Going Number Two - (New York - Part 1)

"Dude, but I mean, we'll be in the same room for two days with only one bathroom."

"And?"  that was Flowerchild.

"Well I mean, like, it'll just be one toilet." I said.

I was trying to be discrete but Flowerchild was impatiently peering at me while licking the straw in her Wendy's Frosty.

"So?" challenged Flowerchild.

"So, it will be one toilet, in one room, for at least two days, which means..." Southern Charm was trying to help me.

"Oh." Flowerchild said. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......" it had finally clicked.  "You want to know if Boss will still like you after you funk up the bathroom."

She and Southern Charm started laughing so hard our food almost dumped (no pun intended) on the floor.  Clearly, even though I needed real advice about using el bano around Boss, my girlfriends couldn't focus long enough to stop seeing who could make the best farting noise without getting spit on their french fries.

Boss and I had recently become semi-pseudo comfortable with one another...

Well....
Kinda... 

I mean I had stopped yelling stalker if he called me twice in the span of two hours and started looking forward to his calls every day.  And he had learned to control his gag reflex whenever I flipped to the Oxygen channel.  In other words, we had gotten past the "getting-to-know-you" phase, and were now toeing the line to establishing a foundation for something....else....until he opened his mouth one lazy Saturday afternoon....

"I want you to go to New York with me next weekend."

Clearly homeboy was joking, I mean I hadn't even introduced him to my hot pink granny panties...yet. 

"Bree, I'm serious."  Damn.

"Oh. well, okay then." and then flashed the type of pageant smile that made him believe my enamel held the secret to world peace...or, something like that.  At the very least, he believed I was excited...

And, I was excited...well, kinda...

Until I started thinking about all the stupid firsts that people have to get past before they can say they really like you.  For example, could I really like him if he was a thumb-sucking, blankie-addicted, keep-the-light-on type of dude. Or, even worse - could I like him if he was the type of man who forced me to pillow talk with him despite having morning breath that kicked in every night around 11:59pm.

Maybe!  But...

What I was really nervous about was accidentally doing one of those horribly disgusting type of human activities that men pretend woman don't do...like: scratch, burp, fart...and...

"Use the bathroom, Bree!" Flower Child had stopped making gross noises long enough dish out a reality check. "Geez, you act like he doesn't do it everyday!"

 "Yea," said Southern Charm.  "There are plenty of things you can do to lessen the smell."

They burst out laughing again.

"Like turn the flush right after the plop." That was Flowerchild.
"Or turn the shower on extra hot, and steam it out."  said Southern Charm.
"Or use the hotel lobby's bathroom."
"Yea, or just bring your elastic pants and hold the ish in."

They both started laughing at that one; and. though their comments were indeed funny, Flowerchild had said something that stood out.  "He does it every day."  Or at least for his colon's sake - I hoped he did.

So I chilled for a bit, and told myself that every dating interaction has those moments when the romance pauses for a second and allows real life situations play in.  I wasn't the only woman trying to cross this bridge, and most definitely wouldn't be the last.  Right?

"So, Bree" Southern Charm said, interrupting my thoughts. "Maybe you should get Boss a meal to go."

And just when I was about to perk up, Flowerchild said:

"Do you think he'd prefer the number 1 or the number 2?"

And I watched as they burst out laughing out all over again!

My Girl Has a Girlfriend...

Every woman regardless of age should have a girlfriend.  Unless, of course, she's a lesbian...

Last night my girlfriend called me three times after 11pm, left five voice mails (don't ask how), and showed up at my door before the sun had a chance to say "Saturday."

"Bree!"  She yelled, waking me up from a sleep that was so sexy, I had my pillow squeezed in between my knees.

"Bree, open up!"

Shutting my eyes further, I willed the high-pitched voice penetrating the walls of my front door to be that of Idris Elba or at least Jake Gyllenhal with his shirt off...

Unfortunately for me, the person standing on the other end of my eye crust and my front door, did not have Gyllenhal's chest or his man parts.

Womp.

"Girl, I called you." my girlfriend said bursting in with bagels in hot coffee.
"Ok."
"You didn't answer."
"Ok..."
"I said. You did not answer your phone."
"I said. Oh - kay...."
"Yea, well, what were you doing?"
"Dude!!  What the...!" 
"You STILL didn't answer my question."

Clearly, she was paying attention...

For a millisecond we glared at each other from across the room, with her contemplating  all the ways she could lecture me about calling folks back and me thinking about which was worst:

The fact that she had brought blueberry bagels (despite my allergy to fruit). Or, the fact that I had just noticed it was 6:15 in the morning...on...a....Saturday!

Girlfriends!

You can't live with them...and well, you can't find a boyfriend to replace them. So, as we sat there, squaring off over a open container of cold butter and coffee, I asked myself...

In DC, why is it so much easier to find a girlfriend than it is to lock down a boyfriend?

For all intents and purposes, Southern Charm was not-  in the truest sense of the word - my girlfriend.  I mean I hadn't done anything awkward like touch her tongue with mine, or sneak up on her in the shower!  But, she was my non-lesbian partner, who I loved deeply despite being in a serious but sometimes uncomfortable long-term relationship that started 5 years ago!    

I still remember how she and I had connected over a margaritas and man talk!  And, we had remained close throughout the years mainly because we shared a common interest that involved NOT being afraid to commit to simple things like...

keeping an appointment
going to see a chick-flick....

OR
....other people! 

...you know, all those things that men get anxiety issues over!

So I had pardoned Southern Charm for her lack of a penis, and applauded her for being the boyfriend I never had (in other words, a man who was in touch with his inner Oprah Winfrey)...

This was until....

My life changed. And, with those changes had come a slight shift in our interactions.  My Fridays were spent having a Netflix Night (R.I.P Blockbuster) without her, Saturdays were suddenly packed up with impromptu dinner dates without her, and Sundays were used to test out this thing I just realized existed in my kitchen: my oven!  Without Her!

In other words, something or someone was taking my girlfriend time away from Southern Charm.

As a result, I had gradually started receiving "where r u" texts from her at all hours of the day, 10 day advanced notices to schedule time with me, and now early morning visits with bagels I could not eat.

Clearly, while she was paying attention to me, I was not paying attention to her.

And being the good girlfriend that Southern Charm was, she had not yet called me out on acting like the bad boyfriend that she and I had pinky swore we would never ever date...

"Who is it?"  Southern Charm said, sounding a lot like she was expecting a "it's not me, it's you conversation."

But before I could answer her...I had to pause and think how this had happened:

How had a guy jockeying for the position of boyfriend, almost succeeded in trying to take my girlfriend's place?

Good Men Do Exist...

There are very few situations that will cause me to get down on two hands and knees in the middle of my apartment after 8pm on a Saturday night:

Money,

Moscato and...

Marc (Jacobs ;-) - but only because my ironing board is broken.

This past Saturday, however, two out of three rang true because somewhere between my trip to Bank of America and watching a boring episode of Football Wives on my couch, I lost a paycheck worth more than the one bedroom apartment I was paying to rent.  Now, generally, I do not get upset about losing something...because...well, I live in a 565 square feet of space...and nothing is never lost forever.

This time - however - the "lost something" was valued at about 20 Forever 21 shopping bags.  So, needless to say, I was in doggy position, flipping over couch cushions and heavy lifting bookcase with one hand WHILE bottle-palming Moscato white wine in the other...

I was angry...upset...irritated...

ashamed...and any other negative emotion that one can think of that begins with a vowel!

I really hate to lose something.


Correction!  I really hate to lose something that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt holds value. 
my job, my packcheck, my Seven for All Mankind high heel shoe...

As a single women, however, that previous list grows slightly.

In addition to fearing the loss of a job and a designer shoe...I also fear finding a GOOD MAN

Yes, finding (not losing) a good man....

Why? Because by finding him, there is always the threat that he may be lost  to some hoochie with a long weave, an ambitious lady with a big bum, or to a person wth higher stillettos than you named Chris(tina)...

Shortly after I lost my paycheck, I was drowning my sorrow in a glass full of grapefruit juice (read: no paycheck) at a DC networking event.  Not feeling up to doing the usual bait and switch to snatch a boyfriend with a business card...I had opted to do the unthinkable (as a single woman in DC)...which was NET-WORK (with NO INTENTIONS)...

It was during this time that I met some dude - whose face I didn't remember...but whose business card was quite impressive, and his handshake was grown man firm.  So. I emailed the next day thinking this guy is nice, employed in a sector that interests me, and "dang, it would be nice to buy me some catfish for lunch." 

I was hungry.

What I couldn't know - however - was that our first "business" email would transition step to finding out his zodiac sign, catapult into a digit exchange, land with me licking my lips at the sound of his voice on the phone, ...all before our "official" first date!

Who was this guy? I thought, who had Southern gentleman tendencies, big city boy aspirations, a sweet-tea smile and a sincerity that made me think good men do exist....

"Our Fri-date," he said "would answer all those lingering questions."

I waited a week in deep anticipation and intense premature nervousness, before our Fri-date arrived and he picked me up in a Hugo Boss suit, smelling faintly of Yves Saint Laurent...

What followed was the antithesis of an expectation...

Reservations at the Renaissance, flowers waiting on the table, a dinner discussion about all the uninteresting things old friends no longer care about, and an intimate moonlight stroll in a flower garden near the Gaylord.

It was during this time, he explained what my flowers meant...

Yellow for friendship, the foundation he hoped to build.
Red for romance, a promise of what was to come....and a....
Pastel Green vase, a nod to my favorite color.

"Are you spoiled?" he asked as he tickled my fingers and raised my ring finger to his lips.
"Nope." I said trying to keep it cool.
"After dating me, you will be.  I want to set the bar so high, no man will ever reach it."

Then he slid his arm in mine, and we slowly walked back to my Geo.

Jokingly I asked "Where'd you come from?  Do men like you even exist?"

He smiled.  "Sometimes..."

Our first date, our Fri-date, I felt was something I had never experienced...but it was an experience I had been unknowingly looking for in the climaxes of romance books and at the start of every fairytale...a man...no, a GOOD MAN who wasn't afraid to start with a "once upon a time..."

And after the shitty-key experience with Big Chocolate, the almost-never-counts experience with A Long Walk, and the failed pledging experience with My Crush...

I had stopped looking...for friendship, for love, for romance...until I stumbled into something that I had not been searching for...

A man who wanted to take charge of a situation and show me that two could possibly be better than one! 

A Boss...my Boss Boo...

I was happy...kinda...before that single woman doubt began to creep in....before I started asking myself ridiculously silly questions after an incredibly unbelievable first date...the first of which was:

In finding something so unbelievably good, how would I manage the fear of possibly losing it? 

When I got home, I placed my flowers on my coffee table and got down on my hands and knees to pick up a petal that had dropped to the carpet...

It was then that I found it....that which I had not been searching for...

Or rather, the piece of paper that had been playing hide-and-seek with me for two weeks now...my paycheck...and snatching it up I told myself that from this day forward:  I would never take for granted that which I deemed as valuable....again... 

Jezebel vs. Jessica Rabbit

A few weekends back (prior to meeting Lo (for loquacious)), I was forced to check my drivers license to make sure "Jezebel" didn't appear in front of my first name, Breanne.  You remember Jezebel, right?  The Biblical chick who misled and seduced the men of God to do horrible things, like have "sex."  I am so not her.  Partly, because my name begins with a "B" but mostly because I can't keep a straight face long enough to seduce any man, ever. 

I am that girl that giggles during a slow and slightly dirty dance and kills the mood.   I am the lady who walks a bit too fast in sexy stiletto heels.  I am the woman who covers up my "get 'em girl dress" with a trenchcoat in 80 degree weather in the middle of July. 

I am NOT a temptress, a seductress, a Marilyn Monroe, a Jessica Rabbit, and I am not a Jezebel.

So, on this night, I was wondering why my date was calling on Jesus for the fifth time even though he and I were seated on separate sides of his loveseat.  My guess was that he thought my toes - which were propped up on his lap - were getting dangerously close to his....um....bellybutton. 

Jesus had become the constant companion in our time together over the past five weeks of dating.  If a hug got too close, homie would yell "Praise the Lord."  If my bum brushed across the edge of his thigh, he would begin a rendition of Amazing Grace.  And if my goodbye kiss touched the edge of his lip, he would whisper "God is good."

All.
The..
Time...


Problem was.  I'm not a heathen-happy sinner!  I'm a 100% certified, Grade A, good girl, that doesn't have to subtract 10 and divide by 2 whenever a guy asks: "so how many men have you been with?" 

So...

I was confused when my date started treating me like I had a bad case of leprosy...and had to wonder had my good girl swagg gone stale? 

A phone call at 9pm that he took in the next "room," give me some much needed info....

I didn't catch all of the conversation, but I did hear him say "baby," "sweet angel" and "nothing."  Assuming I was the "nothing" he referred to in the latter part of his list, I waited until his whisper session was done and asked very loudly through the door....

"Was that Jesus on your main line?" before grabbing my Chloe bag and heading for the door.

My gut had told me that the game of church he was playing with me, coincided with the game of house he was playing with Virgin Mary': which apparently didn't include lounging on his love seat after the streetlights came on.

On the way back to my Geo, I  couldn't help asking myself was it possible to still be a 100% certified, Grade A, good girl in your 20's or was it smart to just "play" one on tv (hey Beyonce!).  I mean presumably, by the age of 24, a woman has swapped spit after midnight,  packed an overnight bag, and gotten a few miles out of her Victoria's secret stash.

Or...maybe Virgin Mary's still existed...

and Jezebel's were so 2001....

 

Better Than a $20 Hair Weave...

In the 8th grade, my mom conned me into thinking that a jheri curl was the next best hairstyle. 

Problem was. 

It was the late 90's, the film - Coming to America - was already ol' school, and the style required a 1/2 gallon of activator juice - daily! For one full year, I heard every Soul Glow joke EVER created, so you can imagine my excitement when my mom finally ordered my hair on a weave time out (which is the corner bad hair hairstyles go to get a better attitude)!

I still remember the 2 pounds of hair my mom bought, and how cute I felt after I swung 100% "glued-in" human hair over my shoulder.  It was like hair cuticle crack - and the only thing that could top this addiction was the fact that I found a woman to put it all in for $20.00!  

Since then, I've quit my weave-wearing addiction cold turkey...BUT.....I still have memories of how my $20 hair weave - RIP  - made me feel comfortable, confident, powerful and pretty!

No other experience compared to it....UNTIL...I met a guy who took 45 minutes to take me on a trip that should have only taken two (minutes, that is).  What this dude had, besides not enough money to get a GPS, was good conversation....and I liked it, which consequently made me like him....

Well...

Kinda.

I barely knew him.

I was - however - completely enamored by his words...

During our ride, he expressed himself to me in poetic form, challenging me to follow his flow as he encompassed me via a haze of non-sexual seductive adverbs, adjectives, nouns, and ACTION verbs....tempting the "good girl" in me to think very bad thoughts...about him!

And yet...none of his communications were of the post-coital (read: rated X) variety!

And he didn't just speak to me, because any loquacious (google it!) man can make silence look golden!  Just like any man can sign you up as a standby to a lone game of 20 questions (all about him), AND attempt to make his life seem more interesting than the Idris Elba's underoos scene in Takers (keyword: attempt).

This guy - however - was of a different variety.  He used his words as a deliberate, dialogue-inducing form of communication!

He couldn't have known this, but...ladies...his conversation was better than my ol' school $20 hair weave!

Well kinda...

At the very least, his conversation made me feel comfortable, confident, powerful and pretty. At the very most, I didn't have to drop two tens and cover my head every time a strong wind blew!

When we finally reached our destination, Sir Lo (for loquacious - google it!) leaned over - the soft, masculine scent of Armani Black permeating the small space between us - and said:

"I'm gonna make you like me." 

And maybe he was right...

Well...

Kinda...

I barely knew him.

But he could have had a point.  

If bad conversation could make one strongly dislike an individual, what were the possible side effects of a good conversation?  Was good conversation the starting point of something....well, something good? 

I didn't know for sure, but that was okay....because life is not a Facebook Status Update, I can't just like someone every 13 seconds...


His words - though - I was mesmerized by every 12 seconds into a 45 minute ride that should have taken only two (minutes, that is!)

Good Men In Short Supply

Even though I relocated to DC five years ago, I still ask myself why a tall woman like myself chose to live in a city where every man aspires to be an entrepreneur, an executive, and one inch taller than 5'4...

If I had to guess, I'd say I moved here because I dreamed of finding my intellectual soul mate in a city full of smart men.

What I didnt' expect to encounter were a city full of men with an angry case of Napoleon Complex, all of whom had an unquenchable desire to climb everything from the corporate ladder to a bar stool...the unofficial short man's high chair!

It's not that I don't love short guys!  Because I do (I mean I really do!) It's just that I was raised under the assumption that I should look up to my man!  My friends say it's the inner "height snob" in me that can't appreciate the fact that big things come in small packages.  But I know that it's really because I enjoy having dialogue in vertical positions without feeling the urge to rest my elbows on the top of my lover's head in rare moments of fatigue (or convenience).

If a good man is hard to find in DC, finding a tall man is even harder!!!


So what's a woman supposed to do in a city where you only have to be two inches past toddler height to get on the DC ride...

"You got to give them a chance!"  was my friend, Southern Charm's, answer.

Apparently, a few weeks ago Southern Charm had lucked up and found that rare man who had TOTALLY forgotten the ratio of women to men in DC is....

1 male to every 12,034 desperate and fashionably dressed women looking for any man that is...straight? (kinda)

Not only had she found this man, but he was also single (no kids), employed (legally), funny (not in a "heeeey boo" type of way) and Ivy-League!  If she and I hadn't been cool since before Palin copyrighted "you betcha," I would have hated her with the type of stank reserved for women who have been celibate for 2...long...

But I was happy for her....

Really I was...

(well kinda)

Until she started bragging about how he gifted her with Spanish love notes (and revealed their English meanings if she promised kisses), signed them up for joint Salsa classes (and practiced with her in private ;-), and synched their Google calendars (in order to make sure he made time to take time...just for her).

I was happy for her...

Really I was....

(well kinda)

"How tall is he?" I asked, while admiring the 4-inch pair of Jimmy Choos I had purchased for the purpose of casting "I Dare You" looks at the sea of microsized men at the event we were attending

Southern Charm smiled and responded, "Tall enough to ride this ride!"

Surviving Congressional Black Caucus While Single

Single Lady in DC: 

Surviving Congressional Black Caucus While Single

(Events Schedule Included)

Ladies!  CBC is here...again...and with it comes an abundance of opportunity to meet and greet with DC's most eligible bachelors!  Here are a few tips to help maximize the opportunity of being a single lady in DC, who is looking for love in a big city.

Be a Ciara in a Suit

Ciara is one of the sexiest non-singing sisters (hey, Rihanna) that I wish I knew, who rocks bomb weaves, impossibly tight clothes, and dances like a stripper. (No homo!)  When preparing to go out to a CBC event, channel your inner sultry-fied Ciara but keep your clothes PG (i.e. a suit or Michelle O-type dress). Get your outfits fitted, carry an emergency blazer and dust off the old ball and chain black dress. Being professional and sexy-fied is not an oxymoron, and everyone will notice if you're the only lady dressed like she's an extra on the Wacka Flocka video shoot.  This is not Miami (Welcome to DC).

He's Just Not That Into Too

Reading is FUNdamental, and hookt on fonix workt fer me!  Yes, I meant to type the word "too" ladies.  As in, don't be too much, too pressed, too talkative, too soon!  During these events less is more.  Keep the conversation light, fun and flirty and just when you feel he's hooked, drop your business card, and show him what 10 minutes of squats over the past 30 days have done for you by walking away!

Quid Pro Quo: Quid Pro Card

The most essential accessory that every lady should have besides a sexy stiletto and a basic black dress is an abundant supply of business cards.  This micro-rectangular piece of paper that masquerades as a mini Facebook Profile, is the ultimate professional tweet on paper.  It reveals a snapshot of who you are, what you do and how to stay connected in 180 characters or less.  More importantly, if Tall, Dark and Lovely ends up being Tall, Dark and Dumb, you can still prettily press ignore when he emails and keep it moving just like on your Facebook Page and Twitter Account.

Act Like a Lady. Think Like an Accountant!
It is imperative that every lady treat each event during CBC like an ungrateful boyfriend.  In other words, put your Freakum' Dress on, show him that you're Irreplaceable and embrace your inner Diva.  Never stay committed to one event while socializing during the afternoon CBC socials.  Each day there will be multiple events taking place in a short period of time.  It is your responsibility to be fabulous and fierce at as many events as possible.  Remember it's a numbers game; the more people you meet the higher the probability is that you will make a connection.  Besides, the only group of people that stay at an event from start to finish are the event organizers.  Don't be the event's mistress on the side.  Move on!

CBC is here ladies!  Have fun and be safe.

 A Few FREE Events for Single Ladies in DC

  

September 15 / 6:00pm - 9:00pm

1. Capital Cause: Political Fusion Networking Social / Midtown Lofts DC / RSVP: www.politicalfusion.eventbrite.com or info@capitalcause.com
2. Diva Lounge DC (Ladies Only) / Funxion Lounge / RSVP: thedivaloungedc@gmail.com 
3. NAAACC & NOBCO ALC Reception / Embassy Suites Hotel / RSVP: chairman@naaacc.org

September 16 / 6:00pm - 9:00pm

1. Black Ivy & Black Lawyers Association / District Lounge / RSVP: illacamila@yahoo.com
2. IMPACT Red Carpet Reception / The Ritz Carlton / RSVP: www.impact-dc.com 
3. NPHC ALC Reception / Union Station / RSVP: nphcreception@nphchq.org
4. Bermuda Pink Reception / Rooftop of Liberty / RSVP: rsvp@partybermuda.com 
5. A Heritage of Progress / Acadiana  Restaurant / RSVP: heritageofprogress@gmail.com 

September 17 / 6:00pm - 9:00pm 

1. Bitch is New Black Book Signing with Helena Andrews / Park on 14th / RSVP: guestlist@j-kprodutions.com 
2. Congressional Encore (A Formal Affair) / K Street Lounge / RSVP: recess@royaleventgroup.com

On to the Next One...

Admittedly, I still lose focus on what (or who) exactly has true value.

Two days after my bad date with the Energizer Old Spice Guy and a few weeks after my attempt to seduce my Crush had failed, I found out that A Long Walk, the gentleman in whom I had shared a string of beautiful dates with, was: "in..a...relationship" on Facebook as of 72+ hours ago!

Now...usually, I am happy when people get "in a relationship" and make it all public!  And, it only becomes an issue when the name following "with"  is one that I hadn't expected.

In this instance, the name I expected to see was mine.  Well - not really - but still I didn't expect to see "hers." 

I felt shocked, upset, hoodwinked, bamboozled and led astray!

A Long Walk had a GIRLFRIEND!

Every fiber in my being wanted to be upset.  I mean, who was he to move...on...

I mean what happened to that in-between incubator space that kept "potentials" in layaway....

Who had broken into my personal Potential Man store and cashed in!

I suddenly had an ill case of nostalgia, carefully recalling how A Long Walk and I had gone to dinner and to late night movies. How A Long Walk had given me a piggy back ride at midnight while we leisurely strolled a college campus, hugged me with less than 2 inches in between, and massaged the invisible corn on my pinky toe while we watched a Jesus movie...

Didn't that make me a girlfriend-in-waiting...or at least loyal layaway option?

That was a rhetorical question, btw! Because of course, that did NOT make me anything but the girl a day late and a dollar short.  Or, the girl who had joined the losing team, and got T-K-Od by some other chick in the title fight.

So I grabbed my Blackberry - my Ride or Die - and dialed my girlfriend, Flowerchild.

"A Long Walk has a girlfriend," I shouted. "And it's not me!"

"Okay, sweetie," she said.

Did she really just say: Okay. OK. Oh-kay!

She, a woman born and raised in Long Beach - the hometown of Snoop Doggy Dogg, Mr. I'll Pop a Cap in You - was supposed to say something more gutter than that. Like:

"Fu*** His Frienship"

"Fu*** His Girlfriend"

"Fu*** Dating in DC"

Flowerchild quite obviously was in that East Coast "I-Have-a-Reputation-to-Protect-Right-Now" mode. So, I hung up and called Southern Charm.

And tried again...

"A Long Walk...is...gay!"

"Oh my gosh, sweetie. Forget him. You can do so much better."

I lied.  Obviously. But only for five minutes before I told her that a Long Walk wasn't gay, he was just taken.

I mean geez ladies, the romantic in me couldn't let go of how A Long Walk had slow danced with me in his room and fed me fruit roll-ups. Similarly, the realist had to get...well..."real."  A Long Walk had kicked me out minutes after I asked him to cuddle me for a night. What reality told me was that "said girlfriend" had to have been the reason for the expulsion, OR maybe (just maybe) I had been "just (another guy's) friend."

I was two seconds away from grabbing a cigarette and a lighter and burning my dresses in a Waiting to Exhale Fashion, embracing a new "one of the guys" persona and re-stocking my wardrobe with sports jerseys and cargo-cut jeans.

BUT

Then I remembered...in dating, nothing is official until you get that title.

Until he calls you his girlfriend, his wife, his jumpoff, or his best friend (almost like a sister!)...you are in that in-between space where he coulda, shoulda, woulda but doesn't really have to choose you.

So, while Southern Charm substituted every curse word with "dang" "shoot" and "butt," I politely excused myself...found Jay-Z's new hit and turnt (yes turn with a "t") it all the way up, represented for all my East Coast Single Ladies that didn't get the title...

On To the Next One...

...and decided to pay my layway and value what I have a little bit sooner next time...

The Big City Superwoman

I didn’t truly believe in superheroes until I moved to DC six years ago. 

Don’t get me wrong!  I could enjoy a Superman or Batman movie with the most dedicated of comic book fans…oooh-ing as Batman overpowered six men with a gadget he pulled from the his uber-trendy batbelt….

However, I couldn’t really believe these guys actually existed until I moved to the District and was introduced to an elite group of ruthlessly ambitious, sharply educated, unrelentingly aggressive, and fabulously dressed…superwomen.

These women were unique brand of bio woman who had fearlessly gone to war with the old boys network (and won), busted a big wide hole in the glass ceiling (without breaking a nail), and overcome a system that favors neckties (over Nine West).   

And Ms. Diva – the shortest friend in my network of homegirls but the one designated as having the largest ambition – was a part of this exclusive sorority. 

She was deputy director over a government agency, managed a staff of 75 people, sat on a Fortune 500 Board, traveled every other month to broker deals internationally, and was under the age of 30…

She was what most young boys wants to be, and what  most old men had never been….a woman equal to a man, and relentlessly aggressive....

Dating in DC had been an interesting rollercoaster ride for Ms Diva who was constantly meeting gentleman who thought they wanted a Bonnie to their Clyde…

Cue Jay-Z and Beyonce.... "all I need in this life of sin, is me and my girlfriend...down to ride to the very end, is me and my...”

What these men really wanted, though, was a Stewart…as in Martha Stewart…or a stay-at-home,  raise-my-kids, support-my-endeavors, but don’t-get-a-job type of woman…

Ms. Diva was about her business, and bake sale didn't make her short list…

So she settled on spending intimate nights with her Macbook, stroking the keyboard lightly with her fingertips, and gazing longingly at the screen wishing  - like Geppetto did Pinnochio - that her computer was a "real boy!"

Her computer - unlike most DC men - was unimpressed with her ambition and unaffected by her drive.  So she decided to take her relationship to a deeper level, decided to use her Macbook to assist her with stripping herself of her identity, undressing any title association with her name, and connecting herself with a profile on a hook-up website that only asked two questions, what's your screen name and how do you look?

In which she responded...

Username: PintSizedPrincess69

And then she had posted nude pictures and sat back as the responses rolled in.  Initially, she enjoyed meeting  nameless men who were outside of her DC network, and who were able to introduce her to the most discrete locations around DC until....

....I got a midday phone call...

"I'm late." she hissed into the phone. 

"To what?"

"My funeral." she shouted sarcastically.  "What the heck do you think, Bree! This hook-up shit has got me caught up."

An hour later, I tried to be patient as she snatched the paper bag out my hand containing two pregnancy tests…tried to be calm as she sat on her toilet smoking cigarettes and sipping a Corona as we watched carefully for one pink line or two….AND tried to ignore the desperation in her voice as she recounted how after about 25 sexual experiences the condom had broken on the 26th time....

The test  results came back 10 minutes later...

...and Diva pulled up her pants, adjusted her tailor-made Gucci suit, and pitched her cigarette in the toilet and flushed…

“So, what are you gonna do?” I asked…

“Bree, I can’t think about this shit right now.  It’s already 5:00, and I got a 5:30 dinner meeting.”

As I watched Diva walk out of her bathroom, I couldn’t help but wonder why none of the SHEROES – Superwoman, Wonderwoman, or Catwoman - ever had a man…

In wanting to succeed at the highest level, and in pursuing that which the average man wasn’t able to achieve, would Ms. Diva be forced to make a decision no man would ever be forced to make?

Could Diva still be a heroine with a baby in tow?

Playing 20 Questions in a Miniskirt

Last weekend I was involuntarily signed up for a game of 20 questions with a guy I had never met.

This guy  - a dude I had connected with online - caught my attention because he could put together three complete sentences and post pictures which were cute without looking constipated.  This is super rare in online dating.  So I had decided to keep him around because he was generous with compliments via text message, and the one late night voicemail he left sounded...sane. 

Still I wasn't sure if the guy was who he said he was...because for all intents and purposes he could be single, tall, muscular and 26 (like he said)

OR

he could be a 45-year old married male with nympho tendencies (who took great pictures and had excellent grammar).

Sadly, I was crazed enough to find out and arranged to meet up with him at a U Street bar wearing a mini-skirt and a mase bottle strapped to my belt loop.

Mr. 20 (or Score), showed up a few minutes after me and walked in looking like the Old Spice Guy...confident, handsome, and two seconds away from diving off a mini waterfall, landing on a horse, and smiling with a deodorant stick in his hand.  I was impressed - kinda!

We did the awkward church hug embrace and I lightly kissed his cheek with my ruby red lip gloss and sat down ready for dialogue!

"How are you Mr. Score?  How was your week?"  I smiled sweetly as I sipped my mojito.

And...that, ladies and gentleman, was all he needed.

For 45 minutes I was beat in the head with nouns, accosted by a slew of verbs, slammed over and over again with unnecessary adjectives, and jumped by a gang of adverbs as Mr. Score subjected me to a monologue all about himself.  Nineteen questions, people!  He asked himself nineteen straight questions, then proceeded to answer all of them in the voice of his alter ego...Mr Score 2.0 as I sat  there waiting desperately on the edge of my seat for a slightest...hint...of...an....inhale!  Or an intermission!

Then, thankfully, the 20th question was asked to the person I least expected...

Me!

"Bree," he said. "That is your name, right? Are you ready for dinner?"

I thanked Jesus for modern day miracles and then quickly asked him to forgive me as...

I told Score I had eaten.  Even though I hadn't.
I told Score I was tired.  Even though I wasn't.
I told Score I had to go home.  But, c'mon now, son!  It was a Friday...night....and 80 degrees outside!

So, I faked a cough, told him "no" and tried not to plow down the one-day-over-16-and-happy-I-got-my-first-job greeter during my escape!

On the long walk to my car, I tried to convince my grumbling stomach that a free meal wasn't worth listening to the verbal version of the Autobiography of Mr. Score. 

The date made me remember how much dating (in DC) sucked, but it also reminded me that a good date was hard to find!  It made me specifically think of A Long Walk, a gentleman with whom conversation was never lacking and a dialogue always flowed. 

I had to ask myself, does it take a bad date to appreciate a good one? 

I hadn't thought of  A Long Walk for a couple of weeks, but now A Long Walk was all I could think about.

So I sent him a text, "I really want to see you tonight!"

I blamed it on the mini-skirt I was wearing, which was dying to get the proper play.

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I'm In Love with Mary Jane

The first time I saw weed was in the back seat of a car going 60mph on the freeway.  My god sister’s boyfriend’s friend told he had something “special” to show me.  And, since 15-year old me had recently walked in on my boy cousin peeing.  I felt – you know - prepared.  Fortunately for my little girl eyes, it wasn’t what I expected.  Instead it was a bag of mysterious grass-looking plant leaves. 

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Mary Jane.” he answered. I stared back blank-faced.

“A Dime Piece?”
“Weed?” It was starting to click.

“Marijuana!”

DING! DING! DING!

I suddenly saw my short life flash before my innocent, un-narcotic touched eyes, and demanded they throw it out of the window OR let me out.

They chose the former! Apparently (and unfortunately for me), rolling a blunt seemed more important than rolling with me.  Go figure!

To this day, the thought of being in the presence of weed scares the heck out of me because…HELLO…smoking kills! 

Problem is, I was brainwashed in the 80s by a sunglass-wearing camel on a motorcycle  named Joe that smoking can be cool, be chill and sometimes be sexy.  So though I'm scared of weed, I can't help but envy Jay Z on the BluePrint Album Cover, or Al Capone's expression on the infamous cigar poster, or Obama  in his pre-presidential days squatting with a joint hanging from his lips. All of these people (camel included) are mad cool, and hella gangsta!  More importantly, each of them has mastered the art of balancing a black and mild between their fingertips while simultaneously exuding an I don't give a f*** attitude....an attitude I was currently swagger-jacking as I sat watching one of DC’s most powerful rainstorms, my legs kicked up on my balcony banister, and pretending to smoke an imaginary cigar.

I wanted to NOT give a f*** about My Crush, or the guy who had jumped his ass out of Breeanne’s Ugly Girlfriends with a Penis Club withOUT my permission and advanced directly into Breeanne’s Potential Man Fraternity (without passing GO!).

I will still pissed that My Crush - a month earlier - had attempted to hook me up with his friend, ignoring my too-discrete-he-clearly-missed-it attempt to connect with him over warm beer and chicken wings!  After my "no" then "hell no," he had skipped asking me "why" and began busying himself with the "how" task of pledging me into his Homegirls Sorority.  I - uninterested and happy to be an invididual - had been desperately trying to drop line ever since.

Every day he assumed the title of Dean and commenced the “getting-to-know” you pledge process of  gchatting me relentlessly from good morning to COB, hanging tough with him during happy hours while sexily sipping beer out a straw, and demanding I answer non-booty call related phone calls at 1am in my Girl 6 voice!

And what did I get for these efforts?

A date - Nope
A pat on the back - Nada
A penny for my keeping my thougts rated PG13 - Not a chance!

Instead I received the honor of being dubbed the unoriginal pledge name: “sweetie” and a confession from him that he had a

crush…

on...

another…

chick…(GASP!)

WTF!

I wanted to kick and kiss him, but not necessarily in that order! BUT then I (kinda) remembered his declaration that he rarely told a woman he likes her until he was sure she felt the same way, BECAUSE according to him, subtly was mandatory in all things related to romance.  So – of course – this made me speculate about his so-called Homegirl Sorority, which I figured might just be a modern day brothel of “potentials” that he kept running prettily around in a never-ending circle, in too-tall stilettos, chasing the carrot (which was him)!

Yes, I liked this guy....

But...problem was...I...do…not…pursue…a...man...ever!

So what’s a girl to do? 

Can a woman ever…really…move out of a friend zone without making her interest known? 

I contemplated this answer while watching DC rain drops fall and while lighting up my non-existent black & mild to chill out.  I was hoping that somewhere in my imaginary smoky haze that I could embrace the “I don’t give a f*** attitude” and figure out how I could avoid being left out there on the sidelines once again…

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Friends Without Benefits

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I didn’t get the memo that kids were better seen than heard until I was 21 and my little cousin talked back to me like she was 45. She almost (keyword: ALMOST) got put out in the middle of the 14th Street bridge until I remembered I used to be “that kid,” (yes, “that one”) that always had “something” to say. In fact, the only time I was speechless was in math class and that was because I hadn't figured out the best way to argue why 2 + 2 ALWAYS had to equal 4.   ALWAYS was too concrete for me, a little girl with an opinion and a pantaskirt - or rather, a skirt I wore tied between my knees in rebellion against the dresses-only code for girls, which resulted in MC Hammer-looking pants. 

I needed versatility.

The need to understand that always wasn't forever, that a pantaskirt could be one (a skirt), two (pants), or both! So you could imagine my professors reaction when she proclaimed that “opposites attract and likes repel,” and I nodded in agreement. What she couldn't know was that I had developed a crush on the geekiest, nerdiest, brown noser boy in class who took pride in following the rules…and if opposites attracted, than maybe a pretty girl in a pantaskirt, and a little boy with a penchant for following the rules could work.

What I couldn't know then, but learned 15 years, 3 boyfriends, 2 heartbreaks, and a really embarrassing session where I used the therapist hair for Kleenex later, was that "opposites only attracted" in science class and in the 6th grade.

And I held on to this fact...

UNTIL...

20+ something me felt that familiar heart flutter for a guy friend of mine!

At first I was mad! Livid! Peeved!

I had never - before this day - pledged a guy friend and crossed him into the fraternity of Breanne's Potential Man.  Matter of fact, all of my guy friends - for all intents and purposes - were really ugly girls with penises.

This guy wasn't even a guy friend, partly because he was GUD (Geographically Un-Desirable) living across yonder in VA, but mostly because we had nothing in common.  He loved expensive cars (Porches, BMWs, Bentleys).  I drove a GEO.  He reveled in shopping for Prada and Gucci. When someone mentioned mall, I thought monuments.  He endeavored to be a millionaire.  I got happy when I paid my bills on time.  He was GQ and I was...so...not...interested!

But one day...

He posted a gchat status that took me back to my renegade days: "Opposites only attract in the 6th grade!"
And I hit him back with a "Dude, I totally agree!"

A dialogue occurred soon after, catapulted into a conversation, and ended somewhere past 1,238 lines of  chatting. And our chat conversations continued weeks after, flowing seamlessly from discussions about my pantaskirt and his Porsche, as well as my volunteer work and his 15 hour working days!

And...

These conversations continued every day never lacking in frequency or volume. It didn't take long for us to wonder if our budding computer love, was limited to keystrokes and emoticons or if our conversation could translate into an LOL smiley face - sans gchat!

So, we both RSVPd +1 for an after work happy hour! The +1 was our blackberry, the ride-or-die companion we kept on "ready, set" just in case we both got overwhelmed by the excessive use of our vocal chords.

The non-date started off innocently enough, with both of us asking polite questions that required one-word answers:

How are you? GREAT
Are you hungry? YES
Do you like beer? SOMETIMES

The question, I really wanted to him to ask was: Are you bored? 


To which I would reply:  HELL YES!

But he didn't ask that, because - dangit - that would require a two word answer.

After a long and awkward silence and more awkward sideways glance.  I was just about to call on my "ride-or-die" when he commented on my skirt, saying something silly about how it would look better tied between my knees.  I thought he said "he would look better between my knees."  And me - being single and celibate for 2...long - yelled "SAY WHAAAAAAT!" a little too loud!

And both of us started laughing at a joke we both missed.  Me - because I was little horny.  Him - because...well he couldn't let me laugh alone and be the guy sitting with "that" (insert one: crazy, loud, psycho) chick.

Lucky for us! The conversation flowed from there! Our vibe was similar to harmony, insomuch as we were two different tones that sounded right together!  Our differences absolutely contrasted, but other intangibles like sense of humor, temperament, conversational pace were all in one acchord.

After the fourth beer.  He put his hand up like a 'hi-five' and matched each of his fingers with tips of mine. 
There was a brief moment of silence where our eyes met and suddenly I wanted to him to kiss me!

"You would be perfect..." he said as I slid my fingers inside the space of his.

"For?" I questioned.

"My friend..."

Wait what! What the fuck do you mean perfect for "your" friend!  I took my beer, threw it in his face, pushed our plate of chicken wings on the floor, and walked away while flippin' him the bird.

Okay, I'm lyin', I didn't get all Fatal Attraction on him...but I did push the chicken wings plate to the ends of the bar counter after I disentangled my hand from his. I know, I'm such a bad ass.

"We're friends right?" he asked as I looked at him with that phony/fake smile you give to old people and big head babies.

I had to think.

If my therapist mucus-ruined hair was any indication, opposites did not - INDEED - attract.  So he wasn't even eligible to cross into Breanne's Potential Man Fraternity and was always destined to be an ugly girl with a penis (such was the destiny of all my guy friends)!

"Bree, we're friends right?" he asked again.

I closed my eyes and tried NOT to imagine him in a leather, Prada G-strring.  Tried to channel my inner, break-rules, bad girl.  Tried to imagine 12-year old me in a pantaskirt.

I wanted to tell him yes, and prove my science teacher right.  I also wanted to tell him no, so my 3 heart breaks would not be in vain.  So...

Rebelling against the concept of "opposites DO NOT attract"

Optimistically, I replied...

"Kinda."

 The renegade in me was convinced that "anything was possible."

Definition of The Metrosexual Male

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I have a fashionable, Baptist friend that finds sanctification in all things Christian...

Louboutin, Lacroix, and Dior...that is!

This fashionable friend is an anomaly in DC, because he can debate the relevance of politics and prose and the irrelevance of polkadots and ponchos. This friend is the epitome of an Upper East Side Manhattan, VISA Black Card-carrying, curly-haired, perfect-skin having, bleached-white teeth buppie. This friend is (and still could be) the ideal candidate for AKA Sorority EXCEPT he's a dude and he believes their official colors -  salmon pink and apple green - are so 2001!

Mr. Swagg (because he's the definition of...) would rather wear a fake polo from Wal-Mart than step his Marc Jacobs Oxford in the basement of ANY bargain store EVER. So how he became friends with a 23+  lover of Forever 21 - a woman's store packed with 98% nylon, $5 dresses, 16-year old allowance spenders and young professionals on a budget (raises hand) is beyond me....

Mr. Swagg is the gay BFF I've been looking for all my life, except he exclusively loves women (eliminating the gay part), and gives me a mad case of paranoia whenever I shoe shop for pumps at Payless (eliminating the BFF part).

He is someone I have tried to define for going on 324 days (<--respect the diligence), and all I've come up with is Mr. Swagg (the definition of...a Metrosexual Male).  In other words, he is totally in touch with his masculinity but not afraid to embrace the finer things in life (mani's, pedi's, pu@%!*).  He's flyy, smells fresh, stays clean, loves women and is able to converse about more than just basketball and beer (<---though he can do that too)

MOST IMPORTANTLY, Metrosexual Mr. Swagg understands CODE PINK girl talk and can provide the ever, elusive, desperately sought after: GUY OPINION.  Which was what I was looking for as I continued my quest to find out if  my girlfriend's, boyfriend Mark (say that 2x fast) could still be a straight man despite having an inclination to munch carpet while calling his best friend boo with a winkface ;-)

"What's the deal Bree-dizzle?"

Swagg and I were sitting at a trendy restaurant on 7th Street called Oya where the chopsticks are sexy and the food is served in cute little miniature dishes that Forever 21+ me wanted to sneak in my purse (hey, it's a recession)!

"Dude, I think my girlfriend's, boyfriend Mark might be gay but I don't know."

Swagg glared at me from across the table.  At first I thought he was about to chastise me for wearing a dress from Target outside of the 'burbs, but then I realized....

"Rolled-Up Jeans Guy?" he asked.

he and I had already discussed boyfriend Mark a few weeks back in my attempt to bond with him over a fashion faux paus that wasn't mine (thankya Lawd!).

The gchat went something like this:

ME: "So Charm's boyfriend Mark had Double-Cuffed jeans on the other day."
SWAGG: "LOL...tell me he's from Europe?"
ME: "He's NOT from Europe."
SWAGG: "Whack"
ME: "But he..."
SWAGG: "Whack"
ME: "They've been together for like...."
SWAGG: "Dude is whack or he's gay."
ME: "He's so not whack, though."

Then Swagg hit me with a Wendy Williams "How you doin'" and the conversation ended with Swagg emailing me an article about the all the reasons why rolled-up jeans were wrong (and whack and possibly gay...unless of course the dude wearing them was European - but dude in question was not though).

"It's deeper than a pants roll!" I said sliding one sexy chopstick in my Pucci bag and giving him the low down of the pictures boyfriend Mark carried of Midnight Rob in his wallet, the miss you messages between the two and the winkface.

Swagg looked underwhelmed. 

"So, what do you think?" I asked.

"Breez-tizzle, you may be clueless in fashion" (OUCH!) "But it doesn't take a genius to figure this one out. It's like a girl buying a Pucci bag - looks like one - but all you have to do is pay attention to realize it's a knockoff. A P looks nothing like a G, Bree-tonia!"

My Pucci bag suddenly felt disrespected!
 
Swagg (because he's the defintion of...) knew all about the bait and switch.  Being a curly-haired, pretty-boy metrosexual male that could never be found without a fresh shape-up, Swagg always got approached by men that thought he played for the Homo team!  And though his open mind was never offended, he was always clear where his hetero interest lay - with a green-eyed lady nicknamed Mulan, who had an eclectic personality that matched her sense of style.  Besides, she was the only other person he knew that lit an Archipelago candle (google it!) when Alexander McQueen took his life!

She was what he really wanted to discuss over cute little china and sushi at Oya.

So while I discreetly tucked the other sexy chopstick in my Pucci bag, and thought how I would tell Charm that boyfriend, carpet-munching Mark did not fit the definition of (a....Metrosexual), I wondered how often do women find themselves in a situation when a man's actions leave her wondering if she was dating a knock-off instead of the real thing?

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Come back next week and read about a How a Metrosxual Man Date's in DC....
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The Tail End of a Boo

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"I think she should just wait until he's sleeping and stick her finger in his..."

It was the tail end of Spring and one of those muggy DC afternoons where the air smelled of sweaty metro mixed with overheated tourist.  Flower Child and I were on our way to meet Southern Charm, who had called a CODE PINK (a.k.a.  emergency girls-only powow) to discuss the meaning of a "boo" and a "winkface."

Allow me to explain!


Two days prior, pre-boo, pre-winkface, and pre-CODE PINK,  Charm had broken into her boyfriend's gmail account desperate to find out if  it was alright to show a bit more of her bad girl side OR keep her Southern girl act going just a little bit longer.  After a few keyword searches -  "date," "kiss," "girlfriend"  - had confirmed she was the only lady in his life, she sighed satisfied and ready to show her Sasha Fierce. Then a window popped up...

"Hey Boo ;-)"

From Rob.

At Midnight.

....

It seemed that, although Charm was definitely the only lady, she may not have been the only love!

A "wtf, gtfoh, omg" three-way call ensued soon after, with us three fiercely debating the interpretation of "boo" and a winkface.  Maybe Rob was trying to frighten him electronically, and the winkface was an attempt to assuage his fears.  Perhaps Rob was short for Roberta (which wouldn't be any better - BTW)

Maybe it was all a mistake...

Either way none of us could agree, hence the impromptu meeting at La Tasca,  a Spanish restaurant that afforded us the chance to play the "what's that" game with our waiter Papi and had just enough sangria to assist us in pondering over the meaning of a semicolon paired with a parenthesis.

"I think you should stick your finger in his..."

But Charm was paying no attention to Flowerchild, instead she was slamming dozens of copied and pasted gchat conversations on the table like Johnny Cochran in Chanel.

Scandalous snippets jumped out of a sea of vowels and consonants, secret conversations between boyfriend Mark and Midnight Rob:


"Remember when I had you face down on the carpet."
"I'm not just a hit it or quit it type of dude."
"Can't wait to get down with you later. Miss you, my man!"

To Mark's credit.  He hadn't actually said he had sexual relations with that man. Then again, neither had Bill Clinton during the Lewinsky trial.

Maybe this had been ALL been a coincidence! Maybe they were both just two, straight men extremely comfortable with calling each other boo?

But then Charm started recalling how Mark enjoyed sporadic weekend excursions to see a male friend (gmail revealed twas Rob), the one picture he carried in his wallet (twas Rob, too), and the way he wore his jeans rolled up 4 inches above the ankle despite being 110 miles from the nearest beach (twas Rob's fashion tip as well).


Were these examples Ru-Paul suspect.

Maybe! 

But so was Fonsworth Bentley's neon-colored bow-tie and umbrella (in 90 degree weather, not a cloud in the sky!)

This did not make him gay, though...

So it brought us back to evaluating his words (the truth he told when noone was looking)....AND the words that none of us girls could really understand because like the La Tasca menu in espanol, they were all coded up in secret-boy language and all we knew was CODE PINK girl talk.

Deciding if another person was gay wasn't as easy as asking "what's that" to Papi or deciphering vague references to carpet munching and rolled-up pants.

Maybe you couldn't really call a man guy unless he self-identified himself as such first. 

Flowerchild had an idea, "Try sticking your finger in his..."

But Charm and I barely heard her on the way out the door.  Suddenly the idea of eating a Legal Sea Food where we knew exactly what was on the menu of options seemed a bit more appetizing.

Later that night Charm texted me and said:

"He finally told me the deal :-?"

Now it was my turn to decipher exactly what that emoticon meant. 


...........

Stay tuned later this week for "boyfriend Mark's"response
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Facebook Pimping & Sexy Status Updates

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I first employed the skill of "deception" the moment I grew tired of running down my 5th grade crush, jumping on his back, and getting mushed in my face as I attempted to give him a kiss.

I couldn't understand why my little boy crush was more amused with kicking rocks than kissing me! 

So, I abandoned back jumping in favor of a new approach.  If the boy was afraid of cooties, I would tell him that the answer to a cootie-free life was printed on the inside of my bottom lip. Eager to be cootie-less, the boy-in-question, would dive in to take a look and....VOILA...my first kiss would occur!

And, it did - in fact - happen that way.  He leaned in to take a look and I took my first kiss, and though the boy walked away with more cooties than he had before, I - all kissed up and happy - learned that persuasion yielded more results than force. 

Deception, I thought - or "the art of making false information seem real" - was the answer to never being mushed in my dainty, little, 5th grade face again.

I have since put the playground games to rest, opting instead to tackle another virtual realm of opportunity.  Enter: Facebook Status Update!  The method whereby women are able to convince unsuspecting boys (over 21) that they do things they actually do NOT...such as:  wash their cars and shave their armpits every other day.

My girls and I called it Facebook Pimping, the new playground ploy to get a kiss. 

For example, a woman didn't have to know the difference between a field goal and a three-point shot, as long as she updated her status every time "the game was on" (discreetly copying updates from her little brother's status).

SCORE!

Likewise, if she talked about boiling collards and frying chicken (even while she ordered Kung Fu chicken for delivery)...she could obtain instant comments and dating options in a matter of nanoseconds!  

Facebook Pimping - we dubbed it - the new, online equivalent of getting a man's attention WITHOUT hooker heels and a get 'em girl dress but via 180 characters in a small, white window.

On this particular day, I was bursting a few brain cells trying to figure out how I would pimp my Facebook status.... My current status had generated a measly 2 "likes" and 1 comment:

Bree is just getting home from work.
To which...
Flowerchild commented: But it's Friday, you're lame....

I was momentarily ashamed that my Friday's were never as interesting or acrobatic as Flowerchild's...

I scrolled through a few status updates and found Longwalk's....

Longwalk is home listening to old school Justin Timberlake and OD'ing on a few bag of skittles.
He was probably scratching his balls, texting and watching Family Gay.
I left a comment, anyway....Save me a skittle :-)

Next was...

Big Chocolate...ya'll boys just left with a car full of boys, but me I left the party with a dime. you know how Big Chocolate get's down...

Starfish69 Jones Commented: thanks for gettin' it right last night, boo

Big Chocolate Replied: anytime "mama."

I guess Big Chocolate had found a place to shove his "pretty, shitty key" after all.

It seemed like everyone had a facebook gimmick but me...so I tried a few...

Bree is looking for a good reception to attend.

No Likes, No Comments

Bree is dowloading Janet Jackson's "I Get Lonely"

No Likes, No Comments

Bree wants at least 1 of her 400 friends to comment on her status

To Which...
Flowerchild Commented: WTF, Bree. It's Friday! Get out of the house!

Bree at this point was wondering if Flowerchild was having so much fun, why the heck was she all up on (yes allupon <-- one word) my Facebook page...I posted again....

Bree is putting on the mini dress and stiletto heels. 

(Then I changed my profile pic to me wearing a dress from BeBe that was 14 inches above my knee and had a neckline that was on a serious quest to meet my bellybutton)
22 Likes, 17 Comments (and counting)

I felt momentarily triumphant, as my tata's stared back at me from my Facebook picture.  Then I had a "WTF am I doing?" moment and realized I had officially become the newest DC Madame and pimped myself.  I quickly took down the picture and deleted the update. 

If I had to get a man by utilizing the art of deception, than what type of "pimps up, ho's down" game would I have to employ to keep him?

I went for a safer status update instead....

Bree is learning to be 100% myself.   I am me.  Take it or leave it.

I got 1 like and 1 comment, surprisingly from the guy in the 5th grade who had me eating concrete until I convinced him to look inside my bottom lip.  But now, one degree and 15 years later, he was smarter than the little boy of yesterday.  He had moved past kicking rocks to reading books like the one he had listed: Think and Grow Rich!

I sent him a message....

hey you, it's the former cootie queen! i just finished reading Think & Grow Rich!! hit me back if you're interested in chatting about it.

If Facebook Pimping could be defined as attracting attention in 180 characters or less.  I had successfully accomplished this goal MINUS the hook 'em girl heels and get 'em girl dress and still managed to keep it all the way 100% me!

...........

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Beyonce v. Sasha Fierce....Meeting a Man's Representative!

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Hi!  My name is Breeanne (that's one word).
I am 20 (something)
I am from Chicago (the Southside)
I am a journalist (for a really boring periodical...so...)
I like reading on my free time (really girly, ridiculously romantic, novels) ...AND...
I like cupcakes (from Georgetown Cupcakes MINUS the long line).

These are all the details that I share on my Facebook, Twitter and used to share on my Myspace page when folks still logged on religiously 25 years ago.  I also share these details with random men that ask me "what yo name is," with potential contacts at networking events, and during the 7 minute wait for the metro train.


These details are my Beyonce, before I introduce a man to my Sasha Fierce!  They represent a small snapshot of me, a small innocent pile of meaningless facts that allow a person get to know my representative!  And, trust me, everyone in the District of Columbia (and any major city or small town) has a representative!

On this day while having ice cream with Big Chocolate (my blind date from two weeks ago), I was slowly revealing a few unknowns about myself like: where I got my new pair of shoes for 75% off, my six week fast from red meat, and how I preferred granny panties over boy shorts! The latter was totally inappropriate (I know!) but hey...in the interest of revealing the unknown....

Satisfied with my reveal, I mentally brushed off my shoulder, popped my proverbial collar...and dared Big Chocolate to show me the man behind his representative.

Well, "mama" he said....

I am 29. (good!)
I am from Atlanta (getting better, I love a Southern boy!)
I am in school working on my Bachelors (awesome!)
I am gainfully employed!  (YES!  YES! YES!  Where's Oprah's couch when you need to jump on it!) 
And...I'm getting started in my rap career.  I got a hot new track coming out this summer. 

I hesitated....

For one second....

An aspiring rapper?....at 29?....

Now, I am not one of those chicks that hates rap!  In fact, I love rap.  On any given day, you could find me bumping Kanye's "Diamond Are Forever" or Lil' Wayne's "Mrs. Officer," on my ipod Nano and on super high volume.   If it was a good day, you might even catch me stop and do a little booty pump in time with the beat.

But...ummm...dating a rapper...I wasn't sure.  I mean, didn't Lil' Wayne just get three women pregnant at the same time, and didn't Jay-Z secretly (keyword: secretly) date Beyonce for like 12 years...I am no man's (I repeat...NO MAN'S) baby mama or badly kept secret...

Maybe I could do this date-a-young-geezy thing, though.  After all, there was Pharell (the cutest, classiest nerd ever), and Common who wrote that love song/rap for Erykah Badu!

So...I inquired....

"Tell me about this new single."

"Mama!  This joint is going to be hot in streets." He pronounced streets with a "z." Then he promptly pulled out his I-phone and googled YouTube...

I was hopeful...

"BAM!  There you go!" He said slamming his "youtube" video in front of me.

A track started playing.  The beat was hardcore, had a little base, and the drums were making my foot tap  just a little bit....

Then...I heard the lyrics....

"Shawty got a big, juicy booty...got a big, round booty....got a big, juicy booty....got booty booty booty for days!"

Ummm.....

"Shawty got a big, juicy booty...got a big, round booty....got a big, juicy booty....got booty booty booty for days!"

I tried to look impressed.  I mean I really tried.

But then he got up from his chair and started rapping an impromptu verse...something about booty shapes and butt cracks....and then after two (excruciatingly) long minutes, and nineteen (ridiculously) long seconds...the track ended!


THANK GAWD...there was a Jesus...somewhere....

"The name of the track is "Juicy Booty," mama."  Big Chocolate said. "I figure if I could get the strip joints to  bump this then play it at a few college parties, the radio stations may pick it up,"

I wasn't convinced.  Not because he didn't sound incredible sexy while rapping, because he did...but I guess I just wasn't into the whole booty rap thing.  In all fairness, this was probably because I didn't have J-Lo's ass, but if I had to keep it all the way 100....it had more to do with my one visit to see a stripper that had resulted in the dancer farting in my lap (true story!)...I mean, how could I support a future boyfriend if I had been scarred for life by a stripper's wayward flatulence.

YES...Big Chocolate and I moved past answering the top TWO most annoying questions in DC...."where are you from"....AND..."what do you do"...

BUT....

I was NOT a fan of booty songs...but who knows...he might NOT have been a fan of 20 (somethings) in granny panties....

He and I had to decide if we liked the person behind our representatives...


Either way, I knew I could add another detail to my "getting to know me" list:

Hi!  My name is Breeanne (that's one word).
I am 20 (something)
I am from Chicago (the Southside)
I am a journalist (for a really boring periodical...so...)
I like reading on my free time (really girly, ridiculously romantic, novels)
I like cupcakes (from Georgetown Cupcakes MINUS the line)....AND...
I am not a fan of booty songs (...and no, I can't turnaround so you can see why)

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The Ex Files

I was being chased by a man who could create fire with the snap of his fingers.  No matter where I ran, he would follow, sadistically smiling as he set my world aflame. 

As he pursued, I ran...sometimes stumbled...sometimes fell...

Soon tiring from his pursuit,  I resigned to being burned alive...and curling my knees close to my chest...I sang...AMAZING GRACE. 

In my hour of need...in panic...I closed my eyes and sang at the top of my lungs. 

AMAZING GRACE.

The fire subsided and I woke with my heart beating fast, droplets of sweat formulating at the midpoint of my temple, and tears filling the corners of my eyes. 

Rolling over, I  reached for my phone, dialing the first few numbers of my ex, the person who  - in the twilight hours...1:28am...2:34am...4:14am... - had whispered me back to slumber: "Babe, go back to sleep." "Sweetie, is everything okay?"  "Love you Bree, don't worry.  It was just a dream."


But, it wasn't just a dream...

It was my first nightmare without him...and my first nightmare as a single woman....

Being single and dating in DC had been...okay....A Long Walk had started to call me at least twice a week, even though he still preferred to text constantly.  And, Big Chocolate was still attempting to unlock a desire to date him using his pretty, shitty key...

However...

In those quiet moments I could still remember the deepness of my ex's voice, the slight powdery smell of his skin,  the softness of the inside of his lips, the way it felt to turn over and pull his body close to mine, or wake up with my fingers lightly grazing the small curly hairs of his chest.

I still missed him...

Sometimes I still wanted us back together...

And I had to ask myself, in my persistence to enter the dating world while simultaneously attempting to heal...

Had I allowed the proper time to nurture the wound of my still broken heart?

In other words, how could I learn to miss someone in my present...if I was still missing someone from my past?

And...I was missing him...

Badly...

I was missing him in the first quiet moments of the morning hours, in those last few moments right before I fell asleep, and on nights like these when a nightmare reminded me that sleeping alone was not the exception but now the rule...

I never finished dialing his phone number that night.

After all, over is over is over is over.

He was no longer mine.  My dreams were no longer a concern of his.

I prayed for grace that night...relief from the fear I had to shut my eyes again...but deep in the recesses of my mind all I wanted to hear was the sweet, sweet sound of someone's voice who was now a difficult but deeply missed part of my past...