.

I don’t know why women ask men these dumb questions. It’s a setup for an argument. Maybe I just didn’t have anything else to talk to him about.

“Easy. Scarlett Johansson.”

Okay. I get that. Beautiful face. Curvy body. I think she’s gorgeous, too.

“Black girl?”

“Best all around?” He likes to answer questions with questions.

“No, break it down. Like if you were building the perfect woman.”

Best face: Beyonce.

Best arms: Jada Pinkett or Angela Bassett.

Best booty: Beyonce or Tracee Ellis Ross.

Best boobies: Keyshia Cole

“Legs?” I ask, dipping a fry in honey mustard sauce.

“Ooooh. I dunno.” he takes a moment to ponder.

“Not Bey?” I offer. Chick’s legs are amazing. Wide and firm. Mine are wider, but the general shape is the same.

He smushes up his face. “Uh-uh. She doesn’t have legs. She has ham hocks.”

Pause. Ham hocks? Really?

“Tina Turner.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. “What?”

“Best legs. I’m going with Tina.”

“Oh.”

He looks at me curiously. “What’s wrong?”

I’m fixating. Ham hocks? I don’t know why this bothers me. I don’t have a face like Bey, arms like Jada or Angela, and nothing close to a donk like Tracee. His liking what those ladies work with doesn’t bother me a bit. Maybe it’s because my legs have always been my physical “selling” point, and if he thinks Bey has “ham hocks,” how in the hell could he have ever been interested in my dark meat?

“What, Ariel?” He sounds concerned.

“Nothing.” I’m pouting. Pause. This is stupid. What am I upset over? Really? I perk up to keep the peace.

“Best all around?”

“Kerry Washington. She’s just sexy…..”

I get that, too. Kerry’s mouth does this unique thing when she talks. Some teeth-lip-mouth thing. There’s a good-girl quality, but she might also be bad for a man. That, and her booty sat on twenty-twos in the Last King of Scotland and I Think I Love My Wife.

Now he’s making a face. He’s thinking.

“What?” I ask.

“No, no. Not Kerry,” he says, all animated. “You know who’s perfect? Like dream-woman perfect?” He doesn’t wait for my response. “Nia Long,” he blurts.

What? She’s a beautiful woman, but she’s a stick. A beautiful stick! What is he doing sitting across the table from me? I am not a stick. I’m more like a log – not a huge log, but – okay, maybe that’s a bad analogy. If she’s an appetizer, I’m an entree. I happily eat entrees, and I am what soul singer Bilal Oliver called “something to hold on to.” And this guy, likes and appetizer? I will never be an appetizer. I don’t want to be an appetizer! I like being a meal! Although, admittedly, I’ve been faithfully running four miles a day for the last couple of weeks in hopes of becoming a healthier, leaner meal.

I realize I’m thinking crazy, but I’m too far gone to stop myself.

“I am a thick chick!” I declare loudly and righteously on behalf of all sizes eight and up worldwide. If there was a soapbox present, I would have stood on it purely for effect. “And I eat! And I’m never gonna be a two! Or a four! And my thigh is wide and strong. And I like it that way! So if you want a stick with little legs, you’ll have to go fine one, because I’m not starving for anyone!” I would pound my chest proudly if I didn’t have breasts in the way.

He blinks at me. Once. Twice. Three times. “What the hell was that?” he blurts back at me.

Not the answer I was expecting.

He waves a hand all over the place in front of his face like Tony Yayo. “That! What was that?” he bellows, referring to my wild outburst. He goes in before I can answer. “I didn’t ask you to lose weight or be a-a-stick!” His voice goes up on the noun. “I know you’re not skinny. I can see! If I wanted a stick, I’d be sitting across from a stick. I’m sitting across from you, you know? And it’s not the first time this week. If I didn’t like what I see, I wouldn’t keep seeing it!”

I feel like an idiot. But old habits die hard. I’m not taking the full blame for this one. “So how can skinny women with skinny legs be your ideal?” I squeak. I’m so irrational I don’t even have a big-girl bass in my voice.

“Really, Ri? Really?” He sighs like an overspent parent with a willful toddler.

I should have kept my mouth shut. He is soooo through with me right now. “Oh, just ——” I begin, finally trying to keep this from escalating, but he cuts me off.

“I’m a man. I like women,” he says plainly. “Skinny ones, thick ones, tall, short, dark, light, whatever……it’s that simple.”

I feel like an ass. Not an asshole. The whole ass. But he’s not done. “You need to deal with your issues about yourself. Don’t take it out on me,” he says.

Touche.

I apologize for flipping out; he waves it off and accepts. We move on to another subject and pass the remainder of our outing in compatible conversation.

I go home, think on my crazy. Whenever I date the same person for more than ninety days, the interaction brings out all of my baggage. Some men are happy to carry it. Others not so much. either way, I like my issues buried in the back of the closet where they belong. But if I don’t start unpacking and unloading, I’m screwed.

So are you.

Advertisements

Mr Too Good (Part 2)

An hour later, the Wise Men and I are in the Jeep headed back.  Because of driver, height, and drop-off requirements, the Boyfriend is in the passenger seat and I’m behind the driver.  It’s postmidnight, and it seems Cinderella’s ball has ended.  The guys are discussing with great vigor their frustrations with Black women.  Being the Girlfriend was fun while it lasted, but I’m back to being the Home Girl.

Now that the fun is over, I realize I am no better than Corey.  I used a fantasy boyfriend as a decoy at a party to one-up him.  I live a great life.  A wonderful fabulous, fulfiflling life surrouned by great friends at great events in the greatest city on earth.  So why did I feel I had to impress him?  Am I insecure about being single?

A commenter on my blog called me a serial dater once in an e-mail.  She’d been following my dating chronicles before she reached her conclusion.  Is that what I am?  And is that supposed to be bad?  Isn’t everyone who didn’t marry their high school sweetheart or isn’t in a multiyear relationship a serial dater?  And if you’re not a serial dater, how do you find the One? How do you even know what you’re looking for in the One if you don’t date to figure out what’s out there and what you like?

If dating and meeting and interacting with a lot of people in the hopes that I meet someone I enjoy make me a serial, then I’ll be that.  But I prefer to be thought of as a woman looking for meaning, one who doesn’t settle for mediocrity.  I’m not mediocre, so I don’t expect mediocricy in return.

I zone back into the car conversation and hear that the menfolk have moved from discussing Black women who date interracially to the pivotal scene in Crash with Thandie Newton and Terrence Howard.  The Black married couple gets pulled over by a white cop.  The cop feels up the wife while the husband does nothing.  I argue that in the given scenario, the onus was on the woman to defuse the situation and keep the husband from being killed.  The Boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend, is explaining that come hell or high water, it is a man’s role to protect his woman, especially his wife.  Yes, even at the risk of being arrested or getting beat or killed by cops.  He wants to know, what kind of man doesn’t protect his woman?

They still make this model?

We drop Chris off, then circle back to drop me off.  I can’t remember how the remaining three of us got on the topic of exes, but we did.  The Boyfriend, who is American and raised in Maryland, is explaining how he’s never dated a non-Caribbean woman.

“What you got against American girls?”  I ask from the backseat.  “Nothing.  Just never dated one.”  He shrugs and never bothers to look back.

Just because I’m not the type to give up that easily, I throw out, “You should try one sometime.  Might like it.”

Now he looks back.  “You think I should, Reagan?”  I nod, bit my bottom lip, and look him directly in the eye.  “Definitely.”

He turns back in his seat, leans his head against the headrest, and unleashed that amazing smile again.  “I think I will.”

Chris calls the next day to say Too Good expressed an interest in me.  He wants to know if it is okay to pass my number and e-mail along.  I tell him it is fine, and when I arrive at work a few days later, there is an e-mail in my personal account wishing me “Good Morning and Happy Monday.”

For the next two weeks, Too Good and I talk, e-mail and text regularly, but he never asks me out.  The revelation hits me as I am logging off of my Outlook and Yahoo at work around eight P.M.  Just as I am reaching for my purse, a text comes through from Too Good, inviting me to a party he is headed to with his boys.

With his boys?

I text Too Good back that I won’t be able to make it and head home to sulk.  Another one – an even cuter one- bites the dust.  I hit Katrell for advice but she’s too busy trying to decipher the actions of her own semi elusive crush to indulge my passive pondering.  After talking her down off her own emotional ledge, I decide to text Kewon to blatter about my romantic woe.

He’s one of the few men around with whom I completely let go of all pretenses and let all my emotional shortcomings and insecurities run rampant.  I can talk to him as if he’s a girl, but he responds to me like a boy.  I figure he’s a better information source than Katrell, anyway.

In my semi-depressed state, I lean against the kitchen counter to eat crackers and jelly. (It’s better than a tub of ice cream.)  I type:  “So, he invites me out last minute to hang, talks to me on the phone for hours e-mails and texts me all day, but has not asked me out on a date.  why not?  He doesn’t like me, does he?  Sulk-Sulk.”

I hit send and reach for a knife to spread jelly on a saltine as I continue to think about Too Good.  And that’s when I realize…..

OH MY GOD!!

I grab the phone frantically, scroll through the sent messages, and have my worst fear confirmed.

No! No! Oh, noooooooooooooo!  I sent the message to Too Good.  Not Kewon.

I am mortified.  he’s gonna think I’m nuts.  Or maybe he’ll think I’m grown-up and honest and don’t play games.  I dunno.  This could go either way.

I send off another text, triple-checking that it’s headed to Kewon before I push send, tell him the idiot mistake I’ve just made, and forwarding the original text that went to Too Good.  I need Kewon to tell me how to get out this one gracefully, if that’s at all possible.

Kewon doesn’t hit me back.  Neither does Too Good.  I can’t bear the thought of reading Too Good’s response anyway.  What if he says something mean?  Worse, what if he says nothing at all?  My mind is running in a thousand different directions that lead to a decaying brick wall like the one those women encountered at the end of Brewster Place.  The nothing that Too Good and I already had is now officially ruined.

Kewon, a true friend, finally texts me to say it’s not the end of the world:  “It’s a’ight.  It happens, K.Reagan.  I would think she can’t stop thinking about me….good sign for me.”

Before I can answer, an e-mail comes through from Too Good, not a text.  I take a deep breath and read.  Too Good apologizes for taking so long to ask me out.  Er?  Says he hopes the delay didn’t hurt his chances of getting to know me better, and, furthermore, can he take me out on Monday night?

Can life be this simple?  That you ask what you want to know and an answer is delivered just like that?

I text Too Good back, happily accepting his offer for a proper evening with me.  I’m so pleased with myself that I set on my counter an giggle like a gleeful toodler as I marvel at my profound discovery.

I asked what I wanted to know, and I got his answer.  Better than that, I got the answer that I wanted to hear.  I text Kewon my new theory to approaching life:  ask and you shall receive.  Can life really be this simple?

He writes back thirty seconds later:  “YES!”

Mr. Too Good

I’m headed downtown to meet Chris for half-priced drinks, when I run into Too Good  He barely recognizes me, as I just cut off my curly locks yesterday.  I was over doing my hair every morning.  We strike up a conversation leaving a Breast Cancer Awareness rally, and I invite him to join me.

Too Good got his name because he doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, and is the nicest man on earth.  Sticky sweet, always smiling.  Total A.  We initially met through mutual friends but never stayed in touch.  We have a hi-bye relationship.  We walk the few blocks Uptown until we arrive at a hole in the wall where the music sucks but the drinks and company are great.  Chris’s  friends are hysterical (and tall and fine).  So over three-dollar cranberry and vodkas (ginger-ale for Too Good), a group of intelligent men and women discuss politics, the Black situation (all Black intellectuals’ favorite topic), then move on to relationships.

I get a little hazy on the details of the conversation because for some reason, I am checking for Too Good.  I always thought he was cute, but today he seems a little taller, his shoulders a little broader, his braces-perfect smile a little brighter, his laugh a little deeper.  And the thoughts coming out his mouth?  Dude has sense, too!  Why didn’t I notice this before?  maybe because this guy has always been cordial but never once remotely expressed an interest in me (i.e., I’m’ in his Friend Box).

We bounce from there to Tajj’s, a restaurant turned nightclub, because it’s the only place we can think of to go.  We walk in and find folks partying on Thursday evening as if it’s two A.M. on a Saturday.  The crowd is mostly suit-and tie dues who discarded their ties hours ago.  This is a good look.  the group heads toward the back for a men’s-room run, and I’m happily abandoned in a sea of tall men.  I begin to check the room discreetly for available cuties, and I spot my ex, Corey, dancing with a woman right in front of me.

He spots me, too, gives me the I-barely-know-you wave.  He was two-stepping when I first saw him, but as soon as he sees me, he starts getting low.  Then he backs it up on his female companion.  Then he turns her around so she can back it up on him.

Is this his new girl?  She’s…….cute.  Taller than me.  Thicker in the waist, bigger in the booty.  Fluffy-haired.

I try not to watch them, but I can’t help but look.  They’re two-stepping again, and he’s holding the woman close, with his hand resting on her gigantic tush.  As I look, he catches my eye and smirks.  Is he gloating?  I casually look away as if I didn’t see him.  I won’t give him the satisfaction of letting him know he got to me.  Then, from somewhere inside, a surge of much needed pride pops up.  What is he gloating over?  Despite his parting words, he’s not the only man who will treat me well.  eff him for thinking he one upped me ’cause he’s rubbing up on some big booty girl in a crowded club.  So what if I’m alone…..

HOLD UP!  What am I talking about?  I’m not alone.  I walked in with three tall, broad-shouldered, well dressed, well-educated, well employed Black men.

Where are they?

I look over my shoulder, hoping to see them emerging from the men’s room in a pack.  No such luck.  I look right.  No sigh of them.  I look forward, and there they are, parting the sea of bodies like a trio of Black Moses and bearing gifts like Wise Men – two Heinekens, a ginger-ale, and a white wine for me.

I run up to Too Good, giving him a big smile, grabbing his hand, and intertwining my fingers with his.  “Quick,” I say, pulling him down so I can whisper in his ear.  “Pretend to be my boyfriend!”  He immediately wraps his arm around my waist protectively and pulls me to his side as if I’m his woman and he’s proud to be my man.  He doesn’t even ask why.

“A guy I used to date is here,”  I explain, looking up.  “He’s dancing all up on some girl, trying to make me jealous.”  I nod in their general direction.  The girl is winding on Corey now, and he’s engrossed in her fatty.

The Boyfriend screws up his face, squeezes me a little tighter to him.  “The dude with the chick with the mustache?”

I look over at her again.  Ooooh!  I guess she is a little shadowy above the lip.  “Um.  Yeah.”  Boyfriend turns around to tell the fellas what’s going on.  They peer over at the girl, and all are unimpressed.

“You have nothing to worry about,”  Chris assesses with a shrug.  “You’re much cuter……”

“But she has a fatty!”  I declare.  Big booties trump most everything else, right?  “And a mustache,”  Avery points out.  I get a sense that I’m missing the big picture.  “They cancel each other out,”  he says with a chuckle.

I have no idea what song comes on, but suddenly, I am being led to the dance floor by the Boyfriend.  We dance a little two-step, and I tug on his tie when he comes close because it feels like the right thing to do.  He has amazing rhythm.  One song goes off, then another, then another, and we’re still dancing.  I’m biting my bottom lip to keep from breaking out in a huge, cheesy grin.

“Don’t look at me like that,” the Boyfriend says.  I’m blushing.  I know I’m blushing.  “Like what?”  He gives me a don’t-start-no-trouble-you-don’t-want-to-finish look.  “Like that.”

I tug his tie again, then spin off.  I haven’t even remembered to check on Corey and Phatty Girl to see if he has noticed me with my may-an.

A wack song comes on, and the Boyfriend pulls me to his chest, wrapping both arms protectively around me in a tight hug.  Without meaning to, I nuzzle into that comfy space between his hardened man breasts and run my hands over the steel frame he calls his back.  I fight the urge to purr in contentment.

He kisses my forehead affectionately and looks down at me, squeezing me tighter.  “Am I a good boyfriend, Reagan?”  I nod my head into the man breasts.  And then I have an Alicia Silverstone-like epiphany, like the one near the end of Clueless.  I could like the Boyfriend!  He’s a sweetheart, and he’s gorgeous, and he’s got rhythm, and he’s got good politics and common sense and chiseled man breasts!  Uh, why did it take me so long to notice him?

“Does that mean no?” He looks offended.  “Huh?”  I pull back from my nuzzle and look up, realizing I’ve been caught daydreaming.  “Oh, no!  you’re great.  you’re perfect!”  i reassure him patting a firm man breast for emphasis.  “Of course, you’re a good boyfriend.”

“Good.”  He gives me another forehead kiss (damn that frontal lobe!) and releases me but keeps his arm around my waist…..for show?  I don’t know anymore.

We chat it up with the rest of our crew for a bit, and then I finally remember that the purpose of the Boyfriend is to one-up Corey, who was attempting to one-up me.  I look around the room discreetly, hoping to spot him.  The Boyfriend catches me searching, leans down and whispers in my ear,  “He left ten minutes ago.”  He kisses my cheek, squeezes me to him tighter, and rejoins the conversation with our friends.