If I Would Have Known That Inviting You Into My Bedroom Would Make You Turn Down The Invitation To All Of My Other Rooms I Would Have Never Been So Hospitable

I started writing on this site for a few reasons, but mainly to share. Sharing has a way of coming around full circle—but not always in the way one might expect. This is nonfiction so as a preamble I tell my friends and family that they might all be written about, although I never use names unless I’ve made them up. So, now, after having lost two people I cared about due to the content of my blog, I’ve decided to write even more personal shit. Ta-daa.

Topic of discussion today is sleeping with a man/woman too soon, which has been written and re-written, but probably not as ridiculously. I feel like the Salesperson that indubitably gets sold, but here go I:

The courting process is built on assumptions. ASSumptions that change with conversation and habits. I’m a woman, and generally, we are creatures of habit, but that can be said for some men as well. If I go out on a date with a person, I’m immediately wrestling with ASSumptions, because we use them to make good decisions about strangers. So, if the man I’m on a date with keeps darting his eyes across the room and not making good eye contact, he either has a girlfriend that’s a high profile detective, or he’s trying to see who will witness him killing me. I’m going to assume my ass to the bathroom and never return.

The same applies to the habits that form if you were to make it out of that date alive, deeming him an ok guy. Next you have the text messages. Now, I’m all for text messages, but a lot can be said about text tone, and so much more about a person that picks up the phone and uhh, calls me. It’s damn near like receiving snail mail, now-a-days. Score! But secondly, and more seriously what we are learning about in between this time, is if we can build trust in a person or not. This is synched with the building of memories. We are finding out what a future (if there is any) will be like with this person, and we are building rapport. This is why sharing about one’s past or talking about childhood at any point is important to friendships. Building on those foundations—just as important to relationships. Or standby to get separated into a box marked, “for now.”

Jozen Cummings of Until I Get Married wrote about this very topic a few weeks back and said “If you sleep with a woman too soon, and you suck, she will leave you. Wait for her to fall for you emotionally first, then deliver the sub-par performance you’re capable of.” So real.

But from a woman’s perspective, and only because my besties and I were speaking on this very situation… if we like you and you suck in bed, we’ll try again, and sometimes even again, just to make sure it wasn’t something we could’ve worked with. All of whom shall remain nameless (yes first hand my friends and I have vouched for these shenanigans) men have sex for thrill, for the happy end, for the fact of doing it. Sometimes they’re really into you, sometimes not so much. Women? We have sex, mostly (not always, but definitely mostly) for love. We want it to go somewhere. Maybe not to the moonlight and back, but we want it to go somewhere. 

“Men, they jump for money. Women, for love.”

Man On A Ledge, Movie 2012

What I said it! Women are emotional beings. I mean occasionally you get the girl who has conditioned herself to separate the two—lust, love. But even in doing so, a woman is a liar if she says to herself that she wasn’t hoping for that good guy afterwards. We ALL are. Get that fellas? All of us are still counting on you, so no this is not a male bashing party.

So when is the right time, you ask?

Ah, we can go into vibe, conversation, I’d usually measure for commonality. Discussing value can go on and on… every situation was different. A guy friend of mine said he’d slept with a girl after a drunken night, a stranger, and said that afterwards—that awkwardnesss, he felt her embarrassment, for her. He said when he woke all he could think of when he looked at her was, and in his exact words:

“I don’t think I would like to do that ever again with you.”

Another of my friends has trouble with caring at all emotionally thereafter. She said her proof is in the days to come. My sister married her high school sweet tart, also the father of her children—and still to this day will claim she wasn’t pregnant with her first child when she rushed to the altar. I slept with a guy for a year and a half and kept telling my friends he was “a one night stand.” Eventually, my bestie said to me, “it’s been a very loooooooong night then, dontcha think?” I didn’t leave him because he didn’t commit to me, I stopped calling him because he wasn’t honest with himself or his feelings.

I’m saying all of that to say this: The theory is you have to kiss a few frogs. Or, err &*%#. Which is personally frightening for me since my emotions aren’t controlled by anything physically (only), but rather uncontrolled when taken into oblong loops and upside down dances. I find that when taking chances, my best judgments elude me. Especially in moments like these:

“I respect you,” he murmured. “and your views. I think of you as an equal. I respect your brains, and all those big words you like to use. But I also want to rip your clothes off and have sex with you until you scream and cry and see God.”
—Lisa Kleypas, Smooth Talking Stranger

The point I want to make is that it isn’t the sex on the first, second, or thirty-ninth date that matters. It’s the intimacy in the moments that develop far before that. The part that keeps your thoughts twirling, even after whatever excuse isn’t given. Even after it’s all lost and over and you know you knew better, but you didn’t do any better because you knew too much better. The part you maybe should’ve fought for, but pride—she got in the way, and then when she didn’t it was too late. The part that’s shy when approached now, fumbles, foibles. The part that doesn’t understand why it crumbles so quickly, wait a year—no bueno. Wait weeks, months, days, hours, give each other raunchy looks across karaoke bars. Doesn’t matter, much, the outcome has all been the same when measured against others’ experiences. I’ve asked men, women—randomly—strangers, friends. When is it a good time to invite a man into your bedroom, with the hopes that he doesn’t turn down the invitation to all of your other rooms? A bust. It’s all subjective.

I’ve heard the typical, ‘a person looses interest, when it wanes, and if they do it wasn’t meant anyway.’ I’ve heard as long as you know their parents’ last names, I’ve heard that if you hope enough, fairy tales come true. I’m waiting on the latter. Well, first the tiff, then the kiss:

“I was just thinking if the sex with you is one-tenth as fun as arguing with you. I’ll be one happy bastard.”
“You’ll never find out. You——–”
He kissed me.
—Lisa Kleypas, Smooth Talking Stranger

What classifies the Good Girls from the Bad Girls, really? The ones whose partners can be counted on one hand? Love might have me mistaken, but I can rest assured I’ve never slept with anyone I couldn’t see myself with permanently—not planning showers or picking out kitchen tiles, but I’ll admit, I am a force of romanticized nature. Is it ruining me? Us all?

“For women especially, virginity has become the easy answer—the morality quick fix. You can be vapid, stupid, and unethical, but so long as you’ve never had sex, you’re a “good” (i.e. “moral”) girl and therefore worthy of praise.”

—Jessica Valenti, The purity Myth: How America’s Obsession with Virginity is Hurting Young Women

Yes, there’s the treasure idea. The “kept” woman, but at what point does it start to matter less about how fast a person jumps in the sack with another person, and more about the two people individually and how they work together? More about the way they trust each other, and understand each other. What about the married people I asked that both said “you never really know your husband/wife anyway, but we just keep trying?” What about the couple I asked that’s been married eight years and they both (without consulting each other) said “we make each other the best versions of ourselves” Or the homeboy who said he would never still be with his girl if the sex wasn’t sOoO good? Or the girl I went to undergrad school with, who said she always sleeps with a man the first night and it’s never not become a relationship.

Or sometimes I wonder if I can’t always do better than what’s in front of me? Is it all just a ploy? Drake said “all those other men were practice.” y’know?  My best girl and I fought over the double standard: that a womanizer is whatever, but if a female has three partners she’s a, what’s that called now, “ratchet?” I keep hearing it.

I’ll put it this way, for me:

“Sex isn’t good unless it means something. It doesn’t necessarily need to mean “love” and it doesn’t necessarily need to happen in a relationship, but it does need to mean intimacy and connection…There exists a very fine line between being sexually liberated and being sexually used.”
—Laura Sessions Stepp, Unhooked

There’s tons more to dating than sex, but sex is the part that makes the difference in loopy or comatose. A little turned around, or head across arm on the steering wheel. A little flutterbye in the tummylovely, or I swallowed a sick whale flapping in there.

Ah, lesson learned.

illustrator weheartit, quote from yours truly.

Because You Owe Me!

People like titles. Names. On resumes. For songs, names of our goldfishies, turtledoves, bunnies, names of our decrepit family members. It always sounds so much better when I speak to my waiter by name, maybe a wink or two. How much more personality did my car have to me when I gave her the name “Strawberry?” Tons.

But what about relationships? Do we title our relationships? And if not, do we eventually? How soon after we either begin dating someone or begin sleeping with a person do we say out loud or in our heads, that this person can formally be introduced as “my boyfriend/girlfriend?”

Is it subjective depending upon who the person is and the vibe/aura you feel, or the chemistry this person emits? Should there be standards and rules and when you meet the “Gamechanger” (the person that goes against said standards, rules, and supersedes expectations) do those rules stand to be broken?

Does any of it matter if you’re having a damn good time enjoying the person and getting to know whatever it is they’re about, or does the lack of title set you up (me up, us as women up) for heartbreak?

My friend and I were having this talk over Asti (sweet white wine) the other day. Initially she spoke about the title: “Enjoy yourself and see what it does.” (Her exact words were “See what it do”) and then you wait, you wait in what is unexpected. I haven’t mentioned yet that surprises annoy me a bit in this way:

Tangent alert: Surprises annoy me because they mess with my ability to plan, to deliver ready-conclusives, and OCD my way into or outta something. Surprises force me to relinquish control. We are talking about a person who generally knows what time a movie starts, ends, and is generally there to see the majority of the previews—why? Because of Moviefone. But that same urgency-adrenaline-wreck a surprise gives to me, is the same emotional tug that intrigues me. The break in monotony. The element of the unexpected causes me to come back for more, while the predictable bores me after what I’ve painfully realized more than once, is about ten days. —Lalanii, on surprises

Halfway through the bottle she confesses (aka contradicts) that the “title,” or rather, “recalling when she knew things were going in the right direction” was undoubtedly when her “Gamechanger” put his arms around her and whispered at the tip of her earlobe the musical words she longed to hear. She’d asked where they were going—or what they were going to do (I can’t remember which) and he’d responded with something to the likes of:

“You’re my girl, anywhere you wanna go, anything you wanna do is fine, jus’ wanna be with you.”

Realize that she ain’t heard a thing after You’re my Girl. Real Noah, in The Notebook-like. This is why us women are fucked up! If we keep waiting for Noah, the likelihood of anything really pretty happening is slim, because that was just a movie. A man on today’s market-menu expects a woman to do the majority of the work for him. Let me not generalize, I HATE categories as much as I love them, but it is true that a colossal majority of decent men like to be pursued these days, in my own humble experience.

I agree with reciprocation, although, I just can’t see myself chasing. After a certain amount of time—motives, perceptions, and possibilities become clear.

I remembered this guy I used to hang with, a while back. For me the most important things, the things that grab me in are:

  1. Intelligence
  2. Drive and potential
  3. Physical attributes
  4. Kismet and chemistry
  5. Consistency

Let’s not fail to say that in the story I’m going to quickly sum up—this man had all of these. Maybe a stretch to say his drive was uncommonly strong, but his potential made up for the lack of drive in the way people usually make excuses for the shortcomings of the people we like. He was incredible, he could’ve worn the red suit with the cartoon i, mid-chest, incredible. One of the very few people I used to stay up all night talking to and head straight to work after, never having closed my eyes. The type of person with an infectious demeanor. His presence was what I won’t forget, long after I’ve forgotten the emotions that developed over the 1.5 years we hung out frivolously. By hung out, I mean, I got attached. He got, high.

He broke the standards, as in, I don’t like men that smoke, generally. But I rationalized that he was a functional smoke-a-holic, though they rarely ever are. A week and maybe three days into the most rapturously enchanted delightful overflow, I was spent emotionally. What did I ask this man after knowing him for almost two-weeks?

“Where is this going? I mean, like, what do you want, or like, do you see yourself in a relationship? And if so, when?”

If I were on-stage somebody would’ve thrown a big ass avocado at my forehead. [klunk] It might have been the most brilliantly-idiotic and majorly-awesomely clumsy thing I’ve ever done. My best friend would’ve whispered “whooooooahh horsey!” His response:

“Man, you cool, but I on’t even really know you like that yet, I don’t really know you Lalanii”

Might I stress the usage of my name (the only title I have at this point) echoing melodically in my ear, confirming more strategically—my dumbassness. I spent the rest of the year with him. I’d meet other people, not like him, but other people, and I’d talk to them—but my nights belonged to him, and not always physically, but mostly—and always intimately. It got to the point where my call would cause him to answer the phone,

“What time?”

Yea, and this was the guy I would swear wasn’t anywhere near my type. If there is such a thing that matters enough.

“Time” was my title. I should’ve just changed my name to Time. Fix this whole mess up, right here and there. What I know now, that I didn’t know then is if someone is consistently giving you their time—the energy to speak to you, answer your calls, letting you in a bit—little by little, you have the answers to most of your questions. At least for the current frame of mind, which is all we can and need to see. If things don’t move along progressively, then you gauge what you’re willing to accept, and how long you’re willing to accept it for. Especially, without a title. So you see, not having a title can work in our favor, ladies and gentlemen, because we can essentially have less leeway—have less patience if so desired, and having a title can work less in our favor for the expectations that a “title” generally prematurely places on a relationship, usually before that relationship is ready.

If a name doesn’t matter try calling out the wrong one in the throws. No, I kid. I kid.

Not having a title coincides with surprises for me. The title behaves the same way in my mind. How marvelous is it to receive flowers you weren’t expecting? Very marveloso. But how fantastic is it to have your un-titled interest come over and replace a burned-out lightbulb? Unusually phenomenal. It’s the element of surprise. And practicality. And the fact that he noticed, and he gets triple points for me not having to ask for a teensy favor, ’cause you know how us damsels hate to have to ask.

Yes, there’s comfort in the feeling of “just knowing” when something is right, and leaving it at that. There’s more comfort in the things two people understand between each other that they don’t have to say or speak about at all. Often times, in the interest of understanding and communication it is best to ask more questions before you allow your heart to ask for anything as bigly as asking for a title.

It should be clear that when a woman (or man) wants a title what she is probably asking you for is your undivided attention. He or she is hoping for the grandiose introduction of belonging to someone. Namely, you. Problem is, it isn’t warranted because there are so many people that don’t respect it anyhow.

A quote I love from the movie Love Jones:

Nina Mosley: You always want what you want when you want it. Why is everything so urgent with you?
Darius Lovehall: Let me tell you somethin’. This here, right now, at this very moment, is all that matters to me. I love you. That’s urgent like a motherfucker.

The movie follows two young lovers who—if both were initially honest with their feelings for each other, could have avoided the heart-break, or the break up all together. It highlights that even through the harder moments we must all recognize what is there, what that Time means to us, the small Time. The large amounts of Time.

So much pride in courting these days. Tit for tat. When I watched Love Jones the other day it hit so close to home I had to re-think one of my all time favorite quotes:

“All of these people running around here jumping, falling in love ain’t s**t. Somebody talk to me, please, about how to stay there.” —Love Jones

So many superficial misconstrued shenanigans, so much hiding behind what has hurt us, or what we fear will. Yea, I’m human, so I want to be linked and relevant to someone other than myself, and correspond individually—while existing consecutively, yes… but sometimes I wonder why it can’t just be so wide—why for me it’s so hard to unfold and discover? Why do we need to owe each other anything?

How come we can’t just light up the sky with it?

His First Time

When I am writing, I loathe, detest, and absolutely cannot stand, interruption. The nanosecond I’m done, however, I want someone to hear it. Immediately. Don’t care what or where the person is; he or she has to hear it. If you happen to be in the shower. Be prepared for me to draw back the shower curtain and begin reading. Without looking up of course, except to gauge your reaction to my masterpiece. I only have this fearlessness the second I finish. After I am finished, and it’s been a few moments—hours, days, or weeks, my confidence levels dwindle into crumblets and I’m not sure my topic was any good, or that I correctly portrayed the perspective, or the dialogue—uh-uh-uh, just not right. But that moment I’m done, it’s pivotal. If it’s three a.m. and you’re sound asleep. If I wake you stumbling over my words because it’s so fresh and twinkling with it’s newness, don’t startle. The inner critic in me hasn’t had enough time to rip it down from the wall like “tweenage posters.” I won’t begin to tell you that there’s a person that understands this. But I will tell you, there’s definitely a person whose reaction was worth recording. This is the story of:

I have bedhair. The just woke up or never-went-to-sleep-kind. Groggily jumpy at 6:54 a.m. I parade into the room. The room, I’ve delicately taken over with subtle hues of pinks and pales. The furthest I could get him to go to yellow, was pale. But, the sheets? No one sees the sheets. Pastel, it was. I’d nearly passed out in the library-den because I’m in love with the lighting and the closeness it is to the kitchen. The teapot is large, unlike the pots at my house, the ones that whistle pretty—the comfortable usual. This, this strange foreign pot is never-ending copper and looks like a golden version of something out of Willy Wonka meets the Jetsons. This tea, goes on forever, and is never lukewarm. I don’t want to leave the massage chair because it rocks. How long have I wanted my own rocking chair? Long. How long have I wanted my own rocking chair that will swallow me. Never. But, that’s the point.

I’ve been here three nights. No need for a change of clothes, leave them on the heated patio and they will miraculously appear on the bedside clean and folded like spoiled rotten you oughta be ashamed of yourself. Mom, didn’t teach me how to relax. Dad sure passed on the panic gene, Mom passed on the worry, and I cultivated a culmination of the two against “worry more cause you can’t do shit about it.”But, I’d finished a story. My own little short story. A story that I’ve been told has a possibility of being published later this year. It’s a tough piece and in my excitement of pushing out a draft, I forgot that.

I run to him. An hour prior to this, I’d been offered more tea in the dim light, but I vaguely remember not looking up at all, not even for a thank you. This is what I call the lost stage. Everything is lost on me. It’s likely anyone would say my name several times and I’d fail to recognize it. I jump atop the pillows sloppily. I can see by his face, this is not his idea of fun.

“I’m finished,”

“… (mmHmmMm)…”

He snatches the paper from my almost-ready-to-read-to-him hands.  And pulls me over closer. I’m grabbing at the paper, but while I’m sitting I’m unable to reach—my arms are too short. He clears his throat.

And he reads my first draft to me slowly. By the third paragraph his left hand is shaking. By the second page he has forgotten I’m there and that I can hear his response to what he’s reading by the way he is reading it.

At the end of the draft he is not only speechless, he grabs for me, his eyes are wide.

“I feel like I was there with you.” I nod and lean back, and yawn.

“I don’t know if I want it in the world.” I tell him.

“I don’t think the world should be without it.” He adds.

I fall asleep on the corner of his pillow, I feel him looking at me but I don’t open.

In the morning he is quiet throughout egg whites, cheese, onions, tomatoes, and avocados. It’s a Saturday and my plans don’t involve brown leather briefcases and a cleanly shaven face.

“So, that was nonfiction?” The first words out of his mouth.

I stare at the black cracked design in the grey marble table and look to him with a yea smirk.

It was the first time he read any of my prose.

5 Things I Can Help

“Stop assuming the negative I don’t give you reasons to,” [redacted] says to me.

“I can’t help it??” And he snapped back faster than ever, “Well, what can you help?”

Occupational hazard. Writers plan for the worst and secretly hope for the best. It’s a defense mechanism for publishing rejection. I cannot promise him I can stop doing that. But I wrote something to help him believe in my try:

The Things I Can Help

1. UuHm. [Clears throat] I definitely can help myself to another serving of, spending as much time as I can with you in order to know (enough in advance) what I want to help myself to.

2. I can help appreciating it after you treat me like we’re in a slow-motioned old-fashioned movie and you’re  behaving like Noah in The Notebook, give a little, then leave something mysteriously amiss—wouldn’t hurt if your look was sincere and you made an effort to stare longingly into my eyes.

3. Moreover, I would help myself to your psyche and while you seem to believe you would not want to walk with me on the beach; not walking with me on the beach would only lead me to discovering my full potential… which is destined to be an old, lonely, rich writer in Paris. I can help that.

4. I can help the way I write, and I can help myself to a second helping as you are so frikkin good for my writing that I have to ask if it’s selfish, or I have to ask if it’s too soon to beg that you never leave me yet? Or tell me when it’s safe to ask that? And don’t take too long to respond, a bitch got deadlines.

5. And what else can I help? You o you my tough little nookie-crook could help out in loosening-up-with-all-your-mite so I can help bind you to me exponentially and that would somehow reverse your adverse reaction to my cupcake-flavored lip gloss—which at one point your dislike of it made me sad—which was too bad because I envisioned no more a sweeter vision than you and I holding hands [the off-limits gesture] and making love daily, singing kumbiyahhhhhh my looooooord kumbiyuuuuuuow as you propose in a romantically aligned stupor that which results in my instantaneous pregnancy and combustion. Amen.

How Can We Be On The Same Page If You Ain’t Reading Out Loud?

If you’ve been following, Red said that to me the other night. In agreement of understanding as I carried on in “know-all” about the ones I love, conveniently, not listening.


I tend to read out loud. Now, whether or not you’ve heard me or not is a different story.


I’ll say a “subconscious-unconsciousness of” — too damn much. For instance if the person in front of me says he doesn’t like women who shop… all of a sudden I’m a thriftily shopping mo-fo. He doesn’t like tea? O, I only dabble in tea sipping, pinky finger flailing, honey sticks, and lattés, just dabble, lol.  Similar to Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride when it was all she could do to match her counterparts, she forgot herself.


I read, a lot. I read people. I speed read. I read attachments. I read magazines, marketing material, interviews, the internet, but mostly, I read out loud. I tell a person what’s wrong, generally, like most of us do — before telling them what’s right. I’m proud to recognize this, and acknowledge myself as a work in progress.


I write my toot off. I stay up wee hours of the night reading. Studying. I put it first when at times it should come second to some things like taking a few minutes to make the people I love happy.  Ma calls me up the other day, exhibit #1:


“Where da hell you beeennnnnnnn?” Her southern accent, a cheerily bit ghetto. She asks of why I haven’t called her.


I go on explaining and rambling off about deadlines, genre workshops, reading group, and submissions and halfway through my summary of absence, this broad is not listening. At all. I’m talking about not only not listening, but in full conversation with my niece in the background.


“Maaaaam, did you hear me????  You not listening! You never listen, how you gon’ ask me a question then go all off talkin’ to someone else?!” I shriek.


“Awhl, shiiiiiiiit, leme call ya later honey, these children are on my nerves.” She hangs up. I laugh and shake my head. Like I said, I read out loud, no one listens.


Example 2: an ex of mine came over about nine maybe ten one night o clock a few weeks back to listen as I read a few pages to him for proofing. After all, I can credit him for catching a lot of my run-on sentences, verb tense issues, and grammar ridiculousness. He also fully believes in my work and I love that. This particular time no sooner than shortly after his arrival did I read into about the fourth page, and I found that he had apparently took the drug opposite of No-Doze. He was full-on asleep, light snore and all. Naturally, I’m human, I was hurt.


He exclaimed that he was tired, which I believe he was, and that if he’d only had the pages in front of him (like his own copy) he would have stayed up. The issue is, when someone gives an über quick reason for falling short, the explanation loses its weight. A simple “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again” would have sufficed. Practice with me: “I’m sorry it, won’t happen again,“ the most important words in language, since “I love you” is overrated and everyone loves everybody.  I’m really sorry, I won’t read a damn thing to you, ever again. HAhahaha!


Him actually using those words might have gotten us on the same page. Simple acknowledgement and reassurance that it (hopefully) won’t happen again. Although Ma still hasn’t said a word about her tangents of rudeness, and my ex and I no longer talk, I still feel I’m learning how to better express myself, and I continue reading out loud. I just wish the right people would listen.


Picture taken by moi from “be happy: a little book to help you live a happy life” by Monica Sheehan.

I’m in love with Daniel Pink, except he’s married. But still, it was the best 55 minutes in bed, of my life.

Laying across my duvet, laptop open… watching this video:

Dan Pink Click Here

“A picture might be worth a thousand words, but a metaphor is often worth a thousand pictures.”Daniel Pink

Because he started his career in law (like I was supposed to- having a 4.0 GPA most of high school and undergraduate school) and then went on to write books and become a motivational speaker, I sat back to watch him tell about his experiences with the working world. What I got from it? MFA’s and right-brained thinkers will be more valuable and less expendable to the automated world than will all of the professions that can be computerized. Aha. Creativity and outside of the box thinking is harder to cultivate, and it could be because we have been taught to think that the safest professions are the ones to shoot for. Putting food on the table is what is most important? Well, yes, and no.

I explain: For me, the most important factor in life isn’t necessarily providing for  my family. Wait, for it. This is why most of the six figure incomes I know, are racking it up in psychotherapy bills for unhappiness, habits that turned into addictions, or in the middle or end of their divorces. Maybe there’s no correlation, but happiness has to have coincidence since karma is too hard to prove. Maybe it’s just my own experiences, but I find it self-soothing to go after the things you love to do— and then spend that time trying to figure out how it can make you a living. I can’t provide for my family (I now know) if I’m so depressed that I can’t get out of bed. If I am so stuck in myself with not enough free time to do what means most to me, and for me that’s writing. Again, for me, that’s spending time with myself. Then I can attempt to waveboard with my young lad. Me first, him second. Without being ok, I cannot take care of another. This applies to relationships as well.

Pink touches on the way “high-pressure environments” affect production, and how when given more freedom (such as at jobs like Google where 24 hours is given to employees to create whatever they want and present to the company the next day) more progression and discovery is made.

It is true for me and I’m sure for many that when you do things for the love of doing it, you just do it better. Everything else falls in line or doesn’t. I would have hated to have gotten that law degree when my heart is filled with words. I suppose my luck, love, and faith in if that was the right decision or not can be summed up in my borderline agnosticistic/wanderlustish behaviors and in Anne Lamott’s quote from Traveling Mercies that I am reading:

“Looking back on the God my friend believed in, he seems a little erratic, not entirely unlike her father— God as borderline personality. It was like believing in the guy who ran the dime store, someone with a kind face but who was always running behind and had already heard every one of your lame excuses a dozen times before— why you didn’t have a receipt, why you hadn’t noticed the product’s flaw before you bought it. This God could be loving and reassuring one minute, sure that you had potential, and then fiercely disappointed the next, noticing every little mistake and just in general what a fraud you really were. He was a God whom his children could talk to, confide in, and trust, unless his mood shifted suddenly and he decided to blow up Sodom and Gomorrah.”


So much actually depends on the belief you have in yourself and the way you apply yourself to what you believe in.

So thank you for following my latest obsessions that include Daniel Pink, which happens to be a name that combines one of my favorite first names and one of my favorite colors. Yes, his videos and blogcasts are witty, inspiring, and so easy to listen to. That’s all for today.

One of the best quotes ever

“If all we can ever know comes filtered through the lens of our own experience, and if we are readers, some part of our very selves will be the result of what we have read—this is obvious enough. Good writers not only have read widely and deeply, but they continue to do so—not in order to be better writers, but because for them the act of reading is as inseparable from living as writing is.”

-Carl Phillips

Everybody. I’m drowning: in books, new gig, and end of project period responsibilities. I have sooo much work I’m doing a lock-in… for the entire weekend.

Wish me luck, I’m definitely going to die trying. & so it is.

picture from peculiarpoetry

Obsessions and confections

I… have been watching episodes of television. Don’t jump for joy just yet. Just these shows. I’ll start at 7 or so, and well into the middle of the night, I’m still watching. Yes, I know, this is a strange event because I on one hand do not purposely subscribe to cable, only Netflix. I am often the one to run up on a curb (three now) because I had to read something on my iPhone or finish the end of a chapter, hence my love for the detail when reading. But yes I solemnly admit that I am hooked on these shows like confections: The sweet waffle from Coffeebean. Like red velvet cake. Like Airheads Extremes…

  • The Secret Life of the American Teenager: Character obsessions Amy aka Shailene Woodley: pregnant teenager full of sarcasm, star-crossed luck, and charming utopian optimism. And Philip Anthony-Rodriguez aka Ruben with eyes that make you forget how to think and properly sentences form, erh, reverse that.
  • Daybreak with the spicy Taye Diggs and Moon Bloodgood. Taye for his him-ness, and Moon for her sassy, edgy, yet sultry style. 13 episodes of yummy. Why???? Cancelled whyyyyyyyyy???? I was just beginning to have nightmares of my life repeating monotonously and then I realized it wasn’t a nightmare. l.o.l?
  • Grey’s Anatomy because Callie giving birth to that tiny little 1 lb. “yikes” after that crazy proposal and car accident… was just too much ridiculously brilliant writing, Shonda Rhimes… will your people call my people already? I have some content fo dat ass.  The singing in the middle of one of the more recent episodes, however, was distracting and altogether beyond weird, albeit some surprising voices from unsuspecting characters.

Everybody needs a little treat sometimes. Now, back to work I go. I finished Chapter 8 and am writing the first draft of the penultimate chapter of my memoir.  Can we say it together now? Yei.

picture credit: weheartit

It’s all just a mosaic, when you seem to be losing

You haven’t heard from me because ahhh, I’m battling a few things. It’s all just a mosaic, you know when you seem to be losing.

I finished the tangerine and cerulean colored mosaic heels and they are for sale. $50 or best offer– originals. And they are gorgeous. Email me if you’d like more information about them. Light pink carnations, beige babies, bare yellow, and money green ones will be available soon.

A 25 page critical paper— I seem to be losing, but with fighting mentors in my corner I’ll be fine. Thanks Terry Wolverton and Robert Fox!

Memoir is pulling along… I’ve coined the term: Juno meets Eat.Pray.Love. with a lot of Sex and mistakes. I cannot believe the rough draft is almost complete. Thanks to Alistair McCartney for line by line edits when my brain wakes up empty.

My new little princess is getting acclimated. As you can see in this post, she goes on her pad without any trouble. She is housebroken in a week and a half, although you can tell by the pictures, she has no idea that she is indeed a puppy— she is certain that she’s a human.

I’m submitting, so far two rejections. I cried at first. What if I don’t have tough enough skin for a form rejection—email? Lol.

I really am doing some spring cleaning, trying to have less sick days and more healthy days.

O, and mini me, got a bad report card. So I’m dealing with that. Apparently he’d rather be cute, than intelligent…conversation went like this:

Me: So which subjects are hard for you, honey, because maybe we can get you some tutoring or some type of help?

Son: None of them.

Me: So what you’re saying is none of the subjects pose any difficulty, nonetheless, you have succeeded in bringing me home by far the worst report card in your eleven year old history? (I’ve heard if you rephrase the question you may warrant a different response)

Son: {Quiet stare down at his wrist— which reads in red ink I LOVE GIRLZ)

Me: What the?? (looks down, shakes head)

All of his privileges have been revoked until further notice and I’ve added chores. So THIS explains my lack of focus, I suppose. I am participating in April’s Poem a day, but I’m not posting them because they’re all going in for this contest.

Heaven is… taking time for yourself

I am juggling so many things that I’ve decided to take a little time off to:

  • submit, submit, submit
  • complete critical paper
  • work on re-doing a few annotations/3 new ones
  • finish my discussions
  • write chapters 9 and epilogue of memoir!!! Ahhhhh!
  • edit memoir
  • attempt to slow down and enjoy, hope for good health

Thanks to everyone who emailed about my writing, and for everyone who encourages me to work harder and get better! I love you!

I’m going to get some fresh air!

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