Kay Reagan in New Orleans

Well it’s official.  A Queen City girl has returned back to her roots in Louisiana.  Never would I thought in a million and one years that I’d be returning to this grand ole state and somehow life had a funny way of bringing me back.  Am I happy to be here? NO.  I can sum up the experience I am having in two words.  IT SUCKS!!  I forgot that the people of New Orleans have the worst accent and catch phrases of any other place I’ve visited.  Never realized how TRULY COUNTRY THESE PEOPLE REALLY ARE!

Le’Sigh, the silver lining to it all is that it will be over in MAY!

Advertisements

Keeping the Smoothie Smooth

Every time I have to go to the OB/gyn I am plagued with a sense of dread. Not because of the chair, or the metal stirrups, or that damned speculum. No, I’m pretty fine with all that. I’ve read enough Essence to know to tell my doctor the truth even if I lie to everyone else and myself, and to ask questions about my health and point out any problems. I never freak out over the OB/gyn topics that are discussed in all the articles about The Visit.

Too wax or not to wax? To shape up? Line-up? Go bare? These are the questions that distract me in the days leading up to my trip.

This is the issue– my gyno and I are kinda like friends. Not in the circle I hang out in all the time (she’s always working), but we’re close enough in age and met through a relative (my father) a long time ago. We often end up vacationing in the same places at the same time and attending the same events whenever I toy with the idea of going corporate. We party together in resorts and islands and we chat enough in the city that when I go to my yearly appointment, she doesn’t need an update on my sex life because she already know who and when, but not where. I also text her to make appointments and ask questions. She’s not my Ace but she’s my girl.

My mother insists that doctors don’t care what vaginas look like, (“if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all,” she says). But I know my doctor well. And well, I care about what her impression is. I’m concerned even if mother is not.

I ask an elder friend (everyone 40+ is elder to me) what she thinks. “Um, Reagan, as long as you don’t look like Wolf Man Jack, I don’t think she cares,” Clarice says.

I agree. I am a firm believer that though the hair on my head is wild, the hair elsewhere should be tamed. The natural look should be reserved for your crown of glory, not the crown decorating your glory. By personal preference, I’m never looking like Mother Nature would intend. But this isn’t about what I prefer to see, this is about making an impression on someone I have to see at social functions.

“Go Bare,” says Anita when I ask her what should be done. “I always go bare. I want her to get a good look at everything.”

Bare? I thought that was reserved for pop stars, porn stars and pre-teens. However, I humor this thought for a moment longer than I usually would. The last time I went to my doctor, I was trying to point out something. She said she didn’t see what I was describing. I tried to tell her again, but it’s hard to give Map Quest worthy directions to that location. She pulled out a mirror.

“Show me!” she says and holds up the looking glass so that it reflects my glory. I sit up the best I can in that sloped chair with my feet still in the stirrups and her head way too uncomfortably close between my eagle-spread limbs. I prod and point until she finally sees my concern.

“Oh that?” she inquires, poking with me with a gloved index finger. I bite my lip to keep from laughing hysterically at the lunacy of this situation. “Uh-uh. It happens. Nothing to be concerned about. Trust me.” She then offers an explanation full of technical words and blah, blah, blah. All I care about is that it’s “nothing to be concerned about.”

I suppose that whole experience could have gone a lot smoother if there was nothing in the way. Maybe I could have saved myself from that moment of sheer embarassment. Maybe bare is best.

Anita’s given me the number to her waxer, who she promises doesn’t hurt…. that much. I make an appointment to remove all the grass from the lawn.

I mention my prep-work to my ISO (insignificant other, def. a male companion with whom you are emotionally entangled who fulfills boyfriend-like duties, but has no benefits… yet.) He’s appalled at the idea. “That’s gross,” ISO says, scrunching up his face. “You’ll look like a little girl. I don’t wanna see it like that.”

I give him the fool-please look.

“I’m serious, Reagan. I’ll wait till it grows back.”

I’ll admit, I’m not all that thrilled with the bare idea either. Though it seems like a good option, I keep thinking of all the pain. The shape up hurts bad enough. I want to look nice for The Visit, but I don’t want to be tortured.

I cancel the appointment at the spa, decide I’ll go to my regular lady for the job. I tell her that The Visit is coming up and I want to look nice. She looks at me a little crazy at first, then nods like she understands. I think she’s pacifying me.

She gives me the usual with a twist– a nice trim, sorta- like a fade this time– and a crisp shape-up. She leaves the room so I can get dressed and I look at myself in the mirror. It looks… nice. Not too flashy, but definitely shows that some thought went into the look. I think this is just the impression I hoped to make.

Now I’m looking forward to my appointment.

Stay Tuned

New Year’s Eve 2014. Wow, is pretty much all that I can say.

Every year the Productions hold a fabulous New Years Eve Party. This year they held their party in Charlotte, inside of the ballroom of the Hilton Hotel. It was fabulous. I made it my years agenda to go and have a fabulous time, considering the last several months of 2014 were damn near horrid.

As most of ya’ll know, me and TLA (better known as Jay) are no longer together. He and I have had several long drawn out discussions about how and why things fell apart for us. Ultimately he blames me. Hell I blame me. But tonight is the last night of the year. I’m learning to be okay with the thoughts of us as friends.

Also along the way I took a new job.  They are sending me to New Orleans to learn from their main office so tonight will be my last official night partying in the QC for the next six months. 

I decided to enjoy the night. I’m a beautiful woman with much to offer the world. So hello world…..

I was beyond drunk. Long story. It was the unofficial REVOLUTION and New Year’s Eve party. There are pictures to prove I did what I did and the stories of what I said (and did) are starting to filter in slowly from friends. I didn’t dance on any tables. All things considered, I think I was pretty well-behaved.

Anyway, a very attractive man (for the sake of this blog he shall remain nameless) noticed I was sitting alone on the couch. He invited me to party on the dance floor with him. Strange thing is, I’ve known cutie for many many years; but LAST NIGHT, I NOTICED HIM. He was a great dancer. He pulled my body close to his, and inhaled the scent of my perfume. He whispered quietly but loud enough for me to hear the words “damn you smell good” escape out of his lips. I smiled. Better yet I blushed, and I allowed him to pull me even closer. From our first dance, he was great. We laughed, we joked, and we really got to know each other the best we could given the situation.

He had great conversation, only one dimple and a smile just made for dropping panties–and he seems to be wholly unaware of this. His laughter made me laugh. All good signs. I realize I’m nervous. Really nervous. This is very very good and very very bad too. It’s been years since I’ve liked anyone other than TLA. He made me goo goobs of nervous and no one has affected me the same way since–until now. I don’t like this feeling. I like to be in control. I debate ending this roller coaster ride but when I looked up at him, I couldn’t say a thing. Mr. Great Conversation has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a man. They make his eyes beautiful. I could stare at him all day. I sigh outloud and I can feel my face burning. I am blushing. My normally deep-for-a-woman voice is girlish and light. I twirl my hair over my fingers as we celebrate the arrival of 2015. I’ve got it bad.

He asks me a question about my last relationship and it catches me off-guard. I spill half of the champagne that I just sipped out of my mouth.

After the fumble. Mr. Conversation decided that it would be better if we finished our conversation sitting down. So we spotted an empty couch and made it our home for the next hour. We continue our get to know you interview, and the conversation continues to flow. UNTIL ….. He asks me what my sexual fetishes are. It catches me off guard. I realize that it is the first day of the New Year, and we are practically strangers and here he is asking me about sex (bad sign), but there is no way I’m ruining the oh-so-romantic moment with my sometimes prudish, tendencies. That and I was halfway through my third Tom Collins. I think it was the latter of the two that thrilled me.

“I got this thing for…” I laugh ’cause I can’t believe I’m about to confess this to a virtual stranger. “like bondage…. like tying my lover to the bed, with my pantyhose,” I add quickly. “Not kinky, no whips, tie-me-up type chains.”

He sips his champagne, studies me, and leans back on the couch (you know that sexy man- sprawl they do). “What is it about the pantyhose?” he asks, eye-ing me now, smirking as he waits for my answer.
“Sometimes I like to be the one…. I like to make a man say my name for a change… That’s sexy to me.”

He smirks. “You have control issues.” A statement not a question.
I freely admit to him that I do.
“But you like to be manhandled too, huh?”

Over the course of the night he’s developed this habit of catching me off guard. Instead of spilling my drink, I laugh until I am near-tears. I avoid answering the question and he doesn’t press the issue. He hands me a napkin and just when I think he is going to switch the subject, he tells me he already knows the answer.

My girlfriends are waving their arms at me, motioning for me to meet them at the the car. I smile, and tell Mr. Conversation that all good things must come to an end. He says he’s not ready for the night to be over and offers to take me home a little later. I let him.

The REVOLUTION will NOT be televised….