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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